“What’s your name, Mr. Barman?”
“Rod McAllister.” He held out a hand, which she shook. It was damp from washing glasses.
“Pleased to meet you, Rod.” She withdrew her hand and reached into her pocket, bringing out one of her business cards. “If you think of anything that might help us…”
He took the card. “Right,” he said. “Right you are, Seb…”
“It’s pronounced ‘Shi-vawn.’”
“Christ, is that how it’s spelled?”
“But you can call me Detective Sergeant Clarke.”
He nodded and tucked the card into the breast pocket of his shirt. Looked at her with renewed interest. “How long will you be in town?”
“As long as it takes. Why?”
He shrugged. “Lunchtimes we do a mean haggis, neeps and tatties.”
“I’ll bear that in mind.” She picked up the glasses. “Cheers, Rod.”
“Cheers.”
Back at the table, she stood Rebus’s pint glass next to the open notebook. “Here you go. Sorry it took a while, turns out the barman knew Herdman, could be he’s got…” By now she was sitting down. Rebus wasn’t paying any attention, wasn’t listening. He was staring at the sheet of paper in front of him.
“What is it?” she asked. Glancing at the sheet, she saw it was one she’d already read. Family details of one of the victims. “John?” she prompted. His eyes rose slowly to meet hers.
“I think I know them,” he said quietly.
“Who?” She took the sheet from him. “The parents, you mean?”
He nodded.
“How do you know them?”
Rebus held his hands up to his face. “They’re family.” He saw that she didn’t understand. “My family, Siobhan. They’re my family…”
3
It was a semi-detached house at the end of a cul-de-sac on a modern development. From this part of South Queensferry there was no view of the bridges, and no inkling of the ancient streets only a quarter of a mile away. Cars sat in their driveways-middle-management models: Rovers and BMWs and Audis. No fences separating the homes, just lawn leading to path leading to more lawn. Siobhan had parked curbside. She stood a couple of feet behind Rebus as he managed to ring the doorbell. A dazed-looking girl answered. Her hair needed washing and brushing, and her eyes were bloodshot.
“Your mum or dad in?”
“They’re not talking,” she said, making to close the door again.
“We’re not reporters.” Rebus fumbled with his ID. “I’m Detective Inspector Rebus.”
She looked at the ID, then stared at him.
“Rebus?” she said.
He nodded. “You know the name?”
“I think so…” Suddenly there was a man behind her. He held out a hand to Rebus.
“John. It’s been a while.”
Rebus nodded at Allan Renshaw. “Probably thirty years, Allan.”
The two men were studying each other, trying to fit faces to their memories. “You took me to the football once,” Renshaw said.
“Raith Rovers, wasn’t it? Can’t remember who they were playing.”
“Well, you better come in.”
“You understand, Allan, I’m here in an official capacity.”
“I heard you were in the police. Funny how things turn out.” As Rebus followed his cousin down the hall, Siobhan introduced herself to the young woman, who in turn said she was Kate, “Derek’s sister.”
Siobhan remembered the name from the case information. “You’re at university, Kate?”
“St. Andrews. I’m studying English.”
Siobhan couldn’t think of anything else to say, nothing that wouldn’t sound trite or forced. So she just made her way down the long, narrow hallway, past a table strewn with unopened mail, and into the living room.
There were photographs everywhere. Not just framed and decorating the walls or arranged along the shelving units, but spilling from shoeboxes on the floor and coffee table.
“Maybe you can help,” Allan Renshaw was telling Rebus. “I’m having trouble putting names to some of the faces.” He held up a batch of black-and-white photos. There were albums, too, open on the sofa and showing the growth of two children: Kate and Derek. Starting with what looked like christening pictures and progressing through summer holidays, Christmas mornings, days out and special treats. Siobhan knew that Kate was nineteen, two years older than her brother. She knew, too, that the father worked as a car salesman on Seafield Road in Edinburgh. Twice-in the pub and again on the drive here-Rebus had explained his connection to the family. His mother had had a sister, and that sister had married a man called Renshaw. Allan Renshaw was their son.
“You never kept in touch?” she had asked.
“That’s not the way our family worked,” he’d replied.
“I’m sorry about Derek,” Rebus was saying now. He hadn’t managed to find anywhere to sit, so he was standing by the fireplace. Allan Renshaw had perched on the arm of the sofa. He nodded, but then saw that his daughter was about to clear a space so that their visitors could sit.
“We’re not finished sorting them yet!” he snapped.
“I just thought…” Kate’s eyes were filling.
“What about some tea?” Siobhan said quickly. “Maybe we could all sit in the kitchen.”
There was just enough room for the four of them around the table, Siobhan squeezing past to deal with the kettle and the mugs. Kate had offered to help, but Siobhan had cajoled her into sitting down. The view from the window above the sink was of a handkerchief-sized garden, hemmed in by a picket fence. A single dishcloth was pegged to a whirligig dryer, and two strips of lawn had been cut, the mower stationary now as the grass grew around it.
There was a sudden noise as the cat flap rattled and a large black and white cat appeared, leapt onto Kate’s lap, and glared at the newcomers.
“This is Boethius,” Kate said.
“Ancient queen of Britain?” Rebus guessed.
“That was Boudicca,” Siobhan corrected him.
“Boethius,” Kate explained, “was a Roman philosopher.” She stroked the cat’s head. Its markings, Rebus couldn’t help thinking, made it look like it was wearing a Batman mask.
“A hero of yours, was he?” Siobhan guessed.
“He was tortured for his beliefs,” Kate went on. “Afterwards, he wrote a treatise, trying to explain why good men suffer -” She broke off, glancing towards her father. But he appeared not to have heard.
“While evil men prosper?” Siobhan guessed. Kate nodded.
“Interesting,” Rebus commented.
Siobhan handed out the tea and sat down. Rebus ignored the mug in front of him, perhaps unwilling to draw attention to his bandages. Allan Renshaw had tight hold of the handle of his own mug but seemed in no hurry to try lifting it.
“I had a phone call from Alice,” Renshaw was saying. “You remember Alice?” Rebus shook his head. “Wasn’t she a cousin on… Christ, whose side was it?”
“Doesn’t matter, Dad,” Kate said softly.
“It matters, Kate,” he argued. “Time like this, family’s all there is.”
“Didn’t you have a sister, Allan?” Rebus asked.
“Aunt Elspeth,” Kate answered. “She’s in New Zealand.”
“Has anyone told her?”
Kate nodded.
“What about your mother?”
“She was here earlier,” Renshaw interrupted, gaze fixed on the table.
“She walked out on us a year ago,” Kate explained. “She lives with -” She broke off. “She lives back in Fife.”
Rebus nodded, knowing what she’d been about to say: she lives with a man…
“What was the name of that park you took me to, John?” Renshaw asked. “I’d only have been seven or eight. Mum and Dad had taken me to Bowhill, and you said you’d go for a walk with me. Remember?”
Rebus remembered. He’d been home on leave from the army, itching for some action. Early twenties, SAS training still ahead of him. The house had felt too small, his father too set in a routine. So Rebus had taken young Allan down to the shops. They’d bought a bottle of juice and a cheap football, then had headed to the park for a kickabout. He looked at Renshaw now. He would be forty. His hair was graying, with a pronounced bald spot at the crown. His face was slack, unshaven. He’d been all skin and bones as a kid but was now heavily built, most of it around the waist. Rebus struggled for some vestige of the kid who’d played football with him, the kid he’d taken to Kirkcaldy to watch Raith play some forgotten opponent. The man in front of him was aging fast: wife gone, son now murdered. Aging fast and struggling to cope.