“Kate,” Rebus interrupted, “we’re going to leave you alone now. But I’ve got one last question, if that’s all right with you.”
“I won’t know till I’ve heard it.”
“It’s just this: I’m wondering if you can tell us exactly when and where Derek’s car crash took place?”
D Division headquarters was a venerable old building in the middle of Leith. The drive from South Queensferry hadn’t taken too long-the evening traffic had been heading out of the city rather than in. The CID offices were quiet. Rebus reckoned everyone had been pulled to the school shooting. He found a member of the admin staff and asked her where the files might be kept. Siobhan was already stabbing at a keyboard, in case she could find anything that way. In the end, the file was tracked down to one of the storage closets, moldering on a shelf alongside hundreds of others. Rebus thanked the admin clerk.
“Happy to help,” she said. “This place has been a real graveyard today.”
“Just as well the villains don’t know that,” Rebus said with a wink.
She snorted. “It’s bad enough at the best of times.” By which she meant understaffing.
“I owe you a drink,” Rebus told her as she turned to go. Siobhan watched her wave a hand, not looking back.
“You didn’t even get her name,” she said.
“I won’t be buying her a drink either.” Rebus placed the file on a desk and sat down, making room so that Siobhan could slide a chair across to join him.
“Still seeing Jean?” she asked as he opened the file. Then she screwed up her face. Sitting on top of the sheets of paper was a glossy color photograph of the accident scene. The dead teenager had been wrenched from the driving seat, so that the upper half of his body was sprawled across the car hood. There were more photos underneath: autopsy shots. Rebus slid them beneath the file and started to read.
Two friends: Derek Renshaw, sixteen, and Stuart Cotter, seventeen. They’d decided to borrow Stuart’s dad’s car, a nippy Audi TT. The father was on a business trip, due back later that night, flying in and taking a taxi home. The boys had plenty of time, and decided to drive into Edinburgh. They had a drink at one of the shoreside bars in Leith, then headed for Salamander Street. The plan had been to hit the A1, put the car through its paces, then head for home. But Salamander Street looked to them like a nice racing straight. It was calculated that they’d probably been doing seventy when Stuart Cotter lost control. The car had tried braking for the light, spun across the road, up onto the sidewalk and into a brick wall. Head-on. Derek had been wearing a seat belt and survived. Stuart, despite the airbag, had not.
“Do you remember this?” Rebus asked Siobhan. She shook her head. He didn’t remember it either. Maybe he’d been away, or involved in a case of his own. If he’d come across the report… well, it was nothing he hadn’t seen too many times before. Young men confusing thrills with stupidity, adulthood with risk. The name Renshaw might have clicked with him, but there were a lot of Renshaws out there. He sought the name of the officer in charge. Detective Sergeant Calum McLeod. Rebus knew him vaguely: a good cop. Meaning the report would be scrupulous.
“I want to know something,” Siobhan said.
“What?”
“Are we seriously considering that this was a revenge killing?”
“No.”
“I mean, why wait a whole year? Not even a year to the day… thirteen months. Why wait that long?”
“No reason at all.”
“So we don’t think…”
“Siobhan, it’s a motive. Right now, I think that’s what Bobby Hogan wants from us. He wants to be able to say that Lee Herdman just lost it one day and decided to top a couple of schoolkids. What he doesn’t want is for the media to get hold of a conspiracy theory or anything that could make it look as though we’d left some stone unturned.” Rebus sighed. “Revenge is the oldest motive there is. If we clear Stuart Cotter’s family, it’s one less thing to worry about.”
Siobhan nodded. “Stuart’s father’s a businessman. Drives an Audi TT. Probably got the money to pay for someone like Herdman.”
“Fine, but why kill the judge’s son? And that other kid he wounded? Why kill himself, if it comes to it? That’s not what a hired assassin does.”
Siobhan shrugged. “You’d know more about that than me.” She flicked through more sheets. “Doesn’t say what line of business Mr. Cotter is in… Ah, here it is: entrepreneur. Well, that covers a multitude of sins.”
“What’s his first name?” Rebus had the notebook out but couldn’t hold the pen. Siobhan took it from him.
“William Cotter,” she said, writing it down and adding the address. “Family lives in Dalmeny. Where’s that?”
“Next door to South Queensferry.”
“Sounds posh: Long Rib House, Dalmeny. No street name or anything.”
“Things must be good in the entrepreneur business.” Rebus studied the word. “I’m not even sure I could spell it.” He read a little further. “Partner’s name is Charlotte, runs two tanning salons in the city.”
“I’ve been thinking of trying one of those,” Siobhan said.
“Now’s your chance.” Rebus was almost at the bottom of the page. “One daughter, Teri, aged fourteen at the time of the crash. Making her fifteen now.” He frowned in concentration and tried as best he could to sift through the other sheets.
“What are you looking for?”
“A photo of the family…” He was in luck. DS McLeod had indeed been scrupulous, clipping newspaper stories about the case. One tabloid had got hold of a family snapshot, mum and dad on the sofa, son and daughter behind so that only their faces could be seen. Rebus was fairly sure he recognized the girl. Teri. Miss Teri. What was it she’d said to him?
You can see me whenever you like…
What the hell had she meant by that?
Siobhan had seen the look on his face. “Not someone else you know?”
“Bumped into her when I was walking to the Boatman’s. She’s changed a bit though.” He studied the shining, makeup-free face. The hair seemed mousy-brown rather than jet-black. “Dyed her hair, powdered her face white with big black eyes and mouth… black clothes, too.”
“A Goth, you mean? That’s why you were asking me about heavy metal?”
He nodded.
“Think it has anything to do with her brother’s death?”
“Might have. There’s something else, though.”
“What?”
“It was what she said… Something about not being sad they were dead…”
They got takeaway food from Rebus’s favorite curry house on Causewayside. While the order was being filled, a liquor store down the street yielded six bottles of chilled lager.
“Fairly abstemious really,” Siobhan said, hoisting the shopping bag from the counter.
“You don’t honestly think I’m sharing these?” Rebus stated.
“I’m sure I can twist your arm.”
They took the provisions to his flat in Marchmont, parking the car in the last space going. The flat was two flights up. Rebus fumbled to slot the key into the lock.
“I’ll do it,” Siobhan said.
Inside, the flat was musty. There was a fug which could have been bottled as eau de bachelor. Stale food, alcohol, sweat. CDs were scattered across the living-room carpet, marking out a trail between the hi-fi and Rebus’s favorite chair. Siobhan left the food on the dining table and went into the kitchen for plates and cutlery. There were few signs that anyone had been cooking of late. Two mugs in the sink, a margarine tub open on the draining board, its contents spotted with mold. A shopping list in the form of a yellow Post-it note had been stuck to the refrigerator door: bread / milk / marge / bacon / b.sauce / w.up liq / lightbulbs. The note was beginning to curl, and she wondered how long it had been there.
When she returned to the living room, Rebus had managed to put on a CD. It was something she’d given him as a present: Violet Indiana.
“You like it?” she asked.
He shrugged. “I thought you might.” Meaning he hadn’t got around to playing it until now.