“On the inside of his wardrobe door,” Siobhan added. “It’s not everyone who’d know that, Teri.”
“Doesn’t mean anything!” Teri’s voice had risen. She was playing with her neck chain again.
“Nobody’s on trial here, Teri,” Rebus said. “We just want to know what made him do it.”
“How should I know?”
“Because you knew him, and it seems not many people did.”
Teri was shaking her head. “He never told me anything. That was the thing about him-like he had secrets. But I never thought he’d…”
“No?”
She fixed her eyes on Rebus’s but said nothing.
“He ever show you a gun, Teri?” Siobhan asked.
“No.”
“Ever hint that he had access to one?”
A shake of the head.
“You say he never really opened up to you… what about the other way round?”
“How do you mean?”
“Did he ask about you? Maybe you spoke to him about your family?”
“I might have.”
Rebus leaned forwards. “We were sorry to hear about your brother, Teri.”
Siobhan, too, leaned forwards. “You probably mentioned the crash to Lee Herdman.”
“Or maybe one of your pals did,” Rebus added.
Teri saw that they were hemming her in. No escape from their stares and questions. She had placed the photo on the table, concentrating her attention on it.
“Lee didn’t take this,” she said, as if trying to change the subject.
“Anyone else we should talk to, Teri?” Rebus was asking. “People who went to Lee’s little soirees?”
“I don’t want to answer any more questions.”
“Why not, Teri?” Siobhan asked, frowning as though genuinely puzzled.
“Because I don’t.”
“Other names we can talk to…” Rebus was saying. “Might get us off your back.”
Teri Cotter sat for a moment longer, then rose to her feet and climbed onto the banquette, stepped onto the table and jumped down to the floor at the other side, the gauzy black layers of her skirts billowing out around her. Without looking back, she made for the door, opened it and banged it shut behind her. Rebus looked at Siobhan and gave a grudging smile.
“The girl has a certain style,” he said.
“We panicked her,” Siobhan admitted. “Pretty much as soon as we mentioned her brother’s death.”
“Could be they were just close,” Rebus argued. “You’re not really going for the assassin theory?”
“All the same,” she said. “There’s something…” The door opened again, and Teri Cotter strode towards the table, leaning on it with both hands, her face close to her inquisitors.
“James Bell,” she hissed. “There’s a name for you, if you want one.”
“He went to Herdman’s parties?” Rebus asked.
Teri Cotter just nodded, then turned away again. The regulars, watching her make her exit, shook their heads and went back to their drinks.
“That interview we listened to,” Rebus said, “what was it James Bell said about Herdman?”
“Something about going water-skiing.”
“Yes, but the way he said it: ‘we’d met socially,’ something like that.”
Siobhan nodded. “Maybe we should have picked up on it.”
“We need to talk to him.”
Siobhan kept nodding, but she was looking at the table. She peered beneath it.
“Lost something?” Rebus asked.
“No, but you have.”
Rebus looked, too, and it dawned on him. Teri Cotter had taken her photograph with her.
“Think that was why she came back?” Siobhan guessed.
Rebus shrugged. “I suppose it counts as her property… a memento of the man she’s lost.”
“You think they were lovers?”
“Stranger things have happened.”
“In which case…”
But Rebus shook his head. “Using her womanly wiles to persuade him to turn assassin? Do me a favor, Siobhan.”
“Stranger things have happened,” she echoed.
“Speaking of which, any chance of you buying me a drink?” He held up his empty glass.
“None whatsoever,” she said, getting up to leave. Glumly, he followed her out of the bar. She was standing by her car, seemingly transfixed by something. Rebus couldn’t see anything worthy of note. The Goths were milling around as before, minus Miss Teri. No sign of the Lost Boys either. A few tourists stopping for photographs.
“What is it?” he asked.
She nodded towards a car parked opposite. “Looks like Doug Brimson’s Land Rover.”
“You sure?”
“I saw it when I was out at Turnhouse.” She looked up and down Cockburn Street. Brimson wasn’t anywhere to be seen.
“It’s in worse shape than my Saab,” Rebus commented.
“Yes, but you don’t have a Jag garaged at home.”
“A Jag and a clapped-out Land Rover?”
“I reckon it’s an image thing… boys and their toys.” She looked up and down the street again. “Wonder where he is.”
“Maybe he’s stalking you,” Rebus suggested. He saw the look on her face and shrugged an apology. She turned her attention to the car again, certain in her mind that it was his. Coincidence, she told herself, that’s all it is.
Coincidence.
But all the same, she jotted down the number.
11
That evening, she settled down on her sofa, trying to get interested in anything on TV. Two gaudily dressed hosts were telling their victim that her clothes were all wrong for her. On another channel, a house was being “decluttered.” Which left Siobhan the choice of a gray-looking film, a dreary comedy series, or a documentary about cane toads.
All of which served her right for not bothering to stop off at the video shop. Her own collection of films was small-“select,” as she preferred to call it. She’d watched each one half a dozen times at least, could recite dialogue, knew exactly what was coming in every scene. Maybe she would put some music on, turn the TV to mute and invent her own script for the boring-looking film. Or even for the cane toads. She’d already skimmed a magazine, picked up a book and put it down again, eaten the crisps and chocolate she’d bought at the garage when she’d stopped for petrol. There was a half-finished chow mein on the kitchen table, which she might get around to microwaving. Worst of all, she’d run out of wine, nothing in the flat but empty bottles awaiting the recycling run. She had gin in the cupboard, but nothing to mix it with except Diet Coke, and she wasn’t that desperate.
Not yet, anyway.
There were friends she could phone, but she knew she wouldn’t make great company. There was a message on her answering machine from her friend Caroline, asking if she fancied a drink. Blond and petite, Caroline always attracted attention when the two of them went out together. Siobhan had decided not to return the call just yet. She was too tired, with the case buzzing around her head, refusing to leave her alone. She’d made herself coffee, taking a mouthful before realizing she hadn’t boiled the kettle. Then she’d spent a couple of minutes searching the kitchen for sugar before remembering she didn’t take sugar. Hadn’t taken it in coffee since she’d been a teenager.
“Senile dementia,” she’d muttered aloud. “And talking to yourself: another symptom.”
Chocolate and crisps weren’t on her panic-free diet. Salt, fat and sugar. Her heart wasn’t exactly racing, but she knew she had to calm down somehow, had to relax and start winding down as bedtime approached. She’d stared out of her window for a while, checking on the neighbors across the street, pressing her nose to the glass as she looked down two stories to the passing traffic. It was quiet outside, quiet and dark, the pavement picked out by orange streetlamps. There were no bogeymen; nothing to be scared of.
She remembered that a long time ago, back in the days when she’d still taken sugar in her coffee, she’d been afraid of the dark for a while. About the age of thirteen or fourteen: too old to confide in her parents. She would spend her pocket money on batteries for the flashlight she kept on all night, keeping it beneath the covers with her, holding her breath in an attempt to pick out the breathing of anyone else in the room. The few times her parents caught her, they just thought she was staying up late to read. She could never be sure which was the right thing to do: leave the door open, so you could make a run for it, or close it to keep out intruders? She checked beneath her bed two or three times each day, though there was little enough room under there: it was where she stored her albums. The thing was, she never had nightmares. When she did eventually drop off to sleep, that sleep was deep and cleansing. She never suffered panic attacks. And eventually she forgot why she’d ever been afraid in the first place. The flashlight went back in its drawer. The money she’d been wasting on batteries she now started spending on makeup.