It seemed part of some larger pattern, accidents forming themselves into a dance of association. Fathers and daughters, fathers and sons, infidelities, the illusions we sometimes call memory. Past errors harped on, or made good by spurious confession. Bodies littered down the years, mostly forgotten except by the perpetrators. History turning sour, or fading away like old photographs. Endings... no rhyme or reason to them. They just happened. You died, or disappeared, or were forgotten. You became nothing more than a name on the back of an old photo, and sometimes not even that.
Jethro Tulclass="underline" ‘Living in the Past’. Rebus had been a slave to that rhythm for far too long. It was the work that did it. As a detective, he lived in people’s pasts: crimes committed before he arrived on the scene; witnesses’ memories ransacked. He had become a historian, and the role had bled into his personal life. Ghosts, bad dreams, echoes.
But maybe now he had a chance. Look at Jack: he’d reinvented himself. Good news week.
The phone rang, was answered by the barmaid, who nodded towards Rebus. He took the receiver.
‘Hello?’
‘I tried your first home, decided to try your second home.’
Siobhan. Rebus straightened up.
‘What did you get?’
‘A name: Martin Davidson. Stayed at the Fairmount three weeks before the Judith Cairns murder. The room was charged to his employer, a firm called LancerTech, as in technical support. Based in Altens, just outside Aberdeen. They design the safety elements into platform equipment, that sort of thing.’
‘You’ve talked to them?’
‘Soon as I got his name. Don’t worry, I didn’t mention him. I just asked a couple of general questions. Receptionist said I was the second person in two days to ask her the same thing.’
‘Who was the other person?’
‘Chamber of Commerce, she said.’ They were quiet for a moment.
‘And Davidson fits with Robert Gordon’s?’
‘He hosted some seminars earlier this year. His name was down on the staff roll.’
A solid connection. Rebus could feel it like a punch. His knuckles were white on the receiver.
‘There’s more,’ Siobhan said. ‘You know how businesses sometimes stay faithful to one hotel chain? Well, the Fairmount has a sister establishment here. Martin Davidson of LancerTech was in town the night Angie Riddell was killed.’
Rebus saw her picture again: Angie. Hoped she was getting ready to rest.
‘Siobhan, you’re a genius. Have you told anyone else?’
‘You’re the first. After all, you gave me the tip.’
‘I gave you a hunch, that’s all. It might not have paid off. This is down to you. Now take it to Gill Templer — she’s your boss — tell her what you’ve just told me, let her pass it on to the Johnny Bible team. Stick to procedure.’
‘It’s him, isn’t it?’
‘Pass the news along, and make sure you get the credit. Then we’ll wait and see. All right?’
‘Yes, sir.’
He put down the receiver, told Jack what she’d just told him. Then they just stood there, drinking their drinks, staring at the mirror behind the bar. Calmly at first, then with more agitation. Rebus was the first to say what they both knew.
‘We need to be there, Jack. I need to be there.’
Jack looked at him, nodded. ‘Your turn to drive or mine?’
33
British Telecom had listings for two Martin Davidsons in Aberdeen. But Friday afternoon, he was most likely still at work.
‘Doesn’t mean we’ll find him at Altens,’ Jack said.
‘Let’s go there anyway.’ Practically Rebus’s only thought the whole drive: he needed to see Martin Davidson, not necessarily speak to him, just clap eyes on him. Eye contact: Rebus wanted that memory.
‘He could be working at OSC, or anywhere else for that matter,’ Jack went on. ‘He might not even be in Aberdeen.’
‘Let’s go there anyway,’ Rebus repeated.
Altens Industrial Estate was south of the city, signposted off the A92. They found a map at the entrance to the estate, and used it to wind their way in towards LTS — Lancer Technical Support. There was what looked like a jam at one point, cars blocking the road, nobody going anywhere. Rebus got out to take a look, and almost wished he hadn’t. They were police cars, unmarked but with tell-tale static coming from their radios. Siobhan had passed on the info, and someone had been fast to act.
A man was bearing down on Rebus. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’
Rebus shrugged, hands in pockets. ‘Informal observer?’
DCI Grogan narrowed his eyes. But his mind was elsewhere; he’d no time or inclination for argument.
‘Is he inside?’ Rebus asked, nodding towards the LTS building, a typical industrial unit of windowless white corrugation.
Grogan shook his head. ‘We came steaming down here, now it seems he hasn’t come in today.’
Rebus frowned. ‘Day off?’
‘Not officially. The switchboard tried his home, no answer.’
‘Is that where you’re headed?’
Grogan nodded.
Rebus didn’t ask if they could tag along; Grogan would only say no. But once the convoy was moving, no one would notice an extra car at the tail.
He got back into the Peugeot and told Jack about it, while Jack reversed and found a parking spot out of the way. They watched the police cars execute three-point turns and head back out of the estate, then eased their way in behind the last of them.
They headed north over the Dee and along Anderson Drive, passing more buildings belonging to Robert Gordon’s University, and several oil company HQs. At last they headed off Anderson Drive, past Summerhill Academy, and into a tight maze of suburban streets with green-field sites beyond.
A couple of the cars left the convoy, probably to circle around and come at Davidson’s house from the other direction, blocking him in. Brake lights came on, the cars stopping in the middle of the road. Doors opened, officers appearing. Quick confabs, Grogan issuing orders, pointing to left and right. Most eyes were on a single house, its curtains closed.
‘Reckon he’s flown?’ Jack asked.
‘Let’s find out.’ Rebus undid his seat-belt and opened the door.
Grogan was sending men to the neighbouring houses, some to ask questions, some to nip out the back door and work their way round the back of the suspect’s house.
‘Hope this isn’t a wild goose chase,’ Grogan muttered. He saw Rebus, but still barely registered his presence.
‘Men in position, sir.’
People had come out of their houses, wondering what was going on. Rebus could hear the distant chimes of an ice-cream van.
‘Armed Response Unit standing by, sir.’
‘I don’t think we’ll need them.’
‘Right you are, sir.’
Grogan sniffed, ran a finger under his nose, then selected two men to go with him to the suspect’s door. He pressed the bell, and there was a collective holding of breath while they waited. Grogan rang again.