He looked at himself in the mirror. He’d showered and shaved, dried his hair and combed it. The knot in his tie looked OK, and for once he’d found a matching pair of socks. He looked fine, felt anything but.
It was half past one, time to go to Fettes.
The traffic wasn’t too bad, the lights with him, like they didn’t want to hold up his appointment. He was early at L&B HQ thought of driving around, but knew it would only make him more nervous. Instead, he went inside, and sought out the Murder Room. It was on the second floor, a large central office space with smaller compartments off for the senior officers. This was the Edinburgh side of the triangle Johnny Bible had created, the heart of the Angie Riddell investigation. Rebus knew some of the faces on duty, smiled, nodded. The walls were covered with maps, photographs, charts — an attempt at order. So much of police work was putting things in some kind of order: fixing chronology, getting the details right, tidying up after the mess of people’s lives as well as their deaths.
Most of the people on duty this afternoon looked tired, lacking enthusiasm. They were waiting by telephones, waiting for the elusive tip-off, the missing link, a name or a sighting, waiting for the man... They’d been waiting a long time. Someone had mocked up a photofit of Johnny Bible: horns curling from the head, wisps of smoke from the flared nostrils, fangs and a serpent’s forked tongue.
The Bogeyman.
Rebus looked closer. The photofit had been done on computer. The starting-point had been an old photofit of Bible John. With the horns and fangs, he bore a vague likeness to Alister Flower...
He examined the photographs of Angie Riddell in life, kept his eyes away from her autopsy pics. He remembered her the night he’d arrested her, remembered her sitting in his car talking, almost too full of life. Her hair seemed to be dyed a different colour in almost every picture, like she was never quite happy with herself. Maybe she’d just needed to keep changing, running from the person she’d been, laughing to stop herself crying. Circus clown, painted smile...
Rebus checked his watch. Fuck it: it was time.
9
There was just the CC Rider himself, Colin Carswell, waiting for Rebus in the comfortable and carpeted office.
‘Take a seat, won’t you?’ Carswell had half-risen to welcome Rebus, now sat down again. Rebus sat opposite him, studying the desktop, looking for clues. The Yorkshireman was tall, with a body that sagged towards a beer drinker’s gut. His hair was brown, thinning, his nose small, almost flat like a pug’s. He sniffed. ‘Sorry, can’t oblige with your request for biscuits, but there’s tea or coffee if you want it.’
Rebus remembered the phone calclass="underline" Will there be tea and biccies? I’m not coming otherwise. The remark had been passed along.
‘I’m fine, thanks, sir.’
Carswell opened a folder, picked something up, a newspaper clipping. ‘Damned shame about Lawson Geddes. I hear he was an exceptional officer in his day.’
The story concerned Geddes’ suicide.
‘Yes, sir,’ Rebus said.
‘They say it’s a coward’s way out, but I know I wouldn’t have the guts.’ He looked up. ‘What about you?’
‘I hope I never have to find out, sir.’
Carswell smiled, put the cutting back, closed the folder. ‘John, we’re getting flak from the media. At first it was just that TV crew, but now everyone seems to want to join the circus.’ He stared at Rebus. ‘Not good.’
‘No sir.’
‘So we’ve decided — the Chief Constable and myself — that we should make an effort.’
Rebus swallowed. ‘You’re reopening the Spaven case?’
Carswell brushed invisible dust off the folder. ‘Not straight away. There’s no new evidence, therefore no real need to.’ He looked up quickly. ‘Unless you know some reason why we should?’
‘It was cut and dried, sir.’
‘Try telling the media that.’
‘I have, believe me.’
‘We’re going to open an internal inquiry, just to satisfy ourselves that nothing was overlooked or... untoward... at the time.’
‘Putting me under suspicion.’ Rebus could feel his hackles rising.
‘Only if you’ve got something to hide.’
‘Come on, sir, you reopen an investigation, everyone begins to look dirty. And with Spaven and Lawson Geddes dead, I’m left carrying the can.’
‘Only if there’s a can to carry.’
Rebus leapt to his feet.
‘Sit down, Inspector, I’ve not finished with you yet!’
Rebus sat down, made his hands grip the sides of the chair. He felt if he let go, he might fly clean through the ceiling. Carswell was taking a second to regain his own composure.
‘Now, to keep things objective, the inquiry will be headed by someone from outside Lothian and Borders, reporting directly to me. They’ll go through the original files...’
Warn Holmes.
‘... do any follow-up interviews deemed necessary, and compile their report.’
‘Is this going to be made public?’
‘Not until I have the finished report. It can’t look like a whitewash, that’s all I’ll say. If any breach of the rules has taken place anywhere down the line, it’ll be dealt with. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Now, is there anything you’d like to tell me?’
‘Just between us, or do you want to bring the strongarm in?’
Carswell allowed this as a joke. ‘I’m not sure you could call him that.’
Him.
‘Who’s in charge, sir?’
‘An officer from Strathclyde, DCI Charles Ancram.’
Oh dear Jesus fucking Christ. His goodbye to Ancram: an accusation of graft. And Ancram had known, all that day he’d known this was coming, the way he’d smiled, like he had secrets, the way he’d studied Rebus, like they might well become adversaries.
‘Sir, there may be some bad blood between CI Ancram and myself.’
Carswell stared at him. ‘Care to elucidate?’
‘No, sir, with respect.’
‘Well, I suppose I could get Chief Inspector Flower instead. He’s the bee’s knees just now, nabbing that MP’s son for cannabis growing...’
Rebus swallowed. ‘I’d prefer CI Ancram, sir.’
Carswell glowered. ‘It’s not your bloody decision, is it, Inspector?’
‘No, sir.’
Carswell sighed. ‘Ancram’s already been briefed. Let’s stick with him... if that’s all right with you?’
‘Thank you, sir.’ How did I get here, Rebus thought: thanking the man for putting Ancram on my tail... ‘Can I go now, sir?’
‘No.’ Carswell was looking in the folder again, while Rebus tried to get his heart-rate down. Carswell read a note, spoke without looking up.
‘What were you doing in Ratho this morning?’
‘Sir?’
‘A body was hauled out of the canal. I’ve had word you were there. Not exactly Craigmillar, is it?’
‘I was just in the area.’
‘Apparently you ID’d the body?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You’re a handy man to have around.’ Heavy with irony. ‘How did you know him?’
Blurt it out or clam up? Neither. Dissemble. ‘I recognised him as one of our snitches, sir.’
Carswell looked up. ‘Whose in particular?’
‘DI Flower’s.’