‘I hate computers,’ Rebus said. He had noticed a fat notepad beside the keyboard. He slipped a hand from his pocket and picked it up by its edges, angling it into the light. There were indents in the paper from the last written sheet. Gill came over to see.
‘Don’t tell me.’
‘Can’t make it out, and I don’t think the pencil trick would help.’
They looked at one another, spoke their thoughts together.
‘Howdenhall.’
‘Check the bins next?’ Gill said.
‘You do it, I’ll look upstairs.’
Rebus went back into the front hall, saw more doors, tried them: a small old-fashioned kitchen, family pictures on the walls; a toilet; a box room. He climbed the stairs, his feet sinking into deep-pile carpeting which muffled all sound. It was a quiet house; Rebus got the feeling it had been quiet even when McLure had been there. Another guest bedroom, large bathroom — unmodernised like the kitchen — and main bedroom. Rebus gave his attention to the usual places: beneath the bed, mattress and pillows; bedside cabinets, chest of drawers, wardrobe. Everything was obsessively arranged: cardigans folded just so and layered by colour; slippers and shoes in a row — all the browns together, then the blacks. There was a small bookcase boasting an uninspired collection: histories of carpets and Eastern art; a photographic tour of the vineyards of France.
A life without complications.
Either that or the dirt on Feardie Fergie was elsewhere.
‘Found anything?’ Gill called up the stairs. Rebus walked back along the corridor.
‘No, but you might want to have someone check his business premises.’
‘First thing tomorrow.’
Rebus came back down. ‘What about you?’
‘Nothing. Just what you’d expect to find in bins. Nothing saying, “Dope deal, two-thirty Friday at the carpet auction”.’
‘Pity,’ Rebus said with a smile. He checked his watch. ‘Fancy another drink?’
Gill shook her head, stretched. ‘I’d better get home. It’s been a long day.’
‘Another long day.’
‘Another long day.’ She angled her head and looked at him. ‘What about you? Are you heading off for another drink?’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning you drink more than you used to.’
‘Meaning?’
Her look was intent. ‘Meaning I wish you wouldn’t.’
‘So how much should I drink, doctor?’
‘Don’t take it like that.’
‘How do you know how much I drink? Who’s been squealing?’
‘We went out last night, remember?’
‘I only had two or three whiskies.’
‘And after I left?’
Rebus swallowed. ‘Straight home to bed.’
She smiled sadly. ‘You liar. And you were back at it first thing: a patrol car saw you leaving that pub behind Waverley.’
‘I’m under surveillance!’
‘There are people out there who’re worried about you, that’s all.’
‘I don’t believe this.’ Rebus threw open the door.
‘Where are you going?’
‘I need a fucking drink. You can come if you like.’
10
As he drove into Arden Street, he saw a group of people outside the main door to his tenement. They were shuffling their feet and cracking jokes, trying to keep morale up. One or two were eating chips from newspaper — a nice irony, since they had the look of reporters.
‘Shit.’
Rebus drove past and kept going, watching in his rearview. There was nowhere to park anyway. He turned right at the junction, then next left, and ended up in a parking space outside Thirlestane Baths. He turned off the ignition and punched the steering-wheel a few times. He could always drive away, maybe head for the M90, race up to Dundee and back, but he didn’t feel like it. He took a few deep breaths, feeling the blood pound through him, a rushing noise in his ears.
‘Let’s do it,’ he said, getting out of the car. He walked down Marchmont Crescent to his chippie, then headed home, feeling the fried fat burning his palm through the layers of paper. He took his time walking up Arden Street itself. They weren’t expecting him to be on foot, and he was almost on them before someone recognised him.
There was a camera crew, too: Redgauntlet — cameraman, Kayleigh Burgess, and Eamonn Breen. Caught on the hop, Breen flicked a cigarette on to the road and grabbed his microphone. The videocam had a spot attached. Spotlights always made you squint, which in turn made you look guilty, so Rebus kept his eyes nice and wide.
A journalist got in the first question.
‘Inspector, any comment on the Spaven inquiry?’
‘Is it true the case is being reopened?’
‘How did you feel when you heard Lawson Geddes had killed himself?’
At that question, Rebus glanced towards Kayleigh Burgess, who had the grace to look down at the pavement. He was halfway up the path now, only feet from the tenement’s main door, but surrounded by reporters. It was like wading through broth. He stopped and turned to face them.
‘Ladies and gentlemen of the press, I have a short statement I’d like to make.’
They looked at each other, eyes registering surprise, then held out their tape recorders. A couple of older hacks near the back, who’d been here too often to raise any enthusiasm, were using pen and notepad.
The noise died down. Rebus held his wrapped package aloft.
‘On behalf of the chip-eaters of Scotland, I’d like to thank you for providing our nightly wrappings.’
He was inside the door before they could think of anything to say.
In the flat, he left the lights off and walked over to the living-room window, peering down on to the scene outside. A few of the reporters were shaking their heads, calling in on mobile phones to see if they’d be allowed home. One or two were already making for their cars. Eamonn Breen was talking to camera, looking full of himself as usual. One of the younger journalists raised two fingers above Breen’s head, turning them into rabbit’s ears.
Looking across the road, Rebus saw a man standing against a parked car, arms folded. He was gazing up at Rebus’s window, a smile on his face. He unfolded his arms long enough to give Rebus a silent round of applause, then got into his car and started the engine.
Jim Stevens.
Rebus turned back into the room, switched on an Anglepoise lamp, sat down in his chair to eat the chips. But he still didn’t have much of an appetite. He was wondering who had leaked the story to the vultures. The CC Rider had only told him this afternoon, and he’d told no one except Brian Holmes and Gill Templer. The answering machine was blinking furiously: four messages. He managed to work the machine without recourse to the manual, and was feeling pleased until he heard the Glaswegian accent.
‘Inspector Rebus, it’s CI Ancram here.’ Brisk and businesslike. ‘Just to let you know I’ll probably arrive in Edinburgh tomorrow to get the inquiry underway, sooner we start, sooner it’ll be over with. Best for all concerned, eh? I did leave a message at Craigmillar for you to phone me, but you don’t seem to have been around to act on it.’
‘Thank you and good night,’ Rebus growled.
Beep. Message two.
‘Inspector, it’s me again. It would be very useful to know your planned movements for the next week or so, just to maximise my time effectively. If you could type out as full a breakdown as possible, I’d appreciate it.’
‘I feel like I’m having a fucking breakdown.’
He went back to the window. They were clearing off. The Redgauntlet camera was being loaded into the estate car. Message three. At the sound of the voice, Rebus turned slack-jawed to watch the machine.