‘Inspector, the inquiry will be based at Fettes. I’ll probably bring one of my own men with me, but otherwise will utilise officers and civilian staff from Fettes. So as from tomorrow morning you can contact me there.’
Rebus walked over to the machine and stared down at it, daring it... daring it...
Beep. Message four.
‘Two tomorrow afternoon for our first meeting, Inspector. Let me know if this —’
Rebus snatched up the machine and flung it at the wall. The lid flew open, ejecting the tape.
His doorbell rang.
He checked through the spyhole. Could not believe it. Opened the door wide.
Kayleigh Burgess took a step back. ‘Christ, you look fierce.’
‘I feel fierce. What the hell do you want?’
She brought a hand from behind her back, showing a bottle of Macallan. ‘Peace offering,’ she said.
Rebus looked at the bottle, then at her. ‘Is this your idea of entrapment?’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘Any microphones or cameras about your person?’
She shook her head. Strands of curling brown hair came to rest against her cheeks and the sides of her eyes. Rebus stepped back into the hall.
‘Lucky for you I’ve a drouth on me,’ he said.
She walked ahead of him into the living room, giving him the chance to study her body. It was every bit as tidy as Feardie Fergie’s house.
‘Listen,’ he said, ‘I’m sorry about your tape machine. Send me the bill, I mean it.’
She shrugged, then saw the answering machine. ‘What is it with you and technology?’
‘Ten seconds, and already the questions have started. Wait here, I’ll get the glasses.’ He went into the kitchen and closed the door behind him, then gathered up the press cuttings and newspapers from the table, flinging them into a cupboard. He rinsed two glasses, and took his time drying them, staring at the wall above the sink. What was she after? Information, naturally. Gill’s face came into his mind. She’d asked him for a favour, and a man had died. As for Kayleigh Burgess... maybe she’d been responsible for Geddes’ suicide. He took the glasses through. She was crouched in front of the hi-fi, studying album spines.
‘I’ve never owned a record player,’ she said.
‘I hear they’re the next big thing.’ He opened the Macallan and poured. ‘I’ve no ice, though I could probably chip a block off the inside of the freezer.’
She stood up, took her glass from him. ‘Neat’s fine.’
She was wearing tight black denims, faded at bum and knees, and a denim jacket with fleece lining. Her eyes, he noticed, were slightly bulbous, her eyebrows arched — natural, he thought, not plucked. Sculpted cheekbones, too.
‘Sit down,’ he said.
She sat on the sofa, legs slightly apart, elbows on knees, holding the drink up to her face.
‘It’s not your first today, is it?’ she asked him.
He sipped, put the glass on the arm of his chair. ‘I can stop any time I want.’ He held his arms wide. ‘See?’
She smiled, drank, watching him above the rim of the glass. He tried to read the signals: coquette, minx, relaxed, sharp-eyed, calculating, amused...
‘Who tipped you off about the inquiry?’ he asked.
‘You mean who tipped the media in general, or me personally?’
‘Whichever.’
‘I don’t know who started the story, but one journalist told another and it spread from there. A friend of mine on Scotland on Sunday phoned me; she knew we were covering the Spaven case already.’
Rebus was thinking: Jim Stevens, standing on the sideline like the team manager. Stevens, Glasgow-based. Chick Ancram, Glasgow-based. Ancram knowing Rebus and Stevens went way back, spilling the story...
Bastard. No wonder he hadn’t invited Rebus to call him Chick.
‘I can almost hear the cogs turning.’
A thin smile. ‘Pieces falling into place.’ He reached for the bottle — had left it within grabbing distance. Kayleigh Burgess rested against the back of the sofa, sliding her legs under her, looking around.
‘Nice room. Big.’
‘It needs redecorating.’
She nodded. ‘Cornices for definite, maybe around the window. I’d turf that out though.’ She was referring to a painting above the fireplace: a fishing-boat in a harbour. ‘Where’s it supposed to be?’
Rebus shrugged. ‘Somewhere that’s never existed.’ He didn’t like the painting either, but couldn’t conceive of throwing it out.
‘You could strip the door,’ she went on, ‘it’d come up well from the look of it.’ She saw his look. ‘I’ve just bought my own place in Glasgow.’
‘Nice for you.’
‘The ceilings are too high for my liking, but —’ His tone of voice caught her. She stopped.
‘Sorry,’ Rebus said, ‘I’m a bit rusty on chit-chat.’
‘But not on irony.’
‘I get plenty of practice. How’s the programme going?’
‘I thought you didn’t want to discuss it.’
Rebus shrugged. ‘Got to be more interesting than DIY.’ He got up to refill her glass.
‘It’s going OK.’ She looked up at him; he kept his eyes on her glass. ‘Be better if you agreed to be interviewed.’
‘No.’ He went back to his chair.
‘No,’ she echoed. ‘Well, with you or without you, the programme will go out. It’s already scheduled. Have you read Mr Spaven’s book?’
‘I’m not a great one for fiction.’
She turned to stare at the piles of books near the hi-fi. They called him a liar.
‘I’ve seldom met a prisoner who didn’t profess his or her innocence,’ Rebus went on. ‘It’s a survival mechanism.’
‘I don’t suppose you’ve ever come across a miscarriage of justice either?’
‘I’ve seen plenty. But the thing is, usually the “miscarriage” was that the criminal was getting away with it. The whole legal system is a miscarriage of justice.’
‘Can I quote you on that?’
‘This conversation is strictly off the record.’
‘You’re supposed to make that clear before you say anything.’
He wagged a finger at her. ‘Off the record.’
She nodded, raised her glass in a toast. ‘Here’s to off the record remarks.’
Rebus put his glass to his lips, but didn’t drink. The whisky was loosening him up, mixing with the exhaustion and a brain that seemed full to bursting. A dangerous cocktail. He knew he’d have to be more careful, starting straight away.
‘Want some music?’ he asked.
‘Is that a subtle change of subject?’
‘Questions, questions.’ He went over to the hi-fi, slotted in a tape of Meddle.
‘Who is it?’ she asked.
‘Pink Floyd.’
‘Oh, I like them. Is it a new album?’
‘Not exactly.’
He got her talking about her job, how she got into it, her life all the way back to childhood. Now and again she asked a question about his past, but he’d shake his head and lead her back into her own story.
She needs a break, he thought, as in a rest. But she was obsessed with her job, maybe this was as close as she could allow herself to come to a respite: she was with him, so it counted as work. It came down to guilt again, guilt and the work ethic. He thought of a story: World War One, Christmastime, the opposing sides emerging from their trenches to shake hands, play a game of football, then back into the trenches, picking up their guns again...
After an hour and four whiskies, she was lying on the sofa with one hand behind her head, the other resting on her stomach. She’d taken her jacket off, and was wearing a white sweatshirt beneath. She’d rolled the sleeves up. The lamplight made golden filaments of the hairs on her arms.