‘Better get a taxi...’ she said quietly, Tubular Bells in the background. ‘Who’s this again?’
Rebus didn’t say anything. There was no need to: she was asleep. He could wake her, help her into a taxi. He could drive her home, Glasgow under an hour away at this time of night. But instead he covered her with his duvet, left the music on so low he could barely hear Viv Stanshall’s intros. He sat in his chair by the window, a coat covering him. The gas fire was on, warming the room. He’d wait till she woke up in her own time. Then he’d offer a taxi or his services as driver. Let her choose.
He had a lot of thinking to do, a lot of planning. He had an idea about tomorrow and Ancram and the inquiry. He was turning it, shaping it, adding layers. A lot of thinking to do...
He awoke to streetlamp sodium and the feeling that he hadn’t been asleep long, looked at the sofa and saw Kayleigh had gone. He was about to close his eyes again when he noticed her denim jacket still lying on the floor where she’d thrown it.
He got up from the chair, still groggy and suddenly not wanting to be. The hall light was on. The kitchen door was open. The light was on in there too...
She was standing by the table, paracetamol in one hand, a glass of water in the other. The newspaper clippings were spread in front of her. She started when she saw him, then looked at the table.
‘I was looking for coffee, thought it might sober me up. I found these instead.’
‘Casework,’ Rebus said simply.
‘I didn’t know you were attached to the Johnny Bible inquiry.’
‘I’m not.’ He gathered up the sheets and put them back in the cupboard. ‘There isn’t any coffee, I’ve run out.’
‘Water’s fine.’ She swallowed the tablets.
‘Hangover?’
She gulped water, shook her head. ‘I think maybe I can head it off.’ She looked at him. ‘I wasn’t snooping, it’s important to me that you believe that.’
Rebus shrugged. ‘If it finds its way into the programme, we’ll both know.’
‘Why the interest in Johnny Bible?’
‘No reason.’ He saw she couldn’t accept that. ‘It’s hard to explain.’
‘Try me.’
‘I don’t know... call it the end of innocence.’
He drank a couple of glasses of water, let her wander back into the living room by herself. She came out again with her jacket on, pulling her hair out from behind the collar.
‘I’d better go.’
‘Do you want me to run you somewhere?’ She shook her head. ‘What about the bottle?’
‘Maybe we can finish it another time.’
‘I can’t guarantee it’ll still be here.’
‘I can live with that.’ She walked to the front door, opened it, turned back towards him.
‘Did you hear about the drowning in Ratho?’
‘Yes,’ he said, face expressionless.
‘Fergus McLure, I interviewed him recently.’
‘Really?’
‘He was a friend of Spaven.’
‘I didn’t know that.’
‘No? Funny, he told me you pulled him in for questioning during the original case. Anything to say to that, Inspector?’ She smiled coldly. ‘Thought not.’
He locked the door and heard her walking downstairs, then went back into the living room and stood beside the window, looking down. She turned right, heading for The Meadows and a taxi. There was one light on across the road; no sign of Stevens’ car. Rebus fixed his eyes on his own reflection. She knew about the Spaven-McLure connection, knew Rebus had interviewed McLure. It was just the kind of ammo Chick Ancram needed. Rebus’s reflection stared back at him, mockingly calm. It took all his willpower to stop him punching out the glass.
11
Rebus was on the run — moving target and all that — morning hangover failing to slow him down. He’d packed first thing, a suitcase only half full, left his pager lying on the mantelpiece. The garage where he usually had his MOT done managed to give the Saab a once-over: tyre pressure, oil level. Fifteen minutes for fifteen quid. Only problem they found, the steering was slack.
‘So’s my driving,’ Rebus told them.
He had calls to make, but avoiding his flat, Fort Apache, or any other cop-shop. He thought of the early-opening pubs, but they were like offices — he was known to work out of them. Too big a chance that Ancram would find him. So he used his local launderette, shaking his head at the offer of a service wash — ten per cent discount this week. A ‘promotional offer’. Since when did launderettes need promotional offers?
He used the change machine to turn a five-pound note into coins, got coffee and a chocolate biscuit from another machine, and dragged a chair over to the wall-phone. First calclass="underline" Brian Holmes at his house, a final red card on the ‘investigation’. No answer. He didn’t leave a message. Second calclass="underline" Holmes at work. He disguised his voice and listened to a young DC tell him Brian was a no-show so far.
‘Is there any message?’
Rebus put down the receiver without saying anything. Maybe Brian was working from home on the ‘investigation’, not answering the phone. It was possible. Third calclass="underline" Gill Templer at her office.
‘DCI Templer speaking.’
‘It’s John.’ Rebus looked around the launderette. Two customers with their faces in magazines. Soft motor sound of washers and tumble driers. The smell of fabric conditioner. The manageress was loading powder into a machine. Radio on in the background: ‘Double Barrel’, Dave & Ansel Collins. Idiot lyric.
‘You want an update?’
‘Why else would I be phoning?’
‘You’re a smooth operator, DI Rebus.’
‘Tell that to Sade. What have you done about Fergie?’
‘The notepad’s at Howdenhall, no result yet. A forensic team is going into the house today, checking for prints and anything else. They wondered why they were needed.’
‘You didn’t tell them?’
‘I pulled rank. After all, that’s what it’s for.’
Rebus smiled. ‘What about the computer?’
‘I’m going back there this afternoon, look through the disks myself. I’ll also question the neighbours about visitors, strange cars, all that.’
‘And Fergie’s business premises?’
‘I’m off to his salesroom in half an hour. How am I doing?’
‘So far, I can’t complain.’
‘Good.’
‘I’ll phone you later, see how it’s going.’
‘You sound funny.’
‘Funny how?’
‘Like you’re up to something.’
‘I’m not the type. Bye, Gill.’
Next calclass="underline" Fort Apache, direct line to the Shed. Maclay picked up.
‘Hello, Heavy,’ Rebus said. ‘Any messages for me?’
‘Are you kidding? I need asbestos mitts for this phone.’
‘DCI Ancram?’
‘How did you guess?’
‘ESP. I’ve been trying to reach him.’
‘Where are you anyway?’
‘Laid low, flu or something.’
‘You don’t sound too bad.’
‘I’m putting on a brave face.’
‘Are you at home?’
‘At a friend’s. She’s nursing me.’
‘Oh aye? Tell me more.’
‘Not just now, Heavy. Look, if Ancram phones again...’
‘Which he will.’
‘Tell him I’m trying to reach him.’
‘Does your Florence Nightingale have a number?’
But Rebus had hung up. He called his own flat, checking the answerphone was still working after the abuse he’d given it. There were two messages, both from Ancram.
‘Give me a break,’ Rebus said under his breath. Then he finished his coffee and ate the chocolate biscuit, and sat there staring at the windows of the tumble driers. His head felt like he was inside one, looking out.