‘You’d think in a place like this they’d have someone who could fix them.’
‘What are we doing here?’
‘I need a few things.’
‘You need provisions, not bags of plaster.’
Rebus turned to him. ‘That’s just where you’re wrong.’
He bought paint, rollers and brushes, turps, a couple of ground-sheets, plaster, a hot-air gun, sandpaper (coarse and fine), and varnish, sticking it all on his credit card. Then he treated Jack to lunch at a nearby café, a haunt of his from St Leonard’s days.
And afterwards: home. Jack helped him carry everything upstairs.
‘Brought any old clothes with you?’ Rebus asked.
‘I’ve a boilersuit in the boot.’
‘Better bring it up.’ Rebus stopped, stared at his open door, dropped the paint and ran into the flat. A quick check told him there was no one there. Jack was examining the jamb.
‘Looks like someone took a crowbar to it,’ he said. ‘What’s missing?’
‘The hi-fi and telly are still there.’
Jack walked in, checked the rooms. ‘Looks much the same as when we left it. Want to call it in?’
‘Why? We both know this is Ancram trying to rattle me.’
‘I don’t see that.’
‘No? Funny I get a break-in when I’m being interrogated by him.’
‘We should call it in, that way the insurance will cover you for a new door-frame.’ Jack looked around him. ‘Surprised nobody heard it.’
‘Deaf neighbours,’ Rebus said. ‘Edinburgh’s famous for them. All right, we’ll call it in. You go back to the store and fetch another lock or something.’
‘And what will you be doing?’
‘Sitting here, minding the fort. I promise.’
The minute Jack was out of the door, Rebus headed for the telephone. He asked to be put through to DCI Ancram. Then he waited, looking around the room. Somebody breaks in, then leaves without taking the hi-fi. It was almost an insult.
‘Ancram.’
‘It’s me.’
‘Something on your mind, Inspector?’
‘My flat’s been broken into.’
‘I’m sorry to hear it. What did they take?’
‘Nothing. That’s where they slipped up. I thought you should tell them.’
Ancram laughed. ‘You think I had something to do with it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘I was hoping you’d tell me. The word “harassment” springs to mind.’ As soon as he said it, he thought of The Justice Programme: how desperate were they? Desperate enough for a spot of housebreaking? He couldn’t see it, not Kayleigh Burgess. Eamonn Breen, however, was another matter entirely...
‘Look, this is a pretty serious allegation. I’m not sure I want to listen to it. Why not calm down and think it over?’
Rebus was doing just that. He hung up on Ancram, got his wallet out of his jacket pocket. It was full of scraps of paper, receipts, business cards. He plucked out Kayleigh Burgess’s, phoned her office.
‘I’m afraid she’s not here this afternoon,’ a secretary told him. ‘Can I take a message?’
‘What about Eamonn?’ Trying to sound like a friend. ‘Is he in by any chance?’
‘I’ll just check. What’s the name?’
‘John Rebus.’
‘Hold the line.’ Rebus held. ‘No, sorry, Eamonn’s out as well. Shall I tell him you called?’
‘No, it’s all right, I’ll catch up with him later. Thanks anyway.’
Rebus went through the flat again, more carefully this time. His first thought had been a straight break-in; his second some sort of ruse to wind him up. But now he was thinking of other things someone could have been looking for. It wasn’t easy to telclass="underline" Siobhan and her friends hadn’t exactly left the place as they’d found it. But nor had they been particularly thorough. For instance, they hadn’t spent time in the kitchen, hadn’t opened the cupboard where he kept all his cuttings and newspapers.
But someone had. Rebus knew which cutting he’d last read, and it was no longer on top of the pile. Instead, it had migrated south three or four layers. Maybe Jack... no, he didn’t think Jack had been snooping.
But someone had. Someone most definitely had.
By the time Jack got back, Rebus had changed into jeans and a gaudy T-shirt bearing the legend DANCING PIGS. A couple of woolly suits had been round to inspect the damage and scribble some notes. They gave Rebus a reference number. His insurers would want it.
Rebus had already moved some of the furniture out of the living room into the hall, and placed a ground-sheet over everything else. The other sheet went on the carpet. He lifted the fishing-boat painting off the wall.
‘I like that,’ Jack said.
‘Rhona gave it to me, the first birthday I had after we were married. Bought it at a craft fair, thought it’d remind me of Fife.’ He was studying the painting and shaking his head.
‘I take it it didn’t?’
‘I come from west Fife — mining villages, rough — not the East Neuk.’ All fishing creels, tourists and retirement homes. ‘I don’t think she ever understood.’ He took the painting through to the hall.
‘I can’t believe we’re doing this,’ Jack said.
‘And on police time. Which would you rather do, paint the walls, strip the door, or fit the lock?’
‘Paint.’ With his blue boilersuit on, Jack looked the part. Rebus handed him the roller, then reached under the sheet to put the hi-fi on. Stones, Exile on Main Street. Just right. The two of them got to work.
23
They took a break and walked up Marchmont Road, buying groceries. Jack kept his boilersuit on, said he felt like he was undercover. He had a smudge of paint on his face, but didn’t bother wiping it off. He was enjoying himself. He’d sung along to the music, even though he didn’t always know the words. They bought junk food mostly, carbohydrate, but added four apples and a couple of bananas. Jack asked if Rebus was going to buy any beer. Rebus shook his head, chose Irn-Bru and bricks of orange juice instead.
‘What’s all this in aid of?’ Jack asked as they sauntered home.
‘Clearing the mind,’ Rebus answered, ‘giving me time to think... I don’t know. Maybe I’m thinking of selling.’
‘Selling the flat?’
Rebus nodded.
‘And doing what exactly?’
‘Well, I could buy a round-the-world ticket, couldn’t I? Take off for six months. Or stick the money in the bank and live off the interest.’ He paused. ‘Or maybe buy myself a place outside town.’
‘Whereabouts?’
‘Somewhere by the sea.’
‘That’d be nice.’
‘Nice?’ Rebus shrugged. ‘Yes, I suppose so. I just fancy a change.’
‘Right next to the beach?’
‘Could be a cliff-top, who knows?’
‘What’s brought this on?’
Rebus thought about it. ‘My home doesn’t feel like my castle any longer.’
‘Yes, but we bought all the painting stuff before the break-in.’
Rebus didn’t have an answer to that.
They worked the rest of the afternoon, windows open to let out the paint fumes.
‘Am I supposed to sleep in here tonight?’ Jack asked.
‘The spare room,’ Rebus told him.
The phone rang at half past five. Rebus got to it just as the answering machine cut in.
‘Hello?’
‘John, it’s Brian. Siobhan told me you were back.’
‘Well, she should know. How are you?’
‘Shouldn’t I be asking you that?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Me, too.’