Keeping surveillance on the office meant sitting in the window of a disused first floor room in the tenement block across the road. The place was without charm, toilet facilities, or heating. (The bathroom fittings had been stolen during a break-in earlier in the year, down to the very toilet-pan.) A happy prospect, especially for Holmes and Clarke who would bear the burden of the surveillance, always supposing Holmes recovered in time. He thought of his two junior officers spending long days huddling for warmth in a double sleeping-bag. Hell’s bells. Thank God Dougary didn’t work nights. And thank God there’d be some Trading Standards bodies around too.
Still, the thought of nabbing Davey Dougary warmed Rebus’s heart. Dougary was bad the way a rotten apple was. There was no repairing the damage, though the surface might seem untainted. Of course, Dougary was one of Big Ger Cafferty’s ‘lieutenants’. Cafferty had even turned up once at the office, captured on film. Much good would it do; he’d have a thousand good reasons for that visit. There’d be no pinning him in court. They might get Dougary, but Cafferty was a long way off, so far ahead of them they looked like they were pushing their heap of a car while he cruised in fifth gear.
‘So,’ Lauderdale was saying. ‘We can start with this as of next Monday, yes?’
Rebus awoke from his reverie. It was clear that much had been discussed in his spiritual absence. He wondered if he’d agreed to any of it. (His silence had no doubt been received as tacit consent.)
‘I’ve no problem with that,’ said Flower.
Rebus moved again in his seat, knowing that escape was close now. ‘I’ll probably need someone to fill in for DS Holmes.’
‘Ah yes, how is he doing?’
‘I haven’t heard today, sir,’ Rebus admitted. ‘I’ll call before I clock off.’
‘Well, let me know.’
‘We’re putting together a collection,’ Flower said.
‘For Christ’s sake, he’s no’ deid yet!’
Flower took the explosion without flinching. ‘Well, all the same.’
‘It’s a nice gesture,’ Lauderdale said. Flower shrugged his shoulders modestly. Lauderdale opened his wallet and dug out a reluctant fiver, which he handed to Flower.
Hey, big spender, thought Rebus. Even Flower looked startled. ‘Five quid,’ he said, unnecessarily.
Lauderdale didn’t want any thanks. He just wanted Flower to take the money. His wallet had disappeared back into its cave. Flower stuck the note in his shirt pocket and rose from his chair. Rebus stood too, not looking forward to being in the corridor alone with Flower. But Lauderdale stopped him.
‘A word, John.’
Flower sniffed as he left, probably thinking Rebus was to receive a dressing down for his outburst. In fact, this wasn’t what Lauderdale had in mind.
‘I was passing your desk earlier. I see you’ve got the files on the Central Hotel fire. Old news, surely?’ Rebus said nothing. ‘Anything I should know about?’
‘No, sir,’ said Rebus, rising and making for the door. He reckoned Flower would be on his way by now. ‘Nothing you should know about. Just some reading of mine. You could call it a history project.’
‘Archaeology, more like.’
True enough: old bones and hieroglyphs; trying to make the dead come to life.
‘The past is important, sir,’ said Rebus, taking his leave.
4
The past was certainly important to Edinburgh. The city fed on its past like a serpent with its tail in its mouth. And Rebus’s past seemed to be circling around again too. There was a message on his desk in Clarke’s handwriting. Obviously she’d gone to visit Holmes, but not before taking a telephone call intended for her superior.
DI Morton called from Falkirk. He’ll try again another time. He wouldn’t say what it’s about.
Very cagey. I’ll be back in two hours.
She was the sort who would make up the two hours by staying late a few nights, even though Rebus had deprived her of a reasonable lunch-break. Despite being English, there was something of the Scottish Protestant in Siobhan Clarke. It wasn’t her fault she was called Siobhan either. Her parents had been English Literature lecturers at Edinburgh University back in the 1960s. They’d lumbered her with the Gaelic name, then moved south again, taking her to be schooled in Nottingham and London. But she’d come back to Edinburgh to go to college, and fallen in love (her story) with Edinburgh. Then she’d decided on the police as a career (alienating her friends and, Rebus suspected, her liberal parents). Still, the parents had bought her a New Town flat, so it couldn’t be all strife.
Rebus suspected she’d do well in the police, despite people like him. Women did have to work harder in the force to progress at the same pace as their male colleagues: everyone knew it. But Siobhan worked hard enough, and by Christ did she have a memory. A month from now, he could ask her about this note on his desk, and she’d remember the telephone conversation word for word. It was scary.
It was slightly scary too that Jack Morton’s name had come up at this particular time. Another ghost from Rebus’s past. When they’d worked together six years ago, Rebus wouldn’t have given the younger Morton more than four or five years to live, such was his steady consumption of booze and cigarettes.
There was no contact phone number. It would have taken only a few minutes to find the number of Morton’s nick, but Rebus didn’t feel like it. He felt like getting back to the files on his desk. But first he phoned the Infirmary to check on Brian Holmes’ progress, only to be told that there wasn’t any, though there was also no decline.
‘That sounds cheery.’
‘It’s just an expression,’ the person on the phone said.
The test results wouldn’t be known until next morning. He thought for a moment, then made another call, this time to Patience Aitken’s group practice. But Patience was out on a call, so Rebus left a message. He got the receptionist to read it back so he could be sure it sounded right.
‘ “Thought I’d call to let you know how Brian’s doing. Sorry you weren’t in. You can call me at Arden Street if you like. John.”’
Yes, that would do. She’d have to call him now, just to show she wasn’t uncaring about Brian’s condition. With a speck of hope in his heart, Rebus went back to work.
He got back to the flat at six, having done some shopping en route. Though he’d proposed taking the files home, he really couldn’t be bothered. He was tired, his head ached, and his nose was stuffy from the old dust which rose from their pages. He climbed the flights of stairs wearily, opened the door, and took the grocery bags into the kitchen, where one of the students was spreading peanut butter onto a thick slice of brown bread.
‘Hiya, Mr Rebus. You got a phone call.’
‘Oh?’
‘Some woman doctor.’
‘When?’
‘Ten minutes ago, something like that.’
‘What did she say?’
‘She said if she wanted to find out abou…’
‘Brian? Brian Holmes?’
‘Aye, that’s it. If she wanted to find out about him, she could call the hospital, and that’s exactly what she’d done twice today already.’ The student beamed, pleased at having remembered the whole message. So Patience had seen through his scheme. He should have known. Her intelligence, amongst other things, had attracted him to her. Also, they were very much alike in many ways. Rebus should have learned long ago, never try to put one over on someone who knows the way your mind works. He lifted a box of eggs, tin of beans, and packet of bacon out of the bag.