She hit more keys. ‘No record,’ she said at last. ‘Is he someone I should know about?’
Rebus shrugged.
‘In that case...’ she said, adding the name to her screen. Rebus’s name went there too. ‘Just so I know where I first heard of him.’
Rebus nodded. ‘Have you been following Shiellion?’
‘I hear the jury’s out. Looking good for guilty.’
‘Not if Richie Cordover has anything to do with it.’
‘He’s good, but I’ve come across Lord Justice Petrie before, and if there’s one thing he can’t stand, it’s a paedophile. The way Petrie summed up, Ince and Marshall are fucked.’
‘Not before time,’ Rebus added, getting up to go.
37
Back in Edinburgh, he was wanted at Fettes — by the ACC, no less.
The Assistant Chief Constable (Crime) was known to be scrupulous, fair, and to have no record of suffering fools gladly. He had a nice fat file on Rebus which told him the officer was ‘difficult but useful’. Rebus had made a career out of making enemies. The ACC, whose name was Colin Carswell, liked to think of himself as not among them.
There was an identifying plaque on the door, and the room number below it: 278. The room itself was large, with institutional carpet and curtains, and a bowl of flowers on the windowsill. There was little other decoration. Carswell, tall and thin with a good head of salt-and-pepper hair and moustache to match, rose from his chair just long enough to shake Rebus’s hand. Typically, he didn’t sit behind his desk for interviews, but conducted them in two chairs by the window. The chairs were swivel designs and sat on castors, so that unwary officers could find themselves spinning a hundred and eighty degrees or sliding backwards towards Carswell’s desk. After an interview like that, most agreed they’d have settled for the old-fashioned kind.
Which, the ACC might have told them, was the whole point of the exercise.
The dark eyes spoke of lost sleep. Despite his advancing years, the ACC had recently become a father for the fourth time. As his other kids were all grown-up, the conclusion reached by every station in the city was that the new addition was an accident, which would make it practically the only thing in the ACC’s life that he’d not been able to orchestrate or control.
‘How are you, John?’ he asked.
‘Not bad, sir. How’s the wee one?’
‘Fit as a fiddle. Look, John...’ Carswell never wasted time on preliminaries. ‘I’ve been asked to look into this murder case.’
‘Darren Rough?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘Social Work, was it, sir?’ Rebus settled his hands on the arm rests.
‘Fellow called Andrew Davies. Made a sort of complaint.’
‘Sort of?’
‘Couched fairly ambiguously.’
‘He’s probably got a point, sir.’
The ACC held his breath for a second. ‘Am I hearing you right?’
‘I chased Rough through the zoo without probable cause, giving our poisoner the chance to strike again. Then when I found out Rough was living upstairs from a playground, I put word out on the street.’
Carswell put his hands together, as if in prayer. Knowing Rebus’s reputation, a confession was the last thing he’d been expecting. ‘You outed him?’
‘Yes, sir. I wanted him off my patch. At the time...’ Rebus paused. ‘I didn’t work through the consequences. Later on, I helped him get away from Greenfield — at least, that was the plan. Only he left my flat and got himself murdered. Right at the end, though... I think I did try to make amends.’
‘I see. You want me to take this to Social Work?’
‘That’s up to you, sir.’
‘Then what do you want?’
Rebus looked at him. It was bright outside: another ploy of the ACC’s — he tended to use the chair trick when it was sunny. All Rebus could see of his superior was a haze of light.
‘For a while, I thought I wanted out, sir. Maybe that was in my mind when I went after Rough: if I went after him hard, I might end up kicked off the force, but still feel all right about it.’
‘But that didn’t happen.’
‘It hasn’t happened yet, sir, no.’
Carswell was thoughtful. ‘How do you feel now?’
Rebus squinted into the light. ‘I’m not sure. Tired, mostly.’ He managed a smile.
‘A long time back, John — I know you all like to think I’ve spent my whole life behind a desk — but a long time back there was this man got himself into a fight down in Leith. Clean-cut type, suit and everything. Wife and kids at home. And he’d walked into a pub by the dockside, looked for the biggest, meanest-looking bugger he could find, and started having a go at him. I was young back then, they sent me to interview him in hospital. Turned out he’d been trying to commit suicide, hadn’t had the guts. So he’d gone looking for someone to do the job for him. Sounds a bit like what you were up to with Darren Rough: assisted career suicide.’
Rebus smiled again, but he was thinking: Suicide again... like with Jim Margolies. Assisted career suicide...
‘I don’t think I’m going to give this to our friends in Social Work,’ the ACC said finally. ‘I think I’m going to sit on it for a while. Maybe there’s room for some sort of apology... that’ll be up to you.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘And John,’ rising to his feet, taking Rebus’s hand again, ‘I appreciate you not trying to spin me some yarn.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Rebus was on his feet, too. ‘And maybe, with respect, sir, there’s a way you could show your appreciation...’
Nicol Petrie lived in a West End flat, sprawling over the top two floors of a Georgian pile. There was a shared entrance hall with occasional tables and rugs. The tables had vases and things on them. It was a far cry from the tenement stairwells Rebus was used to.
And there was a lift, its mirrored interior highly polished, the wooden surrounds gleaming. Beside the buttons for each floor were printed labels listing the occupants. There were two Petries: N and A. Rebus guessed that A stood for Amanda.
The lift brought Rebus out on to a landing, glass cupola above. Pot plants surrounded him. And more carpeting. Nicol Petrie opened the door and gave a little nod, leading Rebus inside.
Rebus had been expecting antiquity, but was disappointed. The flat’s walls were painted an almost luminous white and were devoid of paintings or posters. The floors had been stripped and varnished. It was like stepping into an Ikea catalogue. An internal stairway led up to the top floor, but Nicol led Rebus past it and into the living room, fully thirty-five feet long and twelve high, and with double sash windows giving uninterrupted views across Dean Valley and the Water of Leith. The Fife coastline was visible in the distance. Walking into the room, taking it all in, Rebus missed the doll on the floor and ended up giving it a kick, sending it flying towards its owner.
‘Jessica!’ the little girl squealed, moving on hands and knees to pick up her property and nurse it to her bosom. Then she slid back across the floor to where a toys’ tea-party was in progress. Rebus apologised, but Hannah Margolies wasn’t listening.
‘Hello again,’ Hannah’s mother said. She was seated on a white sofa. ‘Sorry about that. Hannah’s toys get everywhere.’ She sounded tired. Rebus noted that she still wore black, albeit a short black dress with black tights. Mourning as fashion statement.
‘Sorry,’ he said to Nicol Petrie, ‘I didn’t know you had company.’
‘You know one another?’ Petrie bowed his head at the stupidity of the question. ‘Through Jim, of course. Sorry.’