'Why the hell not?' he told himself. It wasn't as if it would be the first time, and he doubted it would be the last. Wasn't drunk enough for it to be a problem. He locked the flat and headed down the stairwell, out into the night. Unlocked the Saab and got in. It was only a five-minute drive, and took him past Montpelier 's again.
A right-hand turn off Bruntsfield Place, then one more right and he was parking in a quiet street of detached Victorian-era houses.
He'd been here so often, he'd started to notice changes: new lampposts or new pavements. Signs had gone up warning that come March the parking would be zoned. It had already happened in Marchmont; hadn't made it any easier to find a space. A few rubbish skips had come and gone. He'd heard the Polish accents of the workmen. Extensions had been added to some homes, and the garages dismantled in two separate gardens. Plenty of comings and goings during the day, but much quieter in the evening. Practically every house had its own driveway, but cars from neighbouring streets would park up overnight. No one had ever paid attention to Rebus. In fact, one dog-walker had started to mistake him for a local, and would nod and smile or offer a hello. The dog itself was small and wiry and looked less trusting, turning away from him the one time he'd tried crouching down to pat it.
That had been a rare occurrence: mostly he stayed in the car, hands on the steering wheel, window rolled down and a cigarette between his lips. The radio could be playing. He wouldn't even be watching the house necessarily, but he knew who lived there.
Knew, too, that there was a coach-house in the back garden, which was where the bodyguard lived. One time, a car had stopped when it was halfway through the driveway gates. The bodyguard was in the front, but it was the back window which had slid soundlessly down, the better for the passenger to make eye contact with the watching Rebus. The look was a mixture of contempt, frustration, and maybe even pity – though this last would have been imitation.
Rebus doubted Big Ger Cafferty had ever in his adult life felt an emotion like pity for another human being.
Day Five. Tuesday 21 November 2006
16
The air still smouldered, the charred smell almost overpowering.
Siobhan Clarke held a handkerchief to her mouth and nose. Rebus stubbed out his breakfast underfoot.
'Bloody hell,' was all he could think to say.
Todd Goodyear had heard the news first and had phoned Clarke, who was halfway to the scene before she decided to call Rebus.
They now stood on a roadway in Joppa while the fire crew gathered up the spent coils of hose. Charles Riordan's house was a shell, the windowpanes gone, roof collapsed.
'Can we go in yet?' Clarke asked one of the firemen.
'What's the rush?'
'I'm just asking.'
'Talk to the boss…'
Some of the firemen were sweating, rubbing smudges of soot across their foreheads. They'd taken off their oxygen tanks and masks. They were talking among themselves, like a gang after a rumble, debating their roles in the action. A neighbour had brought them water and juice. More neighbours were standing in their doorways or gardens, while onlookers from further afield shuffled and whispered. It was a D Division call and two suits from Leith CID had already asked Clarke what Gayfield Square 's interest (.was.
Witness in a case,' was all she'd told them: no point giving away anything more. The suits hadn't been happy about it, and were now keeping their distance, phones held to their ears.
'Reckon he was at home?' Rebus asked Clarke.
She shrugged. 'Remember what we were talking about last t»ight?'
1.l;31
“You mean the argument we were having? Me reading way too much into Todorov's death?'
'Don't rub it in.'
Rebus decided to play devil's advocate. 'Could be an accident, of course. And hey, maybe we'll find him alive and well at his studio.'
'I've tried calling – no answer as yet.' She nodded towards a kerbside TVR. 'Woman two doors down says that's his car. He parked it last night – she knows it was him because of the noise it makes.'
The TVR's windscreen was shrouded in ash. Rebus watched two more firemen step gingerly over some timbers on their way into what was left of the house. Some of the shelves were still visible in the hallway, though most had been destroyed.
'Fire investigator on his way?' Rebus asked.
'On her way,' Clarke corrected him.
'The march of progress…' An ambulance crew had turned up, too, but were now checking their watches, unwilling to waste much more time. Todd Goodyear came bounding forward, dressed in a suit rather than a uniform. He nodded a greeting at Rebus and started leafing back through his notebook.
'How many of those do you get through a month?' Rebus couldn't help asking. Clarke gave him a warning look.
'I've talked to the neighbours either side of him,' Goodyear reported to Clarke. 'They're in a state of shock, of course – terrified their own houses might be about to explode. They want to get back in and save a few bits and pieces, but the brigade's not having it.
Seems Riordan came home at eleven thirty. After that, not a peep from him.'
'The way he'd soundproofed the house…'
Goodyear nodded enthusiastically. 'Unlikely they'd have heard anything. One of the fire officers says the acoustic baffling was probably part of the problem – it can be incredibly flammable.'
'Riordan didn't have any visitors in the night?' Clarke asked.
Goodyear shook his head. He couldn't help glancing towards Rebus, as if expecting some sort of praise or appraisal.
'You're in mufti,' was all Rebus said.
The constable's eyes swivelled between the two detectives. Clarke cleared her throat before speaking.
'If he's working with us, I thought he'd look less conspicuous…'
Rebus tried staring her out, then nodded slowly, though he knew she was lying. The suit had been Goodyear's idea, and now she was covering for him. Before he could say anything, a red car with flashing light roared into view, stuttering to a halt.
'The fire inspector,' Clarke announced. The woman who emerged from the car was elegant and businesslike, and seemed straight off to have the brigade's attention and respect. Officers started pointing at parts of the smoke-streaked building, obviously giving their side of the story, while the two detectives from Leith hovered nearby.
'Think we should introduce ourselves?' Clarke asked Rebus.
'Sooner or later,' he told her. But she'd already decided and was striding towards the cluster of bodies. Rebus followed, indicating for Goodyear to hang back. The constable seemed reluctant, hopping from pavement to roadway and back again. Rebus had attended plenty of house fires, including one he'd ended up being accused of starting. There'd been a fatality that time, too… Not much fun for the pathologists, when there were victims to be identified. He'd almost burned his own flat down once, as well, falling into a stupor on the sofa with the cigarette hanging from his mouth. He'd woken to smouldering fabric and a plume of sulphurous smoke.
Easily done…
Clarke was shaking hands with the FI. Not everyone looked happy: the firefighters reckoned CID should leave them to get on with it. Natural reaction, and one Rebus could sympathise with.
All the same, he started lighting another cigarette, reckoning it might get him noticed.
'Bloody menace,' one of the brigade dutifully muttered. Mission accomplished. The FFs name was Katie Glass, and she was telling Clarke what happened next: locating any victims; securing breached gas-sources; checking the obvious.
'Meaning anything from a chip pan left on the heat to an electrical fault.'
Clarke nodded along until Glass had finished, then explained about the homeowner's role in an ongoing investigation, aware of Leith CID listening in.