'That seemed to go well,' Rebus commented.
“You're a bloody fool, Rebus.'
'What happened to “John”? Reckon he'll hike your mortgage, just out of spite?'
'He's a good man – and a personal friend,' Corbyn spat.
'And his stepdaughter is a lying drug-user.' Rebus offered a shrug. 'Like they say, you can't choose your family. You can, however, choose your friends… but FAB's friends seem to be a fairly rum bunch, too.'
'First Albannach is one of the few bloody success stories this country has!' Corbyn erupted again.
'Doesn't make them the good guys.'
'I suppose you opt to see yourself as the “good guy”?' Corbyn let out a jagged laugh. 'Christ, you've got a nerve.'
Was there anything else, sir? Maybe a neighbour who wants CID to focus its scant resources on the theft of a garden gnome?'
'Just one last thing.' Corbyn had seated himself again. His next three words were spaced evenly. “You… are… history.'
“Thanks for the reminder.'
'I mean it. I know you've got three days left till retirement, but
you're going to spend them on suspension.'
Rebus stared hard at the man. 'Isn't that just a tiny bit petty and pathetic, sir?'
'In which case, you're going to love the rest of it.' Corbyn took a deep breath. 'If I hear you've so much as crossed the threshold at Gayfield Square, I'll demote each and every officer within your compass. What I want you to do, Rebus, is crawl away from here and tick off the days on the calendar. You're no longer a serving detective, and never will be.' He held out the palm of one hand.
'Warrant card, please.'
Want to fight me for it?'
– 'Only if you're ready to spend time in the cells. I think we could hold you for three days without too much trouble.' The hand twitched, inviting Rebus's cooperation. 'I can think of at least three chief constables before me who would love to be here right now,'
Corbyn cooed.
The, too,' Rebus agreed. 'We'd get a barbershop quartet going and sing about the fuckwit sitting in front of us.'
'And that,' Corbyn added triumphantly, 'is the reason you're being suspended.'
Rebus couldn't believe the hand was still there. 'You want my warrant card,' he said quietly, 'send the boys round for it.' He turned and headed for the door. There was a secretary standing there, clutching a file to her chest, eyes and mouth gawping. Rebus confirmed with a nod that her ears had not deceived her, and mouthed the word 'fuckwit', just to be on the safe side.
Outside in the car park he unlocked his Saab, but then stood there, hand on the door handle, staring into space. For a while now, he'd known the truth – that it wasn't so much the underworld you had to fear as the overworld. Maybe that explained why Cafferty had, to all purposes and appearances, gone legit. A few friends in the right places and deals got done, fates decided. Never in his life had Rebus felt like an insider. From time to time he'd tried -during his years in the army and his first few months as a cop.
But the less he felt he belonged, the more he came to mistrust the others around him with their games of golf and their 'quiet words', their stitch-ups and handshakes, palm-greasing and scratching of backs. Stood to reason someone like Addison would go straight to the top; he'd done it because he could, because in his world it felt entirely justified and correct. Rebus had to admit, though, he'd underestimated Corbyn, hadn't expected him to pull that particular trick. Kicked into touch until gold-watch day.
'Fuckwit,' he said out loud, this time aiming the word at no one but himself.
That was that, then. End of the line, end of the job. These past weeks, he'd been trying so hard not to think about it – throwing himself into other work, any work. Dusting off all those old unsolveds, trying to get Siobhan interested, as if she didn't have more than enough on her plate in the here and now – a situation unlikely to change in the future. The alternative was to take the whole lot home with him… call it his retirement gift; something to keep his brain active when the idea of the pub didn't appeal.
For three decades now this job of his had sustained him, and all it had cost him was his marriage and a slew of friendships and shattered relationships. No way he was ever going to feel like a civilian again; too late for that; too late for him to change. He would become invisible to the world, not just to revelling teenagers.
'Fuck,' he said, drawing the word out way past its natural length.
It was the casual arrogance that had flipped his switch, Addison sitting there in the full confidence of his power – and the stepdaughter's arrogance, too, in thinking one weepy phone call would make everything better. It was, Rebus realised, how things worked in the overworld. Addison had never woken from a beating in a piss-stained tenement stairwell. His stepdaughter had never worked the streets for money for her next fix and the kids' dinner.
They lived in another place entirely – no doubt part of the buzz Gill Morgan got from mixing with the likes of Nancy Sievewright.
The same buzz Corbyn got from having one of the most powerful men in Europe come to him with a favour.
The same buzz Cafferty got, buying drinks for businessmen and politicians… Cafferty: unfinished business, and likely to remain that way if Rebus heeded Corbyn's orders. Cafferty unfettered, free to commute between underworld and overworld. Unless Rebus went back indoors right now and apologised to the Chief Constable, promising to toe the line.
The scrapheap's hurtling towards me as it is… give me this one last chance… please, sir… please…
'Aye, right,' Rebus said, yanking open the car door and stabbing the key into the ignition.
23
' Nancy, we're going to record this, okay?'
Sievewright's mouth twitched. 'Do I need a lawyer?'
'Do you want a lawyer?'
'Dunno.'
Clarke nodded for Goodyear to switch on the deck. She'd slotted home both tapes herself – one for them and one for Sievewright.
But Goodyear was hesitating and Clarke had to remind herself that he'd not done this sort of thing before. Interview Room 1 felt stuffy and sweltering, as if it was sucking all the heat from the rooms around it. The central heating pipes hissed and gurgled and couldn't be turned down. Even Goodyear had taken off his jacket, and there were damp patches beneath his arms. Yet IR3, two doors along, was freezing, maybe because IR1 was keeping all the heat to itself.
'That one and that one,' she explained, pointing to the relevant buttons. He pressed them, the red light came on, and both tapes started running. Clarke identified herself and Goodyear, her final few words drowned by the scrape of his chair as he drew it in towards the desk. He gave a little grimace of apology, and she repeated herself, then asked Sievewright to state her name, before adding date and time to the recording. Formalities done with, she sat back a little in her chair. The Todorov file was in front of her, autopsy photo uppermost. She had padded the file itself with blank sheets of copy paper, to make it seem more impressive and, perhaps, more threatening. Goodyear had nodded admiringly.
Same went for the post-mortem photo, plucked from the Murder Wall to remind Sievewright of the grim seriousness of the case.
The young woman certainly looked unnerved. Hawes and Tibbet
had explained nothing of their appearance at her door, and had kept tight-lipped during the drive to Gayfield Square. Sievewright had then been left in IR1 for the best part of forty minutes, without any offer of tea or water. And when Clarke and Goodyear had come in, they'd both been carrying a fresh brew – even though Goodyear himself had insisted he wasn't thirsty.
'For effect,' Clarke had told him.