Rebus shook his head. ‘Looks like the new kid in town. That other one...’ meaning the woman they’d passed earlier, ‘can’t be more than twenty feet away, but they’re not talking.’
Siobhan nodded. Having nothing else, the city’s street-walkers often showed solidarity with each other, but not here. Which meant that the older woman felt her pitch had been invaded by the incomer. Having driven past, Siobhan did a three-point turn and drew up next to the kerb. Rebus had wound his window down. The prostitute stepped forward, wary of the number of people in the car.
‘No group stuff,’ she said. Then she recognised the faces in the back. ‘Christ, not you two again.’ She turned and started to walk away. Rebus got out of the car and grabbed her arm, spinning her round. His ID was open in his other hand.
‘CID,’ he said. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Cheyanne.’ She raised her chin. ‘Not that I am shy.’ Trying to sound tougher than she was.
‘And that’s your patter, is it?’ Rebus said, sounding unconvinced. ‘How long’ve you been in town?’
‘Long enough.’
‘Is that a Brummie accent?’
‘None of your business.’
‘I could make it my business. Might need to check your real age, for one thing...’
‘I’m eighteen!’
Rebus ploughed on as though she hadn’t spoken. ‘That would mean looking at your birth certificate, which would mean talking to your parents.’ He paused. ‘Or you could help us out. These people have lost their daughter.’ He nodded towards the car and its occupants. ‘She’s done a runner.’
‘Good luck to her.’ Sounding sulky.
‘But her parents care about her... maybe like you wish yours did.’ He paused to let this sink in, studying her without seeming to: no apparent signs of recent drug use, but maybe that was because she hadn’t made enough money yet for a hit. ‘But this is your lucky night,’ he continued, ‘because you might be able to help them... always supposing you weren’t spinning them a line about the pubic triangle.’
‘All I know is, a few new girls have been hired.’
‘Where exactly?’
‘The Nook. I know ’cos I went asking... said I was too skinny.’
Rebus turned towards the back seat of the car. The Jardines had wound down their window. ‘Did you show Cheyanne a picture of Ishbel?’ Alice Jardine nodded, and Rebus turned back to the girl, whose attention was already wandering. She looked to left and right, as if for potential clients. The woman further along was pretending to ignore everything but the roadway in front of her.
‘Did you recognise her?’ he asked Cheyanne.
‘Who?’ Still not looking at him.
‘The girl in the picture.’
She shook her head briskly, then had to push the hair out of her eyes.
‘Not much of a career this, is it?’ Rebus said.
‘It’ll do me for now.’ She tried burrowing her hands into the tight pockets of her jacket.
‘Is there anything else you can tell us? Anything that might help Ishbel?’
Cheyanne shook her head again, eyes focused on the road ahead. ‘Just... sorry about earlier. Don’t know what got me laughing... happens sometimes.’
‘Look after yourself,’ John Jardine called from the back seat. His wife was holding their photograph of Ishbel out of the window.
‘If you see her...’ she said, the words trailing off.
Cheyanne nodded, and even accepted one of Rebus’s business cards. He got back into the car and closed the door. Siobhan signalled out into the road and took her foot off the brake.
‘Where are you parked?’ she asked the Jardines. They named a street at the other end of Leith, so she did another turn, taking them past Cheyanne again. The girl ignored them. The woman further along stared at them though. She was walking towards Cheyanne, ready to ask what had just happened.
‘Could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship,’ Rebus mused, folding his arms. Siobhan wasn’t listening. She stared into her rearview mirror.
‘You’re not to go there, understood?’
No one answered.
‘Best if myself and DI Rebus intercede on your behalf. That is, if DI Rebus is willing.’
‘Me? Go to a lap-dancing bar?’ Rebus tried for a pout. ‘Well, if you really think it necessary, DS Clarke...’
‘We’ll go tomorrow then,’ Siobhan said. ‘Some time before opening.’ Only now did she look at him.
And smiled.
Day three
Wednesday
6
Detective Constable Colin Tibbet arrived at work next morning to find that someone had placed a toy locomotive on his mouse pad. The mouse itself had been disconnected and placed in one of his desk drawers... a locked drawer at that — locked when he’d left work the previous evening, and needing to be unlocked this morning... yet somehow containing his mouse. He stared at Siobhan Clarke, and was about to speak when she silenced him with a shake of her head.
‘Whatever it is,’ she said, ‘it can wait. I’m out of here.’
And so she was. She’d been coming out of the DI’s office when Tibbet had arrived. Tibbet had heard Derek Starr’s closing words: ‘A day or two, Siobhan, no more than that...’ Tibbet presumed it had something to do with Fleshmarket Close, but he couldn’t guess what. One thing he did know: Siobhan knew that he’d been studying train timetables. This made her the chief suspect. But there were other possibilities: Phyllida Hawes herself was not above the odd practical joke. The same could be said of DC Paddy Connolly and DC Tommy Daniels. Might DCI Macrae have decided on a schoolboy prank? Or what about the man sipping coffee at the little foldaway table in the corner? Tibbet really only knew Rebus by reputation, but that reputation was formidable. Hawes had warned him not to be star-struck.
‘Rule number one with Rebus,’ she’d said: ‘you don’t lend him money and you don’t buy him drinks.’
‘Isn’t that two rules?’ he’d asked.
‘Not necessarily... both are likely to happen in pubs.’
This morning, Rebus looked innocent enough: sleepy eyes and a patch of grey bristle on his throat which the razor had missed. He wore a tie the way some schoolkids did — on sufferance. Each morning, he seemed to come into work whistling some irritating hook-line from an old pop song. By mid-morning, he’d have stopped doing it, but by then it was too late: Tibbet would be whistling it for him, unable to escape the pernicious chorus.
Rebus heard Tibbet hum the opening few bars of ‘Wichita Linesman’ and tried not to smile. His work here was done. He got up from the table, slipping his jacket back on.
‘Got to be somewhere,’ he said.
‘Oh?’
‘Nice train,’ Rebus commented, nodding towards the green locomotive. ‘Hobby of yours?’
‘Present from one of my nephews,’ Tibbet lied.
Rebus nodded, quietly impressed. Tibbet’s face gave nothing away. The lad was quick-thinking and plausible: both useful skills in a detective.
‘Well, I’ll see you later,’ Rebus said.
‘And if anyone wants you...?’ Angling for a bit more detail.
‘Trust me, they won’t.’ He gave Tibbet a wink and left the office.
DCI Macrae was in the hall, clutching paperwork and on his way to a meeting.
‘Where are you off to, John?’
‘Knoxland case, sir. For some reason, I seem to have become useful.’
‘Despite your best efforts, I’m sure.’
‘Absolutely.’
‘On you go then, but don’t forget: you’re ours, not theirs. Anything happens here, we can have you back in a minute.’