Siobhan looked stern-faced. He angled his face into hers.
‘Joking,’ he said.
‘Well,’ she replied, ‘we could take the pair of you down to the station... impound all your computers and software... might take a few days, of course.’ She paused. ‘And by the way, the police may be getting better-looking, but we’re also given a sense-of-humour bypass on the first day at work...’
They stared at her, standing shoulder to shoulder, both leaning back against the edge of the desk.
‘That’s us told,’ Cater told his friend.
‘Well and truly,’ McAteer agreed.
They were tall and slim, widening at the shoulders. Private schools and rugby, Siobhan guessed. Winter sports, too, judging by their tans. McAteer was the swarthier of the two: thick eyebrows, almost meeting in the middle, unruly black hair, face needing a shave. Cater was fair-haired like his father, though it looked to her as if he maybe dyed it. Already a touch of male-pattern baldness was showing. Same green eyes as his father, too, but otherwise there was little resemblance. Gordon Cater’s easy charm had been replaced by something much less winning: an absolute confidence that Alexis was always going to be one of life’s winners, not because of what he was, any qualities he might possess, but due to that lineage.
McAteer had turned to his friend. ‘Must be those tapes of our Filipino maids...’
Cater slapped McAteer’s shoulder, kept his eyes on Siobhan.
‘We are curious,’ he told her.
‘Speak for yourself, sweetie,’ McAteer said, affecting campness. In that instant, Siobhan saw the way their relationship worked: McAteer working constantly at it, almost like a king’s fool of old, needy for Cater’s patronage. Because Cater had the power: everyone would want to be his friend. He was a magnet for all the things McAteer craved, the invites and the girls. As if to reinforce this, Cater gave his friend a look, and McAteer made a show of zipping his mouth shut.
‘What is it we can do for you?’ Cater asked with almost exaggerated politeness. ‘We’ve really only got a few minutes between patients...’
It was another shrewd move: reinforcing his credentials — I’m the son of a star, but in here, my job is helping people, saving lives. I am a necessity, and there’s nothing you can do to change that...
‘Mag Lennox,’ Siobhan said.
‘We’re in the dark,’ Cater said. He broke eye contact to cross one foot over the other.
‘No you’re not,’ Siobhan told him. ‘You stole her skeleton from the medical school.’
‘Did we?’
‘And now she’s turned up again... buried in Fleshmarket Close.’
‘I saw that story,’ Cater said with the slightest of nods. ‘Grisly sort of find, isn’t it? I thought the article said it had something to do with raising the devil?’
Siobhan shook her head.
‘Plenty of devils in this town, eh, Lex?’ McAteer said.
Cater ignored him. ‘So you think we took a skeleton from the medical school and buried it in a cellar?’ He paused. ‘Was it reported to police at the time...? Only, I don’t recall seeing that particular story. Surely the university would have alerted the proper authorities.’ McAteer was nodding his assent.
‘You know that didn’t happen,’ Siobhan said quietly. ‘They were still in the mire for letting you walk out of the pathology lab with a selection of body parts.’
‘These are serious allegations.’ Cater offered a smile. ‘Should my solicitor be present?’
‘All I need to know is what you did with the skeletons.’
He stared at her, probably the same look which had discomfited many a young woman. Siobhan didn’t even blink. He sniffed and took a deep breath.
‘Just how major a crime is it to bury a museum piece beneath a pub?’ He tried her with another smile, head sliding over to one side. ‘Aren’t there any drug-pushers or rapists you should be pursuing instead?’
The memory of Donny Cruikshank came to her, his scarred face no kind of recompense for his crime...
‘You’re not in trouble,’ she said at last. ‘Anything you tell me will be kept between us.’
‘Like pillow talk?’ McAteer couldn’t help saying. His chuckle died at another look from Cater.
‘That means we’d be doing you a favour, Detective Clarke. A favour that might need repaying.’
McAteer grinned at his friend’s comment, but kept quiet.
‘That would depend,’ Siobhan said.
Cater leaned towards her a little. ‘Come out for a drink with me tonight, I’ll tell you then.’
‘Tell me now.’
He shook his head, not taking his eyes off her. ‘Tonight.’
McAteer looked disappointed: presumably some prior arrangement was about to be ditched.
‘I don’t think so,’ Siobhan said.
Cater glanced at his wristwatch. ‘We need to get back to the ward...’ He held out his hand again. ‘It was interesting meeting you. I bet we’d have had a lot to talk about...’ When she stood her ground, refusing to take his hand, he raised an eyebrow. It was a favourite move of his father’s, she’d seen it in half a dozen films. Slightly puzzled and let down...
‘Just one drink,’ she said.
‘And two straws,’ Cater added. His sense of his own powers was returning: she hadn’t managed to turn him down. Another victory to chalk up.
‘Opal Lounge at eight?’ he suggested.
She shook her head. ‘Oxford Bar at seven thirty.’
‘I don’t... Is it new?’
‘Quite the opposite. Look it up in the phone book.’ She opened the door to leave, but paused as if she’d just thought of something. ‘And leave your jester in his box.’ Nodding towards Alf McAteer.
Alexis Cater was laughing as she made her exit.
7
The man called Gareth was laughing into his mobile phone as the door opened. There were gold rings on each of his fingers, chains dangling from his neck and wrists. He wasn’t tall but he was wide. Rebus got the impression much of it was fat. A gut hung over his waistband. He was balding badly, and had allowed what hair he had to grow uncut, so that it hung down to the back of his collar and beyond. He wore a black leather trenchcoat and black T-shirt, with baggy denims and scuffed trainers. He already had his free hand out for the cash, wasn’t expecting another hand to grab it and haul him inside the flat. He dropped the phone, swearing and finally taking note of Rebus.
‘Who the hell are you?’
‘Afternoon, Gareth. Sorry if I was a bit brusque there... three cups of coffee gets me that way sometimes.’
Gareth was composing himself, deciding that he wasn’t about to be done over. He bent down for his phone, but Rebus stepped on it, shaking his head.
‘Later,’ he said, kicking the phone out of the door and slamming it shut behind them.
‘Fuck’s going on here?’
‘We’re having a chat, that’s what.’
‘You look like the filth to me.’
‘You’re a good judge of character.’ Rebus gestured down the hall and encouraged Gareth into the living room with his hand pressed to the young man’s back. Passing father and son in the kitchen doorway, Rebus looked towards the son and got a nod, meaning he had the right man. ‘Sit down,’ Rebus ordered. Gareth lowered himself on to the arm of the sofa. Rebus stood in front of him. ‘This your flat?’
‘What’s it to you?’
‘Only it’s not your name on the tenancy.’
‘Isn’t it?’ Gareth played with the chains around his left wrist. Rebus leaned over him, got right into his face.
‘Is Baird your real surname?’
‘Yeah.’ His tone challenged Rebus to call him a liar. Then: ‘What’s so funny?’