‘We need addresses for Dandy and Roddy,’ James said, his eyes on Cal.
‘We don’t know their addresses,’ McKie snapped.
‘Cal’s never been round to their house?’ James sounded disbelieving. ‘He’ll have their phone numbers, though, won’t he? He can let us have those at least.’
McKie’s face darkened. She was on her feet now. She made a noise that was almost feral as she kicked her son on one ankle.
‘Go on,’ she said. ‘And then you and me are going to have words.’
Cal was already sliding his phone from his back pocket, switching it on, readying to search his address book.
‘Darryl’s not home?’ Clarke asked McKie, trying to make it sound like the most casual of enquiries.
‘Back at work, despite his injuries — never relaxes for a minute, that one.’ She seemed to be aiming this remark at Cal.
‘Do you want the numbers or don’t you?’ he asked, holding the phone towards his mother.
‘Not me, them,’ she snapped back. As Cal began to recite, Clarke copied the details into her own phone.
‘One more thing, Ms McKie,’ she said when she was done. ‘The suspect you mentioned — he seems to have gone missing.’
‘Oh aye?’
‘You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?’
McKie rolled her eyes, but said nothing.
James seemed pleased with the result as they headed to the car. Clarke wasn’t so sure. Darryl had told her he was moving his family to a place of safety. Why had he changed his mind? Or had he lied in the first place?
‘Back to Leith?’ James suggested, opening the passenger door.
‘Back to Leith,’ Clarke agreed.
16
Fox stared from the doorway of the MIT room towards his desk. Siobhan Clarke was seated there, one leg crossed over the other, with a mug of tea in front of her and a chocolate biscuit protruding from her mouth. She had just said something that had the whole team chuckling — until they saw Fox.
‘The prodigal returns,’ Alvin James said, stretching out an arm in mock welcome. ‘What happened? Did the interview with Maxine Dromgoole tire you out?’
Fox walked into the centre of the room. Rebus passed him on his way to the kettle.
‘I had to check up on a couple of names she gave me — one in Fife, the other in Perthshire. Just in case you thought I was slacking...’
James held up both hands in a show of surrender. ‘And you took a wingman, by the look of it. A member of the public, no less. That’s bound to look good if these “names” are called at the trial.’
‘The man has a point,’ Rebus teased, filling his mug. ‘No biscuits left?’
‘Sorry,’ Clarke replied, biting down on the last sliver of hers.
‘Time to share,’ James announced, slapping a hand down on his desk. ‘You tell us yours and we’ll tell you ours.’
‘All right,’ Fox said, his eyes on Clarke. She took the hint and eased herself from the chair — his chair. He squeezed past her and sat down. Mark Oldfield offered her his seat, but she shook her head and slid on to a corner of his desk instead, legs dangling.
‘Let’s begin,’ Alvin James said...
Rebus had offered to buy the drinks, but Clarke had cried off, having already promised to share her favourite restaurant with Alvin James.
‘Doesn’t take her long to get her feet under the table,’ Fox complained as Rebus returned from the bar to their corner table.
‘Relax,’ Rebus chided him. ‘Shiv’s not the one who got promoted to Gartcosh, remember?’
‘She’d fit in there a lot better than I do, though — we both know it, so don’t bother denying it.’
‘How’s your tomato juice?’
‘A shot of vodka wouldn’t harm it. How’s your low-alcohol beer?’
Rebus screwed up his face.
‘The state of the pair of us,’ Fox muttered, causing Rebus to chuckle. They sipped in silence for a few seconds. Rebus rubbed foam from his lips with the back of his hand.
‘It was interesting what Siobhan said, though,’ he eventually offered.
‘I was trying not to listen.’
‘About Darryl Christie telling her he’d moved everyone out of the house when he hadn’t.’
‘Why tell the truth when a lie will suffice?’
‘It’s a funny lie to tell, though.’
‘He may have his reasons.’
‘Such as?’
‘He’s hiding behind his mum and brothers, betting that whoever wants him hurt won’t want civilians involved.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Or else he just likes lying to the police — I get the feeling everyone I’ve spoken to recently has lied to me at least once: Dromgoole, Peter Attwood, John Turquand, Molly Sewell...’
‘Me?’ Rebus asked.
‘Probably. Almost definitely, in fact. My dad used to drum it into Jude and me that we’d go to hell if we ever told a lie.’
‘And did you stick by that?’
‘I did my best.’
‘Then maybe you won’t be joining the rest of us in the fiery depths.’ Rebus toasted him with his glass before taking another sip.
‘Are you putting off going home?’ Fox asked. ‘In case there really is a phone message?’
‘Nothing scares me, Malcolm.’
‘Is that right? I’m the exact opposite.’
‘That’s good, though, means you err on the side of caution. Look at your relationship with booze — you saw it was becoming a problem and you stopped. Me, I should have stopped years back. Instead of which, I challenged the demon drink to a wrestling match, just the two of us sweating it out.’
‘Only ever one winner in those contests.’
‘Aye — mortality. Same thing that’s waiting for me back at the flat, message or no message.’
‘That’s what I like about spending time with you, John — you never fail to light up a room with that positive attitude.’
‘I’m smiling now, though.’
Fox looked at him. ‘So you are. Why’s that, I wonder?’
Rebus leaned forward and patted him softly on the shoulder. ‘It’s your round, lad,’ he said.
Denise the barmaid had arrived, scouting for empty glasses. She glowered at Rebus.
‘If this place goes broke, it’ll be your fault.’
Rebus looked at Fox. ‘You see where I get that positive attitude from,’ he said.
Fox had turned down Rebus’s offer of a bite to eat. He was wondering which restaurant Siobhan would have taken Alvin James to. There were three possibles, and he drove past each, slowing and peering through their windows as best he could. Then he stopped at a Sainsbury’s and bought a ready meal, some bananas and the evening paper.
You’ll survive, he told himself as he pulled into the driveway of his Oxgangs bungalow. As he lifted his shopping from the passenger seat, he heard a car door open and close nearby. Looking up, he saw it was Darryl Christie. Christie just stood there next to the white Range Rover, waiting for Fox to walk up to him. Instead, Fox unlocked his front door and went inside, placing the bag on the kitchen counter and pausing there until the bell rang. He opened the door.
‘Was that you calling for back-up?’ Christie asked. ‘Because if it was, you better phone them with an excuse. Trust me, this chat has to be private.’
‘I don’t remember making an appointment, Mr Christie.’
‘What I’ve got to say is important.’
‘Then maybe you should drop by Leith tomorrow.’
Christie was peering over Fox’s shoulder. ‘We should step inside,’ he said.
‘I don’t think so.’