‘Mindfulness for Millionaires?’ Fox suggested.
‘You might be on to something, chum! I’m away to dust off the old typewriter, unless there’s anything else I can help you with...?’
‘Say Julian Greene’s death wasn’t an accident — who would your money be on?’
‘Their parents died in a car crash, and from that moment on they were stuck together like glue with only their greedy old shit of a grandpa for moral guidance.’ Bennett paused for a moment’s thought. ‘One or the other, or maybe even both. As I say, it hardly matters. Hardly matters at all...’
Ann Street was reckoned by many to be the most beautiful terrace in the city. Tucked away between Queensferry Road and Stockbridge, its two elegant facing rows of Georgian homes were separated by a narrow roadway constructed of traditional setts. The front gardens were immaculate, the black metal railings glossy, the lamp posts harking back to a more elegant age. Anthony Brough’s house was towards one end of the street and not quite as imposing as those in the centre of the terrace. Rebus pushed open the gate, stood on the doorstep and pressed the bell. When there was no answer, he peered through the letter box. He could see an entrance hall and a stone staircase. Straightening up, he took a few steps to the window and peered into a modern living room boasting a TV and sofa but not much else. Back on the pavement, he was considering his options when he caught something from the corner of his eye — a net curtain twitching in the house opposite. Ah, Edinburgh. Of course a net curtain would twitch. Neighbours liked to know what was going on; for some, it was an all-embracing passion.
Rebus crossed the street, and was halfway up the path when the door opened slowly. The woman was in her seventies, stooped but immaculately dressed.
‘Is he not at home?’ she enquired in a lilting voice.
‘Doesn’t look like.’
‘I’ve not seen him for quite some time.’
‘That’s why we’re a bit worried,’ Rebus informed her. ‘His secretary says it’s been over a week...’
The neighbour considered this. ‘Yes, I suppose it must be.’
‘Any other visitors?’
‘I’ve not seen any.’
‘Do you know Mr Brough well, would you say?’
‘We stop and chat...’
‘And you last saw him over a week ago?’
‘I suppose,’ she echoed, frowning as she tried to count the days.
‘Had he seemed anxious at all?’
‘Isn’t everyone? I mean, you only have to switch on the news...’ She gave a perfectly formed shudder. Rebus was holding out a card. It was one of Malcolm Fox’s, lifted from the MIT office. He had crossed out Fox’s phone number and email address and added his own mobile number in black ballpoint.
‘Detective Inspector,’ the woman said as she peered at the card. ‘He’s not dead, is he?’
‘I’m sure he’s not.’
‘Francesca and Alison must be up to high doh.’
‘Alison?’
‘Francesca’s carer.’ The neighbour immediately corrected herself. ‘No, her assistant. That’s what she likes to be called.’
‘You know Mr Brough’s sister, then?’
The neighbour arched her back in surprise that he even needed to ask. ‘Well of course,’ she said. She nodded past Rebus towards the house. ‘She lives there, doesn’t she?’
Rebus turned his head to look. ‘There?’ he asked, just to be sure.
‘In the garden flat, directly below the main house. You just go down the steps and...’
But Rebus was already on his way. Yes, there was another gate, smaller, to the right of the one leading to the main house, with winding stone steps down to a well-tended patio. Rebus had been aware of it on arrival, but had thought it a separate property. The windows either side of the green wooden door had bars on — nothing unusual about that; many of the city’s garden flats boasted the same.
‘Garden’ — when Rebus had first gone flat-hunting in the city, so many decades back, he had wondered at that word. Why not just ‘basement’? That was what it meant, after all. Except that ‘garden’ implied you were getting a garden, too, and these flats did often lead directly into the rear garden of the property. He had looked at several before plumping for the second floor of a Marchmont tenement. His reasoning? No need to do any gardening.
The door was opened by a tall, well-built woman in her early thirties, her fair hair pulled back into a bun, one stray tress curling down past her left ear.
‘Yes?’ she asked.
Rebus held out another filched business card. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Fox,’ he announced as she took the card and studied it.
‘Is it about the break-ins?’
‘Break-ins?’
‘There’s been a spate recently.’ She studied him closely. ‘Surely you must know.’
‘I’m here about Anthony Brough. Would you be Alison?’
‘How do you know that?’
‘One of the neighbours,’ Rebus admitted with a smile.
‘Oh.’ She tried out a smile of her own.
‘You’ll be aware that Mr Brough hasn’t been seen in quite some time. His secretary is becoming concerned for his safety.’
The woman called Alison considered this. ‘I see,’ she eventually said.
‘She’s been to the house to look for him — I dare say she spoke to you too?’
‘Molly, you mean? Yes, she did. But it’s not so unusual for Anthony to take off on some jaunt or other.’
Rebus was looking past her shoulder at the long, unlit hallway. There was a thick velvet curtain at the far end, which he guessed would lead to stairs, stairs connecting to the main house.
‘Is Francesca at home? Could I maybe speak to her, Miss...?’
‘Warbody. And yes, she’s home.’
‘You’re her assistant?’
‘That’s right.’
‘I’d imagine she must be fretting about her brother?’
‘Francesca takes medication. Time doesn’t mean as much to her as to some of us.’
Rebus tried his smile again. ‘Would it be possible to talk to her?’
‘She hasn’t seen him.’
‘Since when?’
‘Eight, ten days back.’
‘No phone calls or texts?’
‘I think I would know.’
‘And you’re saying that’s not out of character?’
‘That’s exactly what I’m saying.’
‘Who are you speaking to?’ The voice — thin, almost ethereal — had come from one of the doorways. Rebus could just make out the shape of a head.
‘Nobody,’ Warbody called back.
‘I’m with the police,’ Rebus announced. ‘I was just asking about your brother.’
Warbody was glowering, but Rebus ignored her. Francesca Brough was walking towards the daylight, almost on tiptoe, like a ballerina. She had a ballerina’s frame, too, albeit one wrapped in thick black tights and a baggy oatmeal sweater, its sleeves stretched so that her hands were hidden within. One of the sleeves was in her mouth as she reached the doorstep. Her hair was clumsily cut, the scalp showing beneath. Her skin was almost ghostly and her lips bloodless as she sucked at the wool. The material seemed matted, as though this was not an unusual ritual.
‘Hello,’ she said, voice muffled.
‘Hello,’ Rebus echoed.
‘The inspector,’ Warbody explained, ‘is here because Anthony’s gone off on one of his walkabouts.’
‘He does that,’ Francesca said, as Warbody gently pulled her hand away from her mouth.
‘That’s what I’ve just been explaining.’
‘And you last saw him...?’
The question seemed to perturb Francesca. She looked to Warbody for guidance.
‘Eight or ten days back,’ Warbody obliged.