Hynds took a step towards Siobhan’s desk. “Is there some history between you two?”
“Why do you say that?”
“DC Hood obviously doesn’t like me.”
“It’ll take a while, that’s all.”
“But am I right? Is there a history?”
She shook her head slowly, keeping her eyes on his. “You reckon yourself a bit of an expert, don’t you, Davie?”
“How do you mean?”
“As an amateur psychologist.”
“I wouldn’t say —”
She was resting against the back of Rebus’s chair. “Let’s give you a test: what did you make of Malcolm Neilson?”
Hynds folded his arms. “I thought we’d covered this.”
By which he meant their conversation as Siobhan drove them from Neilson’s home back to St. Leonard’s. They hadn’t learned very much from the meeting, Neilson admitting it was no secret he wasn’t on speaking terms with the art dealer. He’d further admitted being annoyed that he’d suddenly been excluded from the New Colorists.
“That bugger Hastie couldn’t paint a living room wall, and as for Celine Blacker . . .”
“I quite like Joe Drummond though,” Hynds had interrupted. Siobhan had given him a warning look, but Neilson wasn’t listening anyway.
“Celine’s not even her real name,” he was saying.
In the car, Siobhan had asked if Hynds knew anything about painting.
“I did read up on the Colorists a bit,” he’d admitted. “Case like this, thought it might come in handy . . .”
Now, he rested his knuckles against the edge of Siobhan’s desk, leaning in towards her. “He’s not got much of an alibi,” he stated.
“But did he act like a man who might need one?”
Hynds considered this. “He called his lawyer . . .”
“Yes, but that was a moment’s panic. Once we actually got talking, didn’t you think he relaxed?”
“He was pretty confident.”
Siobhan, gazing into the middle distance, found herself locking eyes with George Silvers. She pointed to her computer screen, then wagged the finger at him. He ignored her, went back to his pretense of studying the wall.
Detective Chief Superintendent Gill Templer was suddenly standing in the doorway.
“Noise Abatement Society been leafleting again?” she bellowed. “A quiet office is one that isn’t working hard enough.” She narrowed in on Silvers. “Think you’re going to solve the case by osmosis, George?” There were smiles, but no laughter. The officers were trying to look busy but focused.
Templer was heading relentlessly for Siobhan’s desk. “How did you get on with the artist?” she asked, her voice dropping several decibels.
“Says he was in a few pubs that evening, ma’am. Got a take-away and went home to listen to Wagner.”
“Tristan und Isolde,” Hynds confided. Then, when Templer turned her laser glare on him, he blurted out that Neilson had wanted a solicitor present at the interview.
“Did he now?” The beams switched to Siobhan.
“It’ll go in my report, ma’am.”
“But you didn’t think it worth mentioning?”
The side of Hynds’s neck was reddening as he realized he’d dropped Siobhan in it.
“We don’t think it really means anything . . .” His voice fell away as he found himself the center of attention again.
“That’s your judgment, is it? Well, I can see I’m completely surplus to requirements. DC Hynds,” Templer announced to the room, “thinks he’s competent to make all the decisions around here.”
Hynds tried for a smile, failed.
“But just in case he’s wrong . . .” Templer was moving towards the doorway again, gesturing into the corridor. “Seeing how we’re down a DI, the Big House have let us borrow one of theirs.”
Siobhan sucked air between her teeth as a body and face she recognized walked into the room.
“DI Derek Linford,” Templer stated by way of introduction. “Some of you may already know him.” Her eyes turned towards Hi-Ho Silvers. “George, you’ve been staring at that wall long enough. Maybe you can bring Derek up to speed on the case, eh?”
With that, Templer left the room. Linford looked around, then walked stiffly towards George Silvers, shaking the proffered hand.
“Christ,” Hynds was saying in an undertone, “I felt like I was on her petri dish for a minute back there . . .” Then he noticed Siobhan’s face. “What is it?”
“What you were saying before . . . about Grant and me.” She nodded her head in Linford’s direction.
“Oh,” Davie Hynds said. Then: “Fancy another coffee?”
Out at the machine she gave him an edited version of events, telling him that she’d gone out with Linford on a couple of occasions, but leaving out the fact that Linford had started spying on her. She added that there was bad blood between Linford and Rebus, too, with the former blaming the latter for a severe beating he’d been given.
“You mean DI Rebus beat him up?”
Siobhan shook her head. “But Linford blames him all the same.”
Hynds gave a low whistle. He seemed about to say something, but now Linford himself was walking down the corridor, sorting out some loose coins in his hand.
“Change for fifty pee?” he asked. Hynds immediately reached into his own pocket, allowing Linford and Siobhan to share a look.
“How are you, Siobhan?”
“Fine, Derek. How are you?”
“Better.” He nodded slowly. “Thanks for asking.” Hynds was slotting coins home, refusing Linford’s offer of the fifty-pence piece.
“Was it tea or coffee you were after?”
“I think I’m capable of pushing the button myself,” Linford told him. Hynds realized he was trying too hard, took half a step back.
“Besides,” Linford added, “knowing this machine, it hardly makes any difference.” He managed a smile, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Why him?” Siobhan asked.
She was in DCS Templer’s office. Gill Templer had just got off the phone and was scribbling a note in the margin of a typewritten sheet.
“Why not?”
It struck Siobhan that Templer hadn’t been chief super back then. She didn’t know the full story.
“There’s . . .” — she found herself echoing Hynds’s word — “history.” Templer glanced up. “Between DI Linford and DI Rebus,” Siobhan went on.
“But DI Rebus is no longer part of this team.” Templer lifted the sheet of paper as if to read it.
“I know that, ma’am.”
Templer peered at her. “Then what’s the problem?”
Siobhan took the whole office in with a sweep of her eyes. Window and filing cabinets, potted plant, a couple of family photographs. She wanted it. She wanted someday to be sitting where Gill Templer was.
Which meant not giving up her secrets.
Which meant seeming strong, not rocking the boat.
“Nothing, ma’am.” She turned towards the door, reached out for the handle.
“Siobhan.” The voice was more human. “I respect your loyalty to DI Rebus, but that doesn’t mean it’s necessarily a good thing.”
Siobhan nodded, keeping her face to the door. When her boss’s phone rang again, she made what she felt was a dignified exit. Back in the murder room, she checked her screen saver. No one had tampered with it. Then she had a thought, and walked the short distance back across the corridor, knocking on the door, putting her head around without waiting. Templer put a hand across the receiver’s mouthpiece.
“What is it?” she asked, her voice once again iron.
“Cafferty,” Siobhan said simply. “I want to be the one who interviews him.”
Rebus was slowly circling the long oval table. Night had fallen, but the slat blinds remained open. The table was strewn with stuff from the box-files. What it lacked as yet was some order. Rebus didn’t think it was his job to impose order, yet that was what he was doing. He knew that come the morning, the rest of the team might want to rearrange everything, but at least he’d have tried.