He couldn’t disagree . . .
The Wild Bunch reconvened in the Lomax inquiry room. It seemed like they’d been away from it a long time; longer still since they’d first met around its table. Tennant was seated at the head, hands clasped in front of him.
“Leith CID would like our help, gentlemen,” he began. “Or more properly, your help. You won’t be running the case — it’s not your bailiwick, after all. But you will share any and all information with DI Hogan and his team. You will pass on to them your notes on the procedures you’ve followed, the progress you’ve made on the Lomax case. And especially anything pertaining to Mr. Diamond and his circle. Clear enough?”
“Will we be based in Leith, sir?” Jazz McCullough asked.
“For today, yes. Make sure you take everything with you. There’s a weekend coming up, and after that you’ll be back here for four days of intensive final analysis. The plan was to retrain you and prepare you to work once more as effective team players . . .” Rebus felt Tennant’s eyes rest on him as he spoke these words. “Your respective forces will need evidence that you have learned from this course.”
“How are we doing so far, boss?” Sutherland piped up.
“You really want to know, DS Sutherland?”
“Actually, now you mention it, I think I can wait.”
There were smiles at this, from everyone in the room but Rebus and Gray. Gray looked chastened after his little chat with Tennant, while Rebus was deep in thought, trying to gauge how safe he would be down in Leith. At least he’d be in Edinburgh — on home turf — and he’d have Bobby Hogan to watch his back.
Odds on him making it to the weekend in one piece?
He’d give no better than even money.
The case against Malcolm Neilson was proceeding nicely. Colin Stewart from the Procurator Fiscal’s office had arrived at St. Leonard’s that morning for a progress report. It would be Stewart and his team of lawyers who’d decide whether there was enough evidence to justify a trial. So far he seemed satisfied. Siobhan had been called into Gill Templer’s office to answer a few of his procedural questions regarding the search of the house in Inveresk. Siobhan had countered with a few questions of her own.
“We’ve no actual physical evidence yet, have we?”
Stewart had removed his glasses, seeming to study the lenses for smears, while Gill Templer sat stone-faced beside him.
“We’ve the painting,” he commented.
“Yes, but it was found in an unlocked shed. Anyone could have put it there. Aren’t there more tests we could be doing to see whether anyone else handled it?”
Stewart glanced towards Templer. “We appear to have a doubting Thomas in our midst.”
“DS Clarke likes to play devil’s advocate,” Templer explained. “She knows as well as we do that further tests would take time and money — especially money — and probably wouldn’t add anything to what we already know.”
It was something the officers on an inquiry were never allowed to forget: each case had to fall within a strict budget. Bill Pryde probably spent as much time adding up columns of figures as he did on actual detective work. It was another thing he was good at: bringing cases in under budget. The High Hiedyins at the Big House perceived this as a strength.
“I’m just saying that Neilson would be an easy target. He’d already had a very public falling-out with Marber. Then there was the hush money and . . .”
“The only people who know about the hush money, DS Clarke,” Stewart said, “are the investigation team themselves.” He slipped his glasses back on. “You’re not implying that one of your own officers could have had some involvement . . . ?”
“Of course not.”
“Well then . . .”
And that had been that. Back at her desk, she called Bobby Hogan in Leith. It was something she’d been meaning to do. She wanted to know whether Alexander had been told about his mother’s death, and how he was bearing up. She’d even considered paying the grandmother a visit, but knew there could be no easy conversation between them. Thelma Dow had to contend with the loss of Laura and the jailing of her own son. Siobhan hoped she would be able to cope, able to give Alexander what he needed. She’d even briefly considered contacting a pal in social work, someone who could check that both carer and grandson were going to manage. Staring at the office around her, she saw the case winding down. The telephones had stopped being busy. People were standing around, catching up on gossip. She’d seen Grant Hood on last night’s TV news, acknowledging that a man had been charged, a house searched, and certain contents taken away for examination. It all had to be very coy now, so as not to jeopardize the legal case. The murder of Laura Stafford hadn’t even made the front page of the tabloids. RED-LIGHT STAB HORROR was the headline Siobhan had seen, with a daytime photograph of the Paradiso’s exterior and a much smaller photo of Laura, looking younger and with longer, bubble-permed hair.
Bobby Hogan was taking a while to come to the phone. Eventually, another officer answered for him.
“He’s swamped right now, Siobhan. Is it anything I can help with?”
“Not really . . . They’re keeping you busy down there then?”
“We had a murder last night. Rogue called Dickie Diamond.”
They chatted for a couple more minutes, then Siobhan hung up. She walked across to where George Silvers and Phyllida Hawes were sharing a joke.
“Hear what happened to Dickie Diamond?” she asked.
“Who’s he when he’s at home?” Silvers responded. But Hawes was nodding.
“That lot from Tulliallan had him in here only yesterday,” she said. “Bobby Hogan was in first thing this morning, asking questions.”
“As long as he’s not after poaching a few extra bodies,” Silvers commented, folding his arms. “I think we all deserve a bit of a rest, don’t you?”
“Oh, aye, George,” Siobhan told him, “you’ve been breaking your neck on this one . . .”
His glare followed her back to her desk. WPC Toni Jackson entered the room, saw Siobhan and smiled.
“It’s Friday,” she said, leaning against the side of the desk. Silvers had spotted her and was giving a sycophantic wave, still believing her to be related to someone famous. She waved back. “Silly sod,” she muttered under her breath. Then, to Siobhan: “You still got that date lined up?”
Siobhan nodded. “Sorry, Toni.”
Jackson shrugged. “It’s your loss, not ours.” She gave a sly look. “Still keeping lover boy’s name under wraps?”
“Absolutely.”
“Well, that’s your prerogative, I suppose.” Jackson eased herself off the desk. “Oh, nearly forgot.” She handed over the sheet of paper she’d been carrying. “Marked for your attention. Came through to our fax machine by mistake.” She wagged a finger. “I want to hear all about it on Monday.”
“Right down to the forensic detail,” Siobhan promised, offering a smile as Jackson moved away. The smile melted as she studied the cover sheet of the lengthy fax. It was from Dundee CID, responding to her request for the lowdown on Ellen Dempsey. Just as she was starting to read, a voice interrupted her.
“No rest for the wicked, eh, Siobhan?”
It was Derek Linford. He seemed even better groomed than usual, with a pristine shirt, new-looking suit, and dapper tie.
“Going to a wedding, Derek?”
He looked down at himself. “Nothing wrong with being presentable, is there?”
Siobhan shrugged. “Wouldn’t have anything to do with the rumor that we’re in line for a visit from the chief constable?”
Linford raised an eyebrow. “Are we?”
She gave a wry smile. “You know damned well we are. Bit of a fillip for the troops, telling us how hard we’ve all been working.”
Linford sniffed. “Well, it happens to be true, doesn’t it?”