‘Out,’ she commanded.
‘The money belongs to the Knights! We were his family!’
‘Out.’
He wasn’t resisting, not really. She swung him into the revolving door and gave it a push, propelling him out on to St Leonard’s Street, where he turned to glare at her. His face was redder than ever. Strands of hair had fallen forwards over his eyes. He began talking again, but she turned away. The desk sergeant was grinning.
‘Don’t,’ she warned.
‘I hear my Uncle Chris passed away,’ he said, ignoring her raised finger. As she made for the stairs, she could hear his voice. ‘He said he’d leave me a little something when he went. Any chance, Siobhan? Come on, just a few quid from my old Uncle Chris!’
Her phone was ringing when she reached it. She picked up the receiver, rubbing at her temples with her free hand.
‘What?’ she snapped.
‘Hello?’ A woman’s voice.
‘You’ll be the mystery tramp’s sister then?’ Clarke slipped into her chair.
‘It’s Sandra here. Sandra Carnegie.’
The name meant nothing to her for a moment.
‘We went to the Marina that night,’ the voice explained.
Clarke screwed her eyes shut. ‘Oh, hell, yes. Sorry, Sandra.’
‘I was just phoning to see if...’
‘It’s been a hellish day, that’s all,’ Clarke was saying. ‘. . there’d been any progress. Only no one’s telling me anything.’
Clarke sighed. ‘I’m sorry, Sandra. It’s not my case any more. Who’s your contact at Sex Crimes?’
Sandra Carnegie mumbled something inaudible.
‘I didn’t catch that.’
A burst of fury: ‘I said you’re all the same! You look like you’re concerned, but you’re not doing anything to catch him! I can’t go out now without wondering, is he watching me? Is that him on the bus, or crossing the road?’ The anger melting to tears. ‘And I thought you... that night we...’
‘I’m sorry, Sandra.’
‘Stop saying that! Jesus, just stop, will you?’
‘Maybe if I talked to the officers at Sex Crimes...’ But the phone had gone dead. Siobhan put down the receiver, then lifted it off the hook, sat it on the desktop. She had Sandra’s number somewhere, but looking at the chaos of papers on her desk, she knew it might take hours to find.
And her headache was getting worse.
And the frauds and lunatics would keep hammering at her.
And what kind of job was it that could make you feel so bad about yourself...?
17
The kind of morning just made for a long drive: sky a pale wash of blue, thin strings of clouds, almost no traffic and Page/Plant on the radio-cassette. A long drive might help clear his head. The bonus balclass="underline" he was missing the morning briefing. Linford could have the stage all to himself.
Rebus headed out of town against the tide of the rush hour. Crawling queues on Queensferry Road, the usual tailback at the Barnton roundabout. Snow on the roofs of some cars: the gritting lorries had been out at dawn. He stopped for petrol and downed two more paracetamol with a can of Irn-Bru. Crossing the Forth Bridge, he saw that they’d put up the Millennium Clock on the Rail Bridge, providing a reminder he didn’t need. He remembered a trip to Paris with his ex-wife... was it twenty years ago? A similar clock was set up outside the Beaubourg, only it had stopped.
And here he was time travelling, back to the haunt of childhood holidays. When he came off the M90, he was surprised to see he still had over twenty miles to go. Was St Andrews really so isolated? A neighbour had usually given the family a lift: Mum and Dad, and Rebus and his brother. Three of them crushed against each other on the back seat, bags squashed by their knees and legs, beach balls and towels resting on their laps. The trip would take all morning. Neighbours would have waved them off, as though an expedition were being undertaken. Into the dark continent of north-east Fife, final destination a caravan site, where their four-berth rental awaited, smelling of mothballs and gas mantles. At night there’d be the toilet block with its skittering insect life, moths and jenny-long-legs casting huge shadows on the whitewashed walls. Then back to the caravan for games of cards and dominoes, their father usually winning except when their mother persuaded him not to cheat.
Two weeks of summer. It was called the Glasgow Fair Fortnight. He was never sure if ‘fair’ was as in festival or not raining. He never saw a festival in St Andrews and it seemed to rain often, sometimes for a whole week. Plastic macs and long bleak walks. When the sun broke through, it could still be cold; the brothers turning blue as they splashed in the North Sea, waving at ships on the horizon, the ships their father told them were Russian spies. There was an RAF base near by; the Russians were after their secrets.
As he approached the town, the first thing he saw was the golf course, and heading into the centre he noticed that St Andrews seemed not to have changed. Had time really stood still here? Where were the High Street shoe shops and bargain outlets, the fast-food chains? St Andrews could afford to be without them. He recognised the spot where a toy shop had once stood. It now sold ice cream. A tearoom, an antique emporium... and students. Students everywhere, looking bright and cheerful in keeping with the day. He checked his directions. It was a small town, six or seven main streets. Even so, he made a couple of mistakes before driving through an ancient stone archway. He stopped by the side of a cemetery. Across the road were gates which led to a Gothic-style building, looking more like a church than a school. But the sign on the wall was clear enough: Haugh Academy.
He wondered if he needed to lock the car, but did so anyway: too old to change his ways.
Teenage girls were heading into the building. They all wore grey blazers and skirts, crisp white blouses with school ties knotted tight at the throat. A woman was standing in the doorway, donning a long black woollen coat.
‘Inspector Rebus?’ she asked as he approached. He nodded. ‘Billie Collins,’ she said, a hand shooting out towards him. Her grip was brisk and firm. As a girl, head bowed, made to pass them, she tutted and gripped her by the shoulder.
‘Millie Jenkins, have you finished that homework yet?’
‘Yes, Miss Collins.’
‘And has Miss McCallister seen it?’
‘Yes, Miss Collins.’
‘Then along you go.’
The shoulder was released, the girl fairly flew through the door.
‘Walk, Millie! No running!’ She kept her head turned, checking the girl’s progress, then brought her attention back to Rebus.
‘The day being a fine one, I thought we might walk.’
Rebus nodded his agreement. He wondered, the day apart, whether there might be some other reason she didn’t want him in the school...
‘I remember this place,’ he said.
They’d descended the hill and were crossing a bridge over a burn, harbour and pier to the left of them, sea views ahead. Rebus pointed far to the right, then brought his arm down, lest the teacher scold him: John Rebus, no pointing!
‘We came here on holiday... that caravan site up there.’
‘Kinkell Braes,’ Billie Collins said.
‘That’s right. There used to be a putting green just there.’ Nodding with his head, a safer option. ‘You can still see the outline.’
And the beach falling away just yards below them. The promenade was empty, save for a Labrador being walked by its owner. As the man passed them, he smiled, bowed his head. A typically Scots greeting: more evasion than anything else. The dog’s hair hung wetly from its belly, where it had enjoyed a trip into the water. A wind was whipping off the sea, icy-smelling and abrasive. He got the feeling his companion would call it bracing.