‘And we talk shop all through the meal? Yes, that would be a real break from routine.’
‘I happen to have a wide range of conversational topics.’
‘Name three.’
‘Pubs, progressive rock, and...’
‘And you’re struggling.’
‘Scottish history: I’ve been reading up on it lately.’
‘How thrilling. Besides, pubs are where you have conversations; they’re not what you talk about.’
‘I talk about them.’
‘That’s because you’re obsessed.’
He was sorting through her messages. ‘Who’s G. Sithing?’
She rolled her eyes. ‘His first name’s Gerald. He came to see me this morning: the first of many, no doubt.’
‘He’s keen to talk to you.’
‘Once was enough.’
‘Woodwork creaks and out come the freaks, eh?’
‘I’ve a feeling that’s a line from a song.’
‘Not a song, a classic. So who is he?’
‘He runs some bunch of nutters called the Knights of Rosslyn.’
‘As in Rosslyn Chapel?’
‘The same. He says Supertramp was a member.’
‘Sounds unlikely.’
‘Oh, I think they knew one another. I just can’t see Mackie leaving all that money to Mr Sithing.’
‘So who are these Knights of Rosslyn?’
‘They think there’s something beneath the chapel floor. Come the millennium, up it pops and they’re in the vanguard.’
‘I was out there the other day.’
‘I didn’t know you were interested.’
‘I’m not. But Lorna Grieve lives out that way.’ Rebus had turned his attention to the newspaper which had been in Mackie’s carrier. ‘Was this folded like this?’
The newspaper looked filthy, as though it had been fished out of a bin. It had been opened to an inside page, and folded into quarters.
‘I think so,’ she said. ‘Yes, it was crumpled like that.’
‘Not crumpled, Siobhan. Look what story it’s open at.’
She looked: a follow-up article on the ‘body in the fireplace’. She took the paper from Rebus and unfolded it. ‘Could be one of these other stories.’
‘Which one: traffic congestion or the doctor who’s prescribing Viagra?’
‘Don’t forget the advert for New Year in County Kerry.’ She gnawed her bottom lip, turned to the paper’s front page: the lead was Roddy Grieve’s murder. ‘Are you seeing something I’m not?’ Thinking of the Chief Super’s words: you’re looking for something here that probably doesn’t exist.
‘Seems to me maybe Supertramp had some interest in Skelly. You should ask the people who knew him.’
Rachel Drew at the hostel; Dezzi, heating burgers by hand-dryer; Gerald Sithing. Siobhan managed not to look thrilled by Rebus’s suggestion.
‘We’ve a body in Queensberry House,’ Rebus said, ‘dates back to late ’78 or early ’79. A year later, Supertramp is born.’ He held up a finger on his right hand. ‘Supertramp suddenly decides to top himself, having read in the paper about the find in the fireplace.’ He held up a finger on his left hand, touched the two together.
‘Careful,’ Siobhan said, ‘that means something rude in several countries.’
‘You don’t see a connection?’ He sounded disappointed.
‘Sorry to play Scully to your Mulder, but couldn’t it be that you’re seeing connections here because nothing’s happening in your own case?’
‘Which translated means: get your nose out of my business, Rebus?’
‘No, it’s just that I...’ She rubbed at her forehead. ‘I only know one thing.’
‘What’s that?’
‘I haven’t eaten since breakfast.’ She looked at him. ‘The dinner offer still stand?’
20
They ate at Pataka’s on Causewayside. She asked how his daughter was doing. Sammy was down south, some specialist physiotherapy place. Rebus told her there wasn’t much news.
‘She’ll get over it though?’
Meaning the hit and run which had left Sammy in a wheelchair. Rebus nodded; didn’t say anything for fear of tempting fate.
‘And how’s Patience?’
Rebus helped himself to more tarka dal, though he’d eaten way too much as it was. Siobhan repeated the question.
‘Nosy little beggar, aren’t you?’
She smiled: Dezzi had said the selfsame thing. ‘Sorry, I thought maybe at your age it was just that your hearing was going.’
‘Oh, I heard you all right.’ He lifted a forkful of ginger murgh, but put it down again untouched.
‘Me, too,’ Siobhan said. ‘I always eat too much in Indian restaurants.’
‘I always eat too much all the time.’
‘So the pair of you have split up then?’ Siobhan hid behind her glass of wine.
‘We parted amicably.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘How did you want us to part?’
‘No, I just... the two of you seemed...’ She looked down at her plate. ‘Sorry, I’m talking rubbish here. I only met her four or five times, and here I am pontificating.’
‘You don’t look much like a pontiff.’
‘Bless you for that.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Not bad: eighteen minutes without shop talk.’
‘Is that a new record?’ He finished his beer. ‘I notice we haven’t been talking much about your private life. Seen anything of Brian Holmes?’
She shook her head, made show of looking around the restaurant. Three other couples in the place, and one family of four. Ethnic music kept low enough that it didn’t intrude but ensured a conversation stayed private.
‘I saw him a couple of times after he left the force. Then we lost touch.’ She shrugged.
‘Last I heard,’ Rebus said, ‘he was in Australia; thinking of staying there.’ He pushed some of the food around his plate. ‘You don’t think it’s worth asking around about Supertramp and Queensberry House?’
Siobhan mimicked the noise of a buzzer as she checked her watch again. ‘Twenty minutes dead. You’ve let the side down, John.’
‘Come on.’
She sat back. ‘You’re probably right. Thing is, the boss has only given me a couple more days.’
‘Well, what other leads have you got?’
‘None,’ she admitted. ‘Just a slew of cranks and gold-diggers to put out of the frame.’
Their waiter materialised and asked if they wanted any more drinks. Rebus looked at Siobhan. ‘I’m driving,’ he told her. ‘You go ahead.’
‘In that case I’ll have another glass of white.’
‘And another pint for me,’ Rebus said, handing the waiter his empty glass. Then, to Siobhan: ‘It’s only my second. My vision doesn’t start blurring till four or five.’
‘But you were drinking earlier; I could smell it.’
‘So much for the extra-strong mints,’ Rebus muttered.
‘How long till it starts affecting your job.’
His eyes smouldered. ‘Et tu, Siobhan?’
‘Just wondering,’ she said, not about to apologise for the question.
He shrugged. ‘I could stop drinking tomorrow.’
‘But you won’t.’
‘No, I won’t. And I won’t stop smoking either, or swearing, or cheating at crosswords.’
‘You cheat at crosswords?’
‘Doesn’t everybody?’ He watched as one of the couples got up to leave. They left the restaurant hand in hand. ‘Funny,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘Lorna Grieve’s husband, he has an interest in Rosslyn, too.’
Siobhan snorted. ‘Speaking of changing the subject...’
‘They bought a house in the village,’ Rebus went on, ‘that’s how serious he is.’