‘So?’
‘He might know your Mr Sithing. He could even be a member of the Knights.’
‘So?’
‘So you’re beginning to sound like a record with the needle stuck.’ He stared at her until, suitably chastened, she mouthed the word ‘sorry’ before taking another glug of wine. ‘An interest in Rosslyn connects your Supertramp to my murder case. And Mr Supertramp also might have had an interest in Queensberry House.’
‘You’re turning three cases into one?’
‘I’m just saying there are—’
‘Connections, I know. The old six degrees of separation.’
‘The old what?’
She looked at him. ‘Okay, maybe it was after your time. It’s to do with how anyone on the planet is connected to anyone else by only six links.’ She paused. ‘I think that’s right anyway.’
As her second glass of wine arrived, she drained the first.
‘It’s at least got to be worth talking to Sithing.’
She wrinkled her nose. ‘I didn’t like him.’
‘I’ll sit in with you, if you like.’
‘You are trying to hijack my case.’ She smiled to let him know she was joking. But inside, she wasn’t so sure.
After their meal, Rebus asked if she fancied a nightcap in Swany’s, but she shook her head.
‘I wouldn’t want to lead you into temptation,’ she said.
‘I’ll give you a lift home then.’ Rebus, heading for the Saab, gave a valedictory wave towards the pub’s bright lights. Sleet was blowing horizontally down Causewayside. They got into the car and he started the engine, making sure the heating was on full.
‘Did you notice the weather today?’ Siobhan asked.
‘What about it?’
‘Well, it was cold, raining, windy and sunny — all at the same time. It was like four seasons in one.’
‘You can’t say you don’t get your money’s worth in Edinburgh. Here, hang on a sec.’ He reached over to open the glove compartment, saw Siobhan stiffen her body, thinking he was going to touch her. He smiled, found the tape he was looking for.
‘Little treat for you,’ he said, pushing the tape home. She’d flinched; she’d thought he was making a move on her. Jesus. She wasn’t much older than Sammy.
‘What is it?’ she asked. He had the idea she was blushing; hard to tell in the semi-dark interior. He handed her the case. ‘Crime of the Century,’ she recited.
‘Supertramp’s finest moment,’ he explained.
‘You like all this old music, don’t you?’
‘And that Blue Nile tape you made for me. I might be a dinosaur in many respects, but I’m open-minded about rock.’
They headed for the New Town. Divided city, Rebus was thinking. Divided between the Old Town to the south and the New Town to the north. And divided again between the east end (Hibs FC) and west (Hearts). A city which seemed defined by its past as much as by its present, and only now, with the parliament coming, looking towards the future.
‘Crime of the Century,’ Siobhan repeated. ‘Which one, do you think — your dead MSP or my mystery suicide?’
‘Don’t forget the body in the fireplace. Where’s your flat again?’
‘Just off Broughton Street.’
As they drove, they watched the buildings and the pedestrians, were aware of other cars drawing level with them at traffic lights. Cop instinct: always on the lookout. Most people just got on with their lives, but a detective’s life was made up of other people’s lives. The city seemed quiet enough. Not yet late enough for drunks, and the weather was keeping people off the streets.
‘You have to worry about the homeless, this time of year,’ Siobhan said.
‘You should take a look at the cells on the run-up to Christmas. The woolly suits take in as many as they can.’
She looked at him. ‘I didn’t know that.’
‘You’ve never worked Christmas.’
‘They arrest them?’
Rebus shook his head. ‘Ask to be locked up. That way there’s a hot meal for them right through to New Year. Then we let them out again.’
She leaned back against the headrest. ‘God, Christmas.’
‘Do I detect a hint of humbug?’
‘My parents always want me to go back home.’
‘Tell them you’re working.’
‘That would be dishonest. What are you doing anyway?’
‘For Christmas?’ He thought about it. ‘If they want me for a shift at St Leonard’s, I’ll probably clock in. It’s a good laugh at the station, Christmas Day.’
She looked at him but didn’t say anything, until she told him her street was next left. There were no parking spaces outside her building. Rebus drew up alongside a gleaming black 4×4.
‘That’s not yours, is it?’
‘Hardly.’
He peered up at the flats. ‘Nice street though.’
‘Do you want some coffee?’
He thought it over, remembering the way she’d flinched: did it say something about what she thought of him, or about Siobhan herself? ‘Why not?’ he said at last.
‘There’s a parking space further back.’
So Rebus reversed fifty yards and parked kerbside. Her flat was two floors up. No clutter; everything in its place. It was what he’d have expected, and he was pleased he’d been right. Framed prints on the walls, adverts for art exhibitions. A rack of CDs and a decent hi-fi system. Several shelves of videos: comedies mostly, Steve Martin, Billy Crystal. Books: Kerouac, Kesey, Camus. Lots of law texts. There was a functional-looking green two-seat sofa, plus a couple of unmatching chairs. From the window, he looked on to an identical tenement, curtains closed, windows darkened. He wondered if Siobhan wanted her curtains left open.
She’d gone straight into the kitchen to put the kettle on. His tour of the living room complete, he went to find her. Past two bedrooms, doors open. Clatter of mugs and teaspoons. She was opening the fridge as he came in.
‘We should talk about Sithing,’ Rebus said. ‘How best to tackle him.’ Siobhan swore. ‘What is it?’
‘Out of milk,’ she said. ‘I thought I’d one of those UHT packets in the cupboard.’
‘I’ll take it black.’
She turned to the worktop. ‘Fine.’ Opened a storage jar, peered in. ‘Except I’m out of coffee, too.’
Rebus laughed. ‘Do much entertaining, do you?’
‘Just haven’t managed a supermarket run this week.’
‘No problem. There’s a chippie on Broughton Street. Coffee and milk both, if we’re lucky.’
‘Let me give you some money.’ She was looking for her bag.
‘My treat,’ he said, heading for the door.
When he was gone, Siobhan rested her head against the cupboard door. She’d hidden the coffee right at the back. She just needed a minute or two. It was so seldom she brought people back here, and John Rebus’s first visit. A minute or two to herself, that was all she wanted. In the car, when he’d reached towards her... what was he going to think about that? She’d thought he was making a move; not that he ever had before, so why had she flinched? Most of the men she worked with, there was innuendo, the occasional blue joke — looking for her to react. But never John Rebus. She knew he was flawed, had problems, but still he’d brought a certain solidity to her life. He was someone she felt she could trust, come hell or high water.
Something she didn’t want to lose.
She turned the kitchen light off, walked into the living room, stood at her window and stared out at the night. Then turned and started doing some tidying.
Rebus buttoned up his jacket, glad to be outdoors. Siobhan hadn’t been happy about him being there, that was obvious. He’d felt the same way: uncomfortable. Try to keep your work and social life separate. It was hard in the force: you drank together, telling stories outsiders wouldn’t understand. The bond went deeper than desk and office, patrol car and local beat.