How ridiculous, she thought, that this was happening to her... She knew she had to get back on to her feet, start fighting back. He was an old man... Another blow made her flinch. She could see the chisel... only twelve feet to the front door... Devlin had her by the legs now, hauling her towards the living room... His grasp of her ankles was like a vice. Oh, Christ, she thought. Oh, Christ, oh, Christ... Her hands flailed, seeking purchase, or any instrument she could use... She screamed again. The blood was roaring in her ears; she couldn’t be sure she was making any noise at all. One of Devlin’s braces had come free, and his shirt-tail was hanging out.
Not like this... not like this...
John would never forgive her...
The area around Canonmills and Inverleith was an easy enough beat: no housing schemes, plenty of discreet wealth. The patrol car always made a point of stopping at the gates to the Botanics, just across from Inverleith Park. Arboretum Place was a double-width road which saw little traffic: perfect for the officers’ mid-shift break. PC Anthony Thompson always provided the flask of tea, while his partner, Kenny Milland, brought the chocolate biscuits — either Jacob’s Orange Club or, as today, Tunnock’s Caramel Wafers.
‘Magic,’ Thompson said, though his teeth told him otherwise: there was a dull ache from one of his molars whenever it came into contact with sugar. Having not been near a dentist since the 1994 World Cup, Thompson wasn’t enthusiastic about any future encounter.
Milland took sugar in his tea; Thompson didn’t. That was why Milland always brought a couple of little sachets and a spoon with him. The sachets came from a burger chain where Milland’s elder son worked. Not much of a job, but it had its perks, and there was talk of a significant step-up for Jason.
Thompson loved American cop films, everything from Dirty Harry to Seven, and when they stopped for their break he sometimes imagined that they were parked outside a doughnut stand, in baking heat and searing glare, with the radio about to burst into life. They’d have to leave their coffee and burn some rubber, giving chase to bank robbers or gangland killers...
Not much chance of either in Edinburgh. A couple of pub shootings, some pre-teen car-jackers (one of them a friend’s son), and a body in a skip, these comprised the highlights of Thompson’s two decades on the force. So when the radio did burst into life, detailing a car and driver, Anthony Thompson did a double-take.
‘Here, Kenny, doesn’t that one fit the bill?’
Milland turned and looked out of his window at the car parked next door. ‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘Wasn’t really listening, Tony.’ He took another bite of biscuit. Thompson, however, was on the blower, asking for a repeat of the licence plate. He then opened his door and walked around the patrol car, staring down at the front of the neighbouring vehicle.
‘We’re only parked bloody next to it,’ he told his partner. Then he got on the blower again.
The message was relayed to Gill Templer, who sent half a dozen officers from the Balfour team out to the area, then spoke to PC Thompson.
‘What do you reckon, Thompson: is she in the Botanic Gardens or Inverleith Park?’
‘It’s for a meeting, you say?’
‘We think so.’
‘Well, the park’s just this big flat space, easy to spot someone. The Botanics has its nooks and crannies, places you could sit down for a chat.’
‘You’re saying the Botanics?’
‘But it’ll be closing soon... so maybe not.’
Gill Templer expelled breath. ‘You’re being a big help.’
‘The Botanics is a big place, ma’am. Why not send the officers in there, get some of the staff to help? Meantime my partner and me can take the park.’
Gill considered the offer. She didn’t want Quizmaster scared off... or Siobhan Clarke for that matter. She wanted both of them back at Gayfield Square. The officers who were already on their way would pass for civvies from a distance; uniforms would not.
‘No,’ she said, ‘that’s okay. We’ll start with the Botanics. You stay put, in case she comes back to her car...’
Back in the patrol car, Milland gave a resigned shrug. ‘You can’t say you didn’t try, Tony.’ He finished his biscuit and screwed up the wrapper.
Thompson didn’t say anything. His moment had come and gone.
‘That mean we’re stuck here?’ his partner asked. Then he held his cup out. ‘Any more tea in that flask...?’
They didn’t call it tea in the Du Thé café. It was a ‘herbal infusion’: blackcurrant and ginseng to be precise. Siobhan thought it tasted all right, though she was tempted to add a spot of milk to cut the sharpness. Herbal tea and a finger of carrot cake. She’d bought an early edition of the evening paper from the newsagent’s next door. There was a photo of Flip’s coffin on page three, held aloft by the pall-bearers as they left the church. Smaller photos of the parents and a couple of celebs whose presence Siobhan had failed to notice at the time.
All of this after her walk through the Botanics. She hadn’t meant to walk the entire length, but somehow had found herself at the eastern gate, next to Inverleith Row. Shops and cafés just along to the right, by Canonmills. Still time to spare... She’d thought of fetching her car, but had decided to leave it where it was. She didn’t know what parking was like where she was headed. Then she remembered that her phone was tucked under the passenger seat. But by then it was too late: if she walked back through the Botanics, then either drove or walked back here, she’d have missed the meeting time. And she couldn’t be sure how patient Quizmaster would be.
Her decision made, she left the paper on her table at the café and headed back towards the Botanics, but passing the entrance, staying on Inverleith Row. Just before the rugby ground at Goldenacre she took a right, the path turning into more of a track. Dusk was fast arriving as she turned a corner and approached the gates of Warriston Cemetery.
No one was answering Donald Devlin’s buzzer, so Rebus hit all the others at random until someone responded. Rebus identified himself, and was buzzed into the tenement, Ellen Wylie right behind him. She actually passed him on the stairs and was first at Devlin’s door, thumping it, kicking, pressing his bell, and rattling the letter-box.
‘Not promising,’ she admitted.
Rebus, who had caught his breath, crouched in front of the letter-box and pushed it open. ‘Professor Devlin?’ he called. ‘It’s John Rebus. I need to talk to you.’ On the downstairs landing, one of the doors opened and a face peered up.
‘It’s okay,’ Wylie assured the nervous neighbour. ‘We’re police officers.’
‘Ssh!’ Rebus hissed. He put his ear to the open letter-box.
‘What is it?’ Wylie whispered.
‘I can hear something...’ It sounded like the low mewling of a cat. ‘Devlin didn’t have any pets, did he?’
‘Not that I know of.’
Rebus put his eyes to the letter-box again. The hallway was deserted. The door to the living room was at the far end, open a few inches. The curtains looked to be closed, so that he couldn’t see into the room. Then his eyes widened.
‘Holy Christ,’ he said, getting to his feet. He stood back and launched a kick at the door, then another. The wood complained, but didn’t give. He slammed his shoulder into it. No effect.
‘What?’ Wylie said.
‘There’s someone in there.’
He was about to take another run at the door when Wylie stopped him. ‘Together,’ she said. So that was what they did. Counted to three and hit the door at the same time. The jamb made a cracking sound. Their second assault split it, and the door opened inwards, Wylie falling through it so that she landed on all fours. When she looked up, she saw what Rebus had seen. Almost at floor level, a hand had attached itself to the living-room door and was trying to open it.