Idle thoughts. But in Benzie’s shoes... wife and daughter... he didn’t think he could have done it, leaving behind a devastated family. And now Claire wanted to be a pathologist, a career filled with corpses and ventilated, windowless rooms. Would each body she dealt with be her father’s image...?
‘Penny for them,’ Siobhan said.
‘No sale,’ Rebus replied, fixing his eyes on the road ahead.
‘Cheer up,’ Hi-Ho Silvers said, ‘it’s Friday afternoon.’
‘So what?’
He stared at Ellen Wylie. ‘Don’t tell me you don’t have a date lined up?’
‘A date?’
‘You know: a meal, some dancing, then back to his place.’ He started gyrating his hips.
Wylie screwed up her face. ‘I’m having trouble keeping my lunch down as it is.’
The remains of the sandwich were on her desk: tuna mayonnaise with sweetcorn. There’d been a slight fizziness to the tuna, and now her stomach was sending her signals. Not that Silvers was about to take any notice.
‘Must have a boyfriend though, Ellen?’
‘I’ll call you when desperation takes hold.’
‘As long as it’s not Friday or Saturday night: my drinking nights, those are.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind, George.’
‘And Sunday afternoon, of course.’
‘Of course.’ Wylie couldn’t help thinking that this arrangement probably suited Mrs Silvers just fine.
‘Unless we get some overtime.’ Silvers’s mind made the switch. ‘What do you reckon the chances are?’
‘Depends, doesn’t it?’ And she knew what it depended on: media pressure, forcing the brass to look for a quick result. Or maybe John Balfour, asking another favour, twisting an arm or two. Time was, CID would work seven-day weeks, twelve-hour days on a big case, and be paid accordingly. But budgets were tighter now, along with staffing levels. She’d never seen so many happy cops as the day CHOGM — the Commonwealth Heads of Government Meeting — had rolled into town, bringing with it an overtime jamboree. But that had been a few years back now. Still she caught officers, Silvers among them, muttering the word ‘chogm’ under their breath, as though it were a talisman. As Silvers shrugged and moved off, overtime probably still on his mind, Wylie turned her attention to the story of the German student, Jürgen Becker. She thought of Boris Becker, her favourite tennis player at one time, and wondered idly if Jürgen might be some relation. She doubted it: a famous relly would have pulled out the stops, like with Philippa Balfour.
And yet what progress had they made? They didn’t seem to be any further forward than the day the MisPer inquiry had opened. Rebus had all these ideas, but there was no focus to them. It was as if he reached out his hand and plucked possibilities from some tree or bush, expecting people to swallow them. The one time she’d worked with him before — a body found in Queensberry House, just as they were readying to knock most of it down and start building the parliament — there hadn’t been a result. He’d as good as dumped her, refused to talk about the case afterwards. Nothing had come to court.
And yet... she’d rather be part of Rebus’s team than none at all. She felt she’d burned her bridges with Gill Templer, whatever Rebus said, and she knew it was all her fault. She’d tried too hard, almost to the point of pestering Templer. It was a form of laziness: pushing to be noticed in the hope advancement would follow. And she knew Templer had rejected her precisely because she’d seen it for what it was. Gill Templer hadn’t got to the top that way — she’d had to work her damnedest throughout, fighting a prejudice against women officers which was never discussed, never admitted to.
But still there.
Wylie knew she should have kept her head down and her mouth shut. That was how Siobhan Clarke worked; she never looked pushy, even though she was every inch the careerist... and a rival — Wylie couldn’t help but see her that way. Templer’s favourite from the start, which was precisely why she — Ellen Wylie — had begun campaigning overtly and, as it turned out, too strenuously. Leaving her isolated, stuck with a piece of crap like the Jürgen Becker story. On a Friday afternoon, when there’d most likely be no one around to answer her phone calls, reply to her questions. It was dead time, that was all.
Dead time.
Grant Hood had another press conference to organise. He already knew the names to put to faces, had arranged short get-to-know meetings with the ‘majors’, these being the more reputable journalists, crime reporters of long standing.
‘Thing is, Grant,’ DCS Templer had confided in him, ‘there are some journos we can call our own, in that they’re malleable. They’ll toe the line, place a story for us if and when we want them to, while holding back stuff we don’t want getting out. You already have a foundation of trust there, but it cuts both ways. We have to give them good copy, and they’re hoping they get it an hour or two before the oppo.’
‘The oppo, ma’am?’
‘Opposition. See, they look like a solid mass when you see them in the press room, but they’re not. At times they’ll cooperate with each other — like sending one of their number on a thankless stake-out. He then shares whatever he gets with the rest of them. They take it in turns.’
Grant had nodded his understanding.
‘But in other respects, it’s dog eat dog. The hacks who’re not in the loop, they’re keenest of all, and not likely to be scrupulous. They’ll get chequebooks out when it suits, and they’ll try to win you over. Not with cash maybe, but with drinks, a bit of dinner. They’ll make you feel one of the lads, and you’ll start thinking: they’re not so bad really. That’s when you’re in trouble, because all the time they’ll be pumping you without you knowing it. You might let drop a hint or a teaser, just to show them you’re in the know. And whatever it is you’ve come out with, you can guarantee they’ll print it with knobs on. You’ll be “a police source” or “an unnamed source close to the investigation” — that’s if they’re in the mood to be kind. And if they get anything on you, they’ll turn the screws. They’ll want chapter and verse, or they’ll leave you on the rack.’ She’d patted his shoulder, and finished by saying: ‘Just a word to the wise.’
‘Yes, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am.’
‘It’s okay to be on genial terms with them all, and you should introduce yourself to the ones who matter, but never forget which side you’re on... or that there are sides. Okay?’
He’d nodded. Then she’d given him the list of ‘majors’.
He’d stuck to coffee and orange juice in each meeting, and was relieved to see most of the journalists doing likewise.