At one point Rebus had found himself saying: ‘I’d have thought you’d steer clear of the drink.’ Regretting the remark immediately. But Jean had just shrugged.
‘You mean because of Bill? That’s not the way it works. I mean, maybe it is with some people, they either become a drunk themselves or they make a pact never to touch another drop. But it’s not the booze that’s to blame, it’s the person using it. All the time Bill had his problem, it didn’t stop me indulging. I never lectured him. And it hasn’t stopped me drinking... because I know it doesn’t mean that much to me.’ She’d paused. ‘What about you?’
‘Me?’ Rebus had offered his own shrug. ‘I just drink to be sociable.’
‘And when does it start working?’
They’d laughed at that, and left the subject alone. Now, just gone eleven on a Saturday night, the street was noisy with alcohol.
‘Where do you suggest?’ Jean asked. Rebus made a show of checking his watch. There were plenty of bars he could think of, but they weren’t places he wanted Jean to see.
‘Could you stand a bit more music?’
She shrugged. ‘What kind?’
‘Acoustic. It’d be standing room only.’
She was thoughtful. ‘Is it between here and your flat?’
He nodded. ‘You know the place is a tip...’
‘I’ve seen it.’ Her eyes found his. ‘So... are you going to ask?’
‘You want to stay the night?’
‘I want you to ask me to.’
‘It’s only a mattress on the floor.’
She laughed, squeezed his hand. ‘Are you doing this on purpose?’
‘What?’
‘Trying to put me off.’
‘No, it’s just...’ He shrugged. ‘I just don’t want you—’
She interrupted him with a kiss. ‘I won’t be,’ she said.
He ran a hand up her arm, let it rest on her shoulder. ‘Still want that drink first?’
‘I think so. How far is it?’
‘Just up the Bridges. Pub’s called the Royal Oak.’
‘Then lead me to it.’
They walked hand in hand, Rebus trying his best not to feel awkward. Still he found himself scanning faces they passed, looking for ones he recognised: colleagues or ex-cons, he couldn’t have said which he’d like to meet the least.
‘Do you ever relax?’ Jean asked at one point.
‘I thought I was doing a pretty good imitation.’
‘I felt it at the concert, bits of you were elsewhere.’
‘Comes with the job.’
‘I don’t think so. Gill manages to switch off. I’d guess most of the rest of CID do too.’
‘Maybe not as much as you think.’ He thought of Siobhan, imagined her sitting at home, staring into the laptop... and Ellen Wylie festering somewhere... and Grant Hood, his bed strewn with paperwork, memorising names and faces. And the Farmer, what would he be doing? Running a cloth slowly over surfaces already clean? There were some — Hi-Ho Silvers; Joe Dickie — who barely switched on when they went to work, never mind switched off at day’s end. Others like Bill Pryde and Bobby Hogan worked hard, but left the job in the office, managed the magic of separating their personal lives from their careers.
Then there was Rebus himself, who for so long had put the job first... because it saved him having to face some home truths.
Jean broke his reverie with a question. ‘Is there a twenty-four-hour shop somewhere on the route?’
‘More than one. Why?’
‘Breakfast: something tells me your fridge won’t exactly be an Aladdin’s Cave.’
Monday morning, Ellen Wylie was back at her own desk in what everyone in the force referred to as ‘West End’, meaning the police station on Torphichen Street. Her reasoning was that it would be easier to get work done there, space not exactly being at a premium. A couple of weekend stabbings, one mugging, three domestics and an arson... these were keeping her colleagues busy. When they passed her, they asked about the Balfour case. She was waiting for Reynolds and Shug Davidson in particular — the pair forming a fearsome double act — to say something about her TV appearance, but they didn’t. Maybe they were taking pity on the afflicted; most likely they were just showing solidarity. Even in a city as small as Edinburgh, rivalries existed between stations. If the Balfour investigation shat on DS Ellen Wylie, it was in effect dumping on West End.
‘Reassigned?’ Shug Davidson guessed.
She shook her head. ‘I’m following a lead. It’s as easy to do it here as there.’
‘Ah, but here you’re a long way away from the glamour chase.’
‘The what?’
He smiled. ‘The big picture, the juicy inquiry, the centre of everything.’
‘I’m at the centre of the West End,’ she told him. ‘That’s good enough for me.’ Earned herself a wink from Davidson and a round of applause from Reynolds. She smiled: she was back home.
It had niggled at her all weekend: the way she’d been sidelined — bumped from liaison and dropped off at the twilight zone in which DI John Rebus worked. And from there to this — a tourist’s suicide from years back — seemed yet another snub.
So she’d come to a decision: if they didn’t want her, she didn’t need them. Welcome back to the West End. She’d picked up all her notes on the way in. They sat on her desk, a desk she didn’t need to share with half a dozen other bodies. The telephone wasn’t going constantly, Bill Pryde flapping past with his clipboard and nicotine chewing-gum. She felt safe here, and here she could safely reach the conclusion that she was on another wild-goose chase.
Now all she had to do was prove it to Gill Templer’s satisfaction.
She was off to a flyer. She’d called the police station in Fort William and spoken to a very helpful sergeant called Donald Maclay, who remembered the case well.
‘The upper slope of Ben Dorchory,’ he told her. ‘The body had been there a couple of months. It’s a remote spot. A ghillie happened on the scene; could have lain there years otherwise. We followed procedure. Nothing in the way of ID on the body. Nothing in the pockets.’
‘Not even any money?’
‘We didn’t find any. Labels on the jacket, shirt and suchlike didn’t tell us anything. Talked to the B and Bs and hotels, checked the missing persons records.’
‘What about the gun?’
‘What about it?’
‘Did you get any prints?’
‘After that length of time? No, we didn’t.’
‘But you did check for them?’
‘Oh, aye.’
Wylie was writing everything down, abbreviating most of the words. ‘Gunpowder traces?’
‘Sorry?’
‘On the skin. He was shot in the head?’
‘That’s right. The pathologist didn’t find any burning or residues on the scalp.’
‘Isn’t that unusual?’
‘Not when half the head’s been blown away and the local wildlife have been feeding.’
Wylie stopped writing. ‘I get the picture,’ she said.
‘I mean, this wasn’t like a body, more a scarecrow. The skin was like parchment. There’s a hellish wind blows across that hill.’
‘You didn’t treat it as suspicious?’
‘We went by the autopsy findings.’
‘Any chance you can send me the file?’
‘If we get a written request, sure.’
‘Thanks.’ She tapped her pen against the desk. ‘The gun was how far away?’