‘That’s the one, yes.’
‘Don’t tell me you’ve caught the killer?’
‘No.’
‘What then?’
She hesitated; he frowned in concentration. ‘Some new evidence may have come to light...’
‘What new evidence?’
‘Right now, I’m afraid I can’t divulge...’
‘Yeah, yeah. Tell me something I don’t hear every other day. Your lot always want something for nothing.’
‘And your lot don’t?’
He turned away from the window, just in time to catch a green Aston revving away from the lights: not too many about, had to be the grieving father... ‘What’s it got to do with Philippa Balfour?’ he asked.
Silence on the line. ‘Sorry?’
‘That’s not a very good answer, DS Wylie. Last time I saw you, you were attached to the Balfour case. Are you saying they’ve suddenly shifted you on to a case which isn’t even in the Lothian and Borders remit?’
‘I...’
‘You’re probably not at liberty to say, right? Me, on the other hand, I can say whatever I like.’
‘The way you made up that sword-and-sorcery stuff?’
‘That wasn’t made up. I got it from the parents.’
‘That he liked role-playing, yes, but the idea that it was some game brought him to Scotland...?’
‘Speculation based on the available evidence.’
‘But there was no evidence of such a game, was there?’
‘Highland mountains, all that Celtic myth rubbish... just the place someone like Jürgen would end up. Sent out on some quest, only there’s a gun waiting for him when he gets there.’
‘Yes, I read your story.’
‘And somehow it ties in with Flip Balfour, but you’re not going to tell me how?’ Holly licked his lips; he was enjoying this.
‘That’s right,’ Wylie said.
‘It must have hurt.’ His voice was almost solicitous.
‘What?’
‘When they pulled you from liaison. Not your fault, was it? We’re like bloody savages at times. They should have prepared you better. Christ, Gill Templer worked liaison for a hundred years... she should have known.’
Another silence on the line. Holly softened his voice. ‘And then they go and give it to a detective constable. DC Grant Hood. A shining example. Now there’s one cocky little bastard if ever I saw one. Like I say, something like that’s got to hurt. And what’s happened to you, DS Wylie? You’re stuck halfway up a Scottish mountain, scrabbling around for a reporter — one of the enemy — to put you right.’
He thought she’d gone, but then heard something which was almost a sigh.
Oh, you’re good, Stevie boy, he thought to himself. You’ll have the right address some day, and works of art on the walls for people to gawp at...
‘Detective Sergeant Wylie?’ he said.
‘What?’
‘Sorry if I hit a nerve. But, look, maybe we could meet. I think I might just have a way to help, even if only a little.’
‘What is it?’
‘Face to face?’
‘No.’ The voice hardening. ‘Tell me now.’
‘Well...’ Holly angled his head towards the sun. ‘Say this thing you’re working on... it’s confidential, right?’ He took a breath. ‘Don’t answer that. We both know already. But say someone... a journalist, for want of a better example... got hold of this story. People would want to know how he got it, and do you know who they’d look to first?’
‘Who?’
‘The liaison officer, Detective Constable Grant Hood. He’s the one with the line to the media. And if a certain journalist — the one in possession of the leak — happened to... well, indicate that his source was not a thousand miles from the liaison officer... I’m sorry, it probably sounds petty to you. You probably don’t want to see DC Hood with a bit of mud on his new starched shirt, or the flak that would head the way of DCS Templer. It’s just that sometimes when I start thinking something, I need to go the whole way. Do you know what I’m saying?’
‘Yes.’
‘We could still have that meeting. I’m free all morning. I’ve already told you what you need to know about Mountain Boy, but we could talk anyway...’
Rebus had been standing in front of Ellen Wylie’s desk a full half-minute before she seemed to realise he was there. She was staring towards the paperwork in front of her, but Rebus didn’t think she was seeing it. Then Shug Davidson wandered past, slapping Rebus on the back and saying ‘Morning, John’, and Wylie looked up.
‘Weekend that bad, was it?’ Rebus asked.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Looking for you, though I’m beginning to wonder why I bothered.’
She seemed to pull herself together, ran a hand over her head and muttered something approaching an apology.
‘So am I right, was it a bad weekend?’
Davidson was passing again, papers in hand. ‘She was fine till ten minutes ago.’ He stopped. ‘Was it that wanker Holly?’
‘No,’ Wylie said.
‘Bet it was,’ Davidson stated, moving off again.
‘Steve Holly?’ Rebus guessed.
Wylie tapped the newspaper story. ‘I had to talk to him.’
Rebus nodded. ‘Just watch out for him, Ellen.’
‘I can handle him, don’t worry.’
He was still nodding. ‘That’s more like it. Now, do you feel like doing me a favour?’
‘Depends what it is.’
‘I got the feeling this German student thing would be driving you mental... Is that why you came back to West End?’
‘I just thought I might get more work done here.’ She threw her pen down on the desk. ‘Looks like I was wrong.’
‘Well, I’m here to offer you a break. I’ve got a couple of interviews to do, and I need a partner.’
‘Who are you interviewing?’
‘David Costello and his father.’
‘Why me?’
‘I thought I’d already explained that.’
‘Charity case, am I?’
Rebus let out a long breath. ‘Jesus, Ellen, you can be hard work sometimes.’
She looked at her watch. ‘I have a meeting at half-eleven.’
‘Me too: doctor’s appointment. But this won’t take long.’ He paused. ‘Look, if you don’t want to...’
‘All right,’ she said. Her shoulders were slumped. ‘Maybe you’re right.’
Too late, Rebus was having second thoughts. It was as if the fight had gone out of her. He thought he knew the reason, but knew also that there was little he could do about it.
‘Great,’ he said.
Reynolds and Davidson were watching from one of the other desks. ‘Look, Shug,’ Reynolds said, ‘it’s the Dynamic Duo!’
It seemed to take all Ellen Wylie’s effort to lift her from her chair.
He briefed her in the car. She didn’t ask much, seemed more interested in the passing parade of pedestrians. Rebus left the Saab in hotel parking and walked into the Caledonian, Wylie a couple of steps behind.
The ‘Caley’ was an Edinburgh institution, a red-stone monolith at the west end of Princes Street. Rebus had no idea what a room cost. He’d eaten in the restaurant once, with his wife and a couple of friends of hers who were honeymooning in the city. The friends had insisted on putting dinner on their room tab, so Rebus had never known the final figure. He’d been uncomfortable all evening, right in the middle of a case and wanting to get back to it. Rhona knew, too, and excluded him from the conversation by concentrating on reminiscences she shared with her friends. The honeymooners holding hands between courses, and sometimes even while they ate. Rebus and Rhona almost strangers to one another, their marriage faltering...