“Just about.” Rebus was prepared to admit it.
“A few days, it’ll all be over, like a bad dream you’ll wake up from. But in the meantime…” His lips were almost touching Rebus’s ear. “Get used to it,” he whispered, and moved away.
“Seems a nice sort,” Tam commented. Rebus turned toward him.
“How long’ve you been there?”
“Not long.”
“Any news for me?”
“Pathologist’s the one with the answers.”
Rebus nodded slowly. “All the same, though…”
“Nothing points to him doing anything but jumping.”
“He screamed all the way down. Think a suicide would do that?”
“I know I would. But then, I’m scared of heights.”
Rebus was rubbing the side of his jaw. He stared up at the castle. “So either he fell or he jumped.”
“Or was given a sudden push,” Tam added. “No time to even think about clawing his way to safety.”
“Thanks for that.”
“Could be there was bagpipe music between courses. Might’ve broken his will to live.”
“You’re a jazz snob, Tam.”
“Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“No note tucked away inside his jacket?”
Tam shook his head. “But I did have half a mind to give you this.” He held up a small cardboard folder. “Seems he was staying at the Balmoral.”
“That’s nice.” Rebus opened the folder and saw the plastic key card. He removed it. Closing the folder, he examined Ben Webster’s signature and room number.
“Might be a good-bye-cruel-world waiting for you there,” Tam said.
“Only one way to find out.” Rebus slipped the key into his own pocket. “Thanks, Tam.”
“Just remember: it was you that found it. I don’t want any grief.”
“Understood.” The two men stood in silence for a moment, a pair of old pros who’d seen everything the job could throw at them. The morgue attendants were approaching, one of them carrying a body bag.
“Nice night for it,” he commented. “All done and dusted, Tam?”
“Doctor’s not arrived yet.”
The attendant checked his watch. “Think he’ll be long?”
Tam just shrugged. “Depends who’s drawn the short straw.”
The attendant puffed air out from his cheeks. “Going to be a long night,” he said.
“Long night,” his partner echoed.
“Know they’ve had us move some of the bodies out of the morgue?”
“Why’s that?” Rebus asked.
“In case any of these rallies and marches turns nasty.”
“Courts and cells are empty and waiting, too,” Tam added.
“ERs on standby,” the attendant countered.
“You make it sound like Apocalypse Now,” Rebus said. His cell sounded and he moved away a little. Caller ID: Siobhan.
“What can I do for you?” he said into the phone.
“I need a drink,” her voice explained.
“Trouble with the folks?”
“My car’s been vandalized.”
“Catch them in the act?”
“In a manner of speaking. So how about the Oxford Bar?”
“Tempting, but I’m on something. Tell you what, though…”
“What?”
“We could rendezvous at the Balmoral.”
“Spending your overtime?”
“I’ll let you be the judge of that.”
“Twenty minutes?”
“Fine.” He snapped shut the phone.
“Tragedy runs in that family,” Tam was musing.
“Which one?”
The SOCO nodded in the direction of the corpse. “Mum was attacked a few years back, died as a result.” He paused. “Think something could prey on your mind all that time?”
“Just needs the right trigger,” one of the morgue attendants added.
Everyone, Rebus decided, was a bloody psychologist these days.
He decided to leave the car and walk; quicker than trying to negotiate the barriers again. He was at Waverley in minutes; had to clamber over a couple of obstacles. Some unlucky tourists had just arrived by train. No taxis to be had, so they stood behind the railings, bemused and abandoned. He gave them a body swerve, turned the corner into Princes Street, and was outside the Balmoral Hotel. Some locals still called it the North British, though it had changed its name years back. Its large, illuminated clock tower still ran a few minutes fast, so passengers would be sure to catch their train. A uniformed doorman ushered Rebus inside, where a keen-eyed concierge immediately marked him as trouble of some kind.
“How can I be of assistance this evening, sir?”
Rebus held out his ID in one hand, key card in the other. “I need to take a look at this room.”
“And why’s that, Inspector?”
“Seems the guest checked out early.”
“That’s unfortunate.”
“I daresay someone else is picking up his tab. Actually, that’s something you could look into for me.”
“I’ll need to clear it with the manager.”
“Fine. Meantime, I’ll be upstairs.” He waved the key card.
“I need to clear that, too, I’m afraid.”
Rebus took a step back, the better to size up his opponent. “How long will it take?”
“Just need to track down the manager…couple of minutes is all.” Rebus followed him to the reception desk. “Sara, is Angela about?”
“Think she went upstairs. I’ll page her.”
“And I’ll check the office,” the concierge told Rebus, moving off again. Rebus waited and watched as the receptionist punched numbers into her phone before putting down the receiver. She looked up at him and smiled. She knew something was up, and wanted to know more.
“Guest just dropped dead,” Rebus obliged.
Her eyes widened. “That’s terrible.”
“Mr. Webster, room two fourteen. Was he here on his own?”
Her fingers busied themselves on her keyboard. “Double room, but just the one key issued. I don’t think I remember him…”
“Is there a home address?”
“ London,” she stated.
Rebus guessed this would be a weekday pied-à-terre. He was leaning across the reception desk, trying to seem casual, unsure how many questions he’d get away with. “Was he paying by credit card, Sara?”
She studied her screen. “All charges to-” She broke off, aware that the concierge was approaching.
“All charges to…?” Rebus nudged.
“Inspector,” the concierge was calling, sensing something was going on.
Sara’s phone was ringing. She lifted the receiver. “Reception,” she trilled. “Oh, hello, Angela. There’s another policeman here…”
Another?
“Will you come down, or shall I send him up?”
The concierge was behind Rebus now. “I’ll take the inspector up,” he told Sara.
Another policeman…Up…Rebus was getting a bad feeling. When the elevator doors signaled that they were opening, he turned toward the sound. Watched David Steelforth step out. The Special Branch man gave the beginnings of a smile as he shook his head slowly. His meaning couldn’t have been clearer: Buddy, you’re not getting anywhere near room 214. Rebus turned round and grabbed the computer monitor, swiveling it toward him. The concierge locked on to his arm. Sara gave a little shriek into the telephone, probably deafening the manager. Steelforth bounded forward to join the fray.
“That’s definitely out of order,” the concierge hissed. His grip was vise-like. Rebus decided the man had seen some action in his time; decided not to make an issue of it. He lifted his hand from the monitor. Sara swung it back toward her.
“You can let go now,” Rebus said. The concierge released his grip. Sara was staring at him in shock, the phone still held in one hand. Rebus turned to Steelforth.
“You’re going to tell me I can’t see room two fourteen.”
“Not at all.” Steelforth’s smile broadened. “But the manager is. That’s her prerogative, after all.”