Another shrug. Galvin was concentrating on the menu. ‘Everything here’s good,’ he said.
‘Salmon rillettes, and then the lamb shoulder,’ Clarke decided.
‘That didn’t take long.’
‘I’m not one for dithering.’ Their drinks were arriving. They clinked glasses and sipped.
‘How are things working out with your old sparring partner?’ Galvin asked.
‘John? He’s doing okay so far.’
‘Toeing the line? Obeying orders?’
Clarke looked at him. ‘Something on your mind, David?’
Galvin shook his head. The waiter was hovering, so they ordered. There was bread on the table and Clarke tore at a chunk, realising it had been some time since her last meal.
‘Are we ordering wine?’ her companion asked.
‘A glass of white will do me.’
‘House?’ the waiter asked.
‘House,’ Clarke agreed.
‘Small or large?’
‘Large.’
‘Same for me,’ Galvin told him. Then he leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes for a second.
‘Nice to switch off?’ Clarke guessed.
‘I’m not convinced the likes of you and me ever switch off, Siobhan. The motor is always idling.’
‘You wouldn’t say that if you saw me slouched on the sofa with a tub of ice cream. But since we
‘Yes?’
‘Have you ever met Patrick McCuskey?’
‘The Justice Minister?’ Galvin raised an eyebrow. ‘Well above my pay grade. I mean, I’ve been in rooms when he’s been speaking.’
‘I looked him up on Google — Scottish National Party stalwart. . face of the Yes campaign. . married to a lawyer called Bethany. .’
‘She’s American, I think. Practises commercial law in Glasgow.’
‘He’s not got a legal background, though?’
‘Studied it at university but ended up in politics instead — I dare say he did some cramming before taking on the Justice portfolio. What’s this all about?’
‘There’s a son called Forbes. He goes out with a student called Jessica Traynor.’
‘No relation to Owen Traynor?’ Galvin interrupted.
Clarke realised she didn’t know Traynor’s first name. ‘Who’s Owen Traynor?’
‘A businessman down south. There was a case a while back. It was in the papers.’
‘What happened?’
‘One of his companies crashed and burned. A lot of angry investors.’
‘And?’
‘The loudest and angriest investor got beaten up on his doorstep.’
‘This was where — in London?’ Galvin nodded. ‘So what drew your attention?’
‘It reminded me of a case we studied at university, that’s all.’
Clarke was picturing Jessica’s father. ‘This Traynor has friends high up in the Met.’
‘Might not be him then. Anyway, you were telling me about Forbes McCuskey.’
‘Jessica Traynor was in a car smash. Found in the driver’s seat, but we’re not convinced she was driving at the time.’
‘Is she all right?’
‘She will be.’
Galvin was thoughtful. ‘Forbes did a runner?’
‘We don’t know that — we’ve not spoken to him yet.’
‘Wouldn’t look good for his father.’
‘An embarrassment, certainly.’
‘Not to mention a possible criminal offence.’ Galvin sounded intrigued.
‘We won’t be bringing it to your lot for a while yet,’ Clarke cautioned. ‘Like I say, we’ve no real evidence — plus our boss doesn’t like things messy.’
‘I know — I’ve met him. Is he still fretting about the future of Gayfield Square?’
‘We all are.’
‘You’ll be fine, Siobhan. It’s mostly civilian posts you’ll be losing.’
‘I’ll have to do my own typing? And fingerprinting? Maybe train myself up to carry out autopsies. .?’
They broke off as their starters arrived, and ate without saying much more. In the pause before the mains, Clarke took out her phone, thinking she might do a Google search for Owen Traynor, but she was getting no signal.
‘Reception comes and goes,’ Galvin explained. ‘Hard to believe sometimes we’re in the middle of a city.’
‘A capital city at that.’ She closed the phone down again. Their waiter had returned to ask how they were enjoying the wine. ‘It’s fine,’ Clarke told him, though she noticed Galvin hadn’t touched his. Nor had he made much headway with the aperitif.
‘Keeping a clear head for the morning?’ she chided him.
‘Something like that,’ he replied.
Half an hour later, as the plates from their main courses were cleared, they were asked if they wanted to see the dessert list. Clarke looked at her companion and shook her head.
‘Any teas or coffees?’
Clarke and Galvin shared another look. ‘There’s coffee back at mine,’ he offered.
‘And broadband?’ she queried.
‘And broadband,’ he confirmed. Then, after a pause: ‘Is this us continuing the consultation?’
‘It is,’ Clarke said with a widening smile.
Rebus only had the one drink at the Oxford Bar, then took a cab back to the car park at Gayfield Square so he could pick up his Saab. He knew he could always change his mind, but knew too that he probably wouldn’t. The lights were red at South Clerk Street. If he signalled right, he would be heading home. But when the light turned green he went straight ahead, towards Cameron Toll and Old Dalkeith Road. This time of night, the car parks at the Royal Infirmary were half empty, but Rebus pulled up at a double yellow line, sliding out the POLICE OFFICIAL BUSINESS sign from beneath the passenger seat and wedging it between dashboard and windscreen. He popped a stick of peppermint gum into his mouth, locked the car and walked into the hospital.
He was nearing Jessica’s room when the door opened. He recognised Alice Bell. She was with a young man. He had tousled hair and wore faded baggy denims, plus a black V-neck T-shirt. Clean-shaven, with pale green eyes.
‘Bit of a limp you’ve got there,’ Rebus said, indicating Forbes McCuskey’s left leg.
‘Twisted my ankle.’
‘Any whiplash to go with that?’
Bell was squeezing McCuskey’s forearm. ‘This is the policeman,’ she told him.
‘I’d kind of worked that out.’
Rebus slid his hands into his pockets. ‘Any chance we could have a word, Forbes?’
‘What about?’
‘Jessica’s accident.’
‘What do you need to speak to me for?’
‘We usually like to interview witnesses — helps us compile an accurate picture. .’
‘But I wasn’t there.’
‘And your ankle’s just a coincidence?’
‘Happened a few days back in the stairwell at Great King Street.’
‘That’s true,’ Alice Bell confirmed hurriedly.
