Standing in another's man grave

‘Myth and Magic?’

‘And old wives’ tales,’ Rebus added. ‘So did you manage to convince your boss?’

‘I think so.’

‘And did that involve using your feminine charms?’

She gave him a cold look.

‘Sorry,’ Rebus apologised. ‘It’s just that he’s a showroom dummy — I know it and you know it.’

‘But he’s not. You’re seeing what you want to see. Has there ever been anyone of a higher rank that you’ve not dismissed out of hand?’

‘Plenty.’ Rebus paused. ‘In the old days.’

‘These aren’t the old days, John. And James is good at what he does. You’ve seen the team he’s put together — do they seem unmotivated?’

‘No,’ Rebus was forced to admit.

‘Is there anything they’re not doing that they should be?’

‘No,’ he repeated.

‘Well then.’

‘Page is one of the good guys, that’s what you’re saying. .’

But her attention had been diverted to the wall above the dining table and the large map of Scotland pinned there, the route of the A9 marked in red highlighter.

‘Meant to take that down,’ Rebus said. Clarke was walking towards the map, looking not at it but at the three large shopping bags sitting on the table.

‘Stuff needs putting away,’ Rebus said casually, but he wasn’t fooling her. She pulled a few sheets of paper from the first bag.

‘You made copies,’ she stated. ‘All those files you brought to the office. .’

‘Not all of them,’ Rebus countered. ‘Just the official reports and statements. I skipped the newspaper cuttings.’

‘Jesus, John.’

‘You’ve seen what the office is like, Siobhan. I lugged all those boxes in there, and they’ve not been opened yet.’

‘You might not have noticed, but we’ve been a bit busy.’

‘You were going to find another room we could use.’

‘And I will, given a bit of time.’ She paused. ‘But that’s not what this is about. You made the copies before you handed the boxes over. You never intended to let them go, not completely.’

‘I get bored, Siobhan. A bit of reading whiles away the hours. .’

She gave him another look. ‘This sort of thing, it’s meat and drink to the Complaints.’

‘Only if they find out about it.’

‘What makes you think they won’t?’

Rebus shrugged. ‘This is the way I’ve always worked, Siobhan — you know that.’

‘It’s also why people you work with tend not to last long. Remember Brian Holmes and Jack Morton?’ She watched as his face darkened. ‘Okay, sorry, that’s a low blow.’

‘Did Fox just happen to drop those names into your wee chat?’

‘He’s out to get you, John. He even came to my flat.’

‘When?’

‘Last night. Warning me off, telling me I should be on his side rather than yours.’ She began to slide the sheets of paper back into the shopping bag, then asked him if he’d seen Nina Hazlitt’s interview.

‘Was it on TV?’

Clarke shook her head. ‘Webcast for some news agency. She thanked us for everything we were doing.’

‘Nice of her.’

‘She handles herself well in front of a camera. No sign of craziness.’

‘She’s not crazy.’ But Rebus was remembering her last phone call, voice verging on the hysterical.

‘She still needs reining in, if at all possible.’

‘And I’m the man for the job? Is this your thinking or Page’s?’ Rebus waited for an answer, but none was forthcoming. ‘He told you to come here?’ He walked to the window and peered down on to the street. ‘Is he waiting in his car? What does he drive?’

It was a BMW, double-parked twenty yards up. There was someone in the driver’s seat.

‘Why didn’t you bring him in? Afraid it might have diluted those feminine charms of yours?’

She glowered at him. ‘This was my idea, John. And if I had brought him up, you’d be off the case right now.’ She pointed towards the shopping bags.

‘He wouldn’t have got over the threshold.’

She closed her eyes for a second. A text arrived on her phone.

‘That’ll be him,’ Rebus muttered. ‘Wondering what’s taking so long.’

Clarke read the text and turned towards the door. ‘I’ll see you in the morning,’ she said quietly.

‘Is he dropping you at yours, or is it back to his?’

She didn’t rise to it, just walked out of the room. Rebus stayed by the window, watching her exit the tenement and head towards the car. Its lights came on as she approached, picking her out as though she were an actor making her entrance. The passenger-side door opened and closed, the BMW remaining motionless as a dialogue took place. Then it began to crawl down Arden Street’s gentle slope towards the junction, passing Rebus’s building in the process, driver and passenger staring straight ahead. He willed Clarke to look up, but she didn’t.

‘Played that with your usual charm and grace,’ he muttered to himself. Siobhan Clarke was stuck somewhere between Page and Fox and he could see how much it was hurting her.

How much he was hurting her.

Good at her job, ready for the next step up, life on an even keel — and then in walks John Rebus, not even bothering to wipe his shoes, leaving bits of muck everywhere without even noticing.

Aye, nicely played, John.

He lit a cigarette and poured himself a whisky, stopping when the liquid was halfway to the top of the glass. He sat himself at the dining table, eyes focused on the road map. After a while, the glass needed refilling and the ashtray emptying. Without music, he realised how empty the room felt, but he couldn’t find an album to match his mood. He thought of calling Siobhan Clarke, apologising for everything. Or maybe a text — keep it short and sweet. Instead of which he ended up in his armchair with the book Nina Hazlitt had given him. There were no serpents buried beneath Edinburgh, and no monster swimming in Loch Ness. It was all just superstition and the basic human hunger for explanations, answers, reasons.

When his eyelids began to droop, he decided that was fine. Just one more night when he wouldn’t quite make it as far as the bedroom.

23

The guardian of the front desk at Gayfield Square still showed reluctance to allow Rebus entry. Each morning she printed him a fresh visitor’s pass, and at the end of each day she needed him to return it.

‘Be easier doing me one for a week,’ Rebus suggested, trying to remember her name.

‘You might not be here a week,’ she countered.

‘Think of the environmental damage you’re doing.’

‘I recycle them.’ She handed him that day’s pass. ‘Needs to be worn at all times, remember.’

‘Absolutely.’

As he climbed to the first floor, he unclipped the badge and stuffed it into his jacket. The office had just started work for the day. He nodded towards Ronnie Ogilvie and, passing Christine Esson’s desk, asked her if she had any new wonders to show him.

‘Just these,’ she said.

He took the sheets of paper from her.