DCI Tennant stepped into the doorway, eyes widening at the scene within.
“Better stay where you are, sir,” Tam Barclay warned. “One more in here and the oxygen runs out.”
Tennant turned to the figure beside him — Gill Templer.
“I did warn you it was small,” she said.
“You did,” he admitted. “Settling in all right, men?”
“Could hardly be cozier,” Stu Sutherland said, folding his arms like a man not best pleased with his lot.
“We thought we’d put the coffee machine in the corner,” Allan Ward said, “next to the mini-bar and Jacuzzi.”
“Good idea,” Tennant told him, straight-faced.
“This’ll do us fine, sir,” Francis Gray said. He slid his chair back and managed to squash one of Tam Barclay’s toes under the leg. “We won’t be here long. You could almost look on our surroundings as an incentive.” He was on his feet now, beaming a smile at Gill Templer. “I’m DI Gray, since no one’s seen fit . . .”
“DCS Templer,” Gill said, taking the proffered hand. Gray introduced her to the other men, leaving Rebus till last. “This one you’ll already know.” Gill glared at Rebus, and Rebus looked away, hoping it was just part of the act.
“Well, if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I’ve a murder inquiry to run . . .”
“Us too,” Ward said. Gill pretended not to hear, and headed down the corridor, calling back to Tennant that he might want to join her for coffee in her office. Tennant looked back into the room.
“Any problems, you’ve got my mobile number,” he reminded them. “And remember: I’ll be expecting progress. Anybody not pulling their weight, I’ll find out.” He held a finger up in warning, then set off to follow Gill.
“Jammy bastard,” Ward muttered. “And I bet her office is bigger than this.”
“Slightly smaller, actually,” Rebus said. “But then there’s only one of her.”
Gray was chuckling. “Notice she didn’t offer you a cup, John.”
“That’s because John can’t hold his beverages,” Sutherland said.
“Nice one, Stu.”
“Maybe,” Jazz broke in, “we could think about doing a bit of work? And just to show willing, I’ll use
Rebus nodded.
“You know his number?” Jazz asked. Again, Rebus nodded his head.
“Well then,” Jazz said, slipping his own phone back into his jacket, “might as well use
Francis Gray’s face went pink with laughter, the color reminding Rebus of a baby being lifted from its bathtub.
He didn’t mind making the call actually. After all, he reckoned he’d had a pretty good morning so far. The only thing he was wondering was: when would he get a minute to himself to delve into Strathern’s report?
13
Siobhan was splashing water on her face when one of the uniforms, WPC Toni Jackson, came into the women’s toilets.
“Will we see you Friday night?” Jackson said.
“Not sure,” Siobhan told her.
“Yellow card if you miss three weeks on the trot,” Jackson warned her. She went to one of the cubicles, locked the door after her. “There’s no paper towels, by the way,” she called. Siobhan checked the dispenser: nothing inside but fresh air. There was an electric dryer on the other wall, but it had been broken for months. She went to the cubicle next to Jackson’s, pulled at a clump of toilet paper and started dabbing at her face.
Jackson and some of the other uniforms went for a drink every Friday. Sometimes it went beyond a drink: a meal, then a club, dancing away all the frustrations of the week. They pulled the occasional bloke: never any shortage of takers. Siobhan had been invited along one time, honored to have been asked. Hers was the only CID face. They seemed to accept her, found they could gossip freely in front of her. But Siobhan had started skipping weeks, and now she’d skipped two in a row. It was that old Groucho Marx thing about not wanting to be part of any club that would have her. She didn’t know why exactly. Maybe because it felt like a routine, and with it the job became a routine, too . . . something to be endured for the sake of a salary check and the Friday-night dance with a stranger.
“What have they got you doing?” Siobhan called.
“Foot patrol.”
“Who with?”
“Perry Mason.”
Siobhan smiled. “Perry” was actually John Mason, only recently out of Tulliallan. Everyone had started calling him Perry. George Silvers even had a name for Toni Jackson: he called her “Tony Jacklin,” or had done until a rumor had spread that Toni was sister to footballer Darren Jackson. Silvers had treated her with a bit of respect after that. Siobhan had asked Toni if it was true.
“It’s bollocks,” she’d said. “But I’m not going to let that worry me.”
As far as Siobhan knew, Silvers still thought Toni was related to Darren Jackson, and he still treated her with respect . . .
The “Toni” was short for Antonia: “I never call myself that,” Toni had said one night, seated at the bar in the Hard Rock Café, looking around to see what “talent” might be lurking. “Sounds too posh, doesn’t it?”
“You should try being called Siobhan . . .”
Siobhan had met almost no one who could spell her name. And if they saw it written down, they almost never connected it with her. “See Oban?” they’d guess.
“Shi-vawn,” she would stress.
She had a Gaelic name but an English accent; Toni couldn’t call herself Antonia because it was too posh . . .
“What’s up?” Siobhan called.
“Bloody loo roll’s finished. Is there any next door?”
Siobhan looked: she’d used most of the paper drying her face. “A few sheets,” she said.
“Chuck them over here then.”
Siobhan did as she was asked. “Look, Toni, about Friday night . . .”
“Don’t tell me you’ve got a date?”
Siobhan considered this. “Actually, I have,” she lied. It was the one acceptable excuse she could think of for missing a Friday session.
“Who is he?”
“Not telling.”
“Why don’t you bring him along?”
“I didn’t know men were allowed. Besides, you lot would devour him.”
“Looker, is he?”
“He’s not bad.”
“All right . . .” The toilet flushed. “But I’ll want a report afterwards.” The door clicked open and Toni emerged, adjusting her uniform and making for the sink.
“No towels, remember?” Siobhan told her, pulling open the door.
WPC Toni Jackson started cursing all over again.
Derek Linford was standing in the corridor directly outside. It was obvious to Siobhan that he’d been waiting for her.
