“You sure?”
“Bloody hell, Davie . . .” She picked up a pencil. “Have I got to stab you with this?” He stared at her, and she stared back, suddenly aware of what she’d said. She watched the way her hand was holding the pencil . . . holding it like a knife. “Christ,” she gasped, “I’m sorry . . .”
“Don’t be.”
She dropped the pencil, picked up the receiver instead. She signaled for Hynds to wait while she made the call to Bobby Hogan.
“It’s Siobhan Clarke,” she said into the mouthpiece. “Something I forgot: the blade Dow used . . . there’s a DIY shop next door to here. Maybe that’s where he bought it. They’ll have security cameras . . . could be staff will recognize him.” She listened to Hogan’s response. “Thank you,” she said, putting the receiver down again.
“Have you had any breakfast?” Hynds asked.
“I was just about to ask the same thing.” It was Derek Linford. The look of concern on his face was so exaggerated, Siobhan had to suppress a shiver.
“I’m not hungry,” she told both men. Her phone buzzed and she picked it up. The switchboard wanted to transfer a call. It was from someone called Andrea Thomson.
“I’ve been asked to call you,” Thomson said. “I’m a . . . well, I hesitate to use the word ‘counselor.’ ”
“You’re supposed to be a career analyst,” Siobhan said, stopping Thomson in her tracks.
“Someone’s been talking,” she said after a long silence. “You work with DI Rebus, don’t you?”
Siobhan had to admit, Thomson was sharp. “He told me you’d denied being a counselor.”
“Some officers don’t like the idea.”
“Count me among them.” Siobhan glanced at Hynds, who was gesturing encouragement. Linford was still trying for the sympathetic look, not quite getting it right. Lack of practice, Siobhan guessed.
“You might find that it helps to talk through the issues,” Thomson was saying.
“There aren’t any issues,” Siobhan replied coldly. “Look, Ms. Thomson, I’ve got a murder case to be getting on with . . .”
“Let me give you my number, just in case.”
Siobhan sighed. “Okay then, if it’ll make you feel better.”
Thomson started reeling off two numbers: office and mobile. Siobhan just sat there, making no effort to record them. Thomson’s voice died away.
“You’re not writing them down, are you?”
“Oh, I’ve got them, don’t you worry.”
Hynds was shaking his head, knowing damned well what was going on. He lifted the pencil and held it out to her.
“Give them to me again,” Siobhan told the receiver. Call finished, she held up the scrap of paper for Hynds to see.
“Happy?”
“I’ll be happier if you eat something.”
“Me too,” Derek Linford said.
Siobhan looked at Andrea Thomson’s phone numbers. “Derek,” she said, “Davie and I have got to have a meeting. Can you take any messages for me?” She started shrugging her arms back into her jacket.
“Where will you be?” Linford asked, trying not to sound peeved. “In case we need you . . .”
“You’ve got my mobile number,” she told him. “That’s where I’ll be.”
They went around the corner of the station and into the Engine Shed. Hynds admitted he hadn’t known it was there.
“It really was an engine shed,” she told him, “Steam engines, I suppose. They pulled freight trains . . . coal or something. There are still bits of the railway line, they run down to Duddingston.”
In the café, they bought tea and cakes. Siobhan took one bite and realized she was starving.
“So what is it you’ve found?” she asked.
Hynds was primed to tell the story. She could see he’d been keeping it to himself, not wanting to dilute its effect before she heard it.
“I was talking to Marber’s various financial people: bank manager, accountant, bookkeeper . . .”
“And?”
“And no hint of any large amount about to accrue.” Hynds paused, as though uncertain whether
“And?”
“And I started looking at debits instead. These are listed in his bank statements by check number. No clue as to who each check was paid to.” Siobhan nodded her understanding. “Which is probably why one debit slipped by without us noticing.” He paused again, his meaning clear: for
“Business check or personal?”
“The money was drawn from one of Marber’s personal accounts.”
“And you know who it was to?” She decided to take a guess. “Laura Stafford?”
Hynds shook his head. “Remember our artist friend . . . ?”
She looked at him. “Malcolm Neilson?” Hynds was nodding. “Marber gave Neilson five grand? When was this?”
“Only a month or so back.”
“It could have been payment for a work.”
Hynds had already thought of this. “Marber doesn’t represent Neilson, remember? Besides, anything like that would have gone through the business. No need to tuck it away where no one would see it.”
Siobhan was thinking hard. “Neilson was outside the gallery that night.”
“Looking for more money?” Hynds guessed.
“You think he was blackmailing Marber?”
“Either that or selling him something. I mean, how often do you have a blazing row with someone, then pay them a four-figure sum for the privilege?”
“And what exactly was he selling him?” Siobhan had forgotten all about her hunger. Hynds nodded towards the cake, willing her to finish it.
“Maybe that’s the question we should be asking him,” he said. “Just as soon as you’ve cleared your plate . . .”
Neilson appeared at St. Leonard’s with his solicitor, as requested by Siobhan. Both interview rooms were empty: Rebus’s crew were said to be touring caravan sites. Siobhan sat down in IR2, taking the same seat Linford had been in yesterday when Donny Dow had made his escape.
Neilson and William Allison sat opposite her, Davie Hynds to her side. They’d decided to tape the meeting. It could put pressure on the subject; sometimes they got nervous around microphones . . . knew that whatever they said could come back to haunt them.
“It’s for your benefit as much as ours,” Siobhan had explained, this being the standard line. Allison made sure that there’d be two copies, one for CID and one for his client.
Then they got down to business. Siobhan switched the tape machines on and identified herself, asking the others present to do the same. She studied Malcolm Neilson as he spoke. The artist sat with eyebrows raised, as though surprised to find himself suddenly transported to such surroundings. His hair was its usual wild self, and he was wearing a thick, loose cotton shirt over a gray T-shirt. Whether by accident or design, he had buttoned the shirt wrongly, so one side was lower than the other at the neck.
“You’ve already told us, Mr. Neilson,” Siobhan kicked off, “that you were outside the gallery the night Edward Marber died.”
“Yes.”
“Remind us why you were there.”
“I was curious about the show.”
“No other reason?”
“Such as?”
