“Just crawl back into your fucking hole,” Rebus said.
“CID’s a lot quieter without you: any chance of making it permanent?”
“Not much hope of that,” Rebus told him. “I promised I’d retire when you lost your cherry.”
“
“And who was it deflowered
He started walking away. Rebus moved a step closer to Siobhan. “That’s what the women say about Derek’s bed, you know,” he said, loud enough for Linford to hear.
“What?” Siobhan asked, playing along.
“That it’s something they don’t want to get into . . .”
After Linford had disappeared, Siobhan got herself a drink. “Not having anything?” she asked.
“Gone off the idea,” Rebus stated, dropping the coins back into his pocket. “How are you?”
“I’m fine.”
“Really?”
“Well, mostly,” she confided. “And no, I don’t want to talk about it.”
“I wasn’t going to offer.”
She straightened up, maneuvering the hot plastic cup. “That’s what I like about you,” she said. Then: “Got a minute? I need to pick your brains . . .”
They went down to the car park, Rebus lighting a cigarette. Siobhan made sure there were no other smokers around, no one to eavesdrop.
“All very mysterious,” Rebus said.
“Not really. It’s just something that’s niggling me about your friends in IR1.”
“What about them?”
“Allan Ward took Phyllida out last night.”
“And?”
“And she’d nothing to report. Ward was quite the gentleman . . . took her home but wouldn’t go upstairs when she offered.” She paused. “He’s not married or anything?” Rebus shook his head. “Not going steady?”
“If he is, it doesn’t show.”
“I mean, Phyl’s a bonny enough girl, wouldn’t you say?” Rebus nodded his agreement. “And he’d been paying her plenty of attention all night . . .”
The way she said this made Rebus focus on her. “What sort of attention?”
“Asking her how the Marber case was coming along.”
“It’s a natural enough question. Aren’t women’s magazines always saying men should do more listening?”
“I wouldn’t know, I never read them.” She looked at him archly. “Didn’t realize you were such an expert.”
“You know what I mean, though.”
She nodded. “The thing is, it made me think about the way DI Gray has been mooching around the inquiry room . . . and that other one . . . McCullen?”
“McCullough,” Rebus corrected her. Jazz, Ward and Gray, spending time in the inquiry room . . .
“Probably doesn’t mean anything,” Siobhan said.
“What could it mean?” he asked.
She shrugged. “Something they wanted . . . someone they were interested in . . . ?” She thought of something else. “The case you’re working on, did anything happen last night?”
He nodded. “Someone we wanted to speak to, he was rushed into hospital.” Part of him wanted to tell her more . . . tell her everything. He knew she was one person he
“The reason Ward didn’t go upstairs with Phyl,” she was saying, “was because he got a call on his mobile and had to head back to the college.”
“That could have been him hearing about it.”
Rebus remembered that when he’d arrived at Tulliallan himself, pretty late on, Gray, Jazz and Ward had still been awake, sitting in the lounge bar with the dregs of their drinks in front of them. The bar itself had stopped serving, no one else about, and with most of the lights extinguished.
But the three of them, still awake and seated around the table . . .
Rebus wondered if they’d summoned Ward back so they could discuss what to do about Rebus, the chat he’d had with Jazz . . . Gray coming up with the idea to take Rebus as his partner to Glasgow, maybe quiz him further. When Rebus had walked in, Gray had told him about Chib Kelly and repeated that he wanted Rebus with him. Rebus hadn’t really questioned the decision . . . He remembered asking Ward how his date with Phyllida Hawes had gone. Ward had shrugged, saying little. It hadn’t sounded like there was going to be a repeat performance . . .
Siobhan was nodding thoughtfully. “There’s something I’m not getting, isn’t there?”
“Such as?”
“I’ll know that only when you tell me.”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
She stared at him. “Yes there is. Something else you need to know about women, John: we can read you lot like a book.”
He was about to say something, but his mobile was trilling. He checked the number, held a finger up to let Siobhan know he needed this to be private.
“Hello,” he said, moving across the car park. “I was hoping I’d hear from you.”
“The mood I was in, believe me, you
“I’m glad you’re calling now.”
“Are you busy?”
“I’m always busy, Jean. That night on the High Street . . . I was roped into that. Group of guys from the college.”
“Let’s not talk about it,” Jean Burchill said. “I’m phoning to thank you for the flowers.”
“You got them?”
“I did . . . along with two phone calls, one from Gill, one from Siobhan Clarke.”
Rebus stopped and looked back, but Siobhan had already retreated indoors.
“They both said the same thing,” Jean was telling him.
“And what was it?”
“That you’re a pigheaded lout, but you’ve got a good heart.”
“I’ve been trying to call you, Jean . . .”
“I know.”
“And I want to make it up to you. How about dinner tonight?”
“Where?”
“You choose.”
“How about Number One?
“I’ll get us a table.” He paused. “I’m assuming it’s expensive?”
“John, you muck me about, it’s always going to cost. Lucky for you, this time it’s only money.”
“Seven-thirty?”
“And don’t be late.”
“I won’t be.”
They finished the call and he headed back inside, stopping at the comms room to find a phone number for the restaurant. He was in luck: they’d just had a cancellation. The restaurant was part of the Balmoral Hotel on Princes Street. Rebus didn’t bother to ask how much it was likely to cost. Number One was a special-occasion place; people
“Someone looks frisky,” Tam Barclay commented.
