“So whose mug did DI Rebus throw?” Hynds asked.
“Nobody knows,” she admitted. “Seems it’s been here since they built this place. Could even be that the builders left it.”
“No wonder he got the boot then.” She looked at him for an explanation. “Attempted destruction of a historical artifact.”
She smiled, made for her desk. Someone had borrowed her chair — again. Looking around, the nearest spare was Rebus’s. He’d taken it from the Farmer’s office when the old DCS had retired. That no one had touched it was testament to Rebus’s reputation, which didn’t stop her pushing it across the floor and making herself comfortable.
Her computer screen was blank. She hit a key, bringing it back to life. A new screen saver was flickering across her vision. PROVE IT THEN — POINT ME OUT. She looked up from the screen, scanning the room. Two primary targets: DC Grant Hood and DS George “Hi-Ho” Silvers. They had their heads together, standing by the far wall. Maybe they were discussing the following week’s rota, swapping assignments. Grant Hood had had a thing about her not that long back. She thought she’d managed to damp those flames without making an enemy of him. But he did like his boxes of tricks: computers; video games; digital cameras. It would be just his style to start sending her messages.
Hi-Ho Silvers was different. He liked his practical jokes, had made her his victim before. And though he was married, he had a reputation. He’d propositioned Siobhan half a dozen times over the past few years — she could always depend on him for some lurid suggestion at the Christmas party. But she wasn’t sure he’d know how to change a screen saver. He could barely change misspelled words when he was typing his reports.
Other candidates . . . ? DC Phyllida Hawes, on temporary transfer from Gayfield Square . . . newly promoted Detective Chief Inspector Bill Pryde . . . Neither of them seemed to fit the bill. When Grant Hood turned his head in her direction, she pointed at him. He frowned, shrugged his shoulders as if to ask what she wanted. She indicated her computer screen, then wagged her finger. He broke off his conversation with Silvers and started towards her. Siobhan tapped a key, so that the screen saver disappeared, replaced with a fresh page from the word-processing software.
“Got a problem?” Hood asked.
She shook her head slowly. “I thought I had. The screen saver . . .”
“What about it?” He was at her shoulder now, studying the screen.
“It was slow to shift.”
“Could be your memory,” he said.
“Nothing wrong with my memory, Grant.”
“I mean the memory on the hard disk. If it’s filling up, everything slows down.”
She knew as much but pretended she didn’t. “Oh, right.”
“I’ll check it, if you like. Only take two ticks.”
“Wouldn’t want to keep you from your little chitchat.”
Hood looked over to where George Silvers was now perusing the Wall of Death: a montage of photos and documents relating to the case, stuck to the far wall with Blu-Tac.
“Hi-Ho’s turned malingering into an art form,” Hood said quietly. “He’s been over there half the day, says he’s trying to get a ‘feel’ for events.”
“Rebus does the same thing,” she stated. Hood looked at her.
“Hi-Ho’s no John Rebus. All George Silvers wants is a quiet life until his pension maxes out.”
“Whereas?”
“Whereas Rebus will be lucky to still be around to collect his.”
“Is this a private confab, or can anyone join in?” Davie Hynds was standing not three feet away, hands in trouser pockets to indicate that he was at a loose end.
Grant Hood straightened up, slapped a hand onto Hynds’s shoulder. “And how’s the new boy shaping up, DS Clarke?”
“So far, so good.”
Hood whistled, making a show of reappraising Hynds. “That’s high marks, coming from DS Clarke, Davie. You’ve obviously wangled your way into her affections.” With an exaggerated wink, he moved off, heading once more for the Wall of Death.
Hynds took a step towards Siobhan’s desk. “Is there some history between you two?”
“Why do you say that?”
“DC Hood obviously doesn’t like me.”
“It’ll take a while, that’s all.”
“But am I right? Is there a history?”
She shook her head slowly, keeping her eyes on his. “You reckon yourself a bit of an expert, don’t you, Davie?”
“How do you mean?”
“As an amateur psychologist.”
“I wouldn’t say —”
She was resting against the back of Rebus’s chair. “Let’s give you a test: what did you make of Malcolm Neilson?”
Hynds folded his arms. “I thought we’d covered this.”
By which he meant their conversation as Siobhan drove them from Neilson’s home back to St. Leonard’s. They hadn’t learned very much from the meeting, Neilson admitting it was no secret he wasn’t on speaking terms with the art dealer. He’d further admitted being annoyed that he’d suddenly been excluded from the New Colorists.
“That bugger Hastie couldn’t paint a living room wall, and as for Celine Blacker . . .”
“I quite like Joe Drummond though,” Hynds had interrupted. Siobhan had given him a warning look, but Neilson wasn’t listening anyway.
“Celine’s not even her real name,” he was saying.
In the car, Siobhan had asked if Hynds knew anything about painting.
“I did read up on the Colorists a bit,” he’d admitted. “Case like this, thought it might come in handy . . .”
Now, he rested his knuckles against the edge of Siobhan’s desk, leaning in towards her. “He’s not got much of an alibi,” he stated.
“But did he act like a man who might need one?”
Hynds considered this. “He called his lawyer . . .”
“Yes, but that was a moment’s panic. Once we actually got talking, didn’t you think he relaxed?”
“He was pretty confident.”
Siobhan, gazing into the middle distance, found herself locking eyes with George Silvers. She pointed to her computer screen, then wagged the finger at him. He ignored her, went back to his pretense of studying the wall.
Detective Chief Superintendent Gill Templer was suddenly standing in the doorway.
“Noise Abatement Society been leafleting again?” she bellowed. “A quiet office is one that isn’t working hard enough.” She narrowed in on Silvers. “Think you’re going to solve the case by osmosis, George?” There were smiles, but no laughter. The officers were trying to look busy but focused.
Templer was heading relentlessly for Siobhan’s desk. “How did you get on with the artist?” she asked, her voice dropping several decibels.
“Says he was in a few pubs that evening, ma’am. Got a take-away and went home to listen to Wagner.”
“Did he now?” The beams switched to Siobhan.
“It’ll go in my report, ma’am.”
“But you didn’t think it worth mentioning?”
The side of Hynds’s neck was reddening as he realized he’d dropped Siobhan in it.
“We don’t think it really means anything . . .” His voice fell away as he found himself the center of attention again.
