Rebus thought of all the things he could say. But he shook his head instead.
“Are you willing to withdraw the accusation?”
Rebus nodded slowly, eyes still on his untouched plate of food.
“You sure? If Leith CID
“Yes, sir,” Rebus said dully.
Tennant pointed to Gray. “Meet me upstairs in five minutes. The rest of you, finish your breakfast and we’ll convene in fifteen. I’ll talk to DI Hogan and see what the state of play is.”
“Thank you, sir,” Jazz McCullough said. Tennant was already on his way.
Nobody said anything to Rebus during the rest of the meal. Gray was first to go, followed by Ward and Barclay. Jazz seemed to be waiting for Stu Sutherland to leave them alone, but Sutherland got himself a refill of coffee. As he rose to go, Jazz kept his eyes on Rebus, but Rebus focused on the remains of his egg white. Sutherland settled back down with his replenished cup and took a loud slurp.
“Friday today,” he commented. “POETS day.”
Rebus knew what he meant: Piss Off Early, Tomorrow’s Saturday. The team were due a weekend’s break, followed by the final four days of the course.
“Think I’ll go to my room and start packing,” Sutherland said, getting up again. Rebus nodded, and Sutherland paused, as if preparing for some carefully considered speech.
“Cheers, Stu,” Rebus said, hoping to spare him the effort. It worked. Sutherland smiled as though Rebus were responding to something he’d said, some valuable contribution to Rebus’s well-being.
Back in his room, Rebus was checking for messages on his mobile when it started to ring. He studied the number on the LCD display, and decided to take the call.
“Yes, sir?” he said.
“All right to talk?” Sir David Strathern asked.
“I’ve got a couple of minutes before I need to be somewhere else.”
“How’s it going, John?”
“I think I’ve blown it big-time, sir. No way I’m going to regain their trust.”
Strathern made a noise of irritation. “What happened?”
“I’d rather not go into details, sir. But for the record, whatever they did with Bernie Johns’s millions, I don’t think they’ve got much of it left. Always supposing they had it in the first place.”
“You’re not convinced?”
“I’m convinced they’re not on the straight and narrow. I don’t know if they’ve pulled any other scams, but if one presented itself, they’d be happy to take it on.”
“None of which gets us any further.”
“Not really, sir, no.”
“Not your fault, John. I’m sure you did what you could.”
“Maybe even a bit more than that, sir.”
“Don’t worry, John, I won’t forget your efforts.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“I suppose you’ll want to be pulled out now? No use staying . . .”
“Actually, sir, I’d rather stick it out. Only a few more days to go, and they’d rumble me if I suddenly disappeared.”
“Good point. We’d be breaking your cover.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very well then. If you’re okay with that . . .”
“I’ll just have to grin and bear it, sir.”
Rebus ended the call and thought about the lie he’d just told: he was staying put not because he feared being rumbled but because he still had work to do. He decided to phone Jean, let her know they’d have the weekend to themselves. Her response: “Always supposing nothing comes up.”
He couldn’t disagree . . .
The Wild Bunch reconvened in the Lomax inquiry room. It seemed like they’d been away from it a long time; longer still since they’d first met around its table. Tennant was seated at the head, hands clasped in front of him.
“Leith CID would like our help, gentlemen,” he began. “Or more properly,
“Will we be based in Leith, sir?” Jazz McCullough asked.
“For today, yes. Make sure you take everything with you. There’s a weekend coming up, and after that you’ll be back here for four days of intensive final analysis. The plan was to retrain you and prepare you to work once more as effective team players . . .” Rebus felt Tennant’s eyes rest on him as he spoke these words. “Your respective forces will need evidence that you have learned from this course.”
“How are we doing so far, boss?” Sutherland piped up.
“You really want to know, DS Sutherland?”
“Actually, now you mention it, I think I can wait.”
There were smiles at this, from everyone in the room but Rebus and Gray. Gray looked chastened after his little chat with Tennant, while Rebus was deep in thought, trying to gauge how safe he would be down in Leith. At least he’d be in Edinburgh — on home turf — and he’d have Bobby Hogan to watch his back.
Odds on him making it to the weekend in one piece?
He’d give no better than even money.
The case against Malcolm Neilson was proceeding nicely. Colin Stewart from the Procurator Fiscal’s office had arrived at St. Leonard’s that morning for a progress report. It would be Stewart and his team of lawyers who’d decide whether there was enough evidence to justify a trial. So far he seemed satisfied. Siobhan had been called into Gill Templer’s office to answer a few of his procedural questions regarding the search of the house in Inveresk. Siobhan had countered with a few questions of her own.
“We’ve no actual physical evidence yet, have we?”
Stewart had removed his glasses, seeming to study the lenses for smears, while Gill Templer sat stone-faced beside him.
“We’ve the painting,” he commented.
“Yes, but it was found in an unlocked shed. Anyone could have put it there. Aren’t there more tests we could be doing to see whether anyone else handled it?”
Stewart glanced towards Templer. “We appear to have a doubting Thomas in our midst.”
“DS Clarke likes to play devil’s advocate,” Templer explained. “She knows as well as we do that further tests would take time and money — especially money — and probably wouldn’t add anything to what we already know.”
It was something the officers on an inquiry were never allowed to forget: each case had to fall within a strict budget. Bill Pryde probably spent as much time adding up columns of figures as he did on actual detective work. It was another thing he was good at: bringing cases in under budget. The High Hiedyins at the Big House perceived this as a strength.
“I’m just saying that Neilson would be an easy target. He’d already had a very public falling-out with Marber. Then there was the hush money and . . .”
“The only people who know about the hush money, DS Clarke,” Stewart said, “are the investigation team themselves.” He slipped his glasses back on. “You’re not implying that one of your own officers could have had some involvement . . . ?”
“Of course not.”
“Well then . . .”
And that had been that. Back at her desk, she called Bobby Hogan in Leith. It was something she’d been meaning to do. She wanted to know whether Alexander had been told about his mother’s death, and how he was bearing up. She’d even considered paying the grandmother a visit, but knew there could be no easy conversation
