for publication. But Rebus knew there would be something about it on the local radio news, so he was quite content for once when Patience tuned the bedside radio to a classical station.
He should have come off his shift at midnight, but murder tended to disrupt the system of shifts. On a murder inquiry, you stopped working when you reasonably could. Rebus had hung around till two in the morning, consulting with the night shift about the corpse in Mary King's Close. He'd contacted his Chief Inspector and Chief Super, and kept in touch with Fettes HQ, where the forensic stuff' had gone. DI Flower kept telling him to go home. Finally he'd taken tile advice.
The real problem with back shifts was that Rebus couldn't sleep well after them anyway. He'd managed four hours since arriving home, and four hours would suffice. But there was a warm pleasure in slipping into bed as dawn neared, curling against the body already asleep there. And even more pleasure in pushing the cat off the bed as you did so.
Before retiring, he'd swallowed four measures of whisky He told himself it was purely medicinal, but rinsed the put it away, hoping Patience wouldn't notice. She` complained often of his drinking, among other things.
`We're eating out,' she said now.
`When?’
'Lunch today.’
`Where?’
`That place out at Carlops.’
Rebus nodded. `Witch's Leap,' he said.
`What?’
`That's what Carlops means. There's a big rock there. They used to throw suspected witches from it. If you didn't fly, you were innocent.’
`But also dead?’
`Their judicial system wasn't perfect, witness the duckingstool. Same principle.’
`How do you know all this?’
`It's amazing what these young constables know nowadays.’
He paused. 'About lunch… I should go into work.’
`Oh no, you don't.’
`Patience, there's been a-‘
`John, there'll be a murder here if we don't start spending some time together. Phone in sick.’
`I can't do that.’
`Then I'll do it. I’m a doctor, they'll believe me.’
They believed her.
They walked off lunch by taking a look at Carlops Rock, and then braving a climb onto the Pentlands, despite the fierce horizontal winds. Back in Oxford Terrace, Patience eventually said she had some `office things' to do, which meant filing or tax or flicking through the-latest media: journals. So Rebus drove out along Queensferry Road and parked outside the Church of Our Lady of Perpetual noting with guilty pleasure that no one had yet corrected the mischievous graffiti on the noticeboard which turned 'Help' into `Hell'.
Inside, the church was empty, cool and quiet and flooded with coloured light from the stained glass. Hoping his timing was good, he slipped into the confessional. There was someone on the other side of the grille.
`Forgive me, father,' said Rebus, `I'm not even a Catholic.’
`Ah good, it's you, you heathen. I was hoping you'd come. I want your help.’
'Shouldn't that be my line?’
`Don't be bloody cheeky. Come on, let's have a drink.’
Father Conor Leary was between fifty-five and seventy and had told Rebus that he couldn't remember which he was nearer. He was a bulky barrelling figure with thick silver hair which sprouted not only from his head but also from ears, nose and the back of his neck. In civvies, Rebus guessed he would pass for a retired dockworker or skilled labourer of some kind who had also been handy as a boxer, and Father Leary had photos and trophies to prove that this last was incontrovertible truth. He often jabbed the air to make a point, finishing with an uppercut to show that there could be no comeback. In conversation between the two men, Rebus had often wished for a referee.
But today Father Leary sat comfortably and sedately enough in the deckchair in his garden. It was a beautiful early evening, warm and clear with the trace of a cool seaborne breeze.
`A great day to go hot-air ballooning,' said Father Leary, taking a swig from his glass of Guinness. `Or bungee jumping. I believe they've set up something of the sort on The Meadows, just for the duration of the Festival. Man, I'd like to try that.’
Rebus blinked but said nothing. His Guinness was cold enough to double as dental anaesthetic. He shifted in his own deckchair, which was by far the older of the two. Before sitting, he'd noticed how threadbare the canvas washow how it had been rubbed away where It met the horizontal wooden spars. He hoped it would hold.
`Do you like my garden?’
Rebus looked at the bright blooms, the trim grass. `I don't know much about gardens,' he admitted.
'Me neither. It's not a sin. But there's an old chap I know who does know about them, and he looks after this one for a few bob.’
He raised his glass towards his lips. `So how are you keeping?’
'I'm fine.’
`And Dr Aitken?’
`She's fine.’
`And the two of you are still…?’
'Just about.’
Father Leary nodded. Rebus's tone was warning him off. `Another bomb threat, eh? I heard on the radio.’
`It could be a crank.’
'But you're not sure?’
'The IRA usually use codewords, just so we know they're serious.’
Father Leary nodded to himself. 'And a murder too?’
Rebus gulped his drink. `I was there.’
'They don't even stop for the Festival, do they? Whatever must the tourists think?’
Father Leary's eyes were sparkling.
`It's about time the tourists learned the truth,' Rebus said, a bit too quickly. He sighed. `It was pretty gruesome.’
'I'm sorry to hear that. I shouldn't have been so flippant.’
`That's all right. It's a defence.’
`You're right, it is.’
Rebus knew this. It was the reason behind his many little jokes with Dr Curt. It was their way of avoiding the obvious, the undeniable. Even so, since last night Rebus had held in his mind the picture of that sad strung up figure, a young man they hadn't even identified yet. The picture would stay there forever. Everybody had a photographic memory for horror. He'd climbed back out of Mary King's Close to find the High Street aglow with a firework display, the streets thronged with people staring up openmouthed at the blues and greens in the night sky. The fireworks were coming from the Castle; the night's Tattoo display was ending. He hadn't felt much like talking to Mairie Henderson. In fact, he had snubbed her.
`This isn't very nice,' she'd said, standing her ground.
`This is very nice,' Father Leary said now, relaxing back further into his seat.
The whisky Rebus had drunk hadn't rubbed out the picture. If anything, it had smeared the corners and edges, which only served to highlight the central fact. More whisky would have made this image sharper still.
`We're not here for very long, are we?’ he said now.
Father Leary frowned. 'You mean here on earth?’
`That's what I mean. We're not around long enough to make any difference.’
`Tell that to the man with a bomb in his pocket. Every one of us makes a difference just by being here.’
'I'm not talking about the man with the bomb, I'm talking about stopping him.’
`You're talking about being a policeman.’
