Siobhan Clarke looked at him. 'It didn't work,' she said.
Back at St Leonard's, there was a message for him to call Kilpatrick.
'Some magazine,' Kilpatrick said, 'is about to run with a story about Calumn Smylie's murder, specifically that he was working undercover at the time.’
'How did they get hold of that?’
'Maybe someone talked, maybe they just burrowed deep enohgh. Whatever, a certain local reporter has made no friends for herself.’
'Not Mairle Henderson?’
'That's the name. You know her, don't you?’
'Not particularly,' Rebus lied. He knew Kilpatrick was fishing. If someone in the notoriously tight-upped SCS was blabbing, who better to point the finger at than the new boy? He phoned the news desk while Siobhan fetched them coffee.
'Mairie Henderson, please. What? Since when? Right, thanks.’
He put the phone down. 'She's resigned,' he said, not quite believing it. 'Since last week. She's gone freelance apparently.’
'Good for her,' said Siobhan, handing over a cup. But Rebus wasn't so sure. He called Mairie's home number, but got her answering machine. Its message was succinct: 'I'm busy with an assignment, so I can't promise a quick reply unless you're offering work. If you are offering work, leave your number. You can see how dedicated I am. Here comes the beep.’
Rebus waited for it. 'Mairie, it's John Rebus. Here are three numbers you can get me on.’
He gave her St Leonard's, Fettes, and Patience's flat, not feeling entirely confident about this last, wondering if any message from a woman would reach him with Patience on the intercept.
Then he made an internal call to the station's liaison officer.
'Have you seen Mairie Henderson around?’
'Not for a wee while. The paper seems to have switched her for someone else, a right dozy wee nyafl.’
'Thanks.’
Rebus thought about the last time he'd seen her, in the corridor after Lauderdale's conference. She hadn't mentioned any story, or any plan of going freelance. He made one more call, external this time. It was to DCI Kilpatrick.
'What is it, John?’
'That magazine, sir, the one doing the story about Calumn Smylie, what's it called?’
'It's some London rag…’
There were sounds of papers being shuffled. 'Yes, here it is. Snoop.’
'Snoop?’
Rebus looked to Siobhan Clarke, who nodded, signalling she'd heard of it. 'Right, thank you, sir.’
He put the receiver down before Kilpatrick could ask any questions.
'Want me to phone them and ask?’
Rebus nodded. He saw Brian Holmes come into the room. 'Just the man,' he said. Holmes saw them and wiped imaginary sweat from his brow.
'So,' said Rebus, 'what did you get from the builders?’
'Everything but an estimate for repointing my house.’
He took out his notebook. 'Where do you want me to start?’
19
Davey Soutar had agreed to meet Rebus in the community hall.
On his way to the Gar-B, Rebus tried not to think about Soutar. He thought instead about building firms. All Brian Holmes had been able to tell him was that the two firms were no cowboys, and weren't admitting to use of casual, untaxed labour. Siobhan Clarke's call to the office of Snoop magazine had been more productive. Mairie Henderson's piece, which they intended publishing in their next issue, had not been commissioned specially. It was part of a larger story she was working on for an American magazine. Why, Rebus wondered, would an American magazine be interested in the death of an Edinburgh copper? He thought he had a pretty good idea.
He drove into the Gar-B car park, bumped his car up onto the grass, and headed slowly past the garages towards the community hall. The theatre group hadn't bothered with the car park either. Maybe someone had had a go at their van. It was now parked close by the hall's front doors. Rebus parked next to it.
'It's the filth,' someone said. There were half a dozen teenagers on the roof of the building, staring down at him. And more of them sitting and standing around the doors. Davey Soutar had not come alone.
They let Rebus past. It was like walking through hate. Inside the hall, there was an argument going on.
'I never touched it!'
'It was there a minute ago.’
'You calling me a liar, pal?’
Three men, who'd been constructing a set on the stage, had stopped to watch. Davey Soutar was talking with another man. They were standing close, faces inches apart. Clenched fists and puffed-out chests.
'Is there a problem?’ Rebus said: Peter Cave, who'd been sitting with head in hands, now stood up.
'No problem,' he said lightly.
The third man thought there was. 'The wee bastard,' he said, meaning Davey Soutar, `just lifted a packet of fags.’
Soutar looked ready to hit something. It was interesting that he didn't hit his accuser. Rebus didn't know what he'd been expecting from the theatre company. He certainly hadn't been expecting this. The accuser was tall and wiry with long greasy hair and several days' growth of beard. He didn't look in the least scared of Soutar, whose reputation must surely have preceded him. Nor did the workers on the stage look unwilling to enter any fray. He reached into his pocket and brought out a fresh pack of twenty, which he handed to Davey Soutar.
'Here,' he said, 'take these, and give the gentleman back his ciggies.’
Soutar turned on him like a zoo leopard, not happy with its cage. 'I don't need your…’
The roar faded. He looked at the faces around him. Then he laughed, a hysterical giggling laugh. He slapped his bare chest and shook his head, then took the cigarettes from Rebus and tossed another pack onto the stage.
Rebus turned to the accuser. 'What's your name?’
'Jim Hay.’
The accent was west coast.
'Well, Jim, why don't you take those cigarettes outside, have a ten-minute break?’
Jim Hay looked ready to protest, but then thought better of it. He gestured to his crew and they followed him outside.
Rebus could hear them getting into the van. He turned his attention to Davey Soutar and Peter Cave.
'I'm surprised you came,' said Soutar, lighting up.
`I'm full of surprises, me.’
'Only, last time I saw you here, you were heading for the hills. You owe Peter an apology, by the way.’
Soutar had changed completely. He looked like he was enjoying himself, like he hadn't lost his temper in weeks.
'I don't think that's strictly necessary,' Peter Cave said into the silence.
'Apology accepted,' said Rebus. He dragged over a chair and sat down. Soutar decided this was a good idea. He found a chair for himself and sat with a hard man's slump, legs wide apart, hands stuffed into the tight pockets of his denims, cigarette hanging from his lips. Rebus wanted a cigarette, but he wasn't going to ask for one.
'So what's the problem, Inspector?’ Soutar had agreed to a meeting here, but hadn't mentioned Peter Cave would be present. Maybe it was coincidence. Whatever, Rebus didn't mind an audience. Cave looked tired, pale. There was no question who was in charge, who had power over whom.
'I just have a few things to ask, there's no question of charges or anything criminal, all right?’
Soutar obliged with a grunt, examining the laces of his basketball boots. He was shirtless again, still wearing
