`You're sweet enough already,' Claverhouse told her.
`Why did they pick on Simpson?’ Rebus asked.
`Wrong place, wrong time?’
Claverhouse suggested.
`Plus he's pretty low down the pecking order,' Clarke added, `making it a gentle hint.’
Rebus looked at her. Short dark hair, shrewd face with a gleam to the eyes. He knew she worked well with suspects, kept them calm, listened carefully. Good on the street, too: fast on her feet as well as in her head.
`Like I say, John,' Claverhouse said, finishing his coffee, `any time you want to head off…’
Rebus looked up and down the empty corridor. `Am I in the way or something?’
`It's not that. But your job's liaison – period. I know the way you work: you get attached to cases, maybe even overattached. Look at Candice. I'm just saying…’
`You're saying, don't butt in?’
Colour rose to Rebus's cheeks: Look at Candice.
`I'm saying it's our case, not yours. That's all.’
Rebus's eyes narrowed. `I don't get it.’
Clarke stepped in. `John, I think all he means is '
`Whoah! It's okay, Siobhan. Let the man speak for himself.’
Claverhouse sighed, screwed up his empty cup and looked around for a bin. `John, investigating Telford means keeping half an eye on Big Ger Cafferty and his crew.’
`And?’
Claverhouse stared at him. `Okay, you want it spelling out? You went to Barlinnie yesterday – news travels in our business. You met Cafferty. The two of you had a chinwag.’
`He asked me to go,' Rebus lied.
Claverhouse held up his hands. `Fact is, as you've just said, he asked you and you went.’
Claverhouse shrugged.
`Are you saying I'm in his pocket?’
Rebus's voice had risen.
`Boys, boys,' Clarke said.
The doors at the end of the corridor had swung open. A young man in dark business suit, briefcase swinging, was coming towards the drinks machine. He was humming some tune. He stopped humming as he reached them, put down his case and searched his pockets for change. He smiled when he looked at them.
`Good evening.’
Early-thirties, black hair slicked back from his forehead. One kisscurl looped down between his eyebrows.
`Anyone got change of a pound?’
They looked in their pockets, couldn't find enough coins.
`Never mind.’
Though the machine was flashing EXACT MONEY ONLY he stuck in the pound coin and selected tea, black, no sugar. He stooped down to retrieve the cup, but didn't seem in a hurry to leave.
`You're police officers,' he said. His voice was a drawl, slightly nasal: Scottish upper-class. He smiled. `I don't think I know any of you professionally, but one can always tell.’
`And you're a lawyer,' Rebus guessed. The man bowed his head in acknowledgement. `Here to represent the interests of a certain Mr Thomas Telford.’
`I'm Daniel Simpson's legal advisor.’
`Which adds up to the same thing.’
`I believe Daniel's just been admitted.’
The man blew on his tea, sipped it.
`Who told you he was here?’
`Again, I don't believe that's any of your business, Detective…?’
`DI Rebus.’
The man transferred his cup to his left hand so he could hold out his right. `Charles Groal.’
He glanced at Rebus's tshirt. `Is that what you call 'plain clothes', Inspector?’
Claverhouse and Clarke introduced themselves in turn. Groal made great show of handing out business cards.
`I take it,' he said, `you're loitering here in the hope of interviewing my client?’
`That's right,' Claverhouse said.
`Might I ask why, D S Claverhouse? Or should I address that question to your superior?’
`He's not my -' Claverhouse caught Rebus's look.
Groal raised an eyebrow. `Not your superior? And yet he manifestly is, being an Inspector to your Sergeant.’
He looked towards the ceiling, tapped a finger against his cup. `You're not strictly colleagues,' he said at last, bringing his gaze back down to focus on Claverhouse.
'DS Claverhouse and myself are attached to the Scottish Crime Squad,' Clarke said.
`And Inspector Rebus isn't,' Groal observed. `Fascinating.’
`I'm at St Leonard 's.’
`Then this is quite rightly part of your division. But as for the Crime Squad…’
`We just want to know what happened,' Rebus went on.
`A fall of some kind, wasn't it? How is he, by the way?’
`Nice of you to show concern,' Claverhouse muttered.
`He's unconscious,' Clarke said.
`And likely to be in an operating theatre fairly soon. Or will they want to X-ray him first? I'm not very up on the procedures.’
`You could always ask a nurse,' Claverhouse said.
`DS Claverhouse, I detect a certain hostility.’
`Just his normal tone,' Rebus said. `Look, you're here to make sure Danny Simpson keeps his trap shut. We're here to listen to whatever bunch of shite the two of you eventually concoct for our delectation. I think that's a pretty fair summary, don't you?’
Groal cocked his head slightly to one side. `I've heard about you, Inspector. Occasionally stories can become exaggerated but not, I'm pleased to say, in your case.’
`He's a living legend,' Clarke offered. Rebus snorted and headed back into A amp;E.
There was a woolly-suit in there, seated on a chair, his cap on his lap and a paperback book resting on the cap. Rebus had seen him half an hour before. The constable was sitting outside a room with its door closed tight. Quiet voices came from the other side. The woolly-suit was called Redpath and he worked out of St Leonard 's. He'd been in the force a bit under a year. Graduate recruit. They called him `The Professor'. He was tall and spotty and had a shy look about him. He closed the book as Rebus approached, but kept a finger in his page.
`Science fiction,' he explained. `Always thought I'd grow out of it.’
`There are a lot of things we don't grow out of, son. What's it about?’
`The usual: threats to the stability of the time continuum, parallel universes.’
Redpath looked up. `What do you think, of parallel universes, sir?’
Rebus nodded towards the door. `Who's in there?’
`Hit and run.’
`Bad?.’
The Professor shrugged. `Where did it happen?’
`Top of Minto Street.’
`Did you get the car?’
Redpath shook his head. `Waiting to see if she can tell us anything. What about you, sir?’
`Similar story, son. Parallel universe, you could call it.’
Siobhan Clarke appeared, nursing a fresh cup of coffee. She nodded a greeting towards Redpath, who stood up: a courtesy which gained him a sly smile.
` Telford doesn't want Danny talking,' she said to Rebus.
