`What about him?’
`I've just found out he's HIV positive. His GP let the hospital know.’
Blood in Rebus's eyes, his ears, dribbling down his neck…
`Poor guy,' he said quietly.
`He should have said something at the time.’
`When?’
`When we got him to the hospital.’
`Well, he had other things on his mind, and some of them were in danger of falling off.’
`Christ, John, be serious for a minute!' Her voice was loud enough to have people glance up from their desks. `You need to get a blood test.’
`Fine, no problem. How is he, by the way?’
`Back home but poorly. And sticking to his story.’
`Do I detect the influence of Telford's lawyer?’
`Charles Groal? That one's so slimy, he's practically primordial.’
`Saves you the cost of a valentine.’
`Look, just phone the hospital. Talk to a Dr Jones. She'll fix an appointment. They can do a test right away. Not that it'll be the last word – there's a three-month incubation.’
`Thanks, Siobhan.’
Rebus put down the receiver, drummed his fingers against it. Wouldn't that be a nice irony? Rebus out to get Telford, does the Good Samaritan bit for one of his men, gets AIDS and dies. Rebus stared at the ceiling.
Nice one, Big Man.
The phone rang again. Rebus snatched it up.
`Switchboard,' he said.
`Is that you, John?’
Patience Aitken.
`The one and only.’
`Just wanted to check we're still on for tonight.’
`To be honest, Patience, I'm not sure I'll be at my most sparkling.’
`You want to cancel?’
`Absolutely not. But I have something to take care of. At the hospital.’
`Yes, of course.’
`No, I don't think you understand. It's not Sammy this time, it's me.’
`What's wrong?’
So he told her.
She went with him. Same hospital Sammy was in, different department. Last thing he wanted was to bump into Rhona, have to explain everything to her. Possibly HIV-infected: chances were, she'd red-card him from the bedside.
The waiting room was white, clean. Lots of information on the walls. Leaflets on every table, as if paperwork was the real virus.
`I must say, it's very pleasant for a leper colony.’
Patience didn't say anything. They were alone in the room. Someone on reception had dealt with him first, then a nurse had come out and taken some details. Now another door opened.
`Mr Rebus?’
A tall thin woman in a white coat, standing in the doorway: Dr Jones, he presumed. Patience took his arm as they walked towards her. Halfway across the floor, Rebus turned on his heels and bolted.
Patience caught up with him outside, asked what was wrong.
`I don't want to know,' he told her.
`But, John…’
`Come on, Patience. All I got was a bit of blood splashed on me.’
She didn't look convinced. `You need to take the test.’
He looked back towards the building. `Fine.’
Started walking away. `But some other time, eh?’
It was one in the morning when he drove back into Arden Street. No dinner date with Patience: instead, they'd visited the hospital, sat with Rhona. He'd made a silent pact with the Big Man: bring her back and I'll keep off the booze. He'd driven Patience home. Her last words to him: `Take that test. Get it over and done with.’
As he locked his car, a figure appeared from nowhere. `Mr Rebus, long time no see.’
Rebus recognised the face. Pointy chin, misshapen teeth, the breathing a series of small gasps. The Weasel: one of Cafferty's men. He was dressed like a down-and-out, perfect camouflage for his role in life. He was Cafferty's eyes and ears on the street. `We need to talk, Mr Rebus.’
His hands were deep in the pockets of a tweed coat meant for someone eight inches taller. He glanced towards the tenement door. `Not in my flat,' Rebus stated. Some things were sacrosanct.
`Cold out here.’
Rebus just shook his head, and the Weasel sniffed hard. 'You think it was a hit?’ he said. `Yes,' Rebus answered. `She was meant to die?’
`I don't know.’
`A pro wouldn't fuck up.’
`Then it was a warning.’
`We could do with seeing your notes.’
`Can't do that.’
The Weasel shrugged. `Thought you wanted Mr Cafferty's help?’
`I can't give you the notes. What about if I summarise?’
`It'd be a start.’
`Rover 600, stolen from George Street that afternoon. Abandoned on a street by Piershill Cemetery. Radio and some tapes lifted – not necessarily by the same person.’
`Scavengers.’
`Could be.’
The Weasel was thoughtful. `A warning… That would mean a professional driver.’
`Yes,' Rebus said. `And not one of ours… Doesn't leave too many candidates. Rover 600… what colour?’
'Sherwood Green.’
`Parked on George Street?’
Rebus nodded. `Thanks for that.’
The Weasel made to turn away, then paused. `Nice doing business with you again, Mr Rebus.’
Rebus was about to say something, then remembered he needed the Weasel more than the Weasel needed him. He wondered how much crap he'd take from Cafferty… how long. he'd have to take it. All his life? Had he made a contract with the devil? For Sammy, he'd have done much, much worse…
In his flat, he stuck on the CD of Rock `n' Roll Circus, skipping to the actual Stones tracks. His answering machine was flashing. Three messages. The first: Hogan.
`Hello, John. Just thought I'd check, see if there's been any word from BT.’
Not by the time Rebus had left the office. Message two: Abernethy.
`Me again, bad penny and all that. Heard you've been trying to catch me. I'll call you tomorrow. Cheers.’
Rebus stared at the machine, willing Abernethy to say more, to give some hint of a location. But the machine was on to the final message. Bill Pryde.
`John, tried you at the office, left a message. But I thought you'd want to know, we've had final word on those prints. If you want to try me at home, I'm on…’
Rebus took down the number. Two in the morning, but Bill would understand.
After a minute or so, a woman picked up. She sounded groggy.
`Sorry,' Rebus said. `Is Bill there?’
`I'll get him.’
He heard background dialogue, then the receiver being hoisted.
