`No.’
But he knew the truth. Which didn't stop him saying the word over and over again.
35
They divided the gang between two different locations Torphichen and Fettes – and took Telford and a few of his `lieutenants' to St Leonard's. Result: a logistical nightmare. Claverhouse was washing Pro-Plus down with double strength coffee, part of him wanting to do things right, the other part knowing he was answerable for the blood-bath at Maclean's. One officer dead, six wounded or otherwise injured – one of them seriously. One gunman dead, one wounded – not seriously enough to some people's minds.
The getaway cars had been apprehended and arrests made – shots exchanged but no bloodshed. None of the gang was saying anything, not a single damned word.
Rebus was sitting in an empty Interview Room at St Leonard's, arms on the table, head resting on arms. He'd been sitting there for a while, just thinking about loss, about how suddenly it could strike. A life, a friendship, just snatched away.
Irretrievable.
He hadn't cried, and didn't think he would. Instead, he felt numb, as if his soul had been spiked with novocaine. The world seemed to have slowed, like the mechanism was running down. He wondered if the sun would have the energy to rise again.
And I got him into it.
He had wallowed before in feelings of guilt and inadequacy, but nothing to measure up to this. This was overwhelming. Jack Morton, a copper with a quiet patch in Falkirk… murdered in Edinburgh because a friend had asked a favour. Jack Morton, who'd brought himself back to life by swearing off cigarettes and booze, getting into shape, eating right, taking care of himself… Lying in the mortuary, deep-body temperature dropping.
And I put him there.
He jumped up suddenly, threw the chair at the wall. Gill Templer walked into the room.
`All right, John?’
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
`Fine.’
`My office is empty if you want to get your head down.’
`No, I'll be fine. Just…’
He looked around. `Is this place needed?’
She nodded.
`Right. Okay.’
He picked up the chair. `Who is it?’
`Brian Summers,' she said.
Pretty-Boy. Rebus straightened his back.
`I can make him talk.’
Templer looked sceptical.
`Honest, Gill.’
Hands trembling. `He doesn't know what I've got on him.’
She folded her arms. `And what's that?’
`I just need…’
He checked his watch. `An hour or so; two hours tops. Bobby Hogan needs to be here. And I want Colquhoun brought in pronto.’
`Who's he?’
Rebus found the business card and handed it over. `Pronto,' he repeated. He worked at his tie, making himself presentable. Smoothed back his hair. Said nothing.
`John, I'm not sure you're in any state to…’
He pointed at her, turned it into a wagging finger. `Don't presume, Gill. If I say I can break him, I mean it.’
`No one else has said a single word.’
`Summers will be different.’
He stared at her. `Believe me.’
Looking back at him, she believed. `I'll hold him back till Hogan gets here.’
`Thanks, Gill.’
`And, John?’
`Yes?’
`I'm really sorry about Jack Morton. I didn't know him, but I've heard what everyone's saying.’
Rebus nodded.
`They're saying he'd be the last one to blame you.’
Rebus smiled. `Right at the back of the queue.’
`There's only one person in the queue, John,' she, said quietly. `And you're it.’
Rebus phoned the night-desk at the Caledonian Hotel, learned that Sakiji Shoda had checked out unexpectedly, less than two hours after Rebus had dropped off the green folder which had cost him fifty-five pence at a stationer's on Raeburn Place. Actually, the folders had come in three-packs at one sixty-five. He had the other two in his car, only one of them empty.
Bobby Hogan was on his way. He lived in Portobello. He said to give him half an hour. Bill Pryde came over to Rebus's desk and said how sorry he was about Jack Morton, how he knew the two of them had been old friends.
`Just don't get too close to me, Bill,' Rebus told him. `The people closest to me tend to lose their health.’
He got a message from reception: someone there to see him. He headed downstairs, found Patience Aitken.
`Patience?’
She had all her clothes on, but not necessarily in the right order, like she'd dressed in a power-cut.
`I heard on the radio,' she said. `I couldn't sleep, so I had the radio on, and they said about this police raid and how people were dead… And you weren't in your flat, so I…’
He hugged her. `I'm okay,' he whispered. `I should have called you.’
`It's my fault, I…’
She looked at him. `You were there, I can see it on your face.’
He nodded. `What happened?’
`I lost a friend.’
`Oh, Christ, John.’
She hugged him again. She was still warm from the bedclothes. He could smell shampoo on her hair, perfume on her neck. The people closest to me… He pulled away gently, planted a kiss on her cheek.
`Go get some sleep,' he told her.
`Come for breakfast.’
`I just want to go home and crash.’
`You could sleep at my place. It's Sunday. We could stay in bed.’
`I don't know what time I'll finish here.’
She found his eyes. `Don't feed on it, John. Don't keep it all inside.’
`Okay, Doc.’
He pecked her cheek again. `Now vamoose.’
He managed a smile and a wink: both felt treacherous. He stood at the door and watched her leave, A lot of times while he'd been married, he'd thought of just walking. There were times when all the responsibilities and the shite at work and the pressure and the need would make him dream of escape.
He was tempted again now. Push open the door and head off to somewhere that wasn't here, to do something
