Siobhan nodded and they left the flat, making sure it was locked behind them. On the landing below, Rebus put an ear first to one door and then to the other, finally nodding at the second. Siobhan banged on it with her fist. By the time the door opened, she had her ID out.
Two surnames on the door: the teacher and his girlfriend. It was the girlfriend who answered. She was short and blond, and would have been pretty were it not for a sideways jutting of her jaw, which gave her what Siobhan guessed was a semipermanent scowl.
“I’m DS Clarke, this is DI Rebus,” Siobhan said. “Mind if we ask you a couple of questions?”
The young woman looked from one to the other. “We already told the other lot everything we know.”
“We appreciate that, miss,” Rebus said. He saw her eyes drop to stare at his gloves. “But you do live here, right?”
“Aye.”
“We understand that you got on fine with Mr. Herdman, even though he could be a bit noisy sometimes.”
“Just when he had a party, like. It was never a problem-we raise the roof ourselves now and then.”
“You share his taste for heavy metal?”
She wrinkled her nose. “More of a Robbie woman myself.”
“She means Robbie Williams,” Siobhan informed Rebus.
“I’d have worked it out eventually,” Rebus sniffed.
“Good news was, he only ever played that stuff when he was partying.”
“Did you ever get an invite?”
She shook her head.
“Show Miss…” Rebus was talking to Siobhan but broke off and smiled at the neighbor. “Sorry, I don’t know your name.”
“Hazel Sinclair.”
He added a nod to his smile. “DS Clarke, can you show Miss Sinclair…”
But Siobhan already had the photograph out. She handed it to Hazel Sinclair.
“It’s Miss Teri,” the young woman stated.
“You’ve seen her around, then?”
“Of course. Looks like she’s just stepped out of
“But have you seen her here?”
“Here?” Sinclair thought about it, the effort further distorting her jawline. Then she shook her head. “I always thought he was gay anyway.”
“He had kids,” Siobhan said, taking back the photo.
“Doesn’t mean much, does it? Lot of gays are married. And he was in the army, probably a ton of gays in there.”
Siobhan tried to suppress a smile. Rebus shifted his feet.
“Besides,” Hazel Sinclair was saying, “it was always guys you saw coming up and down the stairs.” She paused for effect. “Young guys.”
“Any of them look as good as Robbie?”
Sinclair shook her head dramatically. “I’d eat breakfast off his backside any day of the week.”
“We’ll try to keep that out of our report,” Rebus said, dignity intact as both women cracked up with laughter.
In the car on the way to Port Edgar marina, Rebus looked at some photos of Lee Herdman. Mostly they were copied from newspapers. Herdman seemed tall and wiry, with a mop of curly graying hair. Wrinkles around his eyes, a face lined with the years. Tanned, too, or more likely, weatherbeaten. Glancing out, Rebus saw that the clouds had gathered overhead, covering the sky like a grubby sheet. The photos had all been taken outdoors: Herdman working on his boat, or heading out into the estuary. In one, he gave a wave to whoever had been left ashore. There was a broad smile on his face, as though this was as good as life could get. Rebus had never seen the point of sailing. He supposed the boats looked pretty enough from a distance, when watched from one of the pubs on the waterfront.
“Have you ever sailed?” he asked Siobhan.
“I’ve been on a few ferries.”
“I meant on a yacht. You know, hoisting the spinnaker and all that.”
She looked at him. “Is that what you do with a spinnaker?”
“Buggered if I know.” Rebus looked up. They were passing beneath the Forth Road Bridge, the marina down a narrow road just past the huge concrete stanchions that seemed to lift the bridge skywards. This was the sort of thing that impressed Rebus: not nature, but ingenuity. He thought sometimes that all man’s greatest achievements had come from a battle with nature. Nature provided the problems, humans found the solutions.
“This is it,” Siobhan said, turning the car through an open gateway. The marina was made up of a series of buildings-some more ramshackle than others-and two long jetties jutting out into the Firth of Forth. At one of these, a few dozen boats had been moored. They passed the marina office and something called the Bosun’s Locker, and parked next to the cafeteria.
“According to the notes, there’s a sailing club, a sailmaker’s, and somewhere that’ll fix your radar,” Siobhan said, getting out. She started around to the passenger side, but Rebus was able to open his own door.
“See?” he said. “I’m not quite at the knacker’s yard yet.” But through the material of the gloves, his fingers stung. He straightened and looked around. The bridge was high overhead, the rush of cars quieter than he’d expected and almost drowned out by the clanging of whatever it was on boats that made that clanging sound. Maybe it was the spinnakers…
“Who owns this place?” he asked.
“Sign at the gate said something about Edinburgh Leisure.”
“Meaning the city council? Which means that technically speaking, you and me own it.”
“Technically speaking,” Siobhan agreed. She was busy studying a hand-drawn plan. “Herdman’s boat shed is on the right, past the toilets.” She pointed. “Down there, I think.”
“Good, you can catch me up,” Rebus told her. Then he nodded towards the cafeteria. “Coffee to go, and not too hot.”
“Not scalding, you mean?” She made for the cafeteria steps. “Sure you can manage on your own?”
Rebus stayed by the car as she disappeared, the door rattling behind her. He took his time lifting cigarettes and lighter from his pocket. Opened the packet and nipped a cigarette out with his teeth, sucking it into his mouth. The lighter was a lot easier than matches, once he’d found a bit of shelter from the wind. He was leaning against the car, relishing the smoke, when Siobhan reappeared.
“Here you go,” she said, handing him a half-filled cup. “Lots of milk.”
He stared at the pale gray surface. “Thanks.”
Together, they headed off, turning a couple of corners and finding no one around, despite the half-dozen cars parked alongside Siobhan’s. “Down here,” she said, leading them ever closer to the bridge. Rebus had noted that one of the long jetties was actually a wooden pontoon, providing tie-ups for visiting boats.
“This must be it,” Siobhan said, tossing her half-empty cup into a nearby bin. Rebus did the same, though he’d taken only a couple of sips of the warmish, milkyish concoction. If there was caffeine in there, he’d failed to find it. Bless the Lord for nicotine.
The shed was just that: a shed, albeit a well-fed example of the species. About twenty feet wide, knocked together from a mixture of wooden slats and corrugated metal. Half its width was a sliding door, which stood closed. Two sets of chains lay on the ground, evidence that police had forced their way in with bolt cutters. A length of blue and white tape had replaced the chains, and someone had fixed an official notice to the door, warning that entry was prohibited under pain of prosecution. A handmade sign above announced that the shed was actually “SKI AND BOAT-prop. L. Herdman.”
“Catchy title,” Rebus mused as Siobhan untied the tape and pushed the door open.
“Does exactly what it says on the tin,” she responded in kind. This was where Herdman ran his business, teaching fledgling sailors and scaring the wits out of his water-skiing clientele. Inside, Rebus could see a dinghy, maybe a twenty-footer. It sat on a trailer whose tires needed some air. There were a couple of powerboats, too,
