They stopped for coffee in Dumfries. The cafe was a dreary combination of Formica and bad lighting, but neither man cared once he’d taken a bite from the thick bacon sandwiches. Hogan looked at his watch and calculated that they’d been on the road the best part of two hours.
“Least the rain’s stopping,” Rebus said.
“Put out the flags,” Hogan responded.
Rebus decided to try a change of subject. “Ever been this way before?”
“I’m sure I must’ve driven through Dumfries; doesn’t ring a bell, though.”
“I came on holiday once. Caravan on the Solway Firth.”
“When was this?” Hogan was licking melted butter from between his fingers.
“Years back… Sammy was still in nappies.” Sammy: Rebus’s daughter.
“You ever hear from her?”
“A phone call now and then.”
“She still down in England?” Hogan watched Rebus nod. “Good luck to her.” He opened his roll and peeled some of the fat from the bacon. “Scottish diet: that’s another thing we’re cursed with.”
“Christ, Bobby, shall I just drop you off at Carbrae? You could sign yourself in, play Mr. Grumpy to a captive audience.”
“I’m just saying…”
“Saying what? We get shit weather and eat shit food? Maybe you should have Grant Hood stage a press conference, seeing how it’s going to come as news to every bugger who lives here.”
Hogan concentrated on his snack, chewing without seeming to swallow. “Too long cooped up in that car, maybe?” he finally offered.
“Too long on the Port Edgar case,” Rebus countered.
“It’s only been -”
“I don’t care how long it’s been. Don’t tell me you’re getting enough sleep? Putting it all behind you when you go home at night? Switching off? Delegating? Letting others share the -”
“I get the point.” Hogan paused. “I brought you in, didn’t I?”
“Just as well, or I suspect you’d have been driving down here on your lonesome.”
“And?”
“And there wouldn’t have been anybody to moan at.” Rebus looked at him. “Feel better for letting it all out?”
Hogan smiled. “Maybe you’re right.”
“Well, wouldn’t that be a first for the books?”
Both men ended up laughing, Hogan insisting on picking up the tab, Rebus leaving a tip. Back in the car, they found the road to Dalbeattie. Ten miles out of Dumfries, a single signpost pointed right, taking them up a narrow, winding track with grass growing in the middle.
“Not much traffic, then,” Rebus commented.
“Bit out of the way for visitors,” Hogan agreed.
Carbrae had been purpose-built in the forward-looking 1960s, a long box-shaped structure with annexes. None of which could be seen until they had parked the car, identified themselves at the gate and been met and escorted within the thick, gray concrete walls. There was an outer perimeter, too, a wire fence twenty feet high, topped here and there with security cameras. At the gatehouse they’d been given laminated passes, hung by a red ribbon from the neck. Signs warned visitors of forbidden items within the complex. No food or drink, newspapers or magazines. No sharp objects. Nothing was to be passed to a patient without prior consultation with a member of the staff. Mobile phones were not permitted: “Our patients can be upset by the slightest thing, no matter how harmless it may seem to you. If in doubt, please ASK!”
“Any chance we might upset Robert Niles?” Hogan asked, his eyes meeting Rebus’s.
“Not in our nature, Bobby,” Rebus said, switching off his phone.
And then an orderly appeared, and they were in.
They walked down a garden path, neat flower beds to either side. There were faces at some of the windows. No bars on the windows themselves. Rebus had expected the orderlies to be thinly disguised bouncers, huge and silent, dressed in hospital whites or some other form of uniform. But their guide, Billy, was small and cheery- looking, casually clothed in T-shirt, jeans and soft-soled shoes. Rebus had a horrible thought: the lunatics had taken over the asylum, the real staff locked away. It would explain Billy’s beaming, rosy-cheeked countenance. Or maybe he’d just been dipping into the medicine locker.
“Dr. Lesser is waiting in her room,” Billy was saying.
“What about Niles?”
“You’ll talk to Robert there. He doesn’t like strangers going into his own room.”
“Oh?”
“He’s funny that way.” Billy shrugged his shoulders, as if to say: don’t we all have our little foibles? He punched numbers into a keypad by the front door, smiling up at the camera trained on him. The door clicked open, and they entered the hospital.
The place smelled of… not exactly medicine. What was it? Then Rebus realized: it was the aroma of new carpets-specifically, the blue carpet that stretched before them down the corridor. Fresh paint, too, by the look of it. Apple green, Rebus guessed it had said on the industrial-sized cans. Pictures on the walls, stuck there with tape. Nothing framed, and no thumbtacks. The place was quiet. Their shoes made no noise on the carpet. No piped music, no screams. Billy led them down the hall, stopping before an open door.
“Dr. Lesser?”
The woman inside was seated at a modern desk. She smiled and peered over her half-moon glasses.
“You got here, then,” she stated.
“Sorry we’re a few minutes late,” Hogan began to apologize.
“It’s not that,” she reassured him. “It’s just that people miss the turnoff and then phone to say they’re lost.”
“We didn’t get lost.”
“So I see.” She had come forward to greet them with handshakes. Hogan and Rebus introduced themselves.
“Thanks, Billy,” she said. Billy gave a little bow and backed away. “Won’t you come in? I won’t bite.” She offered her smile again. Rebus wondered if it was part of the job description for working at Carbrae.
The room was small, comfortable. A yellow two-seat sofa, bookshelf, hi-fi. No filing cabinets. Rebus guessed the patient files would be kept well away from prying eyes. Dr. Lesser said they could call her Irene. She was in her late twenties or early thirties, with chestnut-brown hair falling to just below her shoulders. Her eyes were the same color as the clouds that had obscured Arthur’s Seat earlier that morning.
“Please, sit yourselves down.” Her accent was English. Rebus thought Liverpudlian.
“Dr. Lesser…” Hogan began.
“Irene, please.”
“Of course.” Hogan paused, as if weighing whether to use her first name. If he did, she might start using
Lesser nodded. She had pulled over a chair so she could sit in front of the detectives. Rebus was aware that the sofa was a tight fit: Bobby and him, probably over four hundred pounds between them…
“And you understand,” Lesser was saying, “that Robert has the right to say nothing. If he starts to get upset, the interview is over and that’s final.”
Hogan nodded. “You’ll be sitting in, of course.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Of course.”
It was the answer they’d expected, but disappointing all the same.
“Doctor,” Rebus began, “maybe you could help prepare us. What can we expect from Mr. Niles?”
“I don’t like to pre-empt -”
“For example, is there anything we should avoid saying? Maybe trip words?”
She looked appraisingly at Rebus. “He won’t talk about what he did to his wife.”
“That’s not why we’re here.”
She thought for a moment. “He doesn’t know his friend is dead.”
