“Rebus,” he said.
“I’ve just had a couple of interesting meetings,” Gill Templer said, straining to keep her temper in check.
“Oh, aye?”
“The forensics from Fairstone’s kitchen show that he was probably bound and gagged. That makes it murder.”
“Or someone trying to give him a bloody good scare.”
“You don’t sound surprised.”
“Nothing much surprises me these days.”
“You already know, don’t you?” Rebus stayed silent; no point getting Dr. Curt into trouble. “Well, you can probably guess who the second meeting was with.”
“Carswell,” Rebus said. Colin Carswell: assistant chief constable.
“That’s right.”
“And I’m now to consider myself under suspension, pending investigation?”
“Yes.”
“Fine. Is that all you wanted to tell me?”
“You’ll be required to attend an initial interview at HQ.”
“With the Complaints?”
“Something like this, it could even be the PSU.” Meaning the Professional Standards Unit.
“Ah, the Complaints’ paramilitary wing.”
“John…” Her tone was a mixture of warning and exasperation.
“I’ll look forward to talking to them,” Rebus said, ending the call. Hogan was stepping out of the robing room, thanking the judge for his time. He closed the door after him, spoke in an undertone.
“He’s taking it well.”
“Bottling it up, more like,” Rebus said, falling into step. “I’ve got a bit of news, by the way.”
“Oh?”
“I’ve been suspended from duty. I daresay Carswell’s trying to find you right now to let you know.”
Hogan stopped walking, turned to face Rebus. “As predicted by you at Carbrae.”
“I went back to a guy’s house. Same night he died in a fire.” Hogan’s gaze dropped to Rebus’s gloves. “Nothing to do with it, Bobby. Just a coincidence.”
“So what’s the problem?”
“This guy had been hassling Siobhan.”
“And?”
“And it looks like he was tied to a chair when the fire started.”
Hogan puffed out his cheeks. “Witnesses?”
“I was seen going into the house with him, apparently.”
Hogan’s phone went off, different tone from Rebus’s. Caller ID brought a twitch to Hogan’s mouth.
“Carswell?” Rebus guessed.
“HQ.”
“Then that’s who it is.”
Hogan nodded, dropped the phone back into his pocket.
“No point putting it off,” Rebus told him.
But Bobby Hogan shook his head. “There’s every point putting it off, John. Besides, they may be pulling you off casework, but Port Edgar isn’t really a case, is it? Nobody’s going to go to court. It’s just housekeeping.”
“I suppose so.” Rebus gave a wry smile. Hogan patted his arm.
“Don’t you worry, John. Uncle Bobby will look after you…”
“Thanks, Uncle Bobby,” Rebus said.
“… right up until the moment when the shit really does hit the fan.”
By the time Gill Templer got back to St. Leonard’s, Siobhan had already tracked down Douglas Brimson. It hadn’t been exactly onerous, due to the fact that Brimson was in the phone book. Two addresses and phone numbers: one home, the other business. Templer had disappeared into her office across the corridor, slamming the door after her. George Silvers had looked up from his desk.
“Sounds like she’s on the warpath,” he’d said, pocketing his pen and preparing to beat a retreat. Siobhan had tried phoning Rebus, but he was busy. Busy warding off blows from the chief super’s tomahawk, most probably.
With Silvers gone, Siobhan again found herself alone in the CID room. DCI Pryde was around somewhere; so was DC Davie Hynds. But both were managing to make themselves invisible. Siobhan stared at the screen of Derek Renshaw’s laptop, bored to death of sifting its inoffensive contents. Derek, she was sure, had been a good kid, but dull with it. He’d already known the path his life would take: three or four years at uni, business studies with computing, and then an office job, maybe in accountancy. Money to buy a waterfront penthouse, fast car and the best hi-fi system around…
But that future remained frozen, realized only in words on a screen, bytes of memory. The thought made her shiver. Everything changing in an instant… She held her face in her hands, rubbing her fingers over her eyes, knowing only one thing: she didn’t want to be here when Gill Templer emerged from behind that door. Because for once, Siobhan suspected she would give her boss as good as she got, and maybe even a bit more besides. She wasn’t in the mood to be anybody’s victim. She looked at her phone, then at the notebook containing Brimson’s details. Decided, she shut down the laptop, placing it in her shoulder bag. Picked up her mobile and the notebook.
Walked.
Her one detour: a quick stop home, where she found her CD of
Brimson’s home address turned out to be a modern bungalow on a narrow road between the airport and what had been Gogarburn Hospital. As Siobhan got out of her car, she could hear demolition work in the distance: Gogarburn was being dismantled. She thought the site had been sold to one of the major banks, to be transformed into their new headquarters. The house in front of her sat behind a tall hedge and green wrought-iron gates. She pushed open the gates and crunched across pink gravel. Tried the doorbell, then peered in through the windows on either side. One belonged to a living room, the other a bedroom. The bed had been made, and the living room looked little used. A couple of magazines sat on the blue leather sofa, pictures of airplanes on their covers. The garden to the front was mostly paved, with just a couple of beds where roses waited to grow. A narrow path separated the bungalow from its garage, with another gate that opened when she turned the handle, allowing entry to the rear garden. It comprised a huge expanse of sloping lawn, at the bottom of which stretched what looked like acres of farmland. The timber-framed conservatory seemed a recent addition to the house. Its door was locked. Windows showed her a large, very white kitchen and another bedroom. She got no sense of family life: no garden toys, nothing to suggest a woman’s touch. All the same, the place was kept in immaculate condition. Walking back down the path, she noticed a glass pane in the garage’s side door. There was a car inside, one of the sportier Jaguars, but its owner definitely wasn’t home.
She got back into her own car and headed for the airport, stopping in front of the terminal building. A security man warned her that parking wasn’t allowed but waved her on when she showed her ID. The terminal was busy: long queues for what looked like a charter flight to the sun, business suits wheeling their cases briskly towards the escalator. Siobhan studied the signs, saw one for Information and headed that way, asking at the desk to speak to Mr. Brimson. A quick clatter of a keyboard, then a shake of the head.
“I’m not getting that name.”
Siobhan spelled it for the woman, who nodded that she’d entered it correctly. She picked up her phone, spoke to someone. Her turn now to spell out the letters: B-r-i-m-s-o-n. She pulled her mouth down, again shaking her head.
“Sure he works here?” she asked.
Siobhan showed her the address, copied from the phone book. The woman smiled.
“That says ‘airfield,’ love,” she explained. “That’s what you want, not the airport.” She then gave directions, and Siobhan thanked her and left, face flushed from having made the mistake in the first place. The airfield was just
