“What else do you want me to do?”
“You could admit defeat.” She held out her hand. Rebus returned the note to her, tucked back in its envelope.
“Make my day… Dirty Harry?”
“That’s my guess,” Siobhan agreed.
“Dirty Harry was a cop…”
She stared at him. “You think someone I work with did this?”
“Don’t say it hasn’t crossed your mind…”
“It has,” she finally admitted.
“But it would have to be someone who knows you connect to Fairstone.”
“Yes.”
“And that brings it down to me and Gill Templer.” He paused. “And I’m guessing you’ve not loaned her any albums of late.”
Siobhan shrugged, eyes back on the road ahead. She didn’t say anything for a while, and neither did Rebus, until he checked an address in his notebook, leaned forwards in his seat, and told her: “We’re here.”
Long Rib House was a narrow whitewashed structure that looked as though it might have been a barn sometime in the past. It consisted of a single story, but with an attic conversion indicated by a row of windows built out from the sloping red-tiled roof. A wooden gate barred the entrance, but it wasn’t locked. Siobhan pushed it open, got back into the car, and drove up the few yards of gravel driveway. By the time she’d closed the gate again, the front door was open, a man standing there. Rebus was out of the car, introducing himself.
“And you must be Mr. Cotter?” he guessed.
“William Cotter,” Miss Teri’s father said. He was in his early forties, short and stocky with a fashionably shaven head. He shook Siobhan’s hand when she offered it but didn’t seem put out that Rebus was keeping his own gloved hands firmly by his sides. “You better come in,” he said.
There was a long carpeted hallway, decorated with framed paintings and a grandfather clock. Rooms off to right and left, the doors firmly closed. Cotter led them to the end of the corridor and into an open-plan living area with a kitchen off it. This had the look of a recent extension, French doors leading out to a patio and offering a view across the expanse of rear garden towards another recent addition, wood-framed but with plenty of windows to show off its contents.
“Indoor pool,” Rebus mused. “That must be handy.”
“Gets more use than an outdoor one,” Cotter joked. “So what can I do for you?”
Rebus looked to Siobhan, who was casting an eye over the room, taking in the L-shaped cream leather sofa, the B amp;O hi-fi, and flat-screen TV. The TV was switched on, sound muted. It was tuned to Ceefax, showing a screen of stock market fluctuations. “It was Teri we wanted a word with,” Rebus said.
“Not in any trouble, is she?”
“Nothing like that, Mr. Cotter. It’s to do with Port Edgar. Just a few follow-up questions.”
Cotter narrowed his eyes. “Maybe it’s something I can help with…?” Angling for more information.
Rebus had decided to sit down on the sofa. There was a coffee table in front of him, newspapers spread out on it, open to the business pages. Cordless phone, and a pair of half-moon reading glasses, empty mug, pen, and legal pad. “You’re in business, Mr. Cotter?”
“That’s right.”
“Mind if I ask what sort?”
“Venture capital.” Cotter paused. “You know what that is?”
“Investing in start-ups?” Siobhan offered, staring out at the garden.
“More or less. I dabble in property, people with ideas…”
Rebus made a show of taking in his surroundings. “You’re obviously good at it.” He waited for the flattery to sink in. “Is Teri here?”
“Not sure,” Cotter said. He saw Rebus’s look and gave an apologetic smile. “You’re never sure with Teri. Sometimes she’s quiet as the grave. Knock on her door, she doesn’t answer.” He shrugged.
“Not like most teenagers, then.”
Cotter shook his head.
“But then I got that impression when I met her,” Rebus added.
“You’ve spoken to her before?” Cotter asked. Rebus nodded. “In full regalia?”
“I’m guessing she doesn’t go to school like that.”
Cotter shook his head again. “They’re not even allowed nose studs. Dr. Fogg’s strict about that sort of thing.”
“Could we maybe try her door?” Siobhan asked, turning to face Cotter.
“Can’t do any harm, I suppose,” Cotter said. They followed him back down the hall and up a short flight of stairs. Again they were confronted with a long, narrow corridor, doors along both sides. Again, all the doors were closed.
“Teri?” Cotter called as they reached the top of the stairs. “You still here, love?” He bit this final word off, and Rebus guessed he’d been warned off using it by his daughter. They reached the final door, and Cotter put his ear to it, knocking softly.
“Could be dozing, I suppose,” he said in an undertone.
“Mind if I…?” Without waiting for an answer, Rebus turned the handle. The door opened inwards. The room was dark, gauzy black curtains drawn shut. Cotter flicked the light switch. There were candles on every available surface. Black candles, many of them melted down to almost nothing. Prints and posters on the walls. Rebus recognized some by H. R. Giger, knew him because he’d designed an album for ELP. They were set in a kind of stainless-steel hell. The other pictures showed equally dark imaginings.
“Teenagers, eh?” was the father’s only comment. Books by Poppy Z. Brite and Anne Rice. Another called
“I don’t suppose these come in black,” she mused.
“Otherwise, Teri would have them,” Cotter agreed.
“When I was her age,” Rebus said, “only Goths I knew of were pubs.”
Cotter laughed. “Yes, Gothenburgs. They were community pubs, weren’t they?”
Rebus nodded. “Unless she’s under the bed, I’m guessing she’s not here. Any idea where we might find her?”
“I could try her mobile…”
“Would that be this one?” Siobhan said, holding up a small glossy black phone.
“That’s it,” Cotter agreed.
“Not like a teenager to leave her phone at home,” Siobhan mused.
“No, well… Teri’s mum can be…” He twitched his shoulders, as if feeling a sudden discomfort.
“Can be what, sir?” Rebus prodded.
“She likes to keep tabs on Teri, is that it?” Siobhan guessed. Cotter nodded, relieved that she’d saved him the trouble of spelling it out.
“Teri should be home later,” he said, “if it can wait.”
“We’d rather get it over and done with, Mr. Cotter,” Rebus explained.
“Well…”
“Time being money and all that, as I’m sure you’d agree.”
Cotter nodded. “You could try Cockburn Street. A few of her friends sometimes congregate there.”
Rebus looked at Siobhan. “We should have thought of that,” he said. Siobhan’s mouth gave a twitch of agreement. Cockburn Street, a winding conduit between the Royal Mile and Waverley Station, had always enjoyed a louche reputation. Decades back, it had been the haunt of hippies and dropouts, selling cheesecloth shirts, tie-dye and cigarette papers. Rebus had frequented a good secondhand record stall, without ever bothering with the clothes. These days, the new alternative cultures lionized the place. A good street for browsing, if your tastes inclined towards the macabre or the stoned.
