“In your sad, misguided way, I’m sure you do. Sweet dreams, Detective Inspector.” He bowed slightly in Siobhan’s direction, then strode off.
“Bastard,” Rebus hissed.
“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Siobhan said soothingly. “Only a quarter of the population reads his paper anyway.” She climbed back into her car, turned the ignition and backed out of the parking space. Gave a little wave as she drove away. Holly had disappeared around a corner, heading for Marchmont Road. Rebus climbed his stairwell, went indoors and found his car keys. Put his gloves back on. Double-locked the door on the way out.
The streets were quiet, no sign of Steve Holly. Not that he was looking for him. He got into his Saab and tried gripping the steering wheel, turning it left and right. He thought he could manage. He drove down Marchmont Road and onto Melville Drive, heading towards Arthur’s Seat. He didn’t bother putting any music on, thought instead of everything that had happened, letting conversations and images swirl around.
Irene Lesser:
Siobhan: quoting from that book.
Kate:
Boethius: Good men suffer…
He didn’t think of himself as a bad man but knew he probably wasn’t a good one either.
“I’m a Man”: title of an old blues song.
Robert Niles, leaving the SAS, but without having been switched off first. Lee Herdman, too, had carried “baggage” with him. Rebus felt that if he could understand Herdman, maybe he would understand himself better, too.
Easter Road was quiet, bars still serving, a queue beginning to form in the chip shop. Rebus was headed for Leith police station. The driving was okay, the pain in his hands bearable. The skin there seemed to have grown taut, as if from sunburn. He saw a space curbside, not fifty yards from the front door of the station, and decided to take it. Got out and locked the car. There was a camera crew across the street, probably wanting the station in the background as the reporter did his piece. Then Rebus saw who it was: Jack Bell. Bell, turning his head, recognized Rebus, pointed to him before turning back to the camera. Rebus caught his words:
“… while CID officers like the one behind me continue to mop up, without ever offering workable solutions…”
“Cut,” the director said. “Sorry, Jack.” He nodded towards Rebus, who had crossed the road and was standing directly behind Bell.
“What’s going on?” Rebus asked.
“We’re doing a piece on violence in society,” Bell snapped, annoyed at the interruption.
“I thought maybe it was a self-help video,” Rebus drawled.
“What?”
“A guide to curb crawling, something like that. Most of the girls work down that way now,” Rebus added, nodding in the direction of Salamander Street.
“How dare you!” the MSP spluttered. Then he turned to the director. “Symptomatic, you see, of the very problem we’re tackling. The police have ceased to be anything other than petty-minded and spiteful.”
“Unlike yourself, I’m sure,” Rebus said. He noticed for the first time that Bell was holding a photograph. Bell held it up in front of him.
“Thomas Hamilton,” he stated. “No one thought him exceptional. Turned out he was evil incarnate when he walked into that school in Dunblane.”
“And how could the police have prevented that?” Rebus asked, folding his arms.
Before Bell could answer, the director had a question for Rebus. “Were any videos or magazines found in Herdman’s home? Violent films, that sort of thing?”
“There’s no sign he was interested in anything like that. But so what if he was?”
The director just shrugged, deciding he wasn’t going to get what he wanted from Rebus. “Jack, maybe you could do a quick interview with… sorry, I didn’t catch your name.” He smiled at Rebus.
“My name’s Fuck You,” Rebus said, returning the smile. Then he crossed the road again and pushed open the door of the police station.
“You’re a disgrace!” Jack Bell was shouting at him. “An absolute disgrace! Don’t think I won’t take this any further…!”
“That you making friends again?” the desk sergeant asked.
“I seem to be blessed that way,” Rebus informed him, climbing the stairs to the CID office. Overtime was available on the Herdman case, which meant a few souls were still working, even at this hour. Tapping reports into computers or sharing gossip over hot drinks. Rebus recognized DC Mark Pettifer and walked over to him.
“Something I need, Mark,” he said.
“What’s that, then, John?”
“The loan of a laptop.”
Pettifer smiled. “Thought your generation preferred quill and parchment.”
“One other thing,” Rebus added, ignoring this. “It has to be Internet-ready.”
“I think I can sort you something out.”
“While you’re doing that…” Rebus leaned in closer, dropping his voice. “Remember when Jack Bell got pulled in for curb crawling? That was some of your lads, wasn’t it?”
Pettifer nodded slowly.
“I don’t suppose there’d be any paperwork…?”
“I wouldn’t think so. He was never charged, was he?”
Rebus was thoughtful. “What about the guys who stopped his car: any chance I could have a word?”
“What’s this all about?”
“Just say I’m an interested party,” Rebus said.
But as it turned out, the young DC who’d dealt with Bell had moved stations and was now based at Torphichen Street. Rebus eventually got a mobile number for him. His name was Harry Chambers.
“Sorry to bother you,” Rebus said, having introduced himself.
“No bother, I’m just walking home from the boozer.”
“Hope you had a good night.”
“Pool competition, I made the semis.”
“Good for you. The reason I’m calling is Jack Bell.”
“What’s the oily bastard gone and done now?”
“He keeps getting under our feet at Port Edgar.” It was the truth, if not the whole truth. Rebus didn’t think he needed to explain his desire to prize Kate away from the MSP.
“Then make sure to wipe your shoes on him,” Chambers was saying. “About all he’s good for.”
“I’m sensing a slight antagonism, Harry.”
“After the curb crawling thing, he tried to get me knocked back to uniform. And all that guff he came out with: first he was on his way home from somewhere… then, when he couldn’t back that up, he was ‘researching’ the need for a tolerance zone. Aye, that’ll be right. The hoor he was talking to, she told me they’d already agreed on a price.”
“Reckon it was his first trip down that way?”
“No idea. Only thing I do know-and I’m being as objective as possible here-is that he’s a sleazy, lying, vindictive bastard. Why couldn’t that guy Herdman have done us all a favor and popped him instead of those poor bloody kids…?”
Back home, Rebus tried to remember Pettifer’s instructions as he set up the computer. It wasn’t the newest model. Pettifer’s comment: “If it seems sluggish, just feed in another shovelful of coal.” Rebus had asked him how old the machine was. Answer: two years, and already damn near obsolete.
Rebus decided that something so venerable should be cherished. He gave the keyboard and screen a wipe with a damp cloth. Like him, it was a survivor.
“Okay, old-timer,” he told it, “let’s see what you can do.”
After a frustrating few minutes, he put in a call to Pettifer, eventually finding him on his mobile-in his car and on
