“Would you rather I dropped my trousers and bent over for them?”
Carswell’s face seemed to swell with rage.
“Once again, DI Rebus,” Mullen interrupted, “we find ourselves returning to the question of what you thought you might hope to gain by going along to a known criminal’s home for a nighttime beverage.”
“I thought I might gain a free drink.”
Carswell expelled a slow hiss of air. He’d uncrossed and recrossed his legs, unfolded and refolded his arms, many dozens of times in the course of the interview.
“I suspect there was more to your visit than that.”
Rebus just shrugged. He wasn’t allowed to smoke, so was playing with the half-empty pack instead, opening and closing it, sending it spinning across the table with the flick of a finger. He was doing this because he could see how much it annoyed Carswell.
“What time did you leave Fairstone’s house?”
“Sometime before the fire broke out.”
“You can’t be more specific?”
Rebus shook his head. “I’d been drinking.” Drinking more than he should have… much, much more. He’d been a good boy since, trying to atone.
“So, sometime after you left,” Mullen continued, “someone else arrived-unseen by neighbors-and proceeded to gag and tie Mr. Fairstone before turning on the heat beneath a chip pan and then departing?”
“Not necessarily,” Rebus felt obliged to state. “The chip pan could already have been on.”
“Did Mr. Fairstone say he was going to make some chips?”
“He might have mentioned being a bit peckish… I can’t be sure.” Rebus straightened in his chair, feeling vertebrae click. “Look, Mr. Mullen… I can see that you’ve got a fair amount of circumstantial evidence sitting here”- he tapped the manila file, not unlike the one that had sat on Simms’s dressing table-“which tells you that I was the last person to see Martin Fairstone alive.” He paused. “But that’s
“Except the killer,” Mullen said, so softly he might have been speaking to himself. “What you should have said was: ‘I was the last person to see him alive, except his killer.’” He glanced up from beneath his drooping eyelids.
“That’s what I meant to say.”
“It’s not what you said, DI Rebus.”
“You’ll have to excuse me, then. I’m not exactly a hundred percent…”
“Are you on drugs of some kind?”
“Painkillers, yes.” Rebus held up his hands to remind Mullen of why.
“And you took the most recent dose when?”
“Sixty seconds before clapping eyes on you.” Rebus let his eyes widen. “Maybe I should have mentioned at the start…?”
Mullen slapped the desk with both palms. “Of course you should have!” He wasn’t talking to himself anymore. He let his chair fall backwards as he got to his feet. Carswell had risen, too.
“I don’t see…”
Mullen leaned across the desk to switch off the tape recorder. “You can’t hold an interview with someone who’s under the influence of prescribed drugs,” he explained, for the ACC’s benefit. “I thought everyone knew that.”
Carswell started muttering something about how he’d just forgotten, that was all. Mullen was glaring at Rebus. Rebus gave him a wink.
“We’ll talk again, Detective Inspector.”
“Once I’m off the medication?” Rebus pretended to guess.
“I’ll need the name of your doctor, so I can ask when that’s likely to be.” Mullen had opened the file, his pen poised over an empty sheet.
“It was the infirmary,” Rebus stated blithely. “I can’t remember the doctor’s name.”
“Well, then, I’ll just have to find out.” Mullen closed the file again.
“Meantime,” Carswell piped up, “I don’t need to remind you about making that apology, or that you’re still on suspension?”
“No, sir,” Rebus said.
“Which rather begs the question,” Mullen said quietly, “of why I found you in the company of a fellow officer at Jack Bell’s house.”
“I was hitching a lift, that’s all. DS Clarke had to stop off at Bell’s place to talk to the son.” Rebus gave a shrug, while Carswell expelled more air.
“We
“I don’t doubt it, sir.” Rebus was the last of the three to rise to his feet. “Well, I’ll leave you to it, then. Enjoy the bottom when you get there…”
Siobhan, as he’d guessed, was waiting with her car outside. “Nicely timed,” she said. The back of the car was full of shopping bags. “I waited ten minutes to see if you’d tell them straight off.”
“And then went to do some shopping?”
“Supermarket at the top of the road. I was going to ask if you fancied coming round for dinner tonight.”
“Let’s see how the rest of the day pans out.”
She nodded agreement. “So when did the question of the painkillers arise?”
“About five minutes ago.”
“You left it a while.”
“Wanted to see if they’d anything new to tell me.”
“And did they?”
He shook his head. “Doesn’t look like they consider you a suspect, though,” he told her.
“Me? Why should they?”
“Because he was stalking you… because every cop knows the old chip-pan trick.” He shrugged.
“Any more of that and the dinner invite’s canceled.” She started driving them out of the car park. “Next stop Turnhouse?” she asked.
“You think I need to be on the next plane out of here?”
“We were going to talk to Doug Brimson.”
Rebus shook his head. “You talk to him. Drop me off somewhere first.”
She looked at him. “Where?”
“Anyplace on George Street will do.”
She was still looking. “Suspiciously close to the Oxford Bar.”
“That wasn’t what I had in mind, but now that you come to mention it…”
“Drink and tranqs don’t mix, John.”
“It’s an hour and a half since I took those pills. Besides, I’m on suspension, remember? I’m allowed to misbehave.”
Rebus was waiting for Steve Holly in the back room of the Oxford Bar.
It was one of the city’s smaller pubs: just the two rooms, neither much bigger than the living room of a normal house. The front room was usually busy, in that three or four bodies could make it seem so. The back room had tables and chairs, and Rebus had positioned himself in the darkest corner, farthest from the window. The walls were the same jaundiced color they’d been when he’d first found the place, three decades back. The stark, old- fashioned interior had the power to intimidate newcomers, but Rebus wasn’t betting on it having any such effect on the journalist. He’d called the tabloid’s Edinburgh office-only a ten-minute walk from the bar. His message had been curt: “I want to talk to you. Oxford Bar. Now.” Cutting the connection before Holly could start a conversation. Rebus knew he would come. He’d come because he would be intrigued. He’d come because of the story he’d broken. He’d come because that was his job.
Rebus heard the door open and close. He wasn’t worried about the occupants of the other tables. Anything they happened to overhear, they would keep to themselves. It was that kind of place. Rebus hoisted what was left of his pint. His grip was improving. He could pick up a glass one-handed, flex his wrist without the pain becoming unbearable. He was steering clear of whiskey: Siobhan had given him good advice, and for once he would heed it.
