Road, picking up speed only when they hit the A90. The town they were approaching seemed to be nestled between the two bridges-road and rail-that spanned the Firth of Forth.
“Haven’t been out here in years,” Siobhan said, just to fill the silence inside the car. Rebus didn’t bother answering. It seemed to him as if the whole world had been bandaged, muffled. He guessed the tablets were to blame. One weekend, a couple of months back, he’d brought Jean to South Queensferry. They’d had a bar lunch, a walk along the promenade. They’d watched the lifeboat being launched-no urgency about it, probably an exercise. Then they’d driven to Hopetoun House, taking a guided tour of the stately home’s ornate interior. He knew from the news that Port Edgar Academy was near Hopetoun House, thought he remembered driving past its gates, no building visible from the road. He gave Siobhan directions, only for them to end up in a cul-de-sac. She did a three- point turn and found Hopetoun Road without further help from the passenger seat. As they neared the gates to the school, they had to squeeze past news vans and reporters’ cars.
“Hit as many as you like,” Rebus muttered. A uniform checked their ID and opened the wrought-iron gates. Siobhan drove through.
“I thought it would be on the waterfront,” she said, “with a name like Port Edgar.”
“There’s a marina called Port Edgar. Can’t be too far away.” As the car climbed a winding slope, he turned to look back. He could see the water, masts seeming to rise from it like spikes. But then it was lost behind trees, and turning again, he saw the school come into view. It was built in the Scots baronial style: dark slabs of stone topped with gables and turrets. A saltire flew at half-mast. The car park had been taken over by official vehicles, people milling around a Portakabin. The town boasted only a single, tiny police substation, probably not big enough to cope. As their tires crunched over gravel, eyes turned to check them out. Rebus recognized a few faces, and those faces knew him, too. Nobody bothered to smile or wave. As the car stopped, Rebus made an attempt to pull the door handle but had to wait for Siobhan to get out, walk around to the passenger side, and open the door.
“Thanks,” he said, easing himself out. A uniformed constable walked over. Rebus knew him from Leith. His name was Brendan Innes, an Australian. Rebus had never got around to asking him how he’d ended up in Scotland.
“DI Rebus?” Innes was saying. “DI Hogan’s up at the school. Told me to tell you.”
Rebus nodded. “Got a cigarette on you?”
“Don’t smoke.”
Rebus looked around, seeking out a likely candidate.
“He said you’re to go right up,” Innes was stressing. Both men turned at a noise from the Portakabin’s interior. The door flew open and a man stomped down the three exterior steps. He was dressed as if for a funeral: somber suit, white shirt, black tie. It was the hair Rebus recognized, in all its silvery back-combed glory: Jack Bell, MSP. Bell was in his mid-forties, face square-jawed, permanently tanned. Tall and wide-bodied, he had the look of a man who’d always be surprised not to get his own way.
“I’ve every right!” he was yelling. “Every bloody right in the world! But I might’ve known to expect nothing from you lot but utter bloody downright obstructiveness!” Grant Hood, liaison officer on the case, had come to the doorway.
“You’re welcome to your opinion, sir,” he tried remonstrating.
“It’s not an opinion, it’s an absolute, undeniable fact! You got egg all over your faces six months ago, and that’s not something you’re ever likely to forget or forgive, is it?”
Rebus had taken a step forward. “Excuse me, sir…?”
Bell spun around to face him. “Yes? What is it?”
“I just thought you might want to keep your voice down… out of respect.”
Bell jabbed a forefinger at Rebus. “Don’t you dare start playing
“I’m well aware of that, sir.”
“But I’m here representing my constituents, and as such I
“The name’s DI Rebus.”
“Then you’re no bloody good to me. It’s Hogan I need to see.”
“You’ll appreciate that Detective Inspector Hogan’s up to his eyes at the minute. It’s the classroom you want to see, is that right?” Bell nodded, looking around as if seeking out anyone more useful to him than Rebus. “Mind if I ask why, sir?”
“None of your business.”
Rebus shrugged. “It’s just that I’m on my way to talk to DI Hogan…” He turned away, started walking. “Thought I might be able to put a word in on your behalf.”
“Hold on,” Bell said, voice immediately losing some of its stridency. “Maybe you could show me…”
But Rebus was shaking his head. “Best if you wait here, sir. I’ll let you know what DI Hogan says.”
Bell nodded, but he was not to be placated for long. “It’s scandalous, you know. How can someone just walk into a school with a gun?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out, sir.” Rebus looked the MSP up and down. “Got a cigarette on you, by any chance?”
“What?”
“A cigarette.”
Bell shook his head, and Rebus started heading towards the school again.
“I’ll be waiting, Inspector. I won’t be budging from this spot!”
“That’s fine, sir. Best place for you, I daresay.”
There was a sloping lawn to the front of the school, playing fields to one side. Uniformed officers were busy on the playing fields, turning away trespassers who had climbed the perimeter wall. Media maybe, but more likely just ghouls: you got them at every murder scene. Rebus caught a glimpse of a modern building behind the original school. A helicopter flew over. He couldn’t see any cameras aboard.
“That was fun,” Siobhan said, catching up with him.
“Always a pleasure to meet a politician,” Rebus agreed. “Especially one who holds our profession in such esteem.”
The school’s main entrance seemed to be a carved wooden double door with glass panels. Inside was a reception area with sliding windows leading to an office, probably the school secretary’s. She was in there now, giving a statement from behind a large white handkerchief, presumably belonging to the officer seated opposite her. Rebus knew his face but couldn’t put a name to it. Another set of doors led into the body of the school. They’d been wedged open. A sign on them stated that ALL VISITORS SHOULD REPORT TO THE OFFICE. An arrow pointed back towards the sliding windows.
Siobhan gestured towards a corner of the ceiling, where a small camera was fitted. Rebus nodded and passed through the open doors, into a long corridor with stairs off to one side and a large stained-glass window at the far end. The floor was polished wood, creaking under his weight. There were paintings on the walls: robed figures of past teachers, captured at their desks or reaching towards a bookcase. Farther along were lists of names-prefects of the school, headmasters, those who’d gone on to die in service of their country.
“Wonder how easy it was for him to get in,” Siobhan said quietly. Her words reverberated in the silence and a head appeared around a door halfway down the corridor.
“Took you long enough,” boomed the voice of DI Bobby Hogan. “Come and have a look.”
He had retreated back inside the sixth-year common room. It was about sixteen feet by twelve, with windows high up on the external wall. There were about a dozen chairs, and a desk with a computer on it. An old-looking hi-fi sat in one corner, CDs and tapes scattered about. Some of the chairs had magazines on them:
“You can come in,” Hogan told them. “The SOCOs have been through this lot with a fine-toothed comb.”
They edged into the room. Yes, the SOCOs-the scene of crime officers-had been here, because this was where it had happened. Blood spatters on one wall, a fine airbrushing of dull red. Larger drops on the floor, and what looked like skid marks from where feet had slid across a couple of pools. White chalk and yellow adhesive tape showed where evidence had been gathered.
“He entered through one of the side doors,” Hogan was explaining. “It was break time, they weren’t locked.
