She knew he’d want to hear about Denise and Gareth Tench. Ellen Wylie had promised to call Craigmillar and get them to come take a statement, which hadn’t stopped Siobhan requesting the selfsame thing as soon as she’d left the house. She’d had half a mind to get them to pull both women in, kept hearing Wylie’s laughter…more than a touch of hysteria to it. Maybe natural under the circumstances, but all the same…She lifted her phone now, took a deep breath, and punched in Rebus’s number. The woman who answered was just a recording: Your call cannot be taken…please try again later.
She stared at the liquid crystal display and remembered that Eric Bain had left a message.
“In for a penny,” she muttered to herself, pushing more buttons.
“Siobhan, it’s Eric…” The recorded voice sounded slurred. “Molly’s walked out and…Christ, I don’t know why I’m…” The sound of coughing. “Juss wann you to…’matryin’ to say?” Another dry cough, as though he was on the verge of being sick. Siobhan stared out at the scenery, not really seeing it. “Oh, hell and…taken…taken too many…”
She cursed under her breath and turned the ignition, slammed the car into gear. Headlights switched to high beam and her hand pressed to the horn at every red light. Managed to steer and call for an ambulance at the same time. Thought she’d still beat it. Twelve minutes and she was pulling to a stop outside his block-no damage other than a scrape to her bodywork and a dinged wing mirror. Meaning another trip to Rebus’s friendly repair shop.
Outside Bain’s place, she didn’t even have to knock-the door had been left ajar. She ran in, found him slumped on the floor in the living room, head resting against a chair. Empty Smirnoff bottle, empty Tylenol bottle. She snatched his wrist-it was warm, his breathing shallow but steady. A sheen of sweat on his face, and a stain at the crotch where he’d wet himself. She shouted his name a few times, slapping his cheeks, prying open his eyes.
“Come on, Eric, wakey-wakey!” Shaking his body. “Time to get up, Eric! Come on, you lazy fuck!” He was too heavy for her; no way she could haul him to his feet unaided. She checked that his mouth was clear-nothing impeding the airway. Shook him again. “How many did you take, Eric? How many tablets?”
The door left ajar was a good sign-meant he wanted to be found. And he’d called her, too…Called her.
“You always were a drama queen, Eric,” she told him, pushing the slick hair back from his forehead. The room was messy. “What if Molly comes back and sees how untidy you’ve made everything? Better get up right now.” His eyes were fluttering, a groan coming from deep within him. Noises at the door: paramedics in their green uniforms, one of them toting a box.
“What’s he taken?”
“Tylenol.”
“How long ago?”
“Couple of hours.”
“What’s his name?”
“Eric.”
She got up and moved back a little, giving them room. They were checking his pupils, taking out the instruments they’d need.
“Can you hear me, Eric?” one of them asked. “Any chance you can give me a nod? Maybe just move your fingers for me? Eric? My name’s Colin and I’m going to be looking after you. Eric? Just nod your head if you’re hearing me. Eric…?”
Siobhan stood there with arms folded. When Eric spasmed and then started to puke, one of the paramedics asked her to look around the rest of the apartment: “See what else he might have ingested.”
As she left the room, she wondered if maybe he was just trying to spare her the sight. Nothing in the kitchen-it was spotless, apart from a liter of milk that needed putting in the fridge…and next to it, the screw cap from the Smirnoff. She crossed to the bathroom. The door of the medicine cabinet stood open. Some unopened packets of flu remedy had ended up in the sink. She put them back. There was a fresh bottle of aspirin, its seal intact. So maybe the Tylenol bottle had been opened previously, meaning he might not have taken as many as she’d thought.
Bedroom: Molly’s things were still there, but strewn across the floor, as though Eric had planned some act of retribution upon them. A snapshot of the pair of them had been removed from its frame but was otherwise undamaged, as though he’d been unable to go through with it.
She reported back to the paramedics. Eric had stopped vomiting, but the room reeked of the stuff.
“So that’s two thirds of a bottle of neat vodka,” the one called Colin said, “and maybe thirty tablets as a chaser.”
“Most of which has just come back to say hello,” his colleague added.
“So he’ll be all right?” she asked.
“Depends on the internal damage. You said two hours?”
“He called me two…nearly three hours ago.” They looked at her. “I didn’t get the message until…well, seconds before I called it in.”
“How drunk was he when he called?”
“His speech was slurred.”
“No kidding.” Colin locked eyes with his partner. “How do we get him downstairs?”
“Strapped to a stretcher.”
“Stairwell has a few tight corners.”
“So give me an alternative.”
“I’ll call for backup.” Colin rose to his feet.
“I could take his legs,” Siobhan offered. “Those corners won’t seem nearly so tight if there’s no stretcher to maneuver…”
“Fair point.” The paramedics shared another look. Siobhan’s phone started ringing. She went to turn it off, but caller ID had flashed up the letters JR. She stepped out into the hall and answered the call.
“You’re not going to believe it,” she blurted out, realizing as she did so that Rebus was telling her the exact same thing.
27
He had decided on St. Leonard’s-figured there was less chance of being spotted there. No one on the front desk had seemed to know he was under suspension; they hadn’t even asked why he wanted the use of an interview room, and had let him borrow a constable to act as witness to the recording he was about to make.
Duncan Barclay and Debbie Glenister sat next to each other throughout, nursing cans of cola and feasting on chocolate from the vending machine. Rebus had broken open a fresh pack of cassette tapes, slotting two into the machine. Barclay had asked why two.
“One for you and one for us,” Rebus had answered.
The questioning had been straightforward, the constable sitting bemused throughout, Rebus having failed to explain any of the background to him. Afterward, Rebus had asked the officer if he could arrange transport for the visitors.
“Back to Kelso?” he’d guessed, sounding daunted. But Debbie had squeezed Barclay’s arm and said maybe they could be dropped somewhere along Princes Street instead. Barclay had hesitated, but finally agreed. As they were preparing to leave, Rebus had slipped him forty pounds. “Drinks here can be that bit more expensive,” he’d explained. “And it’s a loan rather than a handout. I want one of your best fruit bowls next time you’re in town.”
So Barclay had nodded and accepted the notes.
“All these questions, Inspector,” he’d said. “Have they helped you at all?”
“More than you might think, Mr. Barclay,” Rebus had said, shaking the young man’s hand before retreating to one of the empty upstairs offices. This was where he’d been based before the move to Gayfield Square. Eight years of crimes solved and shelved…It surprised him that no mark had been left. There was no visible trace of him here, or of all those convoluted cases-the ones he remembered best. The walls were bare, most of the desks unused and lacking even chairs to sit on. Before St. Leonard’s, he’d worked at the station on Great London Road…and the High Street before that…Thirty years he’d been a cop, and thought he’d seen just about everything.
Until this.
