“I’m not sure I can answer that, Siobhan.”
She gave a twitch of the mouth, as though he had confirmed some sort of suspicion. Her phone sounded, alerting her to a message. She glanced at the screen but did nothing about it.
“You’re popular tonight,” Rebus pointed out. She gave a shake of the head in reply. “If I had to guess, I’d say it’s Cafferty.”
She glowered at him. “So what if it is?”
“You might want to change your number.”
She nodded agreement. “But only after I’ve sent him a nice long text telling him exactly what I think of him.” She looked around the table. “Is it my turn to buy?” she asked.
“I thought maybe some food…”
“Didn’t you have enough of Pennen’s oysters?”
“Hardly a meal of substance.”
“There’s a curry house up the street.”
“I know.”
“Course you do, you’ve been here all your life.”
“Most of it,” he conceded.
“Never known a week like this one though,” she challenged him.
“Never,” he conceded. “Now drink up and we’ll go get that curry.”
She nodded, her hands gripping her glass, vise-like. “My mum and dad were in that Indian on Wednesday night. I got there in time for coffee…”
“You can always go see them in London.”
“Just wondering how much longer they’ll be around.” Her eyes were glistening. “Is this what it’s like to be Scottish, John? A few drinks to make you maudlin?”
“We do seem cursed,” he admitted, “to be always looking back.”
“And then you go and join CID, which only makes it worse. People die, and we look back into their lives…and we can’t change anything.” She tried lifting her glass, but its mass defeated her.
“We could go give Keith Carberry a kicking,” Rebus suggested.
She nodded slowly.
“Or Big Ger Cafferty, come to that…or anyone else we felt like. There’s two of us.” He leaned forward a little, trying for eye contact. “Two against nature.”
She gave him a sly look. “Song lyric?” she guessed.
“Album title: Steely Dan.”
“Tell you what I’ve always wondered.” She slouched against the back of the booth. “How did they get their name?”
“I’ll tell you when you’re sober,” Rebus offered, draining his glass.
He could feel eyes following them as he helped her to her feet and out of the bar. There was a sharp breeze and a smattering of rain. “Maybe we should go back to yours,” he suggested. “We can phone out for food.”
“I’m not that drunk!”
“Fair enough then.” They started the steep uphill climb, side by side, not saying anything. Saturday night, the town back to normal: souped-up teenagers in their souped-up cars; money looking for a place to spend itself; the diesel chug of cruising taxicabs. At some point, Siobhan snaked her arm through his, said something he didn’t catch.
“It’s not enough, is it?” she repeated. “Just…symbolic…because there’s nothing else you can do.”
“What are you talking about?” he asked with a smile.
“The naming of the dead,” she told him, resting her head against his shoulder.
Epilogue
29
Monday morning he was on the first train south. Left Waverley at six, due into King’s Cross just after ten. At eight, he called Gayfield Square and told them he was sick, which wasn’t so far from the truth. If they’d asked him the cause, he might have had some problems.
“Spending the overtime” was all the duty sergeant said.
Rebus went to the restaurant car and ate his fill of breakfast. Back at his seat, he read the paper and tried to avoid his fellow passengers. There was a surly-looking youth across the table, nodding along to the guitar music leaking from his earphones. Businesswoman next to him, annoyed that she didn’t have enough room to spread out the contents of her office. Nobody in the seat next to Rebus-not until York. He hadn’t been on the train in years. Busy with tourists and their baggage, mewling infants, vacationers, workers heading back to their weekday jobs in London. After York came Doncaster and Darlington. The pudgy man who’d settled down in his reserved seat next to Rebus had drifted off to sleep, after pointing out that really he’d booked the window seat but didn’t mind the aisle if Rebus didn’t want to shift.
“Fine” was all Rebus had said. The newsstand at Waverley had opened only a few minutes before the train was due to leave, but Rebus had managed to grab a Scotsman. Mairie’s piece had made the front page. It wasn’t the main story, and it was full of words like alleged and perhaps and potentially, but the headline still gladdened Rebus’s heart: “Arms Boss in Parliment Loans Mystery.”
Rebus knew an opening salvo when he saw one; Mairie would be holding back plenty of ammo for the future. He’d brought no luggage with him; fully intended being on the last train back. There was the option to upgrade to a sleeper compartment, and it might even come to that-a chance to question the crew, see if any of them had worked the sleeper south from Edinburgh on Wednesday. Rebus had, it seemed, been the last person to see Stacey Webster-unless the GNER staff could oblige. If he’d followed her to Waverley that night, he could have satisfied himself that she’d actually taken the train. As it was, she could be anywhere-including tucked away somewhere until Steelforth could arrange a new identity for her.
Rebus doubted she’d have any trouble picking up a new life. It had dawned on him last night: all those multiple personalities of hers: cop, Santal, sister, killer. Bloody quadrophenic, just like the Who album said. On Sunday, Kenny, Mickey’s son, had arrived at the apartment in his BMW, telling Rebus there was something for him on the backseat. Rebus had gone to look-albums, tapes and CDs, 45s…Mickey’s entire collection.
“They were in the will,” Kenny had explained. “Dad wanted you to have them.”
After they’d hauled the whole lot up two flights of stairs, and Kenny had rested long enough for a glass of water, Rebus had waved him good-bye and stared at the gift. Then he’d eased himself down onto the floor beside the boxes and started going through them: a mono Sergeant Pepper, Let It Bleed with the Ned Kelly poster, a lot of Kinks and Taste and Free…some Van der Graaf and Steve Hillage. There were even a couple of eight-track cartridges-Killer by Alice Cooper; a Beach Boys album. A treasure trove of memories. Rebus placed the sleeves beneath his nose-the very smell of them took him back in time. Warped Hollies singles, left too long on the turntable after a party…a copy of “Silver Machine” with Mickey’s writing on it-This Belongs to Michael Rebus-Paws Off!!!
And Quadrophenia, of course, its corners creased, the vinyl scarred but still playable.
Sitting on the train, Rebus remembered Stacey’s last words to him: Never told him you were sorry…Just before she’d bolted to the toilet. He’d thought she’d been talking about Mickey, but now realized she was meaning her and Ben, too. Sorry she’d killed three men? Sorry she’d gone and told her brother? Ben realizing he would have to turn her in, feeling the thick stone rampart behind him, sensing the drop immediately behind it…Rebus thought of Cafferty’s memoirs-Changeling. Decided it was a title most people could use for their own autobiographies. People you knew, they might always look the same on the surface-a few gray hairs or a thickening around the middle-but you could never tell what was going on behind their eyes.
It was Darlington before his phone rang, waking his softly snoring neighbor. The number was Siobhan’s. Rebus
