ignored it, so she sent a text, which-newspaper finished and countryside boring-he eventually opened.
WHERE R U? CORBYN WANTS 2 TALK 2 US. NEED 2 TELL HIM STH. CALL ME.
He knew he couldn’t, not from the train-she’d guess where he was headed. To delay the inevitable, he waited half an hour and then texted a reply.
IN BED NOT WELL TALK LATER
Hadn’t mastered any of the punctuation. She texted straight back:
HANGOVER?
LOCH LOMOND OYSTERS, he responded.
Switched the phone off to save its battery, then closed his eyes, just as the conductor announced that London King’s Cross would be the “next and final station stop.”
“Next and final,” the loudspeaker repeated.
There had been an announcement earlier concerning subway station closures. The stern-faced businesswoman had consulted her map of the Underground, holding it close to her so as not to share the information. On the outskirts of London, Rebus recognized a few of the local stations as the train trundled through them. The regular travelers began putting away their things, getting to their feet. The businesswoman’s laptop went back into her shoulder bag, along with her files and papers, diary and map. The pudgy man next to Rebus rose to his feet with a bow, as if they had shared some lengthy, heartfelt conversation. Rebus, in no real hurry, was one of the last to leave the train and had to squeeze past the cleaning crew on his way out. London was hotter, stickier than Edinburgh. His jacket felt too heavy. He exited the station on foot, no need for a taxi or subway train. Lit a cigarette and let the traffic noise and fumes wash over him. Blew a ring of smoke back at it and took a sheet of paper from his pocket. It was a map, lifted from an A-Z atlas and provided by Commander Steelforth. Rebus had called him on Sunday afternoon, explained that they’d be taking things easy on the Clootie Well killings, and would consult him about their findings before handing the case over to the public prosecutor-if it ever came to that.
“All right,” Steelforth had said, properly wary. Background noise: Edinburgh airport; the commander heading home. Rebus on the other end of the line, having just fed him a sack of crap, and now asking for a favor.
Result: a name, an address, and a street map.
Steelforth had even apologized for Pennen’s goons. Their orders had been to watch him; harassment never part of the brief. “Only found out about it afterward,” Steelforth had said. “You think you can control men like that…”
Control…
Rebus picturing Councilman Tench again, trying to manage an entire community, unable to alter his own destiny.
Less than an hour’s walk, Rebus had estimated. And not a bad day for it. One of the bombs had gone off on a subway train between Russell Square and King’s Cross, another on a bus heading from Euston to Russell Square. All three were on the map he held in his hands. The sleeper would have arrived at Euston around seven that morning.
8:56 a.m.-the subway blast.
9:47 a.m.-the bus blast.
Rebus couldn’t believe Stacey Webster had been near either of them. The train conductor had assured them they were lucky: past three days, the service had been terminating at Finsbury Park. Rebus could hardly have said that Finsbury Park would have done just as well…
Cafferty was alone in the pool hall. He didn’t even look up when Siobhan walked in, not until he’d played his shot. It was an attempt at a double.
And it missed.
He walked around the table, chalking his cue. Blew away some excess powder from the tip.
“You’ve got all the moves,” Siobhan told him. He gave a grunt and lowered himself over the cue.
Missed again.
“And yet you’re still lousy,” she added. “Just about sums you up really.”
“Good morning to you, too, Detective Sergeant Clarke. Is this a social call?”
“Does it feel like a social call?”
Cafferty glanced up at her. “You’ve been ignoring my little messages.”
“Get used to it.”
“Doesn’t change what happened.”
“And what exactly did happen?”
He seemed to consider the question for a moment. “We both got something we wanted?” he pretended to guess. “Except now you’re feeling guilty.” He rested the cue against the floor. “We both got something we wanted,” he repeated.
“I didn’t want Gareth Tench dead.”
“You wanted him punished.”
She took a couple of steps toward him. “Don’t try to pretend any of this was for my benefit.”
Cafferty made a tutting sound. “You need to start enjoying these little victories, Siobhan. Life doesn’t offer too many, in my experience.”
“I screwed up, Cafferty, but I’m a quick learner. You’ve had a bit of fun down the years with John Rebus, but from now on you’ve got another enemy breathing down your neck.”
Cafferty chuckled. “And that’s you, is it?” He leaned against the cue. “But you have to admit, Siobhan, we made a pretty good team. Imagine how we could run the city between us-information exchanged, tip-offs and trades…me going about my business and you swiftly climbing that promotion ladder. Isn’t that what we both want, when it comes down to it?”
“What I want,” Siobhan said quietly, “is to have nothing to do with you until I’m standing in the witness box and you’re on trial.”
“Good luck with that,” Cafferty said with another low chuckle. He turned his attention back to the table. “Want to thrash me at pool in the meantime? I was never any good at this bloody game.”
But when he turned around, she was heading for the door.
“Siobhan!” he called to her. “Remember the two of us? Upstairs in the office here? And the way that little useless idiot Carberry started squirming? I saw it in your eyes…”
She’d pulled the door open, but couldn’t resist the question. “Saw what, Cafferty?”
“You were starting to like it.” He ran his tongue around his lips. “I’d say you were definitely starting to like it.”
His laughter followed her out into the daylight.
Pentonville Road and then Upper Street…farther than he thought. He stopped at a cafe opposite the Highbury and Islington subway stop, ate a sandwich, and flicked through the first edition of the day’s Evening Standard. Nobody in the cafe was speaking English, and when he placed his order they struggled with his accent. Good sandwich though…
He could feel blisters forming on the soles of both feet as he headed back outside again. Turning off St. Paul ’s Road into Highbury Grove. Opposite some tennis courts he found the street he was looking for. Found the block he wanted. Found the apartment number and its buzzer. No name next to it, but he pressed it anyway.
No reply.
Checked his watch, then pushed the other buzzers until someone answered.
“Yeah?” the voice crackled from the intercom.
“Package for number nine,” Rebus said.
“This is sixteen.”
“Thought maybe I could leave it with you.”
“Well, you can’t.”
“Outside their door then?”
The voice swore, but the buzzer sounded and Rebus was in. Up the stairs to the door of apartment 9. It boasted a spy hole. He pressed his ear to the wood. Took a step back and studied it. Solid door, with half a dozen locks and a steel plate around the rim.
“Who lives in a place like this?” Rebus asked himself quietly. “David, it’s over to you.” The catchphrase from a TV show called Through the Keyhole. Difference was, Rebus knew exactly who lived here: information gleaned by-
