stickers and a Help the Aged T-shirt.
“Hell do I want this for?” he growled. She took it back, trying hard to retain the traces of her original smile.
He moved away, opening the reserve bottle of Irn-Bru. His head felt less gummy, but there was sweat on his back. A memory had been trying to force its way through, and now he grasped it: Mickey and himself, church outings to Burntisland links. Buses took them there, trailing streamers from their windows. Lines of buses waiting to take them home after the picnic and the organized races across the grass-Mickey always able to beat him from a standing start, so that Rebus had stopped trying eventually-his only weapon against his kid brother’s sinewy determination. White cardboard boxes containing their lunch: jam sandwich, iced cake, maybe a hard-boiled egg.
They always left the egg.
Summer weekends, appearing endless and unchangeable. Nowadays, Rebus hated them. Hated that so little would happen to him. Monday mornings were his true release, a break from the sofa and the bar stool, the supermarket and curry house. His colleagues returned to work with stories of shopping exploits, soccer games, bike rides with the family. Siobhan would have been to Glasgow or Dundee, seeing friends, catching up. Cinema trips and walks by the Water of Leith. Nobody asked Rebus anymore how he spent the weekend. They knew he’d just shrug.
Nobody’d blame you for coasting…
Except that coasting was the one thing he had no time for. Without the job, he almost ceased to exist. Which was why he punched a number into his phone and waited. Listened to the voice-mail message.
“Good morning, Ray,” he said when prompted, “this is your wake-up call. Every hour on the hour till I start to get some answers. Speak to you soon.” He ended the call, immediately make another, leaving the same message on Ray Duff’s home machine. Cell and landline taken care of, there wasn’t much he could do but wait. The Live 8 concert started around two, but he didn’t think either The Who or Pink Floyd would appear until evening. Plenty of time for him to go over the Colliar case notes. Plenty of time for follow-up on Ben Webster. Pushing Saturday along until it turned into Sunday.
Rebus figured he would survive.
The only things Information could give him on Pennen Industries were a phone number and an address in central London. Rebus called, but got a message telling him the switchboard would open again on Monday morning. He knew he could do better than that, so he placed a call to Operation Sorbus HQ in Glenrothes.
“It’s CID here, B Division in Edinburgh.” He crossed the floor of his living room and peered out the window. A family, kids with their faces painted, was making its way down the street toward the Meadows. “We’ve been hearing rumors about the Clown Army. Seems they might have their sights trained on something called”-he paused for effect, as though consulting a document-“Pennen Industries. We’re in the dark, wondered if your techs could shed some light.”
“Pennen?”
Rebus spelled it.
“And you are…?”
“DI Starr…Derek Starr,” Rebus lied blithely. No way of knowing what would get back to Steelforth.
“Give me ten minutes.”
Rebus was about to offer thanks, but the line was dead. It had been a male voice, noises off: the sounds of a busy hub. He realized the officer hadn’t needed to ask for his phone number…must’ve come up on some sort of display, making it a matter of record.
And traceable.
“Oops,” he said quietly, heading for the kitchen and some coffee. He recalled that Siobhan had left the Balmoral after two drinks. Rebus had added a third, before crossing the road to the Cafe Royal for a nightcap. Vinegar on his fingers this morning, which meant he’d eaten fries on the way home. Yes: taxi driver dropping him at the end of the Meadows, Rebus saying he’d walk from there. He thought of calling Siobhan, make sure she got home all right. But it always annoyed her when he did that. She’d probably be out already: meeting her parents at the march. She was looking forward to seeing Eddie Izzard and Gael Garcia Bernal. Others were making speeches too: Bianca Jagger, Sharleen Spiteri…She’d made it sound like a carnival. He hoped she was right.
Had to get her car to the garage, too, see about fixing the damage. Rebus knew Councilman Tench; knew of him, at least. Some sort of lay preacher, used to have a spot at the foot of the Mound, calling out for the weekend shoppers to repent. Rebus used to see him when he was on his way to the Ox for a lunchtime session. Had a good rep in Niddrie, harvesting development grants from local government, charities, even the EU. Rebus had told Siobhan as much, then given her a number for a mechanic off Buccleuch Street. Guy specialized in VWs but owed Rebus a favor.
His phone was ringing. He took the coffee through to the living room and picked up.
“You’re not at the station,” the same voice in Glenrothes said warily.
“I’m at home.” He could hear a helicopter somewhere overhead, outside his window. Maybe surveillance; maybe news. Or could it be Bono parachuting in with a sermon?
“Pennen doesn’t have any offices in Scotland,” the voice was saying.
“Then we don’t have a problem,” Rebus replied, trying to sound casual. “Time like this, the rumor mill’s on overtime, same as the rest of us.” He laughed and was about to add a fresh question, but the voice made it unnecessary.
“They’re a defense contractor, so the rumors might still have force.”
“Defense?”
“Used to belong to the MoD; sold off a few years back.”
“I think I remember,” Rebus made a show of saying. “London-based, right?”
“Right. Thing is, though…their managing director is up here just now.”
Rebus whistled. “Potential target.”
“We had him red-flagged anyway. He’s secure.” The words didn’t sound right in the young officer’s mouth. Rebus figured he’d learned the phrases only recently.
Maybe from Steelforth.
“He’s not based at the Balmoral, is he?” Rebus asked.
“How do you know that?”
“Rumors again. But he’s got protection?”
“Yes.”
“His own or ours?”
The caller paused. “Why do you want to know?”
“Just looking out for the taxpayer.” Rebus laughed again. “Think we should talk to him?” Asking advice…as if the caller were the boss.
“I can pass the message along.”
“Longer he’s in town, tougher it is…” Rebus stopped. “I don’t even know his name,” he admitted.
Suddenly another voice broke into the call. “DI Starr? Is that Detective Inspector Starr speaking?”
Steelforth…
Rebus sucked in air.
“Hello?” Steelforth was saying. “Gone shy all of a sudden?”
Rebus cut off the call. Cursed under his breath. Punched in more numbers and was connected to the switchboard at the local news paper.
“Features, please,” he said.
“I’m not sure anyone’s in,” the operator told him.
“What about the news desk?”
“Bit of a ghost ship, for obvious reasons.” She sounded as if she, too, would rather be elsewhere, but put him through anyway. It took a while for someone to pick up.
“My name’s DI Rebus, Gayfield CID.”
“Always happy to talk to an officer of the law,” the reporter said brightly. “Both on and off the record…”
“I’m not giving you business, son. I just need to speak to Mairie Henderson.”
“She’s gone freelance. And she’s features, not news.”
