always looking for motive. Tell me, what’s your killer’s motive? Have you considered that?”
“We think he’s a vigilante,” Siobhan stated.
“Picking them off one by one from that Web site?” Tench didn’t look convinced.
“You’ve still yet to tell us,” Rebus said quietly, “your own motive for being so interested in BeastWatch.” He unfolded his arms and laid his palms on the tabletop, on either side of his coffee mug.
“My district’s a dumping ground, Rebus-don’t say you haven’t noticed. Agencies bring us their hard-to-house, the dealers and flotsam, sex offenders, junkies, losers of all descriptions. Sites like BeastWatch give me a chance of fighting back. They mean I can argue my corner when some fresh problem’s about to land on my doorstep.”
“And has it happened?” Siobhan asked.
“We had a guy released three months back, sex maniac…I made sure he steered clear.”
“Making it someone else’s problem,” Siobhan commented.
“Always been the way I’ve worked. Someone like Cafferty comes along, same thinking prevails.”
“Cafferty’s been here a long time,” Rebus pointed out.
“You mean despite your lot, or because of them?” When Rebus didn’t answer, Tench’s smile became a sneer. “No way he’d have lasted as long as he has without some help.” He leaned back and rolled his shoulders. “Are we finished here?”
“How well do you know the Jensens?” Siobhan asked.
“Who?”
“The couple who run the site.”
“Never met them,” Tench stated.
“Really?” Siobhan sounded amazed. “They live right here in Edinburgh.”
“And so do half a million just like them. I try to get about, DS Clarke, but I’m not made of elastic.”
“What are you made of, Councilman?” Rebus asked.
“Anger,” Tench offered, “determination, a thirst for what’s right and just.” He took a deep breath, but then released it noisily. “We could be here all day,” he apologized with another smile. Then, rising to his feet: “Bobby looked heartbroken when you walked out on him, DS Clarke. You want to be careful: passion’s a snarling beast in some men.” He made a little bow as he headed for the door.
“We’ll talk again,” Siobhan warned him. Rebus was watching through the window as one of the minders opened the back door of the car and Tench crammed his oversize frame inside.
“Councilmen often have a well-fed look,” he commented. “You ever notice that?”
Siobhan was rubbing a hand across her forehead. “We could have handled that better.”
“You ducked out of the Final Push?”
“Wasn’t really getting into it.”
“Anything to do with our esteemed councilman?” She shook her head. “‘Destroyer and preserver,’” Rebus muttered to himself.
“What?”
“It’s another line from Shelley.”
“So which of them is Gareth Tench?”
The car was drawing away from the curb. “Maybe both,” Rebus offered. Then he gave a huge yawn. “Any chance today will give us some respite?”
She looked at him. “You could stop for lunch, come and meet my parents.”
“Pariah status has been lifted?” he guessed, raising an eyebrow.
“John…” she warned.
“You don’t want them to yourself?”
She shrugged. “Maybe I’ve been a bit greedy.”
Rebus had taken a couple of paintings down from one wall of his living room. Details of the three victims were now pinned there instead. He was seated at the dining table while Siobhan lay stretched out along the sofa. Both were busy reading, asking occasional questions or pitching a notion.
“Don’t suppose you’ve had a chance to listen to the Ellen Wylie tape?” Rebus asked at one point. “Not that it really matters…”
“Plenty more subscribers we could talk to.”
“Need to know who they are first: think Brains could do that without Corbyn or Steelforth getting a whiff?”
“Tench talked about motive…could we be missing something?”
“Some connection between all three?”
“Come to that, why’s he stopped at three?”
“Usual explanations: he’s gone elsewhere, or we’ve arrested him for something else, or he knows we’re onto him.”
“But we’re not onto him.”
“Media say otherwise.”
“Why the Clootie Well in the first place? Because we were bound to go there?”
“Can’t rule out a local connection.”
“What if this has nothing to do with BeastWatch?”
“Then we’re wasting precious time.”
“Could he be sending a message to the G8? Maybe he’s here right now, holding a banner somewhere.”
“Photo might be on that CD-ROM…”
“And we’d never know.”
“If those clues were left to taunt us, how come he hasn’t followed up? Shouldn’t he be trying to make more of a game of it?”
“Maybe he doesn’t need to follow up.”
“Meaning what?”
“He could be closer than we think…”
“Thanks for that.”
“Do you want a cup of tea?”
“Go on then.”
“Actually, it’s your turn-I paid for the coffees.”
“There’s got to be a pattern, you know. We are missing something.”
Siobhan’s phone bleeped: text message. She studied it. “Turn on the TV,” she said.
“Which show are you missing?”
But she’d swung her legs off the sofa and punched the button herself. Found the remote and flipped channels. NEWS FLASH across the bottom of the screen. BLASTS IN LONDON.
“Eric sent the text,” she said quietly. Rebus came and stood next to her. There didn’t seem to be much information. A series of blasts or explosions…the London Underground…casualties, several dozen.
“Suspected power surge,” the broadcaster was saying. He didn’t sound convinced.
“Power surge, my ass,” Rebus growled.
Major railway stations closed. Hospitals on alert. The public advised not to try entering the city. Siobhan slumped back onto the sofa, elbows on knees, head in hands.
“Blindsided,” she said quietly.
“Might not just be London,” Rebus replied, but he knew it probably was. Morning rush hour…all those commuters…and transport police sent packing to Scotland for the G8. All those officers sent off from the Met to Scotland. He squeezed shut his eyes, thinking: Lucky it wasn’t yesterday, thousands of revelers in Trafalgar Square, cheering the Olympic result; or Saturday night in Hyde Park…two hundred thousand.
The National Grid had just confirmed that there were no apparent problems with its systems.
Aldgate.
King’s Cross.
Edgware Road.
And fresh speculation that a bus had also been wrecked. The broadcaster’s face was pale. An emergency number was running along the foot of the screen.
“What do we do?” Siobhan asked quietly as the TV showed live pictures from one of the scenes-medics running pell-mell, smoke billowing, wounded sitting curbside. Glass and sirens and the alarms from cars and nearby
