“I think that’s unreasonable. Ben was a friend of mine, Inspector, and I did want to attend the funeral…”
“But you’ve been busy,” Rebus said, all understanding. “And here you are, trying to catch a quick, quiet meal with your wife, and I come barging in unannounced.”
“It happens to be my wife’s birthday. We managed-God knows how-to keep a window free-”
“And I’ve gone and smudged it.” Rebus turned to the wife. “Many happy returns.”
The waiter was placing a wineglass in front of Rebus. “Maybe some water instead?” Anderson suggested. Rebus nodded.
“Have you been busy with the G8?” the MP’s wife leaned forward to ask him.
“Busy despite the G8,” Rebus corrected her. He saw husband and wife exchange a glance, knew what they were thinking. A hungover cop, wired from all the demonstrations and the chaos and now the bombings. Damaged goods, to be handled with care.
“Can this really not wait till morning, Inspector?” Anderson asked quietly.
“I’m looking into Ben Webster’s death,” Rebus explained. His voice sounded nasal, even to his own ears, and there was a creeping mist at the edges of his vision. “Can’t seem to find a reason for him to take his own life.”
“More likely an accident, surely,” the MP’s wife offered.
“Or he was given a hand,” Rebus stated.
“What?” Anderson’s hands stopped arranging the cutlery in front of him.
“Richard Pennen wants to link overseas aid to arms sales, doesn’t he? How’s it going to work-he donates a chunk of money in exchange for looser controls?”
“Don’t be absurd.” The MP allowed his voice to betray his irritation.
“Were you at the castle that night?”
“I was busy at Westminster.”
“Any chance that Webster had words with Pennen? Maybe at your behest?”
“What sort of words?”
“Cutting back the arms trade…turning all those guns into plow-shares.”
“Look, you can’t just go around defaming Richard Pennen. If there’s any evidence, I’d like to see it.”
“Me, too,” Rebus agreed.
“Meaning there’s none? And you’re basing this witch hunt on what exactly, Inspector?”
“On the fact that Special Branch wants me to butt out, or at the very least toe the line.”
“While you’d prefer to cross that same line?”
“Only way of getting anywhere.”
“Ben Webster was an outstanding member of parliament and a rising star in his party.”
“And he’d have supported you to the hilt in any leadership contest,” Rebus couldn’t help adding.
“Now you’re just being bloody scurrilous!” Anderson snarled.
“Was he the sort to get up the nose of big business?” Rebus asked. “The sort who couldn’t be bribed or bought off?” His head was feeling even muzzier.
“You seem exhausted, Officer,” the MP’s wife said, voice sympathetic. “Are you sure this really can’t wait?”
Rebus was shaking his head, aware of its sheer mass. Felt like he might crash through the floor, his body was so heavy…
“Darling,” the MP’s wife was telling her husband, “here’s Rosie.”
A flustered-looking young woman was squeezing her way between the tables. The staff looked worried that they might be asked to sit four at a table intended for two.
“I left message after message after message,” Rosie was saying, “and then thought maybe you weren’t getting them.”
“No signal,” Anderson growled, tapping his phone. “This is the inspector.”
Rebus had risen to his feet, offering Anderson’s secretary his chair. She shook her head, avoiding eye contact.
“The inspector,” she was telling the MP, “is currently under suspension, pending an inquiry into his conduct.” Now her eyes met Rebus’s. “I made a couple of calls…”
One of Anderson’s substantial eyebrows had lifted.
“I did say I was off-duty,” Rebus reminded him.
“I’m not sure it was quite as cut-and-dried as that. Ah…the appetizers.” Two waiters were hovering, one with smoked salmon, the other with a bowl of orange-colored soup. “You’ll be leaving now, Inspector.” It was statement rather than request.
“Ben Webster deserves a bit of consideration, don’t you think?”
The MP ignored this, unfolding his napkin. But his secretary had no such qualms.
“Get out!” she snarled.
Rebus nodded slowly, and half turned before remembering something. “Pavements round my way are in a shocking state,” he told his MP. “Maybe you could spare the time to visit your constituency once in a while.”
“Jump in,” the voice ordered. Rebus turned and saw that Siobhan had parked in front of his tenement.
“Car looks good,” he told her.
“Just as well, the money your friendly mechanic charged.”
“I was just headed upstairs…”
“Change of plan. I need you to come with me.” She paused. “You okay?”
“Had a couple of drinks earlier. Did something I probably shouldn’t.”
“Now there’s a novelty.” But she still managed to look aghast when he told her about his trip to the restaurant.
“Another lecture in store, no doubt” went his closing words.
“You don’t say.” Siobhan closed her own door as Rebus got into the passenger seat.
“What about you?” he asked. So she told him about her parents and the contents of Stacey Webster’s camera. Reached into the backseat and handed him the evidence.
“So now we go talk to the councilman?” Rebus guessed.
“That was the plan. Why are you smiling?”
He pretended to be studying the pictures. “Your mum says she’s not bothered who whacked her…Nobody seems worried about Ben Webster’s death…And yet here we both are.” He lifted his face toward her and gave a tired smile.
“It’s what we do,” she replied quietly.
“My point exactly. No matter what anyone thinks or says. I just worry that you’ve learned all the wrong lessons from me.”
“Credit me with a bit of sense,” she chided him, putting the car into gear.
Councilman Gareth Tench lived in a sizable Victorian villa on Duddingston Park. It was a main road, but its houses were set back far enough to give them some privacy. Not five minutes’ drive from Niddrie, yet it was another world: respectable, middle class, quiet. There was a golf course to the rear of the properties, and Portobello Beach was within striking distance. Siobhan had taken a route along Niddrie’s main road, so they could see that the campsite was disappearing fast.
“Want to drop in on your boyfriend?” Rebus teased.
“Maybe you should stay in the car,” she retorted, “let me talk to Tench.”
“I’m as sober as a judge,” Rebus argued. “Well…getting there anyway.” They’d stopped at a garage on Ratcliffe Terrace so he could buy Irn-Bru and Tylenol.
“Inventor deserves the Nobel Prize,” Rebus had stated, without specifying which product he was referring to.
There were two cars parked in Tench’s forecourt. The whole front garden had been paved to make room for them. Lights blazed in the living room.
“Good cop, bad cop?” Rebus suggested as Siobhan rang the doorbell. She rewarded him with the beginnings of a smile. The door was opened by a woman.
“Mrs. Tench?” Siobhan asked, holding up her ID. “Any chance of a word with your husband?”
Then Tench’s voice from inside the house: “Who is it, Louisa?”
“Police, Gareth,” she bellowed back, retreating a little by way of invitation. They didn’t need asking twice, and
