“Once you get a taste…” she said teasingly.
“You’re still going to walk away from him,” he demanded.
“Or what?” Her eyes burned into him. “You’ll go tell him something he already knows?”
“Sooner or later, Cafferty’s walking the plank-you really want to be there with him?”
“I’m a good swimmer.”
“It’s not water you’ll end up in, Molly-it’s jail. Time inside will play havoc with those looks, I guarantee it. See, slipping confidential info to a criminal is just about as serious as it gets.”
“You sell me out, Rebus, Eric gets sold out, too. So much for protecting him.”
“Price has to be paid.” Rebus flicked away the remains of the cigarette. “First thing tomorrow, I’ll be talking to him. Your bags had better be packed.”
“What if Mr. Cafferty doesn’t agree?”
“He will. Once your cover’s blown, CID could be feeding you any amount of manure dressed as caviar. Cafferty takes one bite, and we’ve got him.”
Her eyes were still fixed on his. “So why aren’t you doing that?”
“Sting operation means telling the brass…and that really would be the end of Eric’s career. You walk away now, I get Eric back. Too many lives shat on by your boss, Molly. I just want a few of them sluiced down.” He reached into his pocket for his cigarettes, opened the pack, and offered her one. “So what do you say?”
“Time’s up,” one of the doormen called, pressing a finger to his earpiece. “Clients three-deep in there.”
She looked at Rebus. “Time’s up,” she echoed, turning toward the backstage door. Rebus watched her go, lit himself another cigarette, and decided the walk home across the Meadows would do him good.
His phone was ringing as he unlocked the door. He picked it up from the chair.
“Rebus,” he said.
“It’s me,” Ellen Wylie said. “What the hell’s been happening?”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve had Siobhan on the phone. I don’t know what you’ve been saying to her, but she’s in a hell of a state.”
“Gareth Tench is dead.”
“It was me who told you, remember?”
“She thinks she should take some of the blame.”
“I tried telling her she’s crazy.”
“That’ll have helped.” Rebus started turning on the lights. He wanted them all on-not just the living room, but the hall and the kitchen, the bathroom and his bedroom.
“She sounded pretty pissed off with you.”
“You don’t need to sound so happy about it.”
“I spent twenty minutes calming her down!” Wylie yelled. “Don’t you dare start accusing me of enjoying any of this!”
“Sorry, Ellen.” Rebus meant it, too. He sat on the edge of the bath, shoulders slumped, phone tucked in against his chin.
“We’re all tired, John, that’s the trouble.”
“I think my troubles go just that little bit deeper, Ellen.”
“So go beat yourself up about it-wouldn’t be the first time.”
He puffed air from his cheeks. “So what’s the bottom line with Siobhan?”
“Maybe give her a day to calm down. I told her she should drive up to T in the Park, let off some steam.”
“Not a bad idea.” Except that his own weekend plans included the Borders…looked like he’d be heading south unaccompanied. No way he could invite Ellen-didn’t want it getting back to Siobhan.
“At least we can rule Tench out as a suspect,” Wylie was saying.
“Maybe.”
“Siobhan said you’d be arresting some kid from Niddrie?”
“Probably already in custody.”
“So it has nothing to do with the Clootie Well or BeastWatch?”
“Coincidence, that’s all.”
“So what happens now?”
“Your notion of a weekend break sounds good. Everybody’s back to work on Monday…we can organize a proper murder inquiry.”
“You won’t be needing me then?”
“There’s a place for you if you want it, Ellen. You’ve got a whole forty-eight hours to think it over.”
“Thanks, John.”
“But do me a favor…give Siobhan a call tomorrow. Let her know I’m worried.”
“Worried and sorry?”
“I’ll leave the wording to you. Night, Ellen.” He ended the call and studied his face in the bathroom mirror. He was surprised not to see scourge marks and raw flesh. Looked much the same as ever: sallow and needing a shave, hair unkempt, bags under his eyes. He gave his cheeks a few slaps and headed through to the kitchen, made himself a cup of instant coffee-black; the milk had decided it was sour-and ended up seated at the dining table in the living room. The same faces stared down at him from his walls:
Cyril Colliar.
Trevor Guest.
Edward Isley.
He knew that on TV the main topic would still be the London bombs. Experts would be debating What Could Have Been Done and What to Do Next. All other news would have been pushed aside. Yet he still had his three unsolved murders-which were actually Siobhan’s now that he thought of it. Chief constable had put her in charge. Then there was Ben Webster, receding into obscurity with each turn of the news cycle.
Nobody’d blame you for coasting…
Nobody but the dead.
He rested his head on his folded arms. Saw the well-fed Cafferty descending that million-pound staircase. Saw Siobhan falling for his tricks. Saw Cyril Colliar doing his dirty work and Keith Carberry doing his dirty work and Molly and Eric Bain doing his dirty work. Cafferty coming downstairs, perfumed from the shower, smelling sweeter than any nosegay.
Cafferty the mobster knew Steelforth’s name.
Cafferty the author had met Richard Pennen.
Who else…?
Who else have you talked to…?
Cafferty with his tongue protruding…Maybe Siobhan herself…
No, not Siobhan. Rebus had seen the way she acted at the murder scene-she hadn’t known a thing.
Which didn’t mean she hadn’t wanted it to happen. Hadn’t wished it into existence by letting her eyes meet Cafferty’s for just that second too long. Rebus heard a plane climbing into the sky from the west. There weren’t many late flights out of Edinburgh. He wondered if maybe it was Tony Blair or some of his minions. Thank you, Scotland, and good night. The summit would have enjoyed the best the country had to offer-scenery, whiskey, ambience, food. The morsels turning to ash as that red London bus exploded. And meantime three bad men had died…and one good man-Ben Webster-and one Rebus wasn’t sure about even now. Gareth Tench might have been acting from the best of motives, but with his conscience hammered into submission by circumstance.
Or he could have been on the cusp of wrenching away Cafferty’s tarnished crown.
Rebus doubted he would ever know for sure. He stared at the phone lying in front of him on the dining table. Seven digits and he’d be connected to Siobhan’s apartment. Seven tiny points of pressure on the keypad. How could something be so difficult?
“What makes you think she’s not better off without you?” he found himself asking the silver lozenge. It replied with a bleep, and his head twitched upward. He snatched at it, but all it was trying to tell him was that its battery was low.
“No lower than mine,” he muttered, rising slowly to his feet to seek out the charger. He’d just plugged it in when it rang: Mairie Henderson.
