“It wasn’t about Cafferty at the start.”
“Whatever you say, Eric. But it was about him eventually…trust me on that.”
Bain was silent for a few moments. He stared down at the pavement. “I need more milk.”
“Best get yourself cleaned up first. Look, I’m heading out of town. You’re going to spend all day turning this over-what if I give you a ring tomorrow, you can let me know the score?”
Bain nodded slowly, tried handing Rebus back his handkerchief.
“You can keep that,” he was advised. “Got a friend you can talk to?”
“On the Net,” Bain said.
“Whatever works.” Rebus patted his shoulder. “Are you okay now? I need to get going.”
“I’ll manage.”
“Good boy.” Rebus took a deep breath. “I’m not going to apologize for what I did, Eric…but I’m sorry you had to get hurt.”
Bain nodded again. “It’s me who should-”
But Rebus silenced him with a shake of the head. “All in the past now. Just got to pick yourself up and move on.”
“No use crying over spilled milk?” Bain offered with an attempt at a smile.
“Been trying my damnedest not to say it these past ten minutes,” Rebus admitted. “Go stick your head under the shower, wash it all away.”
“Might not be that easy,” Bain said quietly.
Rebus nodded agreement. “But all the same…it’s a start.”
Siobhan had spent a good forty minutes soaking in the bath. Normally, she only had time for a shower in the morning, but today she was determined to pamper herself. About a third of a bottle of Space NK bath foam, and a big glass of fresh orange juice. BBC 6 music on her digital radio and her cell phone switched off. The ticket to T in the Park was on the sofa in the living room, next to a list of things she would need-bottled water and snacks, her fleece, suntan lotion (well, you never could tell). Last night she’d been on the verge of calling Bobby Greig and offering him her ticket. But why should she? If she didn’t go, she’d just end up slouched on the sofa with the TV playing. Ellen Wylie had called first thing, told her she’d been talking to Rebus.
“He’s sorry,” Ellen had reported.
“Sorry for what?”
“For anything and everything.”
“Nice of him to tell you instead of me.”
“My fault,” Ellen had admitted. “I said he should leave you in peace for a day or so.”
“Thanks. How’s Denise?”
“Still in bed. So what’s the plan for today? Bopping yourself into a sweat at Kinross, or would you rather we go somewhere and drown all our sorrows?”
“I’ll bear that offer in mind. But I think you’re right-Kinross might be just what I need.”
Not that she’d be staying the night. Although her ticket was valid for both days, she’d had quite enough of the outdoors life. She wondered if the dope dealer from Stirling would be there, plying his trade. Maybe this time she would decide to indulge, break yet another rule. She knew plenty of officers who did a bit of pot; had heard rumors of some who even did coke at weekends. All kinds of ways to unwind. She considered the options, and decided she’d better pack a couple of condoms, just in case she did end up in someone’s tent. She knew two women PCs who were heading to the festival. They were hoping to rendezvous with her by text message. A wild pair they were, with a crush on the front men with the Killers and Keane. They were already in Kinross-wanted to be sure of a place front of stage.
“You better text us when you get there,” they’d warned Siobhan. “Leave it too long, we might be in a sorry state.”
Sorry…
For anything and everything.
But what had he to feel sorry about? Had he sat in the Bentley GT and listened to Cafferty’s plan? Had he climbed those stairs with Keith Carberry and stood with him as Cafferty held court? She screwed shut her eyes and ducked her head beneath the surface of the bathwater.
I’m to blame, she thought. The words kept bouncing around the inside of her skull. Gareth Tench…so vividly alive, voice booming…charismatic like all the best showmen-just “happening along” to chase Carberry and his pals away, proving to the outside world that he was the only man for the job. A bravura con trick, finessing grant aid for his constituents. Larger than life and seemingly indefatigable…and now lying cold and naked in one of the drawers at the city morgue, turned into a series of incisions and statistics.
Someone had told her once: an inch-long blade was all it took. A single slender inch of tempered steel could knock the whole world out of kilter.
She heaved herself up into daylight, spluttering and wiping the hair and suds from her face. She’d thought she could hear a phone ringing, but there was nothing, just a floorboard creaking in the apartment upstairs. Rebus had told her to stay away from Cafferty, and he was right. If she lost it in front of Cafferty, she’d be the loser.
But then she was already the loser, wasn’t she?
“And so much fun to be around,” she muttered to herself, rising to a crouch and stretching out a hand toward the nearest towel.
It didn’t take her long to pack-same bag she’d taken with her to Stirling. And even though she wouldn’t be staying the night, she dropped in her toothbrush and toothpaste anyway. Maybe once she was in the car, she’d just keep on driving. If she ran out of land, she could always take a ferry to Orkney. That was the thing about a car-it gave the illusion of freedom. The ads always played on that sense of adventure and discovery, but in her case ” would be more accurate.
“Not doing that,” she explained to the bathroom mirror, hairbrush in hand. She’d said as much to Rebus, told him she could take her own medicine.
Not that Cafferty was medicine-more like poison.
She knew the route she should take: go see James Corbyn and tell him how badly she’d messed up, then end up back in uniform as a result.
“I’m a good copper,” she told the mirror, trying to imagine how she would explain it to her dad…her dad who’d become so proud of her. And to her mother, who’d told her it didn’t matter.
Didn’t matter who’d hit her.
And just why had it mattered so much to Siobhan? Not really because of the anger at thinking it might be another cop, but because she could use it to prove she was good at her job.
“A good cop,” she repeated quietly. And then, wiping steam from the mirror: “Despite all the evidence to the contrary.”
Second and final detour: Craigmillar police station. McManus was already at work.
“Conscientious,” Rebus said, walking into the CID office. There was no else about as yet. McManus was dressed casually-sports shirt and denims.
“What does that make you?” McManus asked, wetting a finger so he could turn the page of the report he was reading.
“Autopsy results?” Rebus guessed.
McManus nodded. “I’m just back.”
“Deja vu all over again,” Rebus commented. “I was in your shoes last Saturday-Ben Webster.”
“No wonder Professor Gates looked miffed-two Saturdays in a row.”
By now Rebus was standing next to McManus’s desk. “Any conclusions?”
“Serrated knife, seven eighths of an inch in width. Gates figures you’d find them in most kitchens.”
“He’s right. Is Keith Carberry still on the premises?”
“You know the drill, Rebus: after six hours, we charge or throw out.”
“Meaning you’ve not charged him?”
McManus looked up from the report. “He denies any involvement. Even has an alibi-he was playing pool at the time, seven or eight witnesses.”
“All of them doubtless good friends of his.”
McManus just shrugged. “Plenty of knives in his mum’s kitchen, but no sign any of them’s missing. We’ve lifted
