the lot for analysis.”
“And Carberry’s clothes?”
“Went through those, too. No traces of blood.”
“Meaning they’ve been disposed of, same as the knife.”
McManus leaned back in his chair. “Whose investigation is this, Rebus?”
Rebus held up his hands in surrender. “Just thinking aloud. Who was it interviewed Carberry?”
“I did it myself.”
“You think he’s guilty?”
“He seemed genuinely shocked when we told him about Tench. But just behind those nasty blue eyes of his, I thought I could see something else.”
“What?”
“He was scared.”
“Because he’d been found out?”
McManus shook his head. “Scared to say anything.”
Rebus turned away, not wanting McManus to see anything behind his eyes. Say Carberry didn’t do it…was Cafferty himself suddenly in the frame again? The young man scared because that was his thinking, too…and if Cafferty had struck at Tench, would Keith himself be next?
“Did you ask him about tailing the councilman?”
“Admitted waiting for him. Said he wanted to thank him.”
“For what?” Rebus turned to face McManus again.
“Moral support after he was bailed for fighting.”
Rebus gave a snort. “You believe that?”
“Not necessarily, but it wasn’t grounds to hold him indefinitely.” McManus paused. “Thing is…when we told him he could go, he was reluctant-tried not to show it, but he was. Looked to left and right as he walked out of the door, as though expecting something. Fairly hared away, too.” McManus paused again. “Do you see what I’m getting at, Rebus?”
Rebus nodded. “Hare rather than fox.”
“Along those lines, yes. Makes me wonder if there’s something you’re not telling me.”
“I’d still have him down as a suspect.”
“Agreed.” McManus rose from his chair, fixed Rebus with a look. “But is he the only one we should be speaking to?”
“Councilmen make enemies,” Rebus stated.
“According to the widow, Tench counted you among them.”
“She’s mistaken.”
McManus ignored this and concentrated on folding his arms instead. “She also thinks the family home was being watched-not by Keith Carberry though. Description she gave was a silver-haired man in a big, posh car. Does that sound to you like Big Ger Cafferty?”
Rebus shrugged a reply.
“Another little story I hear…” McManus was approaching Rebus. “Concerns you and a man answering that same description at a meeting in a church hall, just a few days back. The councilman had a few words with this third man. Care to enlighten me?”
He was close enough for Rebus to feel his breath on his cheek. “Case like this,” he speculated, “you’ll always get stories.”
McManus just smiled. “I’ve never had a case like this, Rebus. Gareth Tench was loved and admired-plenty of friends of his out there, angry at their loss and wanting answers. Some of them packing all sorts of clout…clout they’ve promised to share with me.”
“That’s nice for you.”
“An offer I’d find it very hard to refuse,” McManus went on. “Meaning this might be the only chance I’ll be able to give.” He took a step back. “So, DI Rebus, having apprised you of the situation…is there anything at all you want to tell me?”
There was no way to land Cafferty in it without embroiling Siobhan. Before he could do anything, he had to be sure she’d be safe.
“Don’t think so,” he said, folding his own arms. McManus nodded toward the gesture.
“Sure sign you’ve got something to hide.”
“Really?” Rebus slid his hands into his pockets. “How about you then?” He turned and headed for the door, leaving McManus to wonder just when it was exactly that he’d decided to fold his own arms.
Nice day for a drive, even if he spent half the journey behind a truck. South to Dalkeith and from there to Coldstream. At Dun Law, he passed a wind farm, turbines on either side of the road-it was as close as he’d ever come to them. Sheep and cattle grazing, and plenty of roadkill: pheasants and hares. Birds of prey hovering overhead, or peering intently from fence posts. Fifty miles and he hit Coldstream, passed through the town and over a bridge, finding himself suddenly in England. A road sign told him he was only sixty miles north of Newcastle. He turned at a hotel parking lot and headed back across the border, parking curbside. There was a police station, cleverly disguised as just another gabled house with a blue wooden door. The sign told him it was only open weekdays, nine till twelve. Coldstream’s main drag was dominated by bars and small shops. Day-trippers took up most of the space on the narrow pavements. A single-decker bus from Lesmahagow was pouring out its chatty cargo at the Ram’s Head. Rebus beat them inside and demanded a half of Best. Looking around, he saw that the tables had been reserved for lunch. There were sandwiches behind the bar, and he asked for cheese and pickle.
“We’ve soup, too,” the barmaid informed him. “Cock-a-leekie.”
“Canned?”
She gave a tut. “Would I poison you with that muck?”
“Go on then,” he said with a smile. She called his order out to the kitchen and he gave his spine a stretch, rolling his shoulders and neck.
“Where are you off to?” she asked on her return.
“I’m already there,” he replied, but before he could get a conversation going the tour-bus party started swarming in. She called out again to the kitchen and a waitress emerged, notepad in hand. The chef himself, ruddy-faced and wide of girth, delivered Rebus’s soup. He rolled his eyes as he calculated the average age of the new arrivals.
“Guess how many will want steak pie,” he said.
“All of them,” Rebus decided.
“And the goat cheese and filo starter?”
“Not a hope,” Rebus confirmed, unwrapping his spoon from its paper napkin. There was golf on TV. Looked breezy up at Loch Lomond. Rebus searched in vain for salt and pepper, then found that the soup needed neither. A man in a short-sleeved white shirt came and stood next to him. He was mopping his face with a vast handkerchief. What hair he possessed was slicked back from his forehead.
“Warm one,” he announced.
“Are those your lot?” Rebus said, indicating the throng at the tables.
“I’m theirs, more like,” the man stated. “Never seen so many backseat drivers.” He shook his head and begged the barmaid for a pint of orange and lemonade with plenty of ice. She winked as she placed it in front of him-no payment necessary. Rebus knew the score: by bringing his bus parties here, the driver was on freebies for life. The man seemed to read his mind.
“Way the world turns,” he confessed.
Rebus just nodded. Who was to say the G8 didn’t operate in much the same way? He asked the driver what Lesmahagow was like.
“Sort of place that makes a day out to Coldstream an attractive proposition.” He risked a glance toward his party. There was some sort of dispute over the seating plan. “I swear to God, the UN would have trouble with this crowd.” He gulped his drink. “You weren’t in Edinburgh last week, were you?”
“I work there.”
The driver feigned a wince. “I had twenty-seven Chinese tourists. Arrived by train from London on Saturday
