Rather than wait, Siobhan walked to the end of the terrace and down a short path to the River Almond. Ellen and Denise had been as far as the ruined mill but were heading back. Ellen waved, but Denise didn’t seem so keen. She was gripping her sister’s arm. Just you and me…
Denise Wylie was shorter and thinner than her sister. Teenage fears about her weight had left her with a starved look. Her skin was gray, the hair mousy brown and lifeless. She refused to meet Siobhan’s eyes.
“Hiya, Denise,” Siobhan said anyway, receiving a grunt in reply. Ellen, on the other hand, seemed almost unnaturally buoyed, talking twenty to the dozen as they made their way back to the house.
“Go through to the garden,” Ellen insisted, “and I’ll stick the kettle on-or a glass of beer if you’d prefer-but you’re driving, aren’t you? Show wasn’t up to much then? Or did you not go in the end? I’m way past the age of going to watch pop groups-though I’d change my mind for Coldplay-even then I’d want to be sitting. Standing all day in a field? Isn’t that what scarecrows and potato pickers do? Are you upstairs, Denise? Shall I bring you a cup up?” Wylie emerged from the kitchen to place a plate of shortbread on the table. “You all right there, Shiv? Water’s boiling, can’t remember what you take in it.”
“Just milk.” Siobhan peered up at the bedroom window. “Is Denise all right?” At that moment, Wylie’s sister appeared behind the glass, eyes widening as she caught Siobhan staring at her. She yanked the curtains shut. Despite the clammy day, the window itself was closed, too.
“She’ll be fine,” Wylie said, dismissing the question with a flick of her hand.
“And what about you?”
Wylie gave a fluttering laugh. “What about me?”
“Pair of you look like you’ve raided the medicine cabinet but found different bottles.”
Another short, sharp laugh and Wylie retreated to the kitchen. Siobhan rose slowly from the hardwood chair and followed her, pausing at the threshold.
“Have you told her?” she asked quietly.
“About what?” Wylie opened the fridge and found the milk, but then started searching for a jug.
“Gareth Tench-does she know he’s dead?” The words almost caught in Siobhan’s throat.
Tench plays away from home…
There’s a colleague of mine, Ellen Wylie…her sister’s…
Skin’s more fragile than most…
“Oh, Christ, Ellen,” she said now, reaching out a hand to grip the doorjamb.
“What’s the matter?”
“You know, don’t you?” Siobhan’s voice was hardly above a whisper.
“You’re not making sense,” Wylie stated, fretting now with the tray, lifting saucers on and then off again.
“Look me in the eye and tell me you don’t know what I’m talking about.”
“I’ve absolutely no idea what you’re-”
“I asked you to look me in the eye.”
Ellen Wylie made the effort, her mouth a thin, determined line.
“You sounded so weird on the phone,” Siobhan told her. “And now all this jabbering while Denise shoots upstairs.”
“I think you should go.”
“You might want to reconsider, Ellen. But before you do, I want to apologize.”
“Apologize?”
Siobhan nodded, keeping her eyes on Wylie. “It was me who told Cafferty. Wouldn’t have been hard for him to get an address. Were you here?” She watched Wylie bow her head.
“He came here, didn’t he?” Siobhan persisted. “Came here and told Denise about Tench still being married. She was still seeing him?”
Wylie was shaking her head slowly. Tears splashed from her cheeks onto the tiled floor.
“Ellen…I’m so sorry.” There it was on the work surface near the sink-a wooden rack of knives, one slot empty. Kitchen spotless, no sign of washing-up anywhere.
“You can’t have her,” Ellen Wylie sobbed, still shaking her head.
“Did you find out this morning? After she got up? It’s bound to come out, Ellen,” Siobhan argued. “Keep denying it, it’ll destroy both of you.” Siobhan remembered Tench’s own words: Passion’s a snarling beast in some men. Yes, and in some women, too.
“You can’t have her,” Ellen Wylie repeated. But the words had taken on a resigned, lifeless sound.
“She’ll get help.” Siobhan had taken a couple of steps into the small, boxy room. She pressed her hand to Ellen Wylie’s arm. “Talk to her, tell her it’ll be all right. You’ll be there for her.”
Wylie rubbed the back of her forearm across her face, smearing the tears. “You’ve no evidence,” she mumbled; lines she’d walked herself through. A scripted denial, prepared for the eventuality.
“Do we need any?” Siobhan asked. “Maybe I should ask Denise-”
“No, please.” Another shake of the head, and eyes that burned into Siobhan’s.
“What are the chances no one saw her, Ellen? Think she won’t pop up somewhere on security tapes? Think the clothes she wore won’t turn up? The knife she ditched? If it were my case, I’d send a couple of frogmen to the riverbank. Maybe that’s why you went there-looking to retrieve it and make a better job of disposal-”
“Oh, God,” Wylie said, voice cracking. Siobhan gave her a hug, feeling the body beginning to tremble-delayed shock.
“You need to be strong for her, Ellen. Just for a little while longer, you need to hang on…” Siobhan’s thoughts churned as she rubbed a hand across Wylie’s back. If Denise was capable of killing Gareth Tench, what else might she have done? She felt Ellen Wylie tense and pull away from her. The two women’s eyes met.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Wylie said quietly.
“Do you?”
“But Denise never so much as looked at BeastWatch. I was the one who was interested, not her.”
“You’re also the one trying to hide Gareth Tench’s killer, Ellen. Maybe it’s you we should be looking at, eh?” Siobhan’s voice had hardened; so, too, had Wylie’s face, but after a moment it cracked into a sour smile.
“Is that the best you can do, Siobhan? Maybe you’re not as hot as people think. Chief constable might have put you in charge, but we both know it’s John Rebus’s show…though I don’t suppose that’ll stop you taking the credit- always supposing you get a result. So go ahead and charge me if you want.” She held out her wrists as if awaiting handcuffs; then, when Siobhan did nothing, began a slow, humorless laugh. “Not as hot as people think,” she repeated.
Not as hot as people think…
26
Rebus lost no time on the road to Kelso. It was only eight miles away. No sign of Debbie in any of the cars he saw. Didn’t mean she hadn’t contacted Barclay already by phone. The countryside would have been impressive if he’d given it any heed. He sped past the sign welcoming safe drivers to the town, and braked hard when he spotted his first pedestrian. She was dressed head to foot in tweed and walking a small, bug-eyed dog. Looked like she was on her way into the Lidl supermarket.
“Carlingnose Lane,” Rebus told her. “Know where it is?”
“I’m afraid I don’t.” She was still apologizing as Rebus drove off. He tried again in the town center. Received half a dozen different possibilities from the first three locals he asked. Near Floors Castle…up by the rugby ground…the golf course…the Edinburgh road.
Eventually, he found that Floors Castle was on the road marked Edinburgh. Its high perimeter wall seemed to stretch for hundreds of yards. Rebus saw signs to the golf course, then spotted a park with sets of rugby posts. But the housing all around him looked too new, until a couple of schoolgirls walking a dog put him right.
Behind the new houses.
The Saab complained as he slammed it back into first. Engine was making a funny sound; he’d only just noticed it. Carlingnose Lane comprised a single row of tumbledown cottages. The first couple had been modernized and given a lick of paint. The track ended at the final cottage, its whitewashed walls turning yellow. A homemade sign
