The smile left his soul.
It had been too good to last. Tracy had woken him with breakfast on a tray. Orange juice, toast and honey, strong coffee. She’d gone out early, she explained, taking with her a little money she found on the shelves in the living room. She hoped he didn’t mind. She had found a corner shop open, made the purchases, come back to the flat, and made him breakfast.
‘I’m surprised the smell of burning toast didn’t wake you,’ she had said.
‘You’re looking at the man who slept through Towering Inferno,’ he had replied. And she had laughed, sitting on the bed taking dainty bites of toast with her exposed teeth, while Rebus chewed his slices slowly, thoughtfully. Luxuriously. How long had it been since he’d been brought breakfast in bed? It frightened him to think… .
‘Come in!’ he roared now, though no one had knocked.
Tracy had left without complaint, too. She felt all right, she said. She couldn’t stay cooped up forever, could she? He had driven her back towards Pilmuir, then had done something stupid. Given her ten pounds. It wasn’t just money, as he realised a second after handing it over. It was a bond between them, a bond he shouldn’t be making. It lay there in her hand, and he felt the temptation to snatch it back. But then she was out of the car and walking away, her body fragile as bone china, her gait determined, full of strength. Sometimes she reminded him of his daughter Sammy, other times.. . .
Other times of Gill Templer, his ex-lover.
‘Come in!’ he roared again. This time the door opened an inch, then another ten or eleven. A head looked into the room.
‘Nobody’s been knocking, sir,’ the head said nervously.
‘Is that so?’ said Rebus in his best stage voice. ‘Well, in that case I’d better just speak to you two instead. So why don’t you come in!’
A moment later, they shuffled through the doorway, a
bit less cocky now. Rebus pointed to the two chairs on the other side of his desk. One of them sat immediately, the other stood to attention.
‘I’d rather stand, sir,’ he said. The other one looked suddenly fearful, terrified that he had broken some rule of protocol.
‘This isn’t the bloody army,’ Rebus said to the standing one, just as the sitting one was rising. ‘So sit down!’
They both sat. Rebus rubbed his forehead, pretending a headache. Truth be told, he had almost forgotten who these constables were and why they were here.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Why do you think I’ve called you here this morning?’ Corny but effective.
‘Is it to do with the witches, sir?’
‘Witches?’ Rebus looked at the constable who had said this, and remembered the keen young man who had shown him the original pentagram. ‘That’s right, witches. And overdoses.’
They blinked at him. He sought frantically for a route into the interrogation, if interrogation this was to be. He should have thought more about it before coming in.
He should have at least remembered that it had been arranged. He saw a ten-pound note, a smile, could smell burning toast…. He looked at the pentagram constable’s tie.
‘What’s your name, son?’
‘Todd, sir.’
‘Todd? That’s German for dead, did you know that, Todd?’
‘Yes, sir. I did German at school up to Highers.’
Rebus nodded, pretending to be impressed. Damn, he was impressed. They all had Highers these days, it seemed, all these extraordinarily young-looking constables. Some had gone further: college, university. He had the feeling Holmes had been to university. He hoped he hadn’t enlisted the aid of a smart arse. . . .
Rebus pointed to the tie.
‘That looks a bit squint, Todd.’
Todd immediately looked down towards his tie, his head angled so sharply Rebus feared the neck would snap.
‘Sir?’
‘That tie. Is it your usual one?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘So you haven’t broken a tie recently?’
‘Broken a tie, sir?’
‘Broken the clip,’ explained Rebus.
‘No, sir.’
‘And what’s your name, son?’ Rebus said quickly, turning to the other constable, who looked completely stunned by proceedings so far.
‘O’Rourke, sir.’
‘Irish name,’ Rebus commented.
