‘Hyde’s what?’
She laughed. ‘I don’t know, John. But it sounds as if it means something to you.’
‘It does, Gill. Are you in Dunfermline?’
‘Calling from the station’s front desk.’
‘Okay. I’ll see you there in an hour.’
‘Fine, John.’ She sounded unconcerned. ‘Bye.’
He cut the connection, put his jacket on, and left the flat. The traffic was busy towards Tollcross, busy all the way down Lothian Road and winding across Princes Street towards Queensferry Road. Since the deregulation of public transport, the centre of the city had become a black farce of buses: double deckers, single deckers, even mini-buses, all vying for custom. Locked behind two claret-coloured LRT double deckers and two green single deckers, Rebus began to lose his tiny cache of patience. He slammed his hand down hard on the horn and pulled out, revving past the line of stalled traffic. A motorcycle messenger, squeezing through between the two directions of slower traffic, had to swerve to avoid the imminent accident, and slewed against a Saab. Rebus knew he should stop. He kept on going.
If only he’d had one of those magnetic flashing sirens, the kind CID used on the roofs of their cars whenever they were late for dinner or an engagement. But all he had were his headlights - full-beam - and the horn. Having
cleared the tailback, he eased his hand off the horn, switched off the lamps, and cruised into the outside lane of the widening road.
Despite a pause at the dreaded Barnton roundabout, he made good time to the Forth Road Bridge, paid the toll, and drove across, not too fast, wanting, as ever, to take in the view. Rosyth Naval Dockyard was below him on the left. A lot of his schoolfriends (’lot’ being relative: he’d never made that many friends) had slipped easily into jobs at Rosyth, and were probably still there. It seemed to be about the only place in Fife where work was still available. The mines were closing with enforced regularity. Somewhere- along the coast in the other direction, men were burrowing beneath the Forth, scooping out coal in a decreasingly profitable curve. …
Hyde! Calum McCallum knew something about Hyde! Knew, too, that Rebus was interested, so word must have got around. His foot pressed down further on the accelerator. McCallum would want a trade, of course: charges dropped, or somehow jigged into a shape less damning. Fine, fine, he’d promise him the sun and the moon and the stars.
Just so long as he knew. Knew who Hyde was; knew where Hyde was. Just so long as he knew.. . .
The main police station in Dunfermline was easy to find, situated just off a roundabout on the outskirts of the town. Gill was easy to find, too. She was sitting in her car in the spacious car park outside the station. Rebus parked next to her, got out of his car and into the passenger side of hers.
‘Morning,’ he said.
‘Hello, John.’
‘Are you okay?’ This was, on reflection, perhaps the most unnecessary question he had ever posed. Her face had lost colour and substance, and her head seemed to be shrinking into her shoulders, while her hands gripped the
steering wheel, fingernails rapping softly against the top of the dashboard.
‘I’m fine,’ she said, and they both smiled at the lie. ‘I told them at the desk that you were coming.’
‘Anything you want me to tell our friend?’
Her voice was resonant. ‘Nothing.’
‘Okay.’
Rebus pushed open the car door and closed it again, but softly, then he headed towards the station entrance.
She had wandered the hospital corridors for over an hour. It was visiting time, so no one much minded as she walked into this and that ward, passing the beds, smiling down occasionally on the sick old men and women who stared up at her with lonely eyes. She watched families decide who should and should not take turns at grandpa’s bedside, there being two only at a time allowed. She was looking for one woman in particular, though she wasn’t sure she would recognise her. All she had to go on was the fact that the librarian would have a broken nose.
Maybe she hadn’t been kept in. Maybe she’d already gone home to her husband or boyfriend or whatever. Maybe Tracy would be better off waiting and going to the library again. Except that they’d be watching and waiting for her. The guard would know her. The librarian would know her.
But would she know the librarian?
A bell rang out, drilling into her the fact that visiting hours were coming to an end. She hurried to the next ward, wondering: what if the librarian’s in a private room? Or in another hospital? Or….
No! There she was! Tracy stopped dead, turned in a half-circle, and walked to the far end of the ward. Visitors were saying their goodbyes and take cares to the patients. Everybody looked relieved, both visitors and visited. She mingled with them as they put chairs back into stacks and
donned coats, scarves, gloves. Then she paused and looked back towards the librarian’s bed. There were flowers all around it, and the single visitor, a man, was leaning over the librarian to kiss her lingeringly on the forehead. The librarian squeezed the man’s hand and. . . . And the man looked familiar to Tracy. She’d seen him before. … At the police station! He was some friend of Rebus’s, and he was a policeman! She remembered him checking on her while she was being held in the cells.
Oh Jesus, she’d attacked a policeman’s wife!
She wasn’t sure now, wasn’t sure at all. Why had she come? Could she go through with it now? She walked with one family out of the ward, then rested against the wall in the corridor outside. Could she? Yes, if her nerve held. Yes, she could.
