towards the future.
'Crime of the Century,' Siobhan repeated. 'Which one, do you think - your dead MSP or my mystery suicide?'
'Don't forget the body in the fireplace. Where's your flat again?'
'Just off Broughton Street.'
As they drove, they watched the buildings and the pedestrians, were aware of other cars drawing level with them at traffic lights. Cop instinct: always on the lookout. Most people just got on with their lives, but a detective's life was made up of other people's lives. The city seemed quiet enough. Not yet late enough for drunks, and the weather was keeping people off the streets.
'You have to worry about the homeless, this time of year,' Siobhan said.
'You should take a look at the cells on the run-up to Christmas. The woolly suits take in as many as they can.'
She looked at him. 'I didn't know that.'
'You've never worked Christmas.'
'They arrest them?'
Rebus shook his head. 'Ask to be locked up. That way there's a hot meal for them right through to New Year. Then we let them out again.'
She leaned back against the headrest. 'God, Christmas.'
'Do I detect a hint of humbug?'
'My parents always want me to go back home.'
Tell them you're working.'
That would be dishonest. What are you doing anyway?'
'For Christmas?' He thought about it. 'If they want me for a shift at St Leonard's, I'll probably clock in. It's a good laugh at the station, Christmas Day.'
She looked at him but didn't say anything, until she told him her street was next left. There were no parking spaces outside her building. Rebus drew up alongside a gleaming black 4x4. 'That's not yours, is it?'
'Hardly.'
He peered up at the flats. 'Nice street though.'
'Do you want some coffee?'
He thought it over, remembering the way she'd flinched: did it say something about what she thought of him, or about Siobhan herself? 'Why not?' he said at last. 'There's a parking space further back.' So Rebus reversed fifty yards and parked kerbside. Her flat was two floors up. No clutter; everything in its place. It was what he'd have expected, and he was pleased he'd been right. Framed prints on the walls, adverts for art exhibitions. A rack of CDs and a decent hi-fi system. Several shelves of videos: comedies mostly, Steve Martin, Billy Crystal. Books: Kerouac, Kesey, Camus. Lots of law texts. There was a functional-looking green two-seat sofa, plus a couple of unmatching chairs. From the window, he looked on to an identical tenement, curtains closed, windows darkened. He wondered if Siobhan wanted her curtains left open.
She'd gone straight into the kitchen to put the kettle on. His tour of the living room complete, he went to find her. Past two bedrooms, doors open. Clatter of mugs and teaspoons. She was opening the fridge as he came in.
'We should talk about Sithing,' Rebus said. 'How best to tackle him.' Siobhan swore. 'What is it?'
'Out of milk,' she said. 'I thought I'd one of those UHT packets in the cupboard.' I'll take it black.'
She turned to the worktop. 'Fine.' Opened a storage jar, peered in. 'Except I'm out of coffee, too.' Rebus laughed. 'Do much entertaining, do you?'
'Just haven't managed a supermarket run this week.'
'No problem. There's a chippie on Broughton Street. Coffee and milk both, if we're lucky.'
'Let me give you some money.' She was looking for her bag.
'My treat,' he said, heading for the door.
When he was gone, Siobhan rested her head against the cupboard door. She'd hidden the coffee right at the back. She just needed a minute or two. It was so seldom she brought people back here, and John Rebus's first visit. A minute or two to herself, that was all she wanted. In the car, when he'd reached towards her... what was he going to think about that? She'd thought he was making a move; not that he ever had before, so why had she flinched? Most of the men she worked with, there was innuendo, the occasional blue joke - looking for her to react. But never John Rebus. She knew he was flawed, had problems, but still he'd brought a certain solidity to her life. He was someone she felt she could trust, come hell or high water.
Something she didn't want to lose.
She turned the kitchen light off, walked into the living room, stood at her window and stared out at the night. Then turned and started doing some tidying.
Rebus buttoned up his jacket, glad to be outdoors. Siobhan hadn't been happy about him being there, that was obvious. He'd felt the same way: uncomfortable. Try to keep your work and social life separate. It was hard in the force: you drank together, telling stories outsiders wouldn't understand. The bond went deeper than desk and office, patrol car and local beat.
But tonight, he felt, was different. And after all, he didn't like visitors either; had never encouraged Siobhan or anyone else to visit his home. Maybe she was more like him than he realised. Maybe that was what made her nervous.
He didn't think he was going to go back. Head home, phone and apologise. He unlocked the car, but didn't start the engine straight away: left the keys hanging from the ignition. Lit a cigarette instead. Maybe he'd fetch the milk and coffee, leave them at her door before heading off. That would be the decent thing. But the main door to the building was locked. He'd have to buzz her to be let in. Leave the stuff on the pavement...?
Just go home.
He heard a sudden noise, watched as someone left the tenement opposite Siobhan's. Sort of jogging their way along the pavement, but then taking the first left into an alley, where they stopped. A jet of urine hitting the wall, steam rising into the frosted air. Rebus sitting in darkness, watching. Someone on their way out, caught short? Maybe a blocked toilet at home...? The man was zipping himself up, jogging back the way he'd come. Rebus caught a glimpse of the face as the man passed beneath a street lamp. Back to the tenement, door opening and closing.
Rebus kept smoking his cigarette, a vertical frown-line appearing in the centre of his brow.
He stubbed the cigarette into his ashtray, removed his keys from the ignition. Opened and closed his door quietly, leaving it unlocked. Crossed the street practically on tiptoe, keeping out of the light. A taxi passed by at speed, Rebus hugging the rails in front of the tenement. Reached the main door. This one, unlike Siobhan's, was unlocked. The block looked less cared-for, the stairwell needing a coat of paint. Faint smell of cat piss. Rebus closed the door slowly, another taxi masking any noise. Made his way to the foot of the stairs and listened. He could hear a television playing somewhere, or maybe it was a radio. He looked at the stone steps, knew he couldn't walk up them without making a noise. His shoes would sound like sandpaper on wood, echoing up four storeys. Shoes off? Not a chance. Besides, he wasn't sure an element of surprise was strictly necessary. He began to climb. Reached the first-floor landing. Started up to the second.
Now footsteps could be heard coming down. A man with the collar of his raincoat turned up, face all but obscured. Hands deep in pockets. A grunt, but no eye contact as he made to pass Rebus.
'Hello there, Derek.'
Derek Linford was two steps further on before he seemed to realise. He stopped, turned.
'Thought you lived in Dean Village,' Rebus said.
'I was just visiting a friend.'
'Oh aye? Who's that then?'
'Christie, next floor up.' Said too quickly.
'First name?' Rebus asked, smiling a humourless smile.
'What do you want?' Climbing back up one step, not liking the fact that Rebus was standing so far above him. 'What are you doing here?'
'This Christie, got a blocked toilet or what?'
