so the woman could drop a couple of coins into the slot. Clarke focused on the woman's right hand. Liver spots, sagging skin. The left hand went to the tray: her wedding finger was still marked from where she'd removed her ring. It was probably in her bag. Her face was machine-tanned, hopeful but hardened by experience. She winked.
'You never know.'
Clarke forced a smile. Back at the station, she'd heard Singles Night at the Marina called all sorts of things: Jurassic Park, Grab-a-Granny. The usual bloke jokes. She found it depressing, but couldn't have said why. She didn't frequent nightclubs, not when she could help it. Even when she'd been younger - school and college years - she'd avoided them. Too noisy, too much smoke and drink and stupidity. But it couldn't just be that. These days, she followed Hibernian football club, and the terraces were full of cigarette smoke and testosterone. But there was a difference between the crowd in a stadium and the crowd at a place like the Marina: not many sexual predators chose to do their hunting in the midst of a football crowd. She felt safe at Easter Road; even attended away matches when she could. Same seat at every home game... she knew the faces around her. And afterwards... afterwards she melted into the streets, part of the anonymous mass. Nobody 'd ever tried to chat her up. That wasn't why they were there, and she knew it, hugging the knowledge to her on cold winter afternoons when the floodlights were needed from kick-off. The cubicle bolt slid back and Sandra emerged. 'About bleedin' time,' someone called out. 'Thought you'd a fellah in there with you.'
'Only to wipe my backside on,' Sandra said. The voice -all tough, casual humour - was forced. Sandra started fixing her make-up at the mirror. She'd been crying. There were fresh veins of red in the corners of her eyes. 'All right?' Clarke asked quietly. 'Could be worse, I suppose.' Sandra studied her reflection. 'I could always be pregnant, couldn't I?'
Her rapist had worn a condom, leaving no semen for the labs to analyse. They'd run checks on sex offenders, ruled out a slew of interviewees. Sandra had gone through the picture books, a gallery of misogyny. Just looking at their faces was enough to give some women nightmares. Bedraggled, vacuous features, dull eyes, weak jaws. Some victims who'd gone through the process... they'd had unasked questions, questions Clarke thought she could phrase along the lines of: Look at them, how could we let them do this to us? They're the ones who look weak.
Yes, weak at the moment of photographing, weak with shame or fatigue or the pretence of submission. But strong at the necessary moment, the crackling moment of hate. The thing was, they worked alone, most of them. The second man, the accomplice... Siobhan was curious about him. What did he get out of it?
'Seen anyone you fancy?' Sandra was asking now. Her lipstick trembled slightly as she applied it.
'No.'
'Got someone at home?'
'You know I haven't.'
Sandra was still watching her in the mirror. 'I only know what you've told me.'
'I told you the truth.'
Long conversations, Clarke setting aside the rule book and opening herself to Sandra, answering her questions, stripping away her police self to reveal the person beneath. It had begun as a trick, a ploy to win Sandra over to the scheme. But it had evolved into something more, something real. Clarke had said more than she'd needed to, much more. And now it seemed Sandra hadn't been convinced. Was it that she didn't trust the detective, or was it that Clarke had become part of the problem, just someone else Sandra could never wholly trust? After all, they hadn't known one another until the rape; would never have met if it hadn't happened. Clarke was here at the Marina, looking like Sandra's friend, but that was another trick. They weren't friends; probably would never be friends. A vicious assault had brought them together. In Sandra's eyes, Clarke would always remind her of that night, a night she wanted to forget.
'How long do we have to stay?' she was asking now.
'That's up to you. We can leave any time you like.'
'But if we do, we might miss him.'
'Not your fault, Sandra. He could be anywhere. I just felt we had to give it a try.'
Sandra turned from the mirror. 'Half an hour more.' She glanced at her watch. 'I promised my mum I'd be home by twelve.'
Clarke nodded, followed Sandra back into a darkness punctuated by lightning, as if the light show could somehow earth all the energy in the room.
Back at the booth, Clarke's seat had been taken by a new arrival. Youngish male, fingers running down the condensation on a tall glass of what looked like straight orange juice. The club members seemed to know him.
'Sorry,' he said, getting to his feet as Clarke and Sandra approached. 'I've nicked your seat.' He stared at Clarke, then put out his hand. When Clarke took it, his grip tightened. He wasn't going to let her go.
'Come and dance,' he said, pulling her in the direction of the dance floor. She could do little but follow him, right into the heart of the storm where arms buffeted her and the dancers squealed and roared. He looked back, saw that they were no longer visible from the table, and kept moving, crossing the floor, leading them past one of the bars and into the foyer.
'Where are we going?' Clarke asked. He looked around, seemed satisfied and leaned towards her. 'I know you,' he said.
Suddenly, she knew that his face was familiar to her. She was thinking: criminal, someone I helped put away? She glanced to left and right.
'You work at St Leonard's,' he went on. She stared towards where his hand still held her wrist. Following her gaze, he let go suddenly. 'Sorry,' he said, 'it's just that...'
'Who are you?'
He seemed hurt that she didn't know. 'Derek Linford.' Her eyes narrowed. 'Fettes?' He nodded. The newsletter, that's where she'd seen his face. And maybe in the canteen at HQ. 'What are you doing here?'
'I could ask you the same thing.'
'I'm with Sandra Carnegie.' Thinking: no, I'm not; I'm out here with you... and I promised her...
'Yes, but I don't...' His face crumpled. 'Oh, hell, she was raped, wasn't she?' He ran thumb and forefinger down the slope of his nose. 'You're trying for an ID?'
'That's right.' Clarke smiled. 'You're a member?'
'What if I am?' He seemed to expect an answer, but Clarke just shrugged. 'It's not the kind of information I bandy about, DC Clarke.' Pulling rank, warning her off.
'Your secret's safe with me, DI Linford.'
'Ah, speaking of secrets...' He looked at her, head tilted slightly.
'They don't know you're CID?' It was his turn to shrug. 'Christ, what have you told them?'
'Does it matter?'
Clarke was thoughtful. 'Hang on a sec, we talked to the club members. I don't remember seeing your name.'
'I only joined last week.'
Clarke frowned. 'So how do we play this?'
Linford rubbed his nose again. 'We've had our dance. We go back to the table. You sit one side, me the other. We really don't need to talk to one another again.'
'Charming.'
He grinned. 'I didn't mean it like that. Of course we can talk.'
'Gee, thanks.'
'In fact, something incredible happened this afternoon.' He took her arm, guided her back into the club. 'Help me get a round of drinks from the bar, and I'll tell you all about it.'
'He's an arse.'
'Maybe so,' Clarke said, 'but he's rather a sweet arse.'
John Rebus sat in his chair, holding the cordless phone to his ear. His chair was by the window. There were no curtains and the shutters were still open. No lights were on in his living room, just a bare sixty-watt bulb in the hall. But the street lamps bathed the room in an orange glow.
