had asked when the booze would start affecting his work. He could have told her: it already has.
He picked up his phone, thought about calling Sammy. Then he checked his watch, angling it towards' the window. Gone ten. No, it was too late; it was always too late by the time he remembered. And then she'd end up calling him, and he'd apologise, and she'd say he should call anyway, no matter how late. Even so... he told himself it was too late. There'd be someone in the room next to hers, what if his call woke them up? And Sammy needed her sleep; it was rigorous, all the stuff she was doing: the tests, the exercises. She'd told him she was 'getting there', her way of saying that progress was slow.
Slow progress: he knew all about it. But things were moving now, definitely moving. He felt as if he was in the driving seat, but blindfolded, taking directions from anyone in the car. There were probably lots of Give Way and No Entry signs ahead on the route, but he was pretty good at ignoring those. Problem was, the car had no seat belts, and Rebus's instinct was always to go faster.
He got up, swapped Bowie for Tom Waits. Blue Valentine, recorded just before he went 'junkyard'. Bluesy and seamy and seamless. Waits knew the soul's rotten marrow: the vocals might be an affectation, but the lyrics were from the heart. Rebus had seen him in concert, the actorliness all too apparent, the words still failing to ring false. Selling a version of himself, something packaged for public consumption. Pop stars and politicians did it all the time. These days the successful politicians lacked opinion and colour. They were ventriloquists' dummies, their clothes chosen for them by others, colour-coordinated and 'on message'. He wondered if Seona Grieve would be any different; somehow doubted it. The renegades never found progress easy, and he felt Seona Grieve was too ambitious to take that road. No blindfold for her, just careful hard work in between the mourning. He'd joked with Linford about the widow's motives. Motive, means and opportunity: the Holy Trinity of murder. Rebus's real problem was with the means: he didn't see Seona Grieve as the clawhammer type. But then, if she was being clever, that's exactly the weapon she'd have used: something people would find hard to associate with her.
While Linford had stuck to the main road, following the signposts marked Investigative Procedure, Rebus had managed to find himself on a rutted track. What if the suicide of Freddy Hastings was unconnected to Roddy Grieve? Maybe it was even unconnected to the find in Queensberry House. Was he really chasing shadows, every bit as worthwhile as following the trail of headlamp shadows across his ceiling? His phone rang just as a track ended, startling him.
'It's me,' Siobhan Clarke said. 'I think somebody's spying on me.'
Rebus rang her buzzer. She checked it was him before letting him into the stairwell. Her door was open by the time he reached her floor.
'What's happened?' he asked. She led him into the living room, looking a lot calmer than he felt. There was a bottle of wine on the coffee table: a third of it gone, a little left in the single glass. She'd eaten Indian food: he could smell it. But there were no signs of dishes, everything tidied away.
'I've been getting these calls.'
'What sort of calls?'
'Hang-ups. Two or three times a day. If I'm not in, the answering machine picks them up. Whoever's calling, they wait till the thing's recording before putting the phone down.'
'And if you're here?'
'Same thing: the line goes dead. I tried 1471, but they always withhold their number. And then tonight 'What?'
'I just got this feeling I was being watched.' She nodded towards her window. 'From across there.'
He looked to where she'd closed her curtains. He walked over and opened them, stared out at the tenement opposite. 'Wait here,' he said.
'I could have confronted them myself,' she said, 'but...'
'I won't be a tick.'
She stood by her window, arms folded. Heard the main door close, watched Rebus cross the road. He'd been out of breath. Was he just out of condition, or had he arrived in such a rush? Maybe afraid for her... She wondered now why she'd called him. Gayfield Square was five minutes away; any officer from there would have responded. Or she could have investigated for herself. It wasn't that she was scared. But things like this... creeping feelings... once they were shared, they tended to evaporate. He'd pushed open the main door, gone straight in. She saw him pass the first-floor window, and now he was at the second. Standing there, then pressing himself to the glass and waving to let her know it was okay. Up a further flight, checking no one was hiding there, and straight back down again.
By the time he arrived back, he was breathing harder than ever.
'I know,' he said, falling on to her sofa, 'I should join a gym.' He reached into his pocket for his cigarettes, then remembered that she wouldn't let him smoke, not here. She'd fetched a tall-stemmed glass from the kitchen.
'Least I can do,' she said, pouring in some red.
'Cheers.' He took a long swallow, exhaled. 'This your first bottle tonight?' Trying to make a joke of it.
'I'm not seeing things,' she said. She was kneeling by the coffee table, turning the glass in her hand.
'It's just that when you're on your own... I don't mean you personally, it goes for me, too.'
'What does? Imagining things?' There was a hint of colour to either cheekbone. 'How come you knew?'
He looked at her. 'Knew what?'
'Tell me you've not been watching me.'
His mouth opened, but he couldn't find the words.
'You pushed open the door,' she explained. 'Didn't check to see if it was locked or anything. Because you already knew it wasn't. Then you stopped two floors up. Just taking a breather?' She widened her eyes. 'That was where he was watching from. Not the tenement either side, and that landing.'
Rebus cast his eyes down into his drink. 'It wasn't me,' he said.
'But you know who it is.' She paused. 'Is it Derek?' His silence was answer enough. She bounded to her feet, began pacing. 'When I get my hands on him 'Look, Siobhan--'
She turned on him. 'How did you know?'
So then he had to explain it, and as he finished she reached for her phone, punched in Linford's number. When the call was answered, she cut the connection. She was the one breathing hard now.
'Can I ask a question?' Rebus asked.
'What?'
'Did you put 141 first?' She looked at him blankly. 'That's the prefix if you don't want the caller knowing your number.'
She was still wincing when the phone rang.
'I'm not answering,' she said.
'It might not be Derek.'
'Let the machine take it.'
Seven rings, and the machine clicked into life. Her message first, then the sound of a receiver being replaced.
'Bastard!' she hissed. She picked up her receiver again, hit 1471, listened and slammed the phone down.
'Number withheld?' Rebus guessed.
'What's he playing at, John?'
'He's been jilted, Siobhan. We can turn strange when that happens.'
'You sound like you're on his side.'
'No way. I'm just trying to explain it.'
'Someone jilts you, you start stalking them?' She picked up her wineglass, took gulps from it as she paced. Then she noticed the curtains were still open, hurried over and closed them.
'Come and sit down,' Rebus said. 'We'll talk to him in the morning.'
She ran out of floor eventually, dropped on to the sofa next to him. He tried pouring more wine into
