'There never really was an inquiry. But I was as curious as the next man about that four hundred thou. To be honest, I didn't give her much chance.'
'She's a good detective, sir.'
Watson nodded. 'Despite the role model,' he said.
'Look,' Rebus said, 'I know the score here. You're coasting to retirement, would rather this was someone else's shit-pile.'
'Rebus, don't think you can--'
'Linford belongs to Carswell, so you're not about to rub his nose in it. That just leaves the rest of us.'
'Careful what you're saying.'
'I'm not saying anything you don't know yourself.'
The Farmer rose to his feet, rested his knuckles on the desk and leaned towards Rebus. 'And what about you? Building your own private little police force - meetings in the Oxford Bar, running around like it's you that runs this station.'
'I'm trying to solve a case.'
'And get into Clarke's knickers at the same time?'
Rebus jumped to his feet. Their faces were inches apart. Neither man said anything, as if the next word could prove a hair-trigger. The Farmer's phone started ringing. He moved a hand, picked it up and held it to his ear.
'Yes?' he said. Rebus was so close, he could hear Gill Templer in the earpiece: 'Press briefing, sir. You want to see my notes?'
'Bring them in, Gill.'
Rebus pushed away from the desk. He heard the Farmer calling behind him: 'Had we finished, Inspector?'
'I think so, sir.' Managed to close the door without slamming it.
And went to find Linford. Not in the office. He was told that Siobhan was in the ladies' loo, being calmed by a WPC. Canteen? No. The front desk said he'd left the station five minutes earlier. Rebus looked at his watch: it wasn't opening time yet. Linford's BMW wasn't in the car park. He stood on the pavement, took out his mobile, and called Linford's.
'Yes?'
'Where the hell are you?'
'Parked in the Engine Shed car park.'
Rebus turned and looked down St Leonard's Lane: the Engine Shed was at the end. 'What are you doing there?'
'Some thinking.'
'Don't strain yourself.' Rebus was walking along the lane.
'Great. I really appreciate you calling my mobile to hurl insults at me.'
'Always happy to oblige.' He turned into the car park. And there was the Beamer, parked in a disabled spot beside the front door. Rebus switched off his phone and opened the passenger door, got in.
'What an unexpected pleasure,' Linford said, putting his own phone away and resting his hands on the steering wheel, eyes focused on the windshield.
'I like surprises myself,' Rebus said. 'Like being told by my chief super that I'm chasing DC Clarke.'
'Well, aren't you?'
'You know bloody fine I'm not.'
'You seem to be round her flat often enough.'
'Yeah, with you peeking in the windows.'
'Look, okay, when she dumped me I got a bit... It doesn't happen to me very often.'
'Being chucked? I find that hard to believe.'
Linford gave the ghost of a smile. 'Believe what you like.'
'You lied to Watson.'
Linford turned to him. 'You'd have done the same in my shoes. That was my career on the line, right there!'
'Should have thought of that first.'
'Easy to say now,' Linford said quietly. He bit his bottom lip. 'What if I apologise to Siobhan? Went off the rails a bit... won't happen again... that sort of thing?'
'Better put it in writing.'
'In case I make a mess of it?'
Rebus shook his head. 'It's hard to apologise when there's one hand round your throat and another round your balls.'
'Christ, man, I thought a blood vessel was going to burst.'
Rebus was stony faced. 'You could always have fought back.'
'That would have looked good, three other men in the room watching.'
Rebus studied him. 'You're bloody smooth, aren't you? Every step calculated before you take it.'
'Watching Siobhan wasn't calculated.'
'No, I don't suppose it was.' But, despite his words, Rebus wasn't so sure.
Linford turned in his seat, reached for something in the back. Papers: the same crushed bundle he'd been holding in the CID suite.
'Do you think we can talk shop for a minute?'
'Maybe.'
'I know you've been sidetracking me, running your own show and not letting me in. Fine, that's your decision. But all the interviews I've done, there might just be a nugget...' He handed the lot over to Rebus. Pages and pages of meticulous interview notes. The Holyrood Tavern, Jennie Ha's... and not just pubs but flats and businesses in the vicinity of Queensberry House. Cheekily, he'd even gone asking at Holyrood Palace.
'You've been busy,' Rebus grudgingly admitted.
'Shoe leather: it's an old standby, but sometimes it works.'
'So where's the nugget? Or do I have to sift this lot and be impressed by the number of rocks and stones along the way?'
Linford smiled. 'I saved the best for last.'
Meaning the last few pages, stapled together. Two interviews with the same man, conducted over a single day. One casual chat in the Holyrood Tavern itself, the other conducted at St Leonard's, with Hi-Ho Silvers in tow.
The interviewee's name was Bob Cowan and he gave his address as Royal Park Terrace. He was a university lecturer, Economic and Social History. Once a week, he met a friend for a drink at the Holyrood Tavern. The friend lived in the Grassmarket, and the Tavern made for a convenient halfway house. Cowan enjoyed his walk back through Holyrood Park, past St Margaret's Loch with its colony of swans.
The moon was nearly full that night - the night Roddy Grieve met his end - and I left the Tavern about quarter to midnight. Most nights, I never meet a soul on that walk. Precious few dwellings around there. I suppose some people would get a bit nervous. I mean, you read all sorts of stories. But I've never had any bother the three years I've been making that trip. Now, this may not be relevant. I thought about it hard for days after the murder, and I was inclined to think that it wasn't. I saw the photos of Mr Grieve, and neither of these two men looked like him, in my opinion. Of course, I could be mistaken. And though the night was pretty bright, plenty of stars out, a good clear sky, I really only got a good view of one of the men. They were standing across the road from Queensberry House. I'd say directly opposite its gates. They looked like they were waiting for someone. That was what attracted my attention. I mean, that time of night, down there with all the roadworks and construction? A strange choice for a meeting. I remember speculating as I walked home. The usual things: maybe the third man had nipped off somewhere to pee; or it could be some sort of sexual encounter; or they could be about to break into the construction site...
An interjection from Linford: You really should have come forward with this at the time, Mr
