Cowan.
Then back to Cowan's story: Oh, I suppose so, but you're always worried you'll get everyone excited about nothing. And these men, they didn't really look suspicious. I mean, they weren't wearing masks or carrying bags marked Swag. They were just two men who were chatting. Could have been friends who'd bumped into one another. Do you see what I mean? Both dressed quite normally, casually: denims, I think, and dark jackets, maybe training shoes. The one I got the closest look at had close-cropped hair, either dark brown or black. These big sallow eyes, like a basset- hound. Cheeks to match, and a downtrodden sort of scowl to his mouth, as if he'd just heard something that hadn't pleased him. He was big, had to be over six feet tall. Broad shoulders. Do you think he had something to do with it? My God, maybe I was the last person to see the killer...
'What do you think?' Linford asked.
Rebus was sifting through the other interviews.
'I know,' Linford said, 'it doesn't look like much.'
'Actually, it looks pretty good.' Linford seemed surprised by the comment. 'Problem is, there's not enough of it. Big guy, broad-shouldered... could be a hundred people who fit; Linford nodded; he'd thought this through. 'But if we can get a photofit... Cowan says he's willing.'
'And then what?'
'Pubs in the area, maybe he's local. Plus, a description like that, wouldn't surprise me if he was a brickie.'
'One of the construction workers?'
Linford shrugged. 'Once we've got a photofit...'
Rebus made to hand the sheaf of interviews back. 'Got to be worth a go. Congratulations.'
Linford preened visibly, reminding Rebus why he'd started hating him in the first place. The mildest praise and the man forgot everything else.
'And meantime,' Linford said, 'you go your own way?'
'That's right.'
'And I'm kept out of the picture?'
'Right now, Linford, that's the best place for you, believe me.'
Linford nodded his agreement. 'So what do I do now?' Rebus pushed open the passenger door, 'Stay away from St Leonard's till you've got that letter written. Make sure Siobhan gets it by the end of play today - but not before this afternoon; she needs time to cool off. Tomorrow, maybe it'll be safe to show your face. With the stress on maybe.'
It was enough for Linford. He wanted to shake Rebus's hand. But Rebus closed the door. No way he was shaking the bastard's hand: he'd turned up a nugget, not transformed base metals into gold. And Rebus still didn't trust him, got the feeling he'd turn in his grandmother for a sniff of promotion. The question was: what would he do if he thought his job was under threat?
A bleak occasion; a bleak spot.
Siobhan was there with Rebus. A woolly suit was in attendance, too: the WPC who'd been on the scene the night 'Mackie' had jumped, the one who'd said, You're one of Rebus's, aren't you? A minister was present, and a couple of faces Siobhan recognised from the Grassmarket: they'd nodded a greeting towards her. She hoped they wouldn't want cigarettes today; she'd none with her. Dezzi was there, too, sobbing into a wad of pink toilet paper. She'd found some scraps of black clothing: a gypsy-style skirt, long lace shawl torn almost to streamers. Black shoes, too, a different style on either foot.
No sign of Rachel Drew; maybe she hadn't heard.
So you couldn't have called the graveside busy. Crows were calling near by, threatening to drown out the minister's few and hasty words. One of the Grassmarket pair had to keep nudging his pal, who looked like nodding off. Every time the minister said the name Freddy Hastings, Dezzi mouthed the word Chris. When it was finished, Siobhan turned on her heels and walked quickly away. She didn't want to talk to anyone, had come only from a sense of duty, something no one would thank her for.
Back at the cars, she looked at Rebus for the first time.
'What did the Farmer say to you?' she asked. 'He's taking Linford's word against ours, isn't he?' When Rebus didn't answer, she got into her car, turned the ignition and was gone. Standing by his own car. yet to unlock it. Rebus thought he had seen the beginnings of tears to her eyes.
The yellow JCB digger was going in, clawing rubble from the base. With the tenement's innards showing, the whole scene had a voyeuristic quality, yet at the same time Rebus noticed that some bystanders couldn't look. It was as if a pathologist had gone to work, exposing the body's secrets. These had been people's homes: doors they'd painted and repainted; wallpaper carefully chosen. Per-haps some young couple - newly-weds - had done the skirting boards, getting gloss on their overalls but not really caring. Light fittings, electrical sockets, switches... tumbling into a heap or hanging by threads of cable. And even more furtive elements of the structure: roof beams, plumbing, gaping wounds which had once been chim-neys. A roaring fire at Christmas time... tree decorated in the corner.
The vultures had been at work: few of the better doors remained. Fireplaces had been removed, as had cisterns. wash-hand basins, baths. Water tanks and radiators... the scavengers would turn a profit from them. But what fascinated Rebus were the layers. Paint hidden by paint. wallpaper by wallpaper. A striped confection could be peeled to reveal hints of pale pink peony roses, and beneath that layer yet another, red-coated horsemen. A kitchen had been added to one flat, and the original kitchenette papered over. When the paper was ripped away, the original black and white tiles were revealed. Skips were being filled and loaded on to lorries, taking them to landfills outside the city where the jigsaw pieces would be covered over, a final layer for future archaeologists to scrape away.
Rebus lit a cigarette, narrowing his eyes against gusts of powder and grit. 'Looks like we're a bit on the late side.'
He was standing with Siobhan outside what had been the building containing Freddy Hastings' office. She was calm now, seemed to have put Linford out of her mind as she watched the demolition. Hastings' office had been on the ground floor, with flats above. There was no sign of it now. Once levelled, contractors would commence putting up a new structure, an 'apartment complex' only a stone's throw from the new parliament.
'Someone on the council might know,' Siobhan offered. Rebus nodded: she meant, might know what had happened to the contents of Hastings' office. 'You don't look very hopeful,' she added.
'It's not in my nature,' Rebus said, inhaling the smoke, and with it a mixture of plaster dust and other people's lives.
They drove to the City Chambers on the High Street, where an official was eventually able to provide the name of a solicitor. The solicitor was based in Stockbridge. On the way there, they stopped off at what had been Hastings' home, but the present owners didn't know anything about him. They'd bought from an antique dealer who, they thought, had bought from a football player .1979 was ancient history; New Town flats could change hands every three or four years. Young professionals bought them, one eye on the investment potential. Then they had kids, and the stairs became a chore, or they bemoaned the lack of a garden. They sold up, moved on to something bigger.
The solicitor was young, too, and knew nothing of Frederick Hastings. But he got on the phone to one of the senior partners, who was in a meeting elsewhere. A time was arranged. Rebus and Siobhan debated over whether to return to the office. She suggested a walk along the Dean Valley, but Rebus, remembering that Linford lived in Dean Village, made the excuse that his heart wasn't up to the exertion required.
Siobhan: 'I suppose you want to find a pub.'
Rebus: 'There's a good one actually, just at the corner of St Stephen's Street.'
In the end, they walked to a cafe on Raeburn Place. Siobhan ordered tea, Rebus decaf. A waitress apologised for the fact that they were seated in a no smoking establishment. With a sigh, Rebus put the packet away.
'You know,' he said, 'life used to be so simple.'
She nodded agreement. 'You lived in a cave, clubbed your food to death...'
'And little girls went to charm schools. Now, you've all got degrees from the University of Sarcasm.'
'Three words,' she said: 'pot, kettle and black.'
