light in the high windows of Bellman's Bar - its name from years back. What it was called now was anybody's guess. Probably nobody who drank there knew, or cared.
He walked past the BMW, glancing inside. Something on the passenger seat: mobile phone. Linford couldn't be far. Taking that piss maybe, the one he'd said he wouldn't need. Rebus smiled and shook his head, then saw that the BMW's doors weren't locked. He tried the driver's side. By the interior light he could see Linford's notebook. He reached for it, started reading, but the light went off. So he slipped into the driver's seat, closed the door, and flipped the light back on again. Meticulous in every detail, but that didn't count for anything if you were spotted. Rebus went back outside, inspected the few parked cars. They were ageing and ordinary, the kind that passed each MOT with a backhander to a friendly mechanic. He wouldn't place Barry Hutton as the owner of any of them. Yet Hutton had driven here. Did that mean he'd left?
Did that mean Linford had missed him?
Suddenly, this began to seem like the best-case scenario. Rebus started to think of others, not half as appealing. He walked back to the Saab and called in, got St Leonard's to check any activity in Leith. They got back to him pronto: quiet night so far. He sat there, smoking three or four cigarettes, killing the packet. Then he walked over to Bellman's and pushed open the door.
Smoky inside. No music or TV. Just half a dozen men, all standing at the bar, all staring at him. No Barry Hutton; no Linford. Rebus was taking coins from his pocket as he approached.
'Cigarette machine?' he asked.
'Havenae got one.' The man behind the bar was practising a scowl. Rebus blinked sleepily.
'Any packs behind the bar?'
'Naw.'
. He turned to look at the drinkers. 'Any of you guys sell me some?'
'A pound each,' came the lightning response. Rebus snorted.
'That's criminal,' he said.
'Then fuck off and buy them somewhere else.'
Rebus took his time studying the faces, then the bar's blunt decor: three tables, a linoleum floor the colour of ox blood, wood panelling on the walls. Pictures of yesteryear's page three girls. A dartboard gathering cobwebs. He couldn't see any toilets. There were only four optics behind the bar, and two taps: lager or export.
'Must do a roaring trade,' he commented.
'I didn't know you'd booked a floor show tonight. Shug,' one drinker said to the barman.
'The floor's where he'll end up,' the barman said.
'Easy, boys, easy.' Rebus held up his hands in appeasement, started backing away. 'I'll be sure to tell Barry that this is what you call hospitality.'
They weren't falling for it, stayed silent until Shug the barman spoke. 'Barry who?' he said.
Rebus shrugged, turned and walked out.
It was another five minutes before he got the call. Derek Linford: already on his way to the Infirmary.
Rebus paced the corridor: didn't like hospitals; liked this one less than most. This was where they'd brought Sammy after the hit and run.
At just after eleven, Ormiston appeared. Police officer attacked, Fettes and Crime Squad always took an interest.
'How is he?' Rebus asked. He wasn't alone: Siobhan was seated with a can of Fanta, looking shell- shocked. More officers had looked in - including the Farmer and Linford's boss from Fettes, the latter pointedly ignoring Rebus and Siobhan.
'Not good,' Ormiston said, searching in his pockets for change for the coffee machine. Siobhan asked him what he needed, handed over some coins.
'Did he say what happened?'
'Doctors didn't want him talking.'
'But did he tell you?'
Ormiston straightened up, plastic cup in hand. 'He got whacked from the back, and a few kicks for good measure. Best part of a broken jaw, I'd say.'
'So he probably wasn't in a chatty mood,' Siobhan said, looking at Rebus.
'They've pumped him full of drugs anyway,' Ormiston said, blowing on the liquid in his cup and eyeing it speculatively. 'Is this coffee or soup, would you say?'
Siobhan shrugged.
'He did write something down,' Ormiston said at last. 'Bugger seemed keen enough about that.'
'What did it say?' Siobhan asked.
Ormiston glanced towards Rebus. 'I might be paraphrasing, but it was along the lines of: Rebus knew I was there.'
'What?' Rebus's face was like stone. Ormiston repeated the words for him.
Siobhan looked from one man to the other. 'Meaning what?'
'Meaning,' Rebus said, slumping into a chair, 'he thinks I did it. Nobody else knew where he was.'
'But it had to be whoever he was following,' Siobhan argued. 'Stands to reason.'
'Not Derek Linford's reason.' Rebus looked up at her. 'I phoned him, said I was on my way down. Could be I set him up, grassed him to whoever was in the bar. Or could be I was the one who whacked him.' He looked to Ormiston for confirmation. 'That how you see it, Ormie?'
Ormiston said nothing.
'But why would you...?' Siobhan's question trailed off as she saw the answer. Rebus nodded, letting her know she was right. Revenge... jealousy... because of what Linford had done to Siobhan.
That was Linford's thinking. The way he saw the world, it made perfect sense.
To Linford's mind, it was perfect.
Siobhan was sitting outside the hospital in her car, debating whether to visit the patient or not, when she heard the call on her radio.
Be on the lookout for a black Ford Sierra Cosworth, driver may be Jerry Lister, wanted for questioning concerning a major incident, code six.
Code six? The codes were always changing - all except code twenty-one, officer requiring assistance. Right now a 4-07 code six was suspicious death - usually meaning homicide. She called in, was told that the victim's name was Nicholas Hughes. He'd been stabbed to death with a pair of scissors, his body found by Lister's wife on her return home. The woman was now being treated for shock. Siobhan was thinking back to that night, the night she'd taken the short cut through Waverley. She'd taken it because of the two men in the black Sierra, one of them saying to the other, Lesbian, Jerry, and now a man called Jerry was on the run in a black Sierra.
She'd tried to get away, and in doing so had ended up involved with a tramp's suicide.
The more she thought about it, the more she couldn't help wondering...
The Farmer was apoplectic.
'Whose idea was it for him to be tailing Barry Hutton in the first place?'
'DI Linford was using his own initiative, sir.'
'Then how come I see your grubby little prints all over this?'
Saturday morning, they were seated in the Farmer's office. Rebus was edgy to start with: he had a pitch to sell, and couldn't see his boss going for it.
'You've seen his note,' the Farmer continued. ' 'Rebus knew'. How the hell do you think that looks?'
There was so much tension in Rebus's jaw, his cheeks were aching. 'What does the ACC say?'
'He wants an inquiry. You'll be suspended, of course.'
'Should keep me out of your way till retirement.'
The Chief Super slammed both hands against his desk, too angry to speak. Rebus took his chance.
'We've got a description of the guy seen hanging around Holyrood the night Grieve was murdered.
