he gets started.'
'Second,' Rebus went on, 'was Grieve meant to be found? Wouldn't they try hiding the body?'
Hogan shrugged. 'That's Lorimer again; hard as nails but not half as sharp.'
Rebus looked at him. 'So say he cocked up: how come he's not been punished?'
Now Hogan smiled. 'Punish Mick Lorimer? You'd need a big army. Either that or you'd want to lull him, get him when his guard was down.'
Which reminded Rebus... He called the hotel again. There was still no sign of Rab Hill. Maybe face to face would be better. He needed Hill on his side. Hill was the proof, which was why Cafferty was keeping him close.
If Rebus could get to Rab Hill, he could put Cafferty away again. There was almost nothing he wanted more in the world.
'It'd be like Christmas,' he said aloud. Hogan asked him to explain, but Rebus just shook his head.
Mr Cowan, who'd given them the description of the man on Holyrood Road, took his time over the line-up, but picked out Lorimer eventually. While the prisoner went back to his cell, the others were led away to be given tea and biscuits until their second appearance. They were students mostly.
T get them from the rugby team,' Hogan explained. 'When I need a few bruisers. Half of them are training to be doctors and lawyers.'
But Rebus wasn't listening. The two men were standing outside the station's front door, enjoying a cigarette. And now an ambulance had drawn up, and its back doors were being opened, a ramp lowered. Derek Linford, face heavily bruised, head bandaged and with a surgical collar around his neck. He was in a wheelchair, and as the orderly pushed him closer, Rebus could see wiring around his jaw. His pupils had a drugged blankness to them, but when he spotted Rebus his vision cleared a little, his eyes narrowing. Rebus shook his head slowly, a mixture of sympathy and denial. Linford looked away, trying for a measure of dignity as his wheelchair was turned, the better to get it up the steps.
Hogan flicked his cigarette on to the road, just in front of the ambulance. 'You staying out of it?' he asked. Rebus nodded.
'Think I'd better, don't you?'
He'd smoked two more cigarettes before Hogan reappeared.
'Well,' he said, 'he gave us the nod: Mick Lorimer.'
'Can he talk?'
Hogan shook his head. 'Mouth's full of metal. All he did was nod when I gave him the number.'
'What does Lorimer's lawyer say?'
'Not too happy. He was asking what medicines DI Linford had taken.'
'Are you charging Lorimer?'
'Oh, I think so. We'll try assault to start with.'
'Will it get far?'
Hogan blew out his cheeks. 'Between you and me?
Probably not. Lorimer's not denying being the man Linford followed. Problem with that is, it opens a whole other can of worms.'
'Unauthorised surveillance?'
Hogan nodded. 'Defence would have a field day in court. I'll talk to the girlfriend again. Maybe there's a grudge there...'
'She won't talk,' Rebus said with some confidence. 'They never do.'
Siobhan went to the hospital. Derek Linford was propped up with four pillows at his back. A plastic jug of water and tabloid newspaper for company.
'Brought a couple of magazines,' she said. 'Didn't know what you liked.' She laid the carrier bag on the bed, found a chair near by and brought it over. 'They said you can't talk, but I thought I'd come anyway.' She smiled. 'I won't ask how you're feeling: no point really. I just wanted you to know, it wasn't John's fault. He'd never do something like that... or let something like that happen to someone. He's not that subtle.' She wasn't looking at him. Her fingers played with the handles on the carrier bag. 'What happened between us... between you and me... it was my fault, I see that now. I mean, mine as much as yours. It's not going to help anyone if you...' She happened to glance up, saw the fire and mistrust in his eyes.
'If you...' But the words died in her mouth. She'd rehearsed a little speech, but could see now how little difference it would make.
'The, only person you can blame is the person who did this to you.' She glanced up again, then looked away. 'I'm wondering if that loathing is for me or for John.'
She watched him slowly reach for his tabloid, bringing it down on to the bedcover. There was a biro attached to it. He undipped it and drew something on the paper's front page. She stood up to get a better look, angling her neck. It was a rough circle, as big as he could make it. and it stood, she quickly realised, for the world, for everything, the whole damned lot.
The subject of his loathing.
'I missed a Hibs match to come here,' she told him. 'That's how important this is to me.' He just glared. 'Okay, bad joke,' she said. 'I'd have come anyway.' But he was closing his eyes now, as if tired of listening.
She gave it a couple more minutes, then walked out. Back in her car, she remembered a call she had to make: the slip of paper with the number was in her pocket. It had only taken her twenty minutes to find it amongst the paperwork on her desk.
'Sandra?'
'Yes.'
'I thought you might be out shopping or something. It's Siobhan Clarke.'
'Oh.' Sandra Carnegie didn't sound exactly pleased to hear her.
'We think the man who attacked you has ended up getting himself killed.'
'What happened?'
'He was stabbed.'
'Good. Give whoever did it a medal.'
'Looks like it was his accomplice. He got a sudden attack of conscience. We caught him heading for Newcastle down the Al. He's told us everything.'
'Will you do him for murder?'
'We'll do him for everything we can.'
'Does that mean I'll have to testify?'
'Maybe. But it's great news, isn't it?'
'Yeah, great. Thanks for letting me know.'
The phone went dead in Siobhan's hand. She made an exasperated sound. Her one planned victory of the day snatched away.
'Go away,' Rebus said. 'Thanks, I will' Siobhan pulled out the chair and sat down opposite him, shrugged her arms out of her coat. She'd already bought her drink: fresh orange topped up with lemonade. They were in the back room of the Ox. The front room was busy: Saturday early evening, the football crowd. But the back room was quiet. The TV wasn't on. A lone drinker over by the fire was reading the Irish Times. Rebus was drinking whisky: no empties on the table, but all that meant was he was taking his glass back for a refill each time.
'I thought you were cutting down,' Siobhan said. He just glared at her. 'Sorry,' she said, 'I forgot whisky's the answer to the world's problems.'
'It's no dafter than yogic flying.' He raised the glass to his mouth, paused. 'What do you want anyway?' Tipped the glass and let the warmth trickle into his mouth.
'I went to see Derek.'
'How is he?'
'Not talking.'
'Poor bastard can't, can he?'
'It's more than that.'
