He nodded slowly. 'I know. And who's to say he's not right?'
Her frown brought a little vertical crease to the middle of her forehead. 'How do you mean?'
'It was me told him to go chasing Hutton's men. In effect, I was telling him to tag a murderer.'
'But you weren't expecting him to--'
'How do you know? Maybe I did want the bugger hurt.'
'Why?'
Rebus shrugged. 'To teach him something.'
Siobhan wanted to ask what: humility? Or as punishment for his voyeurism? She drank her drink instead.
'But you don't know for sure?' she said at last.
Rebus made to light a cigarette, then thought better of it.
'Don't mind me,' she said.
But he shook his head, slid the cigarette back into its packet. 'Too many today as it is. Besides, I'm outnumbered.' Nodding towards the Irish Times. 'Hayden there doesn't smoke either.'
Hearing his name, the man smiled across, called out, 'For which relief, much thanks,' and went back to his reading.
'So what now?' Siobhan asked. 'Have they suspended you yet?'
'They have to catch me first.' Rebus began playing with the ashtray. 'I've been thinking about cannibals,' he said. 'Queensberry's son.'
'What about him?'
'I was wondering whether there are still cannibals out there, maybe more than we think.'
'Not literally?'
He shook his head. 'We talk about getting a roasting, chewing someone up, eating them for breakfast. We say it's a dog-eat-dog world, but really we're talking about ourselves.'
'Communion,' Siobhan added. 'The body of Christ.'
He smiled. 'I've always wondered about that. I couldn't do it, that wafer turning to flesh.'
'And drinking the blood... that makes us vampires as well.'
Rebus's smile broadened, but his eyes said that his thoughts were elsewhere.
'I'll tell you a strange coincidence,' she said. She went on to tell him about the night at Waverley, the black Sierra and the singles club rapist.
He nodded at the story. 'And I'll tell you a stranger one: that Sierra's licence number was found in Derek Linford's notebook.'
'How come?'
'Because Nicholas Hughes worked for Barry Hutton's company.' Siobhan made to form a question, but Rebus anticipated it. 'Looks like complete coincidence at this stage.'
Siobhan sat back and was thoughtful for a moment. 'Know what we need?' she said at last. 'I mean in the Grieve case. We need corroboration, witnesses. We need someone who'll talk to us.'
'Better get the Ouija board out then.'
'You still think Alasdair's dead?' Waited till he'd shrugged. 'I don't. If he was six feet under, we'd know about it.' She broke off, watching Rebus's face clear suddenly. 'What did I say?'
He was looking at her. 'We want to talk to Alasdair, right?'
'Right,' she agreed.
'Then all we have to do is issue the invitation.'
She was puzzled now. 'What sort of invitation?'
He drained his glass, got to his feet. 'You better do the driving. Knowing my luck recently, I'd wrap us round a lamp-post.'
'What invitation?' she repeated, struggling to get her arms into the sleeves of her coat.
But Rebus was already on his way. As she passed the man with the newspaper, he raised his glass and wished her good luck.
His tone implied that she'd need it.
'You know him then,' she complained, heading for the outside world.
The funeral of Roderick David Rankeillor Grieve took place on an afternoon of steady sleet. Rebus was at the church. He stood towards the back, hymnary open but not singing. Despite the short notice, the place was packed: family members from all over Scotland, plus establishment figures - politicians, media, people from the banking world. There were representatives from the Labour hierarchy in London, playing with their cuff links and checking their silent pagers, eyes darting around for faces they ought to know.
At the church gates, members of the public had gathered, ghouls on the lookout for anyone worth an autograph. Photographers, too, with deadlines to meet, wiping beads of water from zoom lenses. Two TV crews - BBC and independent - had set up their vans. There was a protocol to be observed: invitees only in the churchyard. Police were patrolling the perimeter. With so many public figures around, security was always going to be an issue. Siobhan Clarke was out there somewhere, mingling with the public, scrutinising them without seeming to.
The service seemed long to Rebus. There wasn't just the local minister: the dignitaries had to make their speeches, too. Protocol again. And, filling the front pews, the immediate family. Peter Grief had been asked if he'd sit with his aunts and uncles, but preferred to be with his mother, two rows back. Rebus spotted Jo Banks and Hamish Hall, five rows ahead of his own. Colin Carswell, the Assistant Chief Constable, was wearing his best uniform, looking slightly piqued that there wasn't room for him in the row in front, where so many distinguished invitees had crammed themselves that they had to rise and sit in single, fluid movements.
Speech after speech, the centre aisle decked with wreaths. Roddy Grieve's old headmaster had spoken haltingly and softly, so that each clearing of the throat from the pews drowned out half a sentence. The coffin, dark polished oak, gleaming brass handles, was resting on a trestle. The hearse had been a venerable Rolls-Royce. Limos clogged the narrow streets around the church, some of the cars sporting national flags - representatives from the various Edinburgh consulates. Out on the path. Cammo Grieve had given Rebus a half- twist of his mouth, a sombre smile of greeting. He'd done most of the organising, drawing up lists of names, liaising with officials. After the interment, there was to be a finger buffet at a hotel in the West End. Fewer invitees to this function: family and close friends. There'd be a police presence - security again - but provided by the Scottish Crime Squad.
As another hymn got under way, Rebus slipped from the back of the congregation and out into the churchyard. The burial site was eighty yards away, a family plot containing the deceased's father and one set of grandparents. The hole had already been dug, its edges covered with lengths of green baize. There was melt water in the bottom of the grave. The mound of earth and clay sat ready to one side. Rebus smoked a cigarette, paced the area. Then when he'd finished, he didn't know what to do with the dowp: nicked it and popped it back into the packet.
He heard the church doors opening, the organ music swelling. Walked away from the graveside and took up position at a nearby grouping of poplars. Half an hour later it was all over. Howls and handkerchiefs, black ties and lost looks. As the mourners filtered away, their emotions went with them. What was left was industry, as the diggers got busy filling in the hole. Car doors, engines revving. The scene was cleared in minutes. The churchyard was just that again: no voices or cries, just a crow's defiant call and the crisp working of shovels.
Rebus moved further away, towards the rear of the church building, but keeping the graveside in view. Trees and headstones camouflaging him. The headstones were worn almost smooth. He got the feeling very few these days were privileged to have their resting place here. There was a much larger purpose-built cemetery across the road. He picked out a few names - Warriston, Lockhart, Milroy - and read evidence of infant mortality. Hellish to lose a son or daughter. Now Alicia Grieve had lost two.
An hour he waited, feet growing icy as the damp penetrated his shoe soles. The sleet wasn't letting up, the sky a hard grey shell, muffling the life beneath. He didn't smoke; smoke might draw attention. Even kept his breathing slow and regular, each exhalation a billowing indication of life. Just a man coming to terms with mortality, graveyard memories of past family, past friends. Rebus had ghosts in his life: they came hesitantly these days, not sure how welcome they'd be. Came to him as he sat in darkness, incidental music playing. Came to him on the long nights when he had no company, a gathering of souls and gestures, movement without voice. Roddy Grieve might join them some day, but Rebus doubted it. He hadn't known the man in life, and had little to share with his
