‘He tells me you met at a party.’
‘That’s right. I went there with Alice and got talking to Forbes in the kitchen.’
‘Just like the song, eh?’
‘What song?’
‘Before your time,’ Rebus admitted, gesturing towards her phone. ‘A couple of texts, you say — I’m guessing one before he came in to talk to us and one after?’
She ignored this. ‘I’m still not really sure why you’re here. .’
Rebus offered a shrug. ‘It just bugs me when people lie to my face. I start to wonder what it is they’re afraid of. In your case, it might be something or nothing, but until I know for sure. .’
‘Would it really matter if Forbes was in the car?’ She was staring at him.
‘If he was in the car, that means he left you there. Didn’t phone for help or flag down a passing motorist. .’
‘I don’t see why the police would be interested in any of that.’
Rebus gave another shrug. ‘What about your father? Won’t he be interested?’
‘It’s not really any of his business, is it?’
‘Fair enough.’ Rebus watched as she checked the screen of her phone. Maybe she had messages and maybe she didn’t. ‘How long till you get to leave here?’
‘I’ve got to talk to a physio first.’
‘They’ll probably tell you to stay away from fast cars for a while.’
She managed a half-smile.
‘And country roads at night,’ Rebus added. ‘West Lothian isn’t called the Badlands for nothing.’
She looked up at him. ‘Badlands?’
‘Because it’s largely lawless.’
‘That explains a lot.’ Rebus waited for more, but she pressed her lips together. A classic tell: she knew she’d let something slip.
‘Jessica, if there’s anything you feel you need to-’
‘Get out!’ she yelled, just as a nurse entered the room. ‘I want him to leave! Please!’
Rebus already had his hands up in a show of surrender. He walked past the nurse and into the corridor.
Explained what, though? Something had happened that evening. Rebus made a little mental note to check back — the comms room at Bilston Glen would have records of anything that had been reported. Illegal races? Locals trying to scare the tourists?
‘Something or nothing,’ he muttered to himself, exiting the hospital and readying to light a cigarette. A black cab had pulled up. The passenger had left the back seat, preparing to pay the driver at the passenger-side window. Basic error by someone who was used to a different system — in Edinburgh you paid before getting out. Rebus walked over and waited behind Owen Traynor. He seemed to be wearing the same suit but a fresh shirt. The driver passed over some change and a receipt, and Traynor turned away, startled to find Rebus right in front of him.
‘Bloody hell,’ he said.
‘Sorry, sir. I was just leaving.’
‘You’ve been to see Jessica?’
Rebus nodded.
‘And?’
‘And what, Mr Traynor?’
‘Do you still think that boyfriend of hers was behind the steering wheel?’
‘It’s a scenario.’
‘Well maybe she’ll tell me.’
Rebus doubted it, but didn’t say as much. ‘Probably simpler for everyone if we just drop it,’ he suggested instead. ‘Whatever the truth is, Jessica’s standing by Mr McCuskey.’
‘Yes, but if he did that to her. .’
‘Like I say, sir, better to just let it be. We don’t want anyone doing something daft, do we?’
Traynor stared at him.
‘You see what I’m saying?’ Rebus went on.
‘I’m not sure that I do,’ Traynor drawled.
‘You have a reputation, Mr Traynor. And I’m interested how you came by your friends in the Met.’
‘Maybe I’m just a member of the right clubs.’ Traynor began edging past Rebus, making for the hospital entrance.
‘My town, my rules,’ Rebus called out. But Owen Traynor showed no sign of having heard.
‘Thanks for meeting me,’ Malcolm Fox said, rising from the table and extending a hand towards Siobhan Clarke. ‘What can I get you?’
‘Brian’s already on it.’ She nodded towards the counter. The café owner was busy at the espresso machine. The place was only a hundred yards or so down Leith Walk from Gayfield Square, but she didn’t know any other cops who frequented it. Making it a safe rendezvous, more or less.
Clarke slid on to the banquette opposite Fox. They’d met before, but just barely.
‘I heard you were on your way out of the Complaints,’ she said. ‘That can’t be comfortable.’
‘No,’ Fox agreed, rubbing a hand across the tabletop.
Reorganisation again — internal-affairs officers were not exempt. Their Edinburgh office was about to be trimmed. Besides which, Fox had served his allotted time. He was being shipped back to CID, where he would work alongside men and women he’d investigated, in stations he’d investigated, stations where he would be mistrusted if not reviled.
The café owner brought over Clarke’s cappuccino and asked Fox if he wanted a refill. Fox nodded.
‘Black coffee, no sugar,’ he reminded the man.
‘Because you’re already too sweet?’ Clarke pretended to guess, eliciting a wry smile. She leaned back a little and turned to watch the pedestrians on the pavement outside. ‘So why am I fraternising with the enemy?’ she asked.
‘Maybe because you know I’m not the enemy. The Complaints exists so that cops like you — the good cops — can thrive.’
‘I bet you’ve said that before.’
‘Many times.’
She turned towards him. He still had the same wry smile on his face.
‘You need a favour?’ she guessed, receiving a slow nod by way of reply. His coffee arrived and he touched the rim of the saucer with the tips of his fingers.
‘It’s to do with John Rebus,’ he stated.
‘Of course it is.’
‘I’ve got to talk to him.’
‘I’m not stopping you.’
‘The thing is, Siobhan, I need him to talk. And if the request comes from me, he’ll doubtless respond with a few choice words.’
‘Request?’
‘Order, then. And it won’t be coming from me, not ultimately. .’
‘The Solicitor General?’ Clarke suggested. Fox tried not to look too surprised that she knew. ‘I saw her making a beeline for you at the Chief’s leaving do.’
‘She’s entrusted me with a job.’
‘A Complaints job?’
‘My last,’ he said quietly, staring at his saucer.
‘And if you break a sweat, she rewards you how? A big promotion? Something to lift you off the pitch and
