this morning, he was wearing suit trousers and shirt but no jacket or tie. Pot of coffee in the kitchen and half a banana left on the worktop.’
Rebus nodded his acceptance of this. ‘So where’s this door they broke?’ he asked. Clarke led him out into the hall and turned left. There were two doors, one leading to a modern kitchen, one to a formal dining room with French doors on to a large patio. Broken glass on the carpet, consistent with an attack from the outside.
‘If McCuskey heard something,’ Rebus said, ‘wouldn’t he come looking?’
‘Maybe.’
‘But he was found in the sitting room? Could he have had the TV on? Catching the morning’s headlines. Coffee and a banana, and next thing he knows there’s someone walking in on him.’
‘Makes sense.’
‘But the TV was off? Who was first on the scene anyway?’
‘The private secretary — she has a key.’
‘Maybe ask her about the TV.’
Clarke nodded to let him know she was adding this to her list.
‘Can’t really know what else has gone AWOL until the wife arrives,’ Rebus mused. They locked eyes at the sound of another vehicle crunching its way towards the house. ‘As good as any guard dog,’ Rebus acknowledged.
But when they went to greet the new arrival, it was DCI James Page. ‘What’s
‘I was just about to ask the same thing, sir,’ Rebus retorted.
‘Off with you,’ Page ordered. ‘Nothing for you here.’
‘Aye aye, Captain.’ Rebus gave a mock salute before offering Clarke a sly wink. Page stomped past him into the house, followed by Clarke. Rebus had to admit, he’d been wrong about the man. No new suit and no haircut.
Just shoes freshly polished and the tang of shaving foam wafting after him.
Left to his own devices, Rebus knew he had two options. One was to head back to Fox’s light grilling, which was why he removed his overshoes, stuffed them into his pocket, and went for a walk around the property instead.
There wasn’t much to see at the rear of the house. Clarke was showing Page the broken pane of glass in the door. Rebus headed across an expanse of lawn towards where a line of venerable-looking trees hid the house from the country road beyond. Past the trees was a low stone wall topped with glossy black railings. Rebus peered through them. If a car had pulled over anywhere, it would have caused a minor obstruction — meaning anyone trying to squeeze past in their own vehicle would remember it. Three uniformed officers were probing the long grass forlornly.
‘Anything?’ Rebus asked.
‘Not so far.’
Rebus continued his tour of the perimeter. The thing was, once you’d scaled the fence and emerged from the treeline, you had to cross about eighty yards of highly visible lawn. Okay, it would have been dark first thing in the morning, but there were security lights at strategic points. Rebus checked and they all seemed to be motion- sensitive. So maybe the intruders had come in through the front gate on foot — making almost no noise on the gravel, and hidden from the house by the dense shrubbery either side of the driveway. Still meant a car left somewhere in the vicinity. He headed back around to his starting point and set off down the driveway. There was movement at the gates, the media pack sensing he might have news for them. But he shook his head and pushed his way through. He was looking for a pull-in, a track, somewhere to hide a vehicle. He quickly found a couple of contenders, both now filled by journalists’ cars, the ground churned up. A couple of reporters had followed him, asking questions without getting answers. But now there was a commotion at the gates; Rebus’s disciples rejoined the pack as Page and Clarke came into view. The uniform on guard duty swung the gates open and everyone knew a statement was about to be made.
Before commencing, Page glanced down at his shoes, as if checking that their sheen was intact. As he started to speak, Clarke noticed Rebus and headed in his direction.
‘Might keep them pacified for a while,’ she said under her breath.
‘The wife’s taking her time.’
‘Probably at the hospital as we speak.’
‘You heading there after?’
She nodded. ‘And meantime, I’ve sent Ronnie Ogilvie — just in case McCuskey wakes up.’
‘Any word on that front?’
She shook her head. ‘Wonder what room he’s in — be a coincidence if it’s the same one Jessica Traynor just left.’
‘Wouldn’t be the end of the coincidences around here, Siobhan.’
She looked at him. ‘No,’ she agreed.
‘And yet neither of us has said the name yet. .’
‘Owen Traynor,’ she obliged. ‘With an investor who got thumped after a falling-out.’
‘Ending up in intensive care,’ Rebus added.
‘Is Traynor still in the city, though?’
‘Far as I know, he’s moved Jessica into his hotel.’
‘Do we know which one?’
‘A maximum of half a dozen phone calls would answer that.’
‘Want to make them?’
‘Might as well, eh?’
‘You’d not rather get back to working on Fox?’
‘Working
‘I know what I mean. Is that where you were when I phoned you?’
‘Yes.’
Clarke nodded to herself and watched as James Page got into his stride, taking questions, enunciating his answers clearly for the benefit of the microphones while he made sure the cameras caught his best angles.
‘You have to admit, he’s a pro,’ she commented.
‘Pro everything I’m anti,’ Rebus retorted, taking out his phone and heading further along the road, seeking a quiet spot from where to make his calls.
8
The Caledonian Hotel wasn’t really called that any more. It was, according to the signs on either side of its entrance, the Waldorf Astoria, and had recently undergone a major refit. Sited at the west end of Princes Street, it currently looked on to a carnage of tramline construction. Both Shandwick Place and Queensferry Street were closed to traffic so as to allow the works to progress. Pedestrians were sent through the equivalent of laboratory mazes, squeezing down narrow passageways, hemmed in by high mesh fences behind which sat the tramlines themselves. Rebus had left his Saab out front, with the POLICE notice on its dashboard, the doorman warning him that it might not stop him getting a ticket.
‘Saw a hearse get one once — and an ambulance.’
‘All part of Edinburgh’s rich tapestry,’ Rebus had responded, stepping into the hotel foyer. They called up to Owen Traynor’s room from the reception desk. Rebus was told to take the lift to the third floor. Traynor was waiting at his open door. He was in his shirtsleeves, the sleeves themselves rolled up, cufflinks again dispensed with. No tie. Trousers held up with dark blue braces. Shiny black brogues.
‘What is it now?’ the man barked.
‘Mind if I come in?’
Traynor hesitated, then led Rebus into not a bedroom but a suite, its living area turned into a makeshift office. The laptop computer was new — its box sat under the desk. On the sofa were bags from shops such as Ede
