Rebus heard a cold chuckle on the other end of the line. ‘And yet here I am at an adversary’s funeral.’
‘Odd how many of your adversaries end up dead.’
The silence lingered, until Gilmour broke it. ‘I’m going back in now.’
‘Enjoy your freedom, Stefan. There might not be much more of it. .’
Rebus ended the call and headed back to the booth, where Clarke had finished her meal and was holding a hand to her stomach.
‘That bad?’ Rebus asked.
‘Ate too quickly,’ she explained, stifling a burp.
‘So what do you make of Malcolm’s theory?’
She looked at both men, then offered a shrug. ‘A few facts would be nice.’
‘Wouldn’t they, though?’ Rebus agreed.
Clarke’s eyes were on Fox. ‘Because I’m not sure any of this gets us much closer to proving who killed Billy Saunders. On the other hand, maybe that’s not what’s most important to you — maybe Summerhall’s still top of your list.’
‘I don’t really see a distinction, and I’m not sure John does either.’
‘What about Pat McCuskey?’ Rebus asked. ‘Does anyone know if the investigation’s still stalled?’
‘Far as I can tell,’ Clarke answered. ‘And that’s driving Nick Ralph spare.’ She looked at Rebus. ‘You think it connects to that crash, don’t you?’
‘Jessica’s flatmate was sleeping with him,’ Rebus stated.
‘What?’
‘Alice Bell. She had a thing going with Forbes’s dad.’
‘Did Forbes know?’
‘I’m not sure — Alice says not.’
‘And Jessica?’
‘Ditto.’
‘Could that be what happened? They’re out driving and they happen to see the pair of them?’
‘Might make me put pedal to metal,’ Rebus conceded. ‘But Alice is keeping quiet.’
‘Worth nudging her a bit?’
The look on Rebus’s face said no. He turned towards Fox.
‘I suppose you’d go to DCI Ralph with it anyway? That way your arse is covered if it turns out to be important.’
Fox considered for a moment, then nodded. Rebus turned his attention back to Clarke.
‘So maybe that’s what you should do.’
‘Saunders is my priority, John.’ She checked her watch. ‘Which means I need to get back and crack the whip.’
‘Might want to stop off at a pharmacy first,’ Rebus said, indicating her stomach. ‘Dose of liver salts will see you right.’
‘I’ll take that under advisement,’ Siobhan Clarke said.
That evening Rebus drove the full length of Arden Street, seeking a parking space, ending up in Marchmont Crescent. Cursing his luck, he locked the car and crossed Marchmont Road, stopping in at Margiotta’s for provisions before walking home. At the top of Arden Street, he saw a figure slumped in a doorway. Heading towards it, he recognised Forbes McCuskey. The young man was dressed in his funeral suit but was missing his tie. The top three buttons of his shirt were undone, and something had been spilled on the shirt itself. He had lit a cigarette and it was still wedged between two fingers, reduced to the filter and an inch of ash. Rebus nudged McCuskey’s foot with his own.
‘Wakey wakey,’ he said.
The eyes, when they blinked open, were glassy and unfocused.
‘This where you live?’ Rebus asked.
Mustering all his strength, the student turned his head to examine the door behind him.
‘Looks like,’ he slurred.
‘Bit too much wine?’ Rebus guessed. ‘Or have you been sampling the goods?’ He leaned down and started to lift McCuskey to his feet. The student was wiry, almost no meat on him. The jacket of his suit was scuffed, as were his shoes.
‘How did you get here?’ Rebus asked.
‘I didn’t drive,’ McCuskey protested.
‘But you were driving that night, weren’t you?’
‘Had to get away.’
‘Who from?’
But McCuskey was sagging, eyes closing again.
‘Let’s get you inside,’ Rebus said, dipping a hand into various pockets in search of a key.
‘What’s your game?’ Rebus turned his head towards the question. Two men the same age as Forbes McCuskey stood there, carrying grocery bags of their own. ‘You picking Forbes’s pockets?’
‘Is he your flatmate?’ Rebus said. ‘Found him sparked out here. Just getting a key to unlock the door.’
‘He’s been to his father’s funeral,’ one of the flatmates explained. ‘Leave him to us.’
‘You sure?’
McCuskey’s eyes were blinking open again. ‘Policeman,’ he said.
‘You want us to call the police, Forbes?’ the same flatmate asked, wary eyes on Rebus.
‘He’s telling you I
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Of course you don’t. But tell him anyway.’ Rebus peered into one of the flatmates’ shopping bags. ‘Big bag of nachos and a jar of salsa? You might as well get “munchies” tattooed on your foreheads. .’
He had reached the main door of his own tenement when a car horn sounded behind him. A white Range Rover Evoque had pulled to a stop in the middle of the road, its tinted driver’s-side window sliding down. Rebus saw that Darryl Christie was behind the wheel, staring in his direction.
‘You haven’t moved up the property ladder, then?’ Christie said. ‘How about you?’ Rebus countered. ‘Still living with your mum?’
‘Penthouse the other side of the Meadows,’ Christie corrected him. ‘Got time for a quick word?’
‘Just barely.’
‘Get in, then.’
Rebus walked around to the passenger side and climbed aboard, placing his shopping on the floor by his feet. Christie drove to the bottom of Arden Street and took a right.
‘We headed anywhere in particular?’
‘I just like to keep on the move. That way there’s less chance of anyone listening in.’
‘You’re a bit young to be suffering paranoid delusions.’
‘What about that guy back there — what was he suffering from?’
‘He’d just been to a wake.’
‘I sort of recognised him.’
‘Son of the Justice Minister. So what can I do for you, Darryl?’
‘One of your colleagues pulled my doorman in for questioning.’
‘Yes?’
‘Second time he’s been questioned, so I’m curious.’
‘Nothing to be curious about — you told us yourself that Dean Grant had been on duty that night. We just needed to know if he’d seen who got into the minicab.’
‘And?’
‘Why not ask him yourself?’
‘I have.’
‘What did he say?’
