By the time they had climbed the first flight, he was breathing heavily, and Clarke was asking him to remind her how he’d passed the physical. He coughed a reply and watched as a head appeared over the banister.
‘Up here,’ Alice or Alison Bell said. As she ushered the two detectives inside, Clarke decided to check.
‘It’s Alice,’ the student confirmed.
Rebus had expected high ceilings and airy rooms, but they seemed to be in the eaves. The hall was narrow, not helped by the presence of two bicycles. Alice Bell hadn’t bothered to ask for ID. She was leading them past the galley-style kitchen into the living room. Music was playing from an MP3 player hooked up to a speaker. It was classical — unaccompanied cello. An actual cello sat on a stand in one corner.
‘Yours or Jessica’s?’ Rebus asked, but Bell was concentrating on Siobhan Clarke.
‘I’m almost afraid to ask,’ she blurted out.
‘She’s going to be fine,’ Clarke assured her. The young woman’s knees seemed to buckle in relief and she sat down heavily on an armchair. Clarke and Rebus decided to settle themselves on the sofa. It was white and modern and just about up to the task.
‘What happened?’ Bell was asking.
‘A car smash. You’ve been worried about her?’
‘Texted her a few times — she missed a class this morning, and that’s not like her.’
‘Do you study art history too, Alice?’
The young woman nodded. She was dressed in a T-shirt with an unbuttoned cardigan over it, and black denims. No piercings that Rebus could see, and no tattoos. Her face was round and her cheeks slightly puffy, reminding him of a cherub in a painting, an effect heightened by curly chestnut hair.
‘How long have you known Jessica?’ Rebus asked.
‘Almost a year. She put adverts up around the department — room to rent — and I jumped at the chance.’ She paused. ‘She’s really going to be okay?’
‘Whiplash, sprains and bruises,’ Clarke explained. ‘Her father seems to think she’s a careful driver.’
‘That’s true.’
‘Not last night, though.’
‘What happened?’
‘The crash was the other side of the airport, on a country road. Any idea why she’d be out that way?’
Bell shook her head. ‘Is her father here?’
‘He’s with her at the Infirmary,’ Rebus said.
‘I should go see her.’
‘Any other friends who should be told?’ Clarke asked.
‘Her boyfriend, for example,’ Rebus added.
‘Forbes?’ Bell’s voice lifted a little. ‘Has no one. .?’ She broke off, hands clasped between her knees, staring at the varnished wooden floor.
‘We don’t have his contact details,’ Clarke confided.
‘I can phone him.’
‘That’s fine, but we’d like a word with him too.’ Rebus cleared his throat. ‘When did you last see Jessica, Alice?’
‘Yesterday. Around four or five.’
‘Here at the flat?’
‘She was headed off out.’
‘Headed where?’
‘Not sure.’
‘In her car, though?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘And as far as you know, she hasn’t got friends in Kirkliston or Broxburn?’
‘I’m not even sure where those places are.’
‘Where are you from?’
‘Stirling.’
Rebus digested this and glanced towards Clarke, unsure where else to go.
‘A number for Forbes,’ Clarke prompted the student. ‘And his surname.’
‘He’s Forbes McCuskey.’
‘McCuskey,’ Clarke echoed, adding the name to her phone.
‘As in Patrick McCuskey.’
Clarke looked up at Alice Bell. ‘The politician?’ Bell nodded, and Clarke turned her eyes towards Rebus, who gave a twitch of the mouth in response. Bell was digging her own phone out of a trouser pocket, finding Forbes McCuskey’s number. She recited it for Clarke’s benefit, then asked: ‘Should I ring him now?’
‘If you like.’
But Bell seemed to reconsider. She turned the phone over in her hand and said she would wait till she’d seen them out.
‘You’re still going to want to talk to him?’ she checked. ‘And it’s okay for me to warn him?’
Clarke was nodding her agreement.
‘All right then.’ The student had risen to her feet. Clarke and Rebus followed suit and Bell led them back along the passageway. Rebus was half minded to ask to see Jessica’s room, but knew he didn’t have a good reason. At the door, Bell shook hands with both detectives. She was readying to close the door when Clarke remembered that she didn’t have a contact number for Bell herself. The student reeled it off, then retreated into the flat.
‘“Warn him”?’ Rebus repeated.
‘Yes, I noticed that.’
‘So what do we do?’
She looked at her watch. ‘I need to go home and get changed for this cut-price dinner.’
‘Having given me a lift first, obviously.’
‘Up the hill to the Oxford Bar?’
‘We’ll make a detective of you yet. .’
Bia Bistrot was a small French-style restaurant on Colinton Road. Locals called the area Holy Corner due to a preponderance of churches at the intersection — Clarke counted four, though she couldn’t be certain how many were still active. David Galvin was already at the table. He beamed a smile as he rose to greet her. Tall and slim, he was wearing a dark suit with a white shirt, open at the neck. As she leaned in for a peck on the cheek, she asked if this was as casual as he cared to dress.
‘I was going for
‘Good try.’
Galvin was only a couple of years younger than her and had been at the Procurator Fiscal’s office since arriving in the city half a decade back. They’d worked together on a case the previous autumn and that was when he had asked her out for a drink, on the pretext of going over some notes. It was now their agreed code, and every week or so he would text to ask if she could spare an evening for ‘a consultation’.
‘I’ve not been here before,’ Clarke said, taking in her surroundings.
‘I like it — and it’s only five minutes from home.’
‘Not for me.’
His smile faded. ‘I should have thought. .’
‘It’s fine, David — plenty of cabs around.’ She accepted a menu and ordered a gin, lime and soda.
‘I might try one of those,’ Galvin told the waiter. Then, to Clarke: ‘Busy day?’
‘Not particularly. How about you?’
He offered a shrug. ‘Same old same old.’
‘What did you make of the Chief Constable’s leaving do?’
‘It was nice to be invited.’
‘Was that the Solicitor General’s doing?’
‘She does like to travel with a few bodies.’
‘To make her feel important?’ Clarke guessed.
