He stepped back and stared at the upstairs windows. Both had their curtains closed. He headed to the shed and opened it, started rummaging, then decided it would be easier if he shifted the lawnmower. He dragged it out and got to work, tossing tools behind him to make more space. Boxes of screws, nails of odd sizes, most of them rusted, hooks and pieces of wire and old three-pin plugs. Plastic flowerpots, rolls of twine, cans of oil…
He noticed that the workbench had a drawer. It was stuck shut, so he left it. But having gone through the last box, he had nothing to show for his efforts. Sweat was causing his shirt to cling to his back. He checked that his inhaler was in his pocket, just in case. Then he looked at the drawer and decided to give it another go. This time he used a large screwdriver, wedging it into a gap. Some of the wood began to splinter, but the drawer moved out a fraction. He tried again; more movement. He gripped the sides of the drawer in both hands and—
‘You’re trespassing,’ Jimmy Hess said. Rebus turned towards him. Hess filled the shed’s doorway. ‘Criminal damage, too.’
‘Police are on their way, son,’ Rebus said, breathing hard. ‘But it’s you they’ll be talking to, not me.’ He reached a hand through the gap in the drawer and lifted out a laptop. He sensed Keith’s notebooks were in there too, at the back, harder to reach. ‘Best go prepare your grandfather.’
Jimmy Hess was shaking his head. His large, round face showed no emotion. Gone was the jovial figure who had sat at the table in The Glen; gone, too, the concerned and solicitous grandson who had brought an end to Keith Grant’s interview.
‘I don’t think so,’ he told Rebus.
And then he lunged, hands around Rebus’s throat, pushing him back until Rebus collided with the rear wall of the shed. He felt his airway constrict, his eyes bulging and watering at the same time, blurring his vision. He had his own hands around the younger man’s wrists, but couldn’t budge them. He sought a pinkie, intent on bending it back until it snapped, but his strength was already ebbing. His knees buckled and he sank towards the floor, sharp corners of various objects digging into him. Changing tactics, he reached for Jimmy Hess’s face, clawing at it, seeking the vulnerable eyes. But Hess just turned his head to and fro, making purchase impossible. The sea was roaring in Rebus’s ears now, and the world had turned blood-red like a sunset. Hess’s teeth were bared in effort. Rebus only wished he could have given his tormentor a more even fight… and been more help to Sammy…
Sam…
Samantha…
His hands fell away and his eyes fluttered once before closing.
A deep darkness lay beyond the roaring.
40
The Leith team were in high spirits, except for George Gamble, who sat with arms folded, having warned anyone who’d listen: ‘Don’t count your fried chickens.’ His chair creaked as he leaned back in it.
Most of the team had gathered in the vicinity of the Murder Wall, perched on desks or standing expectantly while Graham Sutherland considered their next move.
‘I’ll talk to the Fiscal’s office,’ he announced, ‘that’s probably job one.’
‘Surely job one is getting Morelli in here and interviewing him under caution,’ DC Phil Yeats said. He was handing round the teas and coffees, this having become a routine he seemed to welcome. (‘Detective wages for a Tea Jenny’s work,’ had been Ronnie Ogilvie’s comment one night in the pub after Yeats had left.)
‘We need to remember he’s a flight risk unless we get him to surrender his passport,’ Malcolm Fox added.
‘In good time, Malcolm,’ Sutherland said. He had taken up position in front of the wall display, facing his team. ‘Car’s gone to the workshop at Howdenhall. If there’s trace evidence to be found, they’ll find it. I’m promised news by close of day.’
‘Search warrant for Morelli’s home?’ Esson piped up.
‘As soon as I’ve had a word with the Fiscal. Do we have any thoughts as to motive?’
‘Not exactly,’ Siobhan Clarke offered, ‘but there’s premeditation there. I’m guessing he thought it less risky to head out of town to rent the vehicle. CCTV from the airport shows him dressed very unshowily. Malcolm and I have had dealings with him, and he’s always immaculate.’ The team had been handed printouts of the CCTV stills. They studied them as Clarke continued. ‘Hooded sweatshirt, jeans and trainers.’
‘What’s the backpack for?’ Ronnie Ogilvie asked.
‘How many people fly into Edinburgh with no luggage at all?’ Clarke answered. ‘He’s trying not to stand out. But the hoodie brings me to another thing–it’s what he was wearing the night he claims he was attacked.’
‘Claims?’
‘Remember what I said about the thought that’s gone into this: if Morelli’s viewed by us as a victim…’
‘He’s less likely to seem a possible suspect.’ Ogilvie nodded his understanding.
‘All of which is great,’ Sutherland interrupted. ‘But it remains speculative.’
‘Pretty compelling all the same,’ Fox stressed. ‘Car at the murder scene; renter known to the victim; prearranged meeting. Don’t forget–last call on Salman’s phone was to his good pal Giovanni.’
‘Which we dismissed because of who Morelli was and what had allegedly happened to him,’ Christine Esson added. ‘When in fact he might just have faked a mugging by dunting his head against a wall.’
Sutherland was nodding thoughtfully. ‘Let me talk to the Fiscal, get things moving. But in the meantime let’s keep this under wraps–no leaks for a change.’ He paused. ‘Understood, George?’
Gamble froze, digestive biscuit halfway to his mouth. ‘Don’t look at me, boss.’
‘Just making sure you’re paying attention. And let’s hear it for Siobhan and Malcolm. It’s because of them that we’re as far along as we are.’
Sutherland started clapping, the others joining in. The applause was the usual mix:
