margin. The margins were full of doodles and sketches, mostly of food and men with large quiffs. Neatly written in a large hand inside the margins were recipes. ‘His own creations.’ She flipped to the end. ‘Oh look, here’s Jailhouse Roquefort.’ She quoted from the recipe. ’ “With thanks to Inspector John Rebus for the idea.” Well, well.’ She was about to put the book back, but Rebus took it from her. He opened it at the inside cover, where he’d spotted a copious collection of doodles. Something had been written in the midst of the drawings (some of them gayly rude). But it had been scored out again with a darker pen.
‘Can you make that out?’
They took the jotter to the back door and stood in the parking lot, where so recently someone had thumped Brian Holmes on the head.
Siobhan started things off. ‘Looks like the first word’s “All”.’
‘And that’s “turn”,’ said Rebus of a later word. ‘Or maybe “turn”.’ But the rest remained beyond them. Rebus pocketed the recipe book.
‘Thinking of a new career, sir?’ Siobhan asked.
Rebus pondered a suitable comeback line. ‘Shut up, Clarke,’ he said.
Rebus dropped the jotter off at Fettes HQ, where they had people whose job it was to recover legibility from defaced and damaged writing. They were known as ‘pen pals’, the sort of boffins who liked to do really difficult crosswords.
‘This won’t take long,’ one of them told Rebus. ‘We’ll just put it on the machine.’
‘Great,’ said Rebus. ‘I’ll come back in quarter of an hour.’
‘Make it twenty minutes.’
Twenty minutes was fine by Rebus. While he was here and at a loose end, he might as well pay his respects to DI Gill Templer.
‘Hello, Gill.’ Her office smelt of expensive perfume. He’d forgotten what kind she wore. Chanel, was it? She slipped off her glasses and blinked at him.
‘John, long time no see. Sit down.’
Rebus shook his head. ‘I can’t stay, the lab’s going to have something for me in a minute. Just thought I’d see how you’re doing.’
She nodded her answer. ‘I’m doing fine. How about you?’
‘Aw, not bad. You know how it is.’
‘How’s the doctor?’
‘She’s fine, aye.’ He shuffled his feet. He hadn’t expected this to be so awkward.
‘It’s not true she kicked you out, then?’
‘How the hell do you know about that?’
Gill was smiling her lipsticked smile; a thin mouth, made for irony. ‘Come on, John, this is
‘Who told you, though? How many people know?’
‘Well, if they know here at Fettes, they’re bound to know at St Leonard’s.’
Christ. That meant Watson knew, Lauderdale knew, Flower knew. And none of them had said anything.
‘It’s only a temporary thing,’ he muttered, shuffling his feet again. ‘Patience has her nieces staying, so I moved back into my flat. Plus Michael’s there just now.’
It was Gill Templer’s turn to look surprised. ‘Since-when?’
‘Ten days or so.’
‘Is he back for good?’
Rebus shrugged. ‘Depends, I suppose. Gill, I wouldn’t want word getting roun…’
‘Of course not! I can keep a secret.’ She smiled again. ‘Remember, I’m
‘Me neither,’ said Rebus. ‘I just get screwed around here.’ He checked his watch.
‘Are my five minutes up?’
‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t be, I’ve got plenty of work to be getting on with.’
He turned to leave.
‘John? Come up and see me again sometime.’
Rebus nodded. ‘Mae West, right?’
‘Right.’
‘Bye, Gill.’
Halfway along her corridor, Rebus recalled that a Mae West was also the name for a life-jacket. He considered this, but shook his head. ‘My life’s complicated enough.’
He returned to the lab.
‘You’re a bit early,’ he was told.
‘Keen’s the word you’re looking for.’
‘Well, speaking of words we’re looking for, come and have a peek.’ He was led to a computer console. The scribble had been OCR’d and fed into the computer, where it was now displayed on the large colour monitor. A lot of the overpenning had been ‘erased’, leaving the original message hopefully intact. The pen pal picked up a sheet of paper. ‘Here are my ideas so far.’ As he read them off, Rebus tried to see them in the message on the screen.
‘ “Ale I did, tum on the gum“, ”Ole I did man, term on the gam…’ Rebus gazed up at him, and the pen pal grinned. ‘Or maybe this,’ he said. ’ “All I did was turn on the gas”.’
‘What?’
‘ “All I did was turn on the gas”.’
Rebus stared at the message on the screen. Yes, he could see i…well, most of it. The pen pal was talking again.
‘It helped that you told me he’d gassed himself. I still had that half in mind when I started working, and spotted “gas” straight off. A suicide note, maybe?’
Rebus looked disbelieving. ‘What, scored out and surrounded by doodles on the inside cover of a jotter he tucked away on a shelf? Stick to what you know and you’ll do fine.’
What Rebus knew was that Eddie Ringan had suffered nightmares during which he cried out the word ‘gas’. Was this scribble the remnant from one of his bad nights? But then why score it out so heavily? Rebus picked up the jotter from the OCR machine. The inside cover looked old, the stuff there going back a year or more. Some of the doodles looked more recent than the defaced message. Whenever Eddie had written this, it wasn’t last night. Which meant, presumably, that it had no direct connection to his gassing himself. Making i…a coincidence? Rebus didn’t believe in coincidence, but he did believe in serendipity. He turned to the pen pal, who was looking not happy at Rebus’s put-down.
‘Thanks,’ he said.
‘You’re welcome.’
Each was sure the other was being less than sincere.
Brian Holmes was waiting for him at St Leonard’s, waiting to be welcomed back into the world.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Holmes, ‘I’m just visiting. I’ve got another week on the sick.’
‘How are you feeling?’ Rebus was glancing nervously around, wondering if anyone had told Holmes about Eddie. He knew in his heart they hadn’t, of course; if they had, Brian wouldn’t be half as chipper.
‘I get thumping headaches, but that apart I feel like I’ve had a holiday.’ He patted his pocket. ‘And DI Flower got up a collection. Nearly fifty quid.’
‘The man’s a saint,’ said Rebus. ‘I had a present I was going to bring you.’
‘What?’
‘A tape, the Stones’
‘Thanks a lot.’
‘Something to cheer you up after Patsy De-Cline.’
‘At least she can sing.’
Rebus smiled. ‘You’re fired. Are you at your aunt’s?’
