‘Paul, nice of you to call.’
‘Is it late? I don’t have my watch on.’
‘It sounds like a great party, Paul. Give me the address and I’ll drop by with a few uniforms.’
‘Don’t be like that Mr Rebus. I bring glad tidings. I’ve found her.’
‘Kirstie Kennedy?’
‘Aye.’
‘Is she all right?’
‘Not bad for a junkie.’
‘Can I speak to her?’
‘Listen, she’s adamant she’s not going home. She says her stepmum’s a lunatic.’
‘I’d like to see her. There’s no question of her having to go home.’
‘I don’t know.’ Duggan sounded doubtful.
‘Paul, don’t hang up! Listen, would she talk to me if I paid her?’
‘Look, I’ll have a word with her. No promises, but I’ll have a word, see what she says.’
‘Just do me a favour. Phone in daylight next time.’
‘If you’re lucky, I might even phone when I’m sober.’
33
It was eight a.m. when his phone next rang.
‘Yes?’ he croaked, trying to find some saliva in his mouth.
‘John?’ It was the Farmer’s voice.
Here it comes, thought Rebus. ‘Morning, sir. What’s it to be — reprimand, suspension, or dismissal?’
‘Damn you, John. I had a hell of a weekend because of you.’
‘I’m sorry, sir. I never meant to get you into trouble.’
‘That’s your problem, Inspector — you’re selfish, no other word for it. I think you know damned well that these obsessions of yours end up damaging everyone around you, friend, foe and civilians alike.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘But it doesn’t bother you, does it?’ Rebus didn’t answer. The Farmer had obviously been preparing his speech for a while. ‘As long as your own personal morality is satisfied, that’s all that counts. Sod everybody else, isn’t that right?’
‘It feels that way sometimes, sir,’ Rebus said quietly.
‘Well, maybe you should consider that morality of yours, because it’s no code
‘You don’t have to live with it, sir. I do.’
‘Well, you lead a charmed existence, that’s all I can say.’
Rebus frowned. ‘How do you mean?’
‘I’ve discussed things with the DCC. He said he’d apologise to the Lord Provost on your behalf. He also said he thought HMIC would be investigating F Troop instead of us.’
F Troop: meaning F Division, Livingston. ‘What are you saying, sir?’
‘I’m saying I want you back here. The holiday’s over. Report to my office this morning.’
‘I’ve a dentist’s appointment.’
‘Well, this afternoon then.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Look, John, have you and the DCC had any contact?’
‘I’ve been on holiday, sir.’
‘Yes, but all the same?’
‘Well, maybe I did bump into him by the pool …’
It was another grim day. No snow or ice, but a freezing wind and gusts of rain, the sky oppressively weighted with cloud. It was like the city was in a box, and someone had pushed the lid on too tightly.
Rebus’s second visit to Dr Keene wasn’t so traumatic. You could get used to anything. The tooth had drained nicely, and Keene did the root canal while Rebus concentrated on the photograph on the ceiling. He plotted Paul Duggan’s property portfolio. Maybe Duggan had a point: nobody was suggesting he was overcharging his ‘tenants’ — he was making a profit out of each house and flat, but nothing outrageous. And meantime, he was putting roofs over heads. Rebus knew there might needs be a trade-off: if he wanted to see Kirstie, Duggan might want Rebus to put in a good word come trial time. Always supposing it came to trial. The district council was about to be replaced with another body. Who knew what would be written off?
Suddenly, something clicked in Rebus’s brain. He saw something he should have seen before. He was so busy thinking that he didn’t hear Dr Keene say that, while Rebus was there, he might as well start on the fillings …
There were no cheers, no banners or bunting as Rebus walked back into St Leonard’s and poured himself a cup of coffee.
‘A word to the wise,’ Siobhan Clarke said.
‘What?’
‘You’re pouring coffee down your tie.’
It was true: with his mouth still numb, he was dribbling. He went to the toilets and pulled out a clump of paper towels, soaked them in water and dabbed at his tie.
‘Here he is,’ said Flower, pushing open the door, ‘the proverbial bad penny.’
‘Don’t be so hard on yourself,’ Rebus retorted. Flower came to the sink and checked his hair in the mirror. ‘I see you managed to start a fire, then take credit for putting it out.’
Flower chuckled. ‘Word gets around, eh?’
‘Speaking of words that get around, I had a chat with someone about your snitch.’
‘Which one?’
‘Shug McAnally. We could all have been spared some grief if you’d told me at the start he was working for you.’
‘It’s not the sort of thing you can publicise. I mean,’ Flower looked around, ‘planting a snitch in somebody’s cell.’
‘You don’t mind telling me now though. Has the DCC had a word?’
‘He said you’d been asking.’ Flower looked unnaturally pleased with himself. Rebus could guess why.
‘You think you’re quids-in with the DCC, don’t you?’
‘Well, if it ever came out about McAnally, the DCC could get into trouble.’ Flower winked. ‘He needs to keep me sweet.’
‘What you mean is, you’ve got him either way. If the plan succeeded, it’d be because of you. If it went badly, it would need covering up — which would take your help. Gunner would still owe you. That’s why you’ve been blocking me: you didn’t want me getting to the DCC — he’s your little investment.’
Flower chuckled again, and tucked a stray hair back behind his ear. There was a sound of flushing from one of the two cubicles. Flower’s head jerked around, his mouth open, as the cubicle door opened and the Farmer came out.
This came as no surprise to Rebus: he’d seen the Farmer enter the toilets just before him.
‘Morning, sir,’ he said.
Flower didn’t say anything. The Farmer pointed at him. ‘My office, Inspector Flower,
‘You knew! You bloody well knew!’
Rebus tossed the ball of sodden paper into the bin.
One-nil.
