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“The inspector,” she was telling the MP, “is currently under suspension, pending an inquiry into his conduct.” Now her eyes met Rebus’s. “I made a couple of calls…”
One of Anderson’s substantial eyebrows had lifted.
“I did say I was off-duty,” Rebus reminded him.
“I’m not sure it was quite as cut-and-dried as that. Ah…the appetizers.” Two waiters were hovering, one with smoked salmon, the other with a bowl of orange-colored soup. “You’ll be leaving now, Inspector.” It was statement rather than request.
“Ben Webster deserves a bit of consideration, don’t you think?”
The MP ignored this, unfolding his napkin. But his secretary had no such qualms.
“Get out!” she snarled.
Rebus nodded slowly, and half turned before remembering something. “Pavements round my way are in a shocking state,” he told his MP. “Maybe you could spare the time to visit your constituency once in a while.”
“Jump in,” the voice ordered. Rebus turned and saw that Siobhan had parked in front of his tenement.
“Car looks good,” he told her.
“Just as well, the money your friendly mechanic charged.”
“I was just headed upstairs…”
“Change of plan. I need you to come with me.” She paused. “You okay?”
“Had a couple of drinks earlier. Did something I probably shouldn’t.”
“Now there’s a novelty.” But she still managed to look aghast when he told her about his trip to the restaurant.
“Another lecture in store, no doubt” went his closing words.
“You don’t say.” Siobhan closed her own door as Rebus got into the passenger seat.
“What about you?” he asked. So she told him about her parents and the contents of Stacey Webster’s camera. Reached into the backseat and handed him the evidence.
“So now we go talk to the councilman?” Rebus guessed.
“That was the plan. Why are you smiling?”
He pretended to be studying the pictures. “Your mum says she’s not bothered who whacked her…Nobody seems worried about Ben Webster’s death…And yet here we both are.” He lifted his face toward her and gave a tired smile.
“It’s what we do,” she replied quietly.
“My point exactly. No matter what anyone thinks or says. I just worry that you’ve learned all the wrong lessons from me.”
“Credit me with a bit of sense,” she chided him, putting the car into gear.
Councilman Gareth Tench lived in a sizable Victorian villa on Duddingston Park. It was a main road, but its houses were set back far enough to give them some privacy. Not five minutes’ drive from Niddrie, yet it was another world: respectable, middle class, quiet. There was a golf course to the rear of the properties, and Portobello Beach was within striking distance. Siobhan had taken a route along Niddrie’s main road, so they could see that the campsite was disappearing fast.
“Want to drop in on your boyfriend?” Rebus teased.
“Maybe you should stay in the car,” she retorted, “let me talk to Tench.”
“I’m as sober as a judge,” Rebus argued. “Well…getting there anyway.” They’d stopped at a garage on Ratcliffe Terrace so he could buy Irn-Bru and Tylenol.
“Inventor deserves the Nobel Prize,” Rebus had stated, without specifying which product he was referring to.
There were two cars parked in Tench’s forecourt. The whole front garden had been paved to make room for them. Lights blazed in the living room.
“Good cop, bad cop?” Rebus suggested as Siobhan rang the doorbell. She rewarded him with the begi
“Mrs. Tench?” Siobhan asked, holding up her ID. “Any chance of a word with your husband?”
Then Tench’s voice from inside the house: “Who is it, Louisa?”
“Police, Gareth,” she bellowed back, retreating a little by way of invitation. They didn’t need asking twice, and were in the living room by the time Tench trudged downstairs. The fittings weren’t to Rebus’s taste: sashed velvet drapes; brass lamps fixed to the walls on either side of the fireplace; two oversize sofas taking up much of the floor space. Oversize and brassy seemed to describe Louisa Tench, too. She wore dangling earrings and a clatter of bracelets. The tan had come from a bottle or salon, as had the piled auburn hair. A little too much blue eye shadow and pink lipstick. He counted five carriage clocks in the room and decided that nothing here had been chosen by the councilman.
“Evening, sir,” Siobhan said as Tench walked into the room. He rolled his eyes heavenward in reply.
“Don’t they ever let up, Lord? Should I sue for harassment?”
“Before you do that, Mr. Tench,” Siobhan went on calmly, “maybe you could look at this photo.” She handed it to him. “You recognize your constituent, of course?”
“He’s the same one you hooked up with outside the court,” Rebus added helpfully. “And by the way…Denise says hello.”
Tench glanced fearfully toward his wife. She was back in her chair, staring at the TV with its sound muted. “What about these photos then?” he said, louder than was strictly necessary.
“You’ll notice that he’s attacking that woman with a wooden stick,” Siobhan continued. Rebus was watching carefully-and listening, too. “In this next photo, he’s trying to melt back into the crowd. But you’ll agree that he’d just attacked an i
Tench looked skeptical, eyes flitting between one photo and the other. “Digital, aren’t they?” he pointed out. “Easy enough to manipulate.”
“It’s not the photos that are being manipulated here, Mr. Tench,” Rebus thought it his duty to state.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“We want his name,” Siobhan said. “We can get it tomorrow morning from the court, but we’d prefer to get it from you.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Why’s that then?”
“Because we’d-” Siobhan paused. “Because I’d like to know what the co
“He’s just another kid from the wrong part of town,” Tench said, keeping his voice down but emphasizing each word. “Wrong parents, wrong school, wrong choices at every fork in the road. But he lives on my turf and that means I look out for him, same as I would do for any other poor bloody kid in his position. If that’s a crime, DS Clarke, then I’m ready to go into the dock and argue my case.” A fleck of saliva escaped his mouth and hit Siobhan on the cheek. She brushed it away with the tip of a finger.
“His name,” she repeated.
“He’s already been charged…”
Louisa Tench was back in her chair, one leg crossed over the other, her eyes on the muted television.
“Gareth,” she said, “Emmerdale.”
“Don’t want your wife missing her soap, do you, Mr. Tench?” Rebus added. The opening titles were already on-screen. She had the remote in her hand, finger poised above the volume button. Three pairs of eyes boring into Gareth Tench, and Rebus mouthing the name Denise again…
“Carberry,” Tench said. “Keith Carberry.”
Music burst suddenly from the TV. Tench slid his hands into his pockets, stalked out of the room. Rebus and Siobhan waited a few moments, then said their good-byes to the woman who was tucking her legs beneath her on the chair. She ignored them, lost in a world of her own. The front door was ajar, Tench waiting for them outside, arms folded, feet apart.
“A smear campaign’s not going to do anyone any good,” he told them.
“Just doing our job, sir.”
“I grew up near a farm, DS Clarke,” he said. “I know bullshit when I smell it.”
Siobhan looked him up and down. “And I know a clown when I see one, even out of costume.” She walked toward the pavement, Rebus pausing in front of Tench, leaning forward toward his ear.
“The woman your boy smacked is her mother. That means this never ends, understood? Not until we get a result we’re happy with.” Leaned back again and nodded, reinforcing the message. “Wife doesn’t know about Denise then?” he added.