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“Yes,” Rebus agreed. “How far back are we talking?”
“Four, five years.”
“Can you give me a minute, Stan?” He got up and walked into the parking lot, took out his cell, and called Mairie Henderson.
“It’s John,” he told her.
“About bloody time. Why’s everything gone quiet on the Clootie Well case? My editor’s nagging me stupid.”
“I’ve just discovered that the second victim spent some time in Edinburgh. Worked in a day center in Craigmillar. I’m wondering if he got himself into any trouble while he was here.”
“Don’t the police have computers to tell them things like that?”
“I prefer to use good old-fashioned contacts.”
“I can do a search of the database, maybe ask our court guy if he knows anything. Joe Cowrie’s been doing the job for decades-and he remembers every bloody case.”
“Just as well-this may go back five years. Call me with whatever you get.”
“You think the killer could be right here under our noses?”
“I wouldn’t go telling your editor; might have to dash his hopes at a later date.” Rebus ended the call and went back inside. Hackman had settled down with a fresh pint. He nodded toward Rebus’s glass.
“I wouldn’t insult you by offering to buy another of those.”
“I’m fine,” Rebus assured him. “Thanks for taking a bit of trouble with this.” He tapped the open notebook.
“Anything for a fellow officer in his hour of need.” Hackman toasted him with the glass.
“Speaking of which, what’s the mood like at Pollock?”
Hackman’s face hardened. “Last night was grim. Lot of the Met lads were on their phones nonstop. Others had already shipped out. I know we all hate the place, but when I saw those Londoners on the TV, determined to keep going no matter what…”
Rebus nodded agreement.
“Bit like yourself, eh, John?” He laughed again. “I can see it in your face-you’re not about to give up just because they’re out to nail you.”
Rebus took a moment to consider his response, then asked Hackman if he happened to have an address for the day center in Craigmillar.
It wasn’t much more than a five-minute drive from the Crags.
On the way, Rebus took a call from Mairie, who was drawing blanks on Trevor Guest’s time in Edinburgh. If Joe Cowrie didn’t remember him, he hadn’t ended up in court. Rebus thanked her anyway and promised she still had first refusal on anything he dug up. Hackman had gone back to Pollock to begin packing. They’d parted with a handshake and a reminder from Hackman about Rebus’s “promised tour of the fleshpots beyond the Nook.”
“You have my word,” Rebus had told him, neither man really believing it would ever happen.
The day center was next door to an industrial factory. Rebus could smell diesel fumes and something like burning rubber. Gulls were on the scrounge, cackling overhead. The center itself was an extended bungalow with a sun trap added. Through the windows, he could see old people listening to accordion music.
“Ten years from now, John,” he muttered to himself. “And that’s if you’re lucky.”
The very efficient secretary was called Mrs. Eadie-no first name offered. But although Trevor had only worked a couple of hours a week, and then only for a month or so, she still had his paperwork in the filing cabinet. No, she couldn’t show it to him-right to privacy and so on. If he applied for permission, well, that might be another story.
Rebus nodded his understanding. The building’s thermostat was set to death ray, and sweat was pouring down his back. The office was tiny and airless, with a sickly background aroma of talcum powder.
“This guy,” he told Mrs. Eadie, “he’d had some trouble with the police. How come you didn’t know that when you hired him?”
“We knew he’d had problems, Inspector. Gareth told us as much.”
Rebus stared at her. “Councilman Tench? Tench brought Trevor Guest here?”
“Never easy to get strong young men to work in a place like this,” Mrs. Eadie explained. “The councilman’s always been a good friend to us.”
“Finding you volunteers, you mean?”
She nodded. “We owe him a debt of gratitude.”
“I’m sure he’ll be round to collect it one of these days.”
Five minutes later, as Rebus emerged into the fresh air, he could hear that the accordion had been replaced by a recording of Moira Anderson. There and then he made a vow to off himself rather than sit with a shawl across his lap being spoon-fed boiled eggs to the strains of “Charlie Is My Darling.”
Siobhan sat in her car outside Rebus’s tenement. She’d already been upstairs: he wasn’t home. Probably just as well-she was still shaking. Felt jittery inside and didn’t think she could blame the caffeine. When she checked herself in the rearview mirror, her face was paler than usual. She gave her cheeks a few pats, trying to cheat some of the color back. She had the radio on, but had given up on the news stations: all the voices sounded either too brittle and urgent, or syrupy and colluding. She’d settled instead for classic FM. Recognized the tune but couldn’t name it. Couldn’t even be bothered trying.
Keith Carberry had walked out of Lo
“Where’s the fire, Keith?”
“Get lost, Jim-Bob.”
“What about your light saber?”
Carberry pausing just long enough to replace the cue in its case.
“I think,” Cafferty had said quietly, “we can safely say we’ve got him.”
“For what it’s worth,” Siobhan had added.
“Got to be patient,” Cafferty advised. “A lesson well worth the learning, DS Clarke.”
Now, in her car, she pondered her options. The simplest would be to hand the evidence over to the public prosecutor, get Keith Carberry in court again on the more serious charge. That way, Tench would go untouched, but so what? Even supposing the councilman had set up those attacks on the Niddrie campsite, he really had come to her rescue in the gardens behind the flats-Carberry hadn’t been toying with her. His blood was up, adrenaline pumping…
The threat had been for real.
He’d wanted to taste her fear, see her panic.
Not always controllable. Tench just managing to rescue the situation.
She owed him that much…
On the other hand, Carberry in exchange for her mother didn’t sound like a fair deal. Didn’t taste like justice. She wanted more. Beyond an apology or a show of remorse, beyond a custodial sentence of weeks or months.
When her phone rang she had to ease her fingers from around the steering wheel. The screen said it was Eric Bain. She whispered an oath before answering.
“What can I do for you, Eric?” she asked, just a little too brightly.
“How’s it all going, Siobhan?”
“Slowly,” she admitted with a laugh, pinching the bridge of her nose. No hysterics, girl, she warned herself.
“Well, I’m not sure about this, but I might have someone you should talk to.”
“Oh, yes?”
“She works at the university. I helped her out months back with a computer simulation.”
“Good for you.”
There was a moment’s silence on the line. “Sure you’re all right?”
“I’m fine, Eric. How’s everything with you? How’s Molly?”
“Molly’s great…I, uh, was telling you about this lecturer?”
“Of course you were. You think I should go see her.”
“Well, maybe just call her up first. I mean, it might turn out to be a dead end.”
“It usually does, Eric.”
“Thanks for nothing.”
Siobhan closed her eyes and sighed loudly into the phone. “Sorry, Eric, sorry. Shouldn’t be taking it out on you.”