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“Taking what out on me?”
“A week’s worth of crap.”
He laughed. “Apology accepted. I’ll call again later, when you’ve had a chance to-”
“Just hang on a sec, will you?” She reached across to the passenger seat, extracting her notebook from her bag. “Give me her number and I’ll talk to her.”
He recited the number and she jotted it down, adding the name as best she could, neither of them being totally sure how it was spelled.
“So what is it you think she might have for me?” Siobhan asked.
“A few crackpot theories.”
“Sounds great.”
“Can’t do any harm to listen,” Bain advised.
But by now, Siobhan knew differently. Knew that listening could have repercussions.
Bad ones at that…
Rebus hadn’t been to the city chambers in a while. The building was situated on the High Street, opposite St. Giles Cathedral. Cars were supposedly ba
The city chambers had been built on top of a plague street called Mary King’s Close. Years back, Rebus had investigated a murder in the dank underground labyrinth-Cafferty’s own son the victim. The place had been tidied up now and was a tourist haunt in the summer. One of the staff was busy on the pavement, handing out flyers. She wore a housemaid’s cap and layered petticoats and tried to offer Rebus a discount coupon. He shook his head. The papers said local attractions were feeling the bite of the G8week tourists had been steering clear of the city.
“Hi-ho, silver lining,” Rebus muttered, starting to whistle the song’s first verse. The receptionist at the front desk asked him if it was Mado
“Gareth Tench, please,” Rebus said.
“I doubt he’ll be here,” she warned. “Friday, you know…A lot of our councilmen do district business on a Friday.”
“Giving them an excuse to knock off early?” Rebus guessed.
“I don’t know what you’re implying.” But her smile was back, meaning she knew damned well. Rebus liked her. Checked for a wedding ring and found one. Changed his whistling to “Another One Bites the Dust.”
She was looking down a list on the clipboard in front of her. “Seems you’re in luck,” she a
“Detective Inspector Rebus.” He offered a smile of his own. “John, if you prefer.”
“Take a seat, John.”
He gave a little bow of his head in thanks. The other receptionist was having a lot less luck, trying to fend off an elderly couple who wanted to talk to someone about the trash bins in their street.
“Through wi’ they lazy bastards.”
“We’ve got the car numbers an’ ev’thing, but naebody’s been near…”
Rebus took a seat, and decided against any of the reading material: council propaganda disguised as newsletters. They appeared regularly in Rebus’s mailbox, helping him contribute to the recycling effort. His cell sounded, and he flipped it open. Mairie Henderson’s number.
“What can I do for you, Mairie?” he asked.
“I forgot to tell you this morning…I’m getting somewhere with Richard Pe
“Tell me more.” He moved outside into the quadrangle again. The lord provost’s Rover was parked by the glass-paneled doors. He stopped next to it and lit a cigarette.
“Business correspondent on one of the London broadsheets put me on to a freelancer who sells stuff to the likes of Private Eye. He in turn set me up with a TV producer who’s been keeping an eye on Pe
“Okay, so you’ve earned your pe
“Well, maybe I’ll just head to Harvey Nicks and start spending them…”
“All right, I’m shutting up now.”
“Pe
“Whoever they are-”
“Making sure the Iraqi police and any new armed forces can hold their own. They see it as-wait for this-a humanitarian mission.”
“Meaning they’re looking for aid money?”
“Billions are being poured into Iraq -quite a bit’s already gone missing, but that’s another story. The murky world of foreign aid: that’s the TV producer’s pitch.”
“And he’s lassoing Richard Pe
“Hoping to.”
“And how does this tie in to my dead politician? Any sign that Ben Webster had control of Iraqi aid money?”
“Not yet,” she conceded. Rebus noticed that some of his ash had landed on the Rover’s gleaming hood.
“I get the feeling you’re holding something back.”
“Nothing to do with your deceased MP.”
“Going to share with Uncle John?”
“Might not come to anything.” She paused. “I can still make a story though. I’m the first print journalist the producer’s told the whole story to.”
“Good for you.”
“You could try that again with a bit more enthusiasm.”
“Sorry, Mairie…mind’s on other things. If you can tighten the screws on Pe
“But it doesn’t necessarily help you?”
“You’ve been doing me a lot of favors-only right you get something out of it.”
“My feelings exactly.” She paused again. “Any progress your end? I’m betting you visited the day center where Trevor Guest worked?”
“Didn’t get much.”
“Anything worth sharing?”
“Not yet.”
“That sounds like evasion.”
Rebus moved aside as some people started to emerge from the building-a liveried driver, followed by another man in uniform carrying a small case. And behind them, the lord provost. She seemed to notice the flecks of ash on her vehicle, gave Rebus a scowl, and disappeared into the back of the car. The two men got into the front, Rebus guessing that the case held her chain of office.
“Thanks for letting me know about Pe
“It’s your turn to phone me,” she reminded him. “Now we’re back on speaking terms, I don’t want one-way traffic.”
He ended the call, stubbed out his cigarette, and headed back indoors, where his receptionist had joined in the debate about trash bins.
“It’s environmental health you need to speak to,” she was stressing.
“Nae good, hen, that lot never listen.”
“Summat’s got to be done!” his wife shouted. “Folk are fed up being treated like numbers!”
“All right,” the first receptionist said, caving in with a sigh. “I’ll see if someone’s available to talk to you. Take a ticket from over there.” She nodded toward the dispenser. The old man pulled a sliver of paper from it and stared at what he’d been given.
A number.
Rebus’s receptionist beckoned him over, leaned forward to whisper that the councilman was on his way down. She glanced toward the couple, letting him know she didn’t want them to share in the information.
“I’m assuming it’s official business?” she asked, fishing for some inside info. Rebus leaned even closer to her ear, smelling perfume rising from her nape.
“I’m wanting my drains cleaned,” he confided. She looked shocked for a moment, then gave a lopsided grin, hoping he was joking.
Moments later, Tench himself emerged grimly into the reception area. He was clasping a briefcase to his chest as though it could afford some useful protection.