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“Like a statue in the desert,” Siobhan commented, eyes on Rebus.
“Monday, I was tendering my resignation,” Steelforth said ruefully. “Special Branch could have gone to hell.”
“Some might say it already has,” Rebus stated, “when one of its operatives is allowed to slaughter left and right…”
Steelforth was still staring at Richard Pe
“Like Al Capone,” Siobhan added helpfully. “They only got him for tax evasion, didn’t they?”
Steelforth ignored her, and turned his attention to Rebus instead. “The security video wasn’t conclusive,” he admitted.
“It showed Ben Webster meeting someone?”
“Ten minutes after he took a call on his cell.”
“Do we need to check the phone company records, or shall we assume it was Stacey?”
“As I say, the video wasn’t conclusive.”
“So what did it show?”
Steelforth gave a shrug. “Two people talking…Webster seeming to remonstrate…grabbing the other person by the shoulders as if to shake some sense into them…”
“And?”
“A push in the chest, enough to make him lose his balance. If you ask me, it was hardly enough to send him over the parapet.” Steelforth locked eyes with Rebus. “In that instant, he wanted it to happen.”
There was silence for a moment, broken by Siobhan. “And you’d have swept it all under the carpet, so as not to make a fuss. Just like you’ve dispatched Stacey Webster to London.”
“Yes, well…good luck discussing that with DS Webster.”
“What do you mean?”
He turned toward her. “She’s not been heard of since Wednesday. Seems she boarded the night train to Euston.”
Siobhan’s eyes narrowed. “The London bombings?”
“Be a miracle if we ID’d every victim.”
“Screw that,” Rebus said, pressing his face close to Steelforth’s. “You’re hiding her!”
Steelforth gave a laugh. “You do see conspiracies everywhere, don’t you, Rebus?”
“You knew what she’d done. Bombs were the perfect cover for her to vanish!”
Steelforth’s face hardened. “She’s gone,” he said. “So go ahead and compile any evidence you can find-somehow I doubt it’ll get you anywhere.”
“It’ll dump a trailerload of dung on your head,” Rebus warned.
“Will it?” Steelforth’s jaw jutted out, barely an inch from Rebus’s face. “Good for the land though, isn’t it, the occasional bit of manure? Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to get absolutely smashed at Richard Pe
28
What kind of result is that?” Siobhan asked, not for the first time. They were back in Edinburgh, seated in a bar on Broughton Street, just around the corner from her place.
“Hand those photos from the gardens over,” Rebus told her, “and your little skinhead friend might get the custodial sentence he deserves.”
She stared at him and gave a wild, humorless laugh. “Is that it? Four men, dead because of Stacey Webster, and we’ve got that?”
“We’ve got our health,” Rebus reminded her. “And the whole bar listening in on us.”
Eyes turned away as she strafed the clientele. Four vodka tonics she’d had so far, to Rebus’s pint and three Laphroaigs. They were seated in a booth. The bar was busy and had been relatively noisy until she’d started mentioning multiple murders, a suspicious death, a stabbing, sex offenders, George Bush, Special Branch, the Princes Street riots, and Bianca Jagger.
“We’ve still got to put the case together,” Rebus reminded her. She responded by blowing a raspberry.
“What good will that do?” she queried. “Can’t prove anything.”
“Plenty of circumstantial.”
This time she merely snorted and started counting on her fingers. “Richard Pe
“Who said I’m calm?”
“You’re bottling it up then.”
“I’ve had a bit of practice.”
“Not me.” She shook her head extravagantly. “Something like this happens, I want to shout it from the rooftops.”
“I’d say the first steps have already been taken.”
She was staring at her half-full glass. “And Ben Webster’s death had nothing to do with Richard Pe
“Nothing,” Rebus conceded.
“But it’s destroyed him, too, hasn’t it?”
He just nodded. She muttered something he didn’t catch. He asked her to repeat it, so she did.
“No gods, no masters. I’ve been mulling it over since Monday. I mean, supposing it’s true…who do we look up to? Who’s ru
“I’m not sure I can answer that, Siobhan.”
She gave a twitch of the mouth, as though he had confirmed some sort of suspicion. Her phone sounded, alerting her to a message. She glanced at the screen but did nothing about it.
“You’re popular tonight,” Rebus pointed out. She gave a shake of the head in reply. “If I had to guess, I’d say it’s Cafferty.”
She glowered at him. “So what if it is?”
“You might want to change your number.”
She nodded agreement. “But only after I’ve sent him a nice long text telling him exactly what I think of him.” She looked around the table. “Is it my turn to buy?” she asked.
“I thought maybe some food…”
“Didn’t you have enough of Pe
“Hardly a meal of substance.”
“There’s a curry house up the street.”
“I know.”
“Course you do, you’ve been here all your life.”
“Most of it,” he conceded.
“Never known a week like this one though,” she challenged him.
“Never,” he conceded. “Now drink up and we’ll go get that curry.”
She nodded, her hands gripping her glass, vise-like. “My mum and dad were in that Indian on Wednesday night. I got there in time for coffee…”
“You can always go see them in London.”
“Just wondering how much longer they’ll be around.” Her eyes were glistening. “Is this what it’s like to be Scottish, John? A few drinks to make you maudlin?”
“We do seem cursed,” he admitted, “to be always looking back.”
“And then you go and join CID, which only makes it worse. People die, and we look back into their lives…and we can’t change anything.” She tried lifting her glass, but its mass defeated her.
“We could go give Keith Carberry a kicking,” Rebus suggested.
She nodded slowly.
“Or Big Ger Cafferty, come to that…or anyone else we felt like. There’s two of us.” He leaned forward a little, trying for eye contact. “Two against nature.”
She gave him a sly look. “Song lyric?” she guessed.
“Album title: Steely Dan.”
“Tell you what I’ve always wondered.” She slouched against the back of the booth. “How did they get their name?”
“I’ll tell you when you’re sober,” Rebus offered, draining his glass.
He could feel eyes following them as he helped her to her feet and out of the bar. There was a sharp breeze and a smattering of rain. “Maybe we should go back to yours,” he suggested. “We can phone out for food.”
“I’m not that drunk!”
“Fair enough then.” They started the steep uphill climb, side by side, not saying anything. Saturday night, the town back to normal: souped-up teenagers in their souped-up cars; money looking for a place to spend itself; the diesel chug of cruising taxicabs. At some point, Siobhan snaked her arm through his, said something he didn’t catch.