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She remembered the envelope, lifted it from her pocket. Handwritten, more of a scrawl really. She put her can down on top of the machine, already getting a bad feeling as she peeled the envelope open. Just a single sheet of paper, she was sure of that. No razor blades, no glass… Plenty of nutters out there keen to share their thoughts with her. She unfolded the letter. Big scrawled capitals.
LOOK FORWARD TO SEEING YOU AGAIN IN HELL-MARTY.
The name was underlined. Her heart was racing. She didn’t doubt who Marty was: Martin Fairstone. But Fairstone was a tub of cinders and bone on a shelf in someone’s lab. She studied the envelope. Address and post-code perfect. Somebody’s idea of a joke? But who could it be? Who knew about her and Fairstone? Rebus and Templer… anyone else? She thought back a few months. Someone had left messages on her screen saver, had to be CID, one of her so-called colleagues. But the messages had stopped. Davie Hynds and George Silvers: they worked beside her. Grant Hood, too, most of the time. Others came and went. But she hadn’t told any of them about Fairstone. Hold on… when Fairstone had made his complaint, had any of it become a matter of record? She didn’t think so. But cop shops were hives of gossip, hard to keep any secrets.
She realized she was staring through the glass outer doors, and the two detectives in the car park were staring back at her, wondering what it was about them that she was finding so mesmeric. She tried for a smile and a shake of the head, as if to say she’d been in a “dwam.”
For lack of anything else to do, she took out her mobile, intending to check for messages. But started to make a call instead, punching in the number from memory.
“Ray Duff speaking.”
“Ray? You busy?”
Siobhan knew what the initial answer would be: an intake of breath preceding an elongated sigh. Duff was a scientist, working for the forensics lab at Howdenhall.
“You mean apart from checking that all the Port Edgar bullets came from the same gun, then examining blood spatter configurations and powder residues, ballistic angles, all that?”
“At least we keep you in a job. How’s the MG?”
“Ru
“Maybe come the better weather.”
“There’s a top, you know.”
“Not the same, though, is it? Look, Ray, I know you’re up to your eyes in work from the school, but I was wondering if I could ask a wee favor…”
“Siobhan, you know I’m going to say no. Everyone wants this done and dusted.”
“I know. I’m working Port Edgar, too.”
“You and every other cop in the city.” Another sigh. “Just out of curiosity, what is it exactly?”
“Between you and me?”
“Of course.”
Siobhan looked around. The detectives outside had lost interest in her. Three constables sat together at a table in the cafeteria, eating sandwiches and drinking tea, maybe twenty feet away from her. She turned her back to them, so she was facing the machine.
“I just got this letter. Anonymous.”
“Threatening?”
“Sort of.”
“You should show it to someone.”
“I was thinking of showing it to you, see if you can take anything from it.”
“I meant show it to your boss. Gill Templer, isn’t it?”
“I’m not exactly her star pupil right now. Besides, she’s snowed under.”
“And I’m not?”
“Just a quick recon, Ray. It could be something, or nothing.”
“But on the q.t., am I right?”
“Right.”
“Which is wrong. Someone’s threatening you, you need to report it, Shiv.”
That nickname again: Shiv. More and more people seemed to be using it. She decided this wasn’t the time to tell Ray how much she disliked it.
“Thing is, Ray, it’s from a dead man.”
There was a pause on the line. “Okay,” Duff drawled at last. “You’ve got my attention.”
“Housing project in Gracemount, chip-pan fire…”
“Ah, yes, Mr. Martin Fairstone. I’ve been trying to get some work done on him, too.”
“Come up with anything?”
“Bit early to tell… Port Edgar came straight in at number one. Fairstone dropped a few places.”
She had to smile at the analogy. Ray liked his charts. Their conversations usually contained top threes and fives. And right on cue:
“By the way, Shiv-top three Scottish rock and pop acts?”
“Ray…”
“Humor me. No thinking allowed, just off the top of your head.”
“Rod Stewart? Big Country? Travis?”
“No room for Lulu? A
“I’m not much good at this, Ray.”
“Rod’s an interesting choice, though.”
“Blame DI Rebus. He loaned me the early albums…” She attempted a sigh of her own. “So are you going to help me or not?”
“How soon can you get it to me?”
“Within the hour.”
“I suppose I could stay late. Wouldn’t that make a change?”
“Have I ever mentioned your good looks, wit and charm?”
“Only every time I agree to do you a favor.”
“You’re an angel, Ray. Call me ASAP.”
“Come for a drive sometime,” Duff was telling her as she ended the call. She carried the letter through the cafeteria, into the booking area beyond.
“Got an evidence bag, by any chance?” she asked the custody sergeant. He opened a couple of drawers. “I could get one from upstairs,” he said, admitting defeat.
“What about one of the possessions envelopes?”
The custody sergeant stooped again and produced a legal-sized manila envelope from below the counter.
“That’ll do,” Siobhan said, dropping her own envelope in. She wrote Ray Duff’s name on the front, adding her own name as reference and the word URGENT, then walked back through the cafeteria and out into the car park. The smokers had gone back inside, meaning she wouldn’t have to apologize for her earlier fit of the stares. Two uniforms were getting into a patrol car.
“Hey, guys!” she called. Getting closer, she recognized the passenger as PC John Mason, his station nickname the utterly obvious Perry. The driver was Toni Jackson.
“Hiya, Siobhan,” Jackson said. “Missed you Friday night.”
Siobhan shrugged an apology. Toni and some of the other female uniforms liked to let off steam once a week. Siobhan was the only detective allowed into their fold.
“I’m assuming I missed a good night?” she asked.
“A great night. My liver’s still recovering.”
Mason looked interested. “So what did you get up to?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” his partner responded with a wink. Then, to Siobhan: “You wanting us to play postman?” She nodded towards the envelope.
“Could you? It’s for forensics at Howdenhall. Delivered into this guy’s hands if at all possible.” Siobhan tapped Duff’s name.
“We’ve a couple of calls to make… it’s not much of a detour.”
“I promised it’d be there inside an hour.”
“Way Toni drives, that won’t be a problem,” Mason offered.
Jackson ignored this. “Rumor has it you’ve been relegated to chauffeur, Siobhan.”
Siobhan twitched her mouth. “Only for a few days.”
“How did he manage to hurt his hands?”
Siobhan stared at Jackson. “I don’t know, Toni. What do the bush drums say?”
“They say all sorts of things… Everything from fistfights to fat fryers.”
“Not that the two are mutually exclusive.”
“Nothing’s mutually exclusive where DI Rebus is concerned.” Jackson smiled wryly, holding her hand out for the envelope. “You’re on a yellow card, Siobhan.”
“I’ll be there Friday, if you want me.”
“Promise?”
“Cross my CID heart.”
“In other words, it depends.”
“It always does, Toni, you know that.”
Jackson was looking over Siobhan’s shoulder. “Speak of the devil,” she said, getting back behind the steering wheel. Siobhan turned around. Rebus was watching from the doorway. She didn’t know how long he’d been there. Long enough to see the envelope change hands? The engine caught, and she stepped away from the car, watching it depart. Rebus had opened his cigarette packet and was pulling one out with his teeth.