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It took her a moment to answer. “How did you know?”
He shrugged. “Call it a man’s intuition.”
She raised an eyebrow. “I’m impressed. I’m also guessing that’s where you’ve just come from?”
“I was visiting a friend.”
“Does this friend have a name?”
“Andy Callis.”
“I don’t think I know him.”
“Andy was one of the woolly suits. He’s on sick leave.”
“You say ‘was’… makes me think he’s not coming back from sick leave.”
“Now it’s my turn to be impressed.” Rebus shifted in the seat. “Andy’s lost it… mentally, I mean.”
“Lost it for good?”
Rebus shrugged. “I keep thinking… Ach, never mind.”
“Where does he live?”
“Alnwickhill.” Rebus had answered without thinking. He glared at Siobhan, knowing it had been no i
“That’s near Howdenhall, isn’t it?” She reached under her seat, produced the street map. “Bit of a distance from here…”
“All right, so I took a detour on the way back.”
“To look at Fairstone’s house?”
“Yes.”
She seemed satisfied, closed the map.
“I’m in the frame for this, Siobhan,” Rebus said. “That gives me a reason to be nosy. What’s yours?”
“Well, I just thought…” She was struggling, tables effectively turned.
“Thought what?” He held up a gloved hand. “Never mind. It’s painful watching you trying to come up with a story. Here’s what I think…”
“What?”
“I think you weren’t looking for Fairstone’s house.”
“Oh?”
Rebus shook his head. “You were going to do some sniffing. See if you could conduct a little private investigation, maybe track down friends, people who’d known him… Maybe someone like Peacock Johnson. How am I doing?”
“Why would I do that?”
“I get the feeling you’re not convinced Fairstone’s dead.”
“Male intuition again?”
“You hinted as much when I phoned you.”
She gnawed her bottom lip.
“Want to talk about it?” he offered quietly.
She looked down into her lap. “I got a message.”
“What sort of message?”
“It was signed ‘Marty,’ waiting for me at St. Leonard’s.”
Rebus was thoughtful. “Then I know just the thing to do.”
“What?”
“Head back into town and I’ll show you…”
What he had to show her was the High Street, and Gordon’s Trattoria, where they stayed open late, serving strong coffee and pasta. Rebus and Siobhan slid into an empty booth, either side of the tight-fitting table, ordering double espressos.
“Make mine decaf,” Siobhan remembered to say.
“What’s with the unleaded?” Rebus asked.
“I’m trying to cut down.”
He accepted this. “Anything to eat, or is that verboten, too?”
“I’m not hungry.”
Rebus decided that he was and ordered a seafood pizza, warning Siobhan that she’d have to help him out with it. The back half of Gordon’s was the restaurant, only one voluble table left sitting, polishing off digestifs. Where Rebus and Siobhan sat, near the front door, it was all booths and snacks.
“So tell me again what the message said.”
She sighed and repeated it for him.
“And the postmark was local?”
“Yes.”
“First- or second-class stamp?”
“What does it matter?”
Rebus shrugged. “Fairstone struck me as definitely second-class.” He watched her. She looked tired and wired at the same time, a potentially fatal conjunction. Unbidden, the image of Andy Callis came to his mind.
“Maybe Ray Duff will shed some light,” Siobhan was saying.
“If anyone can, it’s Ray.”
The coffee arrived. Siobhan lifted hers to her lips. “They’re going to string you up tomorrow, aren’t they?”
“Maybe,” he said. “Whatever happens, I think you should keep well clear. That means not talking to Fairstone’s friends. If the Complaints catch you, they’ll smell a plot.”
“You definitely think it was Fairstone who died in that fire?”
“No reason not to.”
“Apart from the message.”
“It wasn’t his style, Siobhan. He wouldn’t have posted a letter, he’d have come straight to you, same as all the other times.”
She considered this. “I know,” she said at last.
There was a lull in the conversation, both of them sipping the strong, bitter coffee. “Sure you’re all right?” Rebus eventually asked.
“Fine.”
“Sure?”
“Do you want it in writing?”
“I want you to mean it.”
Her eyes had darkened, but she didn’t say anything. The pizza arrived, and Rebus cut it into slices, cajoling her into taking one. There was silence again as they ate. The drunken table was leaving, laughing noisily all the way into the street. Closing the door, their waiter raised his eyes to heaven, giving thanks that the restaurant was quiet again.
“Everything okay over here?”
“Fine,” Rebus said, eyes on Siobhan.
“Fine,” she repeated, holding his gaze.
Siobhan said she’d give him a lift home. Getting into the car, Rebus glanced at his watch: eleven o’clock.
“Can we get the news headlines?” he asked. “See if Port Edgar’s still the main story.”
She nodded, switched on the radio.
“… where a candlelit vigil is being held tonight. Our reporter, Janice Graham, is at the scene…”
“Tonight, in South Queensferry, the residents are making their voices heard. Hymns will be sung, and the local Church of Scotland minister will be joined by the school chaplain. Candles may be a problem, however, as there’s a stiff breeze blowing from the Firth of Forth. For all of that, a sizable crowd is already begi
Stopped at a red light, Rebus and Siobhan shared a look. Then she nodded, no words needed between them. When the light changed to green, she drove across the intersection, pulled over to the side of the road, and waited for traffic to clear before doing a U-turn.
The vigil was being held outside the school gates. A few flickering candles were managing to stay lit, but most people knew better and had brought flashlights. Siobhan double-parked next to a news van. The crews were out in force: TV cameras, microphones, flashbulbs. But they were outnumbered ten to one by singers and the merely curious.
“Got to be four hundred people here,” Siobhan said.
Rebus nodded. The road was completely blocked by bodies. A few uniformed constables were standing on the periphery, hands behind their backs in what was probably meant as a gesture of respect. Rebus saw that Jack Bell had been pulled to one side so that he could share his views with half a dozen journalists, who were busily nodding and scribbling, filling sheet after sheet of their notebooks as he talked.
“Nice touch,” Siobhan said. Rebus saw what she meant: Bell was wearing a black armband.
“Subtle, definitely,” he agreed.
At that moment, Bell looked up and noticed them, eyes staying on them as he continued his oration. Rebus started winding his way through the crowd, standing on tiptoe to view the scene immediately in front of the gates. The church minister was tall, young, and in good voice. Next to him stood a much smaller woman of similar age. Rebus guessed that this was the chaplain of Port Edgar Academy. A hand tugged at his arm, and he looked to his immediate left, where Kate Renshaw was standing, well-wrapped against the cold, a pink woolen scarf muffling her mouth. He smiled and nodded. A couple of men nearby, their singing enthusiastic but off-key, looked to have come directly from one of South Queensferry’s hostelries. Rebus could smell beer and cigarettes in the air. One man jabbed his friend in the ribs, nodding towards a roving TV camera. They straightened up and sang all the louder.