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She nodded. “A long time to be carrying any baggage.” She folded her arms. “Think about it, will you?”
Rebus nodded, backing away. He offered her a parting wave, then turned and started walking, feeling her eyes still on him. Hogan was ahead of Billy, and seemed in no need of company. Rebus fell into step with the orderly.
“That was helpful,” he commented, speaking to Billy but knowing Hogan could hear.
“I’m glad.”
“Well worth the trip.”
Billy just nodded, satisfied that someone else’s day was turning out as bright as his own.
“Billy,” Rebus said, laying a hand on the young man’s shoulder, “do we look at the visitors’ book here, or over at the gatehouse?” Billy looked baffled. “Didn’t you hear Dr. Lesser say?” Rebus plowed on. “We just need the dates for Lee Herdman’s visits.”
“The book’s kept at the gatehouse.”
“Then that’s where we’ll give it the once-over.” Rebus fixed the orderly with a wi
There was a kettle in the gatehouse, and the guard made two mugs of instant. Billy headed back into the hospital.
“Think he’ll go straight to Lesser?” Hogan said in an undertone.
“Let’s be as quick as we can.”
Not easy when the guard was so interested in them, asking about life in CID. Probably stir-crazy, cooped up in his box all day, a bank of CCTV monitors, a few cars to process every hour… Hogan offered him tidbits, most of which Rebus suspected he was making up. The visitors’ book was an old-fashioned ledger, broken up into columns for date, time, visitor’s name and address, and person visited. This last was subdivided, so that both patient’s and doctor’s name could be recorded. Rebus started with visitors’ names and ran his finger quickly down three pages until he found Lee Herdman. Almost exactly a month back, so Niles’s estimate hadn’t been far off. A month further back, another visit. Rebus jotted the details into his notebook, holding the pen lightly. At least they’d be taking something back to Edinburgh.
He paused to take a sip from the chipped, flower-patterned mug. It tasted like one of those cheap supermarket mixtures, more chicory than coffee. His father used to buy the same stuff, saving a few pence. One time, the teenage Rebus had brought home a more expensive substitute, which his father had shu
“Good coffee,” he said now to the guard, who looked pleased with the compliment.
“We about done here?” Hogan asked, tiring of telling stories.
Rebus nodded but then let his eyes glance down the columns one final time. Not visitors this time, but patients visited…
“Company’s on its way,” Hogan warned. Rebus looked up. Hogan was pointing at one of the TV screens. Dr. Lesser, accompanied by Billy, striding out of the hospital building and down the path.
Rebus went back to the ledger, and saw R. Niles again. R. Niles/ Dr. Lesser. Another visitor, not Lee Herdman.
We didn’t ask her! Rebus could have kicked himself.
“We’re out of here, John,” Bobby Hogan was saying, putting down his mug. But Rebus wasn’t moving. Hogan stared at him, and Rebus just winked. Then the door flew open and Lesser was standing there.
“Who gave you permission,” she spat, “to go trawling through a confidential record?”
“We forgot to ask about other visitors,” Rebus told her calmly. Then his finger tapped the ledger. “Who’s Douglas Brimson?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“How do you know?” Rebus was jotting the name into his notebook as he spoke.
“What are you doing?”
Rebus closed the notebook, slipping it into his pocket. Then he nodded to Hogan.
“Thanks again, Doc,” Hogan said, preparing to leave. She ignored him, glaring at Rebus.
“I’ll be reporting this,” she warned him.
He shrugged. “I’ll be suspended by the end of the day anyway. Thanks again for all your help.” He squeezed past her, following Hogan to the car park.
“I feel better,” Hogan said. “It might have been cheap, but we ended up scoring a point.”
“A cheap point is always worth scoring,” Rebus agreed.
Hogan stopped at the Passat, fumbling in his pocket for the keys. “Douglas Brimson?” he asked.
“Another of Niles’s visitors,” Rebus explained. “With an address at Turnhouse.”
“Turnhouse?” Hogan frowned. “You mean the airport?”
Rebus nodded.
“Is there anything else out there?”
“Apart from the airport, you mean?” Rebus shrugged. “Might be worth finding out,” he said as the car’s central lock clunked open.
“What’s this about you waiting to be suspended?”
“I had to say something.”
“But why pick that?”
“Jesus, Bobby, I thought the analyst had left the building.”
“If there’s anything I should know, John…”
“There isn’t.”
“I brought you in on this, I can dump you just as quickly. Remember that.”
“You’re a real motivator, Bobby.” Rebus pulled the passenger-side door closed. It was going to be a long drive…
9
MAKE MY DAY (C.O.D.Y.).
Siobhan stared at the note again. Same handwriting as yesterday, she was sure of that. Second-class mail, but it had taken only a day to reach her. The address was perfect, down to the St. Leonard’s postcode. No name this time, but she didn’t need a name, did she? That was the point the writer was making.
Make my day: a reference to Clint Eastwood’s Dirty Harry? Who did she know called Harry? Nobody. She wasn’t sure whether she was meant to get the C.O.D.Y. reference, but straight off she knew what it meant: Come On Die Young. She knew it because it was the title of a Mogwai album, one she’d bought a while back. A piece of American gang graffiti, something like that. Who did she know, apart from her, who liked Mogwai? She’d loaned Rebus a couple of CDs, months ago. Nobody in the station really knew her taste in music. Grant Hood had been to her flat a few times… so had Eric Bain… Maybe she hadn’t been meant to get the meaning, not without working at it. She guessed most fans of the band were younger than her, teens and early twenties. Probably mostly male, too. Mogwai played instrumentals, mixing ambient guitar with ear-wrenching noise. She couldn’t remember if Rebus had ever given her back the CDs… Had one of them been Come On Die Young?
Without realizing it, she’d walked from her desk to the window, peering out on to St. Leonard’s Lane. The CID room was dead, all the Port Edgar interviews concluded. Transcripts would be typed up, collated. It would be someone’s job to feed it all into the computer system, see if technology could find co
The letter writer wanted her to make his day. His day? She studied the writing again. Maybe an expert could tell if it was a masculine or feminine hand. She suspected the writer had disguised his or her real handwriting. Hence the scrawl. She went back to her desk and called Ray Duff.
“Ray, it’s Siobhan-got anything for me?”
“Morning to you, too, DS Clarke. Didn’t I say I’d get back to you when-if-I found something?”
“Meaning you haven’t?”
“Meaning I’m up to my neck. Meaning I haven’t yet got round to doing very much about your letter, for which I can only offer an apology and the excuse that I’m flesh and blood.”
“Sorry, Ray.” She gave a sigh, pinched the bridge of her nose.
“You’ve had another one?” he guessed.
“Yes.”
“One yesterday, one today?”
“That’s right.”
“Want to send me it?”
“I think I’ll hang on to this one, Ray.”
“As soon as I’ve got news, I’ll call you.”
“I know you will. Sorry I’ve bothered you.”
“Speak to someone, Siobhan.”
“I already have. Bye, Ray.”
She cut the call, tried Rebus’s mobile, but he wasn’t answering. She didn’t bother with a message. Folded the note, put it back in its envelope, slipped the envelope into her pocket. On her desk sat a dead teenager’s laptop, her task for the day. There were over a hundred files in there. Some would be computer applications, but most were documents created by Derek Renshaw. She’d already looked at a few: correspondence, school essays. Nothing about the car crash in which his friend had died. Looked like he’d been trying to set up some sort of jazz fanzine. There were pages of layout, photos sca