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“Carswell?” Rebus guessed.
“HQ.”
“Then that’s who it is.”
Hogan nodded, dropped the phone back into his pocket.
“No point putting it off,” Rebus told him.
But Bobby Hogan shook his head. “There’s every point putting it off, John. Besides, they may be pulling you off casework, but Port Edgar isn’t really a case, is it? Nobody’s going to go to court. It’s just housekeeping.”
“I suppose so.” Rebus gave a wry smile. Hogan patted his arm.
“Don’t you worry, John. Uncle Bobby will look after you…”
“Thanks, Uncle Bobby,” Rebus said.
“… right up until the moment when the shit really does hit the fan.”
By the time Gill Templer got back to St. Leonard’s, Siobhan had already tracked down Douglas Brimson. It hadn’t been exactly onerous, due to the fact that Brimson was in the phone book. Two addresses and phone numbers: one home, the other business. Templer had disappeared into her office across the corridor, slamming the door after her. George Silvers had looked up from his desk.
“Sounds like she’s on the warpath,” he’d said, pocketing his pen and preparing to beat a retreat. Siobhan had tried phoning Rebus, but he was busy. Busy warding off blows from the chief super’s tomahawk, most probably.
With Silvers gone, Siobhan again found herself alone in the CID room. DCI Pryde was around somewhere; so was DC Davie Hynds. But both were managing to make themselves invisible. Siobhan stared at the screen of Derek Renshaw’s laptop, bored to death of sifting its inoffensive contents. Derek, she was sure, had been a good kid, but dull with it. He’d already known the path his life would take: three or four years at uni, business studies with computing, and then an office job, maybe in accountancy. Money to buy a waterfront penthouse, fast car and the best hi-fi system around…
But that future remained frozen, realized only in words on a screen, bytes of memory. The thought made her shiver. Everything changing in an instant… She held her face in her hands, rubbing her fingers over her eyes, knowing only one thing: she didn’t want to be here when Gill Templer emerged from behind that door. Because for once, Siobhan suspected she would give her boss as good as she got, and maybe even a bit more besides. She wasn’t in the mood to be anybody’s victim. She looked at her phone, then at the notebook containing Brimson’s details. Decided, she shut down the laptop, placing it in her shoulder bag. Picked up her mobile and the notebook.
Walked.
Her one detour: a quick stop home, where she found her CD of Come On Die Young. She played the album as she drove, listening for clues. Not easy when so much of it was instrumental…
Brimson’s home address turned out to be a modern bungalow on a narrow road between the airport and what had been Gogarburn Hospital. As Siobhan got out of her car, she could hear demolition work in the distance: Gogarburn was being dismantled. She thought the site had been sold to one of the major banks, to be transformed into their new headquarters. The house in front of her sat behind a tall hedge and green wrought-iron gates. She pushed open the gates and crunched across pink gravel. Tried the doorbell, then peered in through the windows on either side. One belonged to a living room, the other a bedroom. The bed had been made, and the living room looked little used. A couple of magazines sat on the blue leather sofa, pictures of airplanes on their covers. The garden to the front was mostly paved, with just a couple of beds where roses waited to grow. A narrow path separated the bungalow from its garage, with another gate that opened when she turned the handle, allowing entry to the rear garden. It comprised a huge expanse of sloping lawn, at the bottom of which stretched what looked like acres of farmland. The timber-framed conservatory seemed a recent addition to the house. Its door was locked. Windows showed her a large, very white kitchen and another bedroom. She got no sense of family life: no garden toys, nothing to suggest a woman’s touch. All the same, the place was kept in immaculate condition. Walking back down the path, she noticed a glass pane in the garage’s side door. There was a car inside, one of the sportier Jaguars, but its owner definitely wasn’t home.
She got back into her own car and headed for the airport, stopping in front of the terminal building. A security man warned her that parking wasn’t allowed but waved her on when she showed her ID. The terminal was busy: long queues for what looked like a charter flight to the sun, business suits wheeling their cases briskly towards the escalator. Siobhan studied the signs, saw one for Information and headed that way, asking at the desk to speak to Mr. Brimson. A quick clatter of a keyboard, then a shake of the head.
“I’m not getting that name.”
Siobhan spelled it for the woman, who nodded that she’d entered it correctly. She picked up her phone, spoke to someone. Her turn now to spell out the letters: B-r-i-m-s-o-n. She pulled her mouth down, again shaking her head.
“Sure he works here?” she asked.
Siobhan showed her the address, copied from the phone book. The woman smiled.
“That says ‘airfield,’ love,” she explained. “That’s what you want, not the airport.” She then gave directions, and Siobhan thanked her and left, face flushed from having made the mistake in the first place. The airfield was just that. It adjoined the airport and could be reached by driving halfway around the perimeter. Light aircraft were hangared here, and according to the sign on the gate, it was also home to a flying school. There was a phone number below: the number Siobhan had copied from the phone book. The high metal gate was padlocked, but there was an old-fashioned telephone receiver in a wooden box attached to a post. Siobhan picked it up and heard the ringing tone.
“Hello?” A man’s voice.
“I’m looking for Mr. Brimson.”
“You’ve found him, sweetheart. What can I do for you?”
“Mr. Brimson, my name’s Detective Sergeant Clarke. I’m with Lothian and Borders Police. I was wondering if I could have a word with you.”
There was a moment’s silence. Then: “Just wait a tick. I’ll have to unlock the gate.”
Siobhan started to say another thank-you, but the phone was dead. She could see a few hangars, a couple of airplanes. One had a single propeller on its nose, the other boasted two, one on either wing. They looked like two-seaters. There were also a couple of squat prefabricated buildings, and it was from one of these that the figure emerged, hoisting itself into an open-topped, venerable-looking Land Rover. A plane coming in to land at the airport drowned out any sound of the engine starting. The Land Rover jolted forwards, speeding the hundred or so yards to the gate. The man leapt out again. He was tall, ta
“Have to keep the place locked,” he started to explain, jangling a vast set of keys taken from the Land Rover’s ignition. “Security.”
She nodded her understanding. There was something immediately likable about this man. Maybe it was his sense of energy and self-confidence, the way he rolled his shoulders as he walked up to the gate. That brief, wi
But as he pulled open the gate for her, she noted that his face had become more serious. “I suppose it’s about Lee,” he said solemnly. “Bound to happen sooner or later.” Then he motioned for her to drive in. “Park by the office,” he said. “I’ll catch up with you.”