‘All the glamour all the time,’ he commented. ‘We should grab another drink one of these days.’
‘So many choice spots in Gartcosh — were you thinking cappuccino from the kiosk?’
‘I’d say a West End wine bar is more your style. Before or after a spot of dinner.’
‘I’ll get back to you, Malcolm.’
‘We could call it a work meeting and charge it to the public purse,’ he teased.
‘I reckon HMRC would take a dim view of that, don’t you?’ Her smile was widening as she passed him and continued to the top of the stairs.
Rather than drive straight home, Fox, having hit the outskirts of the city, started following the signposts to Edinburgh North and East. Newhaven was right on the coast, looking out across the Firth of Forth. It still boasted a harbour, one side of which was lined with restaurants, though only a few hardy souls were out and about. It was practically on Leith’s doorstep, but didn’t have the same buzz. Still, the views would have been the selling point for the block of flats developed by James Pelham. Some had uninterrupted views towards the three bridges across the Forth, while others looked towards Inchkeith and the other islands out on the firth.
Fox got out of his car long enough to smell the air. There was a party on one of the balconies, just three or four people laughing at their good fortune while jazz played somewhere inside the flat. It was the sound of moneyed security. He thought of his own modest Oxgangs bungalow. Here was what he could have won. He could see through a glass door at ground level to where a concierge sat in front of a bank of screens, though the man seemed far more interested in his phone, feet up on the desk, knees bent. Above, Sinatra was singing about being flown to the moon. But if there was a moon up there somewhere, Malcolm Fox couldn’t see it.
When Clarke arrived on Rebus’s doorstep that evening, she found the door opening before she could announce her presence. Rebus was readying to take Brillo to the Meadows, accompanied by his daughter and granddaughter. Turned out Carrie took dance lessons somewhere nearby, and they sometimes caught up with Rebus afterwards for a bite.
‘I had fish fingers,’ Carrie announced.
‘And did Grandad cook them?’
The child gave Clarke a look like she might be suffering from some form of mental illness.
‘Come with us,’ Samantha said, sliding an arm under Clarke’s elbow. ‘Been ages since we caught up.’
So they talked as they walked, the conversation remaining light. Clarke skated over the surface of her recent workload, while Rebus looked relieved throughout that there was no opportunity for her to grill him further about Francis Haggard and Tynecastle police station. When Brillo dropped the ball at her feet, Clarke gave a mighty swipe, sending it flying.
‘Working off some of that tension?’ Rebus enquired.
‘You could play for Scotland!’ Carrie added excitedly.
Clarke smiled, then noticed that Rebus was looking up in the direction of Cafferty’s penthouse. The main room was in darkness. ‘Can’t let him go, can you?’ she commented.
‘No idea who you mean,’ Rebus answered.
‘Aye, right.’
‘Dad’s favourite expression,’ Samantha interjected, taking his hand and squeezing it. ‘Two positives but meaning the exact opposite. Very Scottish.’
‘Probably him who taught me it then,’ Clarke said. Samantha was looking at her.
‘Have I thanked you for helping Dad during lockdown?’
‘More than once.’
‘I’m not sure he deserves you.’
‘He doesn’t make it easy sometimes,’ Clarke answered, her voice falling away. She noticed Rebus almost lose his balance, taking a step to correct it.
‘It’s an inner-ear thing,’ he explained when he saw that she’d noticed. ‘Doctor says it’ll sort itself out.’
‘Not that he’s been to the doctor, you understand,’ Samantha announced. ‘You can maybe try, I’ve given up. He gets chest pains, too.’
‘Indigestion,’ Rebus muttered. ‘Couple of Rennies and I’m right as rain.’
‘You’re not, though,’ Samantha chided him.
Clarke was checking the time on her phone. ‘I’d best be off.’
‘News?’ Rebus demanded. She shook her head.
‘Just tired,’ she explained.
‘Hard to believe he’s not turned up yet.’
‘We’ve looked all over. I want to request his phone records, but my DCI says I’ve insufficient grounds. How about you — any progress with Jack Oram?’
‘Apparently he’s in a smoky room playing hand after hand of poker with your guy.’
‘I’ll take that as a no.’
Rebus took a step closer. ‘There’s something I want to say. Coming from me, you’ll probably burst out laughing, but I’m going to say it anyway.’ He looked over towards his daughter and granddaughter. ‘There’s more to life than the job, Siobhan. When I think of the energy I put into it, usually at the expense of folk who should have been important to me...’
‘Be a shame to lose them then,’ Clarke replied. ‘Go see a doctor, John.’
‘Come on, angel,’ Samantha was telling her daughter. ‘Time to give Grandpa his freedom back.’
‘I will,’ Rebus told Clarke. For once, she almost believed him.
On her way home, she stopped at a pizza place, no cooking required. The parking gods were gentle with her and she found a space further along her street. She half expected Fox’s Merc to be there, but it wasn’t.
Inside her flat, she dumped her coat and bag and placed the pizza box on the kitchen worktop, sliding a couple of glistening slices onto a dinner plate. She thought of the break-in at Newhaven. Nobody looked twice at a food delivery. Any neighbour would have opened up, even after checking. She switched the TV on for company and got comfortable on the sofa. Good thing about a pizza was there’d be some left for breakfast. She would up the ante in the morning, make Haggard’s disappearance public, whether her DCI agreed or not. Although his particulars had been issued to every cop working the beat, she wondered how hard they would try. Christine Esson probably had a point: he was one of their own, whatever he had done. Not all of them would think that way, but some definitely would. Those same cops would have been the type to turn a blind eye to Rebus and his ilk back in the day. Should she include herself in that group? Probably. She’d been warned what Rebus was like from the first day she’d worked with him.
‘But he gets results,’ was always the excuse.
If past sins were about to catch up with him, how would she handle that? Malcolm Fox would be watching for any sign of a cover-up. Could she protect Rebus, even if she wanted to?
After an hour or two’s mindless TV, she considered closing her eyes and napping on the sofa, but knew she’d probably wake up in the middle of the night feeling like crap.
‘You can do this,’ she told herself as she swivelled her feet onto the floor.
She was in bed, dead to the world, when her phone started ringing.
Esson looked every bit as alert as Clarke felt, but had managed to conjure up two beakers, at least one of which contained coffee. Clarke accepted it with a grateful nod. Uniformed officers were constructing a cordon of blue-and-white tape. A scene-of-crime vehicle had arrived, finding a way through the roadworks and parked on the emerging tram line. Clarke recognised the man in charge, Haj Atwal, so knew things would be handled properly. Gawkers had appeared at the windows of the tenement across the street. Inside Haggard’s building, neighbours were being ushered back behind their doors.
‘Do we know who reported it?’ Clarke asked Esson as they began to ascend the stairwell.