‘MIT would have been daft not to bring you on board,’ Rebus said. He gestured further into the station, but Clarke stood her ground.
‘Something that needs saying face to face?’ she nudged.
‘What is it with everybody guarding their territory today?’
‘What do you mean?’ She rolled her eyes as the truth hit her. ‘You went to the crime scene. Of course you did.’
‘Which makes this your lucky day. It’s the whole reason I’ve got something for you.’
‘You don’t get to do this, John. It was bad enough when you carried a badge. Number of times I had to lie through my teeth for you...’
‘Buyer’s remorse, Siobhan?’ He didn’t sound completely unsympathetic.
‘Just spit it out, will you?’
‘I would if my throat wasn’t parched. Blame the medication.’
She fixed him with a look before turning a hundred and eighty degrees, Rebus following as she unlocked the inner door.
‘Same old Leith,’ he said as he followed her upstairs.
‘My boss isn’t here right now, so let’s keep this low-key, eh?’
‘Your boss being...?’
‘DCI Katherine Trask.’
‘Can’t say I know the name. So where’s she off to?’
‘Autopsy. Took Fox with her. They’re updating the fiscal after.’
‘For which absence we are truly grateful.’ Rebus broke off as he saw that Clarke had walked straight past the MIT door and was leading him towards an interview room. ‘Really?’ he queried.
‘Really,’ she confirmed, ushering him inside. ‘Time to remember you’ve not been CID for a while.’
‘Fair enough, I suppose.’ He pulled out a chair and sat down. ‘Okay if I take my coat off?’
‘Fine.’
‘And the tea?’
‘I thought that was just a ruse?’ She watched Rebus pull a blister pack of tablets from his pocket. ‘Milk, no sugar?’ she said.
‘If it’s not too much trouble.’ He looked and sounded suddenly weary, shoulders slumped.
‘I’ll be right back.’
Rebus nodded slowly as he held the strip of tablets between both hands. Once she’d left, he counted to five, then opened the door, peering along the corridor. Clarke was marching out of the MIT room, carrying the empty kettle in the direction of the toilets. He stuffed the tablets back into his pocket, grabbed his jacket and made his escape.
‘Gang’s all here,’ he said, making his entry. ‘Christine, George, Tess...’
‘Nice surprise, John,’ Esson said, waving from her desk. ‘We wondered who the mystery visitor was.’
‘Who’s missing?’ Rebus asked, indicating the vacated desks.
‘Couple of kids called King and Ritchie,’ Tess Leighton answered. ‘They’re at Howdenhall. DCI’s taken DI Fox to...’
‘The mortuary,’ Rebus said, nodding. ‘Professor Quant doing the honours?’
‘You and her still winching?’ George Gamble said, his face almost a leer.
Rebus concentrated on Leighton. ‘How about you and Fox?’
She shook her head, the blood rising to her neck.
‘You’re well shot of him,’ Rebus told her. ‘I see the diet’s working, George.’
Gamble ran both hands down his distended stomach. ‘A healthy appetite. You’ve shed some weight, though. Not cancer, is it?’
‘I’m touched by your concern.’
All the time Rebus had been conversing, he had also been making a circuit of the room, taking in paperwork on desks and the notes and photos that were beginning to be placed on the murder wall.
‘Anybody got a pic of the victim in situ?’ he asked.
‘Think Siobhan would want us to show you?’ Esson lobbed back.
‘Show you what?’ Clarke herself enquired as she brought in the filled kettle. She froze when she saw Rebus, a low growl forming at the back of her throat.
‘Whole team needs to hear what I’ve got to say,’ Rebus explained. ‘But before that, I need to see the victim’s face.’
‘Any particular reason?’
He was at her desk now, studying her computer screen. Having switched the kettle on, she shoved him aside and settled in her chair. Rebus headed across the room and made himself comfortable at the desk next to a closed door.
‘DCI’s office?’ he speculated. ‘Making this Fox’s little acre of land?’
‘How did you guess?’ Leighton wanted to know.
‘Malky’s always going to want to be as close to the boss’s arse as possible without a restraining order needing issued.’
‘Milk, no sugar?’ Esson checked, busying herself with mugs and tea bags.
‘Nothing wrong with your memory,’ Rebus replied.
A phone rang and Leighton answered.
‘DS Leighton.’ She listened for a moment, then rolled her eyes. ‘All requests have to go through media liaison. There’ll be a news conference later today. If you’re on the list, you’ll be welcome to attend.’ She put the phone down. ‘Another bloody citizen journalist,’ she commented. ‘Anybody with a keypad thinks they’re Woodward and Bernstein.’
‘Showing your age there, Tess,’ Rebus said.
‘Two words, John — Robert and Redford.’
‘Even the proper journalists — the ones still left — are led by the rumour mill,’ Esson said as she went about making their drinks. ‘One or two voices online even saying cops like Tynecastle get the job done so where’s the problem?’
‘You were ahead of the curve there, John,’ Gamble said with a chuckle.
‘While we’re waiting for the tea to brew,’ Clarke interrupted, her voice stony, ‘why not entertain us with a story, John?’
‘If you insist.’ Rebus leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. ‘I happened to be visiting our old friend Morris Gerald Cafferty yesterday and I spotted a letter that had been sent to him. Actually, a printout of a photo rather than anything written. But it arrived in a branded envelope with the words MGC Lettings top left.’
‘Cafferty’s company as was,’ Clarke said.
Rebus nodded. ‘The photo looked like it was shot on a phone. It showed the profile of a man. He was standing in a room and behind him was some fairly distinctive wallpaper, identical to that found at the murder scene.’
‘You visited the locus?’ Leighton asked.
‘Let’s not go there,’ Clarke warned her. Then, turning to Rebus, ‘You’re saying it’s Francis Haggard in the photo?’
‘I can’t be certain, Siobhan. You’ve seen him recently, not me.’
Clarke took the hint and summoned him over. Esson handed them a mug of tea each while Leighton retrieved two more for her and Gamble. On Clarke’s screen was a shot of the murder scene. As Rebus watched over her shoulder, she found one from close range and zoomed in. Rebus studied the face, not that he really needed to.
‘I’m pretty sure,’ he said.
‘So why was Cafferty sent a photo of Francis Haggard?’ Esson asked.
‘And who sent it to him?’ Leighton added.
‘If only there were detectives in the room who could establish answers to these excellent questions,’ Rebus said, taking a slurp of tea and heading back to Fox’s desk.
‘What were you doing at Cafferty’s?’ Esson asked.
‘I pick up his pension from the post office.’
‘Really, though?’ she persisted.
Rebus glanced in Clarke’s direction. She didn’t seem in the least bit surprised when all he did was offer a shrug.
‘Does Cafferty know you know?’ she asked.
‘Might have slipped out in passing,’ Rebus admitted.
‘Bang goes any element of surprise.’ She paused. ‘It’s him, isn’t it? Cafferty? He’s got you looking for Jack Oram?’