‘You’re trespassing,’ Jimmy Hess said. Rebus turned towards him. Hess filled the shed’s doorway. ‘Criminal damage, too.’
‘Police are on their way, son,’ Rebus said, breathing hard. ‘But it’s you they’ll be talking to, not me.’ He reached a hand through the gap in the drawer and lifted out a laptop. He sensed Keith’s notebooks were in there too, at the back, harder to reach. ‘Best go prepare your grandfather.’
Jimmy Hess was shaking his head. His large, round face showed no emotion. Gone was the jovial figure who had sat at the table in The Glen; gone, too, the concerned and solicitous grandson who had brought an end to Keith Grant’s interview.
‘I don’t think so,’ he told Rebus.
And then he lunged, hands around Rebus’s throat, pushing him back until Rebus collided with the rear wall of the shed. He felt his airway constrict, his eyes bulging and watering at the same time, blurring his vision. He had his own hands around the younger man’s wrists, but couldn’t budge them. He sought a pinkie, intent on bending it back until it snapped, but his strength was already ebbing. His knees buckled and he sank towards the floor, sharp corners of various objects digging into him. Changing tactics, he reached for Jimmy Hess’s face, clawing at it, seeking the vulnerable eyes. But Hess just turned his head to and fro, making purchase impossible. The sea was roaring in Rebus’s ears now, and the world had turned blood-red like a sunset. Hess’s teeth were bared in effort. Rebus only wished he could have given his tormentor a more even fight... and been more help to Sammy...
Sam...
Samantha...
His hands fell away and his eyes fluttered once before closing.
A deep darkness lay beyond the roaring.
40
The Leith team were in high spirits, except for George Gamble, who sat with arms folded, having warned anyone who’d listen: ‘Don’t count your fried chickens.’ His chair creaked as he leaned back in it.
Most of the team had gathered in the vicinity of the Murder Wall, perched on desks or standing expectantly while Graham Sutherland considered their next move.
‘I’ll talk to the Fiscal’s office,’ he announced, ‘that’s probably job one.’
‘Surely job one is getting Morelli in here and interviewing him under caution,’ DC Phil Yeats said. He was handing round the teas and coffees, this having become a routine he seemed to welcome. (‘Detective wages for a Tea Jenny’s work,’ had been Ronnie Ogilvie’s comment one night in the pub after Yeats had left.)
‘We need to remember he’s a flight risk unless we get him to surrender his passport,’ Malcolm Fox added.
‘In good time, Malcolm,’ Sutherland said. He had taken up position in front of the wall display, facing his team. ‘Car’s gone to the workshop at Howdenhall. If there’s trace evidence to be found, they’ll find it. I’m promised news by close of day.’
‘Search warrant for Morelli’s home?’ Esson piped up.
‘As soon as I’ve had a word with the Fiscal. Do we have any thoughts as to motive?’
‘Not exactly,’ Siobhan Clarke offered, ‘but there’s premeditation there. I’m guessing he thought it less risky to head out of town to rent the vehicle. CCTV from the airport shows him dressed very unshowily. Malcolm and I have had dealings with him, and he’s always immaculate.’ The team had been handed printouts of the CCTV stills. They studied them as Clarke continued. ‘Hooded sweatshirt, jeans and trainers.’
‘What’s the backpack for?’ Ronnie Ogilvie asked.
‘How many people fly into Edinburgh with no luggage at all?’ Clarke answered. ‘He’s trying not to stand out. But the hoodie brings me to another thing — it’s what he was wearing the night he claims he was attacked.’
‘Claims?’
‘Remember what I said about the thought that’s gone into this: if Morelli’s viewed by us as a victim...’
‘He’s less likely to seem a possible suspect.’ Ogilvie nodded his understanding.
‘All of which is great,’ Sutherland interrupted. ‘But it remains speculative.’
‘Pretty compelling all the same,’ Fox stressed. ‘Car at the murder scene; renter known to the victim; prearranged meeting. Don’t forget — last call on Salman’s phone was to his good pal Giovanni.’
‘Which we dismissed because of who Morelli was and what had allegedly happened to him,’ Christine Esson added. ‘When in fact he might just have faked a mugging by dunting his head against a wall.’
Sutherland was nodding thoughtfully. ‘Let me talk to the Fiscal, get things moving. But in the meantime let’s keep this under wraps — no leaks for a change.’ He paused. ‘Understood, George?’
Gamble froze, digestive biscuit halfway to his mouth. ‘Don’t look at me, boss.’
‘Just making sure you’re paying attention. And let’s hear it for Siobhan and Malcolm. It’s because of them that we’re as far along as we are.’
Sutherland started clapping, the others joining in. The applause was the usual mix: genuine enthusiasm and relief, topped with a sprinkling of resentment that the collar belonged to someone other than the celebrant.
‘Thanks, folks,’ Fox said, hands clasped together.
‘Don’t let it go to your big baldy head,’ George Gamble retorted.
As they returned to their desks and Sutherland headed into his office to make the call, Clarke saw Fox run a questioning palm over his scalp.
‘He was winding you up,’ she told him in an undertone.
‘I know that.’
But Clarke knew that next time Fox went to the toilets, he’d be angling his head in front of the mirror in an attempt to take a really good look.
41
He awoke with a start and lashed out, but the face above him belonged to Robin Creasey.
‘Bloody hell, John, thought I’d lost you there.’
Rebus’s hand went to his windpipe. He sensed damage. Swallowing brought a searing heat to his throat. He tried speaking, his voice barely a whisper.
‘Keith’s computer was here.’ He gestured towards the drawer. ‘Jimmy borrowed a motorbike, the night Keith was killed. Ron Travis heard it.’
Creasey switched on his phone’s torch and aimed it into the drawer. ‘Something at the back,’ he said.
‘Keith’s notebooks.’
‘I’ll get someone here to stand guard. And an ambulance for you.’
Rebus shook his head, the action causing immediate dizziness. He accepted Creasey’s help as he made to stand. The world birled around him as he took his inhaler out, aiming it between his chattering teeth. Wasn’t sure it would do any good, but he took a couple of puffs anyway. As he made his way tentatively from the shed, he saw Frank Hess standing in the kitchen doorway. The man’s eyes were judging him.
‘Where will he have gone?’ Rebus demanded in the same strangulated whisper.
‘Don’t worry about that, John,’ Creasey said. ‘Let’s just focus on you for the moment.’
Rebus grabbed a fistful of Creasey’s jacket lapel. ‘Let’s not,’ he said.
‘Jimmy is a good boy,’ Hess was intoning, more to himself than anyone else. Rebus thought he could see tears in the old man’s eyes. He got Hess’s attention and pointed towards Creasey.
‘More you tell them, the better — for your grandson, I mean. You need to do the right thing now, Frank. Start making up for all your wrongs.’
Hess glowered at him. ‘You and I are no longer young men. Keith was a young man, impatient, full of ideas. He thought he could change things.’ He stabbed a finger towards Rebus. ‘For how long were you a policeman? And did you change the world? Did you change anything?’