‘You in charge?’ Holly asked quietly. Rebus shook his head again, watching the body being loaded into the van. ‘Give me a clue then — who is it I should be speaking to?’
‘I shouldn’t even be here,’ Rebus said, turning away to make for the relative safety of his car.
I’m one of the lucky ones, Detective Sergeant Siobhan Clarke was thinking to herself, by which she meant that she at least had been given a desk of her own. John Rebus — senior in rank to her — hadn’t been so fortunate. Not that fortune, good or bad, had had anything to do with it. She knew Rebus saw it as a sign from on high: we’ve no place for you; time you thought of chucking it in. He’d be on the full police pension by now — officers younger than him, with fewer years on the force, were throwing in their cards and readying to cash their chips. He’d known exactly the message the bosses had wanted him to take. So had Siobhan, who’d offered him her own desk. He’d refused, of course, said he was happy to share whatever space was available, which came to mean a table by the photocopier, where mugs, coffee and sugar were kept. The kettle was on the adjacent windowledge. There was a box of copier paper under the table, and a broken-backed chair which creaked in complaint when sat upon. No telephone, not even a wall-socket for one. No computer.
‘Temporary, of course,’ Detective Chief Inspector James Macrae had explained. ‘Not easy, trying to make space for new bodies...’
To which Rebus had responded with a smile and a shrug, Siobhan realising that he daren’t speak: Rebus’s own particular form of anger management. Bottle it all up for later. The same issues of space explained why her desk was in with the detective constables. There was a separate office for the detective sergeants, who shared with the clerical assistant, but no room there for Siobhan or Rebus. The Detective Inspector, meantime, had a small office of his own, between the two. Ah, there was the rub: Gayfield already had a DI; had no need of another. His name was Derek Starr, and he was tall, blond and good-looking. Problem was, he knew it. One lunchtime, he’d taken Siobhan for a meal at his club. It was called The Hallion and was a five-minute walk away. She hadn’t dared ask how much it cost to join. Turned out he’d taken Rebus there, too.
‘Because he can,’ had been Rebus’s summing up. Starr was on the way up, and wanted both new arrivals to know it.
Her own desk was fine. She did have a computer, which Rebus was welcome to use whenever he liked. And she had a phone. Across the aisle from her sat Detective Constable Phyllida Hawes. They’d worked together on a couple of cases, even though they’d been in different divisions. Siobhan was ten years Hawes’s junior, but senior to her in rank. So far, this hadn’t seemed an issue, and Siobhan was hoping it would stay that way. There was another DC in the room. His name was Colin Tibbet: mid-twenties, Siobhan reckoned, which made him a few years younger than her. Nice smile which often showed a row of smallish, rounded teeth. Hawes had already accused her of fancying him, couching it in jokey terms, but only just.
‘I’m not in the baby-snatching business,’ Siobhan had responded.
‘So you like the more mature man?’ Hawes had teased, glancing in the direction of the photocopier.
‘Don’t be daft,’ Siobhan had said, knowing she was meaning Rebus. At the end of a case a few months back, Siobhan had found herself in Rebus’s arms, being kissed by him. Nobody else knew, and it had never been discussed between them. Yet it hung over them whenever they were alone together. Well... hung over her anyway; you could never tell with John Rebus.
Phyllida Hawes was walking to the photocopier now, asking where DI Rebus had disappeared to.
‘Got a call,’ Siobhan answered. It was as much as she knew, but the look Hawes gave indicated that she thought Siobhan was holding back. Tibbet cleared his throat.
‘There’s a body been found in Knoxland. It’s just come up on the computer.’ He tapped his screen as if to confirm this. ‘Here’s hoping it’s not a turf war.’
Siobhan nodded slowly. Less than a year back, a drugs gang had tried muscling in on the estate, leading to a series of stabbings, abductions and reprisals. The incomers had been from Northern Ireland, rumours of paramilitary connections. Most of them were in jail now.
‘Not our problem, is it?’ Hawes was saying. ‘One of the few things we’ve got going for us here... no schemes like Knoxland in the vicinity.’
Which was true enough. Gayfield Square was mostly a city centre operation: shoplifters and troublemakers on Princes Street; Saturday-night drunks; break-ins in the New Town.
‘Bit like a holiday for you, eh, Siobhan?’ Hawes added with a grin.
‘St Leonard’s had its moments,’ Siobhan was forced to agree. Back when the move was announced, word was she’d end up at HQ. She didn’t know how that rumour had started, but after a week or so it had begun to feel real. But then Detective Chief Superintendent Gill Templer had asked to see her, and suddenly she was going to Gayfield Square. She’d tried not to feel it as a blow, but that was what it had been. Templer herself, on the other hand, was bound for HQ. Others were dispersed as far afield as Balerno and East Lothian, a few opting for retirement. Only Siobhan and Rebus would be moving to Gayfield Square.
‘And just when we were getting the hang of the job,’ Rebus had complained, emptying the contents of his desk drawers into a large cardboard box. ‘Still, look on the bright side: longer lies for you in the morning.’
True, her flat was five minutes’ walk away. No more rush-hour drives through the centre of town. It was one of the few bonuses she could think of... maybe even the only one. They’d been a team at St Leonard’s, and the building had been in much better shape than the current drab edifice. The CID room had been larger and brighter, and here there was a... She breathed in deeply through her nostrils. Well, a smell. She couldn’t quite place it. It wasn’t body odour or the packet of cheese and pickle sandwiches Tibbet brought to work with him each day. It seemed to be coming from the building itself. One morning, alone in the room, she’d even placed her nose to the walls and floor, but there seemed no specific source for the smell. There were even times when it vanished altogether, only to reappear by degrees. The radiators? The insulation? She’d given up trying to explain it, and hadn’t said anything to anyone, not even Rebus.
Her phone rang, and she picked it up. ‘CID,’ she said into the mouthpiece.
‘Front desk here. Got a couple who’d like a word with DS Clarke.’
Siobhan frowned. ‘Asked for me specifically?’
‘That’s right.’
‘What are their names?’ She reached for a notepad and pen.
‘Mr and Mrs Jardine. They said to tell you they’re from Banehall.’
Siobhan stopped writing. She knew who they were. ‘Tell them I’ll be right there.’ She ended the call and lifted her jacket from the back of her chair.
‘Another deserter?’ Hawes said. ‘Anybody’d think our company wasn’t wanted, Col.’ She winked at Tibbet.
‘Visitors to see me,’ Siobhan explained.
‘Bring them in,’ Hawes invited, opening her arms wide. ‘More the merrier.’
‘I’ll see,’ Siobhan said. As she left the room, Hawes was stabbing the photocopier button again, Tibbet reading something on his computer screen, lips moving silently. No way she was bringing the Jardines in here. That background odour, and the mustiness, and the view over the car park... the Jardines deserved something better.
Me too, she couldn’t help thinking.
It was three years since she’d seen them. They hadn’t aged well. John Jardine’s hair was almost all gone, and what little was left was salt-and-pepper grey. His wife Alice had some grey in her hair, too. It was tied behind her, making her face seem large and stern. She’d put on some weight, and her clothes looked as if she’d chosen them at random: a long brown corduroy skirt with dark-blue tights and green shoes; checked blouse with a red checked coat thrown over the whole. John Jardine had made a bit more effort: suit and tie, and a shirt which had seen an ironing board in recent memory. He held out his hand for Siobhan to take.