On Sunday afternoon, dress smart but casual, he went to start his car and found it recalcitrant. Probably a loose connection. He looked under the bonnet, but was no mechanic. He was alone on the street, no one around to give him a jump-start, so he went back indoors and called for a cab, noticing too late that he had oil on his hands, a smudge of which had transferred itself to his trouser leg.
He was not in the best of moods as his driver took him north across the city.
Sammy answered the door. She was wearing thick black tights with a short jumble-sale dress falling over them. Under the dress she wore a white T-shirt.
‘You’re almost on time,’ she said. ‘We weren’t expecting you so soon.’
‘Did Patience teach you that one?’
He followed his daughter down the hall into the living room. Lucky the cat took one look at Rebus, seemed to remember him, and stalked off into the conservatory. Rebus heard the catflap rattle shut. Now it was only two against one; the odds were improving in Rebus’s favour.
He knew there were things fathers said to their daughters, little criticisms they were expected to make to show they cared. But Rebus knew what his little criticisms would sound like: they’d sound like criticisms. So he kept his counsel. Patience came out of the kitchen wiping her hands on a dish-towel.
‘John.’
‘Hello, Patience.’ They kissed the way friends did, a peck on the cheek, a hand on the shoulder.
‘Be about two minutes,’ she said, turning back into the kitchen. He didn’t think she’d really looked at him. ‘Go into the conservatory.’
Sammy again led the way. The table had a clean white cloth on it, with some dishes already laid. Patience had brought her potted plants indoors for the winter, leaving not much room for anything or anyone else. The Sunday papers were heaped on the window-ledge. Rebus chose the chair nearest the garden door. Looking out of the conservatory window, he could see in through the kitchen window. Patience was busy at the sink, her face lacking emotion. She didn’t look up.
‘Liking it all right?’ Rebus asked his daughter.
She nodded. ‘It’s great, and so’s Patience.’
‘How’s the job?’
‘Very stimulating; not easy, but stimulating.’
‘What do you do exactly?’
‘SWEEP’S pretty small, we all muck in. I’m supposed to be developing communication skills in my clients.’
Rebus nodded. ‘You mean so they can be a bit more polite next time they mug their granny?’
She glowered at him and he raised his hands. ‘Just a joke,’ he said.
‘Maybe you need some communication skills yourself.’
‘He’s as blunt as a butt to the head,’ Patience said, bringing in the teapot.
‘Can I help?’ Sammy offered.
‘You sit there, I’ll be back in a second.’
She was away far longer than a second; there was no conversation between times. Rebus watched Lucky the cat staring at him from the garden path. Patience returned with plates of cakes and biscuits. His mouth was imploring him: no hot drinks, no cakes or biscuits, no sugar, no crunching.
‘I’ll pour,’ Sammy said. There was a clatter as Lucky came back in, seeking tidbits.
‘Cake, John?’ Patience said, offering him the pick from the plate. He took the smallest item he could find, a thin end-slice of madeira. Patience regarded his choice with suspicion: he’d always preferred ginger sponge, and she, who hated it, had bought one specially.
‘Sammy,’ Patience said, ‘try the ginger.’
‘It’s a bit sweet for me,’ Sammy replied. ‘I’ll just have a biscuit.’
‘Fine.’
‘This outfit of yours,’ Rebus began.
‘It’s called SWEEP,’ Sammy reminded him.
‘Yes, SWEEP, who funds it?’
‘We’ve charitable status. We get some donations, but spend more time than we ought to thinking up fund-raising schemes. The bulk of the money drips down from the Scottish Office.’ She turned to Patience. ‘We’ve this brilliant guy, he knows just how to word an application for funding, knows what grants are available …’
Patience looked interested. ‘Is he nice?’
Sammy blushed. ‘He’s great.’
‘And he deals with the Scottish Office?’ Rebus asked.
‘Yes.’ Sammy couldn’t see where this was leading. She worked with people who were mistrustful of police officers and other authority figures, mistrustful of their motives. Her colleagues were careful what they said in front of her. She’d been open with them from the start; she’d stated on the application form that her father was in Edinburgh CID. But there were some people who still didn’t trust her entirely.
She knew one problem was the media. When the media learned who her father was, they sought her out for a quote — her background made it more interesting. They called it ‘personalising the issues’. There were some people in SWEEP who felt resentful of the attention she got.
She didn’t really blame them. It was the system.
‘More cake, John?’
The catflap clacked again as Lucky went back outside.
‘No, thanks, Patience,’ Rebus said.
‘I think maybe I’ll try the madeira,’ Sammy said. Which left an awful lot of ginger cake.
‘You haven’t touched your tea, John.’
‘I’m waiting ’til it cools’. In the past, he’d always liked it scalding.
‘Why are you so interested in SWEEP all of a sudden?’ Sammy asked him.
‘I’m not, but I might be interested in the Scottish Office.’
Sammy looked like she didn’t believe him. She started to defend SWEEP, going on at length, her cheeks colouring with conviction. Rebus envied her that sense of conviction.
Then he said a couple of things, and an argument started. He couldn’t help himself; he’d just had to take a contrary point of view. He tried drawing Patience into the debate, but she only shook her head slowly and sadly. Finally, when Sammy had collapsed into a sulk, Patience was ready with her summing-up.
‘You see, Sammy, your father is the Old Testament type: retribution rather than rehabilitation. Isn’t that right, John?’
Rebus just shrugged, drank some lukewarm tea, and absent-mindedly chewed on a slice of buttered ginger cake.
‘And he’s the classic Calvinist, too,’ Patience went on. ‘Let the punishment fit the crime, and then some.’
‘That’s not Calvinism,’ Rebus said. ‘It’s Gilbert and Sullivan.’ He sat forwards in his chair. ‘Besides, the problem is that sometimes the punishment doesn’t fit the crime. Sometimes there’s punishment and no crime at all. Other times there’s crime but no punishment; and worst of all — ’ he paused — ‘nearly all of the time there’s unfairness.’ He looked at Sammy, wondering what SWEEP would have done for Willie Coyle and Dixie Taylor, wondering if anything at all, anything worth a candle, would have been left of them after prison.
Eventually, they found other things to talk about. Sammy didn’t contribute much; she just kept staring at her father, as if seeing him afresh. The sky outside conceded defeat and collapsed from slate-grey to late-afternoon black. While Patience and Sammy were clearing the table, Rebus stared at Lucky through the window, then went over to the catflap and locked it shut. The cat saw what he had done. It miaowed at him once, registering its protest. Rebus waved it cheerio.
They sat in the living room, and Patience handed over a few things he’d left behind after the move: his second-best razor, some clean handkerchiefs, a pair of shoelaces, a tape of Electric Ladyland. He stuffed everything into his jacket pockets.
‘Thanks,’ he said.
‘You’re welcome.’
Sammy saw him back to the door and waved him off.
That evening, back at the flat, Rebus sat listening to Hendrix with a lined pad of paper in front of him. There were some words on it.