‘He lived across from Newhaven harbour.’
Quant stared at him. ‘Why am I not surprised you knew him?’
‘Spoke with him only yesterday, Deborah.’
Her eyes softened. ‘He was a friend?’
‘Only our second meeting,’ Rebus corrected her. ‘You’ve no idea if he drowned?’
‘I’d say it’s likely. No obvious wounds, and he wasn’t strangled or anything.’
‘So he’d probably have been yelling for dear life?’
‘That’s feasible.’
‘Meaning someone could have heard,’ Clarke stated.
Quant studied her. ‘Are you in charge, Siobhan?’
‘Not until someone tells me so.’
‘Bloody hell,’ Rebus interrupted, peering past Clarke’s shoulder. ‘Looks like word really has got around.’
Malcolm Fox was striding towards the group, trying to arrange his face so it was friendly but respectful.
‘Detective Inspector Fox,’ Quant said. ‘Thought we’d lost you to Gartcosh.’
‘I managed to get a tourist visa.’ Fox checked something on his phone. ‘Is the CSM here?’
‘The Italian-looking guy,’ Rebus said, gesturing towards Atwal. Fox nodded his thanks and moved off again.
‘Haj’s parents are Indian,’ Deborah Quant said.
‘I know that.’ Rebus offered a thin smile.
‘What does Malcolm want with him anyway?’ Clarke enquired, frowning.
‘I think Malcolm’s tourist visa has just been revised. Like I say, Robert Chatham was one of our own...’ Rebus stared at Clarke until the truth dawned on her.
‘Gartcosh are claiming it,’ she announced.
Rebus was nodding slowly. ‘With Malcolm in the vanguard.’
Quant was studying Fox’s retreating figure. ‘You mean he’s in charge?’
‘Looks like, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Thanks for the spadework, Malcolm. But I’m in charge now.’
Fox stood in front of Detective Superintendent Alvin James. He was a few years younger than Fox, wiry, with jutting cheekbones and a freckled face, his reddish-blonde hair neatly trimmed and parted. Fox reckoned he probably ran long-distance; it was that sort of physique. Maybe played competitive five-a-side, too. Sporty and clean-living and always amenable to promotion.
‘Yes, sir,’ Fox said, hands clasped behind his back.
James gave the thinnest of smiles. ‘Call me Alvin — and I mean it about the spadework.’
They were standing in an unaired office on the first floor of Leith police station, at the corner of Constitution Street and Queen Charlotte Street. The building, which had once been Leith’s town hall, was solid but shabby, its operating hours restricted. The office they were in had been set aside for this use and this use only — unlocked only when the Major Investigation Team came to town. Alvin James was the senior investigating officer, hand-picked for the role by ACC Lyon at Gartcosh. His team comprised CID officers and admin staff. They were already busy, plugging in laptops, sorting out the Wi-Fi, and trying to open the windows so the place was a bit less stuffy.
Fox recognised none of the detectives, which meant they were almost certainly not local. James seemed to read his mind.
‘I know a lot of our colleagues this side of the country think Police Scotland is just Strathclyde with an aka, but it’s not like that. Okay, so I’ve spent most of my professional life in Glasgow, but there are people here from Aberdeen and Dundee, too. On the other hand, none of us know this place the way you do — that’s why you’ll be my go-to guy. Does that sound reasonable to you?’
‘Thing is, I’m working another case right now.’
‘ACC Lyon said as much, but she’s checked with Ben McManus and he seems to reckon you’re a dab hand at multi-tasking. You’re here when I need you, but otherwise you can be beavering away on your other inquiry. How does that sound?’
‘It sounds... workable.’
‘Terrific. So what do I need to know?’ James watched as Fox wrestled with the question, then broke into a toothy smile and wagged a finger. ‘Just kidding. But one thing I would like you to do is think about local bodies — warm ones, I mean. Preferably CID. We may need to co-opt a few if things get busy.’
‘The best DI in the city is Siobhan Clarke. She has two first-rate DCs under her.’
‘See? You’re already more than pulling your weight — thanks for that.’
James turned on his heel and, rubbing his hands together, began dishing out orders to the rest of his squad. Having no role to play, Fox stood there shuffling his feet. His ringing phone came as a relief. Without checking who was calling, he pressed it to his ear.
‘It’s me,’ Rebus said.
‘Thanks a bunch for that joke you played earlier,’ Fox said, keeping his voice down.
‘Which one?’
‘Telling me the CSM was Italian.’
‘I only said he looked Italian. Have you got a minute for a chat?’
‘I suppose I might have.’
‘Last night in the pub, remember me mentioning Robert Chatham?’
‘Not really.’
‘No, because you were too busy thinking about Sir Magnus Brough and his grandson.’
Fox strode from the office into the empty corridor. ‘Chatham’s who we’ve just pulled from the water.’
‘Exactly so.’
‘He was killed the same day he talked to you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Christ, John...’
‘Are they setting up the MIT room at Leith?’
‘Pretty much ready to go. A detective superintendent called Alvin James is SIO.’
‘Can’t place the name. I’m guessing he’s Glasgow, though.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Gartcosh chose him — stands to reason.’
‘I’ve put in a good word for Siobhan.’
‘She might not thank you for it. Now off you go and tell Alvin and his Chipmunks that a retired east-coast cop knows more than they do, and he’ll be there to tell his story in about twenty minutes.’
8
‘So this is the brave new world I keep hearing of?’ Rebus sauntered into the room, hands in pockets.
‘You’ll be John Rebus?’ Alvin James said, rising from his desk to shake hands.
‘And you’ll be Superintendent James.’
‘Detective Superintendent James.’
Rebus acknowledged the correction with a movement of his mouth. He nodded towards Fox, who had the desk next to James. There were four other faces in the room. They had obviously worked together before and gave him a collective stare of professional scepticism. James gestured towards each in turn.
‘DS Glancey and DS Sharpe; DCs Briggs and Oldfield.’
Just the one woman, DC Briggs, trim and businesslike. Glancey overflowed from his chair. He had dispensed with his jacket and was dabbing sweat from his face with a pristine handkerchief. Sharpe had a wise but wary look, an owl to Glancey’s bull. Oldfield was younger, cocksure and primed for action. Rebus turned from them towards Fox.
‘All feels very familiar, eh, Malcolm?’ Then, for James’s benefit: ‘We had a crew in from Glasgow not too long back. It got a bit messy.’
‘We’re not all from Glasgow, though,’ James felt the need to point out. ‘What we are, Mr Rebus, is a unit whose focus will be to find whoever did for Robert Chatham.’ He folded his arms and rested his backside against the corner of a desk. ‘Malcolm says you might have some information that would help. So we can keep this at the playground level or rise above that and get some actual business done.’ He paused, angling his head slightly. ‘What do you say?’