‘Just a normal guy, then.’
‘A normal guy,’ she echoed. But then she remembered there was nothing in the least normal about the way her day was unfolding, and tears started to trickle down her cheeks again.
‘Oh God.’
And although she’d already waved the offer away once, Fox reached into his pocket for a handkerchief.
9
It was almost seven by the time Deborah Quant emerged from the mortuary’s staff door. She had showered and changed and was searching in her bag for her car keys when the figure emerged from behind one of the parked vans.
‘Jesus, John!’ she gasped. ‘I was about to karate-chop you there.’
‘You do karate?’ Rebus said. ‘I didn’t know that.’
She stomped over to her car and unlocked it. Getting in, she waited for Rebus to pull open the passenger door and join her.
‘So?’ he asked.
‘He was alive when he went in the water. Stomach contents: bacon and bread dough. DC Briggs said you’d had breakfast with the deceased.’
‘MIT sent their only woman to the autopsy?’
Quant glowered at him. ‘We manage childbirth fine; a dead body’s neither here nor there. Anyway, turns out that roll was the last thing Mr Chatham ate.’
‘No lunch or dinner?’
‘Not so much as a packet of crisps. Whisky, though — a fair whiff of the distillery as we opened him up.’
‘Enough to incapacitate him?’
‘Blood tests will give us the answer.’
‘So when can we expect those?’
‘Your guess is as good as mine.’
‘Anything else?’
She half turned towards him. ‘Is this becoming personal, John?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘You saw the man the day he was killed. Maybe you think you’re somehow responsible.’
‘Could be I touched a nerve.’
‘With the victim?’
‘Or someone he met later in the day.’
‘It’s not your problem, though. DC Briggs was clear on that.’
He stared at her. ‘What did she tell you?’
‘She knows we’re... friendly.’
‘Friendly?’
‘That’s the word she used. And I happen to think that you should be concentrating on yourself right now instead of old cases and new.’
‘I’m fine, Deb.’
‘I don’t think you are.’
‘Who have you been talking to?’
She shook her head. ‘I’ve not gone behind your back, John — and no doctor or consultant would dream of discussing a patient with a third party.’
Rebus stared out of the side window: nothing to see except one of the vans, maybe the one that had transported Robert Chatham from the quayside. ‘I can handle this,’ he said softly.
She reached for his hand and gripped it. ‘You’re a stubborn old bastard and you’d rather go to your grave than let anyone see a weak spot in that armour you think you put on every morning.’
He turned towards her. Her eyes were moist. Leaning in towards her, he kissed her cheek. She pressed her forehead against his and they sat like that for almost half a minute, no words needed. Then she straightened up and took a deep breath.
‘Okay?’ Rebus asked.
‘You know I’m here for you? Any time you need me?’
He nodded. ‘And I need you right now, Professor Quant.’ He watched as her eyes narrowed, knowing what he was about to say. ‘Tell me about the way Robert Chatham’s hands were tied.’ He paused for a moment. ‘You’d be making a stubborn old bastard very happy...’
Craigmillar was cleaning up its act, at least on the surface.
A lot of the damp, unlovely housing had been bulldozed, replaced by shiny new apartment buildings. The shops still rolled down their metal security grilles of an evening, but a Lidl and a Tesco Metro had arrived. Clarke wouldn’t quite call it gentrified — Craigmillar still seemed to exist in most minds as a conduit between the city and routes to the south. She knew traffic was busiest at the weekend as shoppers headed for Fort Kinnaird with its Next, Boots and Gap. But Fort Kinnaird was also home to garages selling Bentleys and Porsches, something she knew only because she had for a short time considered getting a Porsche of her own. Why not? She made good money and had few outgoings. Her mortgage rate was low and likely to stay that way. She had given the Cayman a test drive and had loved it, before deciding against. No way she’d feel safe parking it kerbside. There were gangs in the city who preyed on cars like that. Plus she’d be the talk of Gayfield Square, and the comments would all revolve around her being on the take or in someone’s pocket — someone like Darryl Christie.
Stopping on a Craigmillar side street, she got out and patted the roof of her Astra.
‘You’ll do,’ she told it, before heading to Craw Shand’s door.
It was a 1970s terrace, paint flaking from its window frames. There was neither a bell nor a knocker, so she thumped with her fist, then stood back to watch for movement behind the curtains. Nothing, but she could see that the lights were on. A dog was barking nearby, someone screeching at it to shut up. Kids passed on pedal bikes, hoods up, faces muffled. Clarke knocked again, then bent down and pushed open the letter box.
‘It’s me, Craw. DI Clarke.’
‘What do you want?’ his voice called from within.
‘Just checking you’re all right. I see you didn’t take my advice.’
‘What advice?’ Shand’s speech was slurred. With her nose to the letter box, Clarke could smell neither drink nor dope.
‘To keep your head down, somewhere other than your home address.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Let’s hope it stays that way.’ She pushed one of her business cards through the slit. ‘You’ve got my mobile number if you need it.’
‘I won’t.’
She studied the door frame. ‘One good kick and they’d be inside before you knew it.’
‘Then maybe I should be in protective custody.’
‘I’ve thought about it, Craw, but my boss says no.’
‘Then you’ll both have to live with the consequences if anything happens.’
‘At least we’ll still be living, Craw. Tell me how you really know so much about Christie’s house — did you go there when you heard the news, is that it?’
‘Off you go now, little piggy.’
‘That’s not very nice, Craw. I’m about the only person in the world who’s on your side right now.’
‘Off you go,’ Shand repeated, turning off the light in the living room as if to signal the end of the conversation.
Clarke lingered, even tapping softly on the curtained window. The curtains looked thin and cheap. It was a life, she supposed. Who was to say he was less contented with his lot than anyone else she knew? Anyone else in the city, come to that? Half his life he’d been seeking a crime he could take credit for, and he’d finally struck gold.
Clarke hoped he’d live to enjoy the victory.
Back in the Astra, she watched in her rear-view mirror as a car crawled towards her. As it passed, she caught the licence plate. Darryl Christie’s Range Rover. She started her car and followed. Rather than make for the main road, it seemed to be doing a circuit, heading further into the estate before turning at a few junctions, a route that would lead it past Shand’s house again. Clarke flashed her lights, but the driver ignored her, so she waited until the road was wide enough and put the foot down, passing him and slamming on the brakes. She got out, making sure the driver could get a good look at her. As she approached, the driver’s-side window slid down halfway.
‘Best-looking carjacker I’ve seen in a while.’
Tattooed arms, groomed hair, beard. The ‘owner’ of the Devil’s Dram.