“Don’t you worry about me, John,” Ward said, patting him on the shoulder. “Francis Gray will know when he’s crossed the line . . . I’ll make sure of that.” He made to turn away, but stopped. Rebus felt a tingling in his shoulder from where he’d been touched. “You going to show us a good time in Edinburgh, John?”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Ward nodded. There was still some steel in his eyes. Rebus doubted it was ever completely absent. He knew it wouldn’t do to underestimate Ward. But he still wondered if he could somehow turn him into an ally . . .
“You coming?”
“I’ll catch you up,” Rebus said. He thought about another cigarette but dismissed the idea. There were roars from the football pitch, arms raised high on the sideline. One of the players seemed to be rolling around on the ground.
“They’re coming to Edinburgh,” Rebus said quietly to himself. Then he shook his head slowly. He was supposed to be the one keeping tabs on the Wild Bunch, and now they’d be trespassing on his patch instead. They’d be sniffing around, asking questions about Dickie Diamond. Rebus blew the idea away with a wave of his hand, then got his mobile out and put in a call to Siobhan, who wasn’t answering.
“Typical,” he muttered. So instead he called Jean. She was shopping at Napier’s the Herbalist, which made him smile. Jean trusted in homeopathy, and had a bathroom cabinet full of herbal medicines. She’d even made him use some when he’d felt flu coming on, and they’d seemed to work. But every time he looked in her cabinet, he felt he could use half the jars for cooking up a curry or a stew.
“Laugh all you like,” she’d told him more than once. “Then tell me which of us is the healthier.”
Now Jean wanted to know when she’d see him. He told her he wasn’t sure. He didn’t mention that his work would be bringing him back into the city sooner than expected, didn’t want that sense of expectation. If they made some arrangement, chances were he’d have to cancel at the last minute. Better for her not to know.
“I’m going round to Denise’s tonight anyway,” she informed him.
“Good to see you’re not pining.”
“You’re the one who’s done a runner, not me.”
“Part of the job, Jean.”
“Sure it is.” He heard her sigh. “How was your weekend anyway?”
“Quiet. I tidied the flat, did some washing . . .”
“Drank yourself into a stupor?”
“That accusation wouldn’t stand up in court.”
“How tough would it be to find witnesses?”
“No comment, Your Honor. How did the wedding go?”
“I wish you’d been there. Will I see you next time you’re in town?”
“Of course.”
“And will that be anytime soon?”
“Hard to say, Jean . . .”
“Well . . . take care of yourself.”
“Don’t I always?” he said, ending the call with a “bye” before she could answer the question.
Back inside, there was excitement in the break-out area. Archie Tennant stood with arms folded, chin tucked into his chest, as though deep in thought. Tam Barclay was waving his arms around as if trying to attract attention to the point he was making. Stu Sutherland and Jazz McCullough were wanting their own say. Allan Ward looked to have walked into the middle of it, and wanted an explanation, while Francis Gray was an oasis of calm, seated on one of the sofas, one leg crossed over the other, a black polished shoe moving from side to side like a baton controlling the performers.
Rebus didn’t say anything. He just squeezed past Ward and took a seat next to Gray. A ray of low sunshine was coming in through the windows, throwing an exaggerated silhouette of the group onto the far wall. Rebus wasn’t reminded of an orchestra anymore, but of some puppet show.
With only one man pulling the strings.
Still Rebus said nothing. He noticed the mobile phone nestled in Gray’s expansive crotch, took out his own phone again and decided that it was heavier and older. Probably obsolete. He’d taken an earlier model to a shop because of a fault, only to be told it would be cheaper to replace than fix.
Gray was studying Rebus’s phone, too. “I got a call,” he said.
Rebus looked up at the tumult. “Must’ve been a good one.”
Gray nodded slowly. “I had a few favors outstanding, so I put the word around Glasgow that we were looking at Rico Lomax.”
“And?”
“And I got a call . . .”
“Whoah, whoah,” Archie Tennant suddenly called out, unfolding his arms and raising them. “Let’s all slow down here, okay?”
The noise ceased. Tennant took in each man with his gaze, then lowered his arms. “Okay, so we’ve got new information . . .” He broke off, fixing his stare on Gray. “Your informant’s one hundred percent?”
Gray shrugged. “He’s reliable.”
“What new information?” Ward asked. Sutherland and Barclay started answering, until Tennant told them to shut up.
“Okay, so it turns out that Rico’s pub, the one he’d been drinking in the night he died, was owned at the time by a certain Chib Kelly, who we know started winching Rico’s widow soon after.”
“How soon after?”
“Does it matter?”
“Did the investigation know at the time . . . ?”
The questions were coming thick and fast, and once again Tennant had to appeal for quiet. He looked to Gray.
“Well, Francis, did the original inquiry team know about this?”
“Search me,” Gray said.
“Do any of you remember coming across this fact in any of the files?” Tennant looked around, received only shakes of the head. “Big question then: is it material to the case?”
“Could be.”
“Got to be.”
“Crime of passion.”
“Absolutely.”
Tennant grew thoughtful again, letting the voices wash over him.
“Could be we need to talk to Chib himself, sir.” Tennant looked to the speaker: John Rebus.
“Yeah, sure,” Ward was saying. “He’s definitely going to incriminate himself.” The sneer reappeared.
“It’s the proper course of action,” Rebus said, repeating a phrase they’d had drummed into them at the MMI talk.
“John’s right,” Gray said, his eyes on Tennant. “In a real investigation, we’d be out there asking questions, getting in people’s faces, not sitting here like schoolkids on detention.”
“I thought getting in people’s faces was your precise problem, DI Gray,” Tennant said coolly.
“Could be. But it’s been getting me results these past twenty-odd years.”
“Maybe not for much longer, though.” The threat lay in the air between the two men.
“Seems logical to at least talk to the man,” Rebus said. “After all, this isn’t just a test, it’s a real, flesh-and-blood case.”
“You weren’t half as keen to follow up the Edinburgh angle, John,” Jazz McCullough stated, slipping his hands into his pockets.
“Jazz has got a point,” Gray said, turning his head to face Rebus. “Something you’re not telling us, DI Rebus?”
Rebus wanted to grab Gray and hiss at him: How much do you know? Instead, he pocketed his mobile and rested his elbows on his knees. “Maybe I just fancy a trip to the wild west,” he said.
“Who says you’re going?” Allan Ward asked.
“I can’t see us all in a room with Chib Kelly,” Stu Sutherland commented.
“What? Too much like hard work for you, Stu?” Ward taunted.
“This isn’t getting us anywhere,” Tennant piped up. “Since DI Rebus is suddenly all hot and bothered about ‘proper courses of action,’ the first thing we need to do is see whether this really is new ground. And that means plowing back through the files, seeing if Chib Kelly’s mentioned anywhere as landlord . . . What was the pub called anyway?”
“The Claymore,” Gray offered. “It’s since become the Dog and Bone, gone a bit upmarket.”
“Still owned by Kelly?” Rebus asked.