“No phones?” Jazz commented.
“We’ve always got our mobiles,” Gray said.
“Which we pay for,” Sutherland reminded him.
“Stop griping for two seconds and let’s think about this.” Jazz folded his arms. “John, is there any office space at all?”
“To be honest, I don’t think so. We’ve a murder inquiry going on, remember. It’s pretty much taken over the CID suite.”
“Look,” Gray was saying, “we’re only here for a day or two, right? We don’t need computers or anything . . .”
“Maybe, but we could suffocate in here,” Barclay complained.
“We’ll open a window,” Gray told him. There were two narrow windows high up on the outer wall. “If all goes well, we’ll be spending most of our time on the street anyway: talking to people, tracking them down.”
Jazz was still taking the measure of the room. “Not much space for all the files.”
“We don’t need the files.” Gray sounded ready to lose his temper. “We need about half a dozen sheets of paper from the files — that’s it.” His hand chopped the air.
Jazz sighed. “I don’t suppose we’ve much option.”
“It was us that asked to come to Edinburgh,” Ward admitted.
“This isn’t the only cop shop in town,” Sutherland said. “We could look around, see if someone else can offer better.”
“Let’s just get on with it,” Jazz said, his eyes meeting Sutherland’s, and somehow finally gaining a shrug of acceptance.
“Might as well,” Rebus said. “It’s not like we’re going to find anything new on Dickie Diamond.”
“Great,” Jazz said caustically. “Let’s try and keep those positive vibes flowing, eh, lads?”
“ ‘Positive vibes’?” Ward mimicked. “I think you spent too long with John’s record collection last night.”
“Aye, you’ll be wearing beads and sandals next, Jazz,” Barclay added with a smile.
Jazz gave him two fingers. Then they arranged the chairs to their liking and got down to work. They had compiled a list of people they wanted to talk to. A couple of names had been crossed off because Rebus knew they were already dead. He’d considered not letting on . . . leading them down blind alleys . . . but couldn’t really see the point. Cross-referencing and the computer at Tulliallan had thrown up the nugget that one name — Joe Daly — was an informant belonging to DI Bobby Hogan. Hogan was Leith CID; Rebus and he went back a ways. Hogan was to be their first stop. They’d been in the interview room only half an hour but already there was a bad smell about the place, even with door and windows open.
“Dickie Diamond used to hang out at the Zombie Bar,” Jazz said, reading from the notes. “That’s in Leith too, right, John?”
“I don’t know if it’s still open. They were always in trouble with their license.”
“Isn’t Leith where the working girls hang out?” Allan Ward asked.
“Don’t you go getting ideas, young Allan,” Gray said, reaching over to ruffle his hair.
There were voices in the corridor, coming closer: “. . . best we could do, under the circs . . .”
“They won’t mind roughing it . . .”
DCI Tennant stepped into the doorway, eyes widening at the scene within.
“Better stay where you are, sir,” Tam Barclay warned. “One more in here and the oxygen runs out.”
Tennant turned to the figure beside him — Gill Templer.
“I did warn you it was small,” she said.
“You did,” he admitted. “Settling in all right, men?”
“Could hardly be cozier,” Stu Sutherland said, folding his arms like a man not best pleased with his lot.
“We thought we’d put the coffee machine in the corner,” Allan Ward said, “next to the mini-bar and Jacuzzi.”
“Good idea,” Tennant told him, straight-faced.
“This’ll do us fine, sir,” Francis Gray said. He slid his chair back and managed to squash one of Tam Barclay’s toes under the leg. “We won’t be here long. You could almost look on our surroundings as an incentive.” He was on his feet now, beaming a smile at Gill Templer. “I’m DI Gray, since no one’s seen fit . . .”
“DCS Templer,” Gill said, taking the proffered hand. Gray introduced her to the other men, leaving Rebus till last. “This one you’ll already know.” Gill glared at Rebus, and Rebus looked away, hoping it was just part of the act.
“Well, if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I’ve a murder inquiry to run . . .”
“Us too,” Ward said. Gill pretended not to hear, and headed down the corridor, calling back to Tennant that he might want to join her for coffee in her office. Tennant looked back into the room.
“Any problems, you’ve got my mobile number,” he reminded them. “And remember: I’ll be expecting progress. Anybody not pulling their weight, I’ll find out.” He held a finger up in warning, then set off to follow Gill.
“Jammy bastard,” Ward muttered. “And I bet her office is bigger than this.”
“Slightly smaller, actually,” Rebus said. “But then there’s only one of her.”
Gray was chuckling. “Notice she didn’t offer you a cup, John.”
“That’s because John can’t hold his beverages,” Sutherland said.
“Nice one, Stu.”
“Maybe,” Jazz broke in, “we could think about doing a bit of work? And just to show willing, I’ll use my mobile to phone DI Hogan.” He looked at Rebus. “John, he’s your mate . . . do you want to do the talking?”
Rebus nodded.
“You know his number?” Jazz asked. Again, Rebus nodded his head.
“Well then,” Jazz said, slipping his own phone back into his jacket, “might as well use your mobile, eh?”
Francis Gray’s face went pink with laughter, the color reminding Rebus of a baby being lifted from its bathtub.
He didn’t mind making the call actually. After all, he reckoned he’d had a pretty good morning so far. The only thing he was wondering was: when would he get a minute to himself to delve into Strathern’s report?
13
Siobhan was splashing water on her face when one of the uniforms, WPC Toni Jackson, came into the women’s toilets.
“Will we see you Friday night?” Jackson said.
“Not sure,” Siobhan told her.
“Yellow card if you miss three weeks on the trot,” Jackson warned her. She went to one of the cubicles, locked the door after her. “There’s no paper towels, by the way,” she called. Siobhan checked the dispenser: nothing inside but fresh air. There was an electric dryer on the other wall, but it had been broken for months. She went to the cubicle next to Jackson’s, pulled at a clump of toilet paper and started dabbing at her face.
Jackson and some of the other uniforms went for a drink every Friday. Sometimes it went beyond a drink: a meal, then a club, dancing away all the frustrations of the week. They pulled the occasional bloke: never any shortage of takers. Siobhan had been invited along one time, honored to have been asked. Hers was the only CID face. They seemed to accept her, found they could gossip freely in front of her. But Siobhan had started skipping weeks, and now she’d skipped two in a row. It was that old Groucho Marx thing about not wanting to be part of any club that would have her. She didn’t know why exactly. Maybe because it felt like a routine, and with it the job became a routine, too . . . something to be endured for the sake of a salary check and the Friday-night dance with a stranger.
“What have they got you doing?” Siobhan called.
“Foot patrol.”
“Who with?”
“Perry Mason.”
Siobhan smiled. “Perry” was actually John Mason, only recently out of Tulliallan. Everyone had started calling him Perry. George Silvers even had a name for Toni Jackson: he called her “Tony Jacklin,” or had done until a rumor had spread that Toni was sister to footballer Darren Jackson. Silvers had treated her with a bit of respect after that. Siobhan had asked Toni if it was true.