Tam Barclay and Allan Ward looked at one another, then both pointed towards the exit.
“He went that-a-way, Sheriff,” Ward said with a grin. Problem was, no one had actually seen him leave the station. There was video surveillance of the main entrance, and Linford asked the comms room to run the tape. Meantime, he went from office to office, checking under desks and inside the station’s few walk-in closets. When he got back to the comms room, they were running the tape. Donny Dow sprinting in full-color time lapse, right out the front door.
“We need patrols to search the area!” Linford said. “Cars and foot. Get his description out!” The uniformed officers looked at each other.
“What are you waiting for?” Linford snarled.
“I think they’re probably waiting for me to give them the okay, Derek,” a voice said from behind him.
DCS Gill Templer.
“Ouch!” Siobhan said. She was seated back at her desk, while Phyllida Hawes checked the damage to her head.
“You’ve lost a little bit of skin,” Hawes said. “I think the hair will grow back.”
“Probably feels worse than it looks,” Allan Ward offered. The incident in IR2 seemed to have broken down barriers: Gray, McCullough and Rebus were present too, while Gill Templer “debriefed” Linford and Silvers in her office.
“Name’s Allan, by the way,” Ward said, for Phyllida Hawes’s benefit. When she told him her name, he remarked that it was unusual. He was listening to her explanation when Siobhan got up and moved away. She didn’t think either of them had noticed.
Rebus was standing by the far wall, arms folded, studying the display relating to the Marber case.
“He’s a fast worker,” Siobhan said. Rebus turned his head, watched the interplay between Ward and Hawes.
“You should warn her,” he said. “I’m not sure Allan’s housebroken.”
“Maybe that’s the way she likes it.” Siobhan dabbed at the patch of naked skin. It was at the crown of her head, and it stung like buggery.
“You could get a sick leave on the strength of that,” Rebus informed her. “I’ve known cops go on disability for less. Factor in the shock and stress . . .”
“You don’t get rid of me that easily,” she said. “Shouldn’t you all be out chasing Donny Dow?”
“This isn’t our patch, remember?” Rebus scanned the room. Hawes listening to Ward’s patter; Jazz McCullough in conversation with Bill Pryde and Davie Hynds; Francis Gray sitting on one of the desks, swinging one leg as he leafed through an evidence file. He saw Rebus watching him and gave a wink, sliding off the desk and coming forwards.
“This is the sort of case they should have given us, eh, John?”
Rebus nodded but said nothing. Gray seemed to take the hint, and after a few words of commiseration to Siobhan he moved away again, changing desks, picking up another file.
“I need to speak to Gill,” Siobhan said quietly, her eyes on Templer’s closed door.
“Going on the sick after all?”
Siobhan shook her head. “I think I recognized Donny Dow. He was the Weasel’s driver the day I went to interview Cafferty.”
Rebus stared at her. “You sure?”
“Ninety percent. I only saw him for a matter of seconds.”
“Then maybe we should talk to the Weasel.”
She nodded. “After I’ve okayed it with the boss.”
“If that’s the way you want to play it.”
“You said it yourself: this isn’t your patch.”
Rebus looked thoughtful. “What about if you kept it to yourself for the moment?”
She stared at him, uncomprehending.
“What if I talk to the Weasel on the quiet?” Rebus went on.
“Then I’d be withholding information.”
“No, you’d just be withholding an inkling . . . Maybe it’ll take you a day to convince yourself that it was Dow you saw driving the Weasel’s car.”
“John . . .” Without saying as much, she was asking him for something. She wanted him to share, to confide . . . to trust in her.
“I have my reasons,” he said, voice just above a whisper. “Something the Weasel might help me with.”
It took her a full thirty seconds to make up her mind. “All right,” she said. He touched her arm.
“Thanks,” he said. “I owe you. What about something to eat tonight? My treat?”
“Have you called Jean yet?”
His eyes darkened. “I’ve been trying. She’s either out or not answering.”
“She’s the one you should be asking to dinner.”
“I should have phoned her that night . . .”
“You should have followed her that night, apologizing all the way.”
“I’ll keep trying,” he said.
“And send her some flowers.” She had to smile at the look on his face. “Last time you sent anybody flowers, it was probably a wreath, am I right?”
“Probably,” he admitted. “More wreaths than bouquets, that’s for certain.”
“Well, don’t confuse the two this time round. Plenty of florists in the phone book.”
He nodded. “Straight after I talk to the Weasel,” he said, heading for the corridor. There were some calls that had to be made on a mobile rather than one of the office phones. Rebus now had a list of two.
But the Weasel wasn’t in his office, and the best anyone could do was offer a tepid promise to pass on a message.
“Thanks,” Rebus said. “By the way, is Donny there at the moment?”
“Donny who?” the voice said before cutting the connection. Rebus cursed, went to the comms room for a Yellow Pages, then headed out into the car park to phone a florist. He ordered a mixed bunch.
“What sort of flowers does the lady like?” he was asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Well, what about colors?”
“Look, just a selection, okay? Twenty quid’s worth or thereabouts.” He reeled off his credit-card number and the deal was done. Sliding his phone back into his pocket, switching it for cigarettes and lighter, he realized he had no idea what twenty notes would buy. Half a dozen withered carnations, or some ridiculously huge spray? Whatever it was, it would be delivered to Jean’s home this evening at 6:30. He wondered what would happen if she was staying late at work: would the florist leave them on the doorstep, prey to any passing thief? Or take them back to the shop and try again the next day?
He took a long drag on the cigarette, filling his lungs. Things always seemed to be more complicated than you expected. But then when he thought about it, he was adding the complications himself, looking at what could go wrong with the arrangement rather than hoping for the best. He knew he’d been a pessimist from an early age, realizing that it was a good way to prepare for life. As a pessimist, if things went wrong, you were ready, while if things went right, it came as a pleasant surprise.
“Too late to change now,” he muttered.
“Talking to yourself?” It was Allan Ward, busily loosing a fresh packet from its cellophane bonds.
“What’s up? Has your patter failed to impress DC Hawes?”
Ward started to nod. “She’s so unimpressed,” he said, lighting up, “she’s agreed to have dinner with me tonight. Any tips?”
“Tips?”
“Shortcuts into her knickers.”
Rebus flicked ash from his cigarette. “She’s a good officer, Allan. More than that, I like her. I’d take it personally if she got hurt.”
“Just a bit of harmless fun,” Ward said defensively. Then his face changed to a smirk. “Just because you’re not getting any . . .”
Rebus swung round, grabbing both of Ward’s jacket lapels in one hand, pushing him back against the wall of the station. The cigarette dropped from Ward’s mouth as he tried to push Rebus away. A patrol car was pulling in through the gateway, the uniforms staring out at the spectacle. Then hands were on both men, separating them. It was Derek Linford.
“Ladies, ladies,” he was telling them. “No fisticuffs.”
Ward was rearranging his jacket. “What’re you doing here? Checking under the cars for a missing prisoner?” Flecks of saliva flew from his mouth.