“What do you reckon?” Ward asked Rebus now.
“I’m with Tennant. Our job’s to compile the evidence. It’s down to someone else to decide if it’s a pack of lies or not.”
“Not like you to side with Half-Pint,” Ward commented.
That nickname again: Half-Pint. Rebus wondered if any of the others knew about it.
“Tell me, Allan . . . have Jazz and Francis had a chance to speak to you yet?”
“What about?”
“That sort of answers my question.” Rebus took pity on Ward’s look of befuddlement. “A wee scheme we’ve got going. You might qualify for a share.”
“What sort of scheme?”
Rebus tapped his nose. “Tell me . . . how welcome would a bit of cash be?”
Ward shrugged. “Depends whose cash it is.”
Rebus nodded but kept quiet. Ward was about to press him when the door burst open and a bunch of uniforms streamed out towards their cars, followed by Hynds, Hawes and Siobhan. Hawes cast a glance in Ward’s direction, causing him to concentrate on his cigarette. The smile she’d been preparing melted away. Ward just wasn’t interested.
“Off on a jaunt?” Rebus asked Siobhan.
“Search warrant came through.”
“Got room for one more?”
She looked at him. “You’re not part of —”
“Come on, Siobhan. Don’t give me that routine.”
“Why the interest?”
“Who said I’m interested? I just want a break from this place.” He turned towards Ward. “Can you square it with the others?”
Ward nodded with little enthusiasm. He still had questions for Rebus, and now he was being left hanging.
“Go talk to Jazz and Francis,” Rebus advised him. Then he stubbed out his cigarette and made for Siobhan’s car. She’d already said something to Phyllida Hawes, who was vacating the passenger seat and joining Hynds in the back instead.
“Cheers, Phyl,” Rebus said, taking her place. “So where are we off to?”
“Inveresk. Malcolm Neilson has a house there.”
“I thought he lived in Stockbridge?”
Hynds leaned forward. “He mostly uses that as a studio. Something to do with the quality of the light . . .”
Rebus ignored this. “So Inveresk first, Stockbridge next?”
Siobhan was shaking her head. “Linford and Silvers are in charge of another team. They’re headed for Stockbridge.”
“Leaving Neilson to stew back in the cells?”
“He’s got Gill Templer and Bill Pryde for company.”
“Those two haven’t conducted a decent interview in years.”
“Haven’t let a prisoner escape either,” Phyllida Hawes added. Rebus looked in the rearview, returned her smile.
“What exactly is it we’re hoping to find?” he asked Siobhan.
“God knows,” she said through gritted teeth.
“Maybe he kept some sort of diary,” Hynds offered.
“Why I’m a Cold-Blooded Killer?” Hawes suggested as a title.
“Inveresk’s nice, though,” Rebus mused. “Must be a few bob in this painting lark.”
“He has a place in France, too,” Hawes added. “Though I notice we’re not getting the chance to search that.”
Siobhan turned towards Rebus. “Local gendarmes will do the job for us, just as soon as we can find someone who knows enough French to submit the request.”
“Could take a while then.” Rebus glanced into the rearview. “Maybe that’s where your diary is.”
“Pourquoi Je Suis un Tueur Avec le Sang Froid?” Hynds offered. Everything went very still in the car. Siobhan was first to speak.
“Why didn’t you say you spoke French?”
“Nobody asked. Besides, I didn’t want to be left off the search.”
“Soon as we get back,” Siobhan said coldly, “you’re going to tell DCI Pryde.”
“I’m not sure I know enough to write something as specific as —”
“We’ll buy you a dictionary,” Siobhan stated.
“I’ll help if I can,” Rebus offered.
“And how much French do you have?”
“How about nul points?”
There was laughter from the backseat. Siobhan’s face tightened, and she seemed to grip the steering wheel harder than ever, as though right now it was the only thing in her life that was under her control.
They’d driven through the rougher outskirts of Edinburgh — Craigmillar and Niddrie — crossing the city boundary and making for Musselburgh, the self-proclaimed “Honest Toun.” Hynds asked how it had come by the title, but no one in the car could answer. Inveresk was a wealthy enclave on the edge of the town. New housing was encroaching only slowly. Most of the homes here were old, large and detached, hidden behind high walls or at the ends of long, meandering driveways. It was a place where politicians and TV celebrities could tuck themselves away from the public gaze.
“This is new to me,” Hynds said, peering out his side of the car.
“Me too,” Hawes admitted.
There wasn’t much to Inveresk, and they soon found Neilson’s house. Two patrol cars stood at its entrance — the local station had been alerted to their arrival. The media were there too, wanting photos of whatever trove was produced. The house itself was not large. Siobhan would have called it a cottage, albeit an extremely pretty one. The small front garden was well tended, consisting mostly of rose beds. Though the building was a single-story construction, dormer windows protruded from the tiled roof. Siobhan had the keys, offered up by Neilson himself once he’d been told that without them, police would force an entry. She ordered Hynds to fetch the roll of trash bags from the trunk.
Just in case they did find anything.
Hawes was in charge of the box of smaller polythene bags, plus the tags which would be attached to any useful find. Everyone was pulling on pairs of gloves, while across the road the camera shutters clicked, motors humming as the film progressed to the next frame.
Rebus held back. This was Siobhan’s show, and she was making sure everyone knew it. She’d gathered her team in a semicircle and was outlining their duties. Rebus lit a cigarette. At the sound of his lighter, she turned towards him.
“Not in the house,” she reminded him. He nodded. Contamination: ash dropped on a carpet could be misinterpreted. Rebus decided he was safer outdoors. After all, he hadn’t come here to help with the search. What he’d needed was some time away from Gray and the others . . . time to think. Siobhan was unlocking the house, throwing open its door. The officers headed in. From what Rebus could see, the hallway was much like any other. From the way she’d acted in the car, Rebus knew Siobhan thought they were wasting their time, which meant she was far from convinced that the painter was the killer. It wouldn’t stop her from being thorough. The suspect’s house had to be searched. And you never knew what you might find . . .
With most of the police having disappeared inside, the cameras had little to do but focus on the single detective left smoking a cigarette. And wouldn’t that picture appeal to Gill Templer if it found its way into the newspapers? Rebus turned his back and walked around the side of the house. There was a long, narrow garden at the rear, with a summerhouse and shed at the farthest corners. A strip of lawn, bordered with flagstones. Flower beds looking overgrown, but that could have been on purpose: a wild, rambling garden . . . counterpoint to the order provided by the rose beds. Rebus didn’t know enough about either gardening or Malcolm Neilson to be able to say. He walked down to the summerhouse. It looked fairly new. Varnished wooden slats, with wood-framed and glass-paneled doors. The doors were closed, but not locked. He pulled them open. Inside: deck chairs stacked against one wall, awaiting better weather; one fairly solid wooden chair, boasting wide armrests, one of which had been hollowed out to accommodate a cup or glass. Nice touch, Rebus thought, settling into the chair. He had a view across the garden to the house itself, and could imagine the artist sitting here, maybe with the rain falling outside, snug and cozy with a drink for company.