“Was he ever on the hook?” Dempsey asked.
“He was the last person to see Mr. Marber alive.”
“Apart from whoever murdered him,” Dempsey corrected. Now she looked up at Siobhan, narrowing her eyes slightly. Her glasses hung around her neck by a chain. “If he was ever really a suspect, DS Clarke, it was because he already had a criminal record, and that’s just laziness on your part.”
“I’m not saying we seriously considered —”
“What other reason was there?”
Siobhan paused, knowing this was an argument she couldn’t win. Yes, they’d looked that bit more closely at Sammy Wallace precisely because of his criminal past. It had been as good a starting point as any.
“Besides,” Dempsey said, reaching into the wastebasket and pulling out the latest edition of the Evening News, “it was on the front page — all about this painter you’ve arrested. That’s you, isn’t it?” Dempsey had turned the paper round for Siobhan to see. There was a headline — MAN CHARGED IN ART DEALER MURDER — and a large color photo of the search party as they made ready to enter the house at Inveresk. Obviously, the story had been printed just too early to use a photo of them coming out again, carrying their labeled trash bags, in one of which was hidden the painting . . .
Dempsey was jabbing at one of the figures in the photograph. Yes, it was Siobhan, mouth open as she issued orders, finger pointing towards the house. But there was another figure at the very edge of the frame. Grainy, to be sure, but identifiable to those who knew him as Detective Inspector John Rebus. Chances of Gill Templer not seeing the photo? Astronomical. It took Siobhan a moment or two to recover.
“Mrs. Dempsey,” she said, “are all your employees ex-offenders?”
“Not all of them, no.” Dempsey folded the paper and put it back in the bin.
“Maybe it’s some sort of principle . . . ?”
“It is, as it happens.” Dempsey’s tone said this was another argument she was ready for.
“Men with convictions for violence, driving cabs around Edinburgh . . .”
“Men who have served their sentence. Men whose crimes are far in the past. I credit myself with an instinct for knowing which ones I can trust.”
“But your instinct could be wrong.”
“I don’t think so.”
The silence in the room was broken by a phone call, not the phone on Dempsey’s desk but another, on a long, waist-high shelf which ran the length of the window. Siobhan noticed that there was a two-way radio system tucked on a shelf beneath. The window itself could slide open, and she guessed that outside office hours, if anyone came to the site looking for a cab they had to stand at the window and offer details through the opening. It wasn’t her drivers that Ellen Dempsey didn’t trust, it was the public.
She watched Dempsey take the call, then get on the radio and offer the job to “Car Four.” Two regulars needed picking up from a west end bar. Contract job, to be charged to one of the city’s insurance firms.
“Sorry about that,” Dempsey apologized, coming back to the desk. Siobhan had been studying her clothes: matching blue jacket and skirt with a white blouse. Thickish ankles, low-heeled black shoes. Every inch the successful businesswoman.
“I can’t help thinking this is an odd career choice,” Siobhan said with a smile.
“I like cars.”
“I’m guessing the MG outside is yours?”
Dempsey’s eyes turned to the window. She’d parked the car so it would be visible from the desk. “That’s the eighth one I’ve owned. Two are still in the garage at home.”
“All the same . . . you don’t see many women in charge of a cab company.”
“Maybe I’m breaking the mold.”
“You started from scratch?”
“If you’re implying that the company was set up by some ex-husband or other, you’re mistaken.”
“I was just wondering what you did beforehand.”
“Looking for some tips on changing your career?” Dempsey reached into a drawer and brought out cigarettes and lighter. She offered, but Siobhan shook her head. “I always have one a day, around this time,” Dempsey explained. “Somehow I can’t bring myself to stop altogether. . .” She lit up, inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly. “I started with a couple of taxis in Dundee — that’s where I grew up. When I wanted to expand, I didn’t think Dundee was ready for me. Edinburgh, on the other hand . . .”
“Your competitors can’t have been too thrilled when you arrived.”
“We had some frank exchanges of views,” Dempsey admitted. She broke off to answer the phone again. Afterwards, Siobhan had a question for her.
“Including Big Ger Cafferty?”
Dempsey nodded. “But I’m still here, aren’t I?”
“In other words, he didn’t scare you off?”
“Cafferty’s not the only operator in town. Things can get a bit hairy . . . look at the trouble out at the airport.”
Siobhan knew she was referring to the constant battle between black taxis and licensed minicabs, vying for trade from the arriving planeloads.
“I’ve had slashed tires, broken windshields . . . a whole spate of fake bookings back in the early days. But they could see I was dug in. That’s the type of person I am, DS Clarke.”
“I don’t doubt it, Mrs. Dempsey.”
“It’s Ms.”
Siobhan nodded. “I noticed you didn’t wear a ring, but the mechanic outside called you ‘Mrs.’ ”
Dempsey smiled. “They all do. Gives me less grief if they think there might be a Mr. Dempsey who could come down hard on them . . .” She glanced at her watch. “Look, I don’t want to rush you, but my night-shift telephonist will be coming in soon, and I want to get this paperwork finished . . .”
“Understood,” Siobhan said, rising to her feet.
“And thanks for dropping in.”
“No problem. Thanks for the career advice.”
“You don’t need any advice, DS Clarke. Running a cab company is one thing, but being a female officer in the CID . . .” Dempsey shook her head slowly. “Now there’s one job I couldn’t do for all the tea in China.”
“Luckily, I don’t drink tea,” Siobhan said. “Thanks again for your time.”
She drove as far as the end of the road, and squeezed into a curbside parking space, turning off the ignition and letting her mind wander. What had she gleaned from the conversation? A few useful snippets. That Dempsey had recognized her for CID straight off was interesting. To employ ex-cons was one thing, but clocking a plainclothes cop took a certain skill, a skill that came with practice. Siobhan couldn’t help wondering how Ellen Dempsey would have acquired such an ability . . .
Then there was Dundee to consider. The story of her time there almost rang true. Almost, but not quite. There had been enough pauses in her narrative to indicate that she was leaving things unsaid. Those were the things Siobhan wanted to know about. When her mobile sounded, she knew who it would be.
Gill Templer . . . and not in a mood to waste words.
“What in God’s name was John Rebus doing out at Inveresk?”
“He tagged along,” Siobhan said, adopting a veneer of honesty as the best policy. A car was pulling into the forecourt of MG Cabs. The night shift, she guessed . . .
“Why?” Templer was asking.
“Wanted a break from St. Leonard’s.”
“And?”
“And nothing. I didn’t let him near the house. As far as I know, he smoked a cigarette, then headed back.” Siobhan was thinking of all the officers who’d been present and could call her a liar. The ones who’d heard her bellowing out of the window at Rebus . . . who’d seen her march down the garden towards where he crouched over the unwrapped object . . .
“Why do I find that so hard to believe?” Templer was saying now, denting Siobhan’s fragile confidence.
“I don’t know . . . maybe because you’ve known him longer than I have. But that’s the way it happened. He said he needed a break . . . I emphasized that he was no longer part of the Marber inquiry. He accepted that, made no effort to assist at the house, and left soon after.”