“He left before you found the painting?”
Siobhan took a deep breath. “Before we found the painting,” she confirmed.
Templer was thoughtful for a few moments. Siobhan could see the red MG reversing out of the compound, turning in her direction.
“I hope for your sake John backs up your story,” Templer was saying as Siobhan turned the ignition.
“Understood.” There was a pause. Siobhan could sense that her boss had something else she was struggling to say.
“Well, if that’s everything . . .” she coaxed, and was rewarded when Templer broke in.
“Has John said anything to you about Tulliallan?”
“Just what you’d expect.” Siobhan frowned. “Has something happened?”
“No, it’s just . . .” Templer sounded anxious.
“He will be coming back, won’t he?” Siobhan asked.
“I hope so, Siobhan. I really do.”
Templer ended the call just as Ellen Dempsey’s car roared past. Siobhan took her time easing out of the parking spot. This time of the evening, traffic would still be heavy, but a red sports car was hard to miss. She thought back to Templer’s closing words. Siobhan had been asking whether Rebus was for the chop, but the way Templer had answered made her wonder. It had all sounded much more ominous . . . She tried calling Rebus, but he wasn’t answering. She wasn’t sure why she was following Ellen Dempsey exactly, except that she wanted to know a little more about the woman. The way she drove could offer pointers, as could her home — the style of house, the part of the city . . . And at least when she was tailing Dempsey, she was keeping busy. She wasn’t at the station, being fawned over . . . she wasn’t at home, brooding over a ready meal . . .
She switched the car’s CD player on: Mogwai, Rock Action. It had an edginess to it which she found soothing. Maybe she could relate to it. Edgy and samey but with sudden unpredictable shifts.
Just like an investigation.
And, maybe even, just like her . . .
What Siobhan hadn’t been expecting was that Dempsey would head south out of the city until she hit the bypass, then use it to start heading west and north at speed. Plainly, she didn’t live in Edinburgh, and soon it became apparent that she didn’t even live this side of the Firth of Forth. As they made for the Forth Road Bridge, Siobhan found herself checking her petrol gauge. If she had to pull into a service station, she would lose Dempsey. As it was, the bridge offered problems of its own. There was a backup of drivers waiting to pay their toll. Siobhan found herself in a separate queue from her prey, one that seemed to be moving much more slowly. At this rate, Dempsey would be across the bridge and out of sight . . . But Dempsey seemed intent on sticking to the speed limit, which told Siobhan that she’d probably had a speeding fine in the recent past, either that or had clocked up enough points on her license that any fresh violation might see her banned. Siobhan was in the outside lane, ignoring the regular roadside reminders that the limit on the bridge was fifty miles per hour. Over to her right, a train was crossing the rail bridge. The CD had finished, and she was trying to find the REPEAT button. Then, at the last minute, she saw Dempsey signaling to take the first turnoff after the bridge. The inside lane was clogged, and Siobhan couldn’t see a gap that would let her in. She switched her indicator on and edged towards the dividing line. The car behind flashed at her angrily, but braked to let her in, the driver sounding his horn afterwards and flashing his lights again.
“I get the picture,” Siobhan snarled. There were three cars between her and Dempsey, and one of them also took the access road. They were heading for North Queensferry, a picturesque place on the banks of the Forth, with the rail bridge towering above the houses and shops. Dempsey was signaling to turn up a steep incline which was little more than the width of a single car. Siobhan drove past, then pulled over. When the traffic behind her had passed, she reversed to the bottom of the hill. Dempsey had reached the summit and was disappearing over the brow. Siobhan followed. A hundred yards farther on, Dempsey had turned into a driveway. Siobhan waited a few moments, then drove past. She couldn’t see much because of the tall hedge in front. In her favor, Dempsey couldn’t see her either. The bungalow was pretty much at the eastern edge of the village, the steep climb giving it height, so that it looked down on the main street and surroundings. Siobhan would bet there were spectacular uninterrupted views from the back garden.
At the same time, it was a very private place, and North Queensferry was nicely anonymous. Another train was crossing the bridge: with her window open, Siobhan could hear it. Heading across Fife to Dundee and beyond. Fife was what separated Edinburgh from Dundee. She wondered if that was why Dempsey had chosen to make it her home: neither one place nor the other, but within reach of both. It felt right to her: Dempsey wasn’t just visiting someone; she was home.
She also got the feeling Dempsey lived alone. No other cars outside the bungalow, and no garage . . . Hadn’t Dempsey said something about owning other MGs, about having them stored in her garage? Well, wherever that garage was, it wasn’t here. Always supposing the cars existed at all. Why would she have lied? To impress her visitor . . . to stress that the name of her company was down to her passion for the sports cars which bore that brand . . . There could be multiple reasons. People lied to police officers all the time.
If they had something to hide . . . If they were talking for the sheer sake of talking, because as long as they were talking, they weren’t being asked any awkward questions. Dempsey had sounded confident enough, calm and collected, but that could have been all front.
What could she be hiding, this woman who hid herself away from the world? She drove a car that wanted you to look at it . . . wanted you to admire the shiny surface, the promise of performance. But here was this other side to its owner: the woman who dressed immaculately only to spend her days alone in an office, enduring only a little physical contact with the outside world. Her employees called her “Mrs.” . . . she didn’t let them get too close, didn’t want them to think she was single, available. And when she came home it was to this quiet haven, to a house hidden behind walls and a hedge.
There was a whole side to Ellen Dempsey which she kept away from the world. Siobhan wondered what it might consist of. Would she find any answers in Dundee? Dempsey had friends, people even Cafferty was wary of. Was she fronting for some Dundee villains? Where had the money come from to kick-start her business? A fleet of cars didn’t exactly come cheap, and it was a bit of a step up from “a couple of taxis in Dundee” to the operation she now ran at Lochend. A woman with a past . . . a woman who could spot CID and gave work to ex-cons . . .
Ellen Dempsey didn’t just have a past, Siobhan realized. She had a police record of her own. It was the simplest explanation. What was it Eric Bain had told her? Reduce it to binary. His way of saying, keep it simple. Maybe she was trying to make everything too complex. Maybe the Marber case was simpler than it seemed.
“Reduce it to binary, Siobhan,” she told herself. Then she started the car and headed for the bridge.
By the time Rebus drove home, it was almost half past seven. His mobile had stored a couple of messages: Gill and Siobhan. Then it started ringing.
“Gill,” he said, “I was just about to call you.” He was in a queue at traffic lights.
“Have you seen tonight’s final edition?” He knew what she was going to say. “You made the front page, John.”
Bingo . . .
“You mean they got a picture of me?” he pretended to guess. “Hope it was my good side.”
“I wasn’t aware that you had a good side.” A low blow, but he let her get away with it.