“I heard about Diamond,” Siobhan said. “How come no one’s talking to you?”
“Just a little falling-out.” He shrugged, concentrating on his cigarette. “These things happen.”
“To you more than most.”
“Years of practice, Siobhan. So what’s your interest in McCullough?”
“His name came up.”
“Where?”
“I was looking at Ellen Dempsey. She owns the cab that dropped Marber home that night. Dempsey moved her company here from Dundee. In a past life, she worked in a sauna.”
Rebus thought of Laura Stafford. “Interesting coincidence,” he mused.
“And here’s another one: Jazz McCullough arrested her a couple of times.”
Rebus seemed to concentrate harder than ever on his cigarette.
“And then I started remembering the way McCullough and Gray spent so much time flipping through the transcripts and notes in the inquiry room.”
Rebus nodded. He’d been there, seen them . . .
“And Allan Ward dating Phyl,” Siobhan was saying.
“Asking her questions,” Rebus added, still nodding. He’d stopped walking. Jazz, Gray and Ward . . . “How do you think it plays?”
She shrugged. “I just wondered if there was some connection between McCullough and Dempsey. Maybe they’ve kept in touch . . .”
“And he kept tabs on the Marber case at her behest?”
“Maybe.” Siobhan paused. “Maybe because she didn’t want her past to come up. I think she’s tried hard to build a new life.”
“Could be,” Rebus said, not sounding entirely convinced. He’d started walking again. They were close to the docks now, heavy lorries passing them almost continuously, spewing out fumes, kicking up dust and grit. They walked with their faces turned to one side. Rebus could see Siobhan’s unprotected neck. It was long and slender, a line of muscle running down it. He knew that when they reached the dockside the water would be oily and dotted with jetsam. No place for a body to end up. He touched her arm and took a detour, leading them down an alley. It would connect with one of the roads eventually, leading them back towards the station.
“What are you going to do about it?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I thought I’d get McCullough’s response.”
“I’m not sure about that, Siobhan. Maybe you’d be better off doing a bit more digging first.”
“Why?”
Rebus shrugged. What could he tell her? That to his mind Jazz McCullough, quiet and charming family man, was perhaps mixed up in murder and criminal conspiracy?
“I just think it might be safer.”
She stared at him. “Care to elucidate?”
“It’s nothing concrete . . . just a feeling.”
“A feeling that asking McCullough a few questions might not be safe?”
Rebus shrugged again. They’d come out of the alley. By turning right, they’d be heading towards the rear of the police station.
“I’m guessing this ‘feeling’ of yours has something to do with the fact that nobody’s talking to you?”
“Look, Siobhan . . .” He ran a hand down his face, as if trying to brush away a layer of skin. “You know I wouldn’t say anything if I didn’t think it mattered.”
She considered this, then nodded her agreement. They were walking around the side of the station, a pavement drunk causing them to step onto the road. Rebus pulled Siobhan back to safety as a car hurtled past, horn blaring. Someone in a hurry.
“Thanks,” Siobhan said.
“I do what I can,” Rebus informed her. The drunk was making for the opposite pavement, stumbling blindly across the road. They both knew he’d make it. He was carrying a bottle: no way a motorist would want that flying through his windshield.
“I’ve often thought pedestrians should be issued with hammers for just this situation,” Siobhan said, watching the car disappear into the distance. She said good-bye to Rebus on the steps of the police station, watched him disappear inside. She’d wanted to say something: take care, maybe, or watch yourself, but the words hadn’t come out. He’d nodded anyway, reading her eyes with a smile. The problem wasn’t that he thought himself indestructible — quite the opposite. She worried that he relished the idea of his own fallibility. He was only human, and if proving it meant enduring pain and defeat, he would welcome both. Did that mean he had a martyr complex? Maybe she should give Andrea Thomson a call, see if the two of them could talk about it. But Thomson would want to talk about her, and Siobhan wasn’t ready for that. She thought of Rebus and his ghosts. Would Laura Stafford now haunt her dreams? Might she be the first of many? Laura’s face was already starting to fade, losing definition, leaving Siobhan with a hand locked to a car’s door handle.
She took a deep breath. “Got to keep busy,” she told herself. Then she opened the door to the station and peered inside. No sign of Rebus. She walked in, showed her ID, climbed the stairs to the CID floor. It struck her that Donny Dow might still be in the cells, but by now he was probably on remand in Saughton jail. She could always ask, but wasn’t sure that seeing him again would constitute any kind of exorcism.
“It’s Siobhan, isn’t it?” The voice startled her. The man had just appeared from out of an office. He was carrying a blue folder. She forced a smile.
“DI McCullough,” she said. “That’s funny,” the smile widening, “I was just looking for you . . .”
“Oh yes?”
“I wanted a quick word.”
He looked up and down the corridor, then nodded to the room he’d just vacated. “We’ll have some privacy in here,” he said, leaning past her to open the door.
“After you,” she said, the smile frozen on her face. The office looked little used. Some old desks, chairs each missing a leg, stiff-drawered filing cabinets. She left the door open, then remembered Rebus . . . didn’t want him catching her here. So she closed the door behind her.
“All very mysterious,” McCullough said, placing the folder on a desk and folding his arms.
“Not really,” she said. “It’s just something that’s cropped up in connection with the Marber case.”
He nodded. “I hear you found the missing painting. That should give you a hike up.”
“I was promoted pretty recently.”
“Nevertheless . . . You go on breaking cases at this rate, sky’s the limit.”
“I don’t think the case is necessarily broken.”
He paused. “Oh?” Sounding genuinely surprised.
“Which is why I have to ask a few questions about the owner of MG Cabs.”
“MG Cabs?”
“A woman called Ellen Dempsey. I think you know her.”
“Dempsey?” McCullough frowned, trying the name out a few times. Then he shook his head. “Give me a clue?”
“You knew her in Dundee. Prostitute. She was working the night you raided a sauna. A while after that, she was off the game and running a couple of minicabs. Used mace against a customer, ended up in court . . .”
McCullough was nodding. “Right,” he said, “I’ve got her now. What did you say her name was? Ellen . . . ?”
“Dempsey.”
“That the name she was using back then?”
“Yes.”
He looked like he was still having trouble putting a face to the name. “Well, what about her?”
“I just wondered if you’d kept in touch?”
His eyes widened. “Why the hell would I do that?”
“I don’t know.”
“DS Clarke . . .” Unfolding his arms, face turning angry. His hands had started to bunch themselves into fists. “I should have you know I’m a happily married man — ask anyone . . . even your friend John Rebus! They’ll tell you!”
“Look, I’m not suggesting anything improper here. It just seems a coincidence that the two of you —”
“Well, coincidence is all it can be!”
“Okay, okay.” McCullough’s face had reddened, and she didn’t like those clenched fists . . . the door opened and a face peered round.