The subject of his loathing.
‘I missed a Hibs match to come here,’ she told him. ‘That’s how important this is to me.’ He just glared. ‘Okay, bad joke,’ she said. ‘I’d have come anyway.’ But he was closing his eyes now, as if tired of listening.
She gave it a couple more minutes, then walked out. Back in her car, she remembered a call she had to make: the slip of paper with the number was in her pocket. It had only taken her twenty minutes to find it amongst the paperwork on her desk.
‘Sandra?’
‘Yes.’
‘I thought you might be out shopping or something. It’s Siobhan Clarke.’
‘Oh.’ Sandra Carnegie didn’t sound exactly pleased to hear her.
‘We think the man who attacked you has ended up getting himself killed.’
‘What happened?’
‘He was stabbed.’
‘Good. Give whoever did it a medal.’
‘Looks like it was his accomplice. He got a sudden attack of conscience. We caught him heading for Newcastle down the A1. He’s told us everything.’
‘Will you do him for murder?’
‘We’ll do him for everything we can.’
‘Does that mean I’ll have to testify?’
‘Maybe. But it’s great news, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah, great. Thanks for letting me know.’
The phone went dead in Siobhan’s hand. She made an exasperated sound. Her one planned victory of the day snatched away.
‘Go away,’ Rebus said.
‘Thanks, I will.’ Siobhan pulled out the chair and sat down opposite him, shrugged her arms out of her coat. She’d already bought her drink: fresh orange topped up with lemonade. They were in the back room of the Ox. The front room was busy: Saturday early evening, the football crowd. But the back room was quiet. The TV wasn’t on. A lone drinker over by the fire was reading the Irish Times. Rebus was drinking whisky: no empties on the table, but all that meant was he was taking his glass back for a refill each time.
‘I thought you were cutting down,’ Siobhan said. He just glared at her. ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘I forgot whisky’s the answer to the world’s problems.’
‘It’s no dafter than yogic flying.’ He raised the glass to his mouth, paused. ‘What do you want anyway?’ Tipped the glass and let the warmth trickle into his mouth.
‘I went to see Derek.’
‘How is he?’
‘Not talking.’
‘Poor bastard can’t, can he?’
‘It’s more than that.’
He nodded slowly. ‘I know. And who’s to say he’s not right?’
Her frown brought a little vertical crease to the middle of her forehead. ‘How do you mean?’
‘It was me told him to go chasing Hutton’s men. In effect, I was telling him to tag a murderer.’
‘But you weren’t expecting him to—’
‘How do you know? Maybe I did want the bugger hurt.’
‘Why?’
Rebus shrugged. ‘To teach him something.’
Siobhan wanted to ask what: humility? Or as punishment for his voyeurism? She drank her drink instead.
‘But you don’t know for sure?’ she said at last.
Rebus made to light a cigarette, then thought better of it.
‘Don’t mind me,’ she said.
But he shook his head, slid the cigarette back into its packet. ‘Too many today as it is. Besides, I’m outnumbered.’ Nodding towards the Irish Times. ‘Hayden there doesn’t smoke either.’
Hearing his name, the man smiled across, called out, ‘For which relief, much thanks,’ and went back to his reading.
‘So what now?’ Siobhan asked. ‘Have they suspended you yet?’
‘They have to catch me first.’ Rebus began playing with the ashtray. ‘I’ve been thinking about cannibals,’ he said. ‘Queensberry’s son.’
‘What about him?’
‘I was wondering whether there are still cannibals out there, maybe more than we think.’
‘Not literally?’
He shook his head. ‘We talk about getting a roasting, chewing someone up, eating them for breakfast. We say it’s a dog-eat-dog world, but really we’re talking about ourselves.’
‘Communion,’ Siobhan added. ‘The body of Christ.’
He smiled. ‘I’ve always wondered about that. I couldn’t do it, that wafer turning to flesh.’
‘And drinking the blood... that makes us vampires as well.’
Rebus’s smile broadened, but his eyes said that his thoughts were elsewhere.
‘I’ll tell you a strange coincidence,’ she said. She went on to tell him about the night at Waverley, the black Sierra and the singles club rapist.
He nodded at the story. ‘And I’ll tell you a stranger one: that Sierra’s licence number was found in Derek Linford’s notebook.’
‘How come?’
‘Because Nicholas Hughes worked for Barry Hutton’s company.’ Siobhan made to form a question, but Rebus anticipated it. ‘Looks like complete coincidence at this stage.’
Siobhan sat back and was thoughtful for a moment. ‘Know what we need?’ she said at last. ‘I mean in the Grieve case. We need corroboration, witnesses. We need someone who’ll talk to us.’
‘Better get the Ouija board out then.’
‘You still think Alasdair’s dead?’ Waited till he’d shrugged. ‘I don’t. If he was six feet under, we’d know about it.’ She broke off, watching Rebus’s face clear suddenly. ‘What did I say?’
He was looking at her. ‘We want to talk to Alasdair, right?’
‘Right,’ she agreed.
‘Then all we have to do is issue the invitation.’
She was puzzled now. ‘What sort of invitation?’
He drained his glass, got to his feet. ‘You better do the driving. Knowing my luck recently, I’d wrap us round a lamp-post.’
‘What invitation?’ she repeated, struggling to get her arms into the sleeves of her coat.
But Rebus was already on his way. As she passed the man with the newspaper, he raised his glass and wished her good luck.
His tone implied that she’d need it.
‘You know him then,’ she complained, heading for the outside world.
37
The funeral of Roderick David Rankeillor Grieve took place on an afternoon of steady sleet. Rebus was at the church. He stood towards the back, hymnary open but not singing. Despite the short notice, the place was packed: family members from all over Scotland, plus establishment figures — politicians, media, people from the banking world. There were representatives from the Labour hierarchy in London, playing with their cuff links and checking their silent pagers, eyes darting around for faces they ought to know.
At the church gates, members of the public had gathered, ghouls on the lookout for anyone worth an autograph. Photographers, too, with deadlines to meet, wiping beads of water from zoom lenses. Two TV crews — BBC and independent — had set up their vans. There was a protocol to be observed: invitees only in the churchyard. Police were patrolling the perimeter. With so many public figures around, security was always going to be an issue. Siobhan Clarke was out there somewhere, mingling with the public, scrutinising them without seeming to.
The service seemed long to Rebus. There wasn’t just the local minister: the dignitaries had to make their speeches, too. Protocol again. And, filling the front pews, the immediate family. Peter Grief had been asked if he’d sit with his aunts and uncles, but preferred to be with his mother, two rows back. Rebus spotted Jo Banks and Hamish Hall, five rows ahead of his own. Colin Carswell, the Assistant Chief Constable, was wearing his best uniform, looking slightly piqued that there wasn’t room for him in the row in front, where so many distinguished invitees had crammed themselves that they had to rise and sit in single, fluid movements.