‘Interesting,’ he said at last. ‘Do we follow it up?’
‘I think we have to, don’t you?’
He shook his head. ‘Hand it over to the inquiry. We’ve got our work cut out with this bloody clue.’
‘Hand it over...?’ She was aghast. ‘This is ours, Grant. What if it turns out to be vital?’
‘Christ, Siobhan, listen to yourself. It’s an inquiry, lots of people all chipping in. It doesn’t belong to us. You can’t be selfish with something like this.’
‘I just don’t want someone else stealing our thunder.’
‘Even if it means finding Flip Balfour alive?’
She paused, screwed up her face. ‘Don’t be stupid.’
‘This all comes from John Rebus, doesn’t it?’
Colour rose to her cheeks. ‘What does?’
‘Wanting to keep it all to yourself, like the whole investigation’s down to you and you alone.’
‘Bollocks.’
‘You know it yourself; I can see it just by looking at you.’
‘I don’t believe I’m hearing this.’
He stood up to face her. They were no more than a foot apart, the office empty. ‘You know it,’ he repeated quietly.
‘Look, all I was trying to say...’
‘... was that you don’t want to share, and if that doesn’t sound like Rebus, I don’t know what does.’
‘You know your trouble?’
‘I get the feeling I’m about to find out.’
‘You’re too chicken, always playing by the rule-book.’
‘You’re a cop, not a private detective.’
‘And you’re chicken. Blinkers on and toeing the line.’
‘Chickens don’t wear blinkers,’ he spat back.
‘They must, because you do!’ she exploded.
‘That’s right,’ he said, seeming to calm a little, head bobbing. ‘That’s right: I always play by the rules, don’t I?’
‘Look, all I meant was—’
He grabbed her arms, pulled her to him, his mouth seeking hers. Siobhan’s body went rigid, then her face twisted away. The grip he had on her arms, she couldn’t move them. She’d backed up against the desk, stuck there.
‘A good close working partnership,’ a voice boomed from the doorway. ‘That’s what I like to see.’
Grant’s grip on her fell away as Rebus walked into the room.
‘Don’t mind me,’ he continued. ‘Just because I don’t indulge in these new-fangled methods of policing doesn’t mean I don’t approve.’
‘We were just...’ Grant’s voice died. Siobhan had walked round the desk and was lowering herself shakily into her chair. Rebus approached.
‘Finished with this?’ He meant the Farmer’s chair. Grant nodded and Rebus wheeled it back towards his own desk. He noticed that on Ellen Wylie’s desk, the autopsy reports were tied back up with string: conclusions reached, and of no further use. ‘Did the Farmer get you a result?’ he asked.
‘Hasn’t called back,’ Siobhan said, trying to control her voice. ‘I was just about to phone him.’
‘But you mistook Grant’s tonsils for the receiver, eh?’
‘Sir,’ she said, keeping her voice level, though her heart was pounding, ‘I wouldn’t want you to get the wrong impression about what happened here...’
Rebus held up a hand. ‘Nothing to do with me, Siobhan. You’re dead right. Let’s say no more about it.’
‘I think something needs to be said.’ Her voice had risen. She glanced over towards where Grant was standing, body turned away from her, head twisted so his eyes were not quite on her.
But she knew he was pleading. Mr Boy-Tekky-Racer! Mr Nerdy-Well with his gadgets and flash car!
Better make that a bottle of gin, a whole crateful of gin. And sod the bath.
‘Oh?’ Rebus was asking, genuinely curious now.
I could finish your career right here, Grant. ‘It’s nothing,’ she said finally. Rebus stared at her, but she kept her eyes fixed on the paperwork before her.
‘Anything happening your end, Grant?’ he asked blithely, settling into his chair.
‘What?’ Colour bloomed in Grant’s cheeks.
‘The latest clue: anywhere near solving it?’
‘Not really, sir.’ Grant was standing by one of the other desks, gripping its edge.
‘How about you?’ Siobhan asked, shifting in her seat.
‘Me?’ Rebus tapped a pen against his knuckles. ‘I think today I’ve managed to achieve the square root of bugger all.’ He threw the pen down. ‘Which is why I’m buying.’
‘Already had a couple of drinks?’ Siobhan asked.
Rebus’s eyes narrowed. ‘A few. They put a friend of mine into the ground. Tonight, I was planning a private wake. If either of you would like to join me, that would be fine.’
‘I need to go home,’ Siobhan said.
‘I don’t...’
‘Come on, Grant. It’ll be good for you.’
Grant looked in Siobhan’s direction, seeking guidance, or maybe permission. ‘I suppose I might manage the one,’ he conceded.
‘Good lad,’ Rebus told him. ‘One drink it is.’
Having nursed his pint while Rebus downed two double whiskies and two beers, Grant was dismayed to find another half poured into his glass as soon as there was room for it.
‘I have to drive home,’ he warned.
‘Bloody hell, Grant,’ Rebus complained, ‘that’s about all I’ve heard from you.’
‘Sorry.’
‘And apologies make up the rest. I can’t see there’s any need to apologise for snogging Siobhan.’
‘I don’t know how it happened.’
‘Don’t try to analyse it.’
‘I think the case just got...’ He broke off at the sound of a dull electronic bleeping. ‘Yours or mine?’ he asked, already reaching into his jacket. But it was Rebus’s mobile. He angled his head to let Grant know he was taking it outside.
‘Hello?’ Cool twilight, taxis looking for trade. A woman nearly tripped over a cracked paving slab. A young man, shaven head and nose-ring, helped her retrieve the oranges which had tumbled from her shopping bag. A small act of kindness... but Rebus watched until the youth moved away, just in case.
‘John? It’s Jean. Are you working?’
‘Surveillance,’ Rebus told her.
‘Oh dear, do you want me to...?’
‘It’s okay, Jean. I was joking. I’m just out having a drink.’
‘How was the funeral?’
‘I didn’t go. I mean, I did go, but I couldn’t face it.’
‘And now you’re drinking?’
‘Don’t start with the help-line stuff.’
She laughed. ‘I wasn’t going to. It’s just that I’m sitting here with a bottle of wine and the TV...’
‘And?’
‘And some company would be nice.’
Rebus knew he was in no state to drive; not much of a state for anything, if it came to it. ‘I don’t know, Jean. You’ve not seen me after a drink.’
‘What, you turn into Mr Hyde?’ She laughed again. ‘I had that with my husband. I doubt you could show me anything new.’ Her voice strained for levity, but there was an edge to it. Maybe she was nervous about asking him: no one liked a rejection. Or maybe there was more to it...
‘I suppose I could take a taxi.’ He studied himself: still in the funeral suit, the tie removed and top two buttons of the shirt undone. ‘Maybe I should go home and change.’
‘If you like.’
He looked across the street. The woman with the shopping was waiting at the bus stop now. She kept glancing into her bag as if checking everything was there. City life: mistrust part of the armour you wore; no such thing as a simple good deed.
‘I’ll see you soon,’ he said.
Back in the pub, Grant was standing next to his empty pint glass. As Rebus came forwards, he raised his hands in a show of surrender.