‘Got to go.’
‘Yes, me too,’ Rebus said.
Grant looked somehow disappointed, as though he’d wanted Rebus to go on drinking, getting drunker. Rebus looked at the empty glass, wondering if the barman had been persuaded to ditch its contents.
‘You all right to drive?’ Rebus asked.
‘I’m fine.’
‘Good.’ Rebus slapped Grant’s shoulder. ‘In that case, you can give me a lift to Portobello...’
Siobhan had spent the past hour trying to clear her head of anything and everything to do with the case. It wasn’t working. The bath hadn’t worked; the gin was refusing to kick in. The music on her hi-fi — Mutton Birds, Envy of Angels — wasn’t cocooning her the way it usually did. The latest clue was ricocheting around her skull. And every thirty seconds or so... here it came again!.. she watched a replay of Grant pinning her arms, while John Rebus — of all people! — watched from the doorway. She wondered what would have happened if he hadn’t announced his presence. She wondered how long he’d been there, and whether he’d heard any of their argument.
She leaped back up from the sofa and started pacing the room again, glass in hand. No, no, no... as if repeating the word could make everything go away, never have happened. Because that was the problem. You couldn’t unmake something.
‘Stupid bitch,’ she said aloud in a sing-song voice, repeating the phrase until the words lost their meaning.
She was over by the window when the track ended. In the momentary silence, she heard a car turning into the end of her street, and instinct told her who it was. She ran to the lamp and stamped down on the floor-switch, plunging the room into darkness. There was a light on in her hallway, but she doubted it could be seen from outside. She was afraid to move, afraid she would cast a telltale shadow. The car had stopped. The next track was playing. She reached down for the remote and used it to turn off the CD player. Now she could hear the car idling. Her heart was pounding.
Then the door buzzer, telling her someone was outside and wanting in. She waited, didn’t move. Her fingers were so tight around the glass that they began to cramp. She changed hands. The buzzer again.
No no no no...
Just leave it, Grant. Get in the Alfa and go home. Tomorrow we can start pretending it never happened.
Bzzzz bzzzz zzzz...
She began to hum softly to herself, a tune she was making up. Not even a tune really; just sounds to compete with the buzzer and the blood singing in her ears.
She heard a car door close, relaxed a little. Nearly dropped the glass when her phone started ringing.
She could see it by the light of the streetlamp. It was lying on the floor by the sofa. Six rings and the answering machine would kick in. Two... three... four...
Maybe the Farmer!
‘Hello?’ She slumped on to the sofa, phone to her ear.
‘Siobhan? It’s Grant.’
‘Where are you?’
‘I’ve just been ringing your doorbell.’
‘Mustn’t be working. What can I do for you?’
‘Letting me in would be a start.’
‘I’m tired, Grant. Just going to bed.’
‘Five minutes, Siobhan.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Oh.’ The silence was like a third party, some huge, humourless friend only one of them had invited.
‘Just go home, eh? I’ll see you in the morning.’
‘That might be too late for the Quizmaster.’
‘Oh, you’re here to talk about work?’ She slid her free hand up her body, tucking it beneath the arm holding the phone.
‘Not exactly,’ he admitted.
‘No, I didn’t think so. Look, Grant, let’s call it a moment of madness, eh? I think I can live with that.’
‘That’s what you think it was?’
‘Don’t you?’
‘What are you scared of, Siobhan?’
‘How do you mean?’ Her voice hardening.
A short silence before he relented, telling her: ‘Nothing. I didn’t mean anything. Sorry.’
‘I’ll see you in the office then.’
‘Right.’
‘Get a good night’s sleep. We’ll crack the clue tomorrow.’
‘If you say so.’
‘I do. Goodnight, Grant.’
‘’Night, Shiv.’
She ended the call, didn’t even take the time to tell him she hated ‘Shiv’: girls at school had used it. One of her boyfriends at college had liked it, too. He told her it was slang for a knife. Siobhan: even the teachers at her school in England had had trouble with her name. ‘See-Oban’ they’d pronounce it, and she would have to correct them.
Night, Shiv...
Stupidbitch...
She heard his car move off, watched the play of headlights across her ceiling and far wall. She sat there in the dark, finishing her drink without tasting it. When her phone rang again, she swore out loud.
‘Look,’ she roared into the mouthpiece, ‘just let it go, okay?’
‘Well... if you say so.’ It was the Farmer’s voice.
‘Oh, hell, sir, I’m sorry.’
‘Expecting another call?’
‘No, I... maybe another time.’
‘Fair enough. I’ve been doing some ringing round. There are people who know the Craft far better than I do, I thought maybe they could shed some light.’
His tone told her what she needed to know. ‘No joy?’
‘Not as such. But a couple of folk have still to get back to me. Nobody home, so I left messages. Nil desperandum: that’s what they say, isn’t it?’
Her smile was bleak. ‘Some of them probably do, yes.’ Hopeless optimists, for example.
‘So you can expect another call tomorrow. What time’s the cut-off?’
‘Late morning.’
‘Then I’ll make some follow-up calls first thing.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘It’s nice to feel useful again.’ He paused. ‘Things getting you down, Siobhan?’
‘I’ll cope.’
‘I’d put money on it. Speak to you tomorrow.’
‘Goodnight, sir.’
She put the phone down. Her drink was finished. This all comes from John Rebus, doesn’t it? Grant’s words to her during their argument. Now here she was with an empty glass in her hand, sitting in the dark, staring out the window.
‘I’m not like him at all,’ she said out loud, then she picked up the phone again and called his number. Got his answering machine. She knew she could try his mobile. Maybe he was out on the bevvy; almost certainly he was out on the bevvy. She could meet up with him, explore the city’s late openers, each dimly lit howff protection against the dark.
But he’d want to talk about Grant, about the clinch he thought he’d found them in. It would be there between them, no matter what the conversation.
She thought about it for a minute, then called his mobile anyway, but it was switched off. Another answering service; another message not left. Last-chance saloon was his pager, but she was winding down now. A mug of tea... she’d take it to bed with her. She switched the kettle on, looked for the tea-bags. The box was empty. All she had were some little sachets of herbal stuff: camomile. She wondered if the petrol station at Canonmills would be open... maybe the chip shop on Broughton Street. Yes, that was it... she could see the answer to her problems! She slipped her shoes and coat on, made sure she had keys and money. When she went out, she checked that the door had locked behind her. Down the stairs and out into the night, searching for the one ally she could depend on, no matter what.