‘But he did work the case of the German student,’ Clarke persisted.
‘And shouldn’t have known about the gaming connection,’ Templer said, almost by rote: another argument that the senior officers had tried out between themselves.
‘It was a long night,’ Carswell told them, ‘trust me. We’ve been over it time and again. And it still seems to come down to the four of you.’
‘There’s been outside assistance,’ Grant Hood argued. ‘A museum curator, a retired pathologist...’
Rebus laid a hand on Hood’s arm, silencing him. ‘It was me,’ he said. Heads turned towards him. ‘I think it might have been me.’
He concentrated on not looking in Ellen Wylie’s direction, but was aware of her eyes burning into him.
‘Early on, I was out at Falls talking to a woman called Bev Dodds. She’d found the coffin by the waterfall. Steve Holly had already been sniffing around, and she’d given him the story...’
‘And?’
‘And I let it slip that there’d been more coffins... let slip to her, I mean.’ He was remembering the slip — a slip Jean had in fact made. ‘If she yapped to Holly, he’d have been on a flyer. I had Jean Burchill with me — she’s the curator. That might have given him the Arthur’s Seat connection...’
Carswell was staring at him coldly. ‘And the Internet game?’
Rebus shook his head. ‘That one I can’t explain, but it’s not exactly a well-kept secret. We’ve been shoving the clues at all the victim’s friends, asking if she’d asked them for help... any one of them could have told Holly.’
Carswell was still staring. ‘You’re taking the fall for this?’
‘I’m saying it could be my fault. Just that one slip...’ He turned to the others. ‘I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am. I let all of us down.’ His gaze skirted Wylie’s face, concentrating on her hair.
‘Sir,’ Siobhan Clarke said, ‘what DI Rebus has just admitted could go for any one of us. I’m sure I may have said a little more than I should on occasion...’
Carswell wafted his hand in front of him, quieting her.
‘DI Rebus,’ he said, ‘I’m suspending you from active duty, pending further inquiries.’
‘You can’t do that!’ Ellen Wylie blurted out.
‘Shut up, Wylie!’ Gill Templer hissed.
‘DI Rebus knows the consequences,’ Carswell was saying.
Rebus nodded. ‘Someone needs to be punished.’ He paused. ‘For the sake of the team.’
‘That’s right,’ Carswell said, nodding. ‘Otherwise mistrust begins its corrosive influence. I don’t think any of us wants that, do we?’
‘No, sir.’ Grant Hood’s voice proved a lone one.
‘Go home, DI Rebus,’ Carswell said. ‘Write your version down, leaving nothing out. We’ll talk again later.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Rebus said, turning and opening the door. Linford was directly outside, and smiling with one side of his face. Rebus didn’t doubt he’d been listening. It struck him suddenly that Carswell and Linford might well conspire to make the case against him look as black as possible.
He’d just given them the perfect excuse for getting rid of him for good.
His flat was ready to be put on the market, and he called the selling solicitor and told her so.
‘Thursday evenings and Sunday afternoons for viewing?’ she asked.
‘I suppose so.’ He was sitting in his chair, staring out of the window. ‘Is there any way I can... not be here?’
‘You want someone to show the flat for you?’
‘Yes.’
‘We have people who’ll do that for a small fee.’
‘Good.’ He didn’t want to be around when strangers were opening doors, touching things... He didn’t think he’d make the best salesman for the place.
‘We already have a photograph,’ the solicitor was saying. ‘So the ad could go in the ESPC guide as early as Thursday next.’
‘Not the day after tomorrow?’
‘I’m afraid not...’
When he’d finished the call, he walked into the hall. New light switches, new sockets. The place was a lot brighter, the fresh coats of paint helping. Not much clutter — he’d made three trips to the dump-site on Old Dalkeith Road: a coat-rack he’d inherited from somewhere; boxes of old magazines and newspapers; a two-bar electric fire with frayed cable; the chest of drawers from Samantha’s old room, still decorated with stickers of eighties pop stars... The carpets were back down. A drinking acquaintance from Swany’s Bar had lent a hand, asking if he wanted them nailed at the edges. Rebus hadn’t seen the point.
‘New owners will turf them out anyway.’
‘You should’ve had these floors sanded, John. They’d’ve come up a treat...’
Rebus had whittled his possessions down until they wouldn’t fill a one-bedroom flat, never mind the three he currently possessed. But still he had nowhere to go. He knew what the market was like in Edinburgh. If Arden Street went on the market next Thursday, it could go to a closing date the week after. Two weeks from now, he could find himself homeless.
And, come to that, jobless.
He’d been expecting phone calls, and eventually one came. It was Gill Templer.
Her opening words: ‘You stupid bastard.’
‘Hi there, Gill.’
‘You could have kept your mouth shut.’
‘I suppose I could.’
‘Always the willing martyr, eh, John?’ She sounded angry, tired and under pressure. He could see reasons for all three.
‘I just told the truth,’ he said.
‘That would be a first... not that I believe it for a minute.’
‘No?’
‘Come on, John. Ellen Wylie practically had “guilty” stamped on her forehead.’
‘You think I was shielding her?’
‘I don’t exactly take you for Sir Galahad. You’ll have had your reasons. Maybe it was simply to piss off Carswell; you know he hates your guts.’
Rebus didn’t like to concede that she might be right. ‘How’s everything else?’ he asked.
Her anger was played out. ‘Liaison’s snowed under. I’m giving a helping hand.’
Rebus bet she was busy: all the other papers and media, trying to play catch-up with Steve Holly.
‘What about you?’ she asked.
‘What about me?’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘I haven’t really thought about it.’
‘Well...’
‘I’d better let you get back, Gill. Thanks for calling.’
‘Bye, John.’
As he put the phone down, it started ringing again. Grant Hood this time.
‘I just wanted to thank you for getting us off the hook like that.’
‘You weren’t on the hook, Grant.’
‘I was, believe me.’
‘I hear you’re busy.’
‘How...?’ Grant paused. ‘Oh, DCS Templer’s been on to you.’
‘Is she helping out or taking over?’
‘Hard to say at the minute.’
‘She’s not in the room with you, is she?’
‘No, she’s in her own office. When we came out of that meeting with the ACC... she was the one who looked most relieved.’
‘Maybe because she has the most to lose, Grant. You probably can’t see that right now, but it’s true.’
‘I’m sure you’re right.’ But he didn’t sound convinced that his own survival wasn’t more important in the scheme of things.
‘Off you go, Grant, and thanks for finding the time to call.’