She nodded, relieved. Platt picked up the suitcase. As he passed her, his hand went into his trouser pocket, came out with a fold of banknotes.
`Get a cab back, all right?’
`All right, Jackie. See you later.’
`Cheers, pet.’
And he squeezed her hand. `Take care, Mickey. All the best, John.’
A huge, face-creasing wink, then he was gone. They waited in silence for a few seconds. Rhona held up her free hand, the one without the wad of notes.
`Not a word, okay?’
`Furthest thing from my mind,' Rebus said, sitting down. `"Think I'm about to crash". Tactful or what?’
`Come on, Johnny,' Mickey said. Johnny: only Mickey could do that, using the name so that the years fell from both of them. Rebus looked at his brother and smiled. Mickey was a therapist by profession; he knew the things to say.
`Why the cases?’ Rebus asked Rhona.
`What?’
`You're going to a hotel, why not leave them in his car?’
`I thought about staying here. They said I could if I wanted to. Only then I saw her… and I changed my mind.’
Tears started down her face, smudging already-smudged mascara. Mickey had a handkerchief ready.
`John, what if she…? Oh, Jesus Christ, why did this have to happen?’
She was wailing now. Rebus went over to her chair, crouched in front of it, his hands resting on hers. `She's all we've got, John. She's all we ever had.’
`She's still here, Rhona. She's right here.’
'But why her? Why Samantha?’
`I'll ask him when I find him, Rhona.’
He kissed her hair, his eyes on Mickey. `And believe me, I'm going to find him.’
Later, when Ned Farlowe visited, Rebus took him outside. There was drizzle falling, but the air felt good.
`One of the eye-witnesses,' Rebus said, `thinks it was deliberate.’
`I don't understand.’
`He thinks the driver meant to hit Sammy.’
`I still don't get it.’
`Look, there are two scenarios. One, he was intent on hitting a pedestrian, and anyone would have done. Two, Sammy was his target. He'd been following her, saw his chance when she crossed the road, only the lights were against him so he had to jump them. Then she was so close to the kerb he had to switch lanes.’
`But why?’
Rebus stared at him. `This is Sammy's dad and her lover, right? For the purposes of what follows, I want you to stop being a reporter.’
Farlowe stared back, nodded slowly.
`I've had a few run-ins with Tommy Telford,' Rebus said. He was seeing teddy bears: Pa Broon, and the one Telford kept in his car. `This might have been a message for me.’
Telford or Tarawicz: flip a coin. `Or for you, if you've been asking questions about Telford.’
`You think my book…’
`I'm keeping an open mind. I've been working the Lintz case… and so have you.’
`Someone warning us off Lintz?’
Rebus thought of Abernethy, shrugged. `Then there's Sammy's job, working with ex-cons. Maybe one of them had a grudge.’
`Jesus.’
`She hadn't mentioned anyone following her? Nobody odd in the area?’
Same question he'd put to the Petrecs, only different victim…
Farlowe shook his head. `Look,' he said, `until five minutes ago I thought this was an accident. Now you're saying it was attempted murder. Are you sure?’
`I'm trusting a witness.’
But he knew what Bill Pryde thought: a drunk driver, a crazy man. And a grandstand spectator who wore glasses and had read it wrong. He took out the drawing again.
`What's that?’
Rebus handed it over. `This is what someone saw last night.’
`What kind of car is it?’
`Rover 600, Ford Mondeo, something like that. Dark green. Ring any bells?’
Ned Farlowe shook his head, then looked at Rebus. `Let me help. I can ask around.’
`One kid in a coma's enough.’
The rest of the office had packed up and gone home. Now there were only Rebus and Sammy's boss, a woman called Mae Crumley. The light from half a dozen desk-lamps illuminated the haphazard office, which was on the top floor of an old four-storey building off Palmerston Place. Rebus knew Palmerston Place: there was a church there where the AA held meetings. He'd been to a couple. He could still taste whisky at the back of his throat. Not that he'd had any so far today, not in daylight hours. But then he hadn't phoned Jack Morton either.
The address might have been posher than Rebus was expecting, but the accommodation was cramped. The office was in the eaves of the building, so that you couldn't stand up in half the available space, which hadn't stopped desks being sited in the most awkward corners.
`Which is hers?’ Rebus asked.
Mae Crumley pointed to the desk next to her own. There was a computer there somewhere, but only its screen was showing. Loose sheets of paper, books and pamphlets and reports, the whole lot spilled on to the chair and from there down on to the floor.
`She works too hard,' Crumley said. `We all do.’
Rebus sipped the coffee she'd made him. Cafe Hag.
`When Sammy came here,' she went on, `the first thing she said was that her father was CID. She never tried to hide it.’
`And you'd no qualms about taking her on?’
`None at all.’
Crumley folded her arms. They were big arms; she was a big woman. Her hair was a fiery red, long and frizzy and tied back with a black ribbon. She wore an oatmeal linen shirt with a denim jacket over the top of it. Her eyebrows had been plucked into thin arches over pale grey eyes. Her desk was relatively tidy, but only, as she'd explained to Rebus, because she tended to stay later than anyone else.
`What about her clients?’ Rebus asked. `Could any of them have held a grudge?’
`Against her or against you?’
`Against me through her.’
Crumley considered this. `To the extent that they'd run her over just to make a point? I very much doubt it.’
`I'd be interested to see her client list.’
She shook her head. `Look… you shouldn't be doing this. It's too personal, you know that. I mean, who am I talking to here: Sammy's father, or a copper?’
`You think I've a score to settle?’
`Well haven't you?’
Rebus put down the coffee mug. `Maybe.’
`And that's why you shouldn't be doing this.’
She sighed. `Number one on my wish list: Sammy back on her feet and back here. But what about if meantime I do a bit of poking around? I stand a better chance of getting them to talk than you do.’
Rebus nodded. `I'd appreciate that.’
He got to his feet. `Thanks for the coffee.’
Outside, he checked the list the juice Church had given him. He kept it in his pocket, didn't refer to it often. There was a meeting at Palmerston Place in about an hour and a half. No good. He knew he'd spend the time beforehand in a pub. Jack Morton had introduced him to Al-Anon, but Rebus hadn't really taken to it, though the stories had affected him.
`See,' one man had told the group, `I had problems at work, problems with my wife, my kids. I had money problems and health problems and everything else. Practically the only problem I didn't have was with the drink. And that's because I was a drunk.’
Rebus lit himself a cigarette and drove home.
He sat in his chair and thought about Rhona. They'd shared so much over so many years… and then it had all stopped. He'd chosen his job over his marriage, and that could not be forgiven. Last time he'd seen her had been in London, wearing her new life like armour. Nobody had warned him about Jackie Platt. His phone rang, and he snatched it from the floor.
`Rebus.’
`It's Bill.’
Pryde sounded halfway to excited, which was as far as he ever ventured.
`What have you got?’
`Dark green Rover 600 – I think the owner called it "Sherwood Green" – stolen yesterday evening about an hour before the collision.’
`Where from?’
`Metered parking on George Street.’