“You should try one,” she admonished him. He wrinkled his nose and ignored the advice.
“Floyd was good, too,” he told her. “No major fallings-out.” They were facing each other across the small foldaway table in her living room. She lived in a tenement just off Broughton Street, five minutes’ walk from Gayfield Square. “What about you?” he asked, looking around the room. “No signs of Saturday-night debauchery.”
“Chance would be a fine thing.” Her smile grew thoughtful, and she told him about Niddrie.
“Lucky to get out in one piece,” Rebus commented.
“Your friend Mairie was there, writing a piece on Councilman Tench. She said something about some notes she’d sent you…”
“Richard Pennen and Ben Webster,” he confirmed.
“So are you getting anywhere?”
“Onward and upward, Shiv. I also tried phoning a few Guests and Keoghs-with nothing to show for it. Might as well have been chasing a few hoods around the houses.” He’d cleared his plate-capers aside-and was leaning back in his chair. Wanted a cigarette but knew he should wait till she’d finished eating. “Oh, and I had an interesting encounter myself, as it happens.”
So he told her about Cafferty, and by the time he was done her plate was empty.
“He’s the last thing we need,” she said, rising to her feet. Rebus made the beginnings of an offer to clear the table, but she nodded toward the window instead. Smiling, he made his way over and eased it open. Cool air wafted in and he crouched down, lighting up. Made sure to direct the smoke through the gap; held the cigarette out of the window between puffs.
Siobhan’s rules.
“More coffee?” she called.
“Keep it coming,” he answered.
She came in from the kitchen carrying a fresh pot. “There’s another march later on,” she said. “Stop the War Coalition.”
“Bit late for all that, I’d have thought.”
“And the G8 Alternatives…George Galloway’s going to be speaking.”
Rebus gave a snort, stubbed out his cigarette on the windowsill. Siobhan had wiped clean the table, lifted one of the boxes onto it. The boxes she’d asked Rebus to bring.
The Cyril Colliar case.
The offer of double pay-sanctioned by James Corbyn-had persuaded the Scene of Crime Unit to put a team together. They were on their way to the Clootie Well. Siobhan had warned them to keep a low profile: “Don’t want local CID getting sniffy.” Advised that SOCOs from Stirling had covered the same area two days before, one of the Edinburgh team had given a chuckle.
“Time we let the grown-ups try it then” was all he’d said.
Siobhan wasn’t hopeful. All the same, on Friday all they’d been doing was bagging evidence of one crime. Now, the signs pointed to two more. It was worth a bit of sifting and lifting.
She started unloading files and folders from the boxes. “You’ve been through this lot already?” she asked.
Rebus slid the window closed. “And all I learned was that Colliar was a big bad bastard. Chances are, he had more enemies than friends.”
“And the odds of him falling prey to a random killing?”
“Slim-we both know that.”
“And yet that appears to be what happened.”
Rebus held up a finger. “We’re reading a lot into a couple of items of clothing, owners unknown.”
“I tried Trevor Guest with Missing Persons.”
“And?”
She shook her head. “Not on any local register.” She tossed an emptied box onto the sofa. “It’s a Sunday morning in July, John…not a hell of a lot we can do before tomorrow.”
He nodded. “Guest’s bank card?”
“It’s HSBC. They’ve only one branch in Edinburgh -precious few in Scotland as a whole.”
“Is that good or bad?”
She gave a sigh. “I got through to one of their call centers. They told me to try the branch on Monday morning.”
“Isn’t there some sort of branch code on the card?”
Siobhan nodded. “Not the sort of information they give out over the phone.”
Rebus sat down at the table. “Keogh’s Garage?”
“Information did what they could. No listing on the Web.”
“The name’s Irish.”
“There are a dozen Keoghs in the phone book.”
He looked at her and smiled. “So you checked too?”
“Soon as I’d sent the SOCOs off.”
“You’ve been busy.” Rebus opened one of the folders; nothing in it he hadn’t seen before.
“Ray Duff’s promised me he’ll go to the lab today.”
“He has his eyes on the prize.”
She gave him a hard look before emptying the final box. The amount of paperwork caused her shoulders to slump.
“Day of rest, eh?” Rebus said. A phone started ringing.
“Yours,” Siobhan said. He went over to the sofa, lifted the cell from his jacket’s inside pocket.
“Rebus,” he announced. Listened for a moment, face darkening. “That’s because I’m not there…” Listening again. “No, I’ll meet you. Where is it you need to be?” Glancing at his watch. “Forty minutes?” Eyes on Siobhan. “I’ll be there.”
He snapped the phone shut.
“Cafferty?” she guessed.
“How did you know?”
“He does something to you…your voice, your face. What does he want?”
“He went to my flat. Says there’s something I need to see. No way I was letting him come here.”
“Much appreciated.”
“He’s got some land deal going on, needs to get to the site.”
“I’m coming with you.”
Rebus knew there was no way to refuse.
Queen Street… Charlotte Square… Lothian Road. Rebus’s Saab, Siobhan the wary passenger, gripping the doorsill with her left hand. They’d been stopped at barriers, made to show ID to various uniforms. Reinforcements were on their way into the city: Sunday was when the big exodus of officers north was due to happen. Siobhan had learned as much during her two days with Macrae, passed the info along to Rebus.
As they waited at lights on Lothian Road, they saw people standing outside the Usher Hall.
“The alternative summit,” Siobhan said. “That’s where Bianca Jagger’s due to speak.”
Rebus just rolled his eyes. In return, she smacked a fist into the side of his thigh.
“Did you see the march on TV? Two hundred thousand!”
“Nice day out for all concerned,” Rebus commented. “Doesn’t change the world I’m living in.” He looked at her. “What about Niddrie last night? Have the ripples from all those positive vibes managed to stretch that far?”
“There were only a dozen of them, John, against two thousand in the camp.”
“I know which side my money’d be on…”
After which they sat in silence until reaching Fountainbridge.
Once an area of breweries and factories where Sean Connery had spent his early years, Fountainbridge was changing. The old industries had all but vanished. The city’s financial district was encroaching. Style bars were opening. One of Rebus’s favorite old watering holes had already been demolished, and he reckoned the bingo hall next door-the Palais de Danse as was-would soon follow. The canal, not much more than an open sewer at one time, had been cleaned up. Families would go there for bike rides or to feed the swans. Not far from the CineWorld complex stood the locked gates of one mothballed brewery. Rebus stopped the car and sounded his horn. A young man in a suit appeared from behind the wall and released the padlock, swinging one half of the gate open, just enough to squeeze the Saab through.
“You’re Mr. Rebus?” he asked through the driver’s-side window.
“That’s right.”
The young man waited to see if Rebus was about to introduce Siobhan. Then he gave a nervous smile and handed over a brochure. Rebus glanced at it before passing it on.
“You’re a real estate agent?”
“I work for Bishops Solicitors, Mr. Rebus. Commercial property. Let me give you my card…” He was reaching into his jacket.