Set in Darkness

His mouth opened, but he couldn’t find the words.

  ‘You pushed open the door,’ she explained. ‘Didn’t check to see if it was locked or anything. Because you already knew it wasn’t. Then you stopped two floors up. Just taking a breather?’ She widened her eyes. ‘That was where he was watching from. Not the tenement either side, and that landing.’

  Rebus cast his eyes down into his drink. ‘It wasn’t me,’ he said.

  ‘But you know who it is.’ She paused. ‘Is it Derek?’ His silence was answer enough. She bounded to her feet, began pacing. ‘When I get my hands on him . . .’

  ‘Look, Siobhan—’

  She turned on him. ‘How did you know?’

  So then he had to explain it, and as he finished she reached for her phone, punched in Linford’s number. When the call was answered, she cut the connection. She was the one breathing hard now.

  ‘Can I ask a question?’ Rebus asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Did you put 141 first?’ She looked at him blankly. ‘That’s the prefix if you don’t want the caller knowing your number.’

  She was still wincing when the phone rang.

  ‘I’m not answering,’ she said.

  ‘It might not be Derek.’

  ‘Let the machine take it.’

  Seven rings, and the machine clicked into life. Her message first, then the sound of a receiver being replaced.

  ‘Bastard!’ she hissed. She picked up her receiver again, hit 1471, listened and slammed the phone down.

  ‘Number withheld?’ Rebus guessed.

  ‘What’s he playing at, John?’

  ‘He’s been jilted, Siobhan. We can turn strange when that happens.’

  ‘You sound like you’re on his side.’

  ‘No way. I’m just trying to explain it.’

  ‘Someone jilts you, you start stalking them?’ She picked up her wineglass, took gulps from it as she paced. Then she noticed the curtains were still open, hurried over and closed them.

  ‘Come and sit down,’ Rebus said. ‘We’ll talk to him in the morning.’

  She ran out of floor eventually, dropped on to the sofa next to him. He tried pouring more wine into her glass, but she didn’t want any.

  ‘Shame to waste it,’ he said.

  ‘You have it.’

  ‘I don’t want it.’ She stared at him, and he offered a smile. ‘I’ve spent half of this evening avoiding going out for a drink,’ he explained.

  ‘Why?’

  He just shrugged, and she took the bottle from him. ‘Then let’s put it out of harm’s way.’

  When he caught up with her, she was pouring the contents down the kitchen sink.

  ‘Bit radical,’ he said. ‘The fridge would have done.’

  ‘You don’t chill red wine.’

  ‘You know what I mean, though.’ He saw the clean dishes on the draining board. Her supper things had already been washed up. The kitchen was white-tiled and spotless. ‘We’re chalk and cheese,’ he said.

  ‘How’s that?’

  ‘I only wash up when I run out of mugs.’

  She smiled. ‘I’ve always wanted to be a hygiene slut.’

  ‘But?’

  She shrugged, surveying the room. ‘Must be my upbringing or something. I suppose some people would call me neurotically tidy.’

  ‘They just call me a slob,’ Rebus said.

  He watched her rinse the bottle and place it beside a few others which, along with empty jars, sat in an orange-box beside the swingbin.

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ he said: ‘recycling?’

  She nodded, laughed. Then her face crumpled into seriousness. ‘Jesus, John, I only went out with him three times.’

  ‘Sometimes that’s all it takes.’

  ‘You know where I met him?’

  ‘You wouldn’t tell me, remember?’

  ‘I’ll tell you now: it was at a singles club.’

  ‘That night you were out with the rape victim?’

  ‘He goes to this singles club. They don’t know he’s a cop.’

  ‘Well, it shows he has trouble meeting women.’

  ‘He meets them every day, John.’ She paused. ‘I don’t know, maybe it shows something else.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m not sure. A different side to him.’ She leaned back against the sink, folded her arms. ‘Remember what you said?’

  ‘I say so many memorable things.’

  ‘You said about jilted guys, what they do sometimes.’

  ‘You think Linford’s been jilted one time too many?’

  ‘Maybe.’ She was thoughtful. ‘But I was thinking more of the rapist, why he seems to focus on singles nights.’

  Rebus was concentrating now. ‘He went along to one, got the cold shoulder?’

  ‘Or his wife or girlfriend went to one . . .’

  Rebus was nodding. ‘And got a nice warm shoulder?’

  Siobhan was nodding, too. ‘It’s not my case, of course . . .’

  ‘But whoever’s running it, Siobhan, they’ll have been asking around all the singles clubs.’

  ‘Yes, but they won’t have been asking the female members about jealous partners.’

  ‘Good point. Another job for the morning.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, turning to fill the kettle, ‘just as soon as I’ve had a word with dear old Derek.’

  ‘And if he denies it?’

  ‘I’ve got corroboration, John.’ She looked at him over her shoulder. ‘I’ve got you.’

  ‘No, you’ve got me and a few suspicions of your own. Not exactly the same thing.’

  ‘What are you getting at?’

  ‘People know Linford and me haven’t been getting on like a house on fire. Now I come along and say I’ve seen him playing peeping Tom. You don’t know Fettes, Siobhan.’

  ‘They look after their own?’

  ‘Maybe, maybe not. But they definitely would think more than twice about taking the word of John Rebus over that of a future chief constable.’

  ‘Is that why you wouldn’t tell me about Linford?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  She turned away from him again. ‘How do you want your coffee?’

  ‘Black.’

  Derek Linford’s flat looked down on to Dean Valley and the Water of Leith. He’d got a good deal on the mortgage – playing the Fettes card for all it was worth – but even so he was making hefty repayments. And with the BMW on top. He had so much to lose.

  He’d stripped off his coat and his shirt, sweating after the drive home. She’d seen him at the window, then made a phone call. And he’d run for it, driving like a maniac, taking the stairs to his own flat two at a time . . . and his own phone was ringing. He’d snatched at it, thinking: it’s Siobhan! She’s seen someone and decided to call me, wanting my help! But the phone had gone dead, and when he’d checked, it had been her on the phone. He’d called straight back and she hadn’t answered.

  Standing shaking by his window, ignoring the rooftop view . . . She knows it was me! It was all he could think of. She wouldn’t have been calling him for help; she’d have called Rebus. And of course Rebus had told her. Of course he had.

  ‘She knows,’ he said aloud. ‘She knows, she knows, she knows.’

  He walked across the living room, turned and walked back. His right fist was slapping into his open left hand.

  He had so much to lose.

  ‘No,’ he said, shaking his head, getting his breathing back under control. He wasn’t going to lose any of this. Not for anyone or anything. This was all he had to show for the years of work, the long nights, the weekends, the courses and the studying.

  ‘No,’ he said again. ‘Nobody’s taking this away.’

  Not if he could help it.

  Not without one hell of a fight.

  They rang up to Cafferty’s room, told him there was a problem in the bar. He got dressed, went down there, and found Rab being pinned to the floor by two of the barmen and a couple of customers. Another man
was seated on the floor near by, legs splayed, his nose bust open but holding his ear, blood seeping out between the fingers. He was yelling out for someone to call the police, while his girlfriend knelt beside him.

  Cafferty looked at him. ‘What you need is an ambulance,’ he said.

  ‘Bastard bit my ear!’

  Cafferty crouched in front of the man, held two fifties out, and then tucked them into the man’s breast pocket. ‘An ambulance,’ he repeated. The girlfriend took the hint, got up to find the phone. Then Cafferty walked over to Rab, squatted down and took hold of him by the hair.

  ‘Rab,’ he said, ‘what the fuck are you doing?’

  ‘I was just enjoying masel, Big Ger.’ There was a smear of blood on his lips; blood from the wounded man’s ear.

  ‘No fun for anyone else,’ Cafferty told him.

  ‘What’s life if ye can’t enjoy yirsel?’

  Cafferty stared at him but didn’t answer. ‘See when you go getting like this,’ he said quietly, ‘I don’t know what I’m going to do with you.’

  ‘Does it matter?’ Rab said.

  Cafferty didn’t answer this either. He told the men they could let go, and they did, cautiously. Rab didn’t seem inclined to get up. ‘Maybe you could help him,’ Cafferty told the men. He had a bundle of notes out, peeled off several and handed them round.

  ‘For your help, and to keep this on the q.t.’ The bar hadn’t been damaged, but he insisted on paying up anyway. ‘Sometimes it takes a while for the damage to show,’ he told the barman. Then he bought a round of drinks and clapped a hand on Rab’s neck.

  ‘Time you were in bed, son.’ Rab’s room key was on the bar. The staff all knew he was with Big Ger. ‘Next time you want a rammy, try playing away from home, eh?’

  ‘Sorry, Big Ger.’

  ‘Got to look out for one another, eh, Rab? Sometimes that means using the brain as well as the brawn.’

  ‘I’ll be fine, Big Ger. Sorry again.’

  ‘Off you go now. There’s a mirror in the lift, so don’t you go swinging a punch at it.’

  Rab tried to smile. He looked sleepy after all the excitement. Cafferty watched him slouch out of the bar. He felt like a drink, but not here, not with these people. Leave them be, let them get it out of their systems with gossip and retelling. There was a minibar in his room, and that would do him for tonight. He apologised with a wave of his arms, then followed Rab to the lift, stood with him in its close confines all the way to the third floor. It was like being back in a cell. Rab’s eyes were closed. He was leaning against the mirror. Cafferty kept his eyes on him and didn’t blink once.

  Does it matter? That had been Rab’s question. Cafferty was beginning to wonder.

  27

  As Rebus walked into St Leonard’s next morning, two uniforms were discussing a film from the previous night’s TV.

  ‘When Harry Met Sally, you must’ve seen it, sir.’

  ‘Not last night. Some of us have got better things to do.’

  ‘We’re just talking about whether men can be friends with women without wanting to sleep with them. That’s the plot, you see.’

  ‘I reckon,’ the second uniform said, ‘as soon as a bloke claps eyes on a woman, first thing he wonders is what she’d be like in the scratcher.’

  Rebus could hear raised voices in the CID suite. ‘If you’ll excuse me, gents, more urgent business . . .’

  ‘Lovers’ tiff,’ one of the uniforms said.

  Rebus turned back towards him. ‘Pal, you couldn’t be further from the truth.’

  Siobhan had Derek Linford backed into a corner of the room. She also had an audience: DI Bill Pryde, DS Roy Frazer and DS George Hi-Ho Silvers. They were seated at their desks, enjoying the spectacle. Rebus gave all three a withering glance as he waded in. Siobhan had Linford by the throat, her face close to his – by dint of standing on tiptoe. He had paperwork in one hand, turned into a crumpled wad by the involuntary tightening of his fist. He was holding his other hand up in a gesture of surrender.

  ‘And if you so much as think my telephone number, never mind calling it,’ Siobhan was yelling, ‘I’ll twist your balls so hard they’ll drop off!’

  From behind, Rebus brought his hands down hard on hers, pulling them off Linford. Her head snapped round, face flushed with anger. Linford was coughing.

  ‘This what you call a word?’ Rebus asked her.

  ‘Knew you’d be involved somewhere,’ Linford spat.

  Siobhan turned back to him. ‘This is you and me, arsehole, nobody else!’

  ‘Think you’re God’s gift, don’t you?’

  Rebus: ‘Shut up, Linford. Don’t make it any worse than you have.’

  ‘I haven’t done anything.’

  Siobhan tried pulling away from Rebus. ‘You fucking snake!’

  And then a voice behind them, booming with authority: ‘What the hell’s going on here?’ All three looked towards the open doorway. Chief Superintendent Watson was standing there. And he had a visitor: Colin Carswell, the Assistant Chief Constable.

  Rebus was the last to be ‘invited’ to give the Chief Super his side of the story. There were just the two of them in the office. The Farmer – nicknamed for his ruddy-coloured face and north-east agricultural background – sat with hands pressed together, a sharpened pencil resting between them.

  ‘Am I supposed to fall on that?’ Rebus asked, pointing to the pencil. ‘Ritual hara-kiri?’

  ‘You’re supposed to tell me what was happening back there. The one day the ACC comes calling . . .’

  ‘He’ll be taking Linford’s side, of course?’

  The Farmer glared at him. ‘Don’t start. Just give me your version, for what it’s worth.’

  ‘What’s the point? I know what the other two will have told you.’

  ‘What exactly?’

  ‘Siobhan will have told the truth, and Linford will have come up with a pack of lies to save his arse.’ Rebus shrugged as the Farmer’s face grew darker.

  ‘Humour me,’ he said.

  ‘Siobhan went out a couple of times with Linford,’ Rebus recited. ‘Nothing serious. Then she sent him packing. I was round her place one evening discussing her case. Came out and was sitting in my car, saw someone from the opposite tenement come out, go for a pee round the corner, and head back again. I went to investigate, and it was Linford, spying on her from the tenement stairwell. Then last night, she phones me, says she thinks she’s being watched. So I told her about Linford.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell her before?’

  ‘Didn’t want to upset her. Besides, I thought I’d scared him off.’ Rebus shrugged again. ‘I’m obviously not the hard case I think I am.’

  The Farmer leaned back in his chair. ‘And what does Linford say?’

  ‘I’m betting he’s told you it’s a pile of shite concocted by DI John Rebus. Siobhan was mistaken, I made up this story, and she swallowed it.’

  ‘And why would you do that?’

  ‘So he’d push off and let me work the case the way I want to work it.’

  The Farmer looked down at the pencil he was still holding. ‘Actually, that’s not the reason he gave.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘He says you want Siobhan for yourself.’

  Rebus screwed his face into a sneer. ‘Well, that’s his fantasy, not mine.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘I can’t let this go, you know. Not with Carswell as witness.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘What do you think I should do?’

  ‘If it were me, sir, pack Linford off back to Fettes where he can continue to be their desk-bound blue-eyed boy, far from the hurly-burly of actual policing.’

  ‘Mr Linford doesn’t want that.’

  Rebus couldn’t help reacting. ‘He wants to stay here?’ The Farmer nodded. ‘Why?’

  ‘He says he holds no grudge. Puts it down to the “hothouse conditions” on the case.’

  ‘I don?
??t get it.’

  ‘Frankly, neither do I.’ The Farmer rose, made for his coffee machine. Pointedly, he poured just the one mug. Rebus tried not to let his relief show. ‘If I was him, I’d want to be shot of the lot of you.’ The Farmer paused, sat down again. ‘But what DI Linford wants, DI Linford gets.’

  ‘It’s going to be ugly.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Seen the CID suite lately? We’re swamped. Hard enough to keep Siobhan and him apart under normal conditions, but the cases we’re working on could be connected.’

  ‘So DS Clarke tells me.’

  ‘She said you were thinking of pulling the Supertramp inquiry.’

  ‘There never really was an inquiry. But I was as curious as the next man about that four hundred thou. To be honest, I didn’t give her much chance.’

  ‘She’s a good detective, sir.’

  Watson nodded. ‘Despite the role model,’ he said.

  ‘Look,’ Rebus said, ‘I know the score here. You’re coasting to retirement, would rather this was someone else’s shit-pile.’

  ‘Rebus, don’t think you can—’

  ‘Linford belongs to Carswell, so you’re not about to rub his nose in it. That just leaves the rest of us.’

  ‘Careful what you’re saying.’

  ‘I’m not saying anything you don’t know yourself.’

  The Farmer rose to his feet, rested his knuckles on the desk and leaned towards Rebus. ‘And what about you? Building your own private little police force – meetings in the Oxford Bar, running around like it’s you that runs this station.’

  ‘I’m trying to solve a case.’

  ‘And get into Clarke’s knickers at the same time?’

  Rebus jumped to his feet. Their faces were inches apart. Neither man said anything, as if the next word could prove a hair-trigger. The Farmer’s phone started ringing. He moved a hand, picked it up and held it to his ear.

  ‘Yes?’ he said. Rebus was so close, he could hear Gill Templer in the earpiece:

  ‘Press briefing, sir. You want to see my notes?’

  ‘Bring them in, Gill.’

  Rebus pushed away from the desk. He heard the Farmer calling behind him:

  ‘Had we finished, Inspector?’

  ‘I think so, sir.’ Managed to close the door without slamming it.

  And went to find Linford. Not in the office. He was told that Siobhan was in the ladies’ loo, being calmed by a WPC. Canteen? No. The front desk said he’d left the station five minutes earlier. Rebus looked at his watch: it wasn’t opening time yet. Linford’s BMW wasn’t in the car park. He stood on the pavement, took out his mobile, and called Linford’s.