of Alexander Todorov. He stood in Princes Street Gardens, the Castle louring behind him. A tartan scarf was wrapped around his neck; probably his first day in Scotland. A man with only two months to live.
“Cat’s out of the bag,” Rebus said, taking the proffered newspaper. Then, to anyone around the table who might know: “Does that count as metaphor?”
7
T here was a funny smell in the CID office at Gayfield Square police station. You often noticed it at the height of summer, but this year it seemed determined to linger. It would disappear for a matter of days or weeks, then one morning would announce its creeping reappearance. There had been regular complaints and the Scottish Police Federation had threatened a walkout. Floors had been lifted and drains tested, traps set for vermin, but no answers.
“Smells like death,” the seasoned officers would comment. Rebus knew what they meant: every now and again, a body would be discovered decomposing in the armchair of a sixties semi, or a floater would be pulled from Leith docks. There was a special room set aside for them at the mortuary, and the attendants had placed a radio on the floor, which could be switched on when desired: “Helps take our minds off the pong.”
At Gayfield Square, the answer was to open all available windows, which sent the temperature plummeting. The office of Detective Chief Inspector James Macrae—separated by a glass door from the CID suite—was like a walk-in fridge. This morning, Macrae had shown foresight by hauling an electric heater into work from his Blackhall home. Rebus had seen somewhere that Blackhall boasted the wealthiest residents in the city. It had sounded an unlikely setting—bungalows and more bungalows. Homes in Barnton and the New Town fetched millions. Then again, maybe that explained why the people who lived there weren’t as rich as those in Bungalowland.
Macrae had plugged the heater in and switched it on, but it stayed on his side of the desk and radiated warmth only so far. Phyllida Hawes had already shuffled so close to it that she was almost seated on Macrae’s lap, something the DCI noted with a scowl.
“Right,” he barked, clenching his hands together as if in angry prayer, “progress report.” But before Rebus could begin, Macrae sensed a problem. “Colin, shut the door, will you? Let’s keep what heat there is to ourselves.”
“Not much room, sir,” Tibbet commented. He was standing in the doorway, and what he said was true: with Macrae, Rebus, Clarke, and Hawes inside, space in the DCI’s den was limited.
“Then go back to your desk,” Macrae replied. “I’m sure Phyllida can report on your behalf.”
But Tibbet didn’t want that happening: if Clarke was promoted to DI, there’d be a vacancy for detective sergeant, making Hawes and him rivals as well as partners. He sucked in his stomach and managed to get the door closed.
“Progress report,” Macrae repeated. But then his phone rang and he lifted it with a growl. Rebus wondered about his boss’s blood pressure. His own was nothing to boast about, but Macrae’s face was typically puce, and though a couple of years younger than Rebus, his hair had almost gone. As Rebus’s own doctor had conceded during his last checkup, “You’ve had a lucky run, John, but luck always runs out.”
Macrae made only a few grunts before putting the phone back down. His eyes were on Rebus. “Someone from the Russian consulate at the front desk.”
“Wondered when they’d turn up,” Rebus said. “Siobhan and I should take this, sir. Meantime, Phyl and Colin can tell you all you need to know—we had a powwow last night.”
Macrae nodded his agreement, and Rebus turned to Clarke.
“One of the interview rooms?” she suggested.
“Just what I was thinking.” They moved out of the DCI’s office and through the CID suite. The wall boards were still blank. Later today, photos from the crime scene would go up, along with lists of names,
“Cat’s out of the bag,” Rebus said, taking the proffered newspaper. Then, to anyone around the table who might know: “Does that count as metaphor?”
7
T here was a funny smell in the CID office at Gayfield Square police station. You often noticed it at the height of summer, but this year it seemed determined to linger. It would disappear for a matter of days or weeks, then one morning would announce its creeping reappearance. There had been regular complaints and the Scottish Police Federation had threatened a walkout. Floors had been lifted and drains tested, traps set for vermin, but no answers.
“Smells like death,” the seasoned officers would comment. Rebus knew what they meant: every now and again, a body would be discovered decomposing in the armchair of a sixties semi, or a floater would be pulled from Leith docks. There was a special room set aside for them at the mortuary, and the attendants had placed a radio on the floor, which could be switched on when desired: “Helps take our minds off the pong.”
At Gayfield Square, the answer was to open all available windows, which sent the temperature plummeting. The office of Detective Chief Inspector James Macrae—separated by a glass door from the CID suite—was like a walk-in fridge. This morning, Macrae had shown foresight by hauling an electric heater into work from his Blackhall home. Rebus had seen somewhere that Blackhall boasted the wealthiest residents in the city. It had sounded an unlikely setting—bungalows and more bungalows. Homes in Barnton and the New Town fetched millions. Then again, maybe that explained why the people who lived there weren’t as rich as those in Bungalowland.
Macrae had plugged the heater in and switched it on, but it stayed on his side of the desk and radiated warmth only so far. Phyllida Hawes had already shuffled so close to it that she was almost seated on Macrae’s lap, something the DCI noted with a scowl.
“Right,” he barked, clenching his hands together as if in angry prayer, “progress report.” But before Rebus could begin, Macrae sensed a problem. “Colin, shut the door, will you? Let’s keep what heat there is to ourselves.”
“Not much room, sir,” Tibbet commented. He was standing in the doorway, and what he said was true: with Macrae, Rebus, Clarke, and Hawes inside, space in the DCI’s den was limited.
“Then go back to your desk,” Macrae replied. “I’m sure Phyllida can report on your behalf.”
But Tibbet didn’t want that happening: if Clarke was promoted to DI, there’d be a vacancy for detective sergeant, making Hawes and him rivals as well as partners. He sucked in his stomach and managed to get the door closed.
“Progress report,” Macrae repeated. But then his phone rang and he lifted it with a growl. Rebus wondered about his boss’s blood pressure. His own was nothing to boast about, but Macrae’s face was typically puce, and though a couple of years younger than Rebus, his hair had almost gone. As Rebus’s own doctor had conceded during his last checkup, “You’ve had a lucky run, John, but luck always runs out.”
Macrae made only a few grunts before putting the phone back down. His eyes were on Rebus. “Someone from the Russian consulate at the front desk.”
“Wondered when they’d turn up,” Rebus said. “Siobhan and I should take this, sir. Meantime, Phyl and Colin can tell you all you need to know—we had a powwow last night.”
Macrae nodded his agreement, and Rebus turned to Clarke.
“One of the interview rooms?” she suggested.
“Just what I was thinking.” They moved out of the DCI’s office and through the CID suite. The wall boards were still blank. Later today, photos from the crime scene would go up, along with lists of names,
Similar Books
