and down the hall.
‘Keep away from him, do you hear? Keep away from both of us. This is nothing but harassment.’
‘I know you’re upset, Mrs McAnally, but an identification would clear things up, put your mind at rest.’
Her blows lost some of their power, then stopped altogether. Rebus’s burnt palm stung where she’d caught it.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, breathing hard.
‘It’s only natural, you’re upset. Do you have a neighbour, a friend, someone who could be with you?’
‘There’s Maisie next door.’
‘Fine. What if I get a car to pick you up? Maybe Maisie can go with you?’
‘I’ll ask her.’ She opened the door and stepped out on to the landing, shuffling along to a door marked FINCH.
‘I’ll use your phone if that’s all right,’ Rebus called, retreating back into the flat.
He took a quick look around. Just the one bedroom and bathroom, plus a box room. He’d seen the rest of the place already. Again, the bedroom was very nicely furnished, pink ruched curtains and matching bedspread, a small dressing-table covered in bottles of perfume. He went into the hall and made a couple of calls: one to order a car, the other to make sure someone from CID would be at the mortuary to help with the ID.
The door opened and two women came in. He’d been expecting Mrs Finch to be around Mrs McAnally’s age, but she was in her early twenties, leggy with a short, tight skirt. She looked at him as if he might be some warped practical joker. He offered a smile in return which mixed compassionwith interest. She didn’t smile back, so he had to content himself with the sight of her long legs as she helped Mrs McAnally down the hall and into the living room.
‘A wee Bacardi, Tresa,’ Maisie Finch was saying, ‘it’ll calm your nerves. Before we do anything else, we’ll have a wee Bacardi and Coke. Have you any valium about the place? If you haven’t, I think I’ve some in my bathroom cabinet.’
‘He can’t be dead, Maisie,’ Tresa McAnally wailed.
‘Let’s not talk about him,’ Maisie Finch replied.
Strange advice, Rebus thought, making ready to leave.
9
It wasn’t much of a walk from Tollcross down to C Division HQ on Torphichen Place, but Rebus knew he was getting further and further away from his own flat. He didn’t intend walking back, and hoped Torphichen would have a spare car he could use as a taxi.
There was a tall bald man in a thick shabby coat in reception. The man had his arms folded and was staring at his feet. There was no one behind the desk, so Rebus pressed the buzzer. He knew it would keep buzzing till someone arrived.
‘Been here long?’ he asked.
The man looked up and smiled. ‘Evening, Mr Rebus.’
‘Hello, Anthony.’ Rebus knew the man. He was one of Edinburgh’s homeless, one of the army who sold copies of
The Big Issue
every twenty yards or so along Princes Street. Rebus usually bought a copy from Anthony, whose sacred pitch was outside the St James Centre. ‘Here to help us with our enquiries?’
Anthony gave a gap-toothed grin. ‘Just keeping warm. I told the desk officer I was waiting for DC Reynolds, only I saw Mr Reynolds go into the Hopscotch Bar on Dalry Road.’
‘Which means he’s on for a sesh.’
‘And I can sit here till somebody tumbles.’
A uniform was emerging into the reception booth. Rebus showed ID and the uniform came and unlocked the door for him.
‘You know the way, sir?’
‘I know the way. Who’s on duty?’
‘It’s a bit of a graveyard up there.’
Rebus climbed the stairs anyway. Torphichen was an old station, and small, with plain stone walls and a slightly depressing air. Rebus liked it. Certainly he preferred it to the much newer and supposedly ergonomic St Leonard’s, his home base. He looked into the CID room. The very man he wanted was sitting at a long, scarred wooden table, reading the evening paper.
‘Mr Davidson,’ Rebus said.
Davidson looked up, then groaned.
‘I want a favour,’
‘Keep away from him, do you hear? Keep away from both of us. This is nothing but harassment.’
‘I know you’re upset, Mrs McAnally, but an identification would clear things up, put your mind at rest.’
Her blows lost some of their power, then stopped altogether. Rebus’s burnt palm stung where she’d caught it.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, breathing hard.
‘It’s only natural, you’re upset. Do you have a neighbour, a friend, someone who could be with you?’
‘There’s Maisie next door.’
‘Fine. What if I get a car to pick you up? Maybe Maisie can go with you?’
‘I’ll ask her.’ She opened the door and stepped out on to the landing, shuffling along to a door marked FINCH.
‘I’ll use your phone if that’s all right,’ Rebus called, retreating back into the flat.
He took a quick look around. Just the one bedroom and bathroom, plus a box room. He’d seen the rest of the place already. Again, the bedroom was very nicely furnished, pink ruched curtains and matching bedspread, a small dressing-table covered in bottles of perfume. He went into the hall and made a couple of calls: one to order a car, the other to make sure someone from CID would be at the mortuary to help with the ID.
The door opened and two women came in. He’d been expecting Mrs Finch to be around Mrs McAnally’s age, but she was in her early twenties, leggy with a short, tight skirt. She looked at him as if he might be some warped practical joker. He offered a smile in return which mixed compassionwith interest. She didn’t smile back, so he had to content himself with the sight of her long legs as she helped Mrs McAnally down the hall and into the living room.
‘A wee Bacardi, Tresa,’ Maisie Finch was saying, ‘it’ll calm your nerves. Before we do anything else, we’ll have a wee Bacardi and Coke. Have you any valium about the place? If you haven’t, I think I’ve some in my bathroom cabinet.’
‘He can’t be dead, Maisie,’ Tresa McAnally wailed.
‘Let’s not talk about him,’ Maisie Finch replied.
Strange advice, Rebus thought, making ready to leave.
9
It wasn’t much of a walk from Tollcross down to C Division HQ on Torphichen Place, but Rebus knew he was getting further and further away from his own flat. He didn’t intend walking back, and hoped Torphichen would have a spare car he could use as a taxi.
There was a tall bald man in a thick shabby coat in reception. The man had his arms folded and was staring at his feet. There was no one behind the desk, so Rebus pressed the buzzer. He knew it would keep buzzing till someone arrived.
‘Been here long?’ he asked.
The man looked up and smiled. ‘Evening, Mr Rebus.’
‘Hello, Anthony.’ Rebus knew the man. He was one of Edinburgh’s homeless, one of the army who sold copies of
The Big Issue
every twenty yards or so along Princes Street. Rebus usually bought a copy from Anthony, whose sacred pitch was outside the St James Centre. ‘Here to help us with our enquiries?’
Anthony gave a gap-toothed grin. ‘Just keeping warm. I told the desk officer I was waiting for DC Reynolds, only I saw Mr Reynolds go into the Hopscotch Bar on Dalry Road.’
‘Which means he’s on for a sesh.’
‘And I can sit here till somebody tumbles.’
A uniform was emerging into the reception booth. Rebus showed ID and the uniform came and unlocked the door for him.
‘You know the way, sir?’
‘I know the way. Who’s on duty?’
‘It’s a bit of a graveyard up there.’
Rebus climbed the stairs anyway. Torphichen was an old station, and small, with plain stone walls and a slightly depressing air. Rebus liked it. Certainly he preferred it to the much newer and supposedly ergonomic St Leonard’s, his home base. He looked into the CID room. The very man he wanted was sitting at a long, scarred wooden table, reading the evening paper.
‘Mr Davidson,’ Rebus said.
Davidson looked up, then groaned.
‘I want a favour,’
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