huddling for warmth in a double sleeping-bag. Hell’s bells. Thank God Dougary didn’t work nights. And thank God there’d be some Trading Standards bodies around too.
Still, the thought of nabbing Davey Dougary warmed Rebus’s heart. Dougary was bad the way a rotten apple was. There was no repairing the damage, though the surface might seem untainted. Of course, Dougary was one of Big Ger Cafferty’s ‘lieutenants’. Cafferty had even turned up once at the office, captured on film. Much good would it do; he’d have a thousand good reasons for that visit. There’d be no pinning him in court. They might get Dougary, but Cafferty was a long way off, so far ahead of them they looked like they were pushing their heap of a car while he cruised in fifth gear.
‘So,’ Lauderdale was saying. ‘We can start with this as of next Monday, yes?’
Rebus awoke from his reverie. It was clear that much had been discussed in his spiritual absence. He wondered if he’d agreed to any of it. (His silence had no doubt been received as tacit consent.)
‘I’ve no problem with that,’ said Flower.
Rebus moved again in his seat, knowing that escape was close now. ‘I’ll probably need someone to fill in for DS Holmes.’
‘Ah yes, how is he doing?’
‘I haven’t heard today, sir,’ Rebus admitted. ‘I’ll call before I clock off.’
‘Well, let me know.’
‘We’re putting together a collection,’ Flower said.
‘For Christ’s sake, he’s no’ deid yet!’
Flower took the explosion without flinching. ‘Well, all the same.’
‘It’s a nice gesture,’ Lauderdale said. Flower shrugged his shoulders modestly. Lauderdale opened his wallet and dug out a reluctant fiver, which he handed to Flower.
Hey, big spender, thought Rebus. Even Flower looked startled.
‘Five quid,’ he said, unnecessarily.
Lauderdale didn’t want any thanks. He just wanted Flower to take the money. His wallet had disappeared back into its cave. Flower stuck the note in his shirt pocket and rose from his chair. Rebus stood too, not looking forward to being in the corridor alone with Flower. But Lauderdale stopped him.
‘A word, John.’
Flower sniffed as he left, probably thinking Rebus was to receive a dressing down for his outburst. In fact, this wasn’t what Lauderdale had in mind.
‘I was passing your desk earlier. I see you’ve got the files on the Central Hotel fire. Old news, surely?’ Rebus said nothing. ‘Anything I should know about?’
‘No, sir,’ said Rebus, rising and making for the door. He reckoned Flower would be on his way by now. ‘Nothing you should know about. Just some reading of mine. You could call it a history project.’
‘Archaeology, more like.’
True enough: old bones and hieroglyphs; trying to make the dead come to life.
‘The past is important, sir,’ said Rebus, taking his leave.
4
The past was certainly important to Edinburgh. The city fed on its past like a serpent with its tail in its mouth. And Rebus’s past seemed to be circling around again too. There was a message on his desk in Clarke’s handwriting. Obviously she’d gone to visit Holmes, but not before taking a telephone call intended for her superior.
DI Morton called from Falkirk. He’ll try again another time. He wouldn’t say what it’s about. Very cagey. I’ll be back in two hours.
She was the sort who would make up the two hours by staying late a few nights, even though Rebus had deprived her of a reasonable lunch-break. Despite being English, there was something of the Scottish Protestant in Siobhan Clarke. It wasn’t her fault she was called Siobhan either. Her parents had been English Literature lecturers at Edinburgh University back in the 1960s. They’d lumbered her with the Gaelic name, then moved south again, taking her to be schooled in Nottingham and London. But she’d come back to Edinburgh to go to college, and fallen in love (her story) with Edinburgh. Then she’d decided on the police as
Still, the thought of nabbing Davey Dougary warmed Rebus’s heart. Dougary was bad the way a rotten apple was. There was no repairing the damage, though the surface might seem untainted. Of course, Dougary was one of Big Ger Cafferty’s ‘lieutenants’. Cafferty had even turned up once at the office, captured on film. Much good would it do; he’d have a thousand good reasons for that visit. There’d be no pinning him in court. They might get Dougary, but Cafferty was a long way off, so far ahead of them they looked like they were pushing their heap of a car while he cruised in fifth gear.
‘So,’ Lauderdale was saying. ‘We can start with this as of next Monday, yes?’
Rebus awoke from his reverie. It was clear that much had been discussed in his spiritual absence. He wondered if he’d agreed to any of it. (His silence had no doubt been received as tacit consent.)
‘I’ve no problem with that,’ said Flower.
Rebus moved again in his seat, knowing that escape was close now. ‘I’ll probably need someone to fill in for DS Holmes.’
‘Ah yes, how is he doing?’
‘I haven’t heard today, sir,’ Rebus admitted. ‘I’ll call before I clock off.’
‘Well, let me know.’
‘We’re putting together a collection,’ Flower said.
‘For Christ’s sake, he’s no’ deid yet!’
Flower took the explosion without flinching. ‘Well, all the same.’
‘It’s a nice gesture,’ Lauderdale said. Flower shrugged his shoulders modestly. Lauderdale opened his wallet and dug out a reluctant fiver, which he handed to Flower.
Hey, big spender, thought Rebus. Even Flower looked startled.
‘Five quid,’ he said, unnecessarily.
Lauderdale didn’t want any thanks. He just wanted Flower to take the money. His wallet had disappeared back into its cave. Flower stuck the note in his shirt pocket and rose from his chair. Rebus stood too, not looking forward to being in the corridor alone with Flower. But Lauderdale stopped him.
‘A word, John.’
Flower sniffed as he left, probably thinking Rebus was to receive a dressing down for his outburst. In fact, this wasn’t what Lauderdale had in mind.
‘I was passing your desk earlier. I see you’ve got the files on the Central Hotel fire. Old news, surely?’ Rebus said nothing. ‘Anything I should know about?’
‘No, sir,’ said Rebus, rising and making for the door. He reckoned Flower would be on his way by now. ‘Nothing you should know about. Just some reading of mine. You could call it a history project.’
‘Archaeology, more like.’
True enough: old bones and hieroglyphs; trying to make the dead come to life.
‘The past is important, sir,’ said Rebus, taking his leave.
4
The past was certainly important to Edinburgh. The city fed on its past like a serpent with its tail in its mouth. And Rebus’s past seemed to be circling around again too. There was a message on his desk in Clarke’s handwriting. Obviously she’d gone to visit Holmes, but not before taking a telephone call intended for her superior.
DI Morton called from Falkirk. He’ll try again another time. He wouldn’t say what it’s about. Very cagey. I’ll be back in two hours.
She was the sort who would make up the two hours by staying late a few nights, even though Rebus had deprived her of a reasonable lunch-break. Despite being English, there was something of the Scottish Protestant in Siobhan Clarke. It wasn’t her fault she was called Siobhan either. Her parents had been English Literature lecturers at Edinburgh University back in the 1960s. They’d lumbered her with the Gaelic name, then moved south again, taking her to be schooled in Nottingham and London. But she’d come back to Edinburgh to go to college, and fallen in love (her story) with Edinburgh. Then she’d decided on the police as
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