“Nothing. And we don’t check the cells when they’re empty.”
“You knew they were empty?”
“Kept that way so we can stick any rioters in them.”
Macrae was studying Rebus’s left hand. “Need to get that seen to?”
“I’ll be fine.” Rebus grimaced. “How did you find me?”
“Text message. I’d left the phone to charge in my study. The beeping woke my wife.”
“Can I see it?”
Macrae handed over the phone. At the top of the screen was the caller’s number, and below it a capitalized message: REBUS IN DRYLAW CELLS. Rebus punched the Return Call option, but when connected all he got was a machine telling him the number was not in use. He handed the phone back to Macrae.
“Screen says the call was sent at midnight.”
Macrae failed to meet Rebus’s gaze. “It was a while before we heard it,” he said quietly. But then he remembered who he was, and stiffened his spine. “Care to tell me what happened here?”
“Some of the lads having a laugh,” Rebus improvised. He kept flexing his left wrist, trying not to show how much it was flaring with pain.
“Names?” asked Macrae.
“No names, no one gets in trouble, sir,” said Rebus.
“So if I were to return their little text message?”
“Number’s already been canceled, sir.”
Macrae studied Rebus. “Few drinks last night, eh?”
“A few.” He turned his attention back to the uniform. “Nobody’s left a cell at the front desk, by any chance?”
The young officer shook his head. Rebus leaned in toward him. “Something like this gets out...well, there’ll be a few laughs at my expense, but you’ll be the ones the joke’s really on. Cells unchecked, station left unmanned, front door unlocked...”
“The door was locked,” the constable argued.
“Still doesn’t look good for you, does it?”
Macrae patted the officer’s shoulder. “So let’s keep this to ourselves, eh? Now come on, DI Rebus, I’ll drop you home before the barricades go up again.”
Outside, Macrae paused before unlocking his Rover. “I can see why you’d want this kept quiet, but rest assured—if I find the culprits, there’ll be hell to pay.”
“Yes, sir,” Rebus agreed. “Sorry to have been the cause.”
“Not your fault, John. Now hop in.”
They drove southward in silence through the city, dawn breaking to the east. A few delivery vans and bleary pedestrians, but little clue as to what the day might bring. Monday meant the Carnival of Full Enjoyment. The police knew it was a euphemism for trouble. This was when the Clown Army, the Wombles, and the Black Bloc were expected to make their move. They would try to shut the city down. Macrae had switched the radio to a local station, just in time to catch a news flash—an attempt to padlock the pumps at a gas station on Queensferry Road.
“The weekend was just for starters,” Macrae commented as he drew to a halt on Arden Street. “So I hope you enjoyed it.”
“Nice and relaxing, sir,” Rebus said, opening his door. “Thanks for the lift.” He patted the roof of the car and watched it drive off, then climbed the two flights, searching his pockets for his keys.
No keys.
Of course not: they were hanging from the lock on his door. He swore and opened up, withdrew the keys, and held them in a bunch in his right fist. Walked into the hall on tiptoe. No noises or lights. Padded past the kitchen and bedroom doorways. Into the living room. The Colliar case notes weren’t there, of course: he’d taken them to Siobhan’s. But the stuff Mairie Henderson had found for him—about Pennen Industries and Ben Webster, MP—was strewn about the place. He picked his cell phone up from the table. Nice of them to bring it back. He wondered how thoroughly they had scoured it for calls in and out, messages and texts. Didn’t really bother him: he deleted stuff at the end of each day. Didn’t mean it wasn’t still hidden on the chip somewhere...And they’d have the authority to ask his phone company for records. When you were SO12, you could do most things. He went into the bathroom and ran the tap. It always took a while for the water to run hot. He was going to spend a good fifteen or twenty minutes under the shower. He checked the kitchen and both bedrooms: nothing seemed out of place, which in itself also meant nothing. Filled the kettle and switched it on. Might the place be bugged? He’d no way of telling; didn’t think it was as easy these days as unscrewing the base from the telephone to find out. The paperwork on Pennen had been tossed about but not taken. Why? Because they knew it would be easy for him to get the same information again. It was all in the public domain, after all, only a mouse click or two away.
They’d left it because it was meaningless.
Because Rebus wasn’t anywhere near getting to whatever it was Steelforth was trying to protect.
And they’d left his keys in the lock, his phone in plain view, to add insult to injury. He flexed his left hand again, wondering how you could tell if you had a blood clot or thrombosis. He took the tea through to the bathroom, turned off the tap at the sink, shed his clothes, and climbed into the shower. He tried to empty his mind of the previous seventy-two hours. Started listing his desert island disks instead. Couldn’t decide which track off Argus to choose. He was still busy debating with himself as he got out and toweled himself dry; found himself humming “Throw Down the Sword.”
“Not on your life,” he declared to the mirror.
He was determined to get some sleep. Five restless hours curled up on a slab hardly counted. But first he had to charge his phone. Plugged it in and decided to see what messages there were. One text—same anonymous caller as Macrae.
LET’S CALL A TRUCE.
Sent barely half an hour before. Which meant two things: They knew he was home. And the out-of-service number was somehow back in play. Rebus could think of a dozen replies, but decided to switch the phone off again instead. Another mug of tea and he made for the bedroom.
Panic on the streets of Edinburgh.
Siobhan had never known the place so tense. Not during the local soccer championship, not even during Republican and Orange marches. The air was somehow heightened, as if an electric current ran through it. Not just Edinburgh either: a peace camp had been established in Stirling. There had been short, sharp outbursts of violence. Still two days to go before the G8 opened, but the protesters knew that a number of delegations had already arrived. A lot of the Americans were based at Dunblane Hydro, a short drive from Gleneagles. Some foreign journalists had found themselves much farther away in hotels in Glasgow. Japanese officials had taken over many of the rooms in the Edinburgh Sheraton, just across the road from the financial district. Siobhan’s instinct had been to use the hotel’s lot, but there was a chain across its entrance. A uniformed officer approached as she wound down her window. She showed him her ID.
“Sorry, ma’am,” he apologized in a polite English voice. “No can do. Orders from on high. Your best bet is to do a U-turn.” He pointed farther down the Western Approach Road. “There’s some idiots on the road...we’re trying to herd most of them into Canning Street. Bunch of clowns, by all accounts.”
She did as instructed, finally finding a space on a yellow line outside the Lyceum Theater. Crossed at the lights, but instead of going into the Standard Life HQ, decided to walk past it, down the concrete lanes which ran mazily through the whole area. Turned a corner into Canning Street and found herself stopped by a cordon of police, on the other side of which black-clad demonstrators mixed with figures from the big top. A bunch of clowns, quite literally. This was Siobhan’s first real sighting of the Rebel Clown Army. They wore red and purple wigs, faces painted white. Some brandished feather dusters, others waved carnations. A smiley face had been drawn on one of the riot shields. The cops were in black, too, protected by knee and elbow pads, stab-proof vests, visored helmets. One of the demonstrators had somehow scrambled up a high wall and was shaking his bared buttocks at the police below.
There were windows all around, office workers peering out. Plenty of noise, but no real fury as yet. As more officers jogged into view, Siobhan retreated as far as the pedestrian bridge which crossed over the Western Approach Road. Again, the protesters were heavily outnumbered. One of them was in a wheelchair, a lion rampant attached to the back, fluttering in the breeze. Traffic heading into town was at a standstill. Whistles were being blown, but the police horses looked unfazed. As a line of officers marched beneath the footbridge, they held their shields above their heads to protect themselves.
The situation seemed under control and unlikely to change, so Siobhan headed for her final destination.
The revolving door which led to the Standard Life reception area was locked. A guard stared out at her before buzzing her in.
“Can I see your pass, miss?”
“I don’t work here.” Siobhan showed her ID instead.
He took it from her to study it. Handed it back and nodded toward the reception desk.
“Any problems?” she asked.
“Couple of goons tried to get in. One’s scaled the west side of the building. Seems to be stuck three floors up.”
“Fun for all concerned.”
“It pays the bills, miss.” He gestured once more toward the desk. “Gina there will sort you out.”
Gina did indeed sort Siobhan out. First, a visitor’s pass—“to be kept in view at all times, please”—and then a call upstairs. The waiting area was plush, with sofas and magazines, coffee, and a flat-screen TV showing some midmorning design show. A woman came striding toward Siobhan.
“Detective Sergeant Clarke? I’ll take you upstairs.”
“Mrs. Jensen?”
But the woman shook her head. “Sorry to’ve kept you waiting. As you can imagine, things are a bit fraught...”
“That’s okay. I’ve been learning which floor lamp to buy.”
The woman smiled without really comprehending and led Siobhan to the elevator. As they waited, she studied her own clothes. “We’re all in civilian clothes today,” she said, explaining the slacks and blouse.
“Good idea.”
“It’s funny seeing some of the men in jeans and T-shirts. Hardly recognizable, some of them.” She paused. “Is it the riots you’re here about?”
“No.”
“Mrs. Jensen seemed in the dark...”
“Up to me to shed some light then, isn’t it?” Siobhan replied with a smile as the elevator doors opened.
The nameplate on Dolly Jensen’s office stated that she was Dorothy Jensen but gave no indication of her job title. Had to be quite high-powered, Siobhan figured. Jensen’s assistant had knocked on the door, then retreated to her own desk. The main floor was open plan, plenty of faces peering up from their computers to study the new arrival. A few stood by the available windows, coffee mugs in hand, watching the outside world.
“Come in,” a voice called. Siobhan opened the door and closed it behind her, shook Dorothy Jensen’s hand, and was invited to take a seat.
“You know why I’m here?” Siobhan asked.
Jensen leaned back in her chair. “Tom told me all about it.”
“You’ve been busy since, haven’t you?”
Jensen scanned her desk. She was the same age as her husband. Broad-shouldered and with a masculine face. Thick black hair—the gray dyed out of it, Siobhan guessed—fell in immaculate waves to her shoulders. Around her neck hung a simple pearl necklace.
“I don’t mean here, Mrs. Jensen,” Siobhan explained, allowing the irritation to show. “I mean at home, wiping all trace of your Web site.”
“Is that a crime?”
“It’s called impeding an investigation. I’ve seen people go to court for it. Sometimes we can up the ante to criminal conspiracy, if we’re of a mind...”
Jensen took hold of a pen from her desk, twisted its barrel, opening and closing it. Siobhan was satisfied that she had breached the woman’s defenses.
“I need everything you’ve got, Mrs. Jensen—any paperwork, e-mail addresses, names. We need to clear all those people—you and your husband included—if we’re going to catch this killer.” She paused. “I know what you’re thinking—your husband told us pretty much the same—and I can appreciate you’d feel that way. But you’ve got to understand...whoever did this, they’re not going to stop. They could have downloaded everyone listed on your site, and that turns those men into victims—not so very different from Vicky.”
At mention of her daughter’s name, Jensen’s eyes burned into Siobhan’s. But they soon grew liquid. She dropped the pen and opened a drawer, bringing out a handkerchief and blowing her nose.
“I tried, you know...tried to forgive. It’s supposed to make us divine after all, isn’t it?” She forced a nervous laugh. “These men, they go to jail to be punished, but we hope they’ll change, too. The ones who don’t...what use are they? They come back to us and do the same things over and over again.”
Siobhan knew the argument well and had found herself many times on both sides of it. But she stayed silent.
“He showed no remorse, no sense of guilt, no sympathy...What kind of creature is that? Is it even human? At the trial, the defense kept on about the broken home he came from, the drugs he took. They called it a chaotic lifestyle. But it was his choice to destroy Vicky, his little power trip. Nothing chaotic about that, let me tell you.” Jensen’s voice had grown tremulous. She took a deep breath, adjusting her posture, calming by degrees. “I work in insurance. We deal with choice and risk. I do know a little of what I’m talking about.”
“Is there any paperwork, Mrs. Jensen?” Siobhan asked quietly.
“Some,” Jensen admitted. “Not very much.”
“What about e-mails? You must have corresponded with the site’s users?”
Jensen nodded slowly. “The families of victims, yes. Are they all suspects too?”
“How soon can you get everything to me?”
“Do I need to talk to my lawyer?”
“Might be an idea. Meantime, I’d like to send someone to your home. He knows about computers. If he comes to you, it saves us having to take your hard drive elsewhere.”
“All right.”
“His name’s Bain.” Eric Bain of the pneumatic girlfriend...Siobhan shifted in her chair and cleared her throat. “He’s a detective sergeant, like me. What time this evening would suit?”
“You look rough,” Mairie Henderson said as Rebus tried to squeeze himself into the passenger seat of her sports car.
“Restless night,” he told her. What he didn’t add was that her 10 a.m. call had woken him. “Does this thing go back any farther?”
She bent down and tugged at a lever, sending Rebus’s seat flying backward. Rebus turned to examine what space was left behind him. “Thanks for the invite, by the way.”
“In that case, you can pay for the drinks.”
“What drinks are those?”
“Our excuse for being there in the first place.” She was heading for the top of Arden Street. Left, right, and left would put her on Grange Road and only five minutes away from Prestonfield House.
Prestonfield House Hotel was one of the city’s better-kept secrets. Surrounded by 1930s bungalows and with views across to the projects of Craigmillar and Niddrie, it seemed an unpromising location for a grand house in the baronial style. Its substantial grounds—including an adjacent golf course—gave plenty of privacy. The only time the place had been in the news, to Rebus’s knowledge, was when a member of the Scottish parliament had tried setting fire to the curtains after a party.
“I meant to ask on the phone...” Rebus said to Mairie.
“What?”
“How do you know about this?”
“Contacts, John. No journalist should ever leave home without them.”
“Tell you something you’ve left at home though...the brakes on this bloody death trap.”
“It’s a road racer,” she told him. “Doesn’t sound right when you daw
dle.” But she eased her foot back a little.
“Thanks,” he said. “So what’s the occasion exactly?”
“Morning coffee, then he gives his pitch, and then lunch.”
“Where exactly?”
She shrugged. “A meeting room, I suppose. Maybe the restaurant for the actual lunch.” She signaled left into the hotel driveway.
“And we are...?”
“Looking for some peace and quiet amid the madness. Plus a pot of tea for two.”
Staff were awaiting them at the front door. Mairie explained the situation. There was a room off to the left where their needs could be met, or another to the right, just past a closed door.
“Something on in there?” Mairie asked, pointing.
“Business meeting,” the employee revealed.
“Well, just so long as they’re not kicking up a fuss, we’ll be fine in here.” She entered the adjoining room. Rebus heard peacocks squawking outside on the lawn.
“Is it tea you’re wanting?” the young man asked.
“Coffee for me,” Rebus told him.
“Tea—peppermint if you’ve got it; otherwise chamomile.” The employee disappeared, and Mairie pressed her ear to the wall.
“I thought eavesdropping had gone electronic,” Rebus commented.
“If you can afford it,” Mairie whispered. She lifted her ear away. “All I can hear is muttering.”
“Stop the presses.”
She ignored him, pulled a chair over toward the doorway, making sure she’d have a view of anyone entering or leaving the meeting.
“Lunch sharpish at twelve, that’s my guess. Get them feeling good about their host.” She checked her watch.
“I brought a woman here for dinner once,” Rebus mused. “Had coffee in the library after. It’s upstairs. Walls a sort of curdled red. I think someone told me they were leather.”
“Leather wallpaper? Kinky,” Mairie said with a smile.
“By the way, I never did thank you for going straight to Cafferty with news of Cyril Colliar...” His eyes drilled into hers, and she had the good grace to allow some red to creep up her neck.
“You’re welcome,” she said.