'Has he said anything?'

'No.'

'Then he can't, can he?'

'You'd make a good policeman, son. You're wasted in this job.'

'You're telling me, dad.'

Rebus busied himself with lighting cigarette number twelve. It was true, you couldn't keep anything secret in a police station, not from the lower ranks anyway. He hoped Anderson and the Chief wouldn't find out about it though.

'Any luck with the door-to-door?' he asked.

'What do you think?'

'Morton, you have an annoying habit of answering a question with another question.'

'Have I? It must be all this work then, spending my days asking questions, mustn't it?'

Rebus examined his cigarettes. He found he was smoking number thirteen. This was becoming ridiculous. Where had number twelve gone?

'I'll tell you, John, there's nothing to be had out there, not a sniff of a lead. No one's seen anything, no one knows anything. It's almost like a conspiracy.'

'Maybe that's what it is then, a conspiracy.'

'And has it been established that all three murders were the work of a single individual?'

'Yes.'

The Chief Inspector did not believe in wasting words, especially with the press. He sat like a rock behind the table, his hands clasped before him, Gill Templer on his right. Her 7' gla.s.ses-an affectation really, her vision was near-perfect- were in her bag. She never wore them while on duty, unless the occasion demanded it. Why had she worn them to the party? They were like jewellery to her. She found it interesting,~too, to gauge different reactions towards her when she was and was not wearing them. When she explained this to her friends, they looked at her askance as if she were joking. Perhaps it all went back to her first true love, who had told her that girls who wore gla.s.ses seemed, in his experience, to be the best f.u.c.ks. That had been fifteen years ago, but she still saw the look on his face, the smile, the glint. She saw, too, her own reaction-shock at his use of the word 'f.u.c.k'. She could smile at that now. These days she swore as much as her male colleagues, again gauging their reaction. Everything was a game to Gill Templer, everything but the job. She had not become an Inspector through luck or looks, but through hard, efficient work and the will to climb as high as they would let her go. And now she sat with her Chief Inspector, who was a token presence at these gatherings. It was Gill who made up the handouts, who briefed the Chief Inspector, who handled the media afterwards, and they all knew it. A Chief Inspector might add weight of seniority to the proceedings, but Gill Templer it was who could give the journalists their 'extras', the useful snippets left unsaid.

n.o.body knew that better than Jim Stevens. He sat to the back of the room, smoking without removing the cigarette from his mouth once. He took little of the Chief Inspector's words in. He could wait. Still, he jotted down a sentence or two for future use. He was still a newsman after all. Old habits never died. The photographer, a keen teenager, nervously changing lenses every few minutes, had departed with his roll of film. Stevens looked around for someone he might have a drink with later on. They were all here. All the old boys from the Scottish press, and the English correspondents too. Scottish, English, Greek-it didn't matter, pressmen always looked like nothing other than pressmen. Their faces were robust, they smoked, their shirts were a day or two old. They did not look well-paid, yet were extremely well-paid, and with more fringe benefits than most. But they worked for their money, worked hard at building up contacts, squeezing into nooks and crannies, stepping on toes. He watched Gill Templer. What would she know about John 72 Rebus? And would she be willing to tell? They were still friends after all, she and him. Still friends.

Maybe not good friends, certainly not good friends-though he had tried. And now she and Rebus. . . Wait until he nailed that b.a.s.t.a.r.d, if there was anything there to nail. Of course there was something there to nail. He could sense it. Then her eyes would be opened, truly opened. Then they would see what they would see. He was already preparing the headline. Something to do with 'Brothers in Law-Brothers in Crime!' Yes, that had a nice ring to it. The Rebus brothers put behind bars, and all his own work. He turned his attention back to the murder case. But it was all too easy, too easy to sit down and write about police inefficiency, about the conjectured maniac. Still, it was bread and b.u.t.ter for the moment. And there was always Gill Templer to stare at.

'Gill!'

He caught her as she was getting into her car.

'h.e.l.lo, Jim.' Cold, businesslike.

'Listen, I just wanted to apologise about my behaviour at the party.' He was out of breath after a brief jog across the car park, and the words came slowly from his burning chest. 'I mean, I was a bit p.i.s.sed. Anyway, sorry.'

But Gill knew him too well, knew that this was merely a prelude to a question or a request. Suddenly she felt a little sorry for him, sorry for his fair thick hair which needed a wash, sorry for his short, stocky-she had once thought it powerful-body, for the way he trembled now and again as though. cold. But the pity soon wore off. It had been a hard day.

'Why wait till now to tell me? You could have said something at Sunday's briefing.'

He shook his head.

'I didn't make Sunday's briefing. I was a bit hungover. You must have noticed I wasn't there?'

'Why should I have noticed that? Plenty of other people were there, Jim.'

That cut him, but he let it pa.s.s.

'Well, anyway,' he said, 'sorry. Okay?'

'Fine.' She made to step into her car.

73 'Can I buy you a drink or something? To cement the apology, so to speak.'

'Sorry, Jim, I'm busy.'

'Meeting that man Rebus?'

'Maybe.'

'Look after yourself, Gill. That one might not be what he seems.

She straightened up again.

'I mean,' said Stevens, 'j'ist take care, all right?'

He wouldn't say any more just yet. Having planted a seed of suspicion, he would give it time to grow. Then he would question her closely, and perhaps then she would be willing to tell. He turned away from her and walked, hands in pockets, towards the Sutherland Bar.

XIV.

At Edinburgh's Main Public Lending Library, a large, unstuf fy old building sandwiched between a bookshop and a bank, the tramps were settling down for a day's snoozing. They came here, as though waiting out fate itself, to wait out the few days of absolute poverty before their next amount of state benefit was due. This money they would then spend in a day (perhaps, if stretched, two days) of festivity: wine, women, and songs to an unappreciative public.

The att.i.tudes of the library staff towards these down-and- outs ranged from the immensely intolerant (usually voiced by the older members of staff) to the sadly reflective (the youngest librarians). It was, however, a public libary, and as long as the worldly-wise travellers picked up a book at the start of the day there was nothing that could be done about them, unless they became rowdy, in which case a security-man was quickly on the scene.

So they slept in the comfortable seats, sometimes frowned upon by those who could not help wondering if this was what Andrew Carnegie had in mind when he put up the finance for the first public libraries all those years ago. The sleepers did not mind these stares, and they dreamed on, though n.o.body 74 bothered to inquire what it was they dreamed of, and no one thought them important.

They were not, however, allowed into the children's section of the library. Indeed, any browsing adult not dragging a child in tow was looked at askance in the children's section, and especially since the murders of those poor wee girls. The librarians talked about it amongst themselves. Hanging was the answer; they were agreed on that. And indeed, hanging was being discussed again in Parliament, as happens whenever a ma.s.s murderer emerges out of the shadows of civilized Britain. The most oft-repeated statement amongst the people of Edinburgh, however, did not concern hanging at all. It was put cogently by one of the librarians: 'But here, in Edinburgh! It's unthinkable.' Ma.s.s murderers belonged to the smoky back streets of the South and the Midlands, not to Scotland's picture- postcard city. Listeners nodded, horrified and sad that this was something they all had to face, each and every Morningside lady in her faded hat of gentility, every thug who roamed the streets of the housing-estates, every lawyer, banker, broker, shop- a.s.sistant and vendor of evening newspapers. Vigilante groups had been hastily set up and just as hastily disbanded by the swiftly reacting police. This was not, said the Chief Constable, the answer. Be vigilant by all means, but the law was never to be taken into one's own hands. He rubbed together his own gloved hands as he spoke, and some newspapermen wondered if his subconscious were not washing its Freudian hands of the whole affair. Jim Stevens' editor decided to put it thus: LOCK UP YOUR DAUGHTERS!, and left it pretty much at that.

Indeed, the daughters were being locked up. Some of them were being kept away from school by their parents, or were under heavy escort all the way there and all the way back home, with an additional check on their welfare at lunch-time. The children's section of the Main Lending Library had grown deathly quiet of late, so that the librarians there had little to do with their days except talk about hanging and read the lurid speculations in the British press.

The British press had cottoned onto the fact that Edinburgh had a rather less than genteel past. They ran reminders of Deacon Brodie (the inspiration, it was said, behind Stevenson's Jekyll & Hyde), Burke and Hare, and anything else that came 75 bothered to inquire what it was they dreamed of, and no one thought them important.

They were not, however, allowed into the children's section of the library. Indeed, any browsing adult not dragging a child in tow was looked at askance in the children's section, and especially since the murders of those poor wee girls. The librarians talked about it amongst themselves. Hanging was the answer; they were agreed on that. And indeed, hanging was being discussed again in Parliament, as happens whenever a ma.s.s murderer emerges out of the shadows of civilized Britain. The most oft-repeated statement amongst the people of Edinburgh, however, did not concern hanging at all. It was put cogently by one of the librarians: 'But here, in Edinburgh! It's unthinkable.' Ma.s.s murderers belonged to the smoky back streets of the South and the Midlands, not to Scotland's picture- postcard city. Listeners nodded, horrified and sad that this was something they all had to face, each and every Morningside lady in her faded hat of gentility, every thug who roamed the streets of the housing-estates, every lawyer, banker, broker, shop- a.s.sistant and vendor of evening newspapers. Vigilante groups had been hastily set up and just as hastily disbanded by the swiftly reacting police. This was not, said the Chief Constable, the answer. Be vigilant by all means, but the law was never to be taken into one's own hands. He rubbed together his own gloved hands as he spoke, and some newspapermen wondered if his subconscious were not washing its Freudian hands of the whole affair. Jim Stevens' editor decided to put it thus: LOCK UP YOUR DAUGHTERS!, and left it pretty much at that.

Indeed, the daughters were being locked up. Some of them were being kept away from school by their parents, or were under heavy escort all the way there and all the way back home, with an additional check on their welfare at lunch-time. The children's section of the Main Lending Library had grown deathly quiet of late, so that the librarians there had little to do with their days except talk about hanging and read the lurid speculations in the British press.

The British press had cottoned onto the fact that Edinburgh had a rather less than genteel past. They ran reminders of Deacon Brodie (the inspiration, it was said, behind Stevenson's Jekyll & Hyde), Burke and Hare, and anything else that came 75 to light in their researches, right down to the ghosts that haunted a suspicious number of the city's Georgian houses. These tales kept the imaginations of the librarians alive while there was a lull in their duties. They made sure each to buy a different paper, so that they could glean as many pieces of information as possible, but were disillusioned by how often journalists seemed to swap a central story between them, so that an identical piece would appear in two or three different papers. It was as if a conspiracy of writers was at work.

Some children, however, did still come to the library. The vast majority of these were accompanied by mother, father, or minder, but one or two still came alone. This evidence of the foolhardiness of some parents and their offspring further disturbed the faint-hearted librarians, who would ask the children, appalled, where their mothers and fathers were.

Samantha rarely came to the library's children's section, preferring older books, but she did so today to get away from her mother. A male librarian came over to her as she pored over the most childish stuff.

'Are you here on your own, dear?' he said.

Samantha recognised him. He'd been working here ever since she could remember.

'My mum's upstairs,' she said.

'I'm glad to hear it. Stick close to her, that's my advice.'

She nodded, inwardly fuming. Her mother had given her a similar lecture only five minutes before. She wasn't a child, but no one seemed prepared to accept that. When the librarian went over to talk with another girl, Samantha took out the book she wanted and gave her ticket to the old lady librarian with the dyed hair, whom the children called Mrs Sloc.u.m. Then she hurried up the steps to the library's reference section, where her mother was busy looking for a critical study of George Eliot. George Eliot, her mother had told her, was a woman who had written books of tremendous realism and psychological depth at a time when men were supposed to be the great realists and psychologists, and women were supposed to be for nothing but the housework. That was why she had been forced to call herself 'George' to get published.

To counter these attempts at indoctrination, Samantha had brought from the children's section an ill.u.s.trated book about a 76 boy who flies away on a giant cat and has adventures in a fantasy land beyond his dreams. That, she hoped, would p.i.s.s her mother off. In the reference section, a lot of people sat at desks, coughing, their coughs echoing around the hushed hall. Her mother, gla.s.ses perched on her nose, looking very much like a schoolteacher, argued with a librarian about some book she had ordered. Samantha walked between the rows of desks, glancing at what people were reading and writing. She wondered why people spent so much time reading books when there were other things to be doing. She wanted to travel round the world. Perhaps then she would be ready to sit in dull rooms poring over these old books. But not until then.

He watched her as she moved up and down the rows of desks. He stood with his face half to her, looking as if he were studying a shelf of books on angling. She wasn't looking around her though. There was no danger. She was in her own little world, a world of her own design and her own rules. That was fine. All the girls were like that. But this one was with someone. He could see that. He took a book from the shelf and flicked through it. One chapter caught his eye, and turned his thoughts away from Samantha. It was a chapter dealing with flyknotting. There were lots of designs for knots. Lots of them.

XV.

Another briefing. Rebus enjoyed the briefings now, for there was always the possibility that Gill would be present, and that afterwards they would be able to go for a cup of coffee together. Last night they had eaten late at a restaurant, but she had been tired and had looked at him strangely, quizzing him a little more even than usual with her eyes, not wearing her spectacles at first, but then slipping them on halfway through the meal.

'I want to see what I'm eating.'

But he knew she could see well enough. The gla.s.ses were a psychological strengthener. They protected her. Perhaps he was just being paranoid. Perhaps she had been tired merely. But he suspected something more, though he could not think what. Had he insulted her in some way? Snubbed her without 77 realising? He was tired himself. They went to their separate flats and lay awake, wanting not to be alone. Then he dreamed the dream of the kiss, and awoke to the usual result, the sweat tainting his forehead, his lips moist. Would he awake to another letter? To another murder?

Now he felt lousy from lack of sleep. But still he enjoyed the briefing, and not just because of Gill. There was the inkling of a lead at long last, and Anderson was anxious to have it substantiated.

'A pale blue Ford Escort,' said Anderson. Behind him sat the Chief Superintendent, whose presence seemed to be unnerving the Chief Inspector. 'A pale blue Ford Escort.' Anderson wiped his brow. 'We have reports of such a car being seen in the Haymarket district on the evening when victim number one's body was found, and we have two sightings of a man and 'a girl, the girl apparently asleep, in such a car on the night that victim number three went missing.' Anderson's eyes came up from the doc.u.ment before him to gaze, it seemed, into the eyes of every officer present. 'I want this made top priority, or better. I want to know the ownership details of every blue Ford Escort in the Lothians, and I want that information sooner than possible. Now I know you've been working flat out as it is, but with a little extra push we can nail chummy before he does any more killing. To this end, Inspector Hartley has drawn up a roster. If your name's on it,- drop what you're doing and get busy on tracing this car. Any questions?'

Gill Templer was scribbling notes in her tiny note-pad, perhaps concocting a story for the press. Would they want to release this? Probably not, not straight away. They would wait first to see if anything came of the initial search. If nothing did, then the public would be asked to help. Rebus didn't fancy this at all: gathering ownership details, trekking out to the suburbs, and ma.s.s-interviewing the suspects, trying to 'nose' whether they were probable or possible suspects, then perhaps a second interview. No, he did not fancy this at all. He fancied accompanying D.I. Templer back to his cave and making love to her. Her back was all he could see of her from his present vantage point by the door. He had been last into the room yet again, having stayed at the pub a little longer than antic.i.p.ate4. It had been a prior appointment, lunch (liquid) with Jack Morton.

78 Morton told him about the slow, steady progress of the outdoor inquiry: four-hundred people interviewed, whole families checked and rechecked, the usual cranks and amoral groups examined. And not a jot of actual light had been thrown on the case.

But now they had a car, or at least thought they did. The evidence was tenuous, but it was there, the likeness of a fact, and that was something. Rebus felt a little proud of his own part in the investigation, for it had been his painstaking crossreferencing of sightings which had thrown up this slender link. He wanted to tell Gill all about it, then arrange a rendezvous for later in the week. He wanted to see her again, to see anybody again, for his flat was becoming a prison-cell. He would slouch home of a late evening or early morning, tip onto his bed, and sleep, not bothering these days to tidy or to read or to buy (or even steal) any foodstuffs. He had neither the time nor the energy. Instead, he ate from kebab-houses and chip-shops, early-morning bakeries and chocolate-dispensers. His face was becoming paler than usual, and his stomach groaned as though there were no skin left to distend. He still shaved and put on a tie, as a matter of necessary propriety, but that was about it. Anderson had noticed that his shirts were not as clean as they might have been, but had said nothing so far. For one thing, Rebus was in his good books, begetter of the lead, and for another, anyone could see that in Rebus's present mood he was likely to take a swing at any detractor.

The meeting was breaking up. There were no questions in anyone's mind except the obvious one: when do we start cracking up? Rebus hovered just outside the door, waiting for Gill. She came out in the last group, in quiet conversation with Wallace and Anderson. The Superintendent had his arm around her waist playfully, gently ushering her out of the room. Rebus glared at the group, this motley crew of superior officers. He watched Gill's face, but she did not seem to notice him. Rebus felt himself slide back down the snake on the board, right down to the bottom line again, back into the heap. So this was love. Who was kidding who?

As the group of three walked up the corridor, Rebus stood there like a jilted teenager and cursed and cursed and cursed.

He'd been let down again. Let down.

79 Don't let me down, John. Please.

Please Please Please And a screaming in his memory.

He felt dizzy, his ears ringing with the sea. Staggering a little, he caught hold of the wall, trying to take comfort in its solidity, but it seemed to be throbbing. He breathed hard, thinking back to his days on the rock-strewn beach, recovering from his breakdown. The sea had been in his ears then, too. The floor adjusted itself slowly. People walked by quizzically, but no one stopped to help. Sod them all. And sod Gill Templer too. He could manage on his own. He could manage on his own, G.o.d save him. He would be okay. All he needed was a cigarette and some coffee.

But really he needed their pats on the back, their congratulations on a job well done, their acceptance. He needed someone to a.s.sure him that it was all going to be all right.

He would be all right.

That evening, a couple of after-duty drinks under his belt already, he decided to make a night of it. Morton had to go off on some errand, but that was okay, too. Rebus didn't need company. He walked along Princes Street, breathing in the evening's promise. He was a free man after all, just as free as any of the kids hanging about outside the hamburger bar. They preened and joked and waited, waiting for what? He knew that: waiting for the time to come when they could go home and sleep into tomorrow. He too was waiting, in his own way. Killing time.

In the Rutherford Arms he met a couple of drinkers whom he knew from evenings like this just after Rhona had left him. He drank with them for an hour, sucking at the beer as though it were mother's milk. They talked about football, about horse- racing, about their jobs, and the whole scene brought tranquillity to Rebus. It was a normal evening's conversation, and he embraced it greedily, throwing in his own snippets of news. But enough was as good as a feast, and he walked briskly, drunkenly out of the bar, leaving his friends with promises of another time, edging his way down the street towards Leith.

8o I Jim Stevens, sitting at the bar, watched in the mirror as Michael Rebus left his drink on his table and went to the toilet. A few seconds later, the mystery man followed him inside, having been sitting at another table. It looked as though they were meeting to discuss the next swap-over, both seeming too casual actually to be carrying anything incriminating. Stevens smoked his cigarette, waiting. In less than a minute, Rebus reappeared, coming up to the bar for another drink.

John Rebus, pushing through the pub's swing-doors, could not believe his eyes. He slapped his brother on the shoulder.

'Mickey! What are you doing here?'

Michael Rebus nearly died at that moment. His heart leapt high into his throat, causing him to cough.

'Just having a drink, John.' But he looked guilty as h.e.l.l, he was sure of that. 'You gave me a fright,' he went on, trying to smile, 'hitting me like that.'

'A brotherly slap, that's all it was. What are you drinking?' While the brothers were in conversation, the man slipped out of the toilet and walked out of the bar, his eyes never glancing to left or right. Stevens watched him go, but had other things on his mind now. He could not let the policeman see him. He turned away from the bar, as if searching for a face amongst the people at the tables. Now he was sure. The policeman had to be in on it. The whole sequence of actions had been very slick indeed, but now he was sure.

'So you're doing a show down here?' John Rebus, cheered by his previous drinks, now felt that things were going right for a change. He was reunited with his brother for that drink they had always been promising themselves. He ordered whiskies with lager chasers. 'This is a quarter-gill pub,' he told Michael. 'That's a decent size of a measure.'

Michael smiled, smiled, smiled, as though his life depended upon it. His mind was racing and jumbled. The last thing he needed was another drink. If word of this got out, it would seem too unlikely to his Edinburgh connection, too unlikely. He, Michael, would have his legs broken for this if it ever was to get out. He had been warned. And what was John doing here anyway? He seemed complacent enough, drunk even, but what if it were all a set-up? What if his connection had already been arrested outside? He felt as he had when, as a child, he had 8i stolen money from his father's wallet, denying the crime for weeks afterwards, his heart heavy with guilt.

Guilty, guilty, guilty.

John Rebus meantime drank on and chatted, unaware of the sudden change of atmosphere, the sudden interest in him. All he cared about was the whisky in front of him and the fact that Michael was about to go off and do a show at a local bingo hall.

'Mind if I come along?' he asked. 'I might as well see how my brother earns his crust.'

'Sure,' said Michael. He toyed with the whisky gla.s.s. 'I'd better not drink this, John. I've got to keep my mind clear.'

'Of course you have. Need to let the mysterious sensations flood over you.' Rebus made an action with his hands as though hypnotising Michael, his eyes wide, smiling.

And Jim Stevens picked up his cigarettes and, his ba&k to them still, left the smoky, noisy public house. If only it had been quieter in there. If only he could have heard what they were saying. Rebus saw him go.

'I think I know him,' he told Michael, gesturing towards the door with his head. 'He's a reporter on the local rag.'

Michael Rebus tried to smile, smile, smile, but it seemed to him that his world was falling apart.

The Rio Grande Bingo Hall had been a cinema. The front twelve rows of seats had been taken out and bingo boards and stools put in their place, but to the back of these were still many rows of dusty, red seats, and the balcony seating was completely intact. John Rebus said that he preferred to sit upstairs, so that he would not distract Michael. He followed an elderly man and his wife upstairs. The seats looked comfortable, but as he eased himself into the second row, Rebus felt springs jar against his b.u.t.tocks. He moved around a little, trying to get comfortable, and settled finally for a position where one cheek supported most of his weight.

There seemed a good enough crowd downstairs, but up here in the gloom of the neglected balcony there were only the old couple and himself. Then he heard shoes tapping on the aisle. They paused for a second, before a hefty woman slid into the second row. Rebus was forced to look up, and saw her smiling at him.

82 'Mind if I sit here?' she said. 'Not waiting for anyone, are you?'

Her look was hopeful. Rebus shook his head, smiling politely. 'Thought not', she said, sitting down beside him. And he smiling. He had never seen Michael smile so much, or so uneasily. Was it so embarra.s.sing for him to meet his elder brother? No, there had to be more to it than that. Michael's had been the smile of the small-time thief, caught yet again. They needed to talk.

'I come here a lot to the bingo. But I thought this might be a good laugh, you know. Ever since my husband died,' meaningful pause, 'well, it's not been the same. I like to get out now and again, you know. Everybody does, don't they? So I thought I'd come along. Don't know what made me come upstairs. Fate, I suppose.' Her smile broadened. Rebus smiled back.

She was in her early forties, a little too much make-up and scent, but quite well-preserved. She talked as if she had not spoken to anyone in days, as if it were important for her to establish that she could still speak and be listened to and understood. Rebus felt sorry for her. He saw a little of himself in her; not much, but almost enough.

'So what are you doing here?' She was forcing him to speak.