bag.
‘And then,’ she wailed, ‘he told me to get out.’
‘His exact words?’ Rebus asked.
She sniffed, calming a little. ‘He swore. He told me to get the f-u-c-k out.’
‘Did he say anything else?’
She shook her head.
‘And you left the room?’
‘I wasn’t about to stay!’
‘Of course not. What did you think he was going to do?’
She had not yet asked herself this. ‘Well,’ she said at last, ‘I don’t know what I thought. Maybe he was going to hold Tom hostage, or shoot him, something like that.’
‘But why?’
Her voice rose. ‘I don’t know. Who knows why these days?’ She collapsed into hysterical sobs again.
‘Just a couple more questions, Miss Profitt.’ She wasn’t listening. Rebus looked to Siobhan Clarke, who shrugged. She was suggesting they leave it till morning. But Rebus knew better than that; he knew the tricks the memory could play if you left things too long.
‘Just a couple more questions,’ he persisted quietly.
She sniffed, blew her nose, wiped her eyes. Then she took a deep breath and nodded.
‘Thank you, Miss Profitt. How long was there between you running out of the classroom and hearing the shots?’
‘The classroom’s at the end of the corridor,’ she said. ‘I pushed open the doors and bumped into the cleaningladies. I fell to my knees and that’s when I heard … that’s when …’
‘So we’re talking about a matter of seconds?’
‘Just a few seconds, yes.’
‘And you didn’t hear any conversation as you left the room?’
‘Just the bang, that’s all.’
Rebus rubbed the bridge of his nose. ‘Thank you, Miss Profit, we’ll get a car to take you home.’
Dr Curt was finished in the classroom. The Scene of Crime Unit had taken over, and the photographer, who had finally arrived, was changing film.
‘We need to secure the locus,’ Rebus told the head-teacher. ‘Can this room be locked?’
‘Yes, there are keys in my desk. What about opening the school?’
‘I wouldn’t if I were you. We’ll be in and out tomorrow … the door might be left open …’
‘Say no more.’
‘And you’ll want to get the decorators in.’
‘Right.’
Rebus turned to Dr Curt. ‘Can we move him to the mortuary?’
Dr Curt nodded. ‘I’ll take a look at him in the morning. Has someone gone to that address?’
‘I’ll go myself. Like you say, it’s only five minutes away.’ Rebus looked to Siobhan Clarke. ‘See that the Procurator-fiscal gets that Preliminary Notification.’
Curt looked back into the room. ‘He’d only just been released from prison, maybe he was depressed.’
‘That might explain a suicide, but not one like this: the amount of forethought, the setting …’
‘Our American cousins have a phrase for it,’ Curt said.
‘What’s that?’ Rebus asked, feeling he was walking into another of the doctor’s punchlines.
‘In your face,’ Dr Curt obliged.
8
Rebus walked to Tollcross.
He had a taste in his lungs and a scent in his nostrils, and he hoped the cold might deaden them. He could walk into a pub and deaden them that way, but he didn’t. He remembered a winter years back, much colder than this. Minus twenty, Siberian weather. The pipes on the outside of the tenement had frozen solid, so that nobody’s waste water could run away. The smell had been bad, but you could always open a window. Death wasn’t like that; it didn’t go away just because you opened a window, or took a walk.
There was ice underfoot, and he skited a couple of times. Another good reason for not having a drink: he needed his wits about him. He’d copied McAnally’s address into his notebook. He knew the block anyway; it was a couple of streets up from the burnt-out shell of the Crazy Hose Saloon. There was an intercom at the main door. He flipped on his lighter and saw that MCANALLY was the third name up. His toes were going numb as he pressed the button. He’d been rehearsing what to say. No policeman liked to give
‘And then,’ she wailed, ‘he told me to get out.’
‘His exact words?’ Rebus asked.
She sniffed, calming a little. ‘He swore. He told me to get the f-u-c-k out.’
‘Did he say anything else?’
She shook her head.
‘And you left the room?’
‘I wasn’t about to stay!’
‘Of course not. What did you think he was going to do?’
She had not yet asked herself this. ‘Well,’ she said at last, ‘I don’t know what I thought. Maybe he was going to hold Tom hostage, or shoot him, something like that.’
‘But why?’
Her voice rose. ‘I don’t know. Who knows why these days?’ She collapsed into hysterical sobs again.
‘Just a couple more questions, Miss Profitt.’ She wasn’t listening. Rebus looked to Siobhan Clarke, who shrugged. She was suggesting they leave it till morning. But Rebus knew better than that; he knew the tricks the memory could play if you left things too long.
‘Just a couple more questions,’ he persisted quietly.
She sniffed, blew her nose, wiped her eyes. Then she took a deep breath and nodded.
‘Thank you, Miss Profitt. How long was there between you running out of the classroom and hearing the shots?’
‘The classroom’s at the end of the corridor,’ she said. ‘I pushed open the doors and bumped into the cleaningladies. I fell to my knees and that’s when I heard … that’s when …’
‘So we’re talking about a matter of seconds?’
‘Just a few seconds, yes.’
‘And you didn’t hear any conversation as you left the room?’
‘Just the bang, that’s all.’
Rebus rubbed the bridge of his nose. ‘Thank you, Miss Profit, we’ll get a car to take you home.’
Dr Curt was finished in the classroom. The Scene of Crime Unit had taken over, and the photographer, who had finally arrived, was changing film.
‘We need to secure the locus,’ Rebus told the head-teacher. ‘Can this room be locked?’
‘Yes, there are keys in my desk. What about opening the school?’
‘I wouldn’t if I were you. We’ll be in and out tomorrow … the door might be left open …’
‘Say no more.’
‘And you’ll want to get the decorators in.’
‘Right.’
Rebus turned to Dr Curt. ‘Can we move him to the mortuary?’
Dr Curt nodded. ‘I’ll take a look at him in the morning. Has someone gone to that address?’
‘I’ll go myself. Like you say, it’s only five minutes away.’ Rebus looked to Siobhan Clarke. ‘See that the Procurator-fiscal gets that Preliminary Notification.’
Curt looked back into the room. ‘He’d only just been released from prison, maybe he was depressed.’
‘That might explain a suicide, but not one like this: the amount of forethought, the setting …’
‘Our American cousins have a phrase for it,’ Curt said.
‘What’s that?’ Rebus asked, feeling he was walking into another of the doctor’s punchlines.
‘In your face,’ Dr Curt obliged.
8
Rebus walked to Tollcross.
He had a taste in his lungs and a scent in his nostrils, and he hoped the cold might deaden them. He could walk into a pub and deaden them that way, but he didn’t. He remembered a winter years back, much colder than this. Minus twenty, Siberian weather. The pipes on the outside of the tenement had frozen solid, so that nobody’s waste water could run away. The smell had been bad, but you could always open a window. Death wasn’t like that; it didn’t go away just because you opened a window, or took a walk.
There was ice underfoot, and he skited a couple of times. Another good reason for not having a drink: he needed his wits about him. He’d copied McAnally’s address into his notebook. He knew the block anyway; it was a couple of streets up from the burnt-out shell of the Crazy Hose Saloon. There was an intercom at the main door. He flipped on his lighter and saw that MCANALLY was the third name up. His toes were going numb as he pressed the button. He’d been rehearsing what to say. No policeman liked to give
Similar Books
