agreed.
Rebus got on his mobile to Gayfield and made an appointment for the next morning. Afterwards, he asked if Devlin would need a car.
‘Should manage to find my own way. Not utterly decrepit just yet, you know.’ But he got to his feet slowly, his joints seemingly stiff as he showed the two detectives out.
‘Thanks again, sir,’ Rebus said, shaking his hand.
Devlin just nodded, avoiding eye contact with Hawes, who wasn’t about to offer him her own thanks. As they made their way up to the next landing, she muttered something Rebus didn’t catch.
‘Sorry?’
‘I said: bloody men.’ She paused. ‘Present company excluded.’ Rebus didn’t say anything, prepared to let her get it off her chest. ‘Do you suppose for one second,’ she went on, ‘that if it had been two female officers down there, he’d have said anything?’
‘I think that would depend how he was handled.’
Hawes glared at him, seeking levity that wasn’t there.
‘Part of our job,’ Rebus went on, ‘is pretending we like everyone, pretending we’re interested in everything they have to say.’
‘He just—’
‘Got on your nerves? Mine too. Bit pompous, but that’s just his way; you can’t let it show. You’re right: I’m not sure he’d have told us anything. He’d dismissed it as irrelevant. But then he opened up, just to put you in your place.’ Rebus smiled. ‘Good work. It’s not often I get to play “good cop” around here.’
‘It wasn’t just that he got on my nerves,’ Hawes conceded.
‘What then?’
‘He gave me the creeps.’
Rebus looked at her. ‘Not the same thing?’
She shook her head. ‘The old-pal act he played with you, that irritated me a bit, because I wasn’t part of it. But the newspaper clipping …’
‘The one on the wall?’
She nodded. ‘ That gave me the creeps.’
‘He’s a pathologist,’ Rebus explained. ‘They’ve thicker skins than most of us.’
She thought about this, and allowed herself a little smile.
‘What?’ Rebus asked.
‘Oh, nothing,’ she said. ‘It’s just that, as I was getting up to leave, I couldn’t help noticing a piece of the jigsaw on the floor under the table …’
‘Where it still sits?’ Rebus guessed, smiling too now. ‘With that kind of eye for detail, we’ll make a detective of you yet …’
He pressed the next door-buzzer, and it was back to work.
The news conference took place at the Big House, with a live feed to the inquiry room at Gayfield Square. Someone was trying to clean fingerprints and smears from the TV monitor with a handkerchief, while others tilted the blinds against the afternoon’s sudden burst of sunshine. With the chairs all filled, officers were sitting two and three to a desk. A few of them were taking a late lunch: sandwiches and bananas. There were mugs of tea and coffee, cans of juice. The conversation was muted. Whoever was in charge of the police camera at the Big House, they were coming in for some stick.
‘Like my eight-year-old with the video-cam …’
‘Seen Blair Witch a couple times too many …’
It was true that the camera seemed to be swooping and diving, picking out bodies at waist height, rows of feet, and the backs of chairs.
‘Show’s not started yet,’ a wiser head counselled. It was true: the other cameras, the ones from TV, were still being set up, the invited audience – journalists clutching mobile phones to their ears – still settling. Hard to make out anything that was being said. Rebus stood at the back of the room. A bit too far from the TV, but he wasn’t about to move. Bill Pryde stood next to him, clearly exhausted and just as clearly trying not to show it. His clipboard had become a comforter, and he held it close to his chest, now and then pulling back to look at it, as though fresh instructions might magically have appeared. With the blinds closed, thin beams of light pierced the room, highlighting motes of dust which would otherwise have remained
Rebus got on his mobile to Gayfield and made an appointment for the next morning. Afterwards, he asked if Devlin would need a car.
‘Should manage to find my own way. Not utterly decrepit just yet, you know.’ But he got to his feet slowly, his joints seemingly stiff as he showed the two detectives out.
‘Thanks again, sir,’ Rebus said, shaking his hand.
Devlin just nodded, avoiding eye contact with Hawes, who wasn’t about to offer him her own thanks. As they made their way up to the next landing, she muttered something Rebus didn’t catch.
‘Sorry?’
‘I said: bloody men.’ She paused. ‘Present company excluded.’ Rebus didn’t say anything, prepared to let her get it off her chest. ‘Do you suppose for one second,’ she went on, ‘that if it had been two female officers down there, he’d have said anything?’
‘I think that would depend how he was handled.’
Hawes glared at him, seeking levity that wasn’t there.
‘Part of our job,’ Rebus went on, ‘is pretending we like everyone, pretending we’re interested in everything they have to say.’
‘He just—’
‘Got on your nerves? Mine too. Bit pompous, but that’s just his way; you can’t let it show. You’re right: I’m not sure he’d have told us anything. He’d dismissed it as irrelevant. But then he opened up, just to put you in your place.’ Rebus smiled. ‘Good work. It’s not often I get to play “good cop” around here.’
‘It wasn’t just that he got on my nerves,’ Hawes conceded.
‘What then?’
‘He gave me the creeps.’
Rebus looked at her. ‘Not the same thing?’
She shook her head. ‘The old-pal act he played with you, that irritated me a bit, because I wasn’t part of it. But the newspaper clipping …’
‘The one on the wall?’
She nodded. ‘ That gave me the creeps.’
‘He’s a pathologist,’ Rebus explained. ‘They’ve thicker skins than most of us.’
She thought about this, and allowed herself a little smile.
‘What?’ Rebus asked.
‘Oh, nothing,’ she said. ‘It’s just that, as I was getting up to leave, I couldn’t help noticing a piece of the jigsaw on the floor under the table …’
‘Where it still sits?’ Rebus guessed, smiling too now. ‘With that kind of eye for detail, we’ll make a detective of you yet …’
He pressed the next door-buzzer, and it was back to work.
The news conference took place at the Big House, with a live feed to the inquiry room at Gayfield Square. Someone was trying to clean fingerprints and smears from the TV monitor with a handkerchief, while others tilted the blinds against the afternoon’s sudden burst of sunshine. With the chairs all filled, officers were sitting two and three to a desk. A few of them were taking a late lunch: sandwiches and bananas. There were mugs of tea and coffee, cans of juice. The conversation was muted. Whoever was in charge of the police camera at the Big House, they were coming in for some stick.
‘Like my eight-year-old with the video-cam …’
‘Seen Blair Witch a couple times too many …’
It was true that the camera seemed to be swooping and diving, picking out bodies at waist height, rows of feet, and the backs of chairs.
‘Show’s not started yet,’ a wiser head counselled. It was true: the other cameras, the ones from TV, were still being set up, the invited audience – journalists clutching mobile phones to their ears – still settling. Hard to make out anything that was being said. Rebus stood at the back of the room. A bit too far from the TV, but he wasn’t about to move. Bill Pryde stood next to him, clearly exhausted and just as clearly trying not to show it. His clipboard had become a comforter, and he held it close to his chest, now and then pulling back to look at it, as though fresh instructions might magically have appeared. With the blinds closed, thin beams of light pierced the room, highlighting motes of dust which would otherwise have remained
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