by Ian Rankin
Rebus nodded again.
‘I don’t understand.’
‘You’ve lived with a policeman, Nell. You know we deal in motives. Sometimes there isn’t much else to go on. I’ve been thinking about motives recently.’ He shut up as a female student pulled open a door, came out into the corridor, smiled briefly at Nell, and went on her way. Nell watched her go. Rebus thought she would like to swop bodies for a few minutes.
‘Motives?’ she said. She was leaning against the wall, but Rebus got no notion of calmness from her stance.
‘Remember,’ he said, ‘that night in the hospital, the night Brian was attacked. You said something about an argument, and him going off to the Heartbreak Cafe?’
She nodded. ‘That’s right. We met that night to talk over a drink. But we argued. I don’t see—’
‘Only, I’ve been thinking about the motive behind the attack. There were too many at first, but I’ve narrowed them down. They’re all motives you’d have, Nell.’
‘What?’
‘You told me you were scared for him, scared because he was scared. And he was scared because he was poking into something that could nail Big Ger Cafferty. Wouldn’t it be better if there was another body on the case, someone else to attract the fire? Me, in other words. So you got me involved.’
‘Now wait a minute—’
But Rebus held his hand up and closed his eyes, begging silence. ‘Then,’ he said, ‘there was DC Clarke. They were getting along so famously together. Jealousy maybe? Always a good motive.’
‘I don’t believe this.’
Rebus ignored her. ‘And of course the simplest motive. The two of you had been rowing about whether or not to have kids. That and the fact that he was overworking, not paying you enough attention.’
‘Did he tell you that?’
Rebus did not sound unkind. ‘You told me yourself you’d had a row that evening. You knew where he was headed—same place as always. So why not wait near his car and brain him when he came out? A nice simple revenge.’ Rebus paused. ‘How many motives does that make? I’ve lost count. Enough to be going on with, eh?’
‘I don’t believe this.’ Tears were rising into her eyes. Every time she blinked, more appeared. She ran a thumb and forefinger down her nose, clearing it, breathing in noisily. ‘What are you going to do?’ she asked at last.
‘I’m going to lend you a hankie,’ said Rebus.
‘I don’t want your fucking hankie!’
Rebus put a finger to his lips. ‘This is a library, remember?’ She sniffed and wiped away tears.
‘Nell,’ he said quietly, ‘I don’t want you to say anything. I don’t want to know. I just want you to know. All right?’
‘You think you’re so fucking smart.’
He shrugged. ‘The offer of a hankie still stands.’
‘Get stuffed.’
‘Do you really want Brian to leave the force?’
But she was walking away from him, head held high, shoulders swinging just a little exaggeratedly. He watched her go behind the desk, where her co-worker saw something was wrong and put a comforting arm around her. Rebus examined the shelves of books in front of him in the corridor, but saw nothing to delay his leavetaking.
He sat on a bench in the Meadows, the back of the library rising up behind him. He had his hands in his pockets as he watched a hastily arranged game of football. Eight men against seven. They’d come over to him and asked if he fancied making up the numbers.
‘You must be desperate,’ he’d said, shaking his head. The goalposts comprised one orange and white traffic cone, one pile of coats, one pile of folders and books, and a branch stuck in the ground. Rebus glanced at his watch more often than necessary. No one on the field was worrying too much about the time taken to play the first half. Two of the players looked like brothers though they played on opposing sides. Mickey had left the flat that morning, taking the photo of their dad and Uncle Jimmy with him.
‘To remind me,’ he’d said.
A woman in a Burberry trenchcoat sat down on the bench beside him.
‘Are they any good?’ she asked.
‘They’d give Hibs a run for their money.’
‘How good does that make them?’ she asked.
Rebus turned towards Dr Patience Aitken and smiled, reaching out to take her hand in his. ‘What kept you so long?’ he asked.
‘Just the usual,’ she said. ‘Work.’
‘I tried phoning you so often.’
‘Put my mind at rest then,’ she said.
‘How?’
She moved closer. ‘Tell me I’m not just a number in your little black boo…’
The End
Contents
Title Page
Prologue
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