“So people keep reminding me.” He had prized open the remains of the toastie in order to study its contents: a processed cheese slice and thin, pallid ham. “Did your own chat with Hammell shed any light?”

“He says they argued because he’d given her money for the train.”

“Did you ask him what he was doing in Aberdeen?”

“He was looking for Robertson.”

Rebus stared at her. “He admitted it?”

She nodded. “Meaning he doesn’t have Robertson.”

“Always supposing you take him at face value.”

“Which you don’t, I suppose?”

“Odd that he’d just come out and tell you. If anything does happen to Robertson…”

“Hammell’s just put himself forward as chief suspect.” Clarke was thoughtful. Rebus lifted his beaker of tea, but a cooling scum had gathered on its surface.

“I need a drink,” he said.

“You really don’t.”

“I think I do, otherwise I’m going to be tasting that ham all afternoon. You coming?”

“I’l stick to coffee.” As he started to get up, she gripped his forearm. “If Page smells it on your breath…”

“That’s why pubs sell mints, Siobhan.” And with a wink and a smile, he was gone.

She picked up the coffee and blew on it. Fox was right, of course: John Rebus was the loosest of cannons, and no constabulary had room for those anymore. He’d also warned her that Rebus’s mere proximity might damage her chances of further promotion. And hadn’t everything been fine at Gayfield Square until Rebus had barged his way in? A good team, a great boss, and no errors of judgment. Not that Rebus had had anything to do with her missing Hammell on the CCTV: she alone was to blame, and she’d apologized again that morning to James Page. Malcolm Fox’s words were sloshing around in her head: Call me anytime you think he’s floundering—floundering or diving to the bottom…

But that was how Rebus worked: kicking up all the sand and sediment, then studying what effect it had and what was uncovered in the process.

“It’s too hot?” the guy behind the counter called over to her. She realized she was still blowing on the coffee, blowing so hard some had sloshed over the side.

“No, it’s fine,” she assured him. And to prove it, she took a sip.

In truth, the liquid in the beaker was lukewarm at best, but she drank it anyway.

35

35

It didn’t help that Rebus was doing a good impression of a man coughing up his lungs when Page encountered him in the corridor outside the CID suite.

“You all right, John?”

“Never better,” Rebus replied, wiping a hand across his eyes. “Something stuck in my throat.”

“The butt of a cigarette, maybe?” Page made show of sniffing the air. “And Polo mints for lunch? Interesting diet you have there.”

“Works for me.” Rebus pulled back his shoulders.