The most recent murder in the old city of Oxford had not been complicated. There were no riddles or cryptic crosswords to solve, no Latin or Greek to translate, no Shakespearean analogies to make. For once, the characters in this cast were not titled, rich, erudite, intellectual, politically favored, arrogant, or privileged. Rather, they included two ordinary and somewhat coarse men drinking together in a working-class pub and starting an argument with a third man, who had ended up getting his skull split open by an ordinary, heavy, dimpled pint glass, which was shattered even more than the man's skull. By the time the local constabulary arrived, the man (later identified as one Bertie Hanson) was dead and his assailants—who could not be named by any of the other people still present—had ducked out the back door of the pub.
So there wasn't much puzzling required on the part of the Oxfordshire CID crew assigned to the case. All they had to do was identify and locate the two drinking companions. And that's exactly where they were stuck now, and had been stuck for over a week. Witnesses said they couldn't remember details (wouldn't remember was more like it), and the forensics results had only just arrived, backlogged by an underfunded and overextended police lab. Rather grainy CCTV at the pub door had captured only one of the men's faces, and neither the witnesses nor the detectives could attach a name to it.
A week's time lost! Detective Inspector Robbie Lewis quickly scanned the forensics report he'd been handed by his sergeant, James Hathaway. His blue eyes paused near the bottom of one page, then shot up to meet Hathaway's.
"Sterling McManus was there." He slapped his open palm with the report for emphasis. "McManus was there. His prints were on that lethal pint jar. He's the drinking companion."
"Not the killer?"
Lewis shook his head. "McManus is a redhead. The witnesses were consistent that the killer had dark hair and his mate was ginger."
"But no one else's prints are on the glass?"
"If McManus had been drinking out of it and the other man grabbed it, it could have been wet or something, or maybe we didn't get the right pieces. I know eyewitness testimony can be dodgy, but not when every person who saw it said the same man was the killer."
Hathaway cocked his head. "You know this McManus?"
The older man's eyes paused in their darting back and forth, something they tended to do when his brain was revving at full throttle, as though he was watching imaginary pieces of their latest murder case fitting together.
"Oh, aye, Sergeant. Sterling McManus served as right-hand man to several big-time criminals all over the U.K. He always seemed to escape prosecution; his timing was impeccable."
The sergeant pondered this. "You're using past tense. So we're talking ancient history now, am I right?" Hathaway managed to show enough condescension to ensure that it could be spotted, but not enough to be called insubordination.
Lewis scowled. "A criminal is never history unless he's dead. Until then, he's always at least a potential player." He made a decision. "Find out where McManus is now, or if you can't find that, then where he's been most recently. I seem to recall him being convicted of something petty a bit back. If he's fresh from the nick, we might have some leverage to compel his testimony, especially if he's on license. Or maybe we can get him as an accessory."
When Hathaway blinked in response to this order, Lewis turned stern. "Go on then, off y'go."
It didn't take Hathaway long to find the man. The computer provided the answer almost immediately. The witness they so dearly needed was in the custody of the Lothian & Borders Police in Scotland.
"So I rang there," he was telling his superior officer, "and guess who nicked him?"
Lewis studied Hathaway's expression before giving what he was certain was the answer.
"DI John Rebus."
"Got it in one, Sir."
"And did you happen to speak with the good inspector?" A slight smile played on his lips.
"He was out 'conducting inquiries,' accompanied by DS Siobhan Clarke, according to the duty sergeant." Hathaway smirked.
Lewis's smile broadened. He and Hathaway had worked with the team of Edinburgh detectives some time back when Chief Superintendent Jean Innocent had brought them in on secondment to help on a multiple-murder investigation. Although the inspectors began their acquaintance as hostile adversaries, Rebus had in the end risked his own life to save Lewis from a rampaging gunman, and the men had understood then that, regardless of personality differences, they both valued loyalty and were fiercely dedicated to finding the truth behind the crimes they solved. Mutual, if improbable, respect resulted from the association.
Lewis pulled out his phone. "Maybe I can get his mobile." He knew that John Rebus shared a certain trait with his own former boss, Chief Inspector Morse. "Conducting inquiries" was more likely to be synonymous with "thinking and drinking" than with questioning potential witnesses. And, indeed, when his call was answered, Rebus was with DS Siobhan Clarke, sipping a pint of heavy in the Oxford Bar in the shadow of Edinburgh Castle.
"Robbie!" Lewis could hear the full grin behind that one word, with its richly rolled capital R. "What can I do for ye?"
Lewis struggled not to chuckle at the thick Scots accent. He could almost smell the beer.
"I understand you've got a bloke in custody that I'd very much like to have a chat with." Lewis paused for dramatic effect. "Sterling McManus."
There was a snort and a pause. Then, at last, "What is it you Sassenachs want with Mister McManus? We have plenty of charges to keep him up here, ye ken. I dinna think we'll be letting him go south for anything soon."
So it was to be a turf battle, Lewis supposed. He chewed on this a bit. Seemed like everything was a battle where Rebus was concerned. "What have you got him for?"
"Real crime this time." Rebus sounded grimly satisfied. "GBH, armed robbery, and some lessers. He's trying to deal but I doubt the Procurator Fiscal will give him anything."
"What kind of deal is he looking for?"
"Och, it's all between the lawyers, I don't get told anything, y'know? Not up to me. Anyway, our evidence is watertight and he's done some shite in the past we never nailed him for. This time, we've got video of the whole thing. He's nicked for good. What's he looking at wi' your lot?"
"Nothing concrete, yet. He was at least a witness and at most an accessory to a murder."
There was silence as Rebus weighed the charges. Murder, of course, was big. But the English case sounded weak and might result in a fairly short sentence, depending on the proofs the jury found and the temperament of the sentencing judge.
Lewis imagined the Scot must be shaking his head. And he was right.
"I cannae let him out, Robbie. He's about to be charged formally." He paused, thinking. "You can writ him out and ship him south under guard, I suppose, but you'd spend far less of the taxpayer's graft by coming up here yerself."
There was a significant pause. Lewis held his breath.
"I could show ye around the city, y' know. The castle, the pubs, the saunas . . ."
A grin broke across Robbie's face and Hathaway cocked his head, curious about its cause.
"I'll be bringing me sergeant. And we'll need a place to stay for a night or two. Nothing expensive."
James's eyes widened. They were going to Edinburgh! Well, probably. Or maybe. They'd need permission. But James had never been there, and he hoped the trip would happen.
The phone conversation had stalled. Rebus inhaled, thinking. Due to a problem with the hotel, he'd stayed at Lewis's flat when he and Siobhan had traveled to Oxford. The friction then between the two inspectors had resulted more from the situation than a personality conflict, and although they were in many ways dissimilar, Rebus couldn't see any reason he wouldn't be able to tolerate the Oxford team as houseguests for one or two nights.
"You could stay wi' me and claim the cost of a cheap hotel," he provided, eventually.
Lewis snorted. "I'm not as good as you at deceiving my superiors. Or anyone else, for that matter. The more I can keep the cost of the trip to a minimum, the more I'm likely to get permission to take it. You have room for both me and James?"
"Och, aye, the flat's far too big for me alone. Dunno why I keep it."
"Perfect."
And so Robbie Lewis and James Hathaway were on a train headed north the following morning, having received approval from their Chief Super to travel to Edinburgh for the purpose of interviewing Sterling McManus. As they neared the Scottish capitol, Lewis checked over his notes.
"So they're supposed to send a car to meet us at Waverley and take us . . . where? The station at St. Leonard's?"
"Fettes HQ," James replied. "Whoever picks us up will take our bags to Inspector Rebus's flat so they'll be there when we're done for the day."
Lewis frowned, puzzled. "Fettes? I thought John was at St. Leonard's," he posited to his sergeant.
"I heard they've had some restructuring. Siobhan emailed me that they'd all been reassigned to several different stations. Fettes is what the final instructions said."
Lewis shot a look at him. "You've kept in touch with DS Clarke?"
Hathaway nodded, guileless.
Lewis gave him a long look, but there was nothing significant here, nothing kept back, as far as he could tell. And then a thought struck him.
"Did she and John get split up?"
James's expression hardened. "Yeah. He ended up with really no one beneath him. She was pegged for promotion. Hasn't come through yet, though."
The inspector blinked. And blinked again. "No one beneath him . . .? How's he supposed to work like that?" He spoke softly, as if to himself. "Why wouldn't they let her finish with him? He can't have much more time."
Hathaway's eyes were hard. "You know the answer to that, Sir. They want to drive him out, ASAP. No lost love between Rebus and the higher-ups. . . . Don't they have an odd nickname for them up there?"
"The 'High Hiedyins.'" Lewis exhaled, grimly. Indeed, he could see Hathaway was right. The High Hiedyins had never cared for Rebus, and would not now ease his passage to retirement. Lewis thought a while longer before speaking further. "So is Siobhan in on Sterling McManus?"
Hathaway checked his notes. "Yes. Rebus is the arresting officer but it looks like DS Clarke is the officer in charge of the investigation. She's at Fettes, so that's why we're going there." He did not need to add to this observation that putting a sergeant in charge, when an inspector was already involved in the case, was a substantial insult to the inspector. Nor could he hide the slight tone of envy in his voice at her being put in charge.
Lewis blew air through his lips. "Bloody hell, John must have really ruffled some feathers."
Hathaway exhaled slowly. "Sorry if I'm stating the obvious, but isn't ruffling feathers what DI Rebus excels at?"
Lewis snorted his agreement. They rode the rest of the way in near silence. Lewis resisted prying into the nature of Hathaway's relationship with Siobhan, and whether that had advanced since she had been in Oxford. By the time they reached Edinburgh more than six hours after leaving Oxford, they'd each developed multiple theories and scenarios for what the life of DI Rebus must be like at this point. Not a single one was anything either man would wish for himself.
As the train slid into the old city, Hathaway found himself staring out the window with excitement. This was a city of culture, of great beauty, "The Athens of the North." And indeed the structures that rose to create a part of the skyline had classic proportions. Part of the skyline only, because most of the skyline was formed by the natural geological features of the city: Castle Rock, Calton Hill, Arthur's Seat. The city managed to look both elegant and untamable at the same time. Hathaway inhaled, shaking his head slightly in awe.
Lewis, who had been to Edinburgh before, smiled to himself. He, too, found the city extraordinarily beautiful, but he'd seen its ugly side and knew about the brutality that lurked in the city's past. Murderers, body snatchers, and thieves had played significant roles during the city's real and fictitious history, men like Deacon Brodie, Burke and Hare, Jekyll and Hyde. The city was more than its cultured veneer. Much more.
They were met at Waverley Station by a PC with a car, and were brought to the headquarters at Fettes. The PC gave them directions to find the CID offices on the first floor, then he drove off to take the bags to Rebus's flat.
Lewis, his eyebrows raised, checked to see if Hathaway had any more ideas than he regarding where they should go. The station was huge. The desk sergeant, who had been watching them silently, at last spoke up. "Can I help you gentlemen find something?"
Hathaway blinked, not comprehending a single word of the thickly accented speech.
Lewis turned to him gratefully. "Oh, aye. We're gannin' to CID. I ken the PC said first floor, but where . . . ?" The inspector had reverted to a heavy Geordie accent, not the same as the desk sergeant's, but similar enough so the man could recognize that they were speaking the same language.
"Right you are, then, that way doon the corridor and to the left. The stairs are through the doors. I'll buzz so they'll know you're on your way, Mister . . .?"
"Inspector Lewis. Ta." Lewis led the way, Hathaway thinking he'd have comprehended more had the conversation been in French or Latin.
They soon found themselves pushing through doors into a room crowded with desks, nearly all occupied. One or two officers glanced up at the newcomers, but then immediately returned to their work. Hathaway looked at Lewis with a single raised eyebrow, and Lewis grimaced. The renowned Scottish hospitality.
The door opened behind them and Siobhan Clarke entered, bearing a steaming mug of coffee. She stopped short when she saw the Englishmen, and scanned the room once to see if anyone—anyone—had bothered to greet their visitors. She frowned at the obvious answer to that enquiry, then broke into a rueful smile.
"James, DI Lewis, Sir, sorry! Welcome to Fettes. Can I get you a cup of anything?"
"I'm fine," Hathaway murmured.
"Please," Lewis said at the same time.
She looked back and forth between them, and gave a short laugh. "Well, get your story straight at least." They grinned at that, some of the stiffness gone. She smiled broadly.
"We saved you an office. Well, a room with a desk, a phone, a computer, and a chair—just one, sorry—and it's buried in files and all. But it's better digs than most of us have." She waved them toward a wall and led them to one specific door. "Here."
When she opened it, they saw she wasn't understating the room's amenities. Barren of any personality and stuffed to bursting with files, the desk, phone, computer, and chair were little more than that. And yet, as Clarke had mentioned, it was more than some others had.
"It'll do," Lewis said. "Anyway, we shouldn't be here long."
The three of them together in the office made for a touch of privacy from the rest that Lewis knew would otherwise be hard to find. "Siobhan . . ."
She cocked her head at his obvious lead-in.
"You and DI Rebus. I understand there's friction being forced between you two." Lewis's words were clearly a statement, not a question.
She sighed, breathing in and out slowly, the way her yoga teacher had instructed.
"They want to drive him out. Want to force him into retiring under the shittiest of conditions." She wrung her hands. "I've learned so much from him! And they treat him like dirt because . . . well, because he's had some problems due to his temper, and because they can—He'll put up with anything, so long as they let him keep working."
Lewis expected to see her eyes welling up, but they were dry. Angry, more than sad.
Lewis took in a breath, stared at Clarke, and exhaled an equal measure. "I'm sorry." It was all he could say.
She gave a small, tight smile. "Well, he doesn't do himself any favors, does he? Anyway, he'll be here later, so it's for the best that you know how things stand before he gets here."
"We need to interview McManus as soon as we can. I'd rather not have to wait for Rebus, but you're welcome to sit in if you want, doesn't matter to us. Though I don't think our case has anything to do with your case against him."
She shook her head. "Those rooms are small enough as it is, and I have to meet with the Chief Super in ten minutes. You go ahead, I'll have McManus brought up."