.

I

.

Hathaway and his superior officer, DI Robbie Lewis, were sharing a pint in a pub that students generally avoided. This was its finest feature; the beer was nothing special and the customers tended to be a bit coarse. But Lewis was not in the mood for "that Oxford bollocks," as he termed it when his patience ran out with the snobbery and politics inherent in any activity closely related to the University. So here they were.

Despite their very different faces, they both wore identical dour expressions. Neither knew where to look next to track down the missing DI Swanson. They had him leaving his car in a car park on Monday of the previous week—the evening before he was to serve as exam assessor. But his car had still been parked there on Tuesday, and the attendant from that night had not been located so far. A small bloodstain near his car was confirmed as Swanson's, but the most that did was verify that he'd likely met with some level of violence. Lewis and Hathaway had poured their energy into the case as soon as Innocent had reassigned it to them on Monday. But now it was Tuesday, and another day had gone by with them no closer to finding out what had happened to Swanson. They were stumped, and were hoping the beer would jar loose a few brain cells and give them ideas of where their investigation should go next.

"We need inspiration, Hathaway. Can't you pray for some, or something that'll help? Anything?"

James looked at the inspector a bit incredulously. "What, you think I haven't been doing that all along? That I'd be relying on your wit alone to get us through this case?"

Lewis gave him one of those disapproving expressions he'd been using so much in the last two days, but ignored the wind-up. "He had no family, no lovers, and no friends to speak of, none that would do something like this. Maybe he took someone's favorite parking place? Looked sideways at the wrong man's wife? And what's the connection with Stevenson?" He exhaled out one side of his mouth resignedly. "Ah, I dunno."

"It can't have been a heat-of-the-moment thing; else, where did the note come from?" Hathaway stared at a dark stain on the floor, wondering vaguely about its source. Not finding an answer, he passed his gaze around the pub's inhabitants, pausing briefly when he came across a young, intelligent-looking blond woman, who appeared to be there by herself. Funny that no one is hitting her up.

Lewis shook his head. "Ian Swanson is about as gentle a copper as you could hope for. Never stroppy with anyone."

"Is that why they assigned him to assessing the inspector's exam? Not irritable enough for regular police work?"

Lewis simply rolled his eyes at his sergeant. Then he picked up his glass, drained it, and swirled the bit of foam that remained in the bottom. He gave James a weary glance, then sighed. "My round, is it?"

"Yes, thank you, Sir." Hathaway smiled for the first time. "And while you're getting those, I'm going to visit the smoking lounge." He straightened his long body from the bench and headed for the pub's back garden. Sighing again, Lewis gathered the glasses and headed for the bar.

James leaned his backside against the first empty bit of wall he found, not far past the door he'd come out of. Using an economy of motion, he pulled a cigarette and lit it, drawing deeply. With his ability to concentrate thus restored, he glanced around to see what else was going on in the garden. There was another man sipping at a pint and smoking: a dark and compact man with a rather ordinary face. But something about the way he moved captured James's attention. Spare, controlled motion, nothing wasted. And not only did the man capture Hathaway's attention, but also the attention of three large, scruffy fellows who emerged from the pub door and approached the smaller man in what Hathaway perceived as an intentionally threatening manner.

"So, Jock, what brings you down to civilization? They run out of beer up in your country?"

Ah, so that's it. Hathaway thought. Locals not happy with the presence of a Scotsman in their midst.

The man seemed unconcerned with the nature of their approach, and he stood up, smiling genially. "Is this what you call 'beer' here?" He waved his pint in the air. "Tastes more like pish to me." He mimed urinating while pouring the remaining contents of his glass onto the ground in front of him, then gave a wide, artificial smile to the men. "Oh, aye, that's better." Complete with a pretend shake and zip-up.

Hathaway was not surprised when the locals took high offense at this.

"Bloody sheepshagger. Oxford piss tastes better than any Scottish beer."

Another one added, "I don't think there is such a thing as Scottish beer. Isn't piss the only thing they drink up there?"

The man continued to smile, but Hathaway noticed he altered his stance, set down his glass, and was prepared to face an assault. This bloke is trained in hand-to-hand combat, he thought.

With a voice so still that it could have come from a marble cobra, the man faced his would-be assailants and squinted. "What do you lads want from me? Are you looking for a little excitement, is that it?"

For a moment, the three were stymied. This Scot wasn't quite like those they'd chased out of this pub in the past. But they'd had enough to drink that they lacked the judgment and caution a more sober man might have had.

One of the locals charged the man, fists flying. The Scot deftly tripped him and clocked him hard on the nape of the neck as the man fell, face-first, to the ground. A targeted strike, hitting exactly the right point; the man was out cold. As the other two circled, one of them grabbed the abandoned glass, cracked it on a nearby table, and brandished a seriously effective cutting weapon at the man. Appearing unimpressed, he drew on the cigarette between his lips and waited for the assault.

The two men came at him at once, the broken glass flashing in the sun. Before James could detach himself from the wall, both were on the ground, writhing in pain. The Scot was holding his left hand to a jagged gash in his neck from which blood dripped into his shirt collar. But Hathaway could tell it was not much more than a superficial wound. He continued to merely watch, satisfied that so far, this matter was not worthy of police interference.

The third man had regained consciousness and was struggling to stand up. The other two had recovered their feet and were circling menacingly. At this point, the Scot pulled back from them and flashed a warrant card at his assailants. "Look, ya stupid sods, police. Back off."

The one nearest the warrant card peered at it. "Police?" He scoffed. "Scottish police, meaning you have no jurisdiction here. You're nothing, off-duty." He smirked. "You're dead," he added. He still held the glass, which now shone with blood.

James saw the Scotsman's eyes narrow as he sized up his options for taking out these two remaining attackers. And, Hathaway realized, the Scot could do it, though it would not be without grievous bodily harm to his opponents. James stepped forward, warrant card out and showing.

"But I have jurisdiction. And you three are under arrest for assaulting a police officer."

The third man scrambled up and they all looked at each other, looked at Hathaway, and then took off over the garden fence with an astonishing show of speed. Hathaway made no effort to follow. The Scot scanned him up and down, weighing him.

"Well, a toff Oxfordshire copper, stepping in to rescue poor Jock. Only, your heroism isn't needed, I'm fully capable of handling a couple of prats like that m'self." He took his hand away from his neck, checked the quantity of blood on it, and replaced it.

Hathaway stared him straight in the eyes. "I acted solely for practical reasons; the local hospital is seriously understaffed and doesn't need a pointless cockfight to fill three or four more beds."

The Scotsman snorted. "Fair enough." He held out his right hand, and James shook it. "DI John Rebus, Edinburgh police." He smiled crookedly.

"DS James Hathaway, at your service." He offered a handkerchief for the bleeding and checked the state of the cigarette that still hung from Rebus's lips. "Need another smoke, or shall we see about replacing that piss you poured out?"

Rebus smiled broadly. "I could use another pint. And a wee dram from north of the border, if that sort of thing is available around here." He evaluated Hathaway more closely as he wiped his neck. "And I'll introduce you to my sergeant. I think she might be your type."

This made James stop in his tracks. "My type?"

"She's English." Rebus flashed his eyebrows. "Posh."

James rapidly put two and two together. "Ah, the solo blond we saw inside."

"Sounds like Siobhan." A pause. "We?"

"My guv'nor is here, too. DI Lewis." A thought clicked in his head. "You here on holiday? Seems like you might have picked a more genial pub."

Rebus snorted. "Not exactly. I don't think Oxford would be anywhere near my top ten—no, make that hundred—choice holiday destinations."

Hathaway took a calculated gamble. "So, did DCS Innocent call you down here, by any chance?"

Rebus assessed him very, very carefully. Appreciatively.

"Let's go inside."

.

II

.

Hathaway introduced Rebus and Lewis to each other, and Rebus beckoned his sergeant over and introduced her. Her face clouded with rebuke.

"We've been in town what, half an hour? And already you've lost blood." She shook her head at him as she took the chair Hathaway offered. "Sir." She added, as an obvious afterthought.

"The Chief Super called them down to help on the Swanson and Stevenson cases. DI Rebus worked on something very similar a couple of years ago in Edinburgh," Hathaway explained to his boss.

Lewis narrowed his eyes. "Well, that was nice of her." He tapped his fingers on his glass, then started up. "Would you all please excuse me a moment?" He pulled out his mobile. "I just need to make a quick call."

He went out to the garden before he dialed his boss.

"What is it, Robbie?" DCS Innocent skipped any introductory pleasantries.

"Ah, Ma'am, about these two Edinburgh detectives you've dumped on us. You never said you were calling them in."

She huffed. "They were supposed to arrive around noon today and I planned to tell you then, but they missed their connecting train. By the time they arrived, you and Hathaway had already left. I assumed it could wait until morning, and I sent them off. How did you find out, anyway?"

"We ran into them down the pub."

"No surprise. Best place to look if you're trying to find John Rebus."

"Why, exactly, do we need outside help on this case?" He couldn't quite keep the umbrage out of his voice.

"Oh, don't get all territorial on me, Lewis, you can't win that fight. Believe me, John can lift his leg on twice as many trees as you can."

He resisted making a retort, but his knuckles tightened on his mobile. "So who's in charge, then, us being equal ranks and all?"

"You both report to me. Siobhan will report to John, and everyone else will report to you as usual. Now put your spear down and play nice."

"Ma'am."

"Oh, Robbie, one more thing—"

Lewis was not smiling when he rang off and returned to the table. He took a deep breath to calm himself.

"It appears there's been a bit of a hiccup in the lodging arrangements, due to your missing that connection and arriving so late. The hotel gave your rooms away."

Siobhan rolled her eyes at her boss. "I told you there wasn't time for that pint."

Rebus shrugged. "I had a powerful thirst."

"You always have a powerful thirst, Sir."

He ignored the jibe and turned to Lewis. "So where does that leave us?"

"The Chief Super hasn't been able to find anything yet. So for tonight, I will put you up in me spare room, if that'll be alright. And if it's alright with your sergeant, I have a lady friend with a spare room in a lovely house. Unless she has something else going on, I'm sure she'll agree to house Sergeant Clarke if I ask her nicely."

Hathaway couldn't stop his snort, and it earned him a glare.

Siobhan's eyes darted between the two Oxford cops. There's something unspoken here. "That's fine, I'd appreciate it."

Lewis half turned away to make the call.

"'Lady friend'?" Rebus whispered to Hathaway. "Is that the same thing as 'girlfriend'?"

"Not as far as I am aware."

A moment later, Lewis turned back to the group and addressed Siobhan. "That's set then. You'll be staying with Doctor Laura Hobson, she's our pathologist."

Siobhan nodded her thanks as Lewis resumed his seat and took a long pull from his pint. He drummed his fingers on the table a few times, then turned to Rebus.

"So tell me what it is about your old case that makes you invaluable to us." Lewis felt an inward stab of shame at his own tone. He had no reason to be resentful, but he couldn't help the fact that something about Rebus made him get prickly.

Rebus stared at his empty pint glass. "A few years ago we had a DI who simply disappeared one day. DI Nathan Foster. All we could find was a note that arrived the morning he went missing. Some bit from Shakespeare . . . 'smiling villain,' something. I can't remember."

"'O villain, villain, smiling, damnéd villain! My tables,—meet it is I set it down, That one may smile, and smile, and be a villain—'"That bit?" Hathaway, of course.

Rebus's dark eyes went from Hathaway's smirk to Lewis's scowl and back to the smirk. "Graduate entry scheme?"

Lewis twisted a smile. "He only thinks he's smart because he probably passed Part One of his Inspector's last week, first try." Then he frowned. "Our missing DI Swanson was supposed to be one of the assessors for it."

Sergeant Clarke had been thinking. "DI Foster . . . wasn't he—"

"Siobhan!" Rebus cut off her question, his eyes locking on hers. Cold steel. "Isn't it your round?"

She recovered quickly, snapping her mouth shut and twitching a smile. Then she scooped up his glass and looked inquiringly at the others. They waved her off; neither Lewis nor Hathaway had consumed even half of his yet. Lewis wanted to see if Hathaway found the interruption significant, but he was aware that Rebus was watching them, and so instead he took another mouthful of ale and watched Siobhan at the bar.

By the time they were finishing their pints, the two inspectors had settled on a kind of truce and the sergeants seemed to getting along well. Maybe too well, Lewis thought as he watched how close Hathaway had moved next to Siobhan Clarke. On the other hand, their topic of conversation was hardly intimate. Siobhan, who planned to take her Inspector's Exam in a year's time, was pumping James for information about all the special preparation courses that were available. Although Hathaway vigorously recommended the course he had used, his peer was skeptical.

"How about you let me know how well some of the others in your course did, and if it's a massive triumph, I'll sign up with that one and let them know you recommended it? Maybe they'll give you a discount on Part Two." She smirked at him. James grinned.

Lewis could see that Rebus's sergeant's good looks were not her best feature. She had a sharp mind and he could tell she had the ability, as he'd had as a sergeant, to plow through piles of mind-numbing donkey work and find the gems that could solve a case. He leaned closer to Rebus, keeping his voice low.

"Bright lass, how come she's not going for Inspector this year?"

Rebus twisted his lips. "I won't let her. If I lose her, it won't be easy to get another that good." He studied his Oxford counterpart. "Aren't you worried you'll lose yours?"

"There aren't any openings right now. Even when he passes, he'll be stuck for a while. And I keep moving closer to retirement."

John snorted a bit at the truth of that. "Ach, aren't we all."

Lewis furrowed his brow. "Actually, if we can't find Swanson, I'm not certain what they'll do next year about the exam. Swanson has been at it for years. They'll have to rope in another officer for the job."

John squinted. "Why not you? Especially if you're the one who can't find him."

Lewis gaped a moment, then a look of disgust filled his face. "They can't pick me, I never upped for the assessor's course. That's the first thing Jean Innocent tried to do when I got back from detachment, bundle me off to Training. Dug me heels in then, and have done ever since." He shook his head, remembering how long it was before she grudgingly came to respect his abilities as a detective. "Wouldn't that just make her day?"

"Jean always was a strong-willed lass. Not that it always worked to her benefit." He smiled slowly, his thoughts in the past.

Lewis considered him closely. Had there been something between him and Innocent? Unlikely, they were hardly compatible. He stood decisively as the last glass was drained.

"Right. Let's be on our way, then. You have a car?"

Rebus nodded. "Sergeant Clarke and I will follow you to the quack's house, then you can give me a lift home." He could see Lewis biting his tongue, and failing.

"Laura Hobson's no quack." Enough ice in that for a whole bottle of cheap whisky. John smiled to himself. He had intended the needle to provoke a response, and it did. Whatever this 'lady friend' was, she was more than just a friend.

He stared Lewis straight in the eyes. "Sorry." It was clear he was not.

Studying Rebus, Hathaway voiced a concern he had. "Are you alright to drive, Sir?"

Rebus snorted. "You think three pints and a nip would do anything to a Scotsman's driving? I'm fine, Sassenach."

James frowned, puzzled at the unfamiliar word. "Sassenach?"

Lewis rolled his eyes at the act Rebus was putting on and explained, his voice impatient. "It's something the Scots call the English."

Siobhan looked exasperated. "He's right, too. It takes at least half a dozen whiskies before his driving gets any worse than it already is." She got a frown for that.

The two Edinburgh detectives headed off to their hired car and Hathaway turned to find his own vehicle. But Lewis put a hand on his arm.

"They're keeping something back, I guarantee it. The way he cut off whatever his sergeant was going to ask . . ." Lewis's eyes bored into Hathaway's. "Get close to her. Get to know her, get her to trust you. If we get anything out of that pair, it'll come from her lips."

"Are you saying you want me to get to know her lips?" James smirked.

But Lewis dished back. "I'm ordering you to get to know her lips."

Hathaway touched his fingers to his brow. "Yes, Sir." He headed for his car.

Rebus waited with his hand on the gearshift for Lewis to start his engine. Clarke was sitting next to him, frowning, her forehead puckering.

"Talk to me, Sergeant."

"Why did you stop me asking about DI Foster? He'd been an assessor at one time, too, hadn't he? I remember him talking about that horrible exam. Aren't we supposed to be helping them?"

His expression said he had expected her to have it figured out by now. "I always suspected that Foster's disappearance was an inside piece of work. This one could be, too, and Jean knows it. Especially given that Swanson and Foster were both assessors. That means everyone here is a suspect, particularly anyone who recently took the exam. We share information with this comedy duo on an as-needed basis only, until we can rule them out."

Rebus squinted, speaking to his sergeant but not looking at her.

"That Hathaway has a lot going on in his head that he doesn't happen to mention. He's the one who made the link between their Swanson and our Foster. Get friendly with him, Siobhan, but don't let him know about our 'insider' theory. Be his pal. Be his 'lady friend.'" He cocked his eyebrows in her direction.

"Are you asking me to go to bed with him?" She looked incredulous. Or disgusted. Or intrigued.

"Whatever you're willing to do."

"I don't think he knows anything his guv'nor doesn't. They seem pretty tight."

John noticed she hadn't objected to his suggestion. "It doesn't matter if he knows any more or any less than Lewis, he's our only real option. We've got nae chance of getting that Geordie to spill, do we?" He smiled in mock helplessness.