to Little Miss Prosecution!” Color had risen to Rebus’s face.
“And no doubt half the pub clocked you as CID,” she stated. “Which is how Templer found out.”
“Is that called ‘leading the witness’?”
“I can fight my own battles, John!”
“And he’d have put you on the deck every time. This bastard had a history of thumping people. You saw his record . . .”
“That didn’t give you the right —”
“We’re not talking about rights here.” Rebus leapt from the chair and made for the dining table, helping himself to a fresh bottle. “You want one?”
“Not if I’m driving.”
“Your choice.”
“That’s right, John. My choice, not yours.”
“I didn’t top him, Siobhan. All I did was . . .” Rebus swallowed back the words.
“What?” She’d turned her body on the sofa to face him. “What?” she repeated.
“I went back to his house.” She just stared, mouth open a fraction. “He invited me back.”
“He invited you?”
Rebus nodded. The bottle opener trembled in his hand. He delegated the job to Siobhan, who returned the opened bottle to him. “Bastard liked playing games, Siobhan. Said we should go back and have a drink, bury the hatchet.”
“Bury the hatchet?”
“His exact words.”
“And that’s what you did?”
“He wanted to talk . . . not about you, about anything but. Time he’d served, cell stories, how he grew up. Usual sob story, dad who thumped him, mum who didn’t care . . .”
“And you sat there and listened?”
“I sat there thinking how badly I wanted to smack him.”
“But you didn’t?”
Rebus shook his head. “He was pretty dopey by the time I left.”
“Not in the kitchen, though?”
“In the living room . . .”
“Did you see the kitchen?”
Rebus shook his head again.
“Have you told Templer this?”
He made to rub his forehead, then remembered that it would hurt like blazes. “Just go home, Siobhan.”
“I had to pull the two of you apart. Next thing you’re back at his house sharing a drink and a chat? You expect me to believe that?”
“I’m not asking you to believe anything. Just go home.”
She stood up. “I can —”
“I know, you can look after yourself.” Rebus sounded tired all of a sudden.
“I was going to say, I can wash the dishes, if you like.”
“That’s okay, I’ll do them tomorrow. Let’s just get some sleep, eh?” He walked across to the room’s large bay window, stared down at the quiet street.
“What time do you want to be picked up?”
“Eight.”
“Eight it is.” She paused. “Someone like Fairstone, he must have had enemies.”
“Almost certainly.”
“Maybe someone saw you with him, waited till you’d left . . .”
“See you tomorrow, Siobhan.”
“He was a bastard, John. I keep expecting to hear you say that.” She deepened her voice. “‘World’s better off without him.’”
“I don’t remember saying that.”
“You would have, though, not so long ago.” She made towards the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He waited, expecting to hear the lock click shut. Instead, he could hear a background gurgling of water. He drank from the bottle of lager, staring from the window. She did not emerge onto the street. When the living-room door opened, he could hear the bath filling.
“You going to scrub my back, too?”
“Beyond the call of duty.” She looked at him. “But a change of clothes wouldn’t be a bad idea. I can help you sort some out.”
He shook his head. “Really, I can manage.”
“I’ll hang around till you’re done in the bath . . . just to make sure you can get out again.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“I’ll wait anyway.” She’d walked towards him, plucked the lager from his loose grasp. Lifted it to her mouth.
“Better keep the water tepid,” he warned her.
She nodded, swallowed. “There’s just one thing I’m curious about.”
“What?”
“What do you do when you need the toilet?”
He narrowed his eyes.
Andrew Lennon, Matt Hickman