McBrane case and the Pettiford especially. I’d like to see them this morning.’
‘Do you know how fast I type?’
‘Just do it.’
‘Would you settle for one out of two? I’ve a funeral on.’
‘I want them both by lunchtime, Inspector.’
Rebus looked back at the open door. There was still noone else around. ‘You know,’ he said quietly, ‘I’m going to start taking this personally.’
She looked up from her work. ‘What’s that?’
‘The way you’ve been treating me ever since you got here. Frankly, it stinks. At first I thought it was just for show, but I’m not so sure. I know you’ve got something to prove to everybody, but that doesn’t –’
‘Tread carefully, Inspector.’
Rebus stared at her. Finally she looked down at the work in front of her. ‘Thanks for the coffee,’ she said quietly. ‘I still want those case-notes by lunchtime.’
So he went to his desk and worked on them. He didn’t like typing up case-notes, the hard slog of always using the right words, of getting everything right. No police officer liked it when a report which had been painstakingly prepared was sent back by the Procurator-fiscal because of some tiny flaw in the surface of the whole. You were waiting for news that the precognition was being prepared, and instead the case came back to you with a note – ‘unable to proceed as stands’.
The reporting officer – whose job was to liaise with the Crown – took most of the flak, and Rebus was RO on both the McBrane and Pettiford cases. It was his job to make a case that the Procurator-fiscal would accept. He supposed it was Gill Templer’s job to make sure he did the work, but her attitude still rankled. As far as he could gather, she’d been a far from popular choice as Frank Lauderdale’s replacement. If Lauderdale hadn’t been universally respected, at least he’d been a
man
; and more than that, he’d been ‘one of them’. Gill Templer had been brought in from Fife. And she was a woman. And she didn’t even play golf.
The female officers seemed happy enough – the ill-feeling was among the males only. Siobhan Clarke, Rebus had noticed, had a new spring in her step, working under awoman. Maybe she saw in Gill Templer a future that could be hers. But Gill would have to step carefully. Traps would be laid for her. She’d have to be careful who she trusted. Rebus had so far given her the benefit of the doubt, reckoning she was being hard on him because she couldn’t afford to be soft.
So far it looked like a one-way street.
He took his finished notes to her office, only to discover she was in conference with Farmer Watson. He left them prominently on her desk instead, and went to the washroom to change his tie, removing the blue one and replacing it with black. Brian Holmes came in as Rebus was checking himself in the mirror.
‘Off to a party then?’
‘In a manner of speaking, Brian. In a manner of speaking.’
Certainly, there was enough booze in the kitchenette to start a fair old hootenanny, but this was a wake rather than a celebration.
By the time Rebus got to Tresa McAnally’s flat, the place was bursting at the seams with middle-aged men and women and their disgruntled offspring, plus a few older souls who had the honour of being given chairs to sit on. And in the middle of the living room, dressed top to toe in black but with red gloss fingernails, sat the widow. The curtains were closed, as were those of the neighbouring flats – a sign of solidarity. The Scots always rallied round for a send-off.
Rebus squeezed his way through the whispering throng, and held out his hand. ‘Mrs McAnally,’ he said.
She took his hand and exerted the minimum of pressure. ‘Good of you to come.’
Then he was off again, backpedalling before she could turn to someone and say, ‘This is the policeman who wentto the school, he saw Wee Shug flat out on the floor and missing half his head.’ Normally at these occasions the men retreated to
‘Do you know how fast I type?’
‘Just do it.’
‘Would you settle for one out of two? I’ve a funeral on.’
‘I want them both by lunchtime, Inspector.’
Rebus looked back at the open door. There was still noone else around. ‘You know,’ he said quietly, ‘I’m going to start taking this personally.’
She looked up from her work. ‘What’s that?’
‘The way you’ve been treating me ever since you got here. Frankly, it stinks. At first I thought it was just for show, but I’m not so sure. I know you’ve got something to prove to everybody, but that doesn’t –’
‘Tread carefully, Inspector.’
Rebus stared at her. Finally she looked down at the work in front of her. ‘Thanks for the coffee,’ she said quietly. ‘I still want those case-notes by lunchtime.’
So he went to his desk and worked on them. He didn’t like typing up case-notes, the hard slog of always using the right words, of getting everything right. No police officer liked it when a report which had been painstakingly prepared was sent back by the Procurator-fiscal because of some tiny flaw in the surface of the whole. You were waiting for news that the precognition was being prepared, and instead the case came back to you with a note – ‘unable to proceed as stands’.
The reporting officer – whose job was to liaise with the Crown – took most of the flak, and Rebus was RO on both the McBrane and Pettiford cases. It was his job to make a case that the Procurator-fiscal would accept. He supposed it was Gill Templer’s job to make sure he did the work, but her attitude still rankled. As far as he could gather, she’d been a far from popular choice as Frank Lauderdale’s replacement. If Lauderdale hadn’t been universally respected, at least he’d been a
man
; and more than that, he’d been ‘one of them’. Gill Templer had been brought in from Fife. And she was a woman. And she didn’t even play golf.
The female officers seemed happy enough – the ill-feeling was among the males only. Siobhan Clarke, Rebus had noticed, had a new spring in her step, working under awoman. Maybe she saw in Gill Templer a future that could be hers. But Gill would have to step carefully. Traps would be laid for her. She’d have to be careful who she trusted. Rebus had so far given her the benefit of the doubt, reckoning she was being hard on him because she couldn’t afford to be soft.
So far it looked like a one-way street.
He took his finished notes to her office, only to discover she was in conference with Farmer Watson. He left them prominently on her desk instead, and went to the washroom to change his tie, removing the blue one and replacing it with black. Brian Holmes came in as Rebus was checking himself in the mirror.
‘Off to a party then?’
‘In a manner of speaking, Brian. In a manner of speaking.’
Certainly, there was enough booze in the kitchenette to start a fair old hootenanny, but this was a wake rather than a celebration.
By the time Rebus got to Tresa McAnally’s flat, the place was bursting at the seams with middle-aged men and women and their disgruntled offspring, plus a few older souls who had the honour of being given chairs to sit on. And in the middle of the living room, dressed top to toe in black but with red gloss fingernails, sat the widow. The curtains were closed, as were those of the neighbouring flats – a sign of solidarity. The Scots always rallied round for a send-off.
Rebus squeezed his way through the whispering throng, and held out his hand. ‘Mrs McAnally,’ he said.
She took his hand and exerted the minimum of pressure. ‘Good of you to come.’
Then he was off again, backpedalling before she could turn to someone and say, ‘This is the policeman who wentto the school, he saw Wee Shug flat out on the floor and missing half his head.’ Normally at these occasions the men retreated to
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