A Song for the Dark Times

her that he didn’t have much in the way of family mementoes or what could be termed ‘heirlooms’–no bits and pieces that had belonged to his parents; a handful of framed photos of his ex-wife and his daughter. Clarke had suggested he might want to contact his daughter so she could help him move.
‘I’ll be fine.’
So she had applied for a week’s leave and rented a small van, big enough for runs to IKEA, the charity shop and the dump.
‘Cornicing’s the same as your old place,’ she said, studying the ceiling.
‘We’ll make a detective of you yet,’ Rebus said, hefting more books onto a shelf. ‘But let’s save the next lesson for after we’ve had that mug of tea you’re about to brew…’
At the end of the kitchen was a door leading out to the enclosed rear garden, a large expanse of lawn with an ornamental border. Clarke let Brillo out before filling the kettle. Opening cupboards, she noted that Rebus had rearranged her work of the previous day–obviously there was some system he preferred: pots, tins and packets lower down; crockery higher up. He had even swapped around the cutlery in the two drawers. She popped tea bags into two mugs and lifted the milk from the fridge. It was the old fridge from the upstairs flat–same went for the washing machine. Neither fitted quite right, jutting out into the room. If it were her kitchen, she’d always be bruising a knee or stubbing a toe. She’d told him they wouldn’t fit, that he should replace them.
‘Maybe later,’ had come the reply.
The two movers did not require tea–they seemed to work on a supply of fizzy drinks and vaping. Besides which, they were almost done. She heard them fetching more boxes.
‘Living room?’ one asked.
‘If you must,’ Rebus answered.
‘One more trip, I reckon. You’ll want to lock up after us.’
‘Just pull the door shut when you’re finished.’
‘No last wee sentimental look-see?’
‘I’ve got the meter readings, what else do I need?’
The mover seemed to have no answer to this. Clarke watched him retreat as she took the mugs through.
‘Forty years of your life, John,’ she said, handing him his tea.
‘Fresh start, Siobhan. Keys are going to the buyer’s solicitor. Post’s being redirected.’ He seemed to be wondering if he’d forgotten anything. ‘Just bloody lucky this place fell vacant when it did. Mrs Mackay had been here almost as long as me. Son living in Australia, so that’s her twilight years taken care of.’
‘Whereas you couldn’t bear to move even fifty yards.’
He fixed her with a look. ‘I can still surprise you, though.’ He jabbed a finger towards the ceiling. ‘You reckoned they’d be carrying me out of there in a box.’
‘Is everyone this cheery when they move house?’
‘Maybe you’re forgetting why I’m moving.’
No, she hadn’t forgotten. COPD: Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease. He was finding stairs too much of a chore. So when the For Sale sign appeared in the downstairs front garden…
‘Besides,’ he added, ‘two flights wasn’t fair on Brillo and those poor wee legs of his.’ He looked around for the dog.
‘Garden,’ Clarke explained.
The pair of them headed through the kitchen and out of the door. Brillo was sniffing his way around the lawn, tail wagging.
‘Settled in already,’ Clarke commented.
‘Might not be so easy for his owner.’ Rebus peered up at the tenement windows that surrounded them, then gave a sigh, avoiding eye contact with Clarke. ‘You should go back to work tomorrow. Tell Sutherland you don’t need the full week.’
‘We’ve stuff to unpack.’
‘And you’ve a murder waiting for you. Speaking of which: any news?’
Clarke shook her head. ‘Graham’s got his team assembled; doubtful I’d make much of a difference.’
‘You’d make a difference,’ Rebus countered. ‘I think I’m just about capable of lifting things from boxes and failing to find anywhere to put them.’
They shared a smile, turning as the movers arrived. The men entered the living room and reappeared a few seconds later.
‘Reckon that’s us,’ the older man said from the kitchen doorway. Rebus approached him, digging banknotes from his pocket. Clarke watched as Brillo came trotting up to her, settling on his haunches, eyes expectant.
‘You going to promise me you’ll look after him?’ Clarke asked.
The dog angled its head, as if considering how best to answer.
ii
Siobhan Clarke’s own flat was just off Broughton Street, across the city from Rebus. One storey up in a tenement she’d been considering moving out of for the past several months. DCI Graham Sutherland had gone from being an occasional colleague–albeit several rungs above her–to her lover. Sutherland headed one of the major incident teams. His own home was in Glasgow, and he’d asked her to move in with him.
‘I’ll have to think about it,’ she’d said. She’d visited his place several times, stayed over just the once. Though divorced, signs of his ex-wife lingered, and she doubted he had bothered to buy a new bed.
‘Maybe a flat in the city centre would be more your thing,’ he had suggested, without managing to sound enthusiastic, since when he’d directed her towards a couple of properties he’d found online, his emails headed FYI. One of them she’d actually quite liked. Without saying anything, she’d driven through to Glasgow and parked outside the building, getting out and walking around, getting a feel for the area. It was fine, she told herself. It wouldn’t be bad.
Then she’d driven home.
Rebus had basically dismissed her this evening. She’d suggested takeaway curry from his favourite place, but he had shooed her out.
‘Take a break. Go tell your boyfriend you want back on the team.’
She checked her phone. It was nearly eight o’clock and Sutherland hadn’t replied to either of her texts, so she put her jacket on, grabbed her keys and headed downstairs. It was a short drive to Leith police station–she could almost have walked it. She paused halfway to dive into a shop, emerging again with a carrier bag. Parking by Leith Links, she made for the police station and was buzzed in. She climbed the