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they didn t have my sources.
Any idea who?
No.
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Ian Rankin
It looks to me, said Collins, as though that snake Mon-
mouth s been blabbering.
Who s Monmouth? asked Stevens, nose twitching. Janine
had started to point out local landmarks to Collins.
The other man on the tape, said Miles.
And this tape will answer all my questions?
Oh yes, definitely. Miles was examining the parapet. Long
way down, isn t it?
Very.
I love your accent, Janine was telling Collins. Irish ac-
cents make me all shivery.
Yes, it is a bit chilly up here, Stevens called to her, and she
stuck out her tongue at him. Look, why don t we all go for a
drink, eh? I know a pub near the station
Sorry, we have work to do.
Well, later maybe. Or tomorrow?
OK, said Miles. Tomorrow afternoon.
Fine. Stevens was smiling. He knew when someone was
selling him Korean tartan. Do you know the Sutherland Bar?
I used to drink there as a student.
Well, that s fixed then. Janine, let s go. I want to phone
London and get someone to send me this mysterious tape.
But Janine and Collins were busy in conversation, their
voices muted. They seemed not to have heard Stevens, who,
beginning to blush, turned back to Miles Flint and returned his
grin. Well, he said, she can catch me up. He made toward
the stairwell. Oh, and Mr. Flint?
Yes?
I hope you have a permit for that gun.
246
TWENTY-SEVEN
Waverley Station, lying under glass and metal, had changed
much since his last visit. It had become fashionably and garishly
open-plan, with a taped skirl of maltreated bagpipes and a bevy
of high-profile station staff ready to answer the traveler s every
question. The flooring reminded him of some dappled ice-rink
surface, and video screens everywhere informed passengers that
all trains were running upward of five minutes late due to a local
dispute.
By the look of things, the early morning commuter rush
had just ended. Taxi drivers were catching up on the day s news
headlines, their beefy arms resting against warm steering wheels.
The station was lit, the day being dark, a real hyperborean land-
scape. The glare of the interior was igloo-like, while the ramps
leading up to Waverley Bridge were like boltholes to the surface
of the world.
There was little hurry here, the people moving at a winter s
pace, retaining their energy. There were no tourists to deal with,
only some business travelers and people coming into the city for
a day s shopping. Although a public place, it was openly private in
its attitude. It would do nicely. He signaled to his companions.
You know what to do?
Yes, Mr. Partridge, said Jeff Phillips.
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Ian Rankin
Billy Monmouth had told Partridge all he had needed to
know. He had said that Flint was planning a nasty little surprise.
He had said that Flint was not coming in alone, but had Col-
lins with him. These revelations had made the logistics nice and
easy. It didn t matter so much about Flint himself. For the mo-
ment, Partridge really wanted only the Irishman, for he was the
last piece of evidence. He felt the absurdity of it all. At first it
had seemed so simple and so viable, but when one killed some-
one, a whole chain of events came into being which grew and
grew and would not stop growing, leaving everyone powerless
and trapped within the chain. He couldn t break that chain now
if he wanted to. He wasn t coming empty-handed to meet Flint.
He had a good enough proposition to put to him, one which
Flint was certain to accept. They would play it like an honest
game of cards between two players who know each other for
incorrigible cheats.
He had questioned Billy Monmouth thoroughly. Did Flint
have any other evidence? No transcripts? No signed statements?
Billy had been very definite in his answers, and it seemed that
Flint had slipped up here: he had thought Collins such a strong
trump that he had dispensed with any alternatives or backups.
That was foolish of him. Billy had said that he was a changed
man, that the incident in Ireland had unhinged him. He was
uncoordinated, rambling, half living in a fantasy world of Berlin
Wall shootouts and car chases. There would be none of that
today.
Partridge felt himself prepared for any scheme Flint might
throw at him. Slowly, with Phillips and the woman a few yards
behind him, he made his way across the concourse toward plat-
form 17.
He wished that he had taken the opportunity on the train
to wash himself and maybe even shave. It had been an appall-
ing journey, and the more frustrated he had become, the slower
the train had moved, until it had seemed that everything was
standing still and that he was moving forward by himself, was
running, having broken free of his chains.
He walked to the end of platform 17, his hands by his side,
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Watchman
intimating that he was not in possession of any kind of weapon.
In fact, he was carrying a small revolver in his jacket pocket. To
combat the cold, however, he wore an overcoat, and the gun,
buried beneath this coat, was for use only in the direst emer-
gency. He didn t believe he would have any need of it.
There were no train spotters about. The end of the platform
did not offer overhead shelter from the morning s needle-fine
drizzle, and he turned up his coat collar. The trains that arrived
at this platform were local services from Dundee and Fife, no
farther. He saw from the flickering video screen that a train was
due in from Cowdenbeath. Now where on earth was that? He
seemed to recall that a football team from there appeared some-
where in the Scottish league, but couldn t be sure. Looking back
up the length of the platform, he saw Phillips standing with the
woman, who was held in toward him as though unwillingly. He
motioned for Phillips to move farther away. It would ruin ev-
erything if Flint were to see them both. Phillips moved away
quickly, right out of Partridge s sight. He would reappear when
the time was right.
There were no obstructions to Partridge s view. He would
have fifty yards warning of Flint s approach. It seemed extraor-
dinary that he should have enlisted the aid of Collins under any
circumstances. Partridge was still not sure that he fully believed
it. Perhaps Monmouth was playing some sort of trick on him.
Well, he would soon know one way or the other. They would be
here at any moment.
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