by Ian Rankin
‘I am retired.’
‘But you can’t let go?’
He gave another shrug. ‘I was just thinking of Maria Turquand. When I started telling you her story, I realised there were bits I couldn’t remember.’
‘You should try and sleep.’
‘Unlike some, I don’t have work in the morning. You’re the one who should be sleeping.’
‘My clients tend not to complain if I’m a few minutes late – one bonus of working with the deceased.’ She paused. ‘I need some water. Can I get you anything?’ He shook his head. ‘Don’t be too long then.’
He watched as she turned back into the hallway, heading for the kitchen. A cutting had slipped from his lap and fallen to the floor. It was from a few years later. A drowning in a swimming pool on Grand Cayman. The victim had been holidaying there with friends, among them Anthony and Francesca Brough, grandchildren of Sir Magnus. There was a photo of the house’s elegant exterior, along with a caption explaining that it belonged to Sir Magnus, who was recently deceased. Rebus wasn’t sure now why he had added this postscript to the history of Maria Turquand’s murder, except that the story had given the newspaper a further excuse to print a photo of Maria, reminding Rebus of her beauty and of how irritated he’d been to be pulled from the case.
He looked at the copies of the Scotsman he’d kept from the week of the murder: Vietnamese refugees arriving to start a new life; B. B. King on The Old Grey Whistle Test and Revenge of the Pink Panther at the cinema; an ad for the Royal Bank of Scotland featuring a photo of the Twin Towers; Margaret Thatcher visiting East Lothian prior to a by-election; rubbish piling up in Edinburgh as the bin strike dragged on …
And on the sports pages: No goals for Scots clubs in Europe.
‘Some things don’t change,’ Rebus muttered to himself.
Having put everything back in the box marked 77–80, he brushed dust from his hands and sat for a further moment studying the room and its contents. Most of the paperwork related to cases he had worked on, cases eventually solved – all of it adding up to what, exactly? A policeman’s lot. Yet the real story, he felt, remained unwritten, only hinted at in the various reports and scribbled notes. The bald facts of arrests and convictions – these told only partial truths. He wondered who might make sense of it all, and doubted anyone would bother. Not his daughter – she would take the briefest look then put the whole lot in a skip.
You can’t let go …
True enough. He’d walked away from the job only when told there was no alternative on offer, pensioned off, skills no longer germane or required. Adios. Brillo seemed to sense the atmosphere in the room and raised his head, nudging it against Rebus’s leg until Rebus reached down to offer a reassuring rub.
‘Okay, boy. Everything’s fine.’
Rising to his feet, he switched off the light, waiting until the dog had followed him from the room before closing the door. The kettle had boiled and Quant was pouring water into a mug.
‘Want one?’
‘Better not,’ Rebus said. ‘I’ll only have to get up for a pee in an hour.’
‘I’ll be gone by then, busy morning.’ She nodded towards where his phone was charging on the worktop. ‘It’s been vibrating.’
‘Oh aye?’ He picked up the phone and checked the screen.
‘I couldn’t help noticing the first text is a reminder from the Infirmary.’
‘So it is.’
‘You’re having more tests?’
‘So it would seem.’ He kept his eyes on the screen, avoiding her stare.
‘John …’
‘It’s nothing, Deb. Just as you say – more tests.’
‘Tests for what, though?’
‘I won’t know till I get there.’
‘You weren’t going to tell me, were you?’
‘What is there to tell? I’ve got bronchitis, remember?’ He pretended to cough, while giving his chest a thump. ‘They just want to run more tests.’
Having entered his passcode, he saw that there was another text, just below the automated NHS one. It was from Siobhan Clarke. His eyes narrowed a little as he read it.
Any dealings with Cafferty of late?
Quant had decided on the silent treatment, blowing on her tea and then sipping it.
‘Need to take this,’ Rebus muttered. ‘It’s from Siobhan.’
He headed into the darkened living room. A half-empty bottle of wine on the coffee table. A glow from the hi-fi system that told him he hadn’t switched it off. Last album played: John Martyn, Solid Air. Felt like that was what he was walking through as he padded across the carpet to the window. What was he supposed to say to Deb? There’s some sort of shadow on my lung, so now it’s all about things with scary names like ‘tomography’ and ‘biopsy’? He didn’t want to think about it, never mind say it out loud. A lifetime of smoking was doing all its catching-up at once. A cough that wouldn’t shift; spitting out blood into the sink; prescription inhaler, prescription nebuliser; COPD …
Lung cancer.
No way he was allowing that bad boy into his mental vocabulary. No, no, no. Keep the brain active, shift focus, don’t think about all the lovely cigarettes smoked at this very spot, many of them in the middle of the night with a John Martyn LP spinning at low volume. Instead, he waited for Clarke to answer, and looked past his own vague reflection at the windows across the street, each one curtained or in darkness. Nobody on the pavements below, no cars or taxis passing, the sky above giving not a hint of the day yet to come.
‘It would have waited,’ Clarke said eventually.
‘Then why text me at four in the morning?’
‘It was actually closer to midnight when I sent it. You been busy?’
‘Busy sleeping.’
‘You’re awake now, though.’
‘Just like you. So what’s Cafferty gone and done?’
‘Have you talked to him recently?’
‘Two or three weeks back.’
‘Keeping his nose clean? Still the respectable ex-gangster about town?’
‘Spit it out.’
‘Darryl Christie was roughed up last night outside his house. Damage report: a cracked rib or three and some loosened teeth. Nose isn’t quite broken but it looks the part. His mother was quick to blurt out Cafferty’s name.’
‘Cafferty’s got forty-odd years on young Darryl.’
‘More heft on him too, though. And we both know he’d have hired someone if he felt it necessary.’
‘To what end?’
‘It’s not so long ago he thought Darryl might have put a price on his head.’
Rebus considered this. A bullet aimed at Cafferty’s head as he stood in his living room one night, his rival Christie the obvious candidate. ‘He was proved wrong,’ he said after a moment.
‘Got him excited, though, didn’t it? Maybe he remembered just how much he missed being the city’s Mr Big.’
‘And giving Darryl Christie a doing is supposed to achieve what exactly?’
‘Scare him off, maybe goad him into some rash action …’
‘You think so?’
‘I’m just … speculating,’ Clarke said.
‘Have you bothered asking Darryl?’
‘He’s doped to the eyeballs and being kept in overnight.’
‘No witnesses?’
‘We’ll know more in a few hours.’
Rebus pressed a finger to the window pane. ‘Want me to broach the subject with Big Ger?’
‘Best keep this a police matter, don’t you think?’
‘Ouch. Speaking of which – you still not talking to Malcolm?’
‘What’s he been saying?’
‘Not much, but I get the feeling his promotion to Gartcosh got you bristling.’
‘Then your amazing intuition has let you down for once.’
‘Fair enough. But if you do want me to talk to Cafferty, you just have to say.’
‘Thanks.’ He heard her give a sigh. ‘How’s everything
else, by the way?’
‘Nose to the grindstone, as usual.’
‘Doing what exactly?’
‘All those hobbies people take up when they retire. Actually, you might be able to help me with that.’
‘Oh yes?’
He turned away from the window. Brillo was seated behind him, awaiting another rub. Rebus offered a smile and a wink instead. ‘You got any access to the cold-case files?’ he said into the phone.
Day Two
2
Malcolm Fox hated the commute – forty miles each way, most of it spent on the M8. Some days it resembled Wacky Races, with cars weaving in and out of traffic, lorries wheezing into the outside lane to crawl past other lorries, roadworks and breakdowns and buffeting winds accompanied by lashing rain. Not that there was anyone he could complain to – his colleagues at Gartcosh, the Scottish Crime Campus, considered themselves the crème de la crème, and they had the state-of-the-art building to prove it. Once you’d found a parking space and proved your credentials at the gatehouse, you entered a closed compound that was trying its damnedest to resemble a new-build university, one aimed at the elite. Plenty of internal space, filled with light and heat. Breakout areas where specialists from different disciplines could meet and share intelligence. Not just the various branches of the Specialist Crime Division, but Forensic Science, the Procurator Fiscal’s office, and HMRC’s Criminal Investigation wing. All housed under the one happy roof. He hadn’t heard anyone moan about how long it took them to get to Gartcosh and then home again, and he knew he wasn’t the only one who lived in Edinburgh.
Edinburgh. He’d only been transferred a month, but he still missed his old CID office. Then again, nobody here minded that he was ex-Professional Standards, the kind of cop hated by other cops. But did any of them know the story behind his move? He’d been left for dead by a detective gone rogue, and that same detective had been dragged away by two career criminals – Darryl Christie and Joe Stark – never to be seen again. The upper echelons didn’t want the story made public. Added to which, the Procurator Fiscal hadn’t fancied taking either gangster to court when no actual body had ever turned up.
‘A good defence lawyer would rip us to pieces,’ Fox had been told at one of several hush-hush meetings.
Instead they had waved Gartcosh in front of him, and wouldn’t take no for an answer. So here he was, trying to find his niche in the Major Crime Division.
And failing.
He recalled an old office saying about promoting mediocrity. He did not regard himself as mediocre, but he knew he had never quite proved himself exceptional. Siobhan Clarke was exceptional, and would have fitted in at Gartcosh. He’d seen the look on her face when he’d broken the news – trying not to be dumbstruck or resentful. A brief hug while she fixed her face. But their friendship afterwards had faltered, excuses found not to watch a film or eat a meal. All so he could drive the forty miles here and the forty miles home, day after day.
Get a grip, Malcolm, he told himself as he entered the building. He rolled his shoulders, straightened his tie and did up both buttons on his suit jacket – the suit bought specially. New shoes, too, which had just about softened enough that he didn’t need daily plasters on his heels.
‘Detective Inspector Fox!’
Fox paused at the bottom of the stairs and turned towards the voice. Black polo shirt, short-sleeved with a zip at the neck; shoulder flashes; two sets of lanyards with photo ID. And above the whole ensemble the tanned face, bushy black eyebrows and salt-and-pepper hair. Assistant Chief Constable Ben McManus. Instinctively, Fox pulled himself to his full height. There were two ACCs at Gartcosh, and McManus was in charge of Organised Crime and Counter-Terrorism. Not the meat and potatoes stuff of Major Crime – murders and the like – but the cases spoken of in undertones and via gestures, the cases that were investigated behind a series of locked doors elsewhere in the building, doors opened with one of the magnetic cards swinging from around McManus’s neck.
‘Yes, sir?’ Fox said. The ACC was holding out his hand, gripping Fox’s when it was offered and slipping his free hand over the top of both.
‘We’ve not been properly introduced. I know Jen’s been keeping you busy …’
Jen being Fox’s own boss, ACC Jennifer Lyon.
‘Yes, sir,’ Fox repeated.
‘Settled in okay, I hear. I know it can be a bit disconcerting at first – very different set-up from what you’ve been used to. We’ve all been there, trust me.’ McManus had released his hold on Fox and was climbing the staircase at a sprightly pace, Fox just about keeping up. ‘It’s good to have you, though. They speak very highly of you in Division Six.’
Division Six: the City of Edinburgh.
‘And of course your record speaks for itself – even the bits we don’t want anyone outside Police Scotland to see.’ McManus offered a smile that was probably meant to be reassuring but told Fox only that this man wanted him for something and had had him checked out. At the top of the stairs they headed for one of the soundproofed glass boxes that were used for private meetings. Blinds could be drawn as required. Eight bodies could be accommodated around the rectangular table. There was only one there waiting.
She stood up as they entered, tucking a few stray blonde hairs back behind one ear. Fox reckoned the woman was in her early to mid thirties. Five and a half feet tall and dressed in dark skirt and pale blue blouse.
‘Ah, they’ve even brought us some coffee,’ McManus announced, spotting the pot and mugs. ‘Not that we’re going to be here long, but help yourselves if you like.’
Taking the hint, Fox and the woman shook their heads.
‘I’m Sheila Graham, by the way.’
‘Sorry,’ McManus interrupted, ‘my fault entirely. This is DI Fox, Sheila.’
‘Malcolm,’ Fox said.
‘Sheila here,’ McManus ran on, ‘is Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs. You won’t have been shown their part of the building yet.’
‘I’ve walked past a few times,’ Fox said. ‘Lots of people tapping away at computers.’
‘That’s the sort of thing,’ McManus agreed. He had seated himself and gestured for Fox to do the same.
‘We work the usual areas,’ Graham said, her eyes fixed on Fox. ‘Drink and tobacco, money laundering, e-crime and fraud. A lot of it comprises basic forensic accounting, not that there’s anything basic about it in the digital age. Dirty money can be transferred around the world in the blink of an eye, accounts opened and closed almost as quickly. And that’s before we get to Bitcoin and the Dark Web.’
‘She’s lost me already,’ McManus said with a grin, throwing open his arms in a show of defeat.
‘Am I being transferred?’ Fox asked. ‘I mean, I can balance a chequebook with the best of them, but …’
‘We’ve plenty of number-crunchers,’ Graham said with the thinnest of smiles. ‘And right now some of them are looking at a man you seem to know – Darryl Christie.’
‘I know him all right.’
‘Did you hear what happened last night?’
‘No.’
Graham seemed disappointed in his answer, as though he had already failed her in some way. ‘He was given a doing, ended up in hospital.’
‘Business he’s in, there’s always a price to be paid,’ McManus said. He had risen to his feet and was pouring himself coffee, without offering to Fox and Graham.
‘What’s HMRC’s interest?’ Fox asked.
‘You know Christie owns some betting shops?’ Fox decided not to let on that this, too, was news to him. ‘We think he’s been using them to clean up dirty money – his own and that of other criminals.’
‘Such as Joe Stark in Glasgow?’
‘Such as Joe Stark in Glasgow,’ Graham echoed, sounding as though he had partway redeemed himself.
‘Stark and his boys came barging into Edinburgh a few months back,’ Fox explained. ‘Joe and Darryl ended up friends.’
‘There are others besides Stark,�
�� McManus chipped in before slurping from his mug. ‘And not just in Scotland either.’
‘Quite an enterprise,’ Fox commented.
‘It’ll almost certainly run into the millions,’ Graham agreed.
‘We need someone on the ground, Malcolm.’ McManus leaned across the table towards Fox. ‘Someone who knows the territory, but reporting back to us.’
‘To what end?’
‘Could be the assault inquiry will throw up names or information. There are going to be a lot of headless chickens running around while Christie recuperates. Meantime he’s going to be wondering who he’s up against – associate or enemy.’
‘He might start to slip up.’
‘He might,’ Graham agreed with a slow nod.
‘So I’m going back to Edinburgh?’
‘As a tourist, Malcolm,’ McManus cautioned with a wag of the finger. ‘You need to make sure they know you’re our man, not theirs.’
‘Do I tell them HMRC have got their bloodhounds sniffing Christie’s trail?’
‘Better if you don’t,’ Graham stated.
‘You’ll be working for me, Malcolm.’ McManus had finished his coffee already and was getting back to his feet, meeting over. ‘And it’s only natural we at Organised Crime should want to know what’s going on.’
‘Yes, sir. You say he was attacked last night? So the investigation will just be getting started …’
‘The officer in charge is …’ Graham sought the name, closing her eyes for a moment. ‘Detective Inspector Clarke.’
‘Of course,’ Fox said, forcing a smile.
‘Excellent!’ McManus clapped his hands together, made the briskest of turns, and yanked open the door. Fox stood up, making sure he had Sheila Graham’s attention.
‘Anything else I need to know?’
‘I don’t think so, Malcolm.’ She handed him her business card. ‘Mobile’s the best way to get me.’
He handed her a card of his own.
‘You didn’t know about the betting shops, did you?’ she asked, eyes twinkling. ‘Pretty good poker face, though …’
The first thing Siobhan Clarke noticed as she parked outside Christie’s house was that it was almost identical in size and design to Cafferty’s home across town – a detached three-storey Victorian stone edifice with large bay windows either side of the front door and a long driveway to the side that led to a free-standing garage. The front gate wasn’t locked, so she walked up the path and rang the bell. She had already noted the CCTV cameras described by the constable last night, and there was another built into the stonework next to the door buzzer.
