by Ian Rankin
Gail McKie pulled open the door. She was standing in a vestibule, the glass-panelled door behind her leading into the main hallway. She didn’t look as if she’d slept – same clothes as at the hospital, and her hair drooping to her shoulders.
‘Wouldn’t have bothered if I’d known it was you,’ she offered by way of greeting. Clarke gestured towards the camera.
‘You don’t use that, then?’
‘It’s fake, same as all the others. They were there when we bought the place – Darryl keeps meaning to put in real ones.’
‘How is he?’
‘He’ll be home today.’
‘That’s good.’
‘There’ve been a couple of your lot round already, harassing the neighbours.’
‘You don’t want the police involved?’
‘What do you care?’
‘Some of us do, though.’
‘Then go talk to Cafferty.’
‘I’m not saying that won’t happen, but we need to piece together the events first, starting with where you found Darryl.’
‘Won’t do any good. I didn’t see anybody.’
‘Darryl was out cold?’
‘Thought he was dead for a minute.’ McKie suppressed a shiver.
‘Could your other sons have seen or heard anything?’
A shake of the head. ‘Asked them last night.’
‘Can I speak to them?’
‘They’re at college.’
Clarke thought for a moment. ‘Shall we go take a look at the driveway, then?’
McKie seemed reluctant, but then headed indoors, re-emerging with a cream Burberry raincoat wrapped around her shoulders. She led the way, pointing towards one of the security cameras.
‘Wee red light and everything. Look real enough, don’t they?’
‘Are there many break-ins?’
McKie shrugged. ‘When you’ve got what people want, you start to fret.’
‘Darryl maybe thought nobody was likely to target his house – him being who he is.’ Clarke waited, but McKie stayed silent. ‘It’s a nice part of town,’ she went on.
‘Bit different from where we started out.’
‘Did Darryl pick the house?’
McKie nodded. They had reached the white Range Rover Evoque. It had pulled to a halt next to the rear entrance to the house. There were security lights above both the garage and the back door itself. Clarke gestured towards them.
‘Whoever was waiting for him, they’d have tripped the lights, yes?’
‘Maybe. But if you’re indoors with the curtains closed, you wouldn’t notice.’
‘Would the neighbours?’
‘We get a lot of foxes around here, being next to the Botanics. That’s what I always blame if I see a light coming on anywhere.’
There were spots of dried blood on the driveway by the driver’s-side door. McKie turned her head away from them.
‘He won’t want me telling you this,’ she said quietly, ‘but I’m going to say it anyway.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘There’ve been warnings.’
‘Oh?’
‘One night, Darryl left the car kerbside. Next morning, the front tyres had been slashed. That was about two weeks ago. Then last week, the bin went up.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Put it out for collection, and somebody torched it. Take a look for yourself.’
The bin was to the right of the back door, its plastic lid warped and blackened, part of one side melted halfway down.
‘You didn’t report this?’
‘Darryl said it was most likely kids. I’m not sure he believed it himself. No one else in the street got the same treatment.’
‘You think he was being targeted?’
McKie gave a shrug, which sent her coat sliding to the ground. She stooped to pick it up, brushing it clean before wrapping herself in it again.
‘Have you spoken to him since last night?’
‘He didn’t see anything. They got him on the back of the head as he was locking the car. Says he dropped like a stone. Bastards must’ve kept hitting him once he was out cold.’
‘He reckons there was more than one assailant?’
‘He’s no idea – this is me talking.’
‘Are you aware of any other incidents or threats? Maybe a note?’
McKie shook her head. ‘Whatever’s going on, Darryl will find out.’ She glared at Clarke. ‘Maybe that’s what you’re afraid of, eh?’
‘Your son would be unwise to take matters into his own hands, Ms McKie.’
‘He’s always been his own man, though, even when he was a kid – insisted on keeping his dad’s name for the school register, after the bastard running out on us and everything. Then when Annette died …’ She paused and took a deep breath, as if controlling some strong emotion. ‘Darryl grew up fast. Fast and strong and smart. A lot smarter than you lot.’
Clarke’s phone was buzzing. She dug it out of her pocket and studied the screen.
‘Answer it if you like.’
But Clarke shook her head. ‘It can wait. Could you have a word with Darryl for me?’
‘And tell him what?’
‘That I’d like to speak to him. That he should agree to see me.’
‘You know he’s not going to tell you anything.’
‘I’d still like to try.’
McKie considered this, then gave a slow nod.
‘Thank you,’ Clarke said. ‘I could come back this evening, maybe see your other sons at the same time.’
‘You get extra money for working late?’
‘I wish.’
Eventually, Gail McKie smiled. It took years from her, and Clarke was reminded of the woman she’d been when posing for cameras and questions at press conferences back when Annette was still missing. A lot of changes had taken place since, and Darryl had changed most of all.
‘Around seven?’ Clarke suggested.
‘We’ll see,’ McKie said.
Heading for the gate, Clarke looked at her phone again. One missed call. No message. A number she recognised.
‘What the hell do you want, Malcolm?’ she sighed, slipping the phone back into her pocket.
3
Rebus stood outside Cafferty’s house on a wide, leafy street in Merchiston, staring at the For Sale sign. He’d already made a circuit of the garden, peering through any windows that weren’t curtained or shuttered, satisfying himself that the house had been emptied. He took out his phone and called Cafferty’s mobile, but it just rang and rang. A neighbour across the way was watching from a downstairs window. Rebus waved and then crossed the road, meeting the woman as she opened her door.
‘When did he move out?’ Rebus asked.
‘About ten days ago.’
‘Any idea why?’
‘Why?’ she echoed. It was obviously not the question she’d expected.
‘Or his new address,’ Rebus added.
‘Somebody did say they’d seen him at Quartermile.’
Quartermile: the site of the old Edinburgh Royal Infirmary, now redeveloped.
‘Would he have left his new address with anyone?’
‘Mr Cafferty kept himself pretty much to himself.’
‘Probably didn’t go down well, though, when that bullet went through his window a while back.’
‘The story I heard was, he fell against the pane and broke it.’
‘Trust me, he didn’t. How much is he asking?’ Rebus angled his head towards the house opposite.
‘That’s not the sort of thing we bandy about.’
‘Maybe I’ll phone the agent, then.’
‘You do that.’ The door was being closed again, not hurriedly but with polite Edinburgh finality, so Rebus walked back to his Saab and got in, tapping the solicitor’s number into his phone.
‘Price on application,’ he was eventually told.
‘Is this not me applying?’
‘If you’d care to make an appointment
to view …’
He ended the call instead and drove into town. There was an underground car park at the heart of Quartermile, but Rebus stopped on a yellow line instead. The site now boasted amenities such as shops, a gym and a hotel. The old red- and grey-stone buildings of the original hospital had been joined by towers of glass and steel, with the best addresses looking south across the Meadows towards the Pentland Hills. In the sales office Rebus admired a scale model of the site, and even picked up a brochure. The woman on duty offered him a chocolate from an open tin, and he took it with a smile, before asking Cafferty’s whereabouts.
‘Oh, we don’t share that kind of information.’
‘I’m a friend of his.’
‘Then I’m sure you can track him down.’
Rebus gave a twist of the mouth and took out his phone again, this time composing a text.
I’m outside your new place. Come say hello.
Back at his car, he thought about how he used to fill gaps like this in his life with a cigarette, instead of which he walked to the Sainsbury’s on Middle Meadow Walk and queued for a box of chewing gum. He was almost at the Saab again when his phone buzzed: incoming message.
You’re bluffing.
Rebus typed a reply: Nice Sainsbury’s, if you can put up with the students.
And waited.
It was a further four or five minutes before Cafferty emerged from a gate at the side of one of the older blocks. His head was huge, shaped like a cannonball, the silver hair shaved close to the skull. He wore a long black woollen coat and red scarf, an open-necked white shirt visible beneath, exposing tufts of chest hair. His eyes, which always seemed smaller than they should be, had the same piercing quality as ever. Rebus reckoned they had served Cafferty well over the years, as sharp and fearful a weapon as any in his armoury.
‘What the hell do you want?’ Cafferty growled.
‘An invite to the house-warming, maybe.’
Cafferty stuffed his hands into his pockets. ‘Doesn’t feel like a social call, but last time I looked you were still retired, so what’s on your mind?’
‘Just our old friend Darryl Christie. I’m remembering the last time we talked about him. You as good as said you had a bit of fight left in you.’
‘So?’
‘So he’s been put in hospital.’
Cafferty’s mouth formed an O. He lifted a hand from one pocket and rubbed at his nose.
‘Been taking acting lessons?’ Rebus asked.
‘This is the first I’m hearing of it.’
‘And you’ll have a cast-iron alibi for last night, I’m guessing?’
‘Isn’t that the sort of thing a detective should be asking?’
‘I’m pretty sure they will. Your name’s being mentioned in dispatches.’
‘Darryl trying to stir things up?’ Cafferty nodded to himself. ‘And why shouldn’t he? It’s an open goal and I’d probably do the same myself.’
‘Actually, you did – when that bullet hit your living-room window.’
‘Fair point.’ Cafferty looked around him, sniffing the air. ‘I was just about to have my mid-morning coffee. I don’t suppose it would hurt if you sat in the vicinity.’
‘Aren’t the cafés rammed with people bunking off their lectures?’
‘I’m sure we can find a quiet corner,’ Cafferty said.
Not the first two places they tried, but the third, a Starbucks on Forrest Road. A double espresso for Cafferty and an Americano for Rebus. He’d made the mistake of asking for a large, which seemed to mean a mug almost the size of his head.
Cafferty stirred sugar into his own tiny cup. They hadn’t quite found a corner, but apart from a few students poring over textbooks and laptops, the place was quiet and their table private enough.
‘Always music in these places,’ Cafferty commented, eyes on the ceiling-mounted speakers. ‘Same in restaurants and half the shops. Drives me demented …’
‘And it’s not even real music,’ Rebus added. ‘Not like we had in our day.’
The two men shared a look and then a wry smile, concentrating on their drinks for a moment.
‘I’ve been wondering when you would show up,’ Cafferty eventually said. ‘Not about Darryl Christie, but just generally. I had this image of you driving past my house at regular intervals, wondering if you’d catch me in the middle of something, something you could take to court.’
‘Except I’m not a detective any more.’
‘Citizen’s arrest then, maybe.’
‘Why’s your old place on the market?’
‘I was rattling around in it. Time to downsize.’
‘And then there was that bullet.’
Cafferty shook his head. ‘Nothing to do with that.’ He took another sip of the thick black liquid. ‘So Darryl’s got on the wrong side of somebody, eh? Occupational hazard – we both know that.’
‘He’s a big player in the city, though, probably the biggest unless you know otherwise.’
‘Doesn’t make him immune.’
‘Especially not if the man he shunted aside decides on a comeback.’
‘Nobody shunted me,’ Cafferty bristled, squaring his shoulders.
‘You went quietly then, and you’re thrilled to leave the city in his hands.’
‘I might not go that far.’
‘Any names for me?’
‘Names?’
‘You said it yourself – he got on somebody’s wrong side.’
‘It’s not your job any more, Rebus. Did they forget to tell you that?’
‘Doesn’t stop me being nosy.’
‘Obviously not.’
‘And a man needs a hobby. I can’t begin to guess what yours might be.’ Cafferty glared at him, and the two men lapsed into silence, focusing on their drinks again until Rebus held up a finger. ‘I recognise that tune,’ he said.
‘It’s Bruce Collier, isn’t it?’
Rebus nodded. ‘Did you ever see him live?’
‘The Usher Hall.’
‘In ’78?’
‘Around then.’
‘You remember the Maria Turquand murder, then?’
‘At the Caley Hotel?’ Cafferty was nodding. ‘It was the lover, wasn’t it? Got his new squeeze to lie through her teeth and dodged a life sentence.’
‘You reckon?’
‘It’s what everyone thought, your lot included. He moved back up this way, you know.’
‘The lover?’
‘No, Bruce Collier. Think I read that somewhere.’
‘Is he still playing?’
‘Christ knows.’ Cafferty drained the dregs of his coffee. ‘We about done here, or are you still waiting for me to confess to thumping Darryl?’
‘I’m not in any hurry.’ Rebus gestured towards his mug. ‘I’ve got about half a vat left here.’
‘Then I’ll leave you to finish it. You’re a man of leisure after all, about time you faced up to the fact.’
‘And what about you? How do you keep busy?’
‘I’m a businessman. I do business.’
‘Every last bit of it above board?’
‘Unless your successors prove otherwise. How is Siobhan, by the way?’
‘Haven’t seen her in a while.’
‘She still stepping out with DI Fox?’
‘Is this you trying to impress me? Showing you still have your ear to the ground? If so, you’d best get your hearing checked.’
Cafferty was on his feet, adjusting his scarf, tightening it around his throat. ‘Okay, Mr Amateur Detective. Here’s something for you.’ He leaned over the seated Rebus, so that their foreheads almost touched. ‘Look for a Russian. You can thank me later.’
And with a smile and a wink he was gone.
‘Hell’s that supposed to mean?’ Rebus muttered to himself, brow furrowed. Then he realised that the song Bruce Collier had just finished singing was a version of the Beatles’ ‘Back in the USSR’.
‘Look for a Russian,’ he repeated, stari
ng into his coffee and feeling a sudden need to pee.
Time was, Siobhan Clarke got a frisson just walking through the door of Gayfield Square police station. Each day brought new cases and different challenges, and there might even be something big about to break – a murder or serious assault. Now, though, Police Scotland parachuted in their own squad for high-profile inquiries, meaning the local CID was reduced to a support role – and where was the fun in that? Every day now it seemed there were grumblings and mutterings; fellow officers ticking off the days till retirement or pulling sickies. Tess in the control room was a good source of general gossip, even if the gossip itself was grim.
Clarke had had to park in a pay bay, too, having failed to find a space at the station. So, having put in the maximum amount, she was tapping an alarm reminder into her phone as she climbed the stairs to the CID suite. In four hours she’d have to move the car or face a fine. There was a sign she could use for her windscreen – OFFICIAL POLICE VEHICLE. But she’d tried that once and returned to find someone had scored the car all down one side.
Nice.
The CID suite wasn’t big, but then it wasn’t busy. Her two DCs, Christine Esson and Ronnie Ogilvie, were seated at their computers, tapping away. With her head angled downwards, only Esson’s short dark hair was visible.
‘Good of you to drop in,’ Clarke heard her comment.
‘I was out at Darryl Christie’s house.’
‘Word is he’s had a bit of an accident.’ Esson had stopped typing and was studying her boss.
‘We all know he’s a respectable entrepreneur and everything,’ Clarke said, slipping out of her jacket and draping it over the back of her chair, ‘but could you find me anything we’ve got on his activities and associates?’
‘No problem.’
Clarke turned to Ogilvie. ‘Uniforms are talking to the neighbours. I need to know what they find. And make sure they look at any and all CCTV recordings from dusk till the paramedics arrived.’
