by Ian Rankin
Esson looked up from her screen. ‘Does Morris Gerald Cafferty count as an associate?’
‘Quite the opposite, I’d think, unless we learn anything to the contrary.’
‘We’re taking this seriously then?’ Ogilvie asked. He had started growing a moustache and was running a finger and thumb down either side of it. Pale and gangly, he always reminded Clarke of a long-stemmed plant starved of sunlight.
‘According to Christie’s mother,’ she told him, ‘their car and rubbish bin were attacked recently. Looks like a classic escalation.’
‘So was last night an attempt on his life?’
Clarke considered for a moment, then shrugged. ‘Is the boss in his broom cupboard?’
Esson shook her head. ‘But I think I hear his dainty tread.’
Yes, Clarke could hear it, too. DCI James Page’s distinctive leather soles, climbing the last few stairs and clacking along the uncarpeted corridor towards the open door.
‘Good, you’re here,’ he said, spotting Clarke. ‘Look who I ran into.’ He leaned to one side, so that Malcolm Fox was visible. Clarke could feel her spine stiffening.
‘And what brings you down from the mountain?’ she asked.
Page was squeezing Fox’s shoulder. ‘We’re always delighted, of course, to see our brethren from Gartcosh. Isn’t that right?’
Esson and Ogilvie stared at one another, unable to form an answer. Clarke had folded her arms.
‘DI Fox needs our help, Siobhan,’ Page said. Then, turning towards Fox: ‘Or is that putting it too strongly, Malcolm?’
‘Darryl Christie,’ Fox stated for the benefit of the room.
Page was wagging a finger at Clarke. ‘You can imagine how happy I was to be told by Malcolm that the attack on Mr Christie was being investigated by my own officers – news to me, Siobhan.’ All the fake warmth left his voice as he glared at her. ‘Something you and I will be discussing as soon as we have a minute.’
Fox was trying not to look embarrassed at having dropped Clarke in it. She hoped the look she was giving him wasn’t doing anything to ease his discomfort.
‘So let’s go into my office and have a little chat, eh?’ Page said, giving Fox a final pat on the shoulder and leading the way.
Page’s inner sanctum was a converted storeroom with no natural light and just about enough space for his desk, a filing cabinet and a couple of chairs for visitors.
‘Sit,’ he commanded, having got himself comfortable.
The problem was, Clarke and Fox were so close together when seated that their feet, knees and elbows almost touched. Clarke could feel Fox squirming as he tried to put some distance between them.
‘Why are Gartcosh interested in a mugging?’ she asked into the silence.
Fox kept his eyes on the desk. ‘Darryl Christie is a known player. He has direct ties to Joe Stark’s gang in Glasgow. Obviously he’s on our radar.’
‘So you’re here to make sure we do our job?’
‘I’m an observer, Siobhan. All I’ll be doing is reporting back.’
‘And why can’t we do that ourselves?’
He turned his head towards her. She noticed that his cheeks had coloured slightly. ‘Because this is the way it is. If everything’s thorough – and knowing you, I doubt it’ll be anything but – there’s not going to be an issue.’
‘You have to understand, Malcolm,’ Page interrupted, ‘that it can rankle somewhat when overseers suddenly arrive without warning.’
‘I’m only doing my job, DCI Page. There’ll be an email somewhere or a phone message from ACC McManus, advising you of my role.’ Fox glanced at Page’s laptop, which lay closed on the desk.
‘McManus runs Organised Crime,’ Clarke commented. ‘I thought you were Major Crime.’
‘They’ve borrowed me.’
‘Why?’
He held her gaze. ‘Until recently, this was my patch. Maybe they thought I’d be welcomed back with open arms.’
Clarke gave a twitch of the mouth.
‘And of course you are welcome, Malcolm,’ Page announced, ‘and we’ll do our best to accommodate your needs, so you can make your report and we can all get our proficiency badges.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘But tell me, Siobhan, is this really anything that should set Gartcosh’s antennae twitching?’
Clarke considered her response. ‘His injuries aren’t life-threatening, but his mother says his car was attacked previously and their bin was set ablaze.’
‘Classic escalation,’ Fox commented, earning a look from her that he couldn’t quite read.
‘Reckon he knows who’s responsible?’ Page asked.
‘I’ve not interviewed him yet. He’s being released today; I was going to drop in on him this evening.’
Page nodded. ‘No witnesses? Nobody spotted fleeing the scene?’
‘We’re knocking on doors right now, though a few more bodies would be useful.’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
‘I’m wondering if we need to offer Christie something,’ Clarke went on. ‘Maybe a marked car outside his house for a night or two.’
‘I doubt he’d thank us for it.’
‘An unmarked car then – and he doesn’t need to know.’
‘He doesn’t have bodyguards?’
‘Seems to have dispensed with them.’
‘Meaning what exactly?’
She shrugged. ‘Could be he’s trying to save on outgoings. The house he’s in won’t have come cheap.’
‘You think he might be strapped for cash?’ Fox’s eyes narrowed as he weighed this up.
‘How does he make his money anyway?’ Page was looking at Fox. ‘Your lot should know better than anyone.’
‘He has his hotel,’ Fox obliged, ‘and some bars and nightclubs, plus a couple of betting shops.’
‘There’s other stuff, too,’ Clarke added. ‘A car wash, I think. Plus a door-to-door operation providing the same sort of thing.’
‘Okay,’ Page said, his eyes still on Fox. ‘And if we scratch the surface?’
‘I’m not privy to everything Gartcosh has,’ Fox admitted, shifting in his seat again. ‘Drugs … money laundering … who knows?’
‘I’ve got Christine looking into it,’ Clarke said. ‘So we might have something a bit more substantial by end of play.’
‘It’s thin stuff for CID,’ Page advised. ‘People get duffed up all the time.’ He paused. ‘But as this is Darryl Christie we’re talking about, and because our colleagues in Organised Crime are taking an interest … fine, let’s throw what resources we can at it.’
‘Including the watch on his home?’ Clarke asked.
‘Maybe for a night or two. Better still would be a list of anyone who bears a grudge – you can ask Mr Christie about that when you see him.’
‘I’m sure he’ll give us a full and frank account.’
Page’s mouth twitched. ‘Use what charm you can muster, Siobhan. And keep Malcolm fully apprised.’
‘Due respect, sir,’ Fox interrupted, ‘I think I need a bit more than that.’ Page looked at him for elucidation. ‘I need to be with DI Clarke each step of the way,’ Fox obliged. ‘I doubt ACC McManus would brook anything less.’
Clarke’s eyes were pleading with her boss, but Page just sighed and nodded.
‘Off you go then, the pair of you.’
‘Sir …’ Clarke started to complain.
‘It’s the price you pay, Siobhan, when you don’t tell me what’s going on under my own nose.’
Having said which, Page opened the screen of his laptop and began hitting keys.
Fox led the way back into the CID suite, but Clarke signalled towards the corridor, and he followed her, stopping as she turned to face him.
‘Ask me how happy I am about all of this,’ she hissed.
‘I did try phoning …’
‘You could have left a message.’
‘So you do know I tried?’
‘I was a bit busy, Malcolm.’
> ‘You’ve not driven the length of the M8 twice already today – I’m the one who should be cranky.’
‘Who says I’m cranky?’
‘You sound cranky.’
‘Livid is what I am.’
‘All because the chiefs chose me over you for the Gartcosh posting?’
‘What?’ She pretended amazement. ‘That’s got nothing to do with it.’
‘Good, because it looks like we’re stuck together for the next wee while. And I’m fine, by the way, settling into the new job nicely, thanks for asking.’
‘I sent you a text on your first day!’
‘I don’t think so.’
Clarke thought for a moment. ‘Well, I meant to.’
‘Cheers.’
The silence lingered until Clarke gave a sigh. ‘Okay, how do we work this?’
‘You treat me like part of the team, because that’s what I’ll be.’
‘Right up to the point where you scurry off westward to make your report. And by the way, this needs to be a two-way street – anything in the files at Gartcosh, I need to see it.’
‘That would need to be approved.’
‘But you can ask – and you will ask.’
‘And if I do that, you and me declare a truce?’ He was holding out his hand. Eventually she took it.
‘Truce,’ she said.
Clarke stood outside the tenement on Arden Street and pressed the intercom, then took a few steps back so she could be seen from the second-floor window. When Rebus’s face appeared, she waved. He seemed to hesitate before shrinking back into his living room. Seconds later, the buzzer told her the door was unlocked. She pushed it open, holding it with her shoulder as she lifted a box from the ground.
‘Am I in for a telling-off?’ Rebus barked from above, his voice echoing off the tiled walls of the stairwell.
‘Why would …?’ She broke off, realising. ‘You went to see Cafferty. Of course you did.’
‘Got a confession in full, too.’
‘Aye, right. Did he tell you anything useful?’
‘What do you think?’ She had reached his landing and he saw the box. ‘Did I forget Christmas or something?’
‘In a manner of speaking. Though after pulling a stunt like that with Big Ger, maybe I should reconsider.’
He took the box from her and carried it into the living room. Clarke cast an eye over the place.
‘Deborah Quant has been good for you. Tidier than I remember. Not even an ashtray – don’t tell me she’s got you packing it in?’
Rebus placed the box on the dining table so that it covered the letter from his hospital consultant. ‘Deb doesn’t like mess – you’ve seen the way she runs the mortuary. You could eat your dinner off one of her slabs.’
‘So long as it wasn’t occupied,’ Clarke countered. Brillo had emerged from his basket in the kitchen, and she crouched down to give him some attention, scratching at the tight wiry curls that had given the dog its name.
‘Is he still getting walked twice a day?’
‘Supermarket and Bruntsfield Links.’
‘He looks great.’ She got back to her feet. ‘So you’re doing okay?’
‘Hale and hearty.’
‘Deborah mentioned something about bronchitis …’
‘Did she now?’
‘Last time I was in the mortuary.’
‘And you didn’t rush straight over here?’
‘Reckoned you’d tell me when you were ready.’ She paused. ‘But knowing you, that’s never going to happen.’
‘Well, I’m fine. Potions and inhalers and all that jazz.’
‘And you’ve given up smoking?’
‘The proverbial piece of cake. So what’s in the box?’ He was already prising off the lid.
‘Fresh out of cold storage.’
Rebus was studying the name on the topmost brown manila file: Maria Turquand. ‘This can’t be the whole case?’
‘God, no, there’s about three shelves’ worth. But you’ve got all the summaries, plus a little bonus.’
Rebus had opened the first file, and he saw what she meant. ‘The case was reviewed.’
‘By your old friends at SCRU.’
‘Not long before my stint there.’
‘Eight years ago, in point of fact.’
Rebus was studying the file’s covering sheet. ‘I thought Eddie Tranter was in charge of SCRU back then. But it’s not his name here.’ He dug down a little further.
‘Enough to keep you going?’ Clarke was making a circuit of the room, much as she would a crime scene.
‘Stop snooping,’ Rebus told her, ‘and tell me instead if there’s any news.’
‘Christie, you mean? Not much. Door-to-door has given us precisely zilch. Interesting, though …’
‘What?’
‘His house is the spitting image of Cafferty’s – from the outside, at least.’
‘Emulating him, maybe?’
‘Or sending a message of some sort.’
‘Wonder if Darryl knows Cafferty’s changed addresses.’
‘Oh?’
‘Nice modern flat in Quartermile.’
‘Think it means anything?’
‘Maybe Big Ger wasn’t flattered by the young prince’s gesture.’
‘Moving into an almost identical house, you mean?’
Rebus nodded slowly and placed the lid back on the box. ‘You won’t get into trouble for bringing me this?’
‘Not unless anyone else goes looking for it in the warehouse.’
‘It’s really appreciated, Siobhan. I mean it. I’d just sit and stare at the walls otherwise.’
‘The dog was supposed to help with that.’
‘Brillo seems as keen on exercise as I am.’ He watched as Clarke checked her phone. ‘Somewhere else you need to be?’
‘I’m hoping to speak with Darryl this evening.’ She paused. ‘And I won’t be alone – Malcolm’s back in town.’
‘Didn’t take long for Gartcosh to kick him into touch.’
‘He’s here as their man on the ground, making sure we don’t screw up the case.’
‘Seriously?’ Rebus shook his head slowly. ‘Does every villain who gets a pummelling earn the same level of service?’
Clarke forced a smile. ‘Maybe Darryl’s gone private.’ She watched as what started as a chuckle from Rebus became a cough. With his hand over his mouth he exited the room, and she could hear the fit continuing. When he returned, he was wiping at eyes and mouth both. Clarke held up a small jar filled with clear liquid in which something was suspended.
‘Is this what I think it is?’ she asked.
‘You’re not the only one who brings me presents,’ Rebus managed to reply.
After she’d gone, Rebus emptied the box, spreading its contents across the dining table. The officer in charge of the cold-case review was a detective inspector called Robert Chatham.
‘Fat Rab,’ Rebus said aloud as he read. He’d known him by reputation but never worked with him. Chatham had been F Troop, meaning West Lothian’s F Division, based in Livingston. Lothian and Borders Police had consisted of six divisions, seven if you included the HQ at Fettes. The coming of Police Scotland had changed all that. There wasn’t a Lothian and Borders any more, and the City of Edinburgh was to be known as Division Six, which made it sound like a floundering football team. Rebus no longer attended the get-togethers of cops who had shared various L&B beats, but he heard the mutterings. Early retirements; younger officers giving up after a few short years.
‘Well out of it, John.’ He got up to make a mug of tea and scoop some food into Brillo’s bowl. ‘Fancy a walk?’ he asked, shaking the dog’s lead. Brillo ignored him, too busy eating. ‘Thought not.’
Back at the dining table, he got to work. The cold-case review had come about because of a newspaper story, one Rebus had obviously missed. The journalist had interviewed Bruce Collier’s road manager, a man called Vince Brady. The piece was about the touring life of the
1970s, a mix of rueful sexism and drug binges. Brady stated that he’d seen Maria Turquand in conversation with Collier in the hotel’s third-floor corridor. Brady’s room had been right next to Turquand’s, while Collier – being ‘the talent’ – had the suite at the end of the hall.
There was due to be a bit of a party in the suite after the show, and I think Bruce was inviting her. But before the gig even started we found out she was brown bread [dead] so the celebrations were a bit subdued.
The journalist had tried contacting Collier for his reaction, but had received a two-word message that meant pretty much the same as ‘no comment’. Chatham and his team had listened to the recording of the interview with Brady, then questioned Brady himself and Collier. Collier had told them his road manager must be mistaken. He had no recollection of any meeting, however brief.
I had to give Vince the heave after that tour. He was taking the piss over the merch, pocketing more money than I ever saw. This is just him trying a bit of payback, if you take my meaning.
A little later in the interview, Collier stated that he had spent most of his time in the hotel catching up with ‘a mate from the good old days’. This mate was a local musician called Dougie Vaughan. The two had played together in a band in high school. Vaughan was still a jobbing guitarist, popping up at folk clubs and open-mic nights around Edinburgh.
He was also one of Maria Turquand’s ex-lovers – Rebus had come across him in his own box of clippings about the case. Vaughan had given his story to the Evening News a few months after the murder. A one-night fling after Turquand had spotted him playing at a party. He had tried contacting her afterwards but had been rebuffed.
Smashing girl, she was. Terrible what happened.
And yes, Vaughan had been in the hotel that afternoon to see his old school pal. And yes, he’d been questioned by the police, but hadn’t been able to help. He’d had no idea Maria Turquand was just a few doors along from Collier’s suite. No one had mentioned her.
Rebus’s tea had grown cold by the time he finished reading. He rubbed his hands down his face, blinking his eyes back into focus. Brillo was out in the hall, seated and expectant.
‘Really?’ Rebus asked. ‘Well, if you say so …’ He fetched the lead and grabbed jacket, keys and phone. Arden Street was only a couple of minutes from the Meadows and Bruntsfield Links. There were always dog walkers out and about. Sometimes they even stopped for a chat while the various mutts inspected each other. Rebus would be asked how old his dog was.
