A Song for the Dark Times

by Ian Rankin

  ‘What do you think’s going on?’

  ‘Cafferty would do anything to have someone on the inside at Gartcosh, the higher up the better.’

  ‘Malcolm’s hardly—’

  ‘But he’s on his way, and it seems he has the ear of the ACC. If and when she lands the top job…’

  ‘A promotion for Malcolm?’

  ‘Even without the promotion, he’s still going to look like a prize to Cafferty. I know that sounds ridiculous and I can barely believe I’m saying it, but our slow-moving, slow-thinking DI Fox gets to inhabit spaces closed to the likes of you and me.’

  ‘The heart of any and all Major Crime investigations?’

  ‘Anti-terrorism, money laundering, all manner of classified stuff we have no inkling of. And yes, I know it should have been you they came for–staggers me that Fox got the nod.’

  ‘We both know why, though…’

  ‘Is this where you point the finger at me? My proximity somehow contaminated you in the minds of the wankers at the Big House?’

  ‘The thought seems to have crossed your mind,’ Clarke said.

  ‘But just think how mundane those formative years would have been without me charging into the occasional china shop.’

  She was smiling, almost despite herself.

  ‘So what now?’ Rebus asked into the silence.

  ‘How many more days do you think you’ll be?’

  ‘You know as well as I do, it’s sometimes a long game.’

  ‘Want me to post you some clothes?’

  ‘I should have thought to buy some when I was in Inverness.’

  ‘So how are you managing?’

  ‘Pub landlady, I’ve got her late husband’s cast-offs on standby.’

  ‘A landlady, eh? You’ve landed on your feet.’

  ‘Maybe and maybe not.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘I’ve got her on my list of suspects.’

  ‘You’re kidding?’

  ‘Her and her dad…’

  ‘Her dad?’

  ‘He’s in his nineties, so he’s low in the charts.’ Clarke couldn’t help laughing. ‘But he kept an old revolver in the bar and it’s gone walkabout, which maybe puts the barman, Cameron, in the picture. Added to which we have Samantha’s flame from the commune… maybe his partner, Angharad Oates, too–Lord Strathy’s ex, lest we forget–if we’re factoring in her jealousy of Samantha’s fling with Hawkins.’

  ‘You’re incorrigible.’

  ‘Is that what I am? How come I feel so tired, then? I could use some of Malcolm’s stamina.’ Clarke didn’t say anything. ‘You’re going to go check, aren’t you, see if he’s still in the office?’

  ‘Feet up with a good book,’ Clarke corrected him, knowing she was lying. ‘I’ve got the new Karin Slaughter to keep me company.’

  ‘Not forgetting a faithful pooch.’

  ‘Kennels, John. I’m not joking.’

  ‘Try telling him that to his face.’

  When Clarke turned from the window, it was as if Brillo had heard every word. His head was cocked, eyes moist.

  ‘I can hear your resolve crumbling from here,’ Rebus said, ending the call.

  ‘Thought I’d find you here,’ Clarke said, entering the MIT office.

  ‘Some of us don’t have Brillo to feed and walk,’ Fox replied.

  ‘Speaking of which, when did you last eat?’ Clarke reached into the carrier bag she was holding and handed a fish supper to Fox. He began to unwrap it, while she went to the kettle and switched it on.

  ‘Salt and sauce?’ he asked.

  ‘Just salt–I wasn’t sure which you were. Got you these, though.’ She dug sachets of ketchup and HP out of her pocket and tossed them towards him.

  ‘You think of everything,’ Fox said. His desk was strewn with paperwork, so he transported the food to Esson’s obsessively tidy desk and seated himself there. While the kettle got to work, Clarke took a look at his computer.

  ‘CCTV,’ she commented. Fox nodded, tearing at the fat piece of battered haddock.

  ‘Christ, this is good,’ he said.

  ‘Found any interesting bicycles?’

  He shook his head. ‘Might be something, though. I’ll tell you after.’

  Clarke poured two teas, sniffing the milk before adding a dollop to each stained mug. She carried both to Esson’s desk. Having freed up one hand, she lifted a chip from the pile beneath the fillet.

  ‘Any news from John?’ Fox asked.

  ‘He sends his love.’

  ‘I’ll bet he does. I saw about his daughter on the news–formally questioned but not yet charged. That must be shredding him.’

  ‘You know John.’

  Fox glanced up at her. ‘Was it him who tipped off the reporter about Lord Strathy?’

  ‘Who else?’

  ‘Bloody typical.’

  Clarke stared down at the carton of food. ‘You’re leaving most of the batter.’

  ‘The healthy option.’

  She picked up a sliver and popped it into her mouth. ‘The lack of footage doesn’t mean Issy and her bike weren’t there. I’m guessing Craigentinny has its share of cycle paths; not much call for CCTV on those.’ Fox was nodding to let her know he’d already considered this. ‘Thing is, though, where’s her motive?’

  ‘Motive is for later, Siobhan. Right now, an actual suspect would be received with thanks. Want the rest of these chips?’

  ‘You had enough?’ She watched Fox pat his not-insubstantial stomach. ‘In that case, I’ll eat while you show me what you’ve got.’ She lifted the cardboard carton and followed him to his desk. They sat side by side while Fox scrolled through the CCTV.

  ‘Thing is,’ he began, ‘previously we’d focused on Seafield Road, and the route Salman took from the New Town. But if his destination was the golf course car park, makes sense to look at the streets in and around Craigentinny too. Sadly, the CCTV coverage there is patchy, but I noticed this car.’ He clicked on a frame, freezing it. Headlights; terraced houses; an unremarkable saloon car; the driver nothing more than a smudged outline. ‘No visible passenger. And travelling towards the golf course from the direction of town.’

  ‘Okay.’ Clarke knew there was more coming. She finished the final few chips while Fox found the relevant clip.

  ‘This is Seafield Road again, just before eleven p.m. See that parked car?’ He pressed a fingertip to the screen. The car was shown from behind, rear lights glowing.

  ‘You’re saying it’s the same one?’

  ‘Same shape, similar colour.’

  ‘Where on Seafield Road is this?’

  ‘About fifty yards from the car park where Salman died, towards the city side. Next footage we have, no car.’

  ‘Driver stopped to take a call, then headed off again?’ She watched as Fox offered a shrug. ‘It’s not much, Malcolm.’

  ‘I know that. What I’m wondering is, is it worth asking the tech people to play with it and maybe get us a number plate?’

  ‘What’s your theory?’

  ‘There’s a meeting arranged at the golf club, but this driver gets there early and finds the car park locked. Drives out onto Seafield Road and parks. He or she knows an Aston when they see one, so when Salman hoves into view, they signal, maybe with a flash of the headlights. Salman pulls into the nearest secluded spot–which happens to be fifty yards behind the parked car. The other car joins him there.’ He noticed that Clarke was staring at him. ‘What?’

  ‘That’s properly impressive. You’re wasted at Gartcosh.’

  ‘We do detective work there too, you know.’

  ‘But not very much of it.’

  ‘So I hand this over to tech support in the morning?’

  Clarke nodded. ‘Meantime, what make of car do you reckon? Looks pretty generic.’

  ‘Could be any one of half a dozen,’ Fox agreed. His phone was vibrating. He lifted it from the desk, checking the caller’s name and then answering.


  ‘Yes?’ was all he said. Then, after listening to whatever the caller was saying: ‘Okay, two minutes.’

  ‘Cafferty?’ Clarke guessed as the call ended. ‘Downstairs waiting?’

  ‘I need to do this alone,’ Fox said, putting his jacket on.

  ‘No you don’t.’

  He gave her a look that was almost imploring. ‘Siobhan, please…’ As he made for the door, he turned his head, checking she was staying put.

  Clarke walked over to the window. Large black car as before; driver on the pavement, his phone illuminating his face. She held up her own phone, selecting camera and zooming in as far as possible. She snapped a picture of the driver, peering at it. Too grainy to be of any use in putting a name to him.

  ‘Pity,’ she said to herself.

  It always helped to know your enemies.

  Fox got into the back seat next to Cafferty, the armrest lowered between them.

  ‘I’m trying to be patient, Malcolm,’ Cafferty drawled. ‘But it goes against my nature.’

  Fox opened his mouth to speak, but then noticed that Cafferty’s focus had shifted. He was looking at something through the window. Turning, Fox spotted Clarke crossing the road.

  ‘She doesn’t know about the tapes or the ACC,’ he managed to tell Cafferty. ‘Let me deal with her…’

  The front passenger door opened and Clarke threw herself onto the seat. The driver was moving towards the car, but Cafferty slid his window down.

  ‘It’s okay, Benny,’ he said.

  ‘Does Benny have a surname?’ Clarke asked.

  ‘I assume so. Nice of you to join us, Siobhan.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you be holding court at your club?’

  ‘I’m after a progress report, that’s all. You know Malcolm’s been doing a bit of work for me?’

  ‘I know he’s been looking at Stewart Scoular, yes.’

  ‘I feel I’ve not been getting my money’s worth–not that money has changed hands.’

  ‘I’m here to tell you he’s not been slacking.’

  ‘Might help,’ Fox added, eyes on Cafferty, ‘if I knew what exactly it is you think I’m going to find.’

  Rather than answer, Cafferty kept his focus on Clarke. He even leaned his head forward a little into the gap between the back seats and the front.

  ‘So Malcolm’s been holding out on you, Siobhan? Hasn’t told you about the recordings of Jenni Lyon’s partner playing away from home–I hope he’s cooled down, by the way. He was going to fall on his sword, but that doesn’t seem to have happened. My guess is, Malky had a word with Jenni and Jenni had a word with the love rat.’

  ‘Recordings made at your club?’

  ‘And elsewhere.’ Cafferty glanced in Fox’s direction and grinned. ‘Didn’t know that, did you, Malky boy? I’m laying all my cards on the table right here. And I want Siobhan in the loop, because it seems to me you’ve been unwilling to trust her.’

  ‘You want me in the loop,’ Clarke corrected him, ‘because you’re trying to cause a rift between me and Malcolm–and that’s not going to happen.’

  The grin this time was aimed at the front seat. ‘She’s sharp, isn’t she, Malky?’

  ‘His name is Fox–Detective Inspector Fox to the likes of you.’

  ‘It’s that sort of attitude that can turn a concerned citizen against the powers of law and order and send them to the internet or the media with their little explosive package of recordings.’

  ‘If you want Scoular so badly,’ Clarke retorted, ‘go after him yourself.’

  ‘In fact,’ Fox said, pulling back his shoulders, ‘maybe we should go have a word with Mr Scoular. I’m sure he’d be tickled to know of your interest in him.’

  ‘And one other thing,’ Clarke added. ‘These tapes–I’m guessing you told Malcolm that releasing them would end ACC Lyon’s career. But that’s hardly a result for you, is it? Far better to hang onto them in the expectation that she’ll soon be Chief Constable. Think of the extra leverage you’d have on her then.’ She was shaking her head slowly. ‘You never planned to release them, did you? It’s all just talk–you’re all just talk.’

  ‘That’s a gamble you’re willing to take?’ Cafferty’s eyes were on Fox now. ‘Yes or no, DI Fox? Or hadn’t you better check with your boss first, see what she wants you to do?’

  Fox’s mouth opened a fraction, but no words formed. Clarke had opened the car door and was swivelling her legs out onto the roadway. Cafferty’s hand clamped around Fox’s forearm.

  ‘Think very carefully, DI Fox.’ He nodded towards Clarke’s back. ‘This isn’t your future–Gartcosh is; Jennifer Lyon is; a seat at the top table is.’

  Fox shook his arm free and opened the door. ‘My future, my decision,’ he said, climbing out.

  ‘Absolutely.’ Cafferty was laughing lightly as Fox slammed the door closed. Clarke, having given up asking Benny for his surname, was on her way back to the station’s main door. Fox caught her up.

  ‘Lyon knows all about this?’ she asked in an undertone.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s the armour you were talking about?’ Fox nodded. ‘In which case, he’ll think he’s already won.’

  ‘How do you make that out?’

  ‘Even if you give him nothing, he can say you did his bidding, and Lyon knew about it and sanctioned it.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So the pair of you might have to go on record and deny it–in other words, lie to whoever is asking.’

  ‘And?’

  She stopped just short of the door, turning so she was face to face with him. ‘He tapes everything that happens in his club, Malcolm. What makes you think he stops there?’

  ‘The car?’

  ‘All it takes is for him to switch on his phone’s voice memo app. Plus you’ve been in his penthouse. Chances are everything you said there has been recorded.’

  Fox couldn’t help looking over his shoulder at the car. It was starting to move, but Cafferty had left the rear window open, his eyes on the two detectives as he passed.

  ‘He’s won,’ Fox said quietly, statement rather than question. ‘I feel a bit sick.’

  ‘I hope it wasn’t the fish,’ Clarke replied, making show of pressing her hand to her stomach.

  ‘How can you joke about this?’

  She considered for a moment and then shrugged. ‘Thinking he’s won doesn’t mean he has. It’s not over yet, Malcolm.’ She watched the car glide away from them into the night. ‘Not nearly over…’

  As Benny drove to the Jenever Club, Cafferty phoned Cole Burnett.

  ‘It’s your Uncle Morris, Cole. How are things at your end?’

  The teenager’s voice was nasal and ever-so-slightly slurred. ‘It’s all good, all good.’

  ‘Got an address or two for me?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Well, let’s not say any more until we meet face to face. You know my place on the Cowgate? I’ll see you there in an hour.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Cheer up, son–future’s full of good things coming your way. Just trust your Uncle Morris.’ He ended the call and placed his phone on the seat next to him.

  ‘You really think he’s got the makings?’ Benny asked from the driver’s seat, eyes meeting Cafferty’s in the rear-view mirror.

  ‘If he hasn’t, he’s all yours.’ Cafferty turned his head to watch the city slide past. Leith had changed–fine dining, craft beer and artisan bread–but it was still Leith. Like an old band coaxed out on the road again, smack was making a comeback. Coke had stopped being available only to the wealthy. Crack and methadone and benzos were everywhere.

  Money was being made.

  But the people at the top always wanted a bigger slice. If Cafferty didn’t fortify his territory, others might think he was vulnerable. He’d had meetings in Glasgow and Aberdeen, just to make sure everyone knew where things stood. Not Dundee, though–because the people shipping the drugs from Manchester hadn’t wanted it. Message enough to Cafferty’s
mind: they’d be coming for him soon. And when they came, they would take out the street dealers first, making things nice and clear to him. That was why over the past few months he’d been bringing losers like Cole Burnett aboard. Let the marauders think they were taking out his best guys, his whole army. They would reckon it an easy win.

  Then they would begin to relax. And their guard would come down…

  ‘Want some music or anything, boss?’ Benny was asking.

  ‘I’m fine, Benjamin, thanks. Big Ger Cafferty is absolutely tickety-boo.’

  Day Five

  26

  The media and the rubberneckers had returned to Naver.

  Lawrie Blake looked pleased with his creation when Rebus bumped into him on the street outside The Glen. The online world had magnified his original story, engendering conspiracy theories, dusting off the racier anecdotes from Ramsay Meiklejohn’s past and inventing luridly imagined versions of the anonymous threat to Samantha. Blake had his collar turned up and was wearing a large tweed cap, his phone gripped in his hand ready to record vox pops and capture photographs. Locals, however, were thin on the ground, having retreated to the relative safety of their homes. A few parents were forced to run a gauntlet of sorts as they scurried towards the school with their gawping children. Rebus was heading to the shop for a newspaper, but Blake produced one from his pocket and handed it over. Rebus unfolded it.

  ‘Front page, eh?’ he commented.

  ‘And pages three, four and five. I’ve even had a call from a press agency in London offering work. How’s your Saab?’

  ‘I’ve not heard. Rental’s running fine, though.’ He watched as a car cruised past, failing to find a parking space. There was TV equipment in the back. ‘You going to be talking to them?’ he asked, nodding towards the vehicle.

  ‘If they ask nicely. I quite fancy a move into television.’ Blake’s phone was pinging every few seconds with messages. ‘Has your daughter received any more notes?’

  ‘Not that I’m aware of.’

  The reporter glanced at the pub. ‘You’re staying here rather than at hers–mind if I ask why?’

  ‘We’re not discussing Samantha, remember?’