by Ian Rankin
He put the phone back in his pocket and offered a shrug.
‘It’s okay for me to go in because I’m not a cop these days.’
‘He said that?’
‘He didn’t need to.’
‘Have you spoken to him recently?’ Fox added.
‘Contrary to received opinion, I don’t spend my days fraternising with people like Big Ger.’
‘There was a time.’
‘Maybe he’s just more interesting than others I could name,’
Rebus bristled.
Fox looked ready to respond, but the door was being opened.
Cafferty stood behind it, mostly hidden in shadow. Without another word, Rebus stepped inside and the door closed behind him. He followed Cafferty from outer hall to inner. Cafferty
walked past the closed door to the living room, turning into the kitchen instead. Rebus wasn’t about to play that game, so entered the living room, turning on the light. He’d been in the room before, but there had been changes. A black leather suite.
A vast flat-screen TV above the fireplace. The curtains in the bay window had been pulled shut; he was drawing them open when Cafferty walked in.
‘You’ve tidied most of the glass,’ Rebus commented. ‘Still wouldn’t risk it in bare feet, mind. But at least floorboards are better than carpet – the splinters are easier to spot.’
Hands in pockets, he turned to face Cafferty. They were old men now, similar build, similar background. Sat together in a pub, they might be mistaken by a casual onlooker for pals who’d known one another since school. But their history told a different story: fights and near-deaths, chases and prosecutions.
Cafferty’s last stint in jail had been cut short after a cancer diagnosis, the patient making a miraculous recovery once free.
‘Congratulations on your retirement,’ Cafferty drawled.
‘You didn’t think to invite me to the party. Hang on, though – I hear there was no party. Not enough friends left to even fill the back room at the Ox?’ He made show of shaking his head in sympathy.
‘The bullet didn’t hit you then?’ Rebus retorted. ‘More’s the pity.’
‘Everyone seems to be talking about this mysterious bullet.’
‘I just wish we still had a tap on your phone. I’m betting that in the minutes after, you were shouting the odds at every villain in the city.’
‘Look around you, Rebus. Do you see bodyguards? Do you see protection? I’m too long out of the game to have enemies.’
‘It’s true plenty of people you hate have predeceased you – one way or another. But I still reckon there are enough to make a decent-sized list.’
Cafferty smiled eventually and gestured towards the doorway. ‘Come into the kitchen. I’ll pour us a drink.’
‘I’ll take mine in here, thanks.’
Cafferty sighed and shrugged, turning to leave. Rebus did a quick circuit of the room and was by the fireplace when Cafferty returned. It was not an overly generous helping, but Rebus’s nose told him it was malt. He took a sip and rolled it around his mouth before swallowing, Cafferty opting to knock his back in one gulp.
‘Nerves still jangling?’ Rebus guessed. ‘Don’t blame you for that. So you didn’t have the curtains closed. Probably reckon you don’t need them – nice big hedge between house and pavement. But that means he was standing on the lawn, directly outside. What were you doing? Crossing the room to find the TV remote, maybe? At which point he’s not more than eight or ten feet away. You still can’t see him, though – lights on in here, darkness out there. Yet somehow he misses. Meaning it’s either a warning or he’s some kind of rookie.’ Rebus paused.
‘Which would you guess? Maybe you don’t need to – could be you already know.’ He took another sip of whisky and watched Cafferty ease himself on to the leather sofa.
‘Say someone was trying to kill me, would I be daft enough to stay put? Wouldn’t I be heading for the hills?’
‘You might. But if you’ve no idea who’s behind it, that isn’t going to help you find them. Maybe you get tooled up, call in some favours and bide your time until he tries again. Morris Gerald Cafferty prepared is a very different creature from one who’s been caught on the hop.’
‘So when I tell you that I’d had a nip too many and tripped over my own feet, smacking the window . . .’
‘You’ve every right to stick to your story. I’m not a detective these days; nothing I can do one way or the other. But if you did feel you needed some help, Siobhan’s right outside and I’d trust her with your life. I’d probably even trust her with mine.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind. Meantime, I hope I’ve not taken you away from whatever it is cops like you do when they’re put out to pasture.’
‘We tend to spend our days reminiscing about the scum we’ve put in jail.’
‘And the ones who got away too, no doubt.’ Cafferty pulled himself back to his feet. He acted like an old man, but Rebus felt sure he could be dangerous when cornered or threatened.
The eyes were still hard and cold, mirroring the calculating intelligence behind them. ‘Tell Siobhan to go home,’ Cafferty was saying. ‘And the door-to-door is wasting time and effort.
It’s just one broken window, easily fixed.’
‘It’s not, though, is it?’ Rebus had followed Cafferty for a few steps but then stopped by the wall opposite the bay window. There was a framed painting there, and as Cafferty turned towards him, he dabbed at it with the tip of one finger.
‘This painting used to be over there.’ He nodded towards another wall. ‘And the wee painting hanging there used to be here. You can tell from where the emulsion has faded – means they’ve been swapped over recently.’
‘I like them better this way.’ Cafferty’s jaw had tightened.
Rebus gave a thin smile as he reached out with both hands and lifted the larger painting from its hook. It had been covering a
small, near-circular indentation in the plaster. He shut one eye and took a closer look.
‘You’ve prised out the bullet,’ he commented. ‘Nine mil, was it?’ He dug in his pocket for his phone. ‘Mind if I take a snap for my scrapbook?’
But Cafferty’s hand had gripped him by the forearm.
‘John,’ he said. ‘Just leave it, okay? I know what I’m doing.’
‘Then tell me. Tell me what’s going on here.’
But Cafferty shook his head and relaxed his vice-like grip.
‘Just go,’ he said, his voice softening. ‘Enjoy the days and the hours. None of this is yours any more.’
‘Then why let me in?’
‘I’m wishing I hadn’t.’ Cafferty gestured towards the hole. ‘I thought I was being clever.’
‘We’re both clever, it’s why we’ve lasted as long as we have.’
‘You going to tell Clarke about this?’ Meaning the bullet hole.
‘Maybe. And maybe she’ll go get that warrant.’
‘None of which will get her any further forward.’
‘At least the hole rules out one theory.’
‘Oh aye?’
‘That you fired the gun yourself from in here.’ Rebus nodded towards the window. ‘At someone out there.’
‘That’s some imagination you’ve got.’
The two men stared at one another until Rebus exhaled loudly. ‘I might as well head off then. You know where to find me if you need me.’ He got the painting back on its hook and accepted the handshake that Cafferty was offering.
Outside, Clarke and Fox were waiting in Fox’s car. Rebus climbed into the back.
‘Well?’ Clarke asked.
‘There’s a bullet hole in the far wall. He’s got the bullet out and won’t be handing it over to us any time soon.’
‘You think he knows who did it?’
‘I’d say he hasn’t a clue – that’s what’s got him spooked.’
‘So what now?’
‘Now,’ Rebus said, reaching forward to pat Fox on the shoulder, �
�I get a lift home.’
‘Are we invited in for coffee?’
‘It’s a flat, not a fucking Costa. Once you’ve dropped me, you young things can finish the evening doing whatever takes your fancy.’ Rebus looked towards where the terrier was sitting on the pavement, watching the occupants of the car, its head cocked. ‘Whose is the mutt?’
‘Not sure. The uniforms asked around, but nobody’s missing a pet. Couldn’t be Cafferty’s, could it?’
‘Unlikely. Pets need looking after, and that’s not the man’s style.’ Rebus had dug his cigarettes out of his pocket. ‘Mind if I smoke in here?’
‘Yes,’ came the chorus from the front.
The dog was still watching as the car moved off. Rebus feared it was about to try following them. Clarke swivelled around so she was facing the rear seat.
‘I’m fine,’ Rebus told her. ‘Thanks for asking.’
‘I hadn’t quite got round to it.’
‘No, but you were going to.’
‘It’s good to see you.’
‘Aye, you too,’ Rebus conceded. ‘Now is there any chance you can get Jackie Stewart here to put the foot down? There’s a cigarette with my name on it waiting at the other end . . .’
*
In his kitchen, Cafferty poured another whisky, adding a drop of water from the cold tap and finishing it in two swallows. He expelled air through his teeth and slammed the empty glass on to the table before running his hands down his face. The house was locked, all doors and windows checked. From his pocket he took the bullet, compressed from impact. Nine mil, just as Rebus had surmised. Once upon a time, Cafferty had kept a nine-mil pistol in the safe in his den, but he’d had to ditch it after having had recourse to use it. He placed the misshapen bullet next to the empty whisky glass, then opened a drawer and found what he was looking for, tucked away near the back. The note that had been shoved through his letter box a few days before. He unfolded it and examined the words again: I’M GOING TO KILL YOU FOR WHAT YOU DID.
But what had Cafferty done? He pulled out a chair, sat down, and began to consider.
DAY TWO
Four
Next morning, Doug Maxtone gestured for Fox to follow him out of the cramped office into the empty corridor of St Leonard’s police station.
‘I’ve just been briefed,’ Maxtone said, ‘by our friends from the west.’
‘Anything you can share?’
‘We discussed their request for that “ancillary support” I mentioned yesterday . . .’ Maxtone broke off and waited.
Fox tapped a finger against his own chest and watched his boss nod slowly.
‘You worked Professional Standards, Malcolm, so you know all about keeping your mouth shut.’ Maxtone paused. ‘But you also know about spying. You’re going to be my eyes and ears in there, understood? I’ll want regular updates.’ He checked his watch. ‘In a minute, you’re going to go knock on the door. By then they’ll have decided how much they need to tell you and how much they think they can get away with not sharing.’
‘I seem to remember they wanted to vet potential candidates.’
Maxtone shook his head. ‘I’ve made it pretty clear you’re what’s on offer.’
‘Do they know I used to work Complaints?’
‘Yes.’
‘In which case I expect I’ll be welcomed with open arms.
Any other advice?’
‘The boss is called Ricky Compston. Big wide bastard with a shaved head. Typical Glasgow – thinks he’s seen it all while we spend our days directing tourists to the castle.’ Maxtone paused. ‘None of the others bothered with introductions.’
‘But they did tell you why they’re here?’
‘It’s to do with a—’ Maxtone broke off as the door to the CID suite swung open. A face appeared, glowering.
‘That him?’ a voice barked. ‘When you’re ready . . .’
The head disappeared, the door remaining ajar.
‘I better go say hello,’ Fox told his boss.
‘We’ll talk at the end of the day.’
Fox nodded and moved off, standing in front of the door, giving himself a moment before pushing it all the way open.
There were five of them, all standing, mostly with arms folded.
‘Shut the door then,’ the man who had originally opened it said. Fox reckoned this must be Compston. He had the rough dimensions and general demeanour of a prize bull. No handshakes, just down to business.
‘For the record,’ Compston said, ‘we know this is shite, yes?’
He seemed to require an answer, so Fox gave something that could have been construed as a nod of agreement.
‘But in the spirit of cooperation, here we all are.’ Compston stretched out an arm, taking in the room. The desks were sparsely furnished – just laptops and mobile phones, plugged into chargers. Almost no paperwork and nothing pinned to the walls. Compston took a step forward, filling Fox’s field of vision, so he knew who was in charge. ‘Now I know what your
boss is thinking: he’s thinking you’re going to run straight back to him every five minutes with the latest gossip. But that wouldn’t be very wise, Detective Inspector Fox. Because if anything leaks, I know for a fact as hard as my last shit that it won’t have come from my team. Is that clear?’
‘I think I’ve some lactulose in my drawer, if that would help.’
One of the detectives gave a snort of laughter, and even Compston eventually broke into a brief smile.
‘You know I used to be Professional Standards,’ Fox ploughed on. ‘That means I’ve got a fan club here with precisely no members. Probably explains why Maxtone chose me – keeps me out of his hair. Besides which, I don’t expect he thinks this is going to be a laugh a minute. You might need me and you might not. I’m happy to sit on my arse playing Angry Birds for the duration – salary still goes into my bank.’
Compston studied the man in front of him, then turned his head towards his team.
‘Initial assessment?’
‘Standard Complaints wanker,’ a man in a light blue shirt said, seeming to act as the voice of the group.
Compston raised an eyebrow. ‘Alec isn’t usually so effusive.
On the other hand, he seldom gets people wrong. Standard Complaints wanker it is. So let’s all sit down and get uncomfortable.’
They did, and introductions were finally made. The blue shirt was Alec Bell. He was probably in his early fifties, a good five or six years older than Compston. A taller, younger, undernourished-looking officer went by the name of Jake Emerson. The only woman present was called Beth Hastie. She reminded Fox a little of the First Minister – similar age, haircut
and facial shape. Finally there was Peter Hughes, probably the youngest of the team, dressed for the street in a padded denim jacket and black jeans.
‘I thought there were six of you,’ Fox commented.
‘Bob Selway’s otherwise engaged,’ Compston explained.
Fox waited for more.
‘That makes five,’ he said.
The group shared a look. Compston sniffed and shifted a little in his chair.
‘Five it is,’ he stated.
Fox noted that no ranks had been mentioned. It was clear Compston was in charge, with Bell as his trusted lieutenant.
The others seemed like foot soldiers. If he had to guess, he’d say they hadn’t known each other for any great length of time.
‘Whatever it is you’re up to, there’s a surveillance element,’
Fox said. ‘You’ll appreciate that surveillance used to be a big part of my job, so that might be the one skill I have that’d be useful to you.’
‘Okay, smart-arse, how did you work that out?’
Fox’s eyes met Compston’s and stayed there. ‘Selway is “otherwise engaged”. Meantime Hughes is dressed so he doesn’t stand out in certain situations. He looks fairly comfortable, too, which means he’s done it before.’ Fox paused. ‘How am I doing?’
‘Maxtone really
didn’t tell you?’
Fox shook his head, and Compston took a deep breath.
‘You’ll have heard of Joseph Stark?’
‘Let’s pretend I haven’t.’
‘Your boss hadn’t heard of him either. Unbelievable.’
Compston made show of shaking his head. ‘Joe Stark is a
Glasgow gangster of long and ugly standing. He’s sixty-three years old and not quite ready to pass the baton to his son—’
‘Dennis,’ Alec Bell interrupted. ‘Otherwise known as a nasty little turd.’
‘With you so far,’ Fox said.
‘Joe and Dennis, along with some of their crew, have been enjoying a wee road trip of late. Inverness first, then Aberdeen and Dundee.’
‘And now they’re in Edinburgh?’
‘Been here a couple of days and don’t look like budging.’
‘And you’ve had them under surveillance throughout?’ Fox surmised.
‘We want to know what they’re doing.’
‘You don’t know?’
‘We’ve got an inkling.’
‘Do I get to hear it?’
‘They might be looking for a guy called Hamish Wright.
He’s based in Inverness but has friends in Aberdeen, Dundee . . .’
‘And here.’
‘I say “friends”, but contacts might be a better description.
Wright runs a haulage business, which means he has lorries crossing to the Western Isles, Orkney and Shetland, even Ireland and the Continent.’
‘Could be useful if there was something illegal that needed distributing.’ A head-and-shoulders shot of Wright had been handed to Fox. He studied the face. It was chubby and freckled and topped by curly red hair. ‘Looks like a Hamish,’ he commented.
‘Right.’
‘Would it be drugs he’s moving?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘For the Starks?’ Fox watched Compston nod. ‘So why haven’t you busted him?’
