by Ian Rankin
‘First you have to put that mug down until I’ve left the table.’
He tried staring her out, then complied.
‘To begin with,’ Clarke went on, ‘we shied away from Minton’s private life. Breakin gone wrong, we thought. But the note changes that. The deceased did something to annoy someone.’
‘Probably in his professional rather than private life,’ Page cautioned.
‘Which is why you’ve got Esson and Ogilvie digging back through several years’ worth of cases and judgments. Thing is, it would have to have been a really big case, right? For someone to decide that the perceived injustice merited a death threat. And also, wouldn’t it need to be something recent, or else why are they suddenly so riled?’
‘Maybe they just got out of jail.’
‘And again, you’ve got someone checking the files. But we may be looking at this whole thing the wrong way. From what I’ve discovered about Lord Minton, he’s almost too perfect.
Everyone’s got secrets.’
‘We’ve examined his house, been through the contents of his personal and work computers. No weird or accusatory emails.
His office say they’ve received no letters out of the ordinary.
I’ve asked – even if the mail was marked Private or Personal, they were instructed by Lord Minton to open it. No phone calls – we’ve checked his home number and mobile. There’s nothing there, Siobhan.’
‘What are we talking about then? A case of mistaken identity? Note sent to the wrong person, window of the wrong house’s laundry room broken?’ She couldn’t help thinking about the previous night at Cafferty’s. ‘He hung on to the note, James. More than that, he kept it close to him. To my mind, he knew it meant something.’
‘Why didn’t he tell anyone, then?’
‘I don’t know.’ She ran a hand through her hair. ‘Maybe we need to talk to his friends again, starting with the closest.’
‘That would be Kathryn Young, wouldn’t it?’
‘From what I hear.’
Page sat in silence for a moment. ‘I’m still not convinced, Siobhan. The attacker broke in – it’s not as if Minton opened the door to someone he knew.’
‘Front door’s dangerous, though – whole streetful of potential witnesses.’
‘But to clamber over walls, sneak through back gardens . . .’
‘I doubt we’re looking for someone of the victim’s generation, though you never can tell.’
Page gave a loud sigh. ‘Can I drink my coffee now?’
Clarke smiled, rising from her seat. ‘I’ll see you upstairs,’
she said.
There was a Starbuck’s on Canongate, and Kathryn Young had agreed to meet them there. She had a forty-minute window between meetings at the Scottish Parliament, so she placed her order with Clarke by text. The tables were small and fairly public, but Page had done his best. They were in an alcove near the back of the room, and he reckoned the regular noises of milk being frothed and beans ground would mask their conversation from the other customers.
Young carried with her a heavy-looking satchel. It made one of Scotland’s most senior lawyers resemble a teacher encumbered by a week’s unmarked homework. She was well-dressed, but the wind howling down towards the Parliament had messed up her shoulder-length brown hair and put a glow in her cheeks.
‘Small latte,’ Clarke said, pushing the mug towards her.
Young nodded her thanks and removed her coat and scarf.
‘Any news?’ she said.
‘There’s something we’d like to share with you,’ Page said quietly, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, hands pressed together as if in prayer. ‘We’ve been debating motive.’
‘I thought it was a straightforward housebreaking.’
‘So did we, until we found this.’ He gestured towards Clarke, who handed over a photocopy of the note. Young’s brow furrowed as she read.
‘Someone sent it to Lord Minton,’ Clarke explained, ‘and Lord Minton kept it in his wallet. To my mind, that means he didn’t just dismiss it as some kind of prank. We’re wondering who his enemies might have been.’
‘I’m at a loss.’ Young handed the note back. ‘You’ve not made this public?’
‘We didn’t see how it could help – not just yet,’ Page explained.
‘You knew the man as well as anybody,’ Clarke said making eye contact and noting that Young’s eyes were the same shade of brown as her hair. ‘So we’re wondering if you can shed any light. Did he ever mention anything about threats, or someone who had a grudge against him, real or perceived?’
The Crown Agent was shaking her head. ‘We weren’t close in that way. I’d known David maybe twelve or thirteen years.
But his real friends – the ones he spoke about – they’re mostly dead, I think. Other lawyers, at least one MP, businessmen . . .’
She was shaking her head again. ‘I’m sorry, but I really can’t think of anyone who’d want to harm him.’
‘Maybe a case he’d prosecuted?’ Clarke persisted.
‘He was always very guarded. I mean, he would talk in general terms, or discuss matters of procedure, diligence, precedence. He had memorised famous trials of the past . . .’
‘And you hadn’t noticed a change in him recently? More guarded, maybe? On edge?’
Young concentrated on her coffee while she pondered this.
‘No,’ she said eventually. ‘Nothing. Mrs Marischal would know before I did, though – she spent more time sharing a cuppa with him than dusting anything. Or else whoever works in his office these days – have you asked them?’
‘We have, though we might try again.’
‘You can’t be sure the person who sent that note is the same one who broke in,’ Young stated.
‘We’re aware of that.’
‘You should make it public – the note, I mean. Someone out there might recognise the writing.’ She glanced at her watch and took another swig of coffee. ‘I’m afraid I have to get back.
I’m sorry I haven’t been much use.’
‘Do you think it’s worth our while talking to anyone at the New Club? He used to go there most days.’
Young shrugged her way back into her coat and picked up her scarf. ‘I’ve honestly no idea.’ She bent at the knees to retrieve her satchel. ‘So much for the paperless office,’ she said with a grim smile, making her way towards the door.
‘That was time well spent,’ Page said to Clarke through gritted teeth.
‘Maybe she’s right about the note, though. It’s all we’ve got; be a shame not to use it.’
‘The press will blow it out of all proportion,’ Page cautioned. ‘We’ll have people scared to leave their houses because there’s a killer out there and anyone could be his next target. Plus the nutters will come out of the woodwork with the usual premonitions and theories.’
‘And our killer, knowing we’re no longer treating it as a breakin gone wrong, has plenty of time to pack his bags and head elsewhere.’ Clarke was nodding her agreement. ‘All of that’s true, James.’
He looked at her. ‘But you still think we should do it?’
‘Do you know what a soft launch is? No press conference.
We give it to one outlet, someone who’ll report it without the sensationalism. Social media will spread the story, but it’ll be our version. By the time the other papers get hold of it, the fire will have died back a bit.’
‘I assume you’ve a journalist in mind?’
Clarke nodded and lifted her phone, angling it towards him.
‘Soon as you give the word.’
Page leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. The nod he gave was half-hearted at best. Clarke made the call anyway.
Laura Smith was at the café twenty minutes later, by which time Page had headed back to the office. He’d used the excuse of a meeting, but Clarke knew he was putting distance between himself and the plan. If it blew up in their faces in any way, Clarke would be the one le
ft explaining to the Chief.
‘You’ve grown your hair,’ Clarke said, after Smith had paid for a bottle of water and seated herself in Page’s chair.
‘And you’ve had yours cut – it suits you.’ Smith broke the seal on the bottle and tipped it to her mouth.
‘How’s the newspaper business?’
Still drinking, Smith rolled her eyes. She was just over five feet in height, but every inch of her was focused on getting ahead, which was tough when your chosen profession seemed to be in its death throes. She wiped her lips with the back of her hand and screwed the top back on the bottle.
‘More redundancies in the offing,’ she said.
‘You should be safe though, no?’
‘Well, I’m the only crime reporter they’ve got, and last time I looked, crime still sold papers, so . . .’ She gave a huge shrug of the shoulders and concentrated her attention on Clarke. ‘Is it about Lord Minton?’
‘Yes.’
‘On the record?’
‘Sort of. Though I’d prefer it if “police sources” was the phrase of choice – and I’ll need to see what you write before your editor does.’
Smith puffed out her cheeks. ‘Is that non-negotiable?’
‘Afraid so.’
Smith gave a twitch of the mouth and dug her phone out of her pocket. ‘Can I record this anyway, just as a memo to myself?’
‘I don’t see why not. But I’m going to be showing rather than telling.’
Smith was busying herself with her phone’s recording function. When she eventually looked up, Clarke was holding out the photocopied note.
‘From Lord Minton’s wallet,’ she stated.
The noise Laura Smith made – as captured by her phone – was pitched somewhere between a squeal and a whoop.
Seven
‘Is this where you ask me about the favour I’m supposed to have done Darryl Christie?’ Rebus asked Fox. They were in the Saab, Rebus driving. Fox was gripping his seat belt with one hand and the door handle with the other.
‘I’m not Complaints any more.’
‘Doesn’t mean you wouldn’t shop a bent cop though, right?’
‘As you keep reminding me, you’re not a cop these days.
We headed to the Gimlet?’
Rebus shook his head. ‘I forgot – I took you there once to see Darryl. But he’s long finished hanging out at dives like that.
He owns a couple of nightclubs in the city centre, along with a casino and “boutique” hotel, whatever that means.’
‘It usually means expensive.’
‘Well, we’re about to find out.’
‘What makes you think we’ll find him there?’
Rebus glanced towards his passenger. ‘People tell me things.’
‘Even though you’ve retired from the police?’
‘Even so.’
The car had made its descent from Queen Street into the heart of the New Town. Just before reaching Royal Circus,
Rebus pulled over to the kerb. He applied the brake but the car crept forward.
‘Keep forgetting it does that.’ He shifted the gearstick into first before turning off the engine.
‘Ever thought about trading up to the twenty-first century?’
Fox was having trouble with the seat belt. Eventually he got it unlocked and clambered out, while Rebus rubbed the Saab’s roof and told it not to listen to the nasty man.
The hotel was part of a typical Georgian terrace, its signage discreet. Inside there was a hallway containing nothing as obvious as a reception desk. Rebus turned left into a plush cocktail bar. A slim young Asian man in a bright red waistcoat was ready with a smile.
‘Checking in, gentlemen? Take a seat and someone will be with you in a trice.’
‘We’re here to see Darryl,’ Rebus corrected him.
‘Darryl . . .?’ The smile was hardening.
‘Darryl Christie, son,’ Rebus barked. ‘I know he doesn’t like visitors, but he’ll make an exception. Just tell him it’s Rebus.’
‘Rebus?’
Rebus nodded and sank back into a heavily padded black velour sofa. Fox stayed on his feet, studying the furnishings.
Thick velvet curtains tied back with plaited golden ropes. Odd-shaped mirrors. Jelly beans and rice crackers in little bowls on each glass-topped table. Rebus was helping himself to a scoop of each.
The barman had disappeared around the back of the gantry and was making a muffled phone call. There was music playing, but not obtrusively. Something electronic.
‘Doing all right for himself, then,’ Fox commented.
‘And as Cafferty said, all of it looking above board to the naked eye.’
‘But he’s dirty nevertheless?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘And we’ve not done anything because . . .?’ Fox sat down opposite Rebus.
‘Because he’s been lucky. Because he’s clever. Because maybe he has friends in the right places.’
‘What would your guess be?’
Rebus swallowed the last of the snack and began picking between his teeth with a fingernail. ‘Sometimes there’s such a thing as a responsible criminal.’
‘Explain.’ Fox sat forward a little, ready to learn.
‘Well, there’s always going to be organised crime – we know that. All over the world, society’s tried shutting it down and it never quite happens. As long as there are things we judge illegal, and people out there who want those things, someone will come along to provide them. In a place the size of Edinburgh – small city, crime not a huge problem for most of the residents – you might have room for one decent-sized player. And as long as that player doesn’t get too greedy, too cocky or too violent . . .’
‘They’ll likely be tolerated? Because they do some of the policing for us?’
‘It’s all about control, Malcolm. That and acting responsibly.’
‘What was Cafferty like when this was his playground?’
Rebus took a moment to form his answer. ‘He was the school bully. It was all about muscle, and not giving a damn about the consequences.’
‘And Christie?’
‘Darryl’s a negotiator. If he’d gone into stockbroking or flogging Bentleys to bankers, he’d have made his fortune. But he chose this instead.’
The barman had reappeared. He tried for another smile but didn’t quite manage it. ‘Mr Christie says he’ll be with you shortly. He also said to order drinks while you’re waiting.’
‘Well that’s very kind of him,’ Rebus said. ‘Do you want anything, DI Fox?’
‘Maybe an Appletiser?’
‘So that’s an Appletiser for my colleague and a Laphroaig for me.’ Rebus nodded towards the shelf of malt whiskies. ‘In fact, make it a double.’
‘You remembering the drink-drive limit?’ Fox warned.
‘It’s tattooed on my forearm.’
‘Water or ice on the side, sir?’ the barman was asking.
‘Is that question for me or him?’ Rebus enquired.
Taking the hint, the barman got to work.
Their drinks had just arrived at the table when Darryl Christie appeared in the doorway. He waved away the barman and settled himself on the sofa next to Fox and facing Rebus.
Rebus had known him since he was a teenager, but Christie was in his early twenties now, and all trace of acne and youth had gone. His face had hardened, his hair was professionally groomed. The suit didn’t look cheap and neither did the shoes.
He sported an open-necked shirt with cufflinks prominent at either wrist. The watch, at a guess, was worth more than Rebus’s car, even with a few thousand miles removed from its clock.
‘How’s business?’ Rebus asked.
‘On the up. It’s been a difficult few years for everyone.’
‘It’s certainly aged you, Darryl. Is that a bit of grey at your temples?’
‘Said the man in the twilight zone.’
‘You heard I’ve left the force?’
‘Did you no
t see the fireworks? We had quite the celebration here, trust me.’ Christie draped his arms over the back of the sofa and gestured towards Fox. ‘This you training your replacement? We’ve met before, haven’t we?’
‘Briefly,’ Fox said.
‘I think I remember congratulating you on your manners.’
Christie nodded to himself.
‘We’re here because of what happened to Big Ger Cafferty last night,’ Rebus said.
‘Namely?’
‘Someone put a bullet through his living room window.’
‘Is he all right?’
‘Shooter missed.’
‘Dearie me.’
‘Maybe deliberately, who knows?’ Rebus placed his empty glass on the table with a clunk.
‘Cafferty’s told you it was my doing?’
‘You know what he’s like.’
‘I know he hates my guts. It’s why he’s talking to the Starks.’
‘Joe Stark?’ Rebus asked, feigning surprise.
‘Came into town a couple of days back. Booked into a B and B and the owner thought I’d be interested.’
‘You’re sure Joe’s here to see Cafferty?’
‘Not Joe so much as Dennis. Cafferty wants him put in charge.’
‘Of what?’ Fox asked, not quite understanding.
‘Of this!’ Christie was on his feet, arms outstretched. ‘The city – my city.’
‘You sure you’ve not watched Scarface one too many times?’ Rebus asked.
Christie sat down again, but the agitation he had been hiding was now evident in his posture. He pumped one of his knees as he spoke. ‘It’s the old story – my enemy’s enemy is my friend.
Cafferty’s not got much more than a couple of years left in him.
Last thing he wants is to be on his deathbed knowing I’m still around. Dennis Stark is the perfect choice. Guy’s crazy, for a start. Tell him to take me down and he’ll make sure it’s messy.
And who else is there? Cafferty doesn’t know the new regimes in Aberdeen and Dundee. But he knows Joe Stark. They’re like two sides of the same piece of bog paper.’
