by Ian Rankin
‘You’re saying the intruder took something?’
‘Desk drawer was open a couple of inches. I doubt that would have been comfortable for anyone sitting there trying to do some work.’
‘True,’ Clarke said.
‘So either the intruder took it, or Lord Minton had opened it himself and was taking something out when he heard a noise.’
Clarke was peering more closely at the photo. ‘Couldn’t just have been the other chequebook?’
‘No way of telling for sure.’
‘Did Jean Marischal ever see the drawer when it was open?
Never so much as a glimpse?’
‘Worth talking to her again?’
‘Maybe.’
Page was standing in the doorway. He signalled for Clarke to join him. She patted Ogilvie on the shoulder as she got up.
‘Close the door,’ he told her once she was inside his office.
‘Sit down if you like.’
Clarke remained standing.
‘I’ve already had enough grief since we went public with the Minton note,’ he began. ‘Only effect it seems to have produced is more noise from upstairs. Everyone wants this thing cleared up and no one wants it getting messy.’
‘So we keep the Cafferty note to ourselves?’
‘For the time being. Anything that seems to link a prominent member of the legal establishment to a local thug is hardly going to please the powers above.’
‘You’ll talk to Shona MacBryer?’
‘Fiscal’s office need to know. I’ll make Shona see that a quiet interview with Cafferty at his home is preferable to bringing him in.’
‘How about the team here?’
‘I assume word’s already gone around.’
‘Only Esson and Ogilvie so far. But when we interview Cafferty . . .’
‘I’ll brief the troops.’
‘And then pray for no leaks.’
‘Indeed.’ He leaned back in his chair and pressed his hands together, the tips of his fingers touching his lips. ‘What’s your gut feeling here, Siobhan?’
‘The attacks themselves are very different, but the notes look identical.’
‘So we should be seeking a connection between Cafferty and Minton?’
‘Cafferty says there isn’t one.’
‘Some sort of vigilante?’
Clarke shrugged and watched as Page pressed the palms of his hands flat on his desk.
‘What about Rebus?’ he asked.
‘What about him?’
‘He’s close to Cafferty, isn’t he?’
‘In a manner of speaking. You think we should attach him to the case?’
‘In a consultative capacity. What’s the old saying about pissing out of the tent rather than in?’
‘Should I talk to him then?’
‘I don’t suppose it can do any harm, can it?’
Clarke didn’t know how to answer that, so ran her tongue across her lips instead and shifted her feet slightly, eyes on the floor.
‘Very well then,’ Page decided, pressing his hands together once more as if in prayer. ‘Talk to the man.’
Clarke nodded and made her exit. Christine Esson was waiting with her tea. Clarke took it and moved into the corridor, taking out her phone and making the call.
‘Yes, Siobhan?’ Rebus said by way of answer.
‘Page wants you inside the tent rather than out.’
‘Is that even possible?’
‘You’d be acting in a consultative capacity.’
‘Like Sherlock Holmes? Would I need invoices and stuff?
And a housekeeper and a sidekick?’
‘Are you interested or not?’
‘He really wants me because I’m a conduit to Cafferty?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is Cafferty’s note going to be kept out of the public domain?’
‘For now.’
‘Formal interview with him at his house?’
‘Page thinks he can clear it with Shona MacBryer.’
‘Then what’s left for me to do?’
‘I’m guessing you’ll think of something.’
‘Do I detect a lack of enthusiasm, DI Clarke?’
‘Only because I know what you’re like – put you in a tent, you start trying to knock the poles down.’
‘Better than peeing on you from outside, though, eh?’
‘Let me think about that for a moment.’ She could almost hear Rebus break into a smile.
‘Consultative capacity,’ he echoed. ‘I quite like that.’
‘I thought you might. Just remember – you’re still not a cop.
No warrant card, no real powers.’
‘Well, tell Page I’m considering his proposal, but I don’t come cheap.’
‘You’d do this for no pay at all, John – we both know it.’
‘Maybe we should meet later to compare notes.’
‘The Oxford Bar?’
‘Around nine?’
‘Okay.’
‘And why not bring Malcolm along?’
‘Malcolm’s not part of this case.’
‘I know that, but I’d like him there anyway. The two of you have gotten so busy, it’ll be nice for you to catch up.’
‘See you at nine, then.’
Clarke ended the call and took a slurp from the cardboard cup as she walked back into the incident room. Ogilvie seemed to have been sharing his theory with Esson. Esson was holding a close-up photo of the desk drawer, peering at it.
‘What do you think?’ Clarke asked her.
‘It’s interesting.’
‘I think so too.’ Clarke looked at Ogilvie. ‘Christine’s already had a bit of an away day – you ready for yours?’
‘Absolutely,’ Ronnie Ogilvie said.
Twelve
There was no longer anyone keeping guard outside David Minton’s house on St Bernard’s Crescent. A set of keys was being held at HQ, so Clarke had brought those, along with a note of the number for the alarm system. Having unlocked the door, she punched the code in while Ogilvie stooped to pick up waiting mail.
‘Anything?’ she asked.
‘Mostly flyers.’ He added the collection to a pile on the nearby table.
The house was beginning to smell musty, and with the heating turned off there was a pronounced chill.
‘Hope the pipes don’t freeze,’ Ogilvie commented.
‘Minton’s study is this way,’ Clarke said, leading him past the foot of the imposing staircase. The curtains had been drawn closed, so she yanked them open. The window gave a view down on to the small back garden. The laundry room was directly below. Would Minton have heard the glass breaking?
There was a venerable transistor radio on the desk, but no evidence that he’d had it switched on that evening. Clarke settled herself in the chair and slid the drawer open a couple of inches.
‘More or less right?’ she asked.
‘But remember, the deceased had a bit more girth to him . . .’
‘A bit?’ she chided him. ‘So the chair would have been further out from the desk?’ She pushed it back. ‘About here?’
Ogilvie nodded. ‘From where it’s hellish uncomfortable to write cheques.’
They studied the photos they’d brought with them. The chequebook and pen sat eight inches from the edge of the desk.
It would have been almost impossible for Minton to reach either with the drawer open the way it had been.
‘So we’re back where we started,’ Clarke said. ‘Either the victim opened the drawer, or his attacker did.’
The drawer itself had been emptied, everything bagged as evidence and taken away to be examined. Clarke slid it out completely and held it up to the light, then placed it on top of the desk.
‘This is where the gap was?’ she checked with Ogilvie.
‘Where you reckon something might have been removed?’
Ogilvie looked at the area she was circling with her finger.
‘Yes.’
&
nbsp; ‘Something measuring – what? Nine inches by six? A book of some kind?’
‘Not quite a rectangle, though, is it?’ he qualified, showing Clarke the photo again.
‘Not quite,’ she conceded. ‘And the mark on the base of the drawer?’ Again she pointed to the spot where the putative item had once sat.
‘Grease? Ink, maybe?’
‘Worth getting forensics to take a look?’
‘Maybe, yes.’
Clarke made the call to the lab at Howden Hall. Then, to Ogilvie: ‘They’re asking if we can drop it in, save them the trek.’
Ogilvie shrugged his acquiescence.
‘Fine,’ Clarke said into the phone. Then, again to Ogilvie: ‘Go see if you can find a bin bag for us to carry it in.’ He was heading out of the room as Clarke told the lab they’d be there in half an hour or so. But then she remembered something.
‘Actually, maybe closer to an hour. I need to go back to Fettes first. Got something else I want you to take a look at – bullet, probably nine mil.’
‘You go months and months without seeing a bullet,’ the voice on the other end of the phone told her. ‘And then you get two in one week.’
Clarke blinked twice before finding her voice. ‘Say again?’
‘Another bullet came in a couple of days back.’
‘Came in from where?’
‘Extracted from a tree in the Hermitage.’
‘What happened exactly?’
‘No idea.’
‘So who can I talk to?’
‘I can let you know that when you come in.’
‘Fine. An hour then.’
‘Any later and we’ll have shut up shop for the day.’
‘Justice never sleeps.’
‘Maybe not. But it does have a darts match and a late supper with the girlfriend.’
The phone went dead in her hand just as Ogilvie returned from the kitchen with a large white bin bag.
‘Brabantia,’ he said. ‘Only the best for his lordship.’ Then he saw the look on Clarke’s face.
‘Same day someone took a potshot at Cafferty, a bullet was fired into a tree in The Hermitage. That’s not a million miles from Cafferty’s neighbourhood, is it?’
‘Not a million miles, no. Actually, probably less than two.’
‘That’s what I thought,’ Clarke said, helping Ogilvie manoeuvre the drawer into the bag.
Cafferty was in the back seat, the two bodyguards in front of him. Andrew Goodman’s office was above a glazier’s on a narrow street near Haymarket, the drive from Cafferty’s house taking less than seven minutes.
‘Wish I’d known,’ Cafferty said, as Goodman met him at the door. The two men shook hands and Goodman led Cafferty inside.
‘That I’m so close to yours?’
‘That you’re above a glazier’s,’ Cafferty corrected him.
‘Right enough – might have been a deal to be done there.
Want a coffee or anything?’
Cafferty shook his head. ‘I’m here to pay what I owe you.’
Goodman raised an eyebrow as he settled himself behind his desk. He was tall and toned and shaven-headed, with piercing blue eyes. ‘You’re finished with my lads?’
‘I’ve an overnight bag in the back of their car. Going to lay low for a bit.’
Goodman was thoughtful. ‘They could still be useful, though.’
But Cafferty shook his head. He pulled a roll of banknotes from his coat and peeled off ten.
‘This enough?’
‘It’ll do. Want a receipt?’
‘That won’t be necessary.’ Cafferty stepped forward and placed the notes on the desk. As Goodman stretched out a hand to take them, Cafferty snatched at the man’s wrist, gripping it hard.
‘What did the Starks say to you, Andrew?’
‘I already told you.’ Goodman’s gaze was steady.
‘But did you tell me the truth?’
‘They’re looking for Hamish Wright. But they’re more interested in something he has that belongs to them – wouldn’t say what, but we can both guess.’
‘Did they mention Darryl Christie at all?’
‘Why should they?’
‘It’s an answer I want, rather than another fucking question.’
‘They didn’t. But I hear they’ve just roughed up Chick Carpenter.’
‘The storage guy?’
Goodman nodded.
‘Used him once or twice myself,’ Cafferty mused. ‘Before he started getting pally with young Darryl.’ He released his grasp. Goodman snatched his hand back.
‘Sorry about that,’ Cafferty said. ‘I might be just a bit more on edge than usual. Is Carpenter okay?’
‘I heard he’s in A and E.’
‘Darryl won’t be happy about that.’
‘I wouldn’t think.’
‘Bad times on the horizon.’
‘Thing is, every lowlife in town knows something’s up. If the Starks were clever, they’d have been making daily trips into town rather than hanging around like a fart under a duvet.’
‘They want to be seen. They want the word out that they’re after someone or something. That way, maybe the right info will come to them rather than them having to hunt it down.’
‘I see that, but it means everyone’s out on the chase – and most will want to keep whatever they find to themselves. It’s turning into a feeding frenzy.’
‘Except without any sign of the actual prey.’ Cafferty dug his hands deep into his pockets and straightened his shoulders.
‘I want you to be my eyes and ears, Andrew. I’ll call you every day.’ He paused. ‘If that’s all right with you.’
‘Fine and dandy. So where will you—’ Goodman broke off.
‘Sorry, stupid question.’
‘I’m going to phone for a taxi and fetch my bag from the car.’
‘Sure thing.’ Goodman got up from the desk.
‘And if word of my little disappearing act gets back to anyone – the Starks or Christie or anyone – I’ll know who to blame. Okay?’
‘You don’t need to worry about me. And remember, I’m ex-army – in your situation, I’d be doing exactly the same. If all you know is that the enemy’s out there somewhere, you keep your head down until it gets close enough to make a target.’
Cafferty was nodding as the two men descended the stairs.
He took out his phone and ordered a cab, without giving a precise destination.
‘City centre,’ was all he said.
Meaningless, Goodman knew. Once he was in the cab, he could order the driver anywhere – enough cash on him for a trip to Fife, or maybe even Glasgow. Cafferty shook hands with both bodyguards as they handed him his bag. It was a large brown leather holdall, and it looked laden.
The cab arrived quickly, Cafferty clambering into the back and slamming the door shut. The three men watched it move off.
‘Want us to tail him?’ Goodman was asked.
He shook his head slowly. ‘Did you take a look in the bag, though?’
‘There’s a lock on it. Felt like clothes mostly, plus a laptop.’
Goodman ran his tongue over his lips as the cab disappeared from view. ‘Well, good luck to him,’ he said. ‘By which, of course, I mean the exact bloody opposite.’
He headed back upstairs to make a call.
The flat in Quartermile had been a recent purchase – just one small brick in Cafferty’s property empire. He hadn’t got round to letting it yet. Place was only half furnished, though the developer had added a few nice touches, including a wicker basket of food and drink. Quartermile had been the old infirmary, its original red sandstone blocks now joined by new-build steel and glass towers. The two-bedroom flat was in one of these new additions, and not quite at the penthouse level. But it had views over the Meadows, and there were shops, cafés and pubs nearby. The university was practically next door, meaning lots of students, but that was fine with Cafferty – students wouldn’t know him from any other bugge
r of an age they could reliably ignore.
The flat had both landline and Wi-Fi, so Cafferty plugged his laptop into a wall socket and booted it up. The password was on a Post-it note attached to one of the kitchen cupboards.
He typed it in, loosened his shoulders and got busy.
Lord Minton. David Minton. There had to be something, some criminal trial, some bribe, some cover-up. He stared hard at photos of the man in various stages of his life, but no memories were stirred. The problem was, he couldn’t concentrate – the Starks kept getting in the way. He called a guy he knew in Glasgow, who told him Joe was back in the city but Dennis hadn’t been seen in a while, ‘which is like an unexpected holiday for some of us, so feel free to keep him’.
Cafferty considered getting in touch with Joe, maybe telling him to shove his nutjob son back in the kennel. Then again, by putting Chick Carpenter in hospital, Dennis was heading ever closer to a collision with Darryl Christie. If Joe’s intention had been to cosy up to Christie, Dennis was putting that in jeopardy.
Dennis against Darryl – Cafferty wouldn’t mind a ringside seat at that particular bout. Dennis all testosterone and big swinging punches; Darryl using brains and guile to plot his opponent’s demise. How many men had Dennis brought with him? Not as many as Darryl would have. If reinforcements were called for from the west coast, well, it really would start to get messy.
‘Good and messy,’ Cafferty muttered to himself.
On the other hand, there was an outside chance that an alliance was in the offing, the Starks showing Darryl how much he needed their friendship, or how chaotic things could become if he didn’t accept that helping hand. Cafferty had long known that the world of the gangster was the world of the capitalist.
Markets had to be created, sustained and expanded, competition nullified. Bigger meant safer, and there was definitely shrinkage in Glasgow. The old skills of the moneylender had all but disappeared – or rather had succumbed to legitimate competition. The interest rates advertised on daytime TV
weren’t so dissimilar to those offered on the street, but without
the threat of a hammer or a nail gun should repayments falter. A lot of the money made from protection and prostitutes had been curtailed too, thanks to the legal system stamping down harder.
Drugs were still the safest bet, but bringing them into the country was always fraught.
Cafferty heard the stories from old hands and newer ones – times were tough, meaning the Starks needed either fresh alliances or new realms to conquer. He couldn’t know for sure that the missing haulier and his hidden treasure weren’t a convenient smokescreen. Nor could he say as yet that either Darryl Christie or the Starks had aimed that gun at him. Which was why he turned back to the internet and started loading fresh pages about Lord Minton. If Minton had put away a Stark associate or a friend of Christie’s, he might be on the road to an answer.
