by Ian Rankin
The view across the Meadows towards Marchmont faded as the sun dipped below the horizon. Rebus lived in Marchmont.
Cafferty knew he could count on the man as an ally only so far.
Rebus still had a cop’s instincts, meaning he would take Cafferty down if he thought there was a halfway decent chance of a conviction. On the other hand, war breaking out on the streets was in no one’s interests. If it were to happen, the police would target both Dennis Stark and Darryl Christie.
And if those pieces were removed from the board, Cafferty would be ready to fill the vacuum.
More than ready.
Thirteen
The back room of the Oxford Bar, the corner table by the fire.
‘I’d like to convene this meeting,’ Rebus announced, placing the three drinks on the table. Fox and Clarke had settled themselves, removing coats and scarves. Fox was on tonic water, Clarke the same but with the addition of two measures of gin. ‘Cheers,’ Rebus said, seating himself opposite them.
‘Have you spoken to Page yet?’ Clarke asked.
‘Give me a chance,’ Rebus answered, taking a sip from his pint. Then, for Fox’s benefit: ‘DCI Page seems to think I might be a valuable addition to the team.’
‘And what’s brought about this miracle?’
Clarke explained about the note Cafferty had received.
‘By the way,’ Rebus added, ‘Big Ger thinks your haulier may be dead and buried.’
‘Not possible – Compston would know.’
Rebus shrugged. ‘Maybe Compston does know. Maybe he’s not been entirely frank with you.’
‘Besides,’ Fox went on, ‘Cafferty doesn’t have anyone on the inside, does he?’
Rebus just shrugged again. Clarke was looking from one man to the other.
‘What are you two talking about?’
Rebus raised an eyebrow at Fox. ‘You’ve not said?’
Now it was Fox’s turn to bring Clarke up to date.
‘Hang on,’ Rebus eventually interrupted. ‘They went to the Gimlet?’
Fox nodded. ‘But they were only inside a couple of minutes, meaning Davie Dunn probably wasn’t there.’
‘And this was after they’d given Carpenter a doing outside his own premises?’ Rebus was bristling.
‘Easy, John,’ Clarke advised him. ‘You’re not CID these days.’
‘Everyone keeps telling me that, but I’ll be buggered if I sit around and let my city get turned over by a streak of piss like Dennis Stark.’
‘A noble sentiment,’ Clarke said, attempting levity, ‘but let’s try and keep a sense of perspective. Your job is to advise us, John. The Starks need to be left to Malcolm and his merry men.’
Rebus gave Fox a hard stare, then turned back to Clarke.
‘Thing is, Compston’s men were watching when Dennis Stark thumped the storage guy, and they made no move to step in or break it up. A man could have been killed, and I’m willing to bet Compston would have sat on his hands.’
‘Is that right, Malcolm?’ Clarke asked quietly.
‘Of course it’s right,’ Rebus spat. ‘We could have the son in custody right now, charged with assault. But that’s not good enough for Compston: he wants the full set – father and son, drugs and money – so that his boss, our glorious Chief Constable, can look good on TV. Wouldn’t you say that’s the case, DI Fox?’
The table was silent for a moment, Fox concentrating on the ice cubes in his glass.
‘There’s one of our lot on the inside, don’t forget,’ he eventually said. ‘I doubt a fine for Dennis Stark would be seen as recompense for his efforts.’
‘But at least the Starks would have been warned, meaning they’d slope off back to Glasgow. Peace on the streets and good luck to Hamish Wright and his ill-gotten gains.’ Rebus took too swift a gulp from his pint, beer dribbling down one cheek to his chin. He swiped it away with the back of a hand.
‘Have you told Doug Maxtone any of this?’ Clarke asked Fox.
Fox shook his head.
‘Why not?’
‘Maybe because his thinking wouldn’t be dissimilar from John’s.’
‘You’re not Compston’s man, Malcolm. You need to remember that.’
Fox nodded slowly.
‘What do you think Malcolm should do, John?’
Rebus puffed his cheeks and exhaled. ‘Take up drinking, maybe. Because sober, he’s going to be replaying that beating all the sleepless night.’
‘But should he take what he knows to Doug Maxtone?’
‘That’s got to be Malcolm’s call.’
‘You think Chick Carpenter will want to press charges?’ Fox asked.
‘He doesn’t have to – we’ve police witnesses to the assault.’
Rebus paused. ‘On the other hand, you may have a point. Could be he’ll deny there was any assault, just like Cafferty denied he’d been shot at. These are people who don’t trust us and don’t trust our motives.’
‘There’s one further complication,’ Fox added. ‘Chick Carpenter is friends with Darryl Christie.’
‘Then Darryl won’t be happy.’ Rebus paused again. ‘Wait a second – and Dennis went straight from one of Christie’s mates to a pub Christie used to own?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can’t be more than six months since the Gimlet changed hands.’
‘You’re thinking Christie will know the new owner?’ Clarke asked.
‘There’s only a new owner on paper,’ Rebus said.
‘Everybody knows Davie Dunn is fronting the place.’
‘Why?’
‘So it can be run down and sold off to a supermarket who might not want to buy from a known criminal.’
‘It’s getting closer then – some sort of confrontation. And I’m guessing we really don’t want that to happen.’ Clarke turned her head towards Fox. ‘Meaning we maybe do need the Starks sent packing, despite everything.’
Fox finished his drink and got to his feet. ‘My round,’ he said. ‘Same again?’
Rebus nodded, but Clarke demurred. When Fox had gone, she leaned across the table.
‘Last thing we need is Cafferty getting involved. The two cases can’t overlap.’
‘Big Ger’s not the one I’m worried about, Siobhan.’
‘Christie?’ She watched as Rebus gave a slow nod.
‘Big Ger’s the type to meet brute force with a bit more brute force. Darryl, on the other hand . . . I’ve no idea how he’ll react.
Could go one way or the other.’
‘Lucky it’s nothing to do with us then, eh? We just focus on our nice cosy stalker-cum-killer. Speaking of which, have I mentioned the desk drawer?’
‘Sounds riveting,’ Rebus said. ‘Do tell.’
She was opening her mouth as he got to his feet.
‘And while you’re doing that,’ he said, ‘I’ll be outside enjoying a well-earned cigarette.’
The taxi dropped Rebus at the top of Cafferty’s street. A woman was walking her superannuated dog. It was about seven inches high and hugely interested in a lamp post. The roadway and pavement were bathed in sodium orange, the moon overhead illuminating a veil of white cloud. A quiet, orderly part of town. Rebus doubted there had been too many YES
posters in the windows here during the independence campaign.
The moneyed class here kept its opinions to itself, and didn’t kick up a fuss unless absolutely provoked. Edinburgh had always seemed to Rebus a city that liked to keep its counsel and its secrets. He guessed that most of Cafferty’s neighbours would know his reputation, not that they would ever say anything to his face. Whispers and glances and gossip shared by phone or email or in the privacy of the bedroom or dinner party.
The shot fired at the detached Victorian home would have come as a shock. In the Inch maybe, or Niddrie or Sighthill, but not here, not in this Edinburgh.
As Rebus approached the house, he could see that no lights were on. The car and guards had disappeared from their posting. As he walked up
the driveway, security lamps were triggered, lighting his way. There was another above the back door, but still no sign of life from within. He did a circuit of the
garden and ended up at the front door, ringing the bell twice and, after a wait, squatting to peer through the letter box.
Darkness within. He took out his phone and made a call, listening to the eventual ringing indoors. But no one was there to answer, so he called Cafferty’s mobile instead. It rang and rang without going to any kind of answering service. Rebus hung up and sent a text instead: Where are you?
Then he realised Cafferty might not know it was from him, so he typed in another: It’s me by the way – John.
Thought for a moment and deleted ‘John’, replacing it with ‘Rebus’. Pressed send.
It was cold, but not quite below zero. He reckoned he could walk to his flat in fifteen, maybe twenty minutes. He had a phrase from the first Godfather film in his head – ‘going to the mattresses’. He wondered if that was what Cafferty was doing: hiding out somewhere while preparing for war. Well, it was time for Rebus to hit his own mattress. But as he walked back down the path, he saw a familiar figure peering through the gate.
‘You again,’ he told the terrier. It seemed to recognise his voice, wagging its tail as he approached. When he leaned down to stroke it, the dog rolled on to its back.
‘Bit chilly for that,’ Rebus said. He could feel its ribs protruding. No collar. The dog got back to its feet and waited.
‘Where do you live, bud?’ Rebus asked, looking up and down the street. Cafferty had seemed to think it a stray. The dog didn’t look feral or maltreated, though. Just lost, maybe. Rebus began walking up the street, trying not to look back. When he did, the dog was right there, just a few steps behind. He tried
shooing it away. The look on the terrier’s face told him it was disappointed in him. His phone started buzzing. As he dug it out of his pocket, the dog sidled up and began sniffing his shoes and trouser legs. He had a text – but not from Cafferty.
Hell of a day! Know it’s late, but fancy a drink somewhere in town? Deb Rebus considered his options for all of five seconds, then made a mental apology to his bed for forsaking it, sent a return text, and phoned for a cab. He lit a cigarette while he was waiting. The dog was sitting on its haunches, quite content to keep him company. When the cab arrived, Rebus got in and closed the door after him.
‘You’ve forgotten your dog,’ the driver told him.
‘It’s not mine.’
‘Fair enough, pal.’ The driver started off, but halfway down the road, Rebus stopped him and told him to back up. When he slid open the door, his new friend bounded in, as if it had never doubted him.
It was past midnight when Siobhan Clarke slid the DVD into the player and retreated to her sofa, remote in hand. She picked up the file on Michael Tolland and skimmed it as she watched the TV interviews with the lottery winner and his wife. Tolland was effusive, grinning from ear to ear, while Ella said hardly a word. Clarke removed a photocopy of the wedding photo from the file. The bride looked soulful, as if having second thoughts.
Jim Grant, the cop from Linlithgow, had sent precisely two texts since their meeting. The first had been to inform her that he’d spoken to Tolland’s old school pal, who had confirmed that Tolland had seemed ‘a bit jittery’ at their last few get-togethers but wouldn’t say what the problem was. The house had been scoured again but no note, threatening or otherwise, recovered. The second text had been to suggest they confer over ‘a drink or maybe even dinner’. He had appended to this an emoji of a smiling yellow face, and another that was winking with its tongue protruding – which probably meant Clarke now owed Christine Esson twenty quid. One further text had arrived – from Deborah Quant, regarding the theory that the implement used on Lord Minton could have been a crowbar rather than a hammer. Quant’s reply had been a decidedly tetchy Find me the murder weapon and I’ll be able to answer, probably composed at the end of a long day. It had been a long day for everyone, and Clarke found her eyes closing as Michael Tolland handed an oversized cheque back to the official and opened the magnum of champagne, spraying it around, not least in the direction of his unamused, newly enriched wife.
DAY FOUR
Fourteen
Siobhan Clarke pressed the intercom half a dozen times before receiving a growled answer.
‘It’s Siobhan. Don’t tell me you’re not up yet.’
‘Privilege of the consulting detective.’ He buzzed her in and she climbed the stairwell to his floor. He had left the door open for her.
‘I’m in the bathroom,’ he called. ‘Kettle’s on.’
She was not alone in the kitchen. A dog was there, eating chopped-up sausages from a plate. There was the aroma of recent frying, and an unwashed pan sat in the sink.
Rebus emerged, towelling dry his hair, shirt untucked and open at the neck.
‘No vegetables in your fridge,’ she said. ‘But good to see it’s not jam-packed with booze either.’
‘You applying for the post of carer?’ He took the mug from her and sipped.
‘Thought you were heading straight home from the Ox?’
Rebus rolled his bloodshot eyes. ‘And now she’s my mother.’
‘It’s the dog from Cafferty’s street, am I right?’
‘Sharp as ever.’
‘And it’s here because . . .?’
‘I wanted it to be a surprise.’ He fixed her with a look but she shook her head.
‘No way, Jose,’ she said.
‘Think of the exercise you’d get, not to mention the companionship.’
‘My answer’s the same.’
With a sigh, Rebus led her through to the living room. ‘The plot thickens,’ Clarke said. ‘Two used glasses, and perfume lingering amid the fug.’ She walked over to the hi-fi and lifted a CD. ‘Did she do a runner when you stuck this on?’
‘That’s the Steve Miller Band. Put on track seven while I find a tie.’
Rebus left the room and Clarke did as she was told. The song was called ‘Quicksilver Girl’. The volume was turned down low, low enough for late-night conversation.
‘I quite like it,’ she said on Rebus’s return. ‘Like a laid-back Beach Boys. But there’s something wrong with the speakers.’
‘I know.’
‘So how was Professor Quant?’
‘She’s not allergic to dogs.’
‘Does it have a name?’ Clarke said, watching as the terrier padded in from the kitchen, licking its chops.
‘I thought I’d call it The Dog From Cafferty’s Street.’
Clarke reached down to scratch the terrier behind its ears. ‘I saw Deborah a couple of days back. We were discussing Lord Minton.’
Rebus took another slug of coffee. ‘The Prof seems to like you.’
‘You were talking about me last night? Doesn’t exactly sound like a romantic tête-à-tête. Then again, from your music choices . . .’
‘What about them?’
Clarke checked the pile of CDs. ‘Van Morrison maybe, but Rory Gallagher and Tom Waits are hardly the stuff of serenades. On the other hand . . .’
‘What?’
‘You played CDs rather than your vinyl.’
‘Meaning?’
‘You didn’t want to be interrupted every fifteen or twenty minutes to turn the record over.’
‘We’ll make a detective of you yet. So what’s the plan for today?’
Clarke turned away from the hi-fi and checked the time.
‘The Hermitage. Meeting the dog-walker there, the one who found the bullet.’
‘Right.’
‘You’ve forgotten, haven’t you? I told you about her when you came back in after your cigarette. You said you were interested in tagging along.’
‘In which case, I am interested. And after the Hermitage?’
‘Howden Hall for the ballistics report.’
‘Followed by?’
She stared at him. ‘You’re angling to sit in on
the interview with Cafferty – that’s not going to happen.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you’re not part of the official inquiry and nor are you his lawyer. Procurator fiscal isn’t going to sanction a civilian being present.’
‘You could always ask . . .’
‘Despite already knowing the answer?’ She shook her head.
‘You can listen to the recording afterwards, if that’ll make you happy.’
‘I’m always happy.’
‘Your taste in music says otherwise.’
Rebus had donned his suit jacket and was patting his pockets, making sure he had everything. ‘Can we make a detour first?’
‘Where?’
‘I’ve got the address of a vet. They said I could drop by.’
‘Is this us saying a fond farewell to our new friend?’
‘Your car or mine?’ Rebus asked.
‘Mine – if you promise he won’t pee on the seats.’
‘But I can smoke if I roll the window down?’
‘Absolutely not.’
Rebus expelled some air. ‘And she wonders why I’m not always Mr Sunshine,’ he muttered, draining the mug.
The vet made his inspection on a stainless-steel examination table.
‘No bones broken . . . teeth seem fine.’ He felt at the neck, pinching and rubbing at the skin. ‘Doesn’t appear to be chipped, which is a pity.’
‘I thought it was compulsory.’
‘Not quite yet.’
‘You think he’s been abandoned?’
‘He may just have been lost – got out of the house and found himself too far from home to retrace his steps.’
‘People sometimes put up posters, don’t they?’ Clarke commented.
‘They do. You could do something like that yourself – a photograph on Facebook or Twitter.’
