by Ian Rankin
‘Roddy?’ he asked, approaching the table.
‘If you like.’ The man was shrunken, missing a few teeth.
He could have been anywhere from mid forties to early sixties.
Diet, alongside drink and smokes, had sucked the life from him.
Ink stains on the back of his hands showed where ancient self-inflicted tattoos had faded. The blue veins stood out like cords.
There was a packet of Silk Cut on one corner of the table, the table itself next to a solid door that Rebus knew led to a rear courtyard, an unloved concrete space used by only the most dedicated nicotine addicts.
‘Thanks for meeting me,’ Rebus said as he pulled out a chair. Its cheap vinyl covering had been patched with silver insulating tape. ‘Nice place, eh?’ He made show of inspecting the decor. ‘Your local, is it?’
The man stared at him with milky, uncertain eyes.
‘Get you a refill?’ Rebus persisted, gesturing towards what he took to be a rum and black. He was already wishing he’d exchanged the watery pint in front of him for a nip of whisky.
‘One drink and I’m out of here, same as you.’
Rebus nodded his acceptance of this. ‘New owner seems to be running the place down.’ He looked around again. ‘Word is, a supermarket’ll buy the site. Davie Dunn fronting the deal so Darryl’s name doesn’t come up.’ He winked, as if he were sharing gossip with an old confidant.
‘Just ask your questions,’ his companion muttered.
No more games, then. Rebus’s face tightened, his eyes hardening. Hands on knees, he leaned in towards the man whose name was not Roddy.
‘You sold a gun to Lord Minton.’
‘Aye.’
‘You knew who he was?’
‘Not until I saw him in the papers.’
‘How long was that after you met with him?’
‘Less than a week.’
‘Did he say why he needed a gun?’
‘That’s not how it works. He got word to me via an intermediary, I passed back the instructions. Two grand in a Lidl bag, put in the bin by the pond in Inverleith Park. Two hours later, he retrieves the same bag.’
‘Containing a nine-mil pistol wrapped in muslin?’
The man nodded slowly and without emotion.
‘How many bullets?’
‘Seven or eight – not quite a full clip.’
Rebus studied him for a moment. ‘Have you and me ever had dealings?’ Roddy shook his head.
‘You don’t look familiar,’ Rebus admitted.
‘Biggest pat on the back I give myself – keeping under the radar as far as you lot are concerned.’ His eyes met Rebus’s.
‘Know who you are, though. Know the sort of bastard you used to be.’
‘Not so much of the past tense,’ Rebus chided him.
‘We done?’
‘Not quite. You didn’t speak to Minton? How did he find you in the first place?’
‘Friend of a friend of a friend – that’s how it usually works.’
‘Someone he maybe put away in the past?’
‘You tell me.’
Rebus wasn’t sure it mattered. ‘So he didn’t say why he wanted a gun, but did he seem nervous?’
‘I heard he was twitchy. He seemed fine when he dropped the money off, though.’
‘You were watching?’
‘Other side of the boating pond. Nice and casual on one of the benches. Waited till he was out of sight, then got over there pronto.’
‘Did you hang around to see him come back?’
Roddy nodded slowly. ‘I was curious, I suppose. He looked like a toff. Shiny shoes, expensive coat. And the way he carried himself – out of the top drawer, you could tell.’
‘Far from your usual client? So what did you think when he was found dead?’
‘I thought he obviously had reason to buy that gun.’
‘Am I allowed to ask where you got it?’
‘No.’
‘What if I insist?’
‘Do what the hell you like.’
Rebus allowed the silence to settle. He took another sip from the stale pint, knowing he wasn’t going to touch it again after that if his life depended on it.
‘Okay then,’ he said eventually. ‘One last thing: similar sales in the recent past.’
‘It’s been months.’
‘How many months?’
‘Seven or eight. Even then, it was a loaner.’
‘So you got it back?’
Roddy nodded again. ‘If it’s been used, I don’t want to know. But if they want to sell it back pristine, I give them a price.’
‘Did Minton know that?’
A shake of the head. ‘His was for keeps, right from the get-go. Are we finished here?’
‘Is it worth my while trawling the records to find who you really are?’
The man tipped the dregs of his drink down his throat. ‘As hobbies go, it would keep you busy – a bit like metal-detecting, but with nothing much to show for the effort.’
‘Not even a few old coins?’
‘Not even a rusty bottle-top, Mr Rebus.’
Cafferty had ventured to the Sainsbury’s on Middle Meadow Walk, queuing behind too many students buying garlic bread and pasta salads. Back in his flat, he had eaten his own supper of cooked chicken slices, followed by a bag of green grapes, washed down with half a bottle of screw-top Valpolicella. He was beginning to wonder about the efficacy of hiding away like this. A decade or two back, he would have been scouring the streets, primed to face any situation that warranted his participation. Had the bullet spooked him? It had, though he was loath to admit the fact. Why was he still breathing? A fluke? A nasty recoil? A beginner’s finger on the trigger? Or because the whole thing had been meant as warning only? Two inches from death, he reckoned he’d been. The zing of the projectile as it passed his head. The thud of impact and the sudden chalky cloud of plaster. And there he stood, numb and unprepared. The gunman could have taken aim and fired again, no problem. But he had run. Why? The obvious answer: it had been a warning. Or the shooter was toying with him, relishing this extended period of fear mixed with uncertainty. And what a time to pick, with Christie on edge and the Starks running amok. Perfect conditions for Cafferty to make his move and reclaim his territory.
Instead of which, he cowered here, laptop open, screen awaiting his next search.
Rebus had been calling, but Cafferty hadn’t answered.
Rebus would know by now – know he was no longer at home.
Would the investigators be trying to pin him for the murder of
Dennis Stark? Unlikely – there had been another note, hadn’t there? Then again, they might see the attack on Cafferty himself as part of the plan, the perpetrator trying to disguise himself as potential victim. No, Rebus would never be that stupid. But that didn’t mean others wouldn’t be taken in. Anything could be happening out there, and he had no means of knowing.
He had brought his passport with him from the house, and it struck him that he could simply jet off somewhere and leave the whole bloody circus behind. He’d been to Barbados, Grand Cayman, Dubai. He had old friends in all three. Warmer climes, where dirty money became clean money. Cafferty had plenty in various accounts. He could live out the remainder of his life very nicely. Then he remembered something Rebus had let slip – a lottery winner in . . . where? Linlithgow? Why had he mentioned that? He scratched at his forehead, then started a new search. His tongue felt furred from too much red wine, and he knew he’d better drink some water before he went to sleep.
Lottery winner. Linlithgow. Murder.
He clicked on the first result and started reading the news story. Michael Tolland . . . fortune, followed by double tragedy . . . wife dies, and then he’s attacked by an intruder . . .
‘Poor bugger,’ Cafferty said. He stared at the photo of Tolland grinning next to his wife, the outsized cheque held in front of them, champagne at the ready.
‘Michael Tolland,’ he muttered
, closing the page and clicking on the next link. Halfway down the screen, two words leapt out at him: Acorn House.
Acorn House.
His lips formed the words silently and with slow deliberation, his eyes reduced to little more than slits. ‘Is that what this is about? Holy Christ . . .’
There was still his passport, and the thought of escape. But now he had an inkling – an inkling, and the sudden need to know more.
Rebus was five minutes early getting to the Oxford Bar, but Clarke and Fox were already there. The tables were all taken, so they’d commandeered a space next to the toilets, where no one could listen in.
‘You okay standing?’ Fox asked.
‘I still had the use of my legs last time I looked,’ Rebus muttered. ‘Pair of you on softies tonight?’
They both nodded, so he fetched the drinks: lime and soda, sparkling water, IPA, plus a couple of packets of crisps and some salted nuts.
‘Cheers,’ he said, opening one of the packs and laying it on the high circular table.
‘We’ve already eaten,’ Fox said.
‘Nice, was it?’
‘That tapas place on George Street.’
‘Bit more salubrious than where I’ve just been.’
‘How did it go?’ Clarke enquired.
Rebus told them. He gave as good a description as he could of ‘Roddy’, but neither of them seemed able to place him.
‘You think he’s telling the truth about only selling the one gun?’
Rebus shrugged and dropped more crisps into his mouth.
‘Plenty other dealers out there – doesn’t have to have been local.’
‘On the other hand . . .’
Rebus nodded. ‘At least we’d know we were dealing with two different guns. Is Page going to go public with the copycat note?’
‘I’m not sure,’ Clarke admitted. ‘It would put the public’s mind at rest that we’re not dealing with some crazed psychopath.’
‘We are, though,’ Fox corrected her. ‘Even leaving Dennis Stark out of the equation.’
‘Only other victim is Minton.’
‘As far as we know.’
‘Here’s what I think,’ Rebus interrupted. ‘If it comes out that Dennis was killed by another hand, the dad is going to go even more berserk. Far as he’s concerned, his son was targeted by the same person who went for Minton and Cafferty.’
‘Except we’re keeping Cafferty’s note quiet,’ Clarke interrupted.
‘Thing is, right now the killer is some anonymous stranger and Joe has no idea how the victims connect. If we suddenly say, oh, Dennis was topped by someone who only wanted it to look like the same killer . . .’
‘He’ll draw up a list of likely suspects,’ Clarke agreed.
‘And have them dealt with,’ Fox added quietly, taking a sip from his glass.
‘Starting with Christie and Cafferty,’ Rebus said. ‘And that’s when this whole thing goes nuclear.’
‘I need to make sure Page understands this,’ Clarke said.
‘How did he react,’ Fox asked, ‘when you told him about the surveillance?’
‘He was furious that no one had told him earlier.’
‘Detective Chief Super must have been in the loop.’
Clarke nodded. ‘But he’d been told it was to be kept under wraps.’
‘By our imperial overlord?’
‘The very same.’
‘So you’ll talk to Page?’ Rebus asked.
‘I’m doing it right now.’ Clarke brandished her phone and headed for the door.
‘And tell him about the gun,’ Rebus called to her retreating figure, after which he sank another inch of his drink and scooped up a few nuts.
‘So how are you, Malcolm?’ he asked, chewing.
‘Me?’ Fox sounded taken aback by the question.
‘Recovering from that hiding you took?’
‘It only hurts when I laugh.’
‘Can’t recall seeing you laugh.’
‘Exactly.’
‘And things are going well with Siobhan? I’m only asking because I care.’
‘We don’t always see as much of each other as we’d like.’
Fox paused. ‘Well, as much as I’d like anyway.’
‘She’s in love with the job, same as I was. How about you?’
‘The job has its moments,’ Fox was forced to concede.
‘Moments aren’t enough, though – everything about it should give you a buzz.’
‘Is that how it was for you?’
Rebus considered this. ‘The deeper into it you go, the more you find out – about yourself as well as everything else.’
‘The miles you’ve got on the clock, you should be on Mastermind.’
‘Pass,’ Rebus said, checking his watch.
‘Somewhere you need to be?’
‘I’m just knackered. I’m not a young thing like you. And I’m not cut out for wallflower duties.’
‘It’s not like we’re going to suddenly start snogging.’
‘Glad to hear it,’ Clarke said, standing behind Fox. She was stuffing her phone back into her shoulder bag.
‘How happy was DCI Page to have his supper interrupted?’
Rebus asked.
‘Poor sod’s still in the office. He agrees about the moratorium.’
‘Is that what it is? A moratorium?’
‘It’s as good a word as any,’ Clarke said. ‘You had any joy from Facebook and Twitter?’
‘About the dog?’ Rebus shook his head. ‘Vet says space is at a premium in the surgery – he’s all for handing Fido over to the cat and dog home tomorrow.’ He paused. ‘Unless some kind and sympathetic person steps into the breach.’
‘I hate to say it,’ Clarke commented, ‘but you’re barking up the wrong tree.’
‘Aye,’ Rebus conceded, ‘and by no means for the first time in my life.’
Fox drove Clarke back to her flat, just off Broughton Street.
She invited him up and they sat together on her sofa, drinking tea and listening to jazz. Eventually she rested her head against his shoulder. When the rhythm of her breathing changed, he realised she was asleep.
‘Time you were in bed,’ he said.
‘Sorry,’ she replied, opening her eyes and smiling. ‘Do you mind?’
He kissed her on the lips, received a perfumed hug, and went back downstairs to his car. He took the road south through the city towards Cameron Toll, then turned right, skirting the Grange. Countless sets of traffic lights, all seemingly in cahoots – red followed by red followed by red. Greenbank Crescent at last, and then Oxgangs Avenue. There was a light on in his bungalow – the one in the hallway, set to a timer. Siobhan had laughed at him about it once – You think a housebreaker’s going to be fooled by that?
But I’ve never been broken into, he said to himself. QED.
He parked on the short, steep driveway and got out, locking the car after him. He was most of the way to his door when he heard another door open and close – a car door. He turned and saw that it was Beth Hastie. She had a face like thunder. He’d seen the car parked kerbside but had thought nothing of it – someone visiting one of his neighbours. She must have laid herself flat across the front seats. Now she was shoving open his gate and striding towards him.
‘Fuck is your problem?’ she snarled.
‘I didn’t know I had one.’
‘That’s because you’re a dickhead. Going behind my back, pouring your pish into Alec’s ear.’
He realised he was studying her almost for the first time.
Five-six, neither skinny nor visibly overweight. Looked like there was some muscle there – gym or maybe even a boxing club.
‘Do you want to come in?’ he asked into the silence.
‘I wouldn’t cross your threshold if you paid me.’
‘Probably a no, then.’
She reached out and grabbed a fistful of his coat. ‘I’m just about ready to do some real damage to that ugly puff
ed-up face of yours.’
The hand Fox placed over hers wasn’t quite twice the size.
He began to squeeze. She tried not to let pain show in her eyes, but eventually let go, at which point Fox did the same.
‘You didn’t take any comfort break at a local petrol station,’
he intoned. ‘Took me about five minutes to establish that. I went to Alec Bell with it because that was one way of keeping it from your boss. If you’ve got a different story you want to tell me, I’ll happily listen.’
‘I don’t need to tell you a single solitary thing.’
‘That’s true.’
‘So now you’ll go crying to teacher, grass me up to Ricky?’
‘Will I?’
‘How else are you going to get a hard-on?’
‘Whatever happened last night, Compston is going to work it out eventually – he won’t need help from me or anyone else.
He’ll start to think about the coincidence: you leaving your post just before Dennis took his walk.’ Fox paused. ‘That is what happened? Or did you sleep through it?’ He shook his head.
‘No, because why lie? Being asleep is about as much of a lapse as taking a break. Want to tell me the truth, Beth?’
‘You’re screwing with a team, Fox. It’s always going to be you against us – remember that.’
As if on cue, Fox heard another door open. Alec Bell must have been in the Audi with her. He too pushed open the gate, though without his colleague’s pent-up sense of grievance. He was even smiling, sliding his hands into the pockets of his coat.
‘I couldn’t not tell her,’ he announced with a shrug, eyes on Fox.
‘And now the two of you are here to warn me to mind my own business?’
‘We clear up our own mess, no outside help required.’
Another shrug.
Fox turned his attention back to Beth Hastie. ‘I still need to know where you went, and why.’
But Alec Bell shook his head and placed a hand on Hastie’s shoulder. ‘We should be getting back, Beth.’
Her eyes remained fixed on Fox’s. Bell’s hand grew more insistent.
‘Beth,’ he said.
The spell seemed broken. She blinked and half turned towards him.
‘Sure,’ she said.
Then she twisted back towards Fox and flung her knee up into his unprotected groin. He doubled over, swallowing back a sudden urge to vomit. Pain flooded through him.
