by Ian Rankin
‘Forget him.’ Cafferty screwed up his face.
‘Not easy when he’s on the rampage. How long till he comes hard up against Darryl Christie?’
‘Joe needs to be covering his own arse rather than kicking anyone else’s.’ Cafferty savoured a mouthful of the Bloody Mary. ‘With Dennis gone, there’s bound to be some jockeying.
Joe’s surrounded himself with old-timers. They had reputations once, but they’d be no match for the lads on Dennis’s payroll.
Added to which, I can think of people in Aberdeen and elsewhere who might fancy a crack at Glasgow, now that a tin-opener’s been taken to Joe’s armour.’
‘You’ve heard mutterings?’
‘Didn’t even need my ear trumpet.’ He made eye contact with Rebus again and held it. ‘You’ll do this for me, John?’
Pointing at the coaster Rebus was holding between thumb and forefinger.
‘What do you think?’
‘I think you’ll have to, because otherwise those names will go on bugging you all the way to the grave.’
Rebus got to his feet. ‘What did you mean, back at the start of our little chat? Something about not wanting to get me into trouble?’
‘It’s honestly best you don’t know. Trust me – just this once.
Will you do that?’
Rebus had seen much in his old foe’s eyes down the years – guile, venom, darkness. But now he saw something else:
uncertainty, tinged by fear. The glass was being raised again, its contents a prayed-for analgesic.
‘You’ll answer the phone when I call?’ Rebus checked.
Cafferty nodded as he drained his drink.
Twenty Two
‘We should bring Beth Hastie in for questioning,’ Fox told Clarke. They were in the incident room at Fettes, standing in the middle of the office, surrounded by an investigation that was all heat and no light. Clarke folded her arms, which Fox interpreted as a sign that he could continue. ‘She was on surveillance outside the guest house. Her story is, she took a toilet break that just happened to coincide with Dennis Stark heading out. I don’t buy it.’
‘Why not?’
‘She says she went to a nearby garage, but it’s not open all night, and those that are don’t let punters over the threshold past eleven or midnight. In any event, with Dennis murdered, shouldn’t we be interviewing Compston’s lot anyway? They’ve spent weeks tailing his every move. Might be they know something we need to know.’
‘Malcolm, you’ve been attached to this inquiry five bloody minutes – tell me this isn’t just payback of some kind.’
‘It’s not.’ He nodded towards the door to Page’s inner sanctum. ‘At least take it to him, Siobhan. Not because it’s me, but because it’s the right thing to do.’ He looked around the office. ‘Unless there’s some hot tip you’re busy following up.’
‘You know damned fine there isn’t. But James is up to his eyes – we’ve no idea if we should open a separate case for Dennis Stark. Soon as we do, his father’s going to know there’s another killer out there.’
‘Well maybe I should just let you get back to finding the owner of Rebus’s stray dog.’ Fox waited, watching as Clarke deliberated.
‘Okay then,’ she said at last with a sigh, heading for the door.
‘Should I . . .?’
‘Oh, you’re coming too, Malcolm. This is your game plan, not mine.’ As she knocked on the door, she saw Rebus enter the room from the corridor. She held up a finger to indicate that she was busy. Page called out from behind the door, and she opened it.
Rebus watched as the door closed on Clarke and Fox. He wandered over to Christine Esson’s desk.
‘What’s up?’ he asked.
‘DI Fox has climbed aboard,’ she explained.
‘Looks like he’s already making waves.’
‘Choppy waters, at any rate.’ She was chewing on the end of a ballpoint pen.
‘How’s the case?’
‘You know what doldrums are?’
‘Aren’t they the opposite of choppy waters?’ He watched her smile. ‘So you’re not too busy, then?’
‘I’ve got no news about the dog, if that’s what’s on your mind.’
‘It isn’t.’
She leaned back in her chair to study him. ‘Do I detect another favour in the offing?’
He placed a slip of paper on her desk. It detailed what little he knew about Cafferty’s two names.
‘I need anything you can get – police records; births, marriages and deaths; anything.’
She touched the note with her pen, as if reluctant to pick it up. ‘How much trouble is this going to get me in?’
‘None whatsoever.’
‘But it’s not connected to the Minton/Stark investigation?’
‘It might be.’
‘Care to elucidate?’
‘The problem is, I can’t. Not until I know a bit more about these two.’ He patted the names with his finger.
‘Why me?’
‘Because you’re IT-savvy. Me, I wouldn’t know the first place to start.’
‘Judging by the dates, this is going to wear out my shoe leather rather than my computer mouse. Old records, maybe not digitised yet . . .’
‘Get Ronnie to help you.’ Ogilvie was at a desk across the room, busy on a telephone but his eyes on Esson and Rebus, curiosity piqued.
‘And what do we say to Siobhan when she asks?’
‘You’re following up potential leads.’ Rebus paused. ‘No need to say they came from me.’
‘Why doesn’t that surprise me?’ Finally she picked up the note and studied it. ‘Leave it with me, then.’
‘Magic,’ Rebus said. ‘When Siobhan comes out, tell her I’m in the cafeteria.’
Esson watched him as he retraced his steps, disappearing into the corridor. ‘No, that’s all right,’ she muttered. ‘I didn’t want anything bringing back.’ Then she turned her attention to her monitor and got to work.
Rebus was halfway down the corridor when he bumped into Detective Sergeant Charlie Sykes. A digestive biscuit was protruding from his mouth as he carried a pile of box files between offices. Rebus stopped in front of him, blocking his route. Reaching up a hand, he snapped off the visible section of biscuit and laid it on top of the uppermost box. Sykes scowled, chewing hard to try to free up his mouth.
‘Still on the health kick, eh, Charlie?’ Rebus enquired.
‘Thought you were retired.’
‘They’ve discovered that nothing gets done without me, which makes me almost your exact opposite.’ Rebus studied the man. ‘Nice suit, though – who’s greasing your palm these days?
Used to be Big Ger, didn’t it?’
Sykes scowled. ‘Everyone on the force knows who Cafferty’s real friend around these parts was.’
Rebus shook his head. ‘I’d better let you get on, Charlie.
You’ll want to keep looking like you’re almost doing something useful.’ He lifted the remaining sliver of biscuit and pushed it into Sykes’s mouth, so that the man’s curses were muffled as Rebus continued on his way.
Darryl Christie was dressed as though impervious to cold – well-tailored suit, open-necked shirt. The two men he had brought with him were swaddled in black zip-up jackets, gloves and baseball caps. West Parliament Square was the usual tourist bustle. St Giles’ Cathedral loomed above Christie and his
minders. Nearby stood the law courts and the City Chambers.
This was the Edinburgh visitors craved, with the castle just up the hill and plenty of shops selling tartan and whisky. Joe Stark emerged from the direction of George IV Bridge. He wore a dark green raincoat and a red woollen scarf, with a white shirt and black tie beneath. Christie recognised the figures flanking him – Walter Grieve and Len Parker, both of them sporting a black tie. He gave a signal to his own men and they retreated towards the door of the Signet Library. Christie had peered through the door’s glass panels earlier, noting legal types pacing to and fro,
in whispered discussions with colleagues.
The High Court of Justiciary was a one-minute walk away, not that Christie had ever been inside it.
Not yet.
Stark walked towards him, leaving his two old lieutenants behind. When he was a couple of feet from Christie, he nodded the curtest of greetings.
‘Thanks for meeting me,’ Christie said.
‘Why here?’
Christie looked around. ‘Nice and public,’ he ventured.
‘Reckoned we’d both feel safer.’
Stark just grunted.
‘I’m sorry about what happened to your son,’ Christie went on, having more or less rehearsed these first few minutes. Stark glowered.
‘What did happen to him?’
‘Nothing I had any part of, I promise you. I’ve been keeping my distance, even though Dennis was trampling all over my territory.’ Christie paused. ‘That was out of respect for you, Mr Stark.’
‘We’re here until someone gives us a reason not to be,’ Stark said. He had an old man’s slightly milky blue eyes, but they contained plenty of menace still.
‘You mean until someone hands you Hamish Wright?’
‘It’s what Wright took from us – that’s what matters.’
‘Plus finding whoever did for Dennis?’
‘Police think it’s a serial killer maybe.’
‘Is that what you think?’
‘Someone topped a lawyer. Not sure what that’s got to do with my son.’
‘They took a potshot at Cafferty, too. Did you know that?
And I’m told Cafferty got a note.’
Stark’s eyes narrowed a little further.
‘Did Dennis know Cafferty at all?’ Christie asked into the silence.
Stark shook his head.
‘One more thing I need to tell you – I hear from one of my sources that the note left next to Dennis is a fake.’ Christie paused to let this sink in.
‘Are you fucking about with me?’
‘I wouldn’t dare. No bullet was recovered either, meaning the gunman almost certainly took it with him.’
‘Why?’
‘So it couldn’t be checked against the one fired at Cafferty.’
‘Different guns?’ The old man nodded his understanding.
‘Cops are keeping that quiet.’
‘They’ll have their reasons.’
‘The fucker who did Dennis wanted it to look connected,’
Stark mused, scratching at his cheek. ‘But if it isn’t . . .’
‘You’re looking at someone with a grudge.’
Stark peered at him. ‘I’d have to put you on that list.’
‘I don’t doubt it. Dennis and his boys weren’t very nice to my friends. Then my old pub gets torched just last night . . .’
‘If you did put a bullet in my son, you’d have to have balls of granite to meet me like this.’
Christie offered a shrug. ‘I’m telling you the truth, Mr Stark.
But here’s a thing – Dennis arrives in town, and almost immediately someone takes aim at Big Ger Cafferty.’
‘That wasn’t Dennis.’
‘Big Ger may think differently.’ Christie stretched out his arms. ‘I’m just saying. You know he’s gone AWOL?’
‘What?’
‘Not at his house. Not anywhere to be found, though he may be holing up in a hotel not a million miles from this very spot.’
Stark took a single step closer. ‘You trying to pit me against him, son? Cafferty’s not a serious proposition these days.’
‘Is that what you hear in Glasgow?’ Christie smiled almost ruefully. ‘Maybe he’s just got better camouflage. Trust me on this – he’s still in the jungle. All you have to do is ask around.’
Stark took a few seconds to digest everything he’d been told.
Christie held out a hand for him to shake.
‘Thank you for meeting me, sir. I meant what I said about respect.’ When Stark’s own hand was enveloped by the younger man’s, the clasp turned into something more vice-like.
Christie’s eyes had darkened, his voice becoming steelier. ‘But respect or not, if you have any thoughts about making a move on me or my city, best think again. There’s no For Sale sign when you exit the M8.’
Stark snatched his hand away. He was rubbing it as Christie turned to go.
‘Torching your pub,’ Stark called out to him, ‘was nothing to do with me – or with Dennis’s lot. I asked them.’
Christie didn’t look back. His minders fell into step beside him as he started to pass the law courts. His brow was furrowing, and he stabbed his hands into his trouser pockets for warmth.
‘Everything sorted?’ one of his men enquired.
‘Getting there,’ Christie replied after a moment’s consideration, though he wasn’t entirely sure he believed it.
Or Joe Stark.
Rebus sat in the Fettes canteen with tea and a ham salad roll, his phone in his hand. His call to Milligan’s Casino had been met with bemusement – nobody on duty had heard of Todd Dalrymple. But someone had laid hands on a telephone directory and a single Dalrymple T. had been found, along with an address – Argyle Crescent, just off Portobello High Street.
Rebus was about to ring the number when Siobhan Clarke appeared. She got herself some coffee and a caramel wafer and pulled out the chair next to him.
‘What was happening upstairs?’ he asked.
‘Malcolm thinks we should be interviewing Compston’s team.’
‘He’s probably not wrong.’ Rebus looked at her. ‘But you’re worried about his motives?’
‘A little, yes.’ She bit into the biscuit and started chewing.
‘Is Page still going along with the plan?’ Rebus asked.
‘What plan?’
‘Pretending the same attacker did for Minton and Dennis Stark both.’
‘I’m not sure the Fiscal’s office is enthusiastic – they see it as unfair on the family.’
‘Thing is, family in this case means Joe Stark.’
‘I know . . .’ She broke off, staring into the distance. Then: ‘Any joy from the internet?’
It took Rebus a moment to work out that she meant the dog rather than the two names he’d given to Christine Esson. He shook his head.
‘So what’s keeping you busy today?’
‘Couple of wee things,’ he lied. ‘Might be something or nothing.’ He placed his phone on the table and lifted the tea.
‘By the way, have you dismissed the possibility of a link between Minton and that Linlithgow attack?’
‘Pretty much. Why do you ask?’
‘Because Cafferty happened to mention it.’
‘Oh?’
‘The attacks on Minton, Cafferty himself and the guy in Linlithgow – he mentioned them in the same breath. And something else . . .’
‘What?’
‘The victim in Linlithgow . . .’
‘Michael Tolland?’
Rebus nodded. ‘Cafferty said something about him being a care worker.’
‘He was.’
‘Yes, but not knowing him, is that how you would describe him?’
‘No,’ she conceded.
Rebus nodded his agreement. ‘You’d say “millionaire”, or “lottery winner”, right?’
‘Right.’
‘So why didn’t Cafferty? It was like that wasn’t what was important.’
Clarke thought for a moment. ‘You think I should dig a little deeper?’
Rebus shrugged, but he knew the seed had been planted. ‘So you’re bringing in Compston and his crew, eh? Are there still tickets available?’
‘I can probably get you on the guest list.’ Her phone pinged, telling her she had a text. She checked her screen. ‘Talk of the devil,’ she said. ‘Boss wants me in his office.’
‘He can be a fast worker when necessary.’
She got to her feet, pushing away her coffee. ‘You really think they’ll give us anything?’
&nbs
p; ‘Compston’s gang?’ Rebus pondered this. ‘I very much doubt it.’
‘Then why are we bothering?’
‘Because it’s the right thing to do.’
‘That’s pretty much word for word what Malcolm said.’
Clarke smiled tiredly, gave a little wave and was gone.
Rebus turned his attention to his own phone. Should have looked in the phone book, John, he chided himself. Maybe Jeffries and Ritter were in there too . . .
‘Hello?’ The voice was deep and throaty. There was a dog barking somewhere behind it.
‘Mr Dalrymple? My name’s John Rebus. I’m calling from the police.’
‘Oh aye?’ Then: ‘John B! Will you be quiet!’
‘I was wondering if I could talk to you.’
The dog’s barking had grown more insistent.
‘He’s wanting his walk,’ Dalrymple apologised. ‘I need to take him out.’
‘I have a few questions about your time at Milligan’s Casino,’ Rebus ploughed on.
‘Sorry, son, I can’t hear a thing.’
‘Maybe you could shut the dog in another room.’
‘Give me your number and I’ll phone you back. I’ll only be an hour or two.’
‘Where do you take him?’
‘Eh?’
‘John B – where do you go walking?’
‘The Promenade usually.’
‘I’ll meet you there.’
‘I’ll be at the Joppa end, just down from James Street. John B is hard to miss – twice the energy of any other dog on the beach. Just look for the doddery old bastard failing to keep up with him . . .’
Twenty Three
The wind had died down and the temperature was a few degrees above freezing. The Promenade was a wide walkway which, towards Portobello, was fronted by fast-food takeaways, gaming arcades and bars. At the Joppa end, however, it was much quieter, with houses and flats facing the estuary. The tide was halfway out and the sand damp and pale yellow. There were views across to Fife, Cockenzie and Berwick Law. Plenty of dog-walkers. Rebus watched a huddle of dogs as they leapt at and past each other down near the surf. One was barking enthusiastically. It was a cross-breed with a short black coat, and seemed almost to be grinning in wonder at the world. A man a few years older than Rebus and dressed in tan cords and a Barbour jacket watched from the other side of the wall, whistling and calling out occasionally, to no effect whatsoever.
