by Ian Rankin
‘Come here, John B! Come on, boy!’
Rebus took up a position next to Todd Dalrymple, facing the water. Dalrymple glanced at him.
‘You the cop?’
‘Why John B?’
‘For John Bellany.’
‘The painter?’
‘He grew up in Port Seton. I always loved his fishing boats . . .’ Dalrymple blew his nose noisily. ‘You got a dog?’
He watched Rebus shake his head. ‘You should. They’re proven to add years to your life – if they don’t give you a heart attack first.’
‘They need exercise, though. I’m not really the type.’
‘Good excuse to get away from the wife for an hour – and plenty of pubs accept dogs.’
‘I’m suddenly warming to the notion.’
Dalrymple’s eyes creased in a smile. ‘So what can I do for you, officer?’
‘It’s a bit of a long shot. You’ll know Big Ger Cafferty?’
‘I know the name.’
‘He used to drop by Milligan’s.’
‘Not too often.’
‘He bumped into an old acquaintance there fifteen years or so back, guy called Paul Jeffries.’
Dalrymple started calling for John B again. Rebus got the feeling he was playing for time while he considered his response. Eventually he turned his head towards Rebus.
‘I knew Paul,’ he said. ‘He worked for me.’
Rebus tried not to show his surprise. ‘In what capacity?’
‘Driver. I’d lost my licence, and he offered.’
‘You knew he used to do jobs for Cafferty?’
‘He told me.’
‘Any idea what sort of jobs?’
‘Driving, he said. ‘Why the sudden interest?’
‘When did you last see him, Mr Dalrymple?’
‘Three weeks back.’
Rebus gave a little cough as he tried to hide his surprise.
‘He’s in a care home – actually more of a hospice. Not much left up here.’ Dalrymple tapped his forehead with a gloved finger.
‘I’m sorry to hear that. He’s still in the city, then?’
Dalrymple nodded. ‘You’ve not said what’s going on.’
‘Does the name Dave Ritter mean anything to you?’
‘Pal of Paul’s, wasn’t he? Remember him being mentioned.’
‘You didn’t meet him, though?’
‘Don’t think so. Did you ever go to Milligan’s in its heyday?’ He watched Rebus shake his head. ‘Some wild nights we had. Place heaving, tables full and punters waiting their turn. Off the oil rigs and pockets full of cash, plus workers from the Chinese restaurants – those guys knew what they were up to; they’d watch a new croupier to see if they had any weaknesses. Beautiful women visited too, dressed to the nines – not too many of them on the game. Businessmen ordering champagne and expensive cigars . . .’
‘I’m surprised Cafferty never tried getting his feet under the table.’
‘He made overtures. But he soon realised I was no slouch.’
‘I knew you ran the place – but you owned it, too?’
‘Started off with loans from my family – not that they necessarily liked the business. I cleared those debts soon enough, though. Aye, it was my place all right.’
‘How long did Paul Jeffries drive for you?’
‘Two, three years.’
‘Then what?’
Dalrymple shrugged. ‘He still came by. Bit of a rough diamond, our Paul. He never divulged how he was making a crust.’
‘He left or you fired him?’
‘I think the job just wasn’t as exciting as he’d hoped for.’
Rebus looked Dalrymple up and down. ‘You’re well-educated, I can tell, and you come from money. No disrespect, sir, but I’d say you wouldn’t have had much in your arsenal if Cafferty had really wanted to put the moves on you.’
Dalrymple offered the thinnest of smiles. ‘I had friends, officer. Quite a lot of friends. They gambled, ended up owing money. I’m talking about people of influence, politicians and the like. Maybe even a Chief Constable or two . . .’
‘Making you untouchable?’
‘I was able to persuade Big Ger that it would be more trouble than it was worth, should he attempt to unseat me.’
Rebus nodded his understanding. ‘I don’t suppose David Minton was one of your punters?’
‘He came in a couple of times – always with a gorgeous young woman on his arm, as if that would stop us noticing that the fairer sex weren’t his primary interest.’ John B was in the water now, but unable to persuade the other dogs to follow. ‘I think we might need to make an intervention,’ Dalrymple said with a sigh. He led Rebus through a gap in the wall on to the sand, tugging a dog lead from the pocket of his coat.
‘Can you give me the name of the care home?’ Rebus was asking. ‘The one Mr Jeffries is in?’
‘Absolutely. But I’d be grateful for some sort of thread through the labyrinth.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning what the hell is this all about?’
‘I’m unable to say at present.’
‘You almost sound as if you don’t know.’
Rebus didn’t like to admit that this wasn’t exactly wide of the mark. John B meantime had decided to welcome his
owner’s new friend by shaking himself free of seawater in Rebus’s vicinity.
‘Probably should have warned you about that,’ Dalrymple said as Rebus glared at the dog.
‘Compston refused point blank,’ Clarke told Fox. ‘You can imagine how that went down. Give James Page his due, he got straight on to the Chief Constable.’
‘And?’
‘Told him it wouldn’t look good if it got out to the media – police surveillance on Dennis Stark and the officers involved are refusing to cooperate with the murder inquiry.’
‘Not that the news would ever leak.’
‘Perish the thought,’ Clarke said.
‘I’m sure DCI Page said as much.’
She nodded slowly. ‘So now Compston and the others are on their way here.’
‘No more mayhem to report in the interim?’
‘Not that I’ve heard.’
‘What do you think Joe Stark is doing?’
‘Seething.’ She thought for a moment. ‘And plotting. He’s already given an interview to a tame Glasgow journalist.
Accuses us of sitting on our hands.’
‘I’ve not seen much evidence of that.’
They were at the bottom of the staircase now, on the ground floor of Fettes. They emerged from behind the reception desk into the waiting area. Glass walls gave a view on to Fettes Avenue. Clarke checked the time on her phone.
‘By the way,’ she said, ‘James isn’t happy about you taking part in the interviews.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because until this morning you were attached to Compston’s team. You’re just too close to it all.’
‘That’s precisely why I should be in the room!’
‘You can listen to the recordings. Anyone tells me something you know to be a lie, you let me know.’
‘That’s hardly the same thing.’
‘I know, Malcolm, but James is right.’ She stared him out.
He exhaled and slumped on to one of the seats. Clarke touched her hand to the back of his neck. ‘You know he’s right,’ she went on.
‘Don’t tell me John bloody Rebus is invited, though?’ Fox folded his arms, defying her to give him bad news.
‘He’ll be backstage, same as you. In fact I should let him know they’re on their way.’
But when she called, Rebus didn’t pick up.
‘Here they come,’ Fox warned her, as two cars he recognised roared into the driveway. ‘And while I’m no expert in automotive technique, I’d say they’re not at their sunniest . . .’
Rebus had phoned Cafferty with the news, mostly because he felt smug. It had taken him only a couple of hours of old-fashioned detective
work. The online world could stuff that in its pipe and vape it. But when Cafferty had asked for the address, Rebus had backed off a little.
‘I need to be there when you see him,’ he had demanded.
‘No you don’t,’ Cafferty had countered. ‘You know I’ll track him down by myself if I have to. It’ll take time, though, time that could see the mortuary filling up . . .’
Rebus dismissed the threat. ‘I go with you, or I end this call right now.’
He waited, letting the silence build. He imagined Milligan’s at the height of its popularity, a poker game in progress, everything in and just two players left. Fine clothes, laughter and swirling smoke, all rendered meaningless in the moment.
The phone went dead. Rebus stared at it and gave a rueful smile. His Saab was on one of the side streets off the Promenade. He smoked a cigarette as he walked in that direction, keeping the phone in his other hand. With the cigarette clamped in his mouth, stinging his eyes, he dug out his car key and unlocked the doors. Got in and slid the key into the ignition. Sat there with the door open until he had finished the cigarette. He stubbed it into the ashtray and closed the door, starting the engine.
His phone started ringing. He checked who was calling.
Siobhan Clarke. He let it ring. The road was a dead end, so he did a three-point turn and headed away from the beach, towards Portobello High Street, thinking maybe he should have treated himself to a fish supper. His phone rang again as he was turning right, entering the stream of traffic heading towards the city.
Bingo.
‘Yes?’ he said, answering.
‘Fine,’ Big Ger Cafferty spat. ‘Let’s do it your way. Give me the address and I’ll meet you there.’
Rebus calculated that it would take him twenty or thirty minutes to get to the care home. ‘I’ll phone you back in ten with the details,’ he advised. ‘Make sure you’re ready.’
‘I’ve already got my coat on.’
Rebus ended the call.
He was actually only five minutes away from his destination when he sent Cafferty the text. Meadowlea was a modern single-storey building in the Grange, within tottering distance of Astley Ainsley hospital. A phone call had confirmed that Paul Jeffries was both a resident and in a bad way.
‘Early-onset dementia with a host of complications – we’re more what you might call a hospice than a regular residence,’
Rebus was informed.
He waited in the car park for almost fifteen minutes before the black taxi chugged through the gateway, depositing a scowling Cafferty.
‘You waiting for a proficiency badge or something?’
Cafferty said.
‘A word of thanks might be in order. But I’ll settle for an explanation.’
‘Here’s what you get instead – you get to stand outside the room while I have a word.’
But Rebus shook his head. Cafferty made an exasperated sound and stepped past him. He tried yanking the glass door open, but it was locked tight. Rebus pressed the buzzer and waited.
‘Yes?’
He leaned in towards the intercom. ‘I phoned earlier. We’re here to see Mr Paul Jeffries.’
‘In you come, then.’
This time the door opened for Cafferty. He stood with hands clasped behind his back, looking to left and right. There were long corridors, protected by further doors. Rebus could smell disinfectant. The antechamber they were in held two chairs and one oversized pot plant. It looked to Rebus like a palm tree of some kind, its thick leaves dark green and shiny.
One of the doors opened and a staff member dressed in white gestured for them to follow her.
‘This is nice,’ she said. ‘Paul doesn’t get many visitors.’ She took one look at Cafferty’s face and became less certain. ‘You are friends of his?’
‘I’m just a sherpa,’ Rebus explained. ‘But Mr Cafferty here knew Paul some years back.’
They stopped outside a door with the name ‘Paul’ on it. The attendant knocked and turned the handle. It was a self-contained space with a bathroom off. A hospital-style bed against one wall, but also a fireplace with two chairs and a TV/DVD. A man was seated in one of the chairs, staring at a darts match but with the sound turned off.
‘You were told he might not say anything?’
Rebus nodded and thanked the woman, ushering her out and closing the door on her offer to bring some tea. Cafferty stood in front of Paul Jeffries, then bent down so his face was at eye level.
‘All right, Paul?’ he said.
The room was stifling. Rebus removed his coat and took a look around. No mementoes from the resident’s life. Just a few films and TV shows on DVD, and some fake flowers in a vase.
There were no paintings or photos on the walls. A radio sat on a bedside cabinet, along with a jug of water and a glass.
Cafferty was waving a hand in front of the man’s face. The eyes blinked without evident recognition. Cafferty clicked his fingers a few times, then clapped his hands together. The seated man flinched, but tried seeing past the blockage to where the darts match was still being played. Cafferty straightened up, picked up the remote and killed the picture.
‘Paul, you prick, it’s me,’ he rasped.
But the blank screen was now enjoying the seated figure’s attention. The man was dressed in jogging pants and top, maybe with a T-shirt beneath. Disposable clothes – cheap; easy to get on and off. There were food stains down the front, and one of Jeffries’ hands cupped his groin. Facially, the man was as Cafferty had described him, but older, almost drained of vigour, and his shrunken cheeks indicated that he had lost his teeth at some point and was not currently bothering with dentures.
Cafferty looked at Rebus.
‘Early-onset dementia,’ Rebus explained.
‘Maybe a slap would jolt him out of it.’
‘I doubt it’s a recognised medical technique.’
Cafferty too was feeling the heat. He kept his coat on, but mopped his brow with the sleeve.
‘It’s about Acorn House, Paul,’ he told the seated figure.
‘Remember Acorn House? Remember what happened? Don’t think you can just sit there, you bastard!’ He grabbed Jeffries by the shoulders and shook him. There was no resistance, and Rebus feared the man’s neck might snap. He stepped forward and pulled Cafferty away.
‘Christ’s sake,’ he said.
Cafferty looked as if someone had hooked him up to the mains. ‘There’s no way he doesn’t know we’re here or what this is about,’ he spat. ‘Fucker’s just putting on a show!’
He wrestled free of Rebus and was hauling Jeffries to his feet when the door opened.
‘Brought some tea anyway,’ the attendant was saying. She dropped the tray when she took in the scene, her mouth opening in a silent gasp.
‘It’s not what you think,’ Rebus said, knowing how ridiculous he sounded. The woman had fled back into the
corridor, presumably to fetch the cavalry. ‘We’ve got to go,’ he told Cafferty.
‘Not yet.’
‘Look at him, for God’s sake. That’s an empty shell you’re holding.’
Cafferty relented and dropped Jeffries back into his chair.
But he had the man’s slack-jawed attention now. Cafferty got in so close they were almost touching noses. ‘Don’t think you’ve seen the last of me, Paul. I’ll be dropping by one of these nights, and we’ll have our little chat then. Just the two of us.’
Rebus, coat tucked under one arm, led Cafferty out of the room and back down the corridor. They had reached the vestibule by the time the attendant hove into view from the opposite direction, bringing a good-sized male colleague with her. Rebus pulled open the front door and shoved Cafferty out, then closed it again so that the lock clicked, leaving him still inside.
By the time it dawned on Cafferty, it was too late. Rebus turned to face the two attendants, hands held up in appeasement.
‘Sorry about that,’ he said. ‘Just a bit of rough and tumble to try and shake
him out of whatever torpor he’s in.’
‘We have CCTV,’ the male said, pointing towards the cameras on the ceiling. ‘We’ll be reporting this.’
‘As is right and proper,’ Rebus said. Cafferty started shaking the door, trying to force it open. ‘But if you want me to calm that beast out there, just tell me if Mr Jeffries gets any other visitors.’
The man and woman shared a look, flinching when Cafferty’s foot connected with the door.
‘Mr Dalrymple’s not been in for a few weeks,’ the male blurted out.
‘But then there’s the other gentleman,’ his colleague added.
‘Only comes by once or twice a year. They used to be at school together, I think. Lives in Ullapool.’
‘Does he have a name?’ Rebus asked. ‘Dave Ritter, maybe?’
‘Ritter?’ Nods from both heads. ‘Sounds about right.’
Rebus turned and unlocked the door, blocking Cafferty from going back in. Once outside, he closed it again and started leading Cafferty towards his car.
‘I’ve got something,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘Calm down and I’ll tell you.’
‘Tell me now.’
‘Get in,’ Rebus said instead, unlocking the Saab. He rolled the window down and lit a cigarette.
‘Give me one,’ Cafferty demanded from the passenger seat.
‘You don’t smoke.’
‘Never too late to start.’ Cafferty gestured with his fingers, but Rebus showed him that the pack was empty. Cafferty cursed under his breath. ‘So tell me what you got.’
‘You first – what’s Acorn House? And why does it ring a bell?’
Cafferty leaned back against the headrest. ‘I’m going to say it just once more – you don’t want to know.’
But Rebus knew now. ‘It was some sort of remand home, wasn’t it? I remember going once with a posse from Summerhall. Couple of kids there thought they were the pickpocket equivalent of Butch and Sundance.’ He stared at Cafferty. ‘That’s the place we’re talking about, yes?’
Cafferty was scowling at the windscreen as if ready to punch it. ‘Yes,’ he eventually conceded.
‘Michael Tolland used to work there?’ Rebus guessed.
‘That’s why him being a care worker clicked with you?’ He nodded to himself. ‘And Jeffries and his pal Ritter – they . . .
