by Ian Rankin
‘Him and Brian go back a ways. Lot of gen has passed between them, and it’s always been a two-way street.’
Rebus gestured towards Edwards’s pocket. ‘Any of their wee chats feature on that phone of yours?’
‘They might,’ Edwards conceded. ‘All depends whether I’m going to get hit by kid gloves or a knuckleduster.’
‘That won’t be up to us,’ Clarke said.
‘None of this is up to us,’ Edwards spat back. ‘We’re just the ones they send down the sewers with a shovel and bucket and a torch that’s low on juice.’
‘That what you’ve told yourself all these years?’ Rebus said. ‘A fairy tale to help you drift off at night?’
‘I sleep fine, thanks for asking. How about you, Rebus? All the stuff you’ve covered up over the years – and don’t tell me you’ve never traded with your good friend Cafferty.’ Edwards turned to Clarke. ‘And you with your journalist pal – we knew damned well who’d been talking to her …’ He broke off as he saw a quick look pass between Clarke and Fox. ‘Oh,’ he said, drawing the vowel out. ‘Seems we maybe got that one wrong.’
‘Which didn’t stop you setting Dallas Meikle on DI Clarke,’ Rebus snarled.
‘Brian’s idea – I told him it wasn’t one of his best. He was too into it, though.’
‘How come?’
Edwards fixed Rebus with a look. ‘Because we could never get to you. You were Cafferty’s creature.’ He saw that Rebus was about to interrupt. ‘Insofar as Cafferty enjoyed playing with you too much. We’d have spoilt that if we’d taken you down.’ He turned his attention towards Clarke without saying anything.
‘Because you saw me as John’s creature? You couldn’t have him, so you’d have me instead?’
Edwards offered a shrug. ‘That was Brian’s way of thinking.’
‘Maybe he was jealous, no?’ Fox offered. ‘He wanted to be the one Cafferty took an interest in?’
Another shrug from within the overcoat.
‘This all needs to come out,’ Fox went on. ‘I’ll put you in touch with Professional Standards. Best if you go to them – keeping us out of it.’ He waited until Edwards had nodded.
‘Then we’re just about done here,’ Rebus stated. He gestured towards the whisky glass. ‘But not before I get you a refill.’
As he returned from the bar, he had to squeeze past Fox and Clarke, who were already on their way. ‘Catch you up in a second,’ he said.
Edwards sat ruefully at the vacated table, draining his drink. Rebus placed the fresh one in front of him. But as Edwards reached for it, Rebus grabbed him by the wrist. Edwards was strong, but Rebus was on his feet, which helped give him more purchase over the seated figure.
Plus, no point denying it, his dander was up.
By the time Edwards did rise from his chair, his wrist was already held to the table leg by the handcuffs.
‘Same ones you used on me,’ Rebus said, backing away until he was out of range. Edwards had upended the table, the glasses flying. He studied the table leg and saw that it was connected to the others by a crosspiece. He couldn’t release himself by simply sliding the cuff down the length of the leg.
‘Seem to have lost the key,’ Rebus said with a shrug of his own, turning to leave.
Clarke and Fox were waiting for him outside. They began to walk along Young Street, towards North Castle Street where they’d parked their cars.
‘Is Edwards going to get off with this?’ Clarke asked.
‘Ever hear the story of Burke and Hare?’ Rebus answered, breathing heavily.
‘Killers who sold their victims to medical people for use in dissections,’ Fox stated.
Rebus nodded. ‘Hare turned king’s evidence – grassed his compadre up, in other words. He was let go, which sounds outrageous but apparently that was the deal. Didn’t help him much – he fled south but was recognised. Someone blinded him and left him like that. Ended his days begging.’ Having reached his Saab, Rebus paused. ‘Nobody ever quite gets away with it.’
‘Not even Billie Meikle?’ Clarke asked.
‘I suppose there may be exceptions,’ Rebus conceded. ‘Though even then, I’m not sure. Doesn’t mean you should feel guilty about any of it.’
‘I doubt that’ll stop me,’ she replied, shoulders hunched, head down as she headed to her own car.
Edwards was still wrestling with the table when he spotted a figure in the doorway.
‘A bit of help here,’ he said.
‘Well, well.’
Edwards froze momentarily as Brian Steele walked in. Steele had his hands in his pockets but removed them as he bent at the knees, the better to study his colleague’s predicament.
‘You go shooting your mouth off and this is the thanks you get, eh?’ He shook his head in mock sympathy.
‘Fuck you, Brian. Just give me a hand here.’
‘Here it is, Grant.’
The slap was like whiplash. Edwards tried lunging at Steele, but the table prevented it. Instead, Steele got him in a headlock, his forearm pressing hard on his partner’s throat. Edwards made a choking sound, eyes bulging, teeth gritted.
‘Been watching you for a while, lad,’ Steele hissed into his ear. ‘Wondering if and when you’d crack. Seems I have my answer.’
Edwards’s free hand clamped itself around Steele’s fingers and prised at one of them, bending it back until it threatened to snap. Steele gasped in pain, the pressure lessening on Edwards’s larynx. Edwards wrestled himself free and stamped hard on the table’s wooden crosspiece, snapping it and freeing the handcuffs. He turned towards Steele just as the punch connected, catching him square on the nose. Blood began to flow, his eyes filling with tears. Blindly he threw his whole weight at Steele, the two of them colliding with one of the other tables. Edwards had his hands around his old friend’s throat as the few regulars from the front bar finally plucked up the nerve to intervene. There were just enough of them to wrestle the two men apart. When Steele tried throwing another punch, he found himself restrained by the bar staff. Snarling and spitting, he was manoeuvred out of the room, down the steps and into the night.
The barman pointed at Edwards. ‘Take it outside if you want,’ he said, ‘but first you’re paying for the damage.’
‘It was Rebus did this,’ Edwards roared, shaking the handcuff in the barman’s face. ‘Get him to pay!’
‘If that’s the way you want it.’ The barman took out his phone. ‘We’ll let the police handle it.’
‘I am the police!’ Edwards went quiet as he got his breathing under control. ‘I am the police,’ he repeated quietly, though with a little less certainty than before.
59
Back home, Rebus fed Brillo and took him out to the Meadows for a run. He looked across the expanse of grass towards Quartermile. He knew which windows belonged to Cafferty’s duplex. One of them had its lights on. He took out his phone and made the call.
‘You have reached the Samaritans,’ Cafferty growled. ‘How can we help you tonight?’
‘I think you might be about to lose your friendly face at ACU.’
Silence on the line for a moment. Then: ‘Plenty more where that came from.’
‘Maybe so, but not many you’ll have nurtured for so many years.’
‘Well, thanks for the warning. I’m guessing there’s a favour you want in return.’
Rebus watched Brillo, wishing he had even a fraction of the dog’s energy. ‘What can you tell me about the break-in at Brand’s office?’
‘It was a set-up,’ Cafferty explained. ‘The paperwork was fake, the intention being to wrong-foot Ness if he ever got hold of it.’
‘And you know this because …?’
‘Stuart Bloom made a note to that effect. Didn’t even bother showing any of it to Ness. He knew as soon as he read through it.’
‘You broke into his flat?’
‘In point of fact, a nurtured and friendly face did that for me.’
Steele …
‘And afterwards?’
‘When Bloom disappeared, I ditched everything.’
‘You must have been gutted the papers didn’t give you the leverage you wanted with Conor Maloney.’
‘Water under the bridge, John.’ Cafferty paused to sip from a glass, making sure Rebus could hear him. He gave a noisy exhalation. ‘I hear Siobhan got someone for Bloom’s murder, though.’
‘That dealer, the one who used to be Graeme Hatch. Reinvented himself as Glenn Hazard.’
‘The PR guy?’
‘Bloom was threatening to hand him over to you.’
‘Really?’
‘I’m guessing it’ll come out at the trial.’
‘All of it?’
‘Maybe not quite all,’ Rebus conceded. Brillo had started barking at another dog. Rebus told him to sit, then clipped the lead back on to his collar.
‘You’re at the Meadows with your mutt? I can’t quite see you.’
Rebus turned to peer at the lit window. ‘I can see you, though, clear as day.’
‘Pop by for a drink. Wine’s supposed to be good for the blood pressure.’
‘Maybe so, but I doubt you’d be good for mine.’
‘Remember to congratulate Siobhan for me, John. And don’t be a stranger.’
‘One last thing …’
‘Yes?’
‘Steele and Edwards, they knew Graeme Hatch back in the day. All the time you were looking for him, they protected him so they could keep buying what he was selling.’
Silence on the line while Cafferty digested this. Then he made a snuffling sound. ‘I hope you’re not just spinning me a line.’
‘I’m not.’
‘In which case, I might have to have words with them.’
‘I wouldn’t put it off. They’ll be in custody before too long. Fair warning, though – I want to hang on to Edwards.’
Rebus ended the call and watched the silhouette retreat from the penthouse window. Brillo was straining at the leash.
‘Time to go home, son,’ Rebus told him.
The call came at 3 a.m. Number withheld. When Cafferty lifted the phone, he noticed that there was a text on the second phone lying next to it. It was from the lovely Rebecca. He had messaged her earlier, advising her to dump Brian Steele before the shit storm arrived. Her reply consisted of a heart and a thumbs-up. Cafferty allowed himself a thin smile as he answered the call.
‘What’s so fucking urgent?’ Conor Maloney snarled.
‘Bit of news to report – they got Stuart Bloom’s killer. It was the dealer who sold the bad stuff to those kids.’
‘Oh aye? So it wasn’t me, then?’
‘And the dealer definitely didn’t work for me. So …’
‘Truce?’
‘We’ve maligned and mistrusted one another for far too long. Time we got out the pipe of peace, don’t you think?’
‘Depends what’s in it for each of us.’
‘Plenty of opportunities, Conor. Brexit’s going to be a gold mine for disaster capitalists.’
‘Is that what we are?’
‘I imagine you’ve been eyeing up the dotted line between south and north, wondering what a hard Irish border might mean.’
‘Where did you hear that?’
‘An educated guess. I was able to make it because you and me think the same way. Seems that everywhere people are burning bridges or building walls. I want the opposite to happen with us.’
‘I suppose we could bounce a few ideas around.’
‘Not on the phone, though. I can come to you or you can come to me. Some pretty nice hotels in Scotland – even if I don’t own any of them yet.’
‘Eyeball to eyeball, eh?’
Cafferty had picked up the other phone. The screen still showed Rebecca’s message. ‘Sometimes,’ he said softly, ‘the old ways are the best.’
Epilogue
A bright Sunday afternoon. John Rebus and Deborah Quant walked hand in hand to Bruntsfield Links. Brillo’s leash was in Rebus’s free hand, the dog leading the way. They soon caught sight of Clarke and Sutherland. Both were wrapped up against the east wind. Both carried a putter and a nine iron. Malcolm Fox gave a wave of greeting as Rebus and Quant approached.
‘You the referee?’ Rebus asked.
‘There’d be rampant cheating otherwise. Three holes played. Graham’s not showing much mercy. You heard the news?’
‘What news is that?’
‘Steele seems to have gone AWOL.’
‘Is that right? Vacancy for you at ACU then, always supposing you want it.’
Fox gave him an appraising look. ‘Sounds like you think he’s not coming back.’
The gesture Rebus made with his shoulders could have been a shrug or a shiver. They watched as Clarke took her tee shot, missing the ball completely with her first swing, then sending it rolling and bouncing along the turf with her second.
‘Shouldn’t there be slightly more elevation?’ Quant asked.
‘She’d be better off just using the putter,’ Rebus added.
They watched as Sutherland connected cleanly, sending his ball up into the air and landing it on the edge of the green.
‘Turning into a massacre,’ Fox commented. They joined the players as they walked towards their next shot.
‘Twenty quid says Siobhan wins this hole,’ Rebus called out to Sutherland.
‘Are you serious?’
‘Never more so.’
‘You’re on,’ Sutherland said with a grin. Clarke took her shot and almost reached the green.
‘Not a bad lie,’ Rebus stated. Sutherland started lining up his putt. Rebus reached down and unhooked Brillo’s leash.
‘Go fetch,’ he said. Brillo didn’t need telling twice. He bounded across the fairway and scooped up Sutherland’s ball in his mouth. Rebus turned to Fox.
‘The hole’s forfeit, wouldn’t you say, ref?’
Deborah Quant was squeezing his arm. ‘You’re a bad, bad man, John.’
‘But we’ve all known worse in our time, right?’ Rebus pecked her on the cheek and tried not to glance in the direction of Quartermile.
About the author
Ian Rankin is the multi-million copy worldwide bestseller of over thirty novels and creator of John Rebus. His books have been translated into thirty-six languages and have been adapted for radio, the stage and the screen.
Rankin is the recipient of four Crime Writers’ Association Dagger Awards, including the Diamond Dagger, the UK’s most prestigious award for crime fiction. In the United States, he has won the celebrated Edgar Award and been shortlisted for the Anthony Award. In Europe, he has won Denmark’s Palle Rosenkrantz Prize, the French Grand Prix du Roman Noir and the German Deutscher Krimipreis.
He is the recipient of honorary degrees from universities across the UK, is a Fellow of The Royal Society of Edinburgh and a Fellow of The Royal Society of Literature, and has received an OBE for his services to literature.
Website: IanRankin.net
Twitter: @Beathhigh
Facebook: IanRankinBooks
Also by Ian Rankin
The Detective Malcolm Fox Series
The Complaints
The Impossible Dead
The Detective Inspector Rebus Series
Knots and Crosses
Hide and Seek
Tooth and Nail
(previously published as Wolfman)
Strip Jack
The Black Book
Mortal Causes
Let It Bleed
Black and Blue
The Hanging Garden
Death Is Not the End (a n
ovella)
Dead Souls
Set in Darkness
The Falls
Resurrection Men
A Question of Blood
Fleshmarket Close
The Naming of the Dead
Exit Music
Standing in Another Man’s Grave
Saints of the Shadow Bible
Even Dogs in the Wild
Rather Be the Devil
Other Novels
The Flood
Watchman
Westwind
Doors Open
Writing as Jack Harvey
Witch Hunt
Bleeding Hearts
Blood Hunt
Short Stories
A Good Hanging and Other Stories
Beggars Banquet
The Beat Goes On
Plays
Dark Road
Rebus: Long Shadows
Copyright
First published in Great Britain in 2018 by Orion Books,
an imprint of The Orion Publishing Group Ltd
Carmelite House, 50 Victoria Embankment
London EC4Y 0DZ
An Hachette UK Company
Copyright © John Rebus Ltd 2018
The moral right of Ian Rankin to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978 1 4091 7691 6
www.orionbooks.co.uk
