by Ian Rankin
Siobhan retreated to the line of three chairs, taking Hynds with her. There wasn’t space in the outer office for a coffee table. Two desks: one currently occupied by the secretary, the other a shambles of paperwork. The place had probably been a shop until fairly recently. It was sandwiched between a baker’s and a stationer’s, its large window looking onto the nondescript street. They were west and south of the city center, not far from Tollcross. The area held no fond memories for Siobhan, who had crashed her car once, years back, while confused by the range of options at the Tollcross road junction. Five routes crisscrossing at the lights, and her having not long passed her test, the car a gift from her parents . . .
“I couldn’t work here,” Hynds was telling the secretary. He nodded in the direction of the street. “That smell from the baker’s.” Then he patted his stomach and smiled. The secretary smiled back, more from relief, Siobhan thought, than anything else — relief that Hynds wasn’t meaning her employer . . .
The onetime shop was now MGC Lettings. Across the window was printed the legend THE ANSWER TO YOUR PROPERTY NEEDS. When they’d arrived, Hynds had asked why a “criminal genius” would need such a boring front. Siobhan couldn’t answer that. She knew Cafferty had other interests in the city, predominantly a minicab firm out at Gorgie. The fresh paintwork and new carpet led her to believe that MGC Lettings was a recent venture.
“Hope that’s not one of his tenants he’s got in there,” Hynds said now. If the secretary heard him, she pretended otherwise. She’d slipped on a pair of headphones and looked to be typing out a letter from a dictation machine. Siobhan had picked up some of the sheets from the messy table. They were listings of properties to let. Most were tenement flats in the less salubrious parts of town. She handed one to Hynds.
“A lot of agencies, they’ll say things like ‘No DSS.’ No mention of that here.”
“So?”
“Ever heard of landlords cramming their flats with people from Social Security, then ripping them off?” Hynds looked blank. “The claimants have to hand over their benefit books. Landlord meantime gets the rent money from the DSS. He’s quids in.”
“But this is a lettings agency. Anyone can walk in wanting a flat . . .”
“Doesn’t mean everyone gets one.”
Hynds took time digesting this, then looked around the walls. Two calendars and a week planner. No original works of art.
The door to the inner office opened and a ratty-looking man shuffled quickly towards the exit. Then a figure filled the doorway. He was wearing a white shirt, near-luminous in its newness, and a silk tie the color of spilled blood. His sleeves were rolled up, the arms thick and hairy. The head was large and round, like a bowling ball, the wiry silver hair cropped short. The eyes sparkled darkly.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” the mouth said. “I’m Mr. Cafferty. How can I help you?”
As Siobhan and Hynds stood up, Cafferty asked if they wanted tea or coffee. They shook their heads.
“Donna can fetch it from the baker’s,” he assured them. “No trouble.”
Still no takers, so he led them into his office. There wasn’t much to it: a desk, with nothing but a telephone on it; a gray four-drawer filing cabinet; a small window of frosted glass. The lights were on, but the place felt like a clean, well-lit cave. A dog had risen to its feet. It was a brown and white spaniel, and it made straight for Siobhan, sniffing her feet, wiping its wet nose against her hand when she held it out.
“Sit, Claret!” Cafferty snapped. The dog retreated to its corner.
“Nice dog,” Siobhan commented. “Why Claret?”
“I’m a fiend for red wine,” Cafferty said with a smile.
Against one wall, still shrouded in bubble wrap, were what looked like three or four framed pictures or paintings, reminding Siobhan of the ones in Marber’s house. Hynds made straight for them, though Cafferty had directed him towards one of the chairs in front of the desk.
“Not got round to putting these up yet?” Hynds asked.
“Don’t know that I ever will,” Cafferty replied.
Siobhan had seated herself, and, as intended, Cafferty didn’t know whether to focus his attention on her or Hynds. He couldn’t keep an eye on both at once.
“DC Hynds is a bit of an aficionado,” Siobhan explained, as Hynds peered at each canvas in turn.
“Is he now?” Cafferty growled. His jacket was over the back of his chair, and he was sitting forward, as if fearful of crushing it in some way. His shoulders seemed massive. Siobhan thought he looked like a caged predator, not quite hiding its ability to pounce.
“Here’s a Hastie,” Hynds said, lifting the painting so Siobhan could see. Covered in polythene as it was, she could just make out swatches of color and a thick white frame. “Did you buy this at the preview, Mr. Cafferty?”
“No.”
Siobhan looked over to Hynds. “None of the paintings have been moved from the exhibition,” she said, as if reminding him.
“Oh, yes,” he said, nodding, then he shook his head almost imperceptibly, letting her know the Vettriano wasn’t there.
Siobhan turned her attention to Cafferty. “Did you happen to buy anything on the night?”
“I didn’t, as it happens.”
“Nothing there you fancied?”
Cafferty rested his forearms on the edge of the desk. “You’re Siobhan Clarke, aren’t you?” He smiled. “I’d forgotten, but now I remember.”
“And what exactly is it you remember, Mr. Cafferty?”
“You work with Rebus. Only I hear he’s been stuck back in training school.” He made a tutting sound. “And Detective Constable Hynds here . . . his first name is David, correct?”
Hynds straightened up. “That’s right, sir.”
Cafferty was nodding.
“I’m impressed,” Siobhan said, keeping her voice level. “You know who we are. So you should know why we’re here.”
“Same reason you visited Madame Cyn: you want to ask me about Eddie Marber.” Cafferty watched as Hynds walked around to the front of the desk and sat down next to Siobhan. “It was Cyn told me your name, DC Hynds,” he said with a wink.
“You were at the private view, the night Edward Marber was killed.”
“I was, yes.”
“You didn’t sign the guest book,” Hynds stated.
“Didn’t see any reason to.”
“How long did you stay at the party?”
“I arrived late, stayed till just about the end. A few people were heading on to dinner. They wanted Eddie to go with them, but he said he was tired. I . . . he called for a taxi.” Cafferty shifted his arms slightly. The hesitation interested Siobhan, and she knew Hynds had caught it as well. Neither of them filled the silence. Eventually, Cafferty continued. “I think we all left the gallery around eight or quarter past. I went out for a few drinks.”
“Anywhere in particular?”
“That new hotel in the Scotsman Building. I wanted to see what it was like. And after that, the Royal Oak, listened to a bit of folk music . . .”
“Who was playing?” Siobhan asked.
Cafferty shrugged. “People just turn up and play.”
Hynds had his notebook out. “Were you with anyone, Mr. Cafferty?”
“A couple of business associates.”
“And their names?”
But Cafferty shook his head. “That’s a private matter. And before you go saying anything, I know you’re going to try to set me up for this, but it won’t work. I liked Eddie Marber, liked him a lot. I felt as miserable as anyone when I heard what happened.”
“You don’t know of any enemies he might have had?” Siobhan asked.
“Not one,” Cafferty said.
“Not even the people he’d cheated?” Claret’s ears suddenly pricked up, as though comprehending this last word.
Cafferty’s eyes narrowed. “Cheated?”
“We hear tell Mr. Marber might have been cheating his artists and clients alike: ch
arging over the odds, paying too little . . . You haven’t heard anything of those allegations?”
“News to me.”
“Feel any different about your old friend now?” Hynds asked.
Cafferty glared at him. Siobhan was on her feet. She saw Claret watching her, saw the dog’s tail beginning to thump the floor. “You realize,” she said, “we’re not going to be able to verify your alibi unless you can give us your friends’ names?”
“I didn’t say friends, I said ‘business associates.’ ” Cafferty had risen to his feet too. Claret sat up.
“And I’m sure they’re all upstanding citizens,” Hynds said.
“I’m a businessman these days.” Cafferty wagged a finger. “A respectable businessman.”
“Who’s unwilling to help himself with an alibi.”
“Maybe that’s because I don’t need one.”
“Let’s hope that’s the case, Mr. Cafferty.” Siobhan shot out her hand. “Thanks for taking the time to see us.” Cafferty stared at the hand, then shook it, a smile flitting across his face.
“Are you as hard as you seem, Siobhan?”
“It’s Detective Sergeant Clarke to you, Mr. Cafferty.”
Hynds felt obliged to offer his hand too, and Cafferty shook it. A little game between the three of them, pretending to be polite and objective, to be on the same side, cut from the same human cloth.
Out on the pavement, Hynds clicked his tongue against his teeth. “So much for the infamous Big Ger Cafferty.”
“Don’t let him fool you,” Siobhan said quietly. She knew Hynds had been listening to the voice, seeing the shirt and tie . . . But she’d been concentrating on Cafferty’s eyes, and they’d seemed to belong to some alien species, predatory and cruel. What’s more, he had confidence now — the confidence that no prison could ever hold him.
Siobhan was staring back in through the window, and was being watched in turn by Donna, until a bark from the inner office had the secretary leaping to her feet, running in and closing the door behind her. The bark had been human . . .
“He only made that one slip,” Siobhan commented.
“About calling the taxi?”
Siobhan nodded. “Know what I’m wondering? I’m wondering just who exactly it was called for the cab.”
“You think Cafferty did?”
She started nodding, turning to face Hynds. “And which company do you think he would call?”
“His own?” Hynds guessed.
She kept on nodding, then noticed an old-style Jag parked across the road. She didn’t know the driver, but the small figure in the back was the ratty figure who’d been getting an earful from Cafferty when they’d arrived. She thought he was called the Weasel . . . something like that.
“Hang on here a second,” she told Hynds, then walked to the edge of the pavement, checking right and left for traffic. But something had been said to the driver, and by the time she reached the middle of the carriageway, the Jag was moving off, the Weasel’s eyes staying on her through the rear window. It took the horn of an approaching moped to bring Siobhan back to life. She trotted back to where Hynds was waiting.
“Someone you know?” he asked.
“Cafferty’s right-hand man.”
“Something you wanted to ask him?”
She thought about this, and had to suppress a smile. There hadn’t been anything she’d wanted to say to the Weasel . . . no reason for her to head off into the traffic.
Except that it was something Rebus would have done.
Back at the station, there was interest in the news of the missing painting. Marber’s secretary had unearthed a color photograph, which was now being copied, while DCI Bill Pryde itemized the expense. The reports from that morning’s cremation were being collated. No one was claiming any great breakthrough. The Vettriano was as solid a piece of news as they had. Hynds was heading off to Marber’s house, where he was due to meet Cynthia Bessant.
“Want to hook up for a drink later?” he asked Siobhan.
“Sure Madame Cyn will let you drag yourself away?” He smiled, but she was shaking her head. “Quiet night for me,” she told him. She said much the same thing half an hour later when Derek Linford asked her out to dinner — “nothing fancy . . . just somewhere local. A few of us are going . . .” When she gave him the brush-off, his face hardened. “I’m trying to be nice here, Siobhan.”
“A few more lessons needed, Derek . . .”
Gill Templer wanted a report on the missing painting. Siobhan kept it succinct. Templer looked thoughtful. When her phone rang, she picked it up, broke the connection and left the receiver off the hook.
“Where do we go from here?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” Siobhan admitted. “It gives us something to look for. More than that, it gives us a question to work on. Namely: why that painting?”
“Spur of the moment?” Templer guessed. “Grab the first thing that came to hand . . . ?”
“And remember to reset the alarm and lock up after you?”
Templer conceded that Siobhan had a point. “You want to chase it down?” she asked.
“If there’s anything to chase, I’ll bring my running shoes. For now, I think we file it under ‘Interesting.’ ”
Siobhan watched Templer’s face darken, and thought she knew the reason why: the chief super could hear John Rebus mouthing near-identical sentiments . . .
“Sorry,” Siobhan said, feeling color rise to her cheeks. “Bad habit.” She turned to leave.
“By the way,” Templer said, “how was Big Ger Cafferty?”
“He’s bought himself a dog.”
“Really? Think we could persuade it to be our eyes and ears?”
“This one was more nose and tail,” Siobhan said, finally making her exit.
10
What’s your poison, John?”
Each time he got a round in, Jazz McCullough asked the same question. They’d driven into Edinburgh in a two-car convoy. Rebus had agreed to be one of the designated drivers: that way, he’d be sure not to drink too much. Jazz had been the other driver, arguing that he didn’t drink much in any case, so it was no skin off his nose.
They’d worked solidly until six on the case notes, Archie Tennant sticking with them all the way. In the end, and with nothing to show, Ward had invited Tennant along for the evening. Maybe it was the looks from the other men, but Tennant had refused, albeit graciously.
“Not likely,” he’d said. “You lot could drink me under the bloody table.”
Six of them in two cars: Rebus acting the chauffeur while Gray and Stu Sutherland sat in the back, Gray commenting that Rebus’s Saab was “a bit of a clunker.”
“And what is it you drive again, Francis? Bentley convertible?”
Gray had shaken his head. “I keep the Bentley in the garage, use the Lexus as a runaround.”
It was true, he did drive a Lexus, a biggish model with leather interior. Rebus hadn’t a clue how much one cost.
“How much does one of those soak you for these days?” he’d asked.
“Bit more than in the old days” was the answer.
Then Sutherland had started yakking about the cost of cars when he’d first learned to drive, Rebus taking occasional looks at Gray in the rearview mirror. Really, he’d wanted Gray and Ward in the car together, see if he could force them still further apart. He’d almost have been as satisfied if Ward and Gray had pushed to go with McCullough: at least that would have shown them acting as a team. No luck either way.
They’d wanted to eat first, so he’d directed them to a curry house on Nicolson Street. And after that, into the Royal Oak. Four drinkers were sitting in a row at the bar. The ones either end were on their own; the two in the middle were together. All four were rolling cigarettes with the intensity of a championship contest. Seated in the corner, a guitarist faced a mandolin player, their eye contact passionate as lovers as they improvised a tune.
Rebus and his fellow drinkers filled wh
at was left of the tiny bar.
“Bloody hell, John,” Tam Barclay said, “where’s the women?”
“Didn’t realize you were after a lumber, Tam.”
They stayed at the Oak for just the one drink, then headed into the city center. Café Royal, Abbotsford, Dome and Standing Order. Four pubs, four more drinks.
“A big night out in Edinburgh,” Barclay commented, staring at the quiet pockets of drinkers around them. “I thought we were supposed to be the Wild Bunch?”
“Tam’s started believing his own hype,” Jazz McCullough said.
“But it’s why we’ve been kicked into rehab, isn’t it?” Barclay persisted. “We don’t play by the fucking rules.” Saliva flopped from his mouth. He rubbed it away with the back of his hand.
“I like a man who speaks his mind,” Francis Gray said, laughing and slapping Barclay on the back.
“And I like one who can hold his drink,” McCullough muttered to Rebus.
“It would be different in Glasgow, wouldn’t it, Francis?”
“What would, Tam?”
“A night out.”
“It can get pretty tangled, that’s for sure.” Gray had his arm around Barclay’s shoulders.
“I mean, this place for instance . . .” Barclay studied his surroundings. “It’s a palace, not a boozer!”
“Used to be a bank,” Rebus stated.
“It’s not a proper pub, see what I’m saying?”
“I think,” Stu Sutherland said, “you’re saying you’re pished.”
Barclay considered this, his face widening into a smile. “Could be you’re right, Stu. Could be you’re bang on the money there.”
They all laughed, and decided to retrace their steps, maybe taking in some of the pubs they’d passed on the way. Rebus was of a mind to lead them down into the Cowgate, but even that, he decided, wouldn’t be authentic enough for Barclay. The rowdier bars were the ones with teenage drinkers and thumping light shows, places where the six of them would stick out like . . . well, like cops on a night out. Some of their ties might have been discarded, but they were still in suits, all except McCullough, who’d gone to his room to change into jeans and a polo shirt. They’d given him stick about that: old fart trying to look trendy . . .
