by Ian Rankin
“Rules are rules,” Claverhouse said. Rebus ran his palm over the surface of one crate, then made a fist and rapped on it. Claverhouse smiled. “Bet you can’t guess which crate they’re in.”
“Crate or crates?”
“That would be telling.”
There was the smell of fresh wood in the air. “You’re expecting someone to try taking them?” Rebus surmised.
“Not exactly, but we know the word is out. There’s only so much you can do with security, but . . .”
“But this way at least it’ll take them an hour or two to find the right boxes?” Rebus was nodding, actually quite impressed with Claverhouse’s thinking. “Why not just shift the drugs?”
“And they’d be safer where exactly . . . ?”
“I don’t know . . . Fettes or somewhere.”
“The Big House? All open windows and no alarms?”
“Maybe not,” Rebus agreed.
“Anyway, you’re right, they’re going to be shifted. Just as soon as we’ve squared everything with Customs . . .” Claverhouse thought of something. “Ormie said you had some apology you wanted to make?”
Rebus nodded again. “About Weasel. I think I was too soft on him. You told me it would be two fathers having a talk, and I let that happen . . . stopped thinking like a cop. So I wanted to apologize.”
“And that’s why he came to your flat that night?”
“He came to warn me that Cafferty knew about the haul.”
“Information you decided to hold back from us?”
“You already knew, didn’t you?”
“We knew word was out.”
“Well, anyway . . .” Rebus sniffed, gazed around him. “You’ve got this place sewn up, right? Cafferty would have wanted to catch you unawares . . .”
“Security’s round the clock,” Claverhouse confirmed. “Padlocks on the gates, razor-wire fences . . . And my little puzzle to contend with at the end of it all.”
Rebus looked at Ormiston. “Do you know which crates the stuff’s in?”
Ormiston stared back, unblinking.
“Stupid question,” Rebus muttered aloud. Claverhouse smiled. “I want you to know,” Rebus told him, “that I really do feel bad about not snaring the Weasel for you. I gave him far too easy a ride. That sent the wrong message: he thought I was doing it on purpose, which meant he owed me.”
“And fed you the news on Cafferty to even things up?” Claverhouse was nodding.
“But now that I’ve opened a line of communication with him,” Rebus went on, “maybe I can still bring him over to our side.”
“Too late for that now,” Claverhouse informed him. “Looks like the Weasel has jumped ship. He hasn’t been seen since the night he went to your flat.”
“What?”
“I think he panicked.”
“Which was what we wanted,” Ormiston admitted. The look he received from his partner shut him up.
“We put word out,” Claverhouse explained, “that we were readying to charge Weasel’s son with the whole shebang.”
“You thought if he got scared enough, he’d come in?”
Claverhouse nodded.
“And he ran instead?” Rebus was trying to make sense of it. The Weasel had shown no sign at all that he was planning flight.
“Would he have flown, without taking Aly with him?”
Claverhouse seemed to contort his whole body into a shrug, letting Rebus know the subject was closed. “Takes a big man to admit when he’s wrong,” he said instead, addressing Rebus. “I didn’t think you had it in you.” Then he stuck out a hand, which Rebus, after only a moment’s debate, accepted. He was still thinking of the Weasel, trying to assess whether the man could do any harm to Rebus and his plans. He came up blank. Whatever had happened to him, Rebus couldn’t spare the time or space for conjecture. He had to focus, draw all his energy together.
Look after number one.
23
The six o’clock headlines were just ending when Siobhan switched off her engine. She was parked in the forecourt of MG Cabs. The large tarmac parking area boasted half a dozen assorted Vauxhalls, and a single brand-new, flame-red MG sports car. There was a white flagpole, from which drooped a St. Andrew’s Cross. The office was a prefab building, with a garage next to it, where a solitary mechanic in gray overalls was working on the engine of an Astra. Lochend wasn’t far from Easter Road — home of Hibernian, Siobhan’s chosen football team — but she didn’t know the area at all. It seemed to be mostly low-rise and terraced housing with a smattering of neighborhood shops. She hadn’t really expected anyone to be here, but the cab business was round-the-clock, she now realized. All the same, she doubted Ellen Dempsey would still be on duty. That was fine: all she wanted was a feel for the place, maybe ask a couple of questions of the mechanic or anyone else she could find.
“Having trouble?” she asked, approaching the garage.
“That’s it, fixed,” he said, dropping the hood. “Maintenance check.” He slid into the driver’s seat, revved the engine a couple of times. “Sweet as a nut. Office is in there.” He nodded towards the prefab. Siobhan was studying him. Through the oil and grease on the backs of his hands she could see old homemade tattoos. He was skinny, with a pale face and thinning hair which stuck out above the ears. Something about him made her think: ex-offender. She recalled that Sammy Wallace, the driver who’d taken Marber home, had boasted a police record.
“Thanks,” she told the mechanic. “Who’s manning the phone tonight?”
He looked at her, saw her for what she was. “Mrs. Dempsey’s inside,” he said coldly. Then he shifted the Astra into reverse and started maneuvering it out of the garage and into a parking space, the driver’s-side door still open so that Siobhan had to take a step back or risk being hit by it. He glowered at her through the windshield, and she knew she hadn’t made a friend.
There were two steps up to the office. She tapped on the glass door. A woman was seated behind a desk. The woman looked up, sliding the spectacles from her nose, and gestured for her to enter. Siobhan closed the door after her.
“Mrs. Dempsey? I’m sorry to trouble you . . .” She was opening her bag to find her warrant card.
“Don’t bother with that,” Ellen Dempsey said, leaning back in her chair. “I can see you’re a cop.”
“Detective Sergeant Clarke,” Siobhan said by way of introduction. “We spoke on the phone.”
“Indeed we did, DS Clarke. What can I do for you?” Dempsey motioned towards the chair on the other side of the desk, and Siobhan sat down. Ellen Dempsey was in her mid-forties. Full-figured but well preserved. The ringed creases of skin around her neck were a better indicator of her age than was her carefully made-up face. The dark-brown hair had probably been dyed, but it was hard to tell. No nail polish, no jewelry on her fingers, just a chunky ladies’ Rolex on her left wrist.
“I just thought you’d like to know that Sammy Wallace is off the hook,” Siobhan said.
Dempsey was making a show of tidying some papers. In truth, the desk was about as neat as could be, the paperwork divided into four piles, with four labeled folders waiting to be filled.
“Was he ever on the hook?” Dempsey asked.
“He was the last person to see Mr. Marber alive.”
“Apart from whoever murdered him,” Dempsey corrected. Now she looked up at Siobhan, narrowing her eyes slightly. Her glasses hung around her neck by a chain. “If he was ever really a suspect, DS Clarke, it was because he already had a criminal record, and that’s just laziness on your part.”
“I’m not saying we seriously considered —”
“What other reason was there?”
Siobhan paused, knowing this was an argument she couldn’t win. Yes, they’d looked that bit more closely at Sammy Wallace precisely because of his criminal past. It had been as good a starting point as any.
“Besides,” Dempsey said, reaching into the wastebasket and pulling out the latest edition of the Evening
News, “it was on the front page — all about this painter you’ve arrested. That’s you, isn’t it?” Dempsey had turned the paper round for Siobhan to see. There was a headline — MAN CHARGED IN ART DEALER MURDER — and a large color photo of the search party as they made ready to enter the house at Inveresk. Obviously, the story had been printed just too early to use a photo of them coming out again, carrying their labeled trash bags, in one of which was hidden the painting . . .
Dempsey was jabbing at one of the figures in the photograph. Yes, it was Siobhan, mouth open as she issued orders, finger pointing towards the house. But there was another figure at the very edge of the frame. Grainy, to be sure, but identifiable to those who knew him as Detective Inspector John Rebus. Chances of Gill Templer not seeing the photo? Astronomical. It took Siobhan a moment or two to recover.
“Mrs. Dempsey,” she said, “are all your employees ex-offenders?”
“Not all of them, no.” Dempsey folded the paper and put it back in the bin.
“Maybe it’s some sort of principle . . . ?”
“It is, as it happens.” Dempsey’s tone said this was another argument she was ready for.
“Men with convictions for violence, driving cabs around Edinburgh . . .”
“Men who have served their sentence. Men whose crimes are far in the past. I credit myself with an instinct for knowing which ones I can trust.”
“But your instinct could be wrong.”
“I don’t think so.”
The silence in the room was broken by a phone call, not the phone on Dempsey’s desk but another, on a long, waist-high shelf which ran the length of the window. Siobhan noticed that there was a two-way radio system tucked on a shelf beneath. The window itself could slide open, and she guessed that outside office hours, if anyone came to the site looking for a cab they had to stand at the window and offer details through the opening. It wasn’t her drivers that Ellen Dempsey didn’t trust, it was the public.
She watched Dempsey take the call, then get on the radio and offer the job to “Car Four.” Two regulars needed picking up from a west end bar. Contract job, to be charged to one of the city’s insurance firms.
“Sorry about that,” Dempsey apologized, coming back to the desk. Siobhan had been studying her clothes: matching blue jacket and skirt with a white blouse. Thickish ankles, low-heeled black shoes. Every inch the successful businesswoman.
“I can’t help thinking this is an odd career choice,” Siobhan said with a smile.
“I like cars.”
“I’m guessing the MG outside is yours?”
Dempsey’s eyes turned to the window. She’d parked the car so it would be visible from the desk. “That’s the eighth one I’ve owned. Two are still in the garage at home.”
“All the same . . . you don’t see many women in charge of a cab company.”
“Maybe I’m breaking the mold.”
“You started from scratch?”
“If you’re implying that the company was set up by some ex-husband or other, you’re mistaken.”
“I was just wondering what you did beforehand.”
“Looking for some tips on changing your career?” Dempsey reached into a drawer and brought out cigarettes and lighter. She offered, but Siobhan shook her head. “I always have one a day, around this time,” Dempsey explained. “Somehow I can’t bring myself to stop altogether. . .” She lit up, inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly. “I started with a couple of taxis in Dundee — that’s where I grew up. When I wanted to expand, I didn’t think Dundee was ready for me. Edinburgh, on the other hand . . .”
“Your competitors can’t have been too thrilled when you arrived.”
“We had some frank exchanges of views,” Dempsey admitted. She broke off to answer the phone again. Afterwards, Siobhan had a question for her.
“Including Big Ger Cafferty?”
Dempsey nodded. “But I’m still here, aren’t I?”
“In other words, he didn’t scare you off?”
“Cafferty’s not the only operator in town. Things can get a bit hairy . . . look at the trouble out at the airport.”
Siobhan knew she was referring to the constant battle between black taxis and licensed minicabs, vying for trade from the arriving planeloads.
“I’ve had slashed tires, broken windshields . . . a whole spate of fake bookings back in the early days. But they could see I was dug in. That’s the type of person I am, DS Clarke.”
“I don’t doubt it, Mrs. Dempsey.”
“It’s Ms.”
Siobhan nodded. “I noticed you didn’t wear a ring, but the mechanic outside called you ‘Mrs.’ ”
Dempsey smiled. “They all do. Gives me less grief if they think there might be a Mr. Dempsey who could come down hard on them . . .” She glanced at her watch. “Look, I don’t want to rush you, but my night-shift telephonist will be coming in soon, and I want to get this paperwork finished . . .”
“Understood,” Siobhan said, rising to her feet.
“And thanks for dropping in.”
“No problem. Thanks for the career advice.”
“You don’t need any advice, DS Clarke. Running a cab company is one thing, but being a female officer in the CID . . .” Dempsey shook her head slowly. “Now there’s one job I couldn’t do for all the tea in China.”
“Luckily, I don’t drink tea,” Siobhan said. “Thanks again for your time.”
She drove as far as the end of the road, and squeezed into a curbside parking space, turning off the ignition and letting her mind wander. What had she gleaned from the conversation? A few useful snippets. That Dempsey had recognized her for CID straight off was interesting. To employ ex-cons was one thing, but clocking a plainclothes cop took a certain skill, a skill that came with practice. Siobhan couldn’t help wondering how Ellen Dempsey would have acquired such an ability . . .
Then there was Dundee to consider. The story of her time there almost rang true. Almost, but not quite. There had been enough pauses in her narrative to indicate that she was leaving things unsaid. Those were the things Siobhan wanted to know about. When her mobile sounded, she knew who it would be.
Gill Templer . . . and not in a mood to waste words.
“What in God’s name was John Rebus doing out at Inveresk?”
“He tagged along,” Siobhan said, adopting a veneer of honesty as the best policy. A car was pulling into the forecourt of MG Cabs. The night shift, she guessed . . .
“Why?” Templer was asking.
“Wanted a break from St. Leonard’s.”
“And?”
“And nothing. I didn’t let him near the house. As far as I know, he smoked a cigarette, then headed back.” Siobhan was thinking of all the officers who’d been present and could call her a liar. The ones who’d heard her bellowing out of the window at Rebus . . . who’d seen her march down the garden towards where he crouched over the unwrapped object . . .
“Why do I find that so hard to believe?” Templer was saying now, denting Siobhan’s fragile confidence.
“I don’t know . . . maybe because you’ve known him longer than I have. But that’s the way it happened. He said he needed a break . . . I emphasized that he was no longer part of the Marber inquiry. He accepted that, made no effort to assist at the house, and left soon after.”
“He left before you found the painting?”
Siobhan took a deep breath. “Before we found the painting,” she confirmed.
Templer was thoughtful for a few moments. Siobhan could see the red MG reversing out of the compound, turning in her direction.
“I hope for your sake John backs up your story,” Templer was saying as Siobhan turned the ignition.
“Understood.” There was a pause. Siobhan could sense that her boss had something else she was struggling to say.
“Well, if that’s everything . . .” she coaxed, and was rewarded when Templer broke in.
“Has John said anything to you about Tulliallan?”
; “Just what you’d expect.” Siobhan frowned. “Has something happened?”
“No, it’s just . . .” Templer sounded anxious.
“He will be coming back, won’t he?” Siobhan asked.
“I hope so, Siobhan. I really do.”
Templer ended the call just as Ellen Dempsey’s car roared past. Siobhan took her time easing out of the parking spot. This time of the evening, traffic would still be heavy, but a red sports car was hard to miss. She thought back to Templer’s closing words. Siobhan had been asking whether Rebus was for the chop, but the way Templer had answered made her wonder. It had all sounded much more ominous . . . She tried calling Rebus, but he wasn’t answering. She wasn’t sure why she was following Ellen Dempsey exactly, except that she wanted to know a little more about the woman. The way she drove could offer pointers, as could her home — the style of house, the part of the city . . . And at least when she was tailing Dempsey, she was keeping busy. She wasn’t at the station, being fawned over . . . she wasn’t at home, brooding over a ready meal . . .
She switched the car’s CD player on: Mogwai, Rock Action. It had an edginess to it which she found soothing. Maybe she could relate to it. Edgy and samey but with sudden unpredictable shifts.
Just like an investigation.
And, maybe even, just like her . . .
What Siobhan hadn’t been expecting was that Dempsey would head south out of the city until she hit the bypass, then use it to start heading west and north at speed. Plainly, she didn’t live in Edinburgh, and soon it became apparent that she didn’t even live this side of the Firth of Forth. As they made for the Forth Road Bridge, Siobhan found herself checking her petrol gauge. If she had to pull into a service station, she would lose Dempsey. As it was, the bridge offered problems of its own. There was a backup of drivers waiting to pay their toll. Siobhan found herself in a separate queue from her prey, one that seemed to be moving much more slowly. At this rate, Dempsey would be across the bridge and out of sight . . . But Dempsey seemed intent on sticking to the speed limit, which told Siobhan that she’d probably had a speeding fine in the recent past, either that or had clocked up enough points on her license that any fresh violation might see her banned. Siobhan was in the outside lane, ignoring the regular roadside reminders that the limit on the bridge was fifty miles per hour. Over to her right, a train was crossing the rail bridge. The CD had finished, and she was trying to find the REPEAT button. Then, at the last minute, she saw Dempsey signaling to take the first turnoff after the bridge. The inside lane was clogged, and Siobhan couldn’t see a gap that would let her in. She switched her indicator on and edged towards the dividing line. The car behind flashed at her angrily, but braked to let her in, the driver sounding his horn afterwards and flashing his lights again.
