by Ian Rankin
‘Aye,’ she said, ‘plenty of folk pass through. Never many stay put. I used to ken everybody in the place, but not now . . .’
A yistiken awb-di. Listening to her, Rebus realised how much of the accent and the dialect he’d lost over the years.
‘Come round for a cup of tea,’ she was saying now. He’d looked in vain for an engagement or wedding ring on her hand. She was by no means an unlovely woman. Big, whereas at school she’d been tiny and shy. Or maybe Rebus wasn’t remembering right. Her cheeks were shining and there was mascara round her eyes. She was wearing black shoes with inch and a half heels, and tea-coloured tights on muscular legs. Rebus, who hadn’t had breakfast or lunch, would bet that she had a pantry full of cakes and biscuits.
‘Aye, why not?’ he said.
She lived in a house along Craigside Road. They’d passed one betting shop on the way from the cemetery. It was as dead as the rest of the street.
‘Are you going to take a look at the old house?’ She meant the house he’d grown up in. He shrugged and watched her unlock her door. In the lobby, she listened for a second then yelled, ‘Shug! Are you up there?’ But there was no sound from upstairs. ‘It’s a miracle,’ she said. ‘Out of his bed before four o’clock. He must’ve gone out somewhere.’ She saw the look on Rebus’s face, and her hand went to her mouth. ‘Don’t worry, it’s not a husband or boyfriend or anything. Hugh’s my son.’
‘Oh?’
She took off her coat. ‘Away through you go.’ She opened the living room door for him. It was a small room, choked with a huge three-piece suite, dining-table and chairs, wall-unit and TV. She’d had the chimney blocked off and central heating installed.
Rebus sank into one of the fireside chairs. ‘But you’re not married?’
She had slung her coat over the banister. ‘Never really saw the point,’ she said, entering the room. She devoured space as she moved, first to the radiator to check it was warm, then to the mantelpiece for cigarettes and her lighter. She offered one to Rebus.
‘I’ve stopped,’ he said. ‘Doctor’s orders.’ Which was, in a sense, the truth.
‘I tried stopping once or twice, but the weight I put on, you wouldn’t credit it.’ She inhaled deeply.
‘So, Hugh’s father . . .?’
She blew the smoke out of her nostrils. ‘Never knew him, really.’ She saw the look on Rebus’s face. ‘Have I shocked you, Johnny?’
‘Just a bit, Cranny. You used to be . . . well . . .’
‘Quiet? That was a lifetime ago. What do you fancy, coffee, tea or me?’ And she laughed behind her cigarette hand.
‘Coffee’s fine,’ said John Rebus, shifting in his chair.
She brought in two mugs of bitter instant. ‘No biscuits, sorry, I’m all out.’ She handed him his mug. ‘I’ve already sugared it, hope that’s all right.’
‘Fine,’ said Rebus, who did not take sugar. The mug was a souvenir of Blackpool. They talked about people they’d known at school. Sitting opposite him, she decided at one point to cross one leg over the other. But her skirt was too tight, so she gave up and tugged at the hem of the garment.
‘So what brings you here? Passing through, you said?’
‘Well, sort of. I’m actually looking for a bookie’s shop.’
‘We passed one on the –’
‘This is a particular business. It’s probably either new in the past five or so years, or else has been taken over by a new operator during that time.’
‘Then you’re after Hutchy’s.’ She said this nonchalantly, sucking on her cigarette afterwards.
‘Hutchy’s? But that place was around when we were growing up.’
She nodded. ‘Named after Joe Hutchinson, he started it. Then he died and his son Howie took over. Tried changing the name of the place, but everybody kept calling it Hutchy’s, so he gave up. About, oh, five years ago, maybe a bit less, he sold up and buggered off to Spain. Imagine, same age as us and he’s made his pile. Retired to the sun. Nearest we get to the sun here is when the toaster’s on.’
‘So who did he sell the business to?’
She had to think about this. ‘Greenwood, I think his name is. But the place is still called Hutchy’s. That’s what the sign says above the door. Aye, Tommy Greenwood.’
‘Tommy? You’re sure of that. Not Tom or Tam?’
She shook her permed head. She’d had a salt-and-pepper dye done quite recently. Rebus supposed it was to hide some authentic grey. The style itself could only be termed Bouffant Junior. It took Rebus back in time . . .
‘Tommy Greenwood,’ she said. ‘Friend of mine used to go out with him.’
‘Had he been around Cardenden for long before he bought Hutchy’s?’
‘No time at all. We didn’t know him from Adam. Then in short order he’d bought Hutchy’s and the old doctor’s house down near the river. The story goes, he paid Howie from a suitcase stacked with cash. The story goes, he still doesn’t have a bank account.’
‘So where did the money come from?’
‘Aye, now you’re asking a good question.’ She nodded her head slowly. ‘A few folk would like to know the answer to that one.’
He asked a few more questions about Greenwood, but there wasn’t more she could tell. He kept himself to himself, walked between his house and the bookie’s every day. Didn’t own a flash car. No wife, no kids. Didn’t do much in the way of socialising or drinking.
‘He’d be quite a catch for some woman,’ she said, in tones that let Rebus know she’d tried with the rod and line. ‘Oh aye, quite a catch.’
Rebus escaped twenty minutes later, but not without an exchange of addresses and phone numbers and promises to keep in touch. He walked back slowly past Hutchy’s – an uninspiring little double-front with peeling paint and smoky windows – and then briskly up the brae to the cemetery. At the cemetery, he saw that another car had been parked tight in behind his. A cherry-red Renault 5. He passed his own car and tapped on the window of the Renault. Siobhan Clarke put down her newspaper and wound open the window.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ Rebus demanded.
‘Following a hunch.’
‘I don’t have a hunch.’
‘Took me a while. Did you start with Ballingry?’ He nodded. ‘That’s what threw me. I came off the motorway at Kelty.’
‘Listen,’ Rebus said, ‘I’ve found a contender.’
She didn’t seem interested. ‘Have you seen this morning’s paper?’
‘Oh that, I meant to tell you about it.’
‘No, not the front page, the inside.’
‘Inside?’
She tapped a headline and handed the paper through the window to him. THREE INJURED IN M8 SMASH. The story told how on Saturday morning a BMW left the motorway heading towards Glasgow and ended up in a field. The family in the car had all been hospitalised – wife, teenage son, and ‘Edinburgh businessman David Dougary, 41’.
‘Christ,’ gasped Rebus, ‘I knocked that off the front page.’
‘Pity you didn’t read it at the time. What’ll happen now?’
Rebus read the story through again. ‘I don’t know. It’ll depend. If they shut down or transfer the Gorgie operation, either we shut down or we follow it.’
‘“We”? You’re suspended, remember.’
‘Or else Cafferty brings someone else in to take over while Dougary’s on the mend.’
‘It would be short notice.’
‘Which means he’ll hand pick someone.’
‘Or fill in for Dougary himself?’
‘I doubt it,’ said Rebus, ‘but wouldn’t it be just magic if he did? The only way of knowing is to keep the surveillance going till something happens one way or the other.’
‘And meantime?’
‘Meantime, we’ve got a ton more bookie’s shops to check.’ Rebus turned and gave Bowhill a smiling glance. ‘But something tells me we’ve already had a yankee come up.’
‘What’s a yankee?’ Siobhan asked,
as Rebus unlocked and got into his car.
When they stopped for a bite to eat and some tea in Dunfermline, Rebus told her the story of Hutchy’s and the man with the case full of cash. Her face twitched a little, as though her tea were too hot or the egg mayonnaise sandwich too strong.
‘What was that name again?’ she asked.
‘Tommy Greenwood.’
‘But he’s in the Cafferty file.’
‘What?’ It was Rebus’s turn to twitch.
‘Tommy Greenwood, I’m sure it is. He’s . . . he was one of Cafferty’s associates years ago. Then he disappeared from the scene, like so many others. They’d quarrelled about equal shares, or something.’
‘Sounds like a boulder round the balls and the old heave-ho off a bridge.’
‘As you say, it’s a mobile profession.’
‘Glub, glub, glub, all the way to the bottom.’
Siobhan smiled. ‘So is it the real Tommy Greenwood or not?’
Rebus shrugged. ‘If the bugger’s had plastic surgery, it could be hard to tell. All the same, there are ways.’ He was nodding to himself. ‘Oh yes, there are ways.’
Ways which started with a friendly taxman . . .
More than one person that Sunday read the story on the front page of their morning paper with a mixture of anguish, fear, guilt, and fury. Telephone calls were made. Words were exchanged like bullets. But being Sunday, there wasn’t much anyone could do about the situation except, if they were of a mind, pray. If the off-licences had been open, or the supermarkets and grocer’s shops allowed to sell alcohol, they might have drowned their sorrows or assuaged their anger. As it was, the anger just built, and so did the anguish. Block by block, the structure neared completion. A roof, that was all it lacked. Something to keep the pressure in, or nature’s forces out.
And it was all because of John Rebus. This was more or less agreed. John Rebus was out there with a battering ram, and more than one person was of a mind to unlock the door and let him in – let him into their lair. And then lock the door after him.
28
The meeting in Farmer Watson’s office had been arranged for nine in the morning. Presumably, they wanted Rebus at his groggiest and most supine. He might growl loudly in the morning, but he didn’t normally start biting till afternoon. That everyone from Watson to the canteen staff knew he was being fitted up didn’t make things any less awkward. For a start, the investigation into the Central Hotel murder wasn’t official, and Watson still wasn’t keen to sanction it. So Rebus had been working rogue anyway. Give the Farmer his due, he looked after his team. They managed between them to concoct a story whereby Rebus had been given permission to do some digging into the files on his own time.
‘With a view towards the case perhaps being reopened at a later date as fresh evidence allowed,’ said the Farmer. His secretary, a smart woman with a scary taste in hair colourants, copied down these closing words. ‘And date it a couple of weeks ago.’
‘Yes, sir,’ she said.
When she’d left the room, Rebus said, ‘Thank you, sir.’ He’d been standing throughout the proceedings, there being space for just the one chair, the one the secretary had been seated on. He now stepped gingerly over piles of files and placed his bum where hers had latterly been.
‘I’m covering my hide as well as yours, John. And not a word to anyone, understand?’
‘Yes, sir. What about Inspector Flower, won’t he suspect? He’s bound to complain to Chief Inspector Lauderdale at least.’
‘Good. Him and Lauderdale can have a chinwag. There’s something you’ve got to understand, John.’ Watson clasped his hands together on the desk, his head sinking into huge rounded shoulders. He spoke softly. ‘I know Lauderdale’s after my job. I know I can trust him as far as I’d trust an Irish scoor-oot.’ He paused. ‘Do you want my job, Inspector?’
‘No fear.’
Watson nodded. ‘That’s what I mean. Now, I know you’re not going to be sitting on your hands for the next week or two, so take some advice. The law can’t be tinkered with the way you tinker with an old car. Think before you do anything. And remember, stunts like buying a gun can get you thrown off the force.’
‘But I didn’t buy it, sir,’ said Rebus, reciting the story they’d thought up, ‘it came into my possession as a potential piece of evidence.’
Watson nodded. ‘Quite a mouthful, eh? But it might just save your bacon.’
‘I’m vegetarian, sir,’ Rebus said. A statement which caused Watson to laugh very loudly indeed.
They were both more than a little interested in what was happening in Gorgie. The initial news had not seemed promising. Nobody had turned up at the office, nobody at all. An extra detail was now keeping a watch on the hospital where Dougary lay in traction. If nothing happened at the Gorgie end, they’d switch to the hospital until Dougary was up and about. Maybe he’d keep working from his bedside. Stranger things had happened.
But at eleven-thirty, a brightly polished Jag pulled into the taxi lot. The chauffeur, a huge man with long straight hair, got out, and when he opened the back door, out stepped Morris Gerald Cafferty.
‘Got you, you bastard,’ hissed DS Petrie, firing off a whole roll of film in the excitement. Siobhan was already telephoning St Leonard’s. And after talking with CI Lauderdale, as instructed (though not by Lauderdale) she phoned Arden Street. Rebus picked up the phone on its second ring.
‘Bingo,’ she said. ‘Cafferty’s come calling.’
‘Make sure the photographs are dated and timed.’
‘Yes, sir. How did the meeting go?’
‘I think the Farmer’s in love with me.’
‘They’re both going in,’ said Petrie, at last lifting his finger from the shutter release. The camera motor stopped. Madden, who had come over to the window to watch, asked who they were.
At the same time, Rebus was asking a similar question. ‘Who’s with Big Ger?’
‘His driver.’
‘Man mountain with long hair?’
‘That’s him.’
‘That’s also the guy who got his ear eaten by Davey Dougary.’
‘No love lost there, then?’
‘Except now the man mountain’s working for Big Ger.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Knowing Big Ger, I’d say he put him on the payroll just to piss off Dougary.’
‘Why would he do that?’
‘His idea of a joke. Let me know when they come out again.’
‘Will do.’
She phoned him back half an hour later. ‘Cafferty’s taken off again.’
‘He didn’t stay long.’
‘But listen, the chauffeur stayed put.’
‘What?’
‘Cafferty drove off alone.’
‘Well, I’ll be buggered. He’s putting the man mountain in charge of Dougary’s accounts!’
‘He must trust him.’
‘I suppose he must. But I can’t see the big chap having much experience running a book. He’s strictly a guard dog.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning Big Ger will have to nurse him along. Meaning Big Ger will be down at that office practically every day. It couldn’t be better!’
‘We’d better get in some more film, then.’
‘Aye, don’t let that stupid bugger Petrie run out again. How’s his face by the way?’
‘Itchy, but it hurts when he scratches.’ Petrie glanced over, so she told him, ‘Inspector Rebus was just asking after you.’
‘Was I buggery,’ said Rebus. ‘I hope his nose drops off and falls in his thermos.’
‘I’ll pass your good wishes on, sir,’ said Siobhan.
‘Do that,’ replied Rebus. ‘And don’t be shy about it either. Right, I’m off to a funeral.’
‘I was talking to Brian, he said he’s a pall-bearer.’
‘Good,’ said Rebus. ‘That means I’ll have a shoulder to cry on.’
Warriston Cemetery is a sprawling mix of graves, from the ancient (and sometimes desec
rated) to the brand new. There are stones there whose messages have been eroded away to faint indents only. On a sunny day, it can be an educational walk, but at nights the local Hell’s Angels chapter have been known to party hard, recreating scenes more like New Orleans voodoo than Scottish country dancing.
Rebus felt Eddie would have approved. The ceremony itself was simple and dignified, if you ignored the wreath in the shape of an electric guitar and the fact that he was to be buried with an Elvis LP cover inside the casket.
Rebus stood at a distance from proceedings, and had turned down an invitation by Pat Calder to attend the reception afterwards, which was to be held not in the hollow Heartbreak Cafe but in the upstairs room of a nearby hostelry. Rebus was tempted for a moment – the chosen pub served Gibson’s – but shook his head the way he’d shaken Calder’s hand: with regrets.
Poor Eddie. For all that Rebus hadn’t really known him, for all that the chef had tried scalping him with a panful of appetisers, Rebus had liked the man. He saw them all the time, people who could have made so much of their lives, yet hadn’t. He knew he belonged with them. The losers.
But at least I’m still alive, he thought. And God willing nobody will dispatch me by funneling alcohol down my throat before turning on the gas. It struck him again: why the need for the funnel? All you had to do was take Eddie to any bar and he’d willingly render himself unconscious on tequila and bourbon. You didn’t need to force him. Yet Dr Curt had tossed his liver in the air and proclaimed it a fair specimen. That was difficult to accept, except that he’d seen it with his own eyes.
Or had he?
He peered across the distance to where Pat Calder was taking hold of rope number one, testing it for tensile strength. Brian was number four, which meant he stood across the casket from Calder and sandwiched between two men Rebus didn’t know. The barman Toni was number six. But Rebus’s eyes were on Calder. Oh Jesus, you bastard, he thought. You didn’t, did you? Then again, maybe you did.
He turned and ran, back to where his car was parked out on the road outside the cemetery. His destination was Arden Street.
