by Ian Rankin
That was Linford's thinking. The way he saw the world, it made perfect sense.
To Linford's mind, it was perfect.
Siobhan was sitting outside the hospital in her car, debating whether to visit the patient or not, when she heard the call on her radio.
Be on the lookout for a black Ford Sierra Cosworth, driver may be Jerry Lister, wanted for questioning concerning a major incident, code six.
Code six? The codes were always changing - all except code twenty-one, officer requiring assistance. Right now a 4-07 code six was suspicious death - usually meaning homicide. She called in, was told that the victim's name was Nicholas Hughes. He'd been stabbed to death with a pair of scissors, his body found by Lister's wife on her return home. The woman was now being treated for shock. Siobhan was thinking back to that night, the night she'd taken the short cut through Waverley. She'd taken it because of the two men in the black Sierra, one of them saying to the other, Lesbian, Jerry, and now a man called Jerry was on the run in a black Sierra.
She'd tried to get away, and in doing so had ended up involved with a tramp's suicide.
The more she thought about it, the more she couldn't help wondering...
The Farmer was apoplectic.
'Whose idea was it for him to be tailing Barry Hutton in the first place?'
'DI Linford was using his own initiative, sir.'
'Then how come I see your grubby little prints all over this?'
Saturday morning, they were seated in the Farmer's office. Rebus was edgy to start with: he had a pitch to sell, and couldn't see his boss going for it.
'You've seen his note,' the Farmer continued. ' "Rebus knew". How the hell do you think that looks?'
There was so much tension in Rebus's jaw, his cheeks were aching. 'What does the ACC say?'
'He wants an inquiry. You'll be suspended, of course.'
'Should keep me out of your way till retirement.'
The Chief Super slammed both hands against his desk, too angry to speak. Rebus took his chance.
'We've got a description of the guy seen hanging around Holyrood the night Grieve was murdered. Add to this the fact that he drinks in Bellman's, and there's a good chance we can nab him. Bellman's won't give us anything; it's the sort of pub where they look after their own. But I've got snitches in Leith. We're looking for a hard man, someone who uses that pub almost as an office. With a few officers, I think I can--'
'He says you did it.'
'I know he does, sir. But with respect--'
'How would it look if I put you in charge of the investigation?' The Farmer suddenly looked tired, beaten half to death by the job.
'I'm not asking to be put in charge.' Rebus said. 'I'm asking you to let me go to Leith, ask some questions, that's all. A chance to clear my own name if nothing else.'
Watson leaned back in his chair. 'Fettes are going ape-shit as it is. Linford was one of theirs. And Barry Hutton under unauthorised surveillance - know what that would do to any case against him? The Procurator Fiscal will have a seizure.'
'We need evidence. That's why we need someone in Leith with a few contacts.'
'What about Bobby Hogan? He's Leith based.'
Rebus nodded. 'And I'd want him there.'
'But you want to be there, too?' Rebus stayed silent. 'And we both know you'll go there anyway, no matter what I say.'
'Better to have it official, sir.'
The Farmer ran a hand over the dome of his head.
'Sooner the better, sir,' Rebus prompted.
The Chief Super started shaking his head, his eyes on Rebus. 'No,' he said, 'I don't want you down there. Inspector. It's just not something I can sanction, bearing in mind the flak from headquarters.'
Rebus stood up. 'Understood, sir. I don't have permission to go down to Leith and ask my informants about the attack on DI Linford?'
'That's right, Inspector, you don't. You're awaiting suspension; I want you close by when word comes through.'
'Thank you, sir.' He headed for the door.
'I mean it. You don't leave St Leonard's, Inspector.'
Rebus nodded his understanding. The Murder Room was quiet when he reached it. Roy Frazer was reading a paper. 'Finished with this?' Rebus asked, picking up another. Frazer nodded. 'Chicken phal' Rebus explained. rubbing his stomach. 'Hold all my calls and let everyone know the shunkie's off-limits.'
Frazer nodded and smiled. Saturday morning on the bog with the paper: everyone had done it at one time.
So Rebus headed out of the station and into the car park, jumped into his Saab and got on the mobile to Bobby Hogan.
'I'm ahead of you, pal,' Hogan said.
'How far?'
'Sitting outside Bellman's waiting for it to open.'
'Waste of time. See if you can track down some of your contacts.' Rebus flipped open his notebook, read the description of the Holyrood man to Hogan as he drove.
'A hard man who likes rough pubs,' Hogan mused when he'd finished. 'Now where the hell would we find anyone like that in Leith these days?'
Rebus knew a few places. It was 11 a.m., opening time. Grey overcast morning. The cloud hung so low over Arthur's Seat, you could pick out the rock only in shifting patches. Just like this case, Rebus was thinking. Bits of it visible at any one time, but the whole edifice ultimately hidden.
Leith was quiet, the day keeping people indoors. He drove past carpet shops, tattoo parlours, pawnbrokers. Laundrettes and social security offices: the latter were locked for the weekend. Most days, they'd be doing more business than the local stores. Parked his car in an alley and made sure it was locked before leaving it. At twelve minutes past opening, he was in his first pub. They were serving coffee, so he had a mug, same as the barman was drinking. Two ancient regulars watched morning television and smoked diligently: this was their day job, and they approached it with the seriousness of ritual. Rebus didn't get much out of the barman, not so much as a free refill. It was time to move on.
His mobile went off while he was walking. It was Bill Nairn.
'Working weekends, Bill?' Rebus said. 'How's the overtime?'
'The Bar-L never closes, John. I did what you asked, checked out our friend Rab Hill.'
'And?' Rebus had stopped walking. A few shoppers moved around him. They were mostly elderly, feet hardly clearing the pavement. No cars to take them to the retail parks; no energy to take the bus uptown.
'Not much really. Released on his due date. Said he was moving through to Edinburgh. He's seen his parole officer there..."
'Illnesses, Bill?'
'Well, yes, he did complain of a dicky stomach. Didn't seem to clear up, so he had some tests. They were all clear.'
'Same hospital as Cafferty?'
'Yes, but I really don't see...'
'What's his Edinburgh address?'
Nairn repeated the details: it was a hotel on Princes Street. 'Nice,' Rebus said. Then he took down the parole officer's details, too. 'Cheers, Bill. I'll talk to you later.'
The second bar was smoky, its carpet tacky with the previous night's spillage. Three men stood drinking nips, sleeves rolled up to show off their tattoos. They examined him as he entered, seemed not to find his presence objectionable enough to arouse comment. Later in the day, with sobriety a dull memory, things would be different. Rebus knew the barman, sat down at a corner table with a half-pint of Eighty and smoked a cigarette. When the barman came to empty the ashtray of its single dowp, it gave time for a couple of muted questions. The barman replied with little twitches of the head: negative. He either didn't know or wasn't saying. Fair enough. Rebus knew when he could push a bit harder, and this was not one of those times.
He knew as he left that the drinkers would be talking about him. They'd smelt cop on him, and would want to know what he'd been after. The barman would tell them: no harm in that. By now it would be common knowledge - and when one of their own was attacked, the police always went in quickly and with prejudice. Leith would be expecting little else.
Outside, he got on the phone again, called the hotel and asked to be put through to Robert Hill's room.
'I'm sorry, sir. Mr Hill's not answering.'
Rebus cut the call.
Pub three: a relief barman, and no faces Rebus recognised. He didn't even stay for a drink. Two cafes after that, Formica tables pockmarked with cigarette burns, the vinegary haze of brown sauce and chip fat. And then a third cafe, a place the men from the docks came to for huge doses of reviving cholesterol, as if it were more doctor's surgery than eating place.
And seated at one of the tables, scooping up runny egg with a fork, someone Rebus knew.
His name was Big Po. Sometime doorman for pubs and clubs of the parish, Po's past included a long stint in the merchant navy. His fists were nicked and scarred, face weathered where it wasn't hidden by a thick brown beard. He was massive, and watching him squashed in at the table was like watching a normal-sized adult seated in a primary-school classroom. Rebus had the impression that the whole world had been built on a scale out of kilter with Big Po's needs.
'Jesus,' the man roared as Rebus approached, 'it's been a lifetime and a half!' Flecks of saliva and egg peppered the air. Heads were turning, but didn't stay turned long. No one wanted Big Po accusing them of nosing into his business. Rebus took the proffered hand and prepared for the worst. Sure enough, it was like a car going through a crusher. He flexed his fingers afterwards, checking for fractures, and pulled out the chair opposite the man mountain.
'What'll you have?' Po asked.
'Just coffee.'
'That counts as blasphemy in here. This is the blessed church of St Eck the Chef.' Po nodded towards where a fat. elderly man was wiping his hands on a cook's apron and nodding towards him. 'Best fry-up in Edinburgh.' Po roared, 'is that right, Eck?'
Eck nodded again, then got back to his skillet. He looked the nervous sort, and with Big Po on the premises, who could blame him?
When a middle-aged waitress came out from behind the counter, Rebus ordered his coffee. Big Po was still busy with his fork and egg yolk.
'Be easier with a spoon,' Rebus suggested.
'I like a challenge.'
'Well, could be I've another for you.' Rebus paused while the coffee arrived. It was in a see-through Pyrex cup with matching saucer. In some cafes, they were becoming trendy again, but Rebus had the feeling this was an original. He hadn't asked for milk, but it was already added, with bubbles of white froth breaking on the surface. He took a sip. It was hot and didn't taste of coffee.
'So tell me what's on your mind,' Big Po said.
Rebus gave him the background. Po listened as he ate. finishing with a mopping-up operation involving the addition to the bare greasy plate of a liberal squirt of brown sauce, and two further slices of toast. Afterwards. Big Po tried sitting back, but there wasn't really the room. He slurped at his mug of dark brown tea and tried to turn his bear growl into something mere mortals might recognise as an undertone.
"Gordie's the man to talk to about Bellman's; used to drink there till they barred him.'
'Barred from Bellman's? What did he do, machine-gun the place or ask for a gin and tonic?'
Big Po snorted. 'I think he was shagging Houton's missus.'
'Houton being the owner?'
Po nodded. 'Big bad bastard.' Which meant a lot, coming from him.
'Is Gordie a first or last name?'
'Gordie Burns, drinks in the Weir 0'.'
Meaning the Weir 0' Hermiston, on the shore road out towards Portobello. 'How will I know him?' Rebus asked.
Po reached into his blue nylon windcheater, brought out a mobile phone. 'I'll give him a call, make sure he's there.'
As he did so, knowing the number by heart, Rebus stared out of the steamed-up window. At call's end, he thanked Po and stood up.
'Not finishing your coffee?'
Rebus shook his head. 'But this is on me.' He walked up to the counter, handed over a fiver. Three fifty for the fry-up, cheapest coronary in town. On his way back past Big Po's table, he patted the man's shoulder, slid a twenty into the windcheater's breast zip-up pocket.
'God bless you, young sir,' Big Po boomed. Rebus couldn't have sworn to it, but as he closed the door behind him he got the feeling the big man was ordering another breakfast.
The Weir 0' was a civilised sort of pub: car park out front, and a chalkboard advertising a range of 'home cooked fayre'. As Rebus stepped up to the bar and ordered a whisky, a drinker, two along, started finishing up. By the time Rebus's drink arrived, the man was leaving, telling his companion that he'd be back in a wee while. Rebus took a minute or two to savour his own drink, then made for the door. The man was waiting for him around the corner, where the view was of disused warehouses and slag heaps.
'Gordie?' Rebus asked.
The man nodded. He was tall and gangly, late thirties with a long, sad face and thinning, ill-cut hair. Rebus made to hand him a twenty. Gordie paused just long enough to let Rebus know he had some pride, then pocketed the note.
'Make it quick,' he said, eyes darting from side to side. Traffic was thundering past, lorries mostly, travelling too quickly to take note of the two men.
Rebus kept it brief: description; pub; attack.
'Sounds like Mick Lorimer,' Gordie said, turning to walk away.
'Whoah,' Rebus said. 'What about an address or something?'
'Mick Lorimer,' Gordie repeated, heading back into the pub.
John Michael Lorimer: known as Mick. Previouses for assault, entering lockfast premises, housebreaking. Bobby Hogan knew him, which was why they took Lorimer to Leith cop shop, let him sweat there for a little while before starting the questioning.
'We're not going to get much out of this one,' Hogan warned. 'Vocabulary of about a dozen words, half of which would make your granny shriek.'
And he'd been waiting for them, seated quietly in his two-storey house just off Easter Road. A 'friend' had let them in, and Lorimer had been in a chair in the living room, newspaper open on his lap. He'd said almost nothing, not even bothering to ask them why they were there, why they were asking him to go down to the station with them. Rebus had taken an address from the girlfriend. It was on the housing scheme where Linford had been attacked. Which was fair enough: even if they proved it was Lorimer Linford had been following, he now had an alibi - went to his girlfriend's, didn't leave the flat all night.
Convenient and cost-effective; no way she'd suddenly change her story, not if she knew what was good for her. From her washed-out eyes and slow movements, Rebus would guess she'd had a pretty good education at the hands of Mick Lorimer.
'Are we wasting our time, then?' Rebus asked. Bobby Hogan just shrugged. He'd been on the force as long as Rebus; both men knew the score. Getting them into custody was just the opening bell of the bout, and most times the fight seemed fixed.
'We've got the line-ups anyway,' Hogan said, pushing open the door to the interview room.
Leith police station wasn't modern, not like St Leonard's. It was a solid late-Victorian design, reminding Rebus of his old school. Cold stone walls covered with maybe their twentieth layer of paint, and lots of exposed pipework. The interview rooms were like prison cells, sparse and dulling the senses. Seated at the table, Lorimer looked as much at home as he had in his own living room.
'Solicitor,' he said as the two detectives entered.
'Think you need one?' Hogan asked.
'Solicitor,' Lorimer repeated.
Hogan looked to Rebus. 'Like a broken record, isn't he?'
'Stuck in the wrong groove.'
Hogan turned back to Lorimer. 'We get you for six hours to ourselves without as much as a whiff of legal advice. That's what the law says.' He slipped his hands into his trouser pockets. All he was doing, the gesture said, was having a bit of a chat with a friend. 'Mick here', he told Rebus, 'used to be one of Tommy Telford's doormen, did you know that?'
'I didn't,' Rebus lied.
'Had to make himself scarce wh
en Tommy's little empire blew up.'
Rebus was nodding now. 'Big Ger Cafferty,' he said.
'We all know Big Ger wasn't happy about Tommy and his gang.' A meaningful look towards Lorimer. 'Or with anyone connected to them.'
Rebus was standing in front of the table now. He leaned down so that his hands rested on the back of the empty chair. 'Big Ger's out. Did you know that, Mick?'
Lorimer didn't so much as blink.
'Large as life and back in Edinburgh,' Rebus went on. 'Maybe I could put you in touch with him...?'
'Six hours,' Lorimer said. 'Nae bother.'
Rebus glanced towards Hogan: so much for that.
They took a break, stood outside smoking cigarettes.
Rebus was thinking aloud. 'Say Lorimer killed Roddy Grieve. Putting aside the question of why, we think Barry Hutton was behind it.' Hogan was nodding. 'Two questions really: first, was Grieve meant to die?'
'Wouldn't put it past Lorimer to get a bit overzealous. He's one of those guys, gets the red mist once he gets started.'
'Second,' Rebus went on, 'was Grieve meant to be found? Wouldn't they try hiding the body?'
Hogan shrugged. 'That's Lorimer again; hard as nails but not half as sharp.'
Rebus looked at him. 'So say he cocked up: how come he's not been punished?'
Now Hogan smiled. 'Punish Mick Lorimer? You'd need a big army. Either that or you'd want to lull him, get him when his guard was down.'
Which reminded Rebus... He called the hotel again. There was still no sign of Rab Hill. Maybe face to face would be better. He needed Hill on his side. Hill was the proof, which was why Cafferty was keeping him close.
If Rebus could get to Rab Hill, he could put Cafferty away again. There was almost nothing he wanted more in the world.
'It'd be like Christmas,' he said aloud. Hogan asked him to explain, but Rebus just shook his head.
Mr Cowan, who'd given them the description of the man on Holyrood Road, took his time over the line-up, but picked out Lorimer eventually. While the prisoner went back to his cell, the others were led away to be given tea and biscuits until their second appearance. They were students mostly.
T get them from the rugby team,' Hogan explained. 'When I need a few bruisers. Half of them are training to be doctors and lawyers.'
