by Ian Rankin
“I promise,” Rebus said. The city outskirts first: bungalows fronting the route, housing schemes hidden behind them. It was the bungalows visitors would see, Rebus realized, and they’d think what a nice, upright place Edinburgh was. The reality was waiting somewhere else, just out of their sight line.
Waiting to pounce.
There wasn’t much traffic about: they were skirting the southern edge of the city. Morningside was the first real clue that Edinburgh might have some nightlife: bars and take-aways, supermarket and students. Rebus signaled left, checking in his mirror that Storey did the same. When his mobile sounded, he knew it would be Storey: irritated further and wondering how much longer.
“We’re here,” Rebus muttered under his breath. He pulled into the curb, Storey following suit. The Immigration man was first out of his car.
“Time to stop with the games,” he said.
“I couldn’t agree more,” Rebus answered, turning away. They were on a leafy suburban street, large houses silhouetted against the sky. Rebus pushed open a gate, knowing Storey would follow. Instead of trying the bell, Rebus headed for the driveway, walking purposefully now.
The Jacuzzi was still there, its cover removed once more, steam billowing from it.
Big Ger Cafferty in the water, arms stretched out along its sides. Opera music on the sound system.
“You sit in that thing all day?” Rebus asked.
“Rebus,” Cafferty drawled. “And you’ve brought your boyfriend: how touching.” He ran a hand over his matted chest hair.
“I’m forgetting,” Rebus said, “the two of you have never actually met in person, have you? Felix Storey, meet Morris Gerald Cafferty.”
Rebus was studying Storey’s reaction. The Londoner slid his hands into his pockets. “Okay,” he said, “what’s going on here?”
“Nothing.” Rebus paused. “I just thought you might want to put a face to the voice.”
“What?”
Rebus didn’t bother answering straightaway. He was staring up at the room above the garage. “No Joe tonight, Cafferty?”
“He gets the odd night off, when I don’t think I’ll be needing him.”
“Number of enemies you’ve made, I wouldn’t have thought you ever felt safe.”
“We all need a bit of risk from time to time.” Cafferty had busied himself with the control panel, turning off jets and music both. But the light was still active, still changing color every ten or fifteen seconds.
“Look, am I being set up here?” Storey asked. Rebus ignored him. His eyes were on Cafferty.
“You bear a grudge a long time, I’ll give you that. When was it you fell out with Rab Bullen? Fifteen . . . twenty years ago? But that grudge gets passed down the generations, eh, Cafferty?”
“I’ve nothing against Stu,” Cafferty growled.
“Wouldn’t say no to a bit of his action, though, eh?” Rebus paused to light a cigarette. “Nicely played, too.” He blew smoke into the night sky, where it merged with the steam.
“I don’t want any of this,” Felix Storey said. He made as if to turn and leave. Rebus let him, betting he wouldn’t carry through. After a few paces, Storey stopped and turned, then retraced his steps.
“Say what you want to say,” he challenged.
Rebus examined the tip of his cigarette. “Cafferty here is your ‘Deep Throat,’ Felix. Cafferty knew what was going on because he had a man on the inside—Barney Grant, Bullen’s lieutenant. Barney feeding info to Cafferty, Cafferty passing it along to you. In return for which, Grant would get Bullen’s empire handed to him on a plate.”
“What does it matter?” Storey asked, brow furrowing. “Even if it was your friend Cafferty here . . .”
“Not my friend, Felix—yours. But the thing is, Cafferty wasn’t just passing you information . . . He came up with the passports . . . Barney Grant planted them in the safe, probably while we were chasing Bullen down that tunnel. Bullen would take the fall and all would be well. Thing was, how did Cafferty get the passports?” Rebus looked at both men and shrugged. “Easy enough if it’s Cafferty who’s smuggling the immigrants into the UK.” His gaze had rested on Cafferty, whose eyes seemed smaller, blacker than ever. Whose entire rounded face glistened with malice. Rebus gave another theatrical shrug. “Cafferty, not Bullen. Cafferty feeding Bullen to you, Felix, so he could bag all that business for himself . . .”
“And the beauty is,” Cafferty drawled, “there’s no proof, and absolutely nothing you can do about it.”
“I know,” Rebus said.
“Then what’s the point of saying it?” Storey snarled.
“Listen and you’ll learn,” Rebus told him.
Cafferty was smiling. “With Rebus, there’s always a point,” he conceded.
Rebus flicked ash into the tub, which put a sudden stop to the smile. “Cafferty is the one who knows London . . . he has contacts there. Not Stuart Bullen. Remember that photo of you, Cafferty? There you were, with your London ‘associates.’ Even Felix here let slip that there’s a London connection involved in all of this. Bullen didn’t have the muscle—or anything else—to put together something as meticulous as people-smuggling. He’s the fall guy, so things ease up for a while. Thing is, putting Bullen in the frame becomes a whole lot easier if someone else is on board—someone like you, Felix. An Immigration officer with an eye for an easy score. You crack the case, it means a big fillip. Bullen’s the only one who’s being shafted. Far as you’re concerned, he’s scum anyway. You’re not going to worry about who’s behind the shafting or what might be in it for them. But here’s the thing—all the glory you’re going to get, it adds up to the cube of bugger-all, because what you’ve done is smoothed Cafferty’s path. It’ll be him in charge from now on, not only bringing illegals into the country, but working them to death, too.” Rebus paused. “So thanks for that.”
“This is bullshit,” Storey spat.
“I don’t think so,” Rebus said. “To me, it makes perfect sense . . . it’s the only thing that does.”
“But like you said,” Cafferty interrupted, “you can’t make any of it stick.”
“That’s true,” Rebus admitted. “I just wanted to let Felix here know who he’d really been working for all this time.” He flicked the rest of his cigarette onto the lawn.
Storey lunged at him, teeth bared. Rebus dodged the move, grabbing him in a choke hold around the neck, forcing his head into the water. Storey was maybe an inch taller . . . younger and fitter. But he didn’t have Rebus’s heft, his arms flailing, uncertain whether to search for purchase on the side of the tub or try to unlock Rebus’s grip.
Cafferty sat in his corner of the pool, watching the action as if he were ringside.
“You haven’t won,” Rebus hissed.
“From where I’m sitting, I’d say you’re wrong.”
Rebus realized that Storey’s resistance was lessening. He released his grip and took a few steps back, out of range of the Londoner. Storey fell to his knees, spluttering. But he was soon up again, advancing on Rebus.
“Enough!” Cafferty barked. Storey turned towards him, ready to channel his anger elsewhere. But there was something about Cafferty . . . even at the age he was, overweight and naked in a tub . . .
It would take a braver—or more foolish—man than Storey to stand up to him.
Something Storey knew immediately. He made the right decision, shoulders untensing, fists unclenching, trying to control his coughs and splutters.
“Well, boys,” Cafferty went on, “I think it’s past both your bedtimes, isn’t it?”
“I’m not finished yet,” Rebus stated.
“I thought you were,” Cafferty said. It sounded like an order, but Rebus dismissed it with a twitch of the mouth.
“Here’s what I want.” His attention was on Storey now. “I said I can’t prove anything, but that might not stop me trying—and shit has a way of making a smell, even when you can’t see it.”
“I’ve told you,
I didn’t know who ‘Deep Throat’ was.”
“And you weren’t just a tiny bit suspicious, even when he gave you a tip such as who owned the red BMW?” Rebus waited for an answer, but got none. “See, Felix, the way it’ll seem to most people, either you’re dirty or else incredibly stupid. Neither looks good on the old CV.”
“I didn’t know,” Storey persisted.
“But I’m betting you had an inkling. You just ignored it and concentrated on all those brownie points you’d be getting.”
“What do you want?” Storey croaked.
“I want the Yurgii family—the mother and kids—released from Whitemire. I want them housed somewhere you’d choose for yourself. By tomorrow.”
“You think I can do that?”
“You’ve blown an immigrant scam apart, Felix—they owe you.”
“And that’s it?”
Rebus shook his head. “Not quite. Chantal Rendille . . . I don’t want her deported.”
Storey seemed to be waiting for more, but Rebus was finished.
“I’m sure Mr. Storey will see what he can do,” Cafferty said levelly—as if his was always the voice of reason.
“Any of your illegals turn up in Edinburgh, Cafferty . . .” Rebus began, knowing the threat to be empty.
Cafferty knew it, too, but he smiled and bowed his head. Rebus turned to Storey. “For what it’s worth, I think you just got greedy. You saw a golden chance and you weren’t going to question it, far less turn it down. But there’s a chance to redeem yourself.” He jabbed a finger in Cafferty’s direction. “By pointing your guns at him.”
Storey nodded slowly, both men—locked in combat just moments before—now staring at the figure in the tub. Cafferty had half turned, as if he’d already dismissed them from his mind and his life. He was busy with the control panel, jets suddenly gushing into the tub again. “You’ll bring your trunks next time?” he called as Rebus started heading for the driveway.
“And an extension cable,” Rebus called back.
For the two-bar electric fire. Watch the lights change color when that hit the water . . .
EPILOGUE
The Oxford Bar. Harry poured Rebus a pint of IPA, then told him there was a “journo” in the back room. “Fair warning,” Harry said. Rebus nodded and took his drink through. It was Steve Holly. He was perusing what looked like the next morning’s paper and folded it closed at Rebus’s approach.
“Jungle drums are going mental,” he said.
“I never listen to them,” Rebus replied. “Try never to read the tabloids either.”
“Whitemire’s approaching meltdown, you’ve got a strip-club owner in custody, and there’s a story the paramilitaries have been muscling in on Knoxland.” Holly raised his hands. “I hardly know where to start.” He laughed and hoisted his glass. “Actually, that’s not strictly true . . . want to know why?”
“Why?”
He wiped foam from his top lip. “Because everywhere I look, I come across your dabs.”
“Do you?”
Holly nodded slowly. “Given the inside scoop, I could make you the hero of the piece. That would put you on the fast track out of Gayfield Square.”
“My savior,” Rebus offered, concentrating on his beer. “But tell me this . . . Remember that story you wrote about Knoxland? The way you twisted it so the refugees became the problem?”
“They are a problem.”
Rebus ignored this. “You wrote it that way because Stuart Bullen told you to.” It sounded like a statement, and when Rebus looked into the reporter’s eyes, he knew it was true. “What did he do—phone you? Ask a favor? Pair of you scratching each other’s backs again, just like when he used to give you tip-offs on any celebs leaving his club . . .”
“I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”
Rebus leaned forward on his chair. “Didn’t you wonder why he was asking?”
“He said it was a matter of balance, giving the locals a voice.”
“But why?”
Holly shrugged. “I just reckoned he was your everyday racist. I’d no idea he had something he was trying to hide.”
“You know now, though, don’t you? He wanted us focusing on Stef Yurgii as a race crime. And all the time, it was him and his men . . . with slime like you at their beck and call.” Though Rebus was staring at Holly, he was thinking of Cafferty and Felix Storey, of the many and various ways in which people could be used and abused, conned and manipulated. He knew he could unload it all on Holly, and maybe the reporter would even do something with it. But where was the proof? All Rebus had was the queasy feeling in his gut. That, and a few embers of rage.
“I only report the stuff, Rebus,” the reporter said. “I don’t make it happen.”
Rebus nodded to himself. “And people like me try to clean up afterwards.”
Holly’s nostrils twitched. “Speaking of which, you’ve not been swimming, have you?”
“Do I look the type?”
“I wouldn’t have thought so. All the same, I can definitely smell chlorine . . .”
Siobhan was parked outside his flat. As she emerged from the driver’s side, he could hear bottles chiming in her carrier bag.
“We can’t be working you hard enough,” Rebus told her. “I heard you’d taken time off for a dip in Duddingston Loch.” She managed a smile. “You’re okay, though?”
“I will be after a couple of glasses . . . Always supposing you’re not expecting different company.”
“You mean Caro?” Rebus slid his hands into his pockets and gave a shrug.
“Was it my fault?” Siobhan asked into the silence.
“No . . . but don’t let that stop you taking the blame. How’s Major Underpants?”
“He’s fine.”
Rebus nodded slowly, then brought the key from his pocket. “No cheap plonk in that bag, I hope.”
“The finest bin ends in town,” she assured him. They climbed the two flights together, finding comfort in the silence. But at Rebus’s landing, he stopped short and uttered a curse. His door was ajar, the jamb splintered.
“Bloody hell,” Siobhan said, following him inside.
Straight to the living room. “TV’s gone,” she stated.
“And the stereo.”
“Want me to phone it in?”
“And provide punch lines for Gayfield all next week?” He shook his head.
“I’m assuming you’re insured?”
“I’ll need to check I kept the payments up . . .” Rebus broke off as he noticed something. A scrap of paper on his chair by the bay window. He crouched down to peer at it. Nothing but a seven-digit number. He picked up his phone and made the call, staying in a crouch as he listened. An answering machine, telling him all he needed to know. He ended the call, stood back up.
“Well?” Siobhan asked.
“A pawnshop on Queen Street.”
She looked puzzled, even more so when he smiled.
“Bloody Drugs Squad,” he told her. “Pawned the stuff for the price of that bloody flashlight.” Despite himself, he laughed, pinching the skin at the bridge of his nose. “Go fetch the corkscrew, will you? It’s in the kitchen drawer . . .”
He picked up the scrap of paper and fell into his chair, staring at it, the laughter subsiding by degrees. And then Siobhan was standing in the doorway, holding another note.
“Not the corkscrew?” he said, face dropping.
“The corkscrew,” she confirmed.
“Now that’s vicious. That’s more than flesh and blood can stand!”
“Maybe you could borrow one from the neighbors?”
“I don’t know any of the neighbors.”
“Then this is your chance to get acquainted. It’s either that or no booze.” Siobhan shrugged. “Your decision.”
“Not to be taken lightly,” Rebus drawled. “You better sit yourself down . . . this might take a while.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My thanks to Senay Boztas and all the other j
ournalists who helped me research the issues of asylum seekers and immigration, and to Robina Qureshi of Positive Action In Housing (PAIH) for information on the plight of asylum seekers in Glasgow and in the Dungavel detention center.
The village of Banehall doesn’t exist, so please don’t pore over maps looking for it. Nor will you find a detention center called Whitemire in any part of West Lothian, or an estate called Knoxland on the western outskirts of Edinburgh. In fact, I stole my fictitious estate from my friend the writer Brian McCabe. He once wrote a brilliant short story called “Knoxland.”
For further information on some of the issues in this book, see the following:
www.paih.org
www.closedungavelnow.com
www.scottishrefugeecouncil.org.uk
www.amnesty.org.uk/scotland
Ian Rankin is the #1 bestselling mystery writer in the United Kingdom. He is the winner of an Edgar Award for Resurrection Men, and he is the recipient of a Gold Dagger Award for Fiction and the Chandler-Fulbright Award. He lives in Edinburgh, Scotland, with his wife and their two sons.