Set in Darkness

by Ian Rankin

  ‘Do I detect a hint of humbug?’

  ‘My parents always want me to go back home.’

  ‘Tell them you’re working.’

  ‘That would be dishonest. What are you doing anyway?’

  ‘For Christmas?’ He thought about it. ‘If they want me for a shift at St Leonard’s, I’ll probably clock in. It’s a good laugh at the station, Christmas Day.’

  She looked at him but didn’t say anything, until she told him her street was next left. There were no parking spaces outside her building. Rebus drew up alongside a gleaming black 4×4.

  ‘That’s not yours, is it?’

  ‘Hardly.’

  He peered up at the flats. ‘Nice street though.’

  ‘Do you want some coffee?’

  He thought it over, remembering the way she’d flinched: did it say something about what she thought of him, or about Siobhan herself? ‘Why not?’ he said at last.

  ‘There’s a parking space further back.’

  So Rebus reversed fifty yards and parked kerbside. Her flat was two floors up. No clutter; everything in its place. It was what he’d have expected, and he was pleased he’d been right. Framed prints on the walls, adverts for art exhibitions. A rack of CDs and a decent hi-fi system. Several shelves of videos: comedies mostly, Steve Martin, Billy Crystal. Books: Kerouac, Kesey, Camus. Lots of law texts. There was a functional-looking green two-seat sofa, plus a couple of unmatching chairs. From the window, he looked on to an identical tenement, curtains closed, windows darkened. He wondered if Siobhan wanted her curtains left open.

  She’d gone straight into the kitchen to put the kettle on. His tour of the living room complete, he went to find her. Past two bedrooms, doors open. Clatter of mugs and teaspoons. She was opening the fridge as he came in.

  ‘We should talk about Sithing,’ Rebus said. ‘How best to tackle him.’ Siobhan swore. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Out of milk,’ she said. ‘I thought I’d one of those UHT packets in the cupboard.’

  ‘I’ll take it black.’

  She turned to the worktop. ‘Fine.’ Opened a storage jar, peered in. ‘Except I’m out of coffee, too.’

  Rebus laughed. ‘Do much entertaining, do you?’

  ‘Just haven’t managed a supermarket run this week.’

  ‘No problem. There’s a chippie on Broughton Street. Coffee and milk both, if we’re lucky.’

  ‘Let me give you some money.’ She was looking for her bag.

  ‘My treat,’ he said, heading for the door.

  When he was gone, Siobhan rested her head against the cupboard door. She’d hidden the coffee right at the back. She just needed a minute or two. It was so seldom she brought people back here, and John Rebus’s first visit. A minute or two to herself, that was all she wanted. In the car, when he’d reached towards her . . . what was he going to think about that? She’d thought he was making a move; not that he ever had before, so why had she flinched? Most of the men she worked with, there was innuendo, the occasional blue joke – looking for her to react. But never John Rebus. She knew he was flawed, had problems, but still he’d brought a certain solidity to her life. He was someone she felt she could trust, come hell or high water.

  Something she didn’t want to lose.

  She turned the kitchen light off, walked into the living room, stood at her window and stared out at the night. Then turned and started doing some tidying.

  Rebus buttoned up his jacket, glad to be outdoors. Siobhan hadn’t been happy about him being there, that was obvious. He’d felt the same way: uncomfortable. Try to keep your work and social life separate. It was hard in the force: you drank together, telling stories outsiders wouldn’t understand. The bond went deeper than desk and office, patrol car and local beat.

  But tonight, he felt, was different. And after all, he didn’t like visitors either; had never encouraged Siobhan or anyone else to visit his home. Maybe she was more like him than he realised. Maybe that was what made her nervous.

  He didn’t think he was going to go back. Head home, phone and apologise. He unlocked the car, but didn’t start the engine straight away: left the keys hanging from the ignition. Lit a cigarette instead. Maybe he’d fetch the milk and coffee, leave them at her door before heading off. That would be the decent thing. But the main door to the building was locked. He’d have to buzz her to be let in. Leave the stuff on the pavement . . . ?

  Just go home.

  He heard a sudden noise, watched as someone left the tenement opposite Siobhan’s. Sort of jogging their way along the pavement, but then taking the first left into an alley, where they stopped. A jet of urine hitting the wall, steam rising into the frosted air. Rebus sitting in darkness, watching. Someone on their way out, caught short? Maybe a blocked toilet at home . . . ? The man was zipping himself up, jogging back the way he’d come. Rebus caught a glimpse of the face as the man passed beneath a street lamp. Back to the tenement, door opening and closing.

  Rebus kept smoking his cigarette, a vertical frown-line appearing in the centre of his brow.

  He stubbed the cigarette into his ashtray, removed his keys from the ignition. Opened and closed his door quietly, leaving it unlocked. Crossed the street practically on tiptoe, keeping out of the light. A taxi passed by at speed, Rebus hugging the rails in front of the tenement. Reached the main door. This one, unlike Siobhan’s, was unlocked. The block looked less cared-for, the stairwell needing a coat of paint. Faint smell of cat piss. Rebus closed the door slowly, another taxi masking any noise. Made his way to the foot of the stairs and listened. He could hear a television playing somewhere, or maybe it was a radio. He looked at the stone steps, knew he couldn’t walk up them without making a noise. His shoes would sound like sandpaper on wood, echoing up four storeys. Shoes off? Not a chance. Besides, he wasn’t sure an element of surprise was strictly necessary.

  He began to climb.

  Reached the first-floor landing. Started up to the second.

  Now footsteps could be heard coming down. A man with the collar of his raincoat turned up, face all but obscured. Hands deep in pockets. A grunt, but no eye contact as he made to pass Rebus.

  ‘Hello there, Derek.’

  Derek Linford was two steps further on before he seemed to realise. He stopped, turned.

  ‘Thought you lived in Dean Village,’ Rebus said.

  ‘I was just visiting a friend.’

  ‘Oh aye? Who’s that then?’

  ‘Christie, next floor up.’ Said too quickly.

  ‘First name?’ Rebus asked, smiling a humourless smile.

  ‘What do you want?’ Climbing back up one step, not liking the fact that Rebus was standing so far above him. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘This Christie, got a blocked toilet or what?’

  Now Linford realised. He tried to think of something to say.

  ‘Save it,’ Rebus advised him. ‘We both know what’s going on here. You’re a peeping Tom.’

  ‘That’s a lie.’

  Rebus tutted. ‘Try a bit more conviction next time.’ He paused. ‘Otherwise a conviction’s just what you’re going to get.’

  ‘And what about you, eh?’ Sneering. ‘A quickie, was it? I notice it didn’t take you long.’

  ‘If you’d been noticing anything, you’d have seen me get into my car.’ Rebus shook his head. ‘How long’s this been going on? Don’t you think the neighbours will suss eventually? Strange man shuffing up and down the stairs at all hours . . . ?’

  Rebus went down a step to meet Linford at eye level.

  ‘Go away now,’ he said quietly. ‘And don’t come back. If you do, first thing I do is tell Siobhan. And after her, your boss at Fettes. They might like pretty boys there, but they don’t go big on perverts.’

  ‘It would be your word against mine.’

  Rebus shrugged. ‘What have I got to lose? You, on the other hand . . .’ He let the sentence drift away. ‘One more thing: it’s my case now. I want you to stay out of the way; do y
ou understand?’

  ‘The brass won’t go for it,’ Linford scoffed. ‘Without me, they’ll take it away from you.’

  ‘Will they?’

  ‘Bet on it.’ Derek Linford turned and started down the stairs. Rebus watched him leave, then climbed to the next landing. From the window, he could see Siobhan’s living room and one of her bedrooms. Her curtains still weren’t closed. She was seated on her sofa, chin resting on one hand, staring into space. She looked utterly miserable, and somehow he didn’t think coffee was the answer.

  He called her from his mobile as he headed home. She didn’t sound too upset. Back at his own flat, he collapsed into the chair with a single measure of Bunnahabhain. ‘Westering home’, it said on the bottle, and they’d quoted from the ballad: Light in the eye, and it’s goodbye to care. Yes, he’d known malts that could do that. But it was a sham relief. He got up, added a dribble of water to the drink and put some music on the hi-fi: Siobhan’s tape of the Blue Nile. There were messages on his anserphone.

  Ellen Wylie: progress report, and reminding him he’d said he’d find out about Bryce Callan.

  Cammo Grieve: wanting a meeting; suggesting time and place. ‘If it’s at all convenient, don’t bother getting back to me. I’ll see you there.’

  Bryce Callan was long gone. Rebus checked his watch. He knew someone he could talk to. Wasn’t sure it would help, but he’d made the offer to Wylie and Hood. It didn’t do to go crapping on the junior officers.

  Remembering how he’d just dumped a bucketload on Derek Linford, Rebus grew thoughtful.

  Another ten minutes of the Blue Nile – ‘Walk Across the Roofops’, ‘Tinseltown in the Rain’ – and he decided it was time to take his own walk. Not across the rooftops, but down to his car. He was heading for the badlands of Gorgie.

  Gorgie was the centre of Big Ger Cafferty’s operations. Cafferty had been Edinburgh’s biggest player until Rebus had put him in Barlinnie Prison. But Cafferty’s empire still existed, maybe even flourished, under the control of a man called the Weasel. Rebus knew that the Weasel operated out of a private cab company in Gorgie. The place had been torched a while back, but had risen from the ashes. There was a small front office, with a compound behind. But the Weasel did his business upstairs, in a room few people knew about. It was nearly ten by the time Rebus got there. He parked the car and left it unlocked: this was probably the safest place in the city.

  The front office comprised a counter, with chair and telephone behind, and a bench-seat in front. The bench-seat was where you sat if you were waiting for your cab. The man seated behind the counter eyed Rebus as he walked in. He was on the phone, taking details of a morning booking: Tollcross to the airport. Rebus sat on the bench and picked up a copy of the evening paper from the day before. Fake wood panelling surrounded him. The floor was linoleum. The man finished his call.

  ‘Can I help you?’ he asked.

  He had black hair so badly cut it looked like an ill-fitting wig, and a nose which hadn’t so much been broken in the past as thoroughly dismantled. His eyes were narrow, almond-shaped, and his teeth were crooked where they existed at all.

  Rebus took a look around. ‘Thought the insurance money might have bought better than this.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘I mean it’s no better than what was here before Tommy Telford torched the place.’

  The eyes became little more than slits. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I want to see the Weasel.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Look, if he’s not upstairs, just say so. But make sure you’re not lying, because I get the feeling I’ll be able to tell, and I won’t be very happy.’ He flipped open his warrant card, then stood up and held it towards the security camera in the far corner. A wall-mounted speaker crackled into life.

  ‘Henry, send Mr Rebus up.’

  There were two doors at the top of the stairs, but only one was open. It led to a small, neat office. Fax machine and photocopier, one desk with a laptop and surveillance screen on it, and at the second desk the Weasel. He still looked insignificant, but he was the power in this part of Edinburgh until Big Ger came home. Thinning hair greased back from a protruding forehead; a jawline that was all bones; narrow mouth, so that his face seemed to come to a point.

  ‘Take a seat,’ the Weasel said.

  ‘I’ll stand,’ Rebus answered. He made to close the door.

  ‘Leave it open.’

  Rebus took his hand off the door handle, thought for a moment – the room was stuffy, mixed body odours – then crossed the narrow landing to the other door. He knocked three times. ‘All right in there, lads?’ Pushed the door open. Three of the Weasel’s men were standing just inside. ‘This won’t take long,’ he told them, closing the door again. Then he closed the Weasel’s door, too, so that it was just the two of them.

  Now he sat down. Spotted the carrier bags by one wall, whisky bottles peeping out.

  ‘Sorry to spoil the party,’ he said.

  ‘What can I do for you, Rebus?’ The Weasel’s hands were resting on the arms of his chair, as though he might be about to spring to his feet.

  ‘Were you here in the late seventies? I know your boss was. But he was small beer then: playing a few little games, bedding himself in. Were you with him that far back?’

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘I thought I’d just told you. Bryce Callan was running things then. Don’t tell me you didn’t know Bryce?’

  ‘I know the name.’

  ‘Cafferty was his muscle for a while.’ Rebus cocked his head. ‘Any of this jarring your memory? See, I thought I could ask you, save a trip to the Bar-L and me wasting your boss’s time.’

  ‘Ask me what?’ The hands came off the chair arms. He was relaxing, now that he knew Rebus’s subject was ancient history rather than current affairs. But Rebus knew that one false move on his part and the Weasel would squeal, bringing his minders charging in and ensuring Rebus a visit to A&E at the very least.

  ‘I want to know about Bryce Callan. Did he have a spot of bother with a builder called Dean Coghill?’

  ‘Dean Coghill?’ The Weasel frowned. ‘Never heard of him.’

  ‘Sure?’

  The Weasel nodded.

  ‘I heard Callan had been giving him grief.’

  ‘This was twenty years ago?’ The Weasel waited till Rebus nodded. ‘Then what the hell’s it got to do with me? Why should I tell you anything?’

  ‘Because you like me?’

  The Weasel snorted. But now his face changed. Rebus turned to look at the monitor, but too late; he’d missed whatever the Weasel had seen. Heavy footsteps, taking the stairs with effort. The door swung open. The Weasel was on his feet, moving from behind the desk. And Rebus was on his feet, too.

  ‘Strawman!’ The voice booming. Big Ger Cafferty filled the doorway. He was wearing a blue silk suit, crisp white shirt open a couple of buttons at the neck. ‘Just to make my day complete.’

  Rebus just stood there, speechless for maybe the second or third time in his life. Cafferty entered the room, so that it suddenly became crowded. He brushed past Rebus, moving with the slow agility of a predator. His skin was as pale and creased as a white rhino’s, his hair silver. His bullet-shaped head seemed to disappear into the neck of his shirt as he leaned down, his back to Rebus. When he straightened, he was holding one of the whisky bottles.

  ‘Come on,’ he told Rebus, ‘you and me are going for a wee ride.’ Then he gripped Rebus’s arm and steered him to the door.

  And Rebus, still numb, did what he was told.

  Strawman: Cafferty’s nickname for Rebus.

  The car was a black 7-Series BMW. Driver in the front, and someone equally large in the passenger seat, which left Rebus and Cafferty in the back.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Don’t panic, Strawman.’ Cafferty took a slug of whisky, passed the bottle over, and exhaled noisily. The windows were down a fraction, and cold air slapped at Rebus�
��s ears. ‘Bit of a mystery tour, that’s all.’ Cafferty gazed from his window. ‘I’ve been away a while. I hear the place has changed. Morrison Street and the Western Approach Road,’ he told the driver, ‘then maybe Holyrood and down to Leith.’ He turned to his passenger. ‘Regeneration: music to my ears.’

  ‘Don’t forget the new museum.’

  Cafferty stared at him. ‘Why would I be interested in that?’ He held out his hand for the bottle. Rebus took a swig and passed it across.

  ‘I get the horrible feeling your being here is legit,’ Rebus said at last.

  Cafferty just winked.

  ‘How did you swing it?’

  ‘To be honest with you, Strawman, I think the governor didn’t like it that I was running the show. I mean, that’s what he’s paid to do, and his own officers were giving Big Ger more respect than they gave him.’ He laughed. ‘The governor decided I’d be less of a grievance out here.’

  Rebus looked at him. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said.

  ‘Well, maybe you’re right. I dare say good behaviour and the inoperable cancer swung it for me.’ He looked at Rebus. ‘You still don’t believe me?’

  ‘I want to.’

  Cafferty laughed again. ‘Knew I could depend on you for sympathy.’ He tapped the magazine pouch in front of him. ‘The big brown envelope,’ he said. ‘My X-rays from the hospital.’

  Rebus reached across, pulled them out, held them up one at a time to his window.

  ‘The darkish area’s the one you’re looking for.’

  But what he was looking for was Cafferty’s name. He found it at the bottom corner of each of the X-rays. Morris Gerald Cafferty. Rebus slid the sheets back into the envelope. It all looked official enough: hospital in Glasgow; radiology department. He handed the envelope to Cafferty.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

  Cafferty chuckled quietly, then slapped the front-seat passenger on the shoulder. ‘It’s not often you’ll hear that, Rab: an apology from the Strawman!’

  Rab half-turned. Curly black hair with long sideburns.

  ‘Rab got out the week before me,’ Cafferty said. ‘Best pals inside, we were.’ He grabbed Rab’s shoulder again. ‘One minute you’re in the Bar-L, the next you’re in a Beamer. Said I’d look after you, didn’t I?’ Cafferty winked at Rebus. ‘Saw me through a few scrapes did Rab.’ He rested against the back of his seat, took another gulp of whisky. ‘City’s certainly changed, Strawman.’ His eyes fixed on the passing scene. ‘Lots of things have changed.’