by Ian Rankin
41
The few days running up to Hogmanay were a nightmare. Lorna had sold her story to a tabloid – Model’s Night-Time Romp With Murder Case Cop. Rebus’s name hadn’t been mentioned . . . not yet.
It was a move which might ostracise her from husband and family alike, but Rebus could see why she’d done it. There was a middle-page spread, showing her to her best in diaphanous clothing, face and hair done to the nines. Maybe it was the relaunch she thought she needed. Maybe it was a case of using what she had.
A moment’s notoriety.
Rebus could see his career crumbling before him. To keep herself in the news, she’d have to name names, and Carswell would pounce. So Rebus went to see Alasdair, and made him a proposition. Alasdair phoned his sister at High Manor, talked her round. They were on the phone forty minutes, at the end of which Rebus handed Alasdair’s passport back and wished him good luck. He’d even driven him out to the airport. Grieve’s parting words to him: ‘Home in time for New Year.’ A handshake and a brief wave of farewell. Rebus had felt obliged to warn that they might need him back to give testimony. Grieve had nodded, knowing he could always refuse. Either that or keep moving . . .
Rebus wasn’t working on Hogmanay. A trade-off because he’d been on call over Christmas. The town had been quiet, which hadn’t stopped the cells filling up. Sammy had sent him a present: the CD edition of the Beatles’ White Album. She was staying down south, visiting her mum. Siobhan had left her present to him in his desk drawer: a history of Hibernian FC. He flicked through it during the dead hours, hours when he’d no need to be at the station. When he wasn’t reading about the Hibs, he was poring over case-notes, trying to restructure them into something more acceptable to the Procurator Fiscal. He’d had a series of meetings with various advocates depute. So far, they were of the opinion that the only person they could try with any hope of securing a conviction was Alasdair Grieve: accessory to . . . fleeing the scene of . . .
Another good reason for putting Grieve on the plane.
And now it was Hogmanay, and everyone was talking about how bad the television had been. Princes Street would fill tonight, maybe two hundred thousand revellers. The Pretenders were playing, almost reason enough to go along, but he knew he’d stay home. He wasn’t risking the Ox: too close to the mayhem, and getting there would be dificult. Barriers had been erected, ringing the city centre. So he’d headed to Swany’s instead.
When he was a kid, all the mothers would be out bleaching their front steps, busy house cleaning: you had to see the New Year in with a clean house. There’d be sandwiches and stovies for the drinkers. Chimes at midnight: someone tall and dark waiting outside, carrying bottle and lump of coal, plus something to eat. Welcoming the New Year with a knock at the door. Songs and ‘doing a turn’. One of his uncles had played harmonica, an aunt might sing with a tear in her eye, a catch in her throat. Tables groaning with black bun and shortie, Madeira cake, crisps and peanuts. Juice in the kitchen for the kids, maybe homemade ginger beer. Steak pie sitting in the oven, waiting to be cooked for lunch. Strangers would see a light on, knock and be welcomed in. Anyone was welcome into your home, on that night if no other.
And if no one came . . . then you sat and waited. You didn’t go out until you’d been ‘first-footed’: it was bad luck. One aunt had sat alone for a couple of days; everyone thought she was at her daughter’s. Elsewhere: songs in the street, handshakes, drunken reminiscence and prayers for a better year to come.
The old days. And now Rebus was old himself, heading home from Swany’s at eleven. He’d see the New Year in alone, and would go out tomorrow even though he’d had no first foot. Maybe he’d walk under a ladder, too, and step on every crack in the pavement.
Just to show that he could.
His car was parked one street over from Arden Street – no spaces available near his flat. He unlocked the boot and extracted his carry-out: a bottle of Macallan, six bottles of Belhaven Best, paprika crisps, dry roasted peanuts. There was a pizza in the freezer, and some sliced tongue in the fridge. Enough to see him through. He’d been saving the White Album; could think of worse ways to see in the New Year.
One of them was standing by his tenement door: Cafferty.
‘Would you look at us?’ Cafferty said, opening his arms. ‘Both on our ownios, this of all nights!’
‘Speak for yourself.’
‘Oh, right,’ Cafferty said, nodding, ‘you’re hosting the social event of the year – I’d forgotten. A bevvy of beauties are on their way as I speak, scented and mini-skirted.’ He paused. ‘Merry Christmas, by the way.’ He tried handing something to Rebus, who wasn’t of a mind to take it. Something small and shiny . . .
‘Twenty fags?’
Cafferty shrugged. ‘An impulse buy.’
Rebus had three packets waiting for him upstairs. ‘Keep them,’ he said. ‘Maybe I’ll get lucky and you’ll get cancer.’
Cafferty tutted. His face seemed huge, moon-like in the sodium light. ‘I thought we’d take a drive.’
Rebus stared at him. ‘A drive?’
‘Where d’you fancy: Queensferry, Portobello . . . ?’
‘What’s so urgent?’ Rebus put his carrier bags down; they clinked musically as they came to rest.
‘Bryce Callan.’
‘What about him?’
‘You don’t have a case, do you?’ Rebus didn’t respond. ‘Won’t get one either. And I haven’t noticed any worry lines on Barry Hutton’s brow.’
‘So?’
‘So maybe I can help.’
Rebus shuffled his feet. ‘And why would you do that?’
‘I might have my reasons.’
‘Reasons you didn’t have ten days ago when I asked?’
‘Maybe you didn’t ask nicely enough.’
‘Then I’ve got some bad news: my manners haven’t improved with age.’
Cafferty smiled. ‘Just a drive, Strawman. You can do your drinking, and fill me in on the case.’
Rebus narrowed his eyes. ‘Land developer,’ he mused. ‘It would be branching out, wouldn’t it?’
‘Easier to do if you can take over an existing business,’ Cafferty admitted.
‘Barry Hutton’s business? I put him away, you step in. I can’t see Bryce being too happy.’
‘My problem.’ Cafferty winked. ‘Let’s go for that drive. Stick a note on the door, let the glamour models know the party’s shifted back an hour.’
‘They won’t be happy. You know what models are like.’
‘Overpaid and underfed, you mean? Would that be the opposite of yourself, DI Rebus?’
‘Ha ha.’
‘Careful now,’ Cafferty warned. ‘This time of the season, a split side can take ages to heal.’
Somehow, they’d been moving while they talked, and Rebus was surprised to find that he’d picked up his carrier bags, too. Now they stood by the Jag. Cafferty yanked open the driver’s door, slid in behind the steering wheel in a single, practised movement. Rebus stood there a moment longer. Hogmanay, last day of the year: a day for paying debts, balancing the books . . . a day for finishing things.
He made to get in.
‘Sling the booze in the back,’ Cafferty suggested. ‘I’ve a hip flask in the glove compartment, twenty-five-year-old Armagnac. Wait till you taste this stuff. I’m telling you, it would turn a heathen into John the fucking Baptist.’
But Rebus had extracted the Macallan from one of his bags. ‘I’ll stick to my own,’ he said.
‘Not a bad drop either.’ Cafferty was making a great effort not to be offended. ‘Make sure you waft some of it my way, so I can at least inhale.’ He turned the ignition. The Jaguar purred like the cat it resembled. And suddenly they were moving, looking to the outside world like nothing more suspicious than two friends out for a jaunt. South to the Grange, and further south to Blackford Hill, then east towards the coast. And Rebus talked, as much for his own benefit as Cafferty’s. About the pact two business friends had made with a
devil called Bryce Callan, a pact which would lead to a killing. About how the killer waited in vain for his friend to return, living rough – a disguise against detection, or a route to penitence? Past lessons learned by Barry Hutton, now a successful businessman, seeing an opportunity for fresh riches and increased fame: replaying that game from twenty years before, determined that his man on the council would become his player in parliament . . .
At the end of the story Cafferty seemed thoughtful, then said, ‘So it’s tainted before it begins?’
‘Maybe,’ Rebus replied, putting the bottle back to his mouth. Portobello: that’s where they looked to be headed, maybe park by the harbour and sit with windows open. But Cafferty headed on to Seafield Road and started driving towards Leith.
‘There’s some land up this way I’m thinking of buying,’ he explained. ‘Got some plans drawn up, builder called Peter Kirkwall did the costings.’
‘For what?’
‘Leisure complex – restaurant, maybe a cinema or health club. Some luxury flats parked on top.’
‘Kirkwall works with Barry Hutton.’
‘I know.’
‘Hutton’s sure to find out.’
Cafferty shrugged. ‘Something I just have to live with.’ He gave a smile Rebus couldn’t read. ‘I heard about this plot of land next to where they’re building the parliament. It sold for three-quarters of a million four years ago. Know what its price is now? Four million. How’s that for a yield?’
Rebus pushed the cork back into the bottle. This stretch of road was all car dealers, wasteland behind, and then the sea. They headed up a narrow, unlit lane, its surface uneven. A large metal fence at the far end. Cafferty stopped the Jag, got out and took a key to the padlock, pulled the heavy metal chain free and pushed the gates open with his foot.
‘What’s there to see?’ Rebus asked, uneasy now, as Cafferty got back into the driving seat. He could run, but it was a long way to civilisation, and he was dead beat. Besides, he was done running.
‘It’s all warehouses just now. If you coughed too loud, they’d collapse. Easy enough to bulldoze, and there’s a quarter-mile of seafront to play with.’
They drove through the gates.
‘A quiet place for a chat,’ Cafferty said.
But they weren’t here to chat; Rebus knew that now. He turned his head, saw that another car was following them into the compound. It was a red Ferrari. Rebus turned back to Cafferty.
‘What’s going on?’
‘Business,’ Cafferty said coldly, ‘that’s all.’ He stopped the Jag, pulled on the handbrake. ‘Out,’ he ordered. Rebus didn’t move. Cafferty got out of the car, left his door open. The other car had pulled up alongside. Both sets of headlamps stayed on dipped, illuminating the cracked concrete surface of the compound. Rebus focused on one of the weeds, its jagged shadow crawling up the wall of one of the warehouses. Rebus’s door was pulled open. Hands grabbed at him. He heard a soft click as his seat belt was unlocked, and then he was being dragged out, thrown on to the cold ground. He took his time looking up. Three figures, silhouetted against the headlamps, breath billowing from their dark faces. Cafferty and two others. Rebus started getting to his feet. The single malt had fallen from the car, smashed on the concrete. He wished he’d taken one more hit of it while he had the chance.
A boot to the chest had enough force to send him on to his backside. He put his hands out behind him, steadying himself, so that he was unprotected when the next blow came. To the face this time, connecting with his chin, cracking his head back. He felt the snap as bones in his neck uttered a complaint.
‘Can’t take a warning,’ a voice said: not Cafferty’s. A thin man, younger. Rebus narrowed his eyes, shielded them with a hand as though peering into the sun.
‘It’s Barry Hutton, isn’t it?’ Rebus asked.
‘Pick him up,’ was the barked response. The third man – Hutton’s man – pulled Rebus to his feet as though he were made of cardboard, held him from behind.
‘Gonny teach you,’ Hutton hissed. Rebus could make out the features now: face tight with anger, mouth downturned, nose pinched. He was wearing black leather driving gloves. A question – absurd under the circumstances – flashed through Rebus’s mind: wonder if they were a Christmas present?
Hutton hit him with a fist, connecting with Rebus’s left cheek. Rebus rode the blow, but still felt it. As he turned his face, he caught a glimpse of the man pinning him from behind. It wasn’t Mick Lorimer.
‘Lorimer isn’t with you tonight, then?’ Rebus asked. Blood was pooling in his mouth. He swallowed it. ‘Were you there the night he killed Roddy Grieve?’
‘Mick just doesn’t know when to stop,’ Hutton said. ‘I wanted the bastard warned off, not on a slab.’
‘You just can’t get the staff these days.’ He felt the grip around his chest tighten, forcing the breath from his lungs.
‘No, but there always seems to be a smart-arsed cop around when you least need it.’ Another blow, this time bursting Rebus’s nose open. Tears pounded from his eyes. He tried blinking them away. Oh, Jesus Christ, that hurt.
‘Thanks, Uncle Ger,’ Hutton was saying. ‘That’s one I owe you.’
‘What else are partners for?’ Cafferty said. He took a step forward, and now Rebus could see his face clearly. It was dead of any emotion. ‘You wouldn’t have been this careless, Strawman, not five years back.’ He stepped back again.
‘You’re right,’ Rebus said. ‘Maybe after tonight I’ll retire.’
‘You’ll do that all right,’ Hutton said. ‘A nice long rest.’
‘Where’ll you put him?’ Cafferty asked.
‘Plenty of sites we’re working on. A nice big hole and half a ton of concrete.’
Rebus wrestled, but the grip was fierce. He raised a foot, stomped hard, but his captor was wearing steel toecaps. The grip tightened, like a thick metal band, crushing him. He let out a groan.
‘But first, a bit more fun,’ Hutton was saying. He came close, so his face was inches from Rebus’s. Then Rebus felt pain explode behind his eyeballs as Hutton’s knee thudded into his groin. Bile rose in his throat, the whisky seeking the quickest exit route. The grip loosened, fell away, and he dropped to his knees. Mist in front of his eyes, thick as haar, the sea singing in his ears. He wiped his hand across his face, clearing his vision. Fire was spreading out from his groin. Whisky fumes at the back of his throat. When he tried breathing through his nose, huge bubbles of blood expanded and popped. The next blow caught him on the temple. A kick this time, sending him rolling across concrete to end hunched foetus-like on the ground. He knew he should get up, take the fight to them. Nothing to lose. Go down kicking and scratching, punching and spitting. Hutton was crouching in front of him, pulling his head up by the hair.
There were explosions in the distance: the fireworks at the Castle, meaning it was midnight. The sky was lit with coloured blooms, blood-red, aching yellow.
‘You’ll stay hidden a sight longer than twenty years, believe me,’ Hutton was saying. Cafferty was standing just behind him, holding something. Light from the fireworks glinted from it. A knife, blade had to be eight or nine inches. Cafferty was going to do it himself. A determined grip on the handle. This was the moment they’d been coming to, ever since the Weasel’s office. Rebus almost welcomed it: Cafferty rather than the young thug. Hutton had camouflaged his criminality well, the veneer thick and brightly polished. Rebus would take Cafferty every time . . .
But now the sea was washing over all of it, washing Rebus, cleaning him with its flow of noise, building in his ears to a deafening roar, the shadows and light blurring, becoming one . . .
Fade to grey.
42
He woke up.
Frozen, aching, as if he’d spent the night in a sepulchre. His eyes were crusted. He prised them open. Cars all around him. Couldn’t stop shivering, body temperature dangerously low. He rose shakily to his feet, held on to one of the cars for support. Garage forecourt;
had to be Seafield Road. He broke the crust of blood in his nostrils, started breathing fast. Get that blood pumping round his body. His shirt and jacket were spattered with blood, but no wounds, no sign that he’d been stabbed or slashed.
What the hell is this?
It wasn’t light yet. He angled his watch to the nearest street lamp: three thirty. Started patting his pockets, found his mobile and entered the access code. Got the night shift at St Leonard’s.
Is this heaven or hell?
‘I need a car,’ he said. ‘Seafield Road, the Volvo concession.’
He ran on the spot while he waited, patting himself with aching arms. Still couldn’t stop shivering. The patrol car took ten minutes, two uniforms emerging from it.
‘Christ, look at you,’ one of them said.
Rebus stumbled into the back seat. ‘That heating on full blast?’ he asked.
The uniforms got into the front, closed their doors. ‘What happened to you?’ the passenger asked.
Rebus thought the question over. ‘I’m not sure,’ he said at last.
‘Happy New Year anyway, sir,’ the driver said.
‘Happy New Year,’ the passenger added.
Rebus tried to form the words; couldn’t. Slouched down in the seat instead and concentrated on staying alive.
He took a team back to the compound. The concrete surface was like a skating rink.
‘What’s happened here?’ Siobhan Clarke asked.
‘Wasn’t like this,’ Rebus answered, fighting to keep his balance. The hospital had been reluctant to let him go. But his nose wasn’t broken, and though he might be seeing some blood in his urine, there wasn’t any sign of internal injury or infection. It was one of the nurses who’d made the comment: ‘Lot of blood for a busted nose.’ She was studying his clothes at the time. It had made him think: lacerations and grazes to the face, a cut on the inside of the cheek and a bloody nose. He had spatters of blood all over him. Saw the knife again, Cafferty standing behind Barry Hutton . . .
And now, standing pretty much where he’d been only ten hours before . . . nothing except the sheet of ice.