Black And Blue

by Ian Rankin

  *

  They took one of the duty cars into the west end, Ancram driving. There was something different about him; he seemed at the same time more interested in Rebus and warier of him. Their conversation collapsed into point-scoring.

  Eventually, Ancram pointed to a striped traffic-cone kerbside, protecting the only space left on the street.

  ‘Get out and move that, will you?’

  Rebus obliged, placing the cone on the pavement. Ancram reversed the car inch-perfect into the space.

  ‘Looks like you’ve had practice.’

  Ancram straightened his tie. ‘Patrons’ parking.’

  They walked into The Lobby. It was a trendy-looking bar with too many high uncomfortable-looking bar-stools, black and white tiled walls, electric and acoustic guitars suspended from the ceiling.

  There was a chalkboard menu behind the bar. Three staff were busy with the lunchtime crush; more perfume than alcohol in the air. Office girls, screeching over the slam of the music, nursing gaudy drinks; sometimes one or two men with them, smiling, saying nothing, older. They wore suits that said ‘management’: the banshees’ bosses. There were more cellphones and pagers on the tables than there were glasses; even the staff seemed to carry them.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Pint of eighty,’ Rebus said.

  ‘To eat?’

  Rebus ran down the menu. ‘Is there anything with meat?’

  ‘Game pie.’

  Rebus nodded. They were a row back from the bar, but Ancram had caught a barman’s attention. He stood on tiptoe and yelled the order over the straw-perm heads of the teenagers in front. They turned, gave hostile looks: he’d jumped the queue.

  ‘All right, ladies?’ Ancram leered. They turned away again.

  He led Rebus through the bar to a far corner, where a table groaned with green food: salads, quiche, guacamole. Rebus got himself a chair; there was one already waiting for Ancram. Three CID officers sat there, not one with a pint glass in front of him. Ancram made introductions.

  ‘Jack you already know.’ Jack Morton nodded, chewing pitta bread. ‘That’s DS Andy Lennox, and DI Billy Eggleston.’ The two men gave curt greetings, more interested in their food. Rebus looked around.

  ‘What about the drinks?’

  ‘Patience, man, patience. Here they come.’

  The barman was approaching with a tray: Rebus’s pint and game pie; Ancram’s smoked salmon salad and gin and tonic.

  ‘Twelve pounds ten,’ the barman said. Ancram handed over three fives, told him to keep the change. He raised his glass to Rebus.

  ‘Here’s tae us.’

  ‘Wha’s like us,’ Rebus added.

  ‘Gey few, and they’re a’ deid,’ Jack Morton said, raising his own glass of what looked suspiciously like water. They all drank, got down to eating, exchanging the day’s gossip. There was a table of office girls nearby; Lennox and Eggleston tried intermittently to engage them in conversation. The girls got on with their own gossip. Clothes, Rebus reflected, did not necessarily make the man. He felt stifled, uncomfortable. There wasn’t enough space on the table; his chair was too close to Ancram’s; the music was using him as a punchbag.

  ‘So what do you reckon to Uncle Joe?’ Ancram asked at last.

  Rebus chewed on a tough crescent of pastry. The others seemed to be waiting for his answer.

  ‘I reckon I’ll be visiting him some time today.’

  Ancram laughed. ‘Let me know if you’re serious, we’ll lend you some armour.’ The others laughed too, and started eating again. Rebus wondered just how much of Uncle Joe’s money was floating around Glasgow CID.

  ‘John and me,’ Jack Morton was saying, ‘worked the Knots and Crosses case together.’

  ‘Is that right?’ Ancram looked interested.

  Rebus shook his head. ‘Ancient history.’

  Morton caught the tone of voice, lowered his head to his food, reached for the water.

  Ancient history; and far, far too painful.

  ‘Speaking of history,’ Ancram said, ‘sounds like you’ve got a bit of trouble with the Spaven case.’ He smiled mischievously. ‘I read about it in the papers.’

  ‘It’s all hype for the TV show,’ was Rebus’s only comment.

  ‘We’ve got more problems with the DNAs, Chick,’ Eggleston was saying. He was tall, skinny, starched. He reminded Rebus of an accountant; he’d bet he was good with paperwork, lousy on the street – every station needed at least one.

  ‘They’re an epidemic,’ Lennox snarled.

  ‘Society’s problem, gentlemen,’ Ancram said, ‘which makes them our problem too.’

  ‘DNAs?’

  Ancram turned to Rebus. ‘Do Not Accommodate. The council’s been turfing out a lot of “problem clients”, refusing to house them, even in the night shelters – druggies mostly, headers, the “psychologically disturbed” who’ve been returned to the community. Only the community’s telling them to fuck right off again. So they’re on the streets, making mischief, causing us grief. Kitting up in public, ODing on mainline Temazepam, you name it.’

  ‘Fucking shocking,’ Lennox offered. He had tight-curled ginger hair and crimson cheeks, his face heavily freckled, eyebrows and eyelashes fair. He was the only one smoking at the table. Rebus lit one up to join him: Jack Morton gave a reproachful look.

  ‘So what can you do?’ Rebus asked.

  ‘I’ll tell you,’ Ancram said. ‘We’re going to round them up next weekend, into a fleet of buses, and we’re going to drop the whole lot of them off on Princes Street.’

  More laughter at the table, directed at the visitor – Ancram waving the baton. Rebus checked his watch.

  ‘Somewhere to be?’

  ‘Yes, and I’d better get going.’

  ‘Well, look,’ Ancram said, ‘if you do get an invite to Uncle Joe’s abode, I want to know about it. I’ll be here this evening, seven until ten. OK?’

  Rebus nodded, waved a general goodbye, and got out.

  Once outside, he felt better. He began to walk, not very sure in which direction he was headed. The city centre was laid out American-style, a grid system of one-way streets. Edinburgh might have its monuments, but Glasgow was built to monumental scale, making the capital seem like Toytown. Rebus walked until he saw something that looked more his kind of bar. He knew he needed shoring up for the trip he was about to take. A TV was playing quietly, but no music. And what conversation there was was muffled, low-key. He couldn’t make out what the two men nearest him were saying, their accents were so thick. The only woman in the place was the barmaid.

  ‘What’ll it be today?’

  ‘Grouse, make it a double. And a half-bottle to take out.’

  He trickled water into the glass, reflected that if he’d eaten a couple of pies here and had a couple of whiskies, it wouldn’t have been half as expensive as The Lobby. But then Ancram had paid at The Lobby; three crisp fivers from the pocket of a sleek suit.

  ‘Just a Coke, please.’

  Rebus turned to the new customer: Jack Morton.

  ‘You following me?’

  Morton smiled. ‘You look rough, John.’

  ‘And you and your cronies look too good.’

  ‘I can’t be bought.’

  ‘No? Who can?’

  ‘Come on, John, I was making a joke.’ Morton sat down next to him. ‘I heard about Lawson Geddes. Does that mean the stooshie’ll die down?’

  ‘Some hope.’ Rebus drained his glass. ‘Look at that,’ he said, pointing out a machine on the corner of the bar. ‘Jelly bean dispenser, twenty pence a throw. Two things the Scots are famous for, Jack: our sweet tooth and alcohol consumption.’

  ‘Two more things we’re famous for,’ Morton said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Avoiding the issue and feeling guilty all the time.’

  ‘You mean Calvinism?’ Rebus chuckled. ‘Christ, Jack, I thought the only Calvin you knew these days was Mr Klein.’

  Jack Morton was star
ing at him, seeking eye-to-eye contact. ‘Give me another reason why a man would let himself go.’

  Rebus snorted. ‘How long have you got?’

  Morton to Rebus: ‘As long as it takes.’

  ‘Not nearly enough, Jack. Here, have a proper drink.’

  ‘This is a proper drink. That stuff you’re drinking, that’s not really a drink.’

  ‘What is it then?’

  ‘An escape clause.’

  Jack said he’d drive Rebus to Barlinnie, didn’t ask why he wanted to go there. They took the M8 to Riddrie; Jack knew all the routes. They didn’t say much during the trip, until Jack asked the question which had been hanging between them.

  ‘How’s Sammy?’

  Rebus’s daughter, now grown up. Jack hadn’t seen her in nearly ten years.

  ‘She’s fine.’ Rebus had a change of subject ready. ‘I’m not sure Chick Ancram likes me. He keeps … studying me.’

  ‘He’s a shrewd customer, be nice to him.’

  ‘Any particular reason?’

  Jack Morton bit back an answer, shook his head. They turned off Cumbernauld Road, approached the jail.

  ‘Look,’ Jack said, ‘I can’t hang around. Tell me how long you’ll be and I’ll send a patrol car for you.’

  ‘An hour should do it.’

  Jack Morton checked his watch. ‘An hour it is.’ He held out his hand. ‘Good to see you again, John.’

  Rebus took the hand, squeezed.

  6

  ‘Big Ger’ Cafferty was waiting when he reached the Interview Room.

  ‘Well, Strawman, this is an unexpected pleasure.’

  Strawman: Cafferty’s name for Rebus. The prison guard who had brought Rebus seemed disinclined to leave, and there were already two guards in the room keeping an eye on Cafferty. He’d already escaped once from Barlinnie, and now that they had him back, they were intent on keeping him.

  ‘Hello, Cafferty.’ Rebus sat down across from him. Cafferty had aged in prison, losing his tan and some musculature, putting on weight in all the wrong places. His hair was thin and greying quickly, and there was stubble on chin and cheekbones. ‘I’ve brought you something.’ He looked at the guards, eased the half-bottle out of his pocket.

  ‘Not allowed,’ one guard snapped.

  ‘Don’t worry, Strawman,’ Cafferty said. ‘I’ve plenty of hooch, this place is practically swimming in the stuff. It’s the thought that counts, eh?’

  Rebus dropped the bottle back into his pocket.

  ‘I take it you’ve a favour to ask?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Cafferty crossed his legs, utterly at ease. ‘What is it?’

  ‘You know Joseph Toal?’

  ‘Everyone and their dog knows Uncle Joe.’

  ‘Yes, but you know him.’

  ‘So?’ There was an edge to Cafferty’s smile.

  ‘I want you to phone him, get him to speak to me.’

  Cafferty considered the request. ‘Why?’

  ‘I want to ask him about Anthony Kane.’

  ‘Tony E1? I thought he was dead.’

  ‘He left his prints at a murder scene in Niddrie.’ Never mind what the boss said, Rebus was treating this as murder. And he knew the word would make more of an impression on Cafferty. It did. His lips rounded into an O, and he whistled.

  ‘That was stupid of him. Tony E1 didn’t used to be so stupid. And if he was still working for Uncle Joe … There could be fallout.’ Rebus knew that connections were being made in Cafferty’s mind, and they all led to Joseph Toal becoming his Barlinnie neighbour. There would be reasons for Cafferty to want Toal inside: old scores, debts unpaid, territory encroached. There were always old scores to be settled. Cafferty came to his decision.

  ‘You’ll need to get me a phone.’

  Rebus got up, walked over to the guard who’d barked ‘Not allowed’, slipped the whisky into the man’s pocket.

  ‘We need to get him a phone,’ he said.

  They marched Cafferty left and right through corridors until they reached a payphone. They’d had to pass through three sets of gates.

  ‘This is as near to the outside as I’ve been in a while,’ Cafferty joked.

  The guards weren’t laughing. Rebus provided the money for the call.

  ‘Now,’ said Cafferty, ‘let’s see if I remember …’ He winked at Rebus, pressed seven digits, waited.

  ‘Hello?’ he said. ‘Who’s that?’ He listened to the name. ‘Never heard of you. Listen, tell Uncle Joe that Big Ger wants a word. Just tell him that.’ He waited, glanced at Rebus, licked his lips. ‘He says what? Tell him I’m phoning from the Bar-L and money’s short.’

  Rebus pushed another coin home.

  ‘Well,’ Cafferty growing angry, ‘tell him he’s got a tattoo on his back.’ He covered the mouthpiece. ‘Not something Uncle Joe goes blabbing about.’

  Rebus got as close as he could to the earpiece, heard a dull rasp of a voice.

  ‘Morris Gerald Cafferty, is that you? I thought someone was winding me up.’

  ‘Hello, Uncle Joe. How’s business?’

  ‘Loupin’. Who’s listening in?’

  ‘At the last count, three monkeys and a dick.’

  ‘You always liked an audience, that was your problem.’

  ‘Sound advice, Uncle Joe, but years too late.’

  ‘So what do they want?’ They: Rebus the dick and the three monkey guards.

  ‘The dick’s from Edinburgh CID, he wants to come talk to you.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Tony El.’

  ‘What’s to tell? Tony hasn’t worked for me in a twelvemonth.’

  ‘Then tell the nice policeman that. Seems Tony’s been up to his old tricks. There’s a cold one in Edinburgh, and Tony’s prints on the scene.’

  A low growl: human.

  ‘You got a dog there, Uncle Joe?’

  ‘Tell the cop I don’t have anything to do with Tony.’

  ‘I think he wants to hear it for himself.’

  ‘Then put him on.’

  Cafferty looked to Rebus, who shook his head.

  ‘And he wants to look you in the eye while you’re telling him.’

  ‘Is he a poof or what?’

  ‘He’s old school, Uncle Joe. You’ll like him.’

  ‘Why did he come to you?’

  ‘I’m his Last Chance Saloon.’

  ‘And why the fuck did you agree?’

  Cafferty didn’t miss a beat. ‘A half-bottle of usquebaugh.’

  ‘Jesus, the Bar-L must be drier than I thought.’ The voice not so rough.

  ‘Send a whole bottle over and I’ll tell him to go fuck himself.’

  A croaky laugh. ‘Christ, Cafferty, I miss you. How long to go?’

  ‘Ask my lawyers.’

  ‘Are you still keeping your hand in?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘It’s what I hear.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with your hearing.’

  ‘Send the bastard over, tell him he gets five minutes. Maybe I’ll come see you one of these days.’

  ‘Better not, Uncle Joe, when visiting time ends they might have misplaced the key.’

  More laughter. The line went dead. Cafferty put down the receiver.

  ‘You owe me, Strawman,’ he growled, ‘so here’s my favour: put that old bastard away.’

  But Rebus was already walking towards freedom.

  The car was waiting for him, Morton keeping his word. Rebus gave the address he’d memorised from the Toal files. He was sitting in the back, two woolly suits in the front. The passenger turned in his seat.

  ‘Isn’t that where Uncle Joe lives?’

  Rebus nodded. The woolly suits exchanged a look.

  ‘Just get me there,’ Rebus ordered.

  The traffic was heavy, people heading home. Elastic Glasgow, stretching in four directions. The housing scheme, when they reached it, was much like any scheme its size in Edinburgh: grey pebbledash, barren play areas, tarmac
and a smattering of fortified shops. Kids on bikes stopping to watch the car, eyes as keen as sentries’; brisk baby buggies, shapeless mothers with dyed blonde hair. Further into the estate, driving slowly: people watching from behind their windows, men at pavement corners, muttered confabs. A city within a city, uniform and enervating, energy sapped, nothing left but obstinacy: the words NO SURRENDER on a gable-end, a message from Ulster just as relevant here.

  ‘Are you expected?’ the driver asked.

  ‘I’m expected.’

  ‘Thank Christ for that at least.’

  ‘Any other patrol cars around?’

  The passenger laughed nervously. ‘This is the frontier, sir. The frontier has a way of keeping its own law and order.’

  ‘If you had his money,’ the driver said, ‘would you live here?’

  ‘He was born here,’ Rebus said. ‘And I believe his house is a bit special.’

  ‘Special?’ The driver snorted. ‘Well, judge for yourself.’

  He brought the car to a stop at the entrance to a cul-de-sac. Rebus saw at the end of the cul-de-sac two houses which stood out from their neighbours for a single reason: they boasted stone cladding.

  ‘One of those?’ Rebus asked.

  ‘Pick either door.’

  Rebus got out of the car, leaned back in. ‘Don’t you dare drive away.’ He slammed his door shut and walked up the cul-de-sac. He chose the left-hand of the two identical semi-detacheds. The door was opened from within, and an oversized man in a bulging T-shirt ushered him in.

  ‘You the rozzer?’ They were standing in a cramped hallway. Rebus nodded. ‘Through there.’

  Rebus opened the door to the living room, and did a double-take. The connecting wall between the two semis had been knocked through, providing a double-sized living space, open plan. The room also went further back than should have been feasible. Rebus was reminded of Dr Who’s Tardis, and, alone in the room, walked towards the back of the house. A large extension had been added, including a sizeable conservatory. This should have minimised the space left for a garden, but the lawn outside was plentiful. There were playing-fields backing on to the house, and Rebus saw that Uncle Joe had taken a chunk out of these fields for his garden.

  Planning permission, of course, was out of the question.