by Ian Rankin
You’ll be fine, he told himself as a BMW flew past, squeezing past the bus as an approaching lorry sounded its horn in annoyance.
There was nowhere to park in Corstorphine, so Fox ended up behind the McDonald’s at Drum Brae roundabout. Fringing the car park were a few stores, with a huge Tesco beyond. He reckoned the Gifford Inn would open at eleven, and it was now
five to. Walking back along St John’s Road, he stopped at a guitar shop and studied the window display. Jude had always wanted a guitar, but their father had never allowed it.
‘Soon as I move out, I’m getting one,’ she had yelled, aged fourteen.
‘Leave the key on the table,’ Mitch had replied.
Fox himself had surprised her a decade later by buying her one for her birthday – acoustic rather than electric, and with a teach-yourself book and CD. The guitar had sat in a corner of her room for a year or two, until he visited one day and noticed it was no longer there. Nothing had ever been said.
There were no early customers at the Gifford when he pushed open the door. It looked the sort of place that catered to a lunchtime trade. Each table boasted a laminated menu, and the daily specials were on a chalkboard next to the bar. Stripped wooden floorboards, plenty of mirrors, and gleaming brass bar taps. A man in his twenties was rearranging the bar stools.
‘I’ll be with you in a second,’ he announced.
‘No real rush – I’m not drinking anything.’
‘If you’re a rep, you need to phone the boss and book a slot.’
‘I’m a detective.’ Fox showed the man his warrant card.
‘Has something happened?’
‘Just checking a couple of things.’
‘Sure you don’t want a drink – on the house?’
‘Maybe an Appletiser then.’
‘No problem.’ The barman checked he was happy with the stools and went around to the other side of the bar, pulling a bottle from the chiller cabinet. ‘Ice?’
‘No thanks.’ Fox eased himself on to a stool and took out his phone, finding the photo of Hamish Wright’s phone bill. He reeled off the number.
‘That’s us all right,’ the barman agreed.
‘Is it a payphone?’
‘Not really.’ He indicated the landline. It was between the gantry and the access hatch.
‘It’s for staff use only?’
The barman shrugged. ‘Sometimes a regular will need a taxi or to place a bet. Usually they have their own phones, but if not . . .’
‘And do they get calls too?’
‘Wives looking for their husbands, you mean?’ The barman smiled. ‘It happens.’
‘Three weeks back, a man called Hamish Wright phoned here. It was a Monday evening. Call lasted a couple of minutes.’
‘I don’t know anyone called Hamish Wright.’
‘He lives in Inverness, runs a haulage company.’
‘Still doesn’t ring a bell.’
‘Who else might have been on duty that night?’
‘Sandra, maybe. Or Denise. Jeff’s on holiday and Ben was sick around then – winter flu, also known as skiving.’
‘Could you maybe ask Sandra and Denise?’
The barman nodded.
‘As in – now,’ Fox added.
Fox sipped his drink while the barman made the calls. The result was another shrug. ‘Sandra remembers your lot phoning to ask. She told them it was probably a wrong number.’
‘But she doesn’t remember the call?’
‘We do get more than a few phone calls, you know. When the bar’s busy, you’ve got a lot going on . . .’
‘Hamish Wright has never had a drink in here?’
‘What does he look like?’
Fox took a moment on his phone to find an internet photo of Wright. It was from an Inverness newspaper and showed him in front of one of his lorries. The barman narrowed his eyes as he studied it.
‘I’d have to say he seems familiar,’ he admitted. ‘But that’s probably because he looks much the same as most of the men we get in here.’
‘Take another look,’ Fox urged. But the door was opening, an elderly man shuffling in carrying a folded newspaper.
‘Morning, Arthur,’ the barman called out. The customer nodded a reply. ‘Cold one again, eh?’
‘Bitter,’ the regular agreed.
The barman was placing a glass under one of the whisky optics while the customer counted out coins on to the bar. Fox turned to the new arrival. ‘Does the name Hamish Wright mean anything to you?’
‘Does he have two legs?’ the old man enquired.
‘I think so – why?’
‘Because if he does, he could probably get a game for Rangers, the way they’re playing.’
The barman gave a snort of laughter as he handed over the drink. Fox decided he was wasting his time. He drained his glass and headed to the Gents, passing a jukebox and a noticeboard. There was a cutting from the Evening News about money the bar had raised for charity, alongside cards from local businesses advertising their services. On his way back from the toilet, Fox paused again at the board and removed one of the cards. He showed it to the barman.
‘CC Self Storage,’ he commented.
‘What of it?’
‘Named after its owner, Chick Carpenter. Know him?’
‘No.’
‘It’s in Broomhouse, not exactly on your doorstep – so why the advert?’
The barman offered a non-committal shrug.
‘Does Wee Anthony not work there?’ the whisky drinker called out as he seated himself at what was presumably his customary table.
Fox stared at the barman. ‘Did Wee Anthony put this card up?’
‘Maybe.’
‘He’s a regular, I’m guessing?’
Another shrug.
‘And do people ever phone for him?’
‘I suppose so, on rare occasions.’
‘Including three weeks ago?’
‘That’s something you’d have to ask him yourself.’
‘Then that’s what I’ll do,’ Fox said, tucking the card into his top pocket. He dug in his trousers for change, placing a couple of pound coins on the bar.
‘The drink was on the house,’ the barman reminded him.
‘I’m choosy about who I take freebies from,’ Fox retorted, turning to leave.
He called Siobhan Clarke from the car park and asked her what she thought.
‘Whose case is it, Malcolm?’ she asked.
‘Somebody gunned down Dennis Stark.’
‘And where’s the connection?’
‘Stark was looking for Hamish Wright – what if Wright or one of his friends decided to turn the tables?’
‘Okay . . .’
‘Wright phoned the Gifford, a guy who drinks there works for Chick Carpenter, Carpenter got a doing by Dennis Stark . . .’
‘Any number of people held a grudge against the victim. But we’re looking for someone who tried to make it appear like part of a pattern.’
‘To throw us off the scent, yes. Last thing they’d want is Joe
Stark coming after them.’
‘That’s a fair point.’ Clarke thought for a moment. ‘Where are you now?’
‘Parked outside a pet shop.’
‘Thinking of taking up John’s offer of a free dog?’
‘Perish the thought.’
‘I thought you might be at the hospital.’
‘I popped in first thing. Jude told me to swap with her later on.’
‘Any news?’
‘No change from last night.’
‘You know, nobody would blame you for taking some time off . . .’
Fox ignored this. ‘I’m considering dropping in on CC Self Storage – unless you think I shouldn’t.’
‘There’s not a whole lot you can be doing here,’ she admitted. ‘Though we’re one down.’
‘Oh?’
‘Christine’s gone off to the archive on an errand for John.’
‘H
e’s a one-man job-creation scheme.’
‘Want to guess where he is right now?’
‘Enlighten me.’
‘Driving to Ullapool.’
‘What’s in Ullapool?’
‘Last time I went, I remember fish and chips and a ferry.’
‘And which of those is he interested in?’
‘There’s someone he needs to talk to.’
‘You sound like you don’t want to tell me much more.’
‘One day soon, maybe.’
‘But not now?’ Fox was starting the ignition. ‘Should I report back after the storage place?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘That’s what I’ll do then.’
Thirty Two
Ullapool nestled under thick banks of bruised cloud. Rebus drove slowly along the waterfront, then uphill from the harbour. Soon enough he reached a sign thanking him for having visited, so he did a U-turn. Rows of terraced houses hid a large Tesco store from general view. A tour bus had stopped outside a pub that seemed to be serving warming drinks and hot takeaway food. Rebus pulled into a parking place and got out, stretching his spine and rolling his shoulders.
He had stopped for petrol at a retail park on the outskirts of Inverness and topped up his provisions with a microwaved bridie and a bottle of Irn-Bru. He wished now that he had waited and eaten in Ullapool. Instead, he lit a cigarette and headed to the harbour. Gulls were bobbing in the water, seemingly immune to the biting wind. Rebus buttoned his coat and finished his cigarette before heading into a shop. Its wares included shrimping nets and buckets and spades – despite the season being a way off – plus newspapers and groceries. The shopkeeper seemed to size him up, realising he wasn’t in the market to buy.
‘I’m looking for this address.’ Rebus handed across the slip of paper Christine Esson had given him.
‘Did you see the Tesco?’ the shopkeeper enquired.
‘I did.’
‘Next road on the left.’ The man handed back the piece of paper. Rebus waited for more, then managed a thin smile.
‘You saw the name next to the address?’
‘Aye.’
‘So you know why I’m here.’
‘I dare say you’re some kind of policeman.’
‘Mr Ratner’s got a bit of a rep?’
‘He likes the drink more than it seems to like him.’
‘How long has he lived here?’
‘Six or seven years. He was dating a local lass, but that didn’t come to anything. We thought he would move on, but he’s still here.’
‘Does he have a job?’
‘I think he’s on the dole. Used to do some building work, when it was offered.’
Rebus nodded his gratitude. ‘Anything else?’ he asked.
‘You know he has a temper?’
‘Yes.’
‘But that’s mostly after closing time. He should be fine just now.’
‘And I’ll probably find him at home?’
‘If you don’t, it won’t take long to check out the nearby watering holes.’
Rebus thanked the man, bought an unneeded packet of cigarettes and walked back up the slope to his car.
‘Next road on the left,’ he recited as he passed the Tesco. He pulled up outside a terraced house and pushed open the knee-high metal gate. The garden was neither manicured nor a wasteland. The curtains at the downstairs window were open, those upstairs closed. He looked in vain for a doorbell, then
banged with his fist instead. No answer, so he thumped again.
Coughing from inside. He got the feeling someone was descending from the upper floor. The door opened an inch, the eyes squinting as they adjusted to the weak daylight.
‘Mr Ratner?’ Rebus asked. ‘David Ratner?’
‘Who’s asking?’
Rebus had already decided how to play it. ‘An old pal of yours,’ he said, shoving at the door with his shoulder. Ratner staggered backwards against the bottom two steps of the staircase. By the time he’d recovered, Rebus was inside and the door was closed.
‘Hell’s going on?’ the man yelped, voice filled with grievance.
Rebus examined the hallway. Bare linoleum, walls that had last seen a coat of paint in the eighties, a threadbare stair carpet.
The place held an aroma of single unwashed male.
‘Living room,’ he announced, making it sound like an order.
Cafferty’s description of Dave Ritter had been sketchy, but it did fit the man in front of Rebus, the one who was wondering how best to get rid of this unwelcome guest so a courtship with cheap booze could be resumed. The good news was, Ratner/Ritter had no heft to him. He was almost as shrunken as his friend Paul Jeffries. Rebus began to wonder if the enormity of just one crime had ground both men down.
Without saying anything, the man led the way into a room containing two charity shop armchairs and a newish-looking TV. There were bottles and cans too, with empty fast-food containers providing extra ornamentation.
‘Does your cleaner come tomorrow?’ Rebus asked.
‘Funny.’ The man was testing a few of the cans, without finding a drop to drink in any.
‘Do I call you Ratner or Ritter?’
The freeze was momentary, but enough to convince Rebus.
‘Who sent you?’
‘Big Ger.’ Rebus was standing in front of the door to the hall, a door he had pushed closed. If the man in front of him wanted an exit, he was going to have to use the window.
‘A name from the past. And I prefer Ratner.’ He slumped into one of the armchairs.
‘Here’s another name from the past.’ Rebus paused for effect. ‘Acorn House.’
Ratner seemed to slump further, shoulders hunched. He cursed under his breath.
‘Nothing to say?’ Rebus prompted. ‘Well that’s too bad, because you’re the one who’s going to have to spit it out . . .’
Ratner looked at him. ‘You’ve seen Paul?’ he guessed.
‘Not got much repartee these days, has he?’
‘Poor bugger. At least I’ve still got a few brain cells. What did Cafferty tell you?’
‘That you both worked for him back in the day – disposing of problems. A patch of woodland in Fife was mentioned.’
‘Ancient history.’
‘It was until recently. Things have changed.’
‘Oh?’
Rebus decided to take the other chair. He pulled his cigarettes out and gestured with them. Ratner took one and allowed Rebus to light it.
‘Ta,’ he said.
Rebus lit one for himself and blew the smoke ceilingwards.
‘Are you here to terminate me?’ Ratner asked.
‘I hate to break it to you, Dave, but you’re not that important.’
‘I never told another living soul, you know. So if someone’s been blabbing, you need to look elsewhere.’
‘Do you remember Michael Tolland?’
Ratner mouthed the name silently a couple of times. ‘Was he the one who opened the door to us?’
Rebus nodded slowly. ‘Who else was inside?’
‘The MP guy . . .’
‘Howard Champ?’
It was Ratner’s turn to nod. ‘And his pal Minton – a bloody QC. Spent his days putting folk like me and Paul away, and then headed out of an evening to bugger young boys at Acorn House. Afterwards, I cursed if I ever had to as much as drive past the place. There was talk of an inquiry at one point, but I’m guessing Minton put the lid on that and screwed it down tight.’
‘Wasn’t the only job you did for Big Ger, though – the only disposal, I mean?’
‘There were a few, but never kids. Just that one time. I doubt a day goes by when I don’t think of it. Those men climbing back into their suits, sorting their cufflinks, shaking and pale-faced, not from shame, but because they might be found out.’
He shook his head slowly.
‘Cafferty wasn’t there?’
‘God, no.’
‘But it meant they owed
him.’
Ratner nodded. ‘I’m sure he pulled a few favours. Except from—’ He broke off, his eyes fixing on Rebus. ‘Don’t suppose it matters now, does it?’
‘Who else was there?’
‘He was just arriving as we left. Tried mumbling some excuse, but Paul and I knew what he’d come for – same thing as the rest of them.’
‘Was it the Chief Constable?’
‘Broadfoot, you mean? Oh, his name was mentioned – they’d thought of phoning him to get rid of the body, until Champ mentioned Big Ger.’
‘But he wasn’t actually there?’
‘Guy who turned up was Todd Dalrymple.’
‘From Milligan’s Casino?’
‘That’s the one. Happily married, but that didn’t mean much to some of them – Chief Constable had a wife too, didn’t he?’
‘Did Cafferty know?’
‘About Dalrymple?’ Ratner shook his head again. ‘He peeled off a roll of fifties and split it between us.’
‘Paul Jeffries ended up driving for him.’
‘He did, yes.’
‘And Dalrymple still visits him.’
Ratner’s face twisted into a sour smile. ‘To make sure Paul hasn’t got mouthy as well as senile.’
Rebus nodded his understanding. Silence fell over the room.
Ratner rose slowly to his feet, but only to switch on the ceiling light.
‘You’re sure you’re not here to do me in?’ he asked as he sat down again. ‘Because to be honest, I’m not sure I wouldn’t welcome it – maybe you can tell. I was a vicious little sod back then, I admit. People can change, though . . .’
‘Felt good to get it off your chest after all these years?’
Rebus nodded again. ‘Aye, I can see that, but to answer
your question – I’m not going to kill you, but someone else might.’
‘Oh?’
‘Somebody fired a shot at Big Ger. Somebody also killed Minton and Tolland.’
‘Bit of a coincidence.’ Having finished the cigarette, Ratner dropped its remains into one of the empty cans. A few moments later, Rebus did the same with his.
‘Acorn House seems to be the connection, wouldn’t you say? Which is why we’re thinking about the victim – his name was Bryan Holroyd, by the way.’