by Ian Rankin
The place was busy and noisy. Thumping music, Sky Sports on the various muted TVs. Mostly a young crowd, maybe students, voices raised in raucous competition with the bass line. A row of older regulars stood at the bar, inured to everything around them, a collie asleep on the floor next to a stool and a dish of drinking water. The bar itself was well-enough lit, but there were shadowy booths and alcoves, which Clarke explored as she pretended to weave her way to the toilets. The toilets themselves were down a flight of stairs, and she paused for a moment halfway, wondering if anyone might emerge. No one did, so she headed back up. Another sweep of the bar and its clients. She was about to leave when a head rose from behind the counter. The barman had obviously been into the cellar, emerging through a trapdoor. He was passing bottles of spirits to a colleague. Clarke knew she knew him from somewhere. Had she been in here before? She didn’t think so. Had he maybe worked one of the city’s many other bars? It was possible.
She was pushing open the door as Robbie the smoker made to come indoors again.
‘Not staying?’ he asked.
‘Maybe next time,’ she replied.
She got into her car and sat there, thinking hard. Late thirties, early forties, thick black hair and sideburns tapering to a point. Tattooed arms, hooded eyes, stubble. Romany? She had an image of him wandering through woodland, a guitar strapped across him. Hang on … Yes, because the last time she’d seen him he’d worn a black leather waistcoat over a white T-shirt and she’d thought the same. Where, though? In a courtroom. Not the accused. Not giving evidence. A tattooed arm draped around a woman’s shoulders.
And then she knew.
He was Ellis Meikle’s uncle, brother of Ellis’s father. Comforting Ellis’s mother at the end of the trial after her son was sentenced. Sentenced to life for murder.
‘Ellis Meikle,’ Clarke intoned, head turned to gaze at McKenzie’s. Then she started the car and headed home, on autopilot all the way.
Friday
14
Morris Gerald Cafferty lived in a penthouse duplex in the Quartermile development, just across the Meadows from Rebus’s tenement. Rebus tied Brillo up at the entrance and pressed the bell. A camera lens was above it. Rebus got in close, knowing his face would be filling a small monitor somewhere upstairs.
‘Yes?’ Cafferty’s voice enquired.
‘Got a minute?’
‘Just barely.’ But Rebus was buzzed in anyway. He took the lift. Last time he’d been there, Cafferty’s gangland rival Darryl Christie had been only a few minutes ahead of him, armed and looking to take Cafferty out. But Cafferty had prevailed and Christie was serving time, meaning Edinburgh belonged to Cafferty now, and this was his eyrie, protected by CCTV and concierges.
He’d left the apartment door open, so Rebus went in. The short corridor led to a large open-plan space. Cafferty was pouring coffee from a cafetière.
‘I forget how you take it.’
‘Just as it comes.’
‘No sugar?’
‘No sugar.’
‘Men our age, we have to look after ourselves.’ Cafferty handed over the plain white mug and gave Rebus an inspection. ‘Not too bad for a man with a debilitating condition.’
‘You look okay too, more’s the pity.’
Cafferty looked better than okay, actually. Winning back Edinburgh had taken years off him. He’d always had heft, but he seemed to have a renewed spring in his step.
‘There’s a gym practically opposite,’ he explained, patting his stomach. ‘I go when I can. You still got that bloody mutt?’
‘He’s parked outside. Stand on your terrace some nights and you’ll see us just by Jawbone Walk. I take it business is good?’
‘Nobody drinks the way they used to. Licensed trade is always a battle.’
‘And the minicabs? Car wash? Flat rentals?’
‘I see you’re still keeping au fait.’
‘I hear that place you took over from Darryl Christie is struggling, though.’
‘The Devil’s Dram?’ Cafferty shrugged. ‘Good times and bad, John. I’m thinking of changing the focus from whisky to gin.’
‘I’m guessing you’d never part with it – not after what you went through to win it.’
‘Ever been to see Darryl?’
Rebus shook his head. ‘How about you?’
‘I did try once but he knocked me back.’
‘Weren’t you afraid that once you walked into the Bar-L they’d lock the doors and not let you out again?’
‘Legitimate businessman, John. That’s what the judge said at the trial.’
‘Aye, and like you, I could hear the inverted commas.’
‘Tone of voice isn’t what gets written down, though.’ The two of them were standing a few feet apart. Time was, they’d already have been weighing up the trading of physical blows, but now that each was afraid of the cost of losing, words would have to suffice. Cafferty was gesturing to a corner of the room behind Rebus, where the TV was showing a morning news channel. He’d turned the sound down, so they could see Catherine Bloom but not hear her.
‘She’s enjoying it too much,’ Cafferty commented. ‘All this attention, she thinks it gives her life meaning.’
‘She’s fought for years.’
‘Years she could have been spending on herself. The woman’s hollowed out, John. Don’t tell me you can’t see it.’ Cafferty had pulled out one of the shiny steel chairs from beneath the glass-topped dining table. He perched there, waiting until Rebus took the seat opposite. ‘I’m assuming she’s why you’re here.’
‘Why else?’
Cafferty smiled, pleased to have been proved right. ‘Murder inquiry means looking at the old case. Old case was one of yours. But like I said to you at the time, I had nothing to do with any of it.’
‘I’m wondering what happened to Conor Maloney.’
Cafferty held out a hand. ‘Pass me your phone and I’ll show you how to use Google.’
‘I’ve looked at Google. He seems to have gone walkabout.’
‘Right enough, last I heard, he was taking a lot of cruises. Tax exile sort of thing.’
‘When was that?’
‘Four, five years ago. Conor might have overstepped the mark.’
‘How so?’
‘Trying to make friends in South America. Plenty drugs and money there, but they don’t play games. He wasn’t to their liking.’
‘So he’s on the run?’
‘Taxman might be after him, but I’ve not heard that the Colombians are – or the gardai, come to that. He’s just keeping his head down, enjoying a well-earned retirement.’
‘He severed his links to Adrian Brand?’
‘Conor liked the idea of a golf course, maybe a whole string of them, but it was only a passing notion.’
‘Would he have liked learning that a private investigator was sniffing around?’
‘You asked me that at the time, John.’
‘But now Bloom’s body has turned up …’
‘Not my concern.’
‘The thing I remember about our interview back then is how you tried to deflect attention on to an Aberdeen crime family – the Bartollis. If we’d gone after them, that would have suited you just fine.’
Cafferty smiled at the memory. ‘Can’t blame a man for trying. How’s the coffee?’
‘A bit weak, like your answers.’
‘It’s decaf. Better for the blood pressure. I can add a tot of something stronger, if you like.’
‘I’ll survive.’
‘I don’t doubt that.’ Cafferty ran a hand over his shaven head. It was shaped like a bowling ball, with folds of fat at the nape of the neck. Nicks and bits of scar tissue evidence of the knocks he’d taken, all the way back to childhood. In gangs from his early teens, working his way up, learning and staying
lucky and toughening his hide. There were probably points in his life where he could have turned to left or right, but he hadn’t taken them. He’d vanquished his rivals, done some time, and now sat in his penthouse, alone and probably still dissatisfied. Rebus couldn’t help thinking of his own tenement flat, and those night-time walks, and the solitariness, part of his mind always on his shadow self, Morris Gerald Cafferty.
‘Will they want to talk to me, do you think?’ Cafferty was asking.
‘They might.’
‘Who’s in charge, anyone I know?’
‘A DCI called Graham Sutherland.’
‘From Inverness originally?’
‘I don’t know.’
Cafferty was nodding to himself. ‘Pretty sure that’s him. He’s just a name to me though – no run-ins to speak of.’
‘Siobhan Clarke’s on the team, too.’
‘Always a pleasure to do business with Siobhan. Is she still going out with Malcolm Fox?’
‘They were never an item.’
‘I heard otherwise.’
‘If you paid for that, you might want a refund.’
‘And Fox is still at Gartcosh?’
‘Have you tried Google?’
‘Touché, John.’ Cafferty smiled again, scratching at his jawline. ‘They probably will want to talk to me. I told you back then, I put money into one of Jackie Ness’s films.’ Cafferty watched Rebus nod. ‘It was actually Billy Locke who asked me. Billy was Ness’s partner in the business. He was looking for new angels – that was what he called us. You got treated to a good dinner and he gave you his spiel, and you either got out your chequebook or you didn’t.’
‘A chequebook?’ Rebus sounded sceptical.
‘You’re right – I was always strictly cash. Not that I put in much, and I got it back with interest. They asked me if I wanted my name added to the credits, but I said no.’
‘Why?’
‘By the time it came out, Stuart Bloom had gone missing.’
‘You didn’t want anyone making the connection?’
‘There wasn’t any connection, but you’re right – wouldn’t have stopped people trying.’
‘Which film was this?’
‘Some zombie flick with kilts and claymores.’
‘Siobhan Clarke just watched the DVD of that. You know Bloom actually appears in it? Him and his boyfriend both.’
‘News to me. I’ve probably got a copy here somewhere.’
Rebus looked towards the TV. There was no DVD player. ‘Nothing to play it on, though.’
‘Why would I? It was a pile of shite.’
‘Did Ness ever ask you for help other than financial?’
‘Against Adrian Brand, you mean? Like I said back then, I had nothing to do with that.’
‘Doesn’t quite answer my question.’
‘Maybe he asked and maybe I said no.’
‘You were scared of Conor Maloney?’
Cafferty gave a snort. ‘You know me better than that, John.’
‘If that golf course had gone ahead, with Maloney and his paramilitary money involved, wouldn’t that have been seen as the first step?’
‘Towards him pushing into Edinburgh?’ Cafferty brushed the notion aside.
‘How did Maloney get friendly with Brand anyway?’
‘Some golf course in Ireland. They both owned a share. Country club type thing, that’s what Brand wanted to bring to Scotland.’
‘How did it feel when he went to Maloney rather than you?’
‘It’s ancient history, John. An archive’s the place for it.’
‘How did you feel, though? If not threatened exactly, then maybe pissed off at the snub, at the lack of respect it showed?’
Cafferty made a show of yawning. ‘I’m beginning to think it’s too early in the day for decaf, and way too late in the day for this little chat.’ He pushed back his chair and rose slowly to his full height. ‘Besides, I’ve got things to do, and you’ve probably got a dog to walk.’
On the TV, Catherine Bloom was no longer making her speech. Instead, aerial footage of Poretoun Woods was playing, with an old photograph of Stuart Bloom in the top right corner of the screen.
‘Ness wanted me to buy that place, you know,’ Cafferty commented. ‘Sticking point was, I had to carry on with the upgrading of both house and woods. He had it all planned out, and I had to sign up to every last bit of it.’
‘So you’ve been to Poretoun House?’
‘Not since it was sold.’
‘And the woods, too?’
‘Just the one day – I watched a bit of the filming. The acting wasn’t up to much, but give Jackie his due, he always found some very pretty faces to point his camera at.’
‘I know – we interviewed a slew of them.’
‘Not with enough rigour to keep Madam Bloom happy.’ Cafferty’s eyes were on the TV again, though the story had changed to politics. ‘One thing I see the new inquiry’s keeping to itself,’ he mused.
‘What’s that?’
‘Bloom was wearing handcuffs.’
‘And how could you possibly know that?’
Cafferty fixed Rebus with a look. ‘Some of us are still in the game, John. Police issue, were they?’
‘They’re still being tested. Who have you got on the inside?’
‘More to the point, how come you know about the handcuffs? Siobhan been whispering in your ear? That counts as a leak, I’d say, especially when the person she’s leaking to was part of the original case and might yet be a suspect.’
‘Handcuffs could have come from anywhere. I dare say you or your pal Maloney would have known where to find some.’
‘Few quid to the right cop,’ Cafferty agreed. ‘Plenty of them on the take in 2006. Then there are people like your old boss Bill Rawlston – good friend of Adrian Brand’s back in the day, used to be on his table at the odd charity event. Not forgetting the deceased’s boyfriend’s dad – a pal of yours, I seem to remember.’
‘Anyone else you want to add?’
Cafferty pretended to think. Rebus decided not to wait for a reply.
‘Brian Steele and Grant Edwards,’ he stated. ‘They did a bit of work for Brand – and for you.’
‘For me?’
Rebus nodded, his eyes locked on Cafferty’s. ‘Don’t think I don’t know.’
‘And what is it you think you know?’
‘You met with Conor Maloney one time, not long before Stuart Bloom went missing. Took Steele and Edwards along as muscle.’
‘Just Steele, actually.’ Cafferty thought for a moment. ‘Your pal in Glasgow CID? Makes sense they’d have Maloney on their radar.’
‘From the moment his plane touched down in Glasgow,’ Rebus acknowledged. ‘Steele was in uniform back then, which means he’d have carried handcuffs as a matter of course.’
‘The day he was with me, he was in a nice sharp suit – I remember being a bit narked because he almost put my own tailoring to shame.’
‘What did you tell Maloney about Stuart Bloom?’
Cafferty shook his head. ‘You really think this is going to work? Siobhan won’t fall for it, and neither will anyone else. It’s you and yours they’ll be focused on, and rightly so. You’re selling dodgy merch, John – frankly, I’m a bit embarrassed for you. But it does make me wonder how desperate you are … and whose tracks you’re trying to cover. Take a bit of advice – you’re not a well man. It’s time you adjusted to that reality and tried to relax and enjoy yourself rather than knocking your pan out with all this stuff.’
Rebus rose to his feet. ‘Thing is, this is me relaxed and enjoying myself. You, on the other hand …’
‘What?’
Rebus gestured towards Cafferty’s forehead. ‘Vein in your temple there started beating out a tattoo five
minutes ago – and that means my work here is done.’
Cafferty stayed seated as Rebus headed for the door. Only after it had closed did he press a finger to his temple. Rebus was right, he could feel the pulse there, and he wasn’t entirely sure any length of gym workout would cure it.
15
Rebus hadn’t been to Poretoun Woods since the early days of the misper inquiry. It seemed to him a bit less managed, its natural wildness taking hold. The track into the woods was easily identified thanks to the many visits by police and other professionals. Deep ruts showed where a tractor had towed the VW to a waiting trailer. One marked police car indicated that some poor sod was still on guard duty – to what end, Rebus couldn’t say. The crunch of twigs and leaves underfoot signalled his arrival, giving the uniform time to lever himself up from the tree he’d been resting against.
‘At ease, son,’ Rebus said. ‘I’m just having a look, that’s all.’
‘Off limits to the public,’ the constable stated.
‘I’m attached to the inquiry.’
‘Then how come I wasn’t told you were coming?’
‘They’ve got too much on their plate at Leith as it is,’ Rebus improvised. ‘Sorry to have to tell you, but you’re not their highest priority.’
His tone seemed to reassure the constable. Rebus reckoned the lad would have been in primary school twelve years back. The acne on both cheeks had probably bothered him since soon after.
‘No point me asking if you’ve seen anything unusual?’
‘A few gawpers from the village,’ the officer confided. ‘Couple of reporters. All they want is a photo of where it happened, even if it didn’t happen here.’
Rebus studied him. ‘You’ve heard, then?’
The uniform nodded. ‘Car might have been transported here with the deceased in it.’
Rebus was peering over the crime-scene tape down into the gully.
‘There’s a rope if you want a closer look.’
‘Son, do I look in any shape to do that?’ Rebus raised a finger. ‘And by the way, don’t feel you need to answer.’
‘Nothing down there anyway,’ the constable conceded.