by Ian Rankin
“Can’t do any harm. Years go by, stories start to get told . . .”
“We could ask Lothian and Borders to —”
Stu Sutherland’s suggestion was cut short by Gray. “I believe our friends in the east are a bit tied up.” He glanced towards Rebus. “Isn’t that right, John?”
Rebus nodded. “The Marber inquiry’s on the go.”
“Pretty high-profile, too,” Gray added. “Which turned out not to be John’s cup of tea.”
There were smiles at this. Gray had come around the table so that he could lock eyes with Tennant.
“So what do you reckon, sir? Is it worth a day or two in Auld Reekie? It has to be your call in the end, not ours.” He opened his arms and gave a shrug.
“Maybe a couple of half days,” Tennant agreed at last. “Now what else have we got to go on . . . ?”
As it turned out, they did have something else by the end of that day’s play. But first, there were classes to attend. The canteen was noisy at lunchtime, everyone relieved that the top brass had come and gone. Tennant seemed strangely subdued, and Rebus wondered if secretly he’d wanted them to come to watch his “show.” It had crossed Rebus’s mind that Tennant had to be in on it. Much easier to smooth Rebus’s way into the course as a latecomer if the chief constables had someone on the inside. Then there was that niggling doubt about the “coincidence” that their unsolved case just happened to be one Rebus had worked . . .
One Francis Gray had worked, too.
Gray as a mole, sent in by Strathern. . . ? Rebus couldn’t get thoughts of the double bluff out of his head. The lasagna on his plate had flattened itself out, a swirl of yellow and red, rimmed with orange grease. The more he stared at it, the more the colors seemed to blur.
“Lost your appetite?” Allan Ward asked.
“You want it?” Rebus replied. But Ward shook his head.
“Frankly, it looks like afterbirth.”
As the description took effect, Allan Ward smirked from behind a forkful of ham.
Straight after lunch, some of the probationers took to one of the football pitches. Others took a stroll around the grounds. But up in Crime Management, the Wild Bunch were being taught how to put together a Manual of Murder Investigation, the MMI being, in the words of their tutor, “the bible of a good, tight inquiry.” It had to detail avenues taken and procedures followed. It showed that the investigating team had done their utmost.
To Rebus, it was paperwork.
And it was followed by Forensic Entomology, at the end of which they streamed out of the classroom.
“Gives me butterflies just thinking of it,” Tam Barclay said, referring to some of the slides they’d been shown. Then he winked and smiled. Down in the break-out area, they sprawled on the sofas, rubbing their foreheads, eyes squeezed shut. Rebus and Ward headed down a farther flight and outside for a ciggie.
“Does your head in, that stuff,” Ward said, nodding thanks as Rebus produced a lighter.
“Certainly makes you think,” Rebus agreed. They’d been shown close-ups of putrefying corpses and the bugs and insects found on them. They’d been told how maggots could help pinpoint time of death. They’d been shown floaters and bloaters and human forms reduced to something more akin to melted raspberry ripple.
Rebus thought of his uneaten lasagna and took another drag on his cigarette.
“Thing is, Allan, we let a lot of shite get in the way. We get cynical and maybe even a bit lazy. All we can see are brass breathing down our necks and another load of paperwork to be completed. We forget what the job’s supposed to be about.” Rebus looked at the younger man. “What do you think?”
“It’s a job, John. I joined because no other profession would have me.”
“I’m sure that’s not true.”
Ward thought about it, then flicked ash into the air. “Ach, maybe not. It feels that way sometimes, though.”
Rebus nodded. “You seem to have Francis on your back a lot of the time.”
When Ward looked up sharply, Rebus wondered if he’d introduced the subject too rapidly. But Ward just gave a wry smile.
“That stuff’s like water off a duck’s back.”
“You two know one another?”
“Not really.”
“It’s just that I’m not sure Francis would try it with everyone . . .”
Ward wagged a finger. “You’re not so daft, are you? We did work one case. I mean, we weren’t close or anything.”
“Understood. But you’re not complete strangers, so he feels he can rag you a bit, right?”
“Right.”
Rebus took another draw on the cigarette, then exhaled. He was staring into the distance, as though maybe there was something of interest to him in the football match. “What was the case?” he asked, finally.
“Some Glasgow drug dealer . . . gangster sort of thing.”
“Glasgow?”
“This guy had tentacles everywhere.”
“Even as far south as your patch?”
“Oh, aye. Stranraer, you know — gateway to and from Ireland. Guns, drugs and cash bouncing backwards and forwards like a Ping-Pong ball.”
“What was the guy’s name? Would I know him?”
“Not now you wouldn’t. He’s dead.” Rebus watched for some sign from Ward — a pause, or a hooding of the eyes. But there was nothing. “Name was Bernie Johns.”
Rebus made a show of running the name through his memory. “Died in jail?” he offered.
Ward nodded. “Couldn’t have happened to a more deserving bloke.”
“We’ve got one just like him in Edinburgh.”
“Cafferty?” Ward guessed. “Yeah, I’ve heard of that bastard. Didn’t you help put him away?”
“Problem was, they didn’t keep him there.” Rebus squashed the remains of his cigarette underfoot. “So you don’t mind the ribbing Francis is giving you?”
“Don’t you worry about me, John,” Ward said, patting him on the shoulder. “Francis Gray will know when he’s crossed the line . . . I’ll make sure of that.” He made to turn away, but stopped. Rebus felt a tingling in his shoulder from where he’d been touched. “You going to show us a good time in Edinburgh, John?”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Ward nodded. There was still some steel in his eyes. Rebus doubted it was ever completely absent. He knew it wouldn’t do to underestimate Ward. But he still wondered if he could somehow turn him into an ally . . .
“You coming?”
“I’ll catch you up,” Rebus said. He thought about another cigarette but dismissed the idea. There were roars from the football pitch, arms raised high on the sideline. One of the players seemed to be rolling around on the ground.
“They’re coming to Edinburgh,” Rebus said quietly to himself. Then he shook his head slowly. He was supposed to be the one keeping tabs on the Wild Bunch, and now they’d be trespassing on his patch instead. They’d be sniffing around, asking questions about Dickie Diamond. Rebus blew the idea away with a wave of his hand, then got his mobile out and put in a call to Siobhan, who wasn’t answering.
“Typical,” he muttered. So instead he called Jean. She was shopping at Napier’s the Herbalist, which made him smile. Jean trusted in homeopathy, and had a bathroom cabinet full of herbal medicines. She’d even made him use some when he’d felt flu coming on, and they’d seemed to work. But every time he looked in her cabinet, he felt he could use half the jars for cooking up a curry or a stew.
“Laugh all you like,” she’d told him more than once. “Then tell me which of us is the healthier.”
Now Jean wanted to know when she’d see him. He told her he wasn’t sure. He didn’t mention that his work would be bringing him back into the city sooner than expected, didn’t want that sense of expectation. If they made some arrangement, chances were he’d have to cancel at the last minute. Better for her not to know.
“I’m going round to Denise’s tonight anyway,” she informed him.
> “Good to see you’re not pining.”
“You’re the one who’s done a runner, not me.”
“Part of the job, Jean.”
“Sure it is.” He heard her sigh. “How was your weekend anyway?”
“Quiet. I tidied the flat, did some washing . . .”
“Drank yourself into a stupor?”
“That accusation wouldn’t stand up in court.”
“How tough would it be to find witnesses?”
“No comment, Your Honor. How did the wedding go?”
“I wish you’d been there. Will I see you next time you’re in town?”
“Of course.”
“And will that be anytime soon?”
“Hard to say, Jean . . .”
“Well . . . take care of yourself.”
“Don’t I always?” he said, ending the call with a “bye” before she could answer the question.
Back inside, there was excitement in the break-out area. Archie Tennant stood with arms folded, chin tucked into his chest, as though deep in thought. Tam Barclay was waving his arms around as if trying to attract attention to the point he was making. Stu Sutherland and Jazz McCullough were wanting their own say. Allan Ward looked to have walked into the middle of it, and wanted an explanation, while Francis Gray was an oasis of calm, seated on one of the sofas, one leg crossed over the other, a black polished shoe moving from side to side like a baton controlling the performers.
Rebus didn’t say anything. He just squeezed past Ward and took a seat next to Gray. A ray of low sunshine was coming in through the windows, throwing an exaggerated silhouette of the group onto the far wall. Rebus wasn’t reminded of an orchestra anymore, but of some puppet show.
With only one man pulling the strings.
Still Rebus said nothing. He noticed the mobile phone nestled in Gray’s expansive crotch, took out his own phone again and decided that it was heavier and older. Probably obsolete. He’d taken an earlier model to a shop because of a fault, only to be told it would be cheaper to replace than fix.
Gray was studying Rebus’s phone, too. “I got a call,” he said.
Rebus looked up at the tumult. “Must’ve been a good one.”
Gray nodded slowly. “I had a few favors outstanding, so I put the word around Glasgow that we were looking at Rico Lomax.”
“And?”
“And I got a call . . .”
“Whoah, whoah,” Archie Tennant suddenly called out, unfolding his arms and raising them. “Let’s all slow down here, okay?”
The noise ceased. Tennant took in each man with his gaze, then lowered his arms. “Okay, so we’ve got new information . . .” He broke off, fixing his stare on Gray. “Your informant’s one hundred percent?”
Gray shrugged. “He’s reliable.”
“What new information?” Ward asked. Sutherland and Barclay started answering, until Tennant told them to shut up.
“Okay, so it turns out that Rico’s pub, the one he’d been drinking in the night he died, was owned at the time by a certain Chib Kelly, who we know started winching Rico’s widow soon after.”
“How soon after?”
“Does it matter?”
“Did the investigation know at the time . . . ?”
The questions were coming thick and fast, and once again Tennant had to appeal for quiet. He looked to Gray.
“Well, Francis, did the original inquiry team know about this?”
“Search me,” Gray said.
“Do any of you remember coming across this fact in any of the files?” Tennant looked around, received only shakes of the head. “Big question then: is it material to the case?”
“Could be.”
“Got to be.”
“Crime of passion.”
“Absolutely.”
Tennant grew thoughtful again, letting the voices wash over him.
“Could be we need to talk to Chib himself, sir.” Tennant looked to the speaker: John Rebus.
“Yeah, sure,” Ward was saying. “He’s definitely going to incriminate himself.” The sneer reappeared.
“It’s the proper course of action,” Rebus said, repeating a phrase they’d had drummed into them at the MMI talk.
“John’s right,” Gray said, his eyes on Tennant. “In a real investigation, we’d be out there asking questions, getting in people’s faces, not sitting here like schoolkids on detention.”
“I thought getting in people’s faces was your precise problem, DI Gray,” Tennant said coolly.
“Could be. But it’s been getting me results these past twenty-odd years.”
“Maybe not for much longer, though.” The threat lay in the air between the two men.
“Seems logical to at least talk to the man,” Rebus said. “After all, this isn’t just a test, it’s a real, flesh-and-blood case.”
“You weren’t half as keen to follow up the Edinburgh angle, John,” Jazz McCullough stated, slipping his hands into his pockets.
“Jazz has got a point,” Gray said, turning his head to face Rebus. “Something you’re not telling us, DI Rebus?”
Rebus wanted to grab Gray and hiss at him: How much do you know? Instead, he pocketed his mobile and rested his elbows on his knees. “Maybe I just fancy a trip to the wild west,” he said.
“Who says you’re going?” Allan Ward asked.
“I can’t see us all in a room with Chib Kelly,” Stu Sutherland commented.
“What? Too much like hard work for you, Stu?” Ward taunted.
“This isn’t getting us anywhere,” Tennant piped up. “Since DI Rebus is suddenly all hot and bothered about ‘proper courses of action,’ the first thing we need to do is see whether this really is new ground. And that means plowing back through the files, seeing if Chib Kelly’s mentioned anywhere as landlord . . . What was the pub called anyway?”
“The Claymore,” Gray offered. “It’s since become the Dog and Bone, gone a bit upmarket.”
“Still owned by Kelly?” Rebus asked.
Gray shook his head. “Some English chain: all book-lined walls and clutter. More like walking into a junk shop than a pub.”
“The thing to do,” Tennant was saying, “is get back into those files, see what we can come up with.”
“We could maybe manage an hour or two,” Gray offered, looking at his watch.
“Plans for tonight, Francis?” Tennant asked.
“John’s shipping us through to Edinburgh for a night on the town.” Gray’s hand landed heavily on Rebus’s shoulder. “Make a change from the lounge, eh, John?”
Rebus didn’t say anything, didn’t hear the rest of the group saying things like “Nice one” and “Good idea.” He was concentrating too hard on Francis Gray, wondering what the hell he was up to.
9
“What the hell are you up to?”
It was a snarling question, and it came from behind the closed door. There was a muffled reply. The secretary smiled up at Siobhan and Hynds. She had the telephone receiver to her ear. Siobhan could hear the phone buzzing somewhere behind the door. Then it appeared to be snatched up.
“What?”
The secretary actually flinched. “Two police officers to see you, Mr. Cafferty. They did make an appointment . . .” Sounding apologetic, a slight tremble in her voice. She listened to whatever her employer was telling her, then put the receiver down. “He’ll be with you in a moment, if you’ll take a seat . . .”
“Must be a joy to work for.”
“Yes.” The secretary forced a smile. “Yes, he is.”
“Plenty secretarial jobs going. Friday’s Scotsman’s the place I’d start looking.”
Siobhan retreated to the line of three chairs, taking Hynds with her. There wasn’t space in the outer office for a coffee table. Two desks: one currently occupied by the secretary, the other a shambles of paperwork. The place had probably been a shop until fairly recently. It was sandwiched between a baker’s and a stationer’s, its large window looking onto the nonde
script street. They were west and south of the city center, not far from Tollcross. The area held no fond memories for Siobhan, who had crashed her car once, years back, while confused by the range of options at the Tollcross road junction. Five routes crisscrossing at the lights, and her having not long passed her test, the car a gift from her parents . . .
“I couldn’t work here,” Hynds was telling the secretary. He nodded in the direction of the street. “That smell from the baker’s.” Then he patted his stomach and smiled. The secretary smiled back, more from relief, Siobhan thought, than anything else — relief that Hynds wasn’t meaning her employer . . .
The onetime shop was now MGC Lettings. Across the window was printed the legend THE ANSWER TO YOUR PROPERTY NEEDS. When they’d arrived, Hynds had asked why a “criminal genius” would need such a boring front. Siobhan couldn’t answer that. She knew Cafferty had other interests in the city, predominantly a minicab firm out at Gorgie. The fresh paintwork and new carpet led her to believe that MGC Lettings was a recent venture.
“Hope that’s not one of his tenants he’s got in there,” Hynds said now. If the secretary heard him, she pretended otherwise. She’d slipped on a pair of headphones and looked to be typing out a letter from a dictation machine. Siobhan had picked up some of the sheets from the messy table. They were listings of properties to let. Most were tenement flats in the less salubrious parts of town. She handed one to Hynds.
“A lot of agencies, they’ll say things like ‘No DSS.’ No mention of that here.”
“So?”
“Ever heard of landlords cramming their flats with people from Social Security, then ripping them off?” Hynds looked blank. “The claimants have to hand over their benefit books. Landlord meantime gets the rent money from the DSS. He’s quids in.”
“But this is a lettings agency. Anyone can walk in wanting a flat . . .”
“Doesn’t mean everyone gets one.”
Hynds took time digesting this, then looked around the walls. Two calendars and a week planner. No original works of art.
The door to the inner office opened and a ratty-looking man shuffled quickly towards the exit. Then a figure filled the doorway. He was wearing a white shirt, near-luminous in its newness, and a silk tie the color of spilled blood. His sleeves were rolled up, the arms thick and hairy. The head was large and round, like a bowling ball, the wiry silver hair cropped short. The eyes sparkled darkly.