by Ian Rankin
‘It’s that sort of attitude that can turn a concerned citizen against the powers of law and order and send them to the internet or the media with their little explosive package of recordings.’
‘If you want Scoular so badly,’ Clarke retorted, ‘go after him yourself.’
‘In fact,’ Fox said, pulling back his shoulders, ‘maybe we should go have a word with Mr Scoular. I’m sure he’d be tickled to know of your interest in him.’
‘And one other thing,’ Clarke added. ‘These tapes – I’m guessing you told Malcolm that releasing them would end ACC Lyon’s career. But that’s hardly a result for you, is it? Far better to hang onto them in the expectation that she’ll soon be Chief Constable. Think of the extra leverage you’d have on her then.’ She was shaking her head slowly. ‘You never planned to release them, did you? It’s all just talk – you’re all just talk.’
‘That’s a gamble you’re willing to take?’ Cafferty’s eyes were on Fox now. ‘Yes or no, DI Fox? Or hadn’t you better check with your boss first, see what she wants you to do?’
Fox’s mouth opened a fraction, but no words formed. Clarke had opened the car door and was swivelling her legs out onto the roadway. Cafferty’s hand clamped around Fox’s forearm.
‘Think very carefully, DI Fox.’ He nodded towards Clarke’s back. ‘This isn’t your future – Gartcosh is; Jennifer Lyon is; a seat at the top table is.’
Fox shook his arm free and opened the door. ‘My future, my decision,’ he said, climbing out.
‘Absolutely.’ Cafferty was laughing lightly as Fox slammed the door closed. Clarke, having given up asking Benny for his surname, was on her way back to the station’s main door. Fox caught her up.
‘Lyon knows all about this?’ she asked in an undertone.
‘Yes.’
‘That’s the armour you were talking about?’ Fox nodded. ‘In which case, he’ll think he’s already won.’
‘How do you make that out?’
‘Even if you give him nothing, he can say you did his bidding, and Lyon knew about it and sanctioned it.’
‘So?’
‘So the pair of you might have to go on record and deny it – in other words, lie to whoever is asking.’
‘And?’
She stopped just short of the door, turning so she was face to face with him. ‘He tapes everything that happens in his club, Malcolm. What makes you think he stops there?’
‘The car?’
‘All it takes is for him to switch on his phone’s voice memo app. Plus you’ve been in his penthouse. Chances are everything you said there has been recorded.’
Fox couldn’t help looking over his shoulder at the car. It was starting to move, but Cafferty had left the rear window open, his eyes on the two detectives as he passed.
‘He’s won,’ Fox said quietly, statement rather than question. ‘I feel a bit sick.’
‘I hope it wasn’t the fish,’ Clarke replied, making show of pressing her hand to her stomach.
‘How can you joke about this?’
She considered for a moment and then shrugged. ‘Thinking he’s won doesn’t mean he has. It’s not over yet, Malcolm.’ She watched the car glide away from them into the night. ‘Not nearly over … ’
As Benny drove to the Jenever Club, Cafferty phoned Cole Burnett.
‘It’s your Uncle Morris, Cole. How are things at your end?’
The teenager’s voice was nasal and ever-so-slightly slurred. ‘It’s all good, all good.’
‘Got an address or two for me?’
‘Aye.’
‘Well, let’s not say any more until we meet face to face. You know my place on the Cowgate? I’ll see you there in an hour.’
‘Okay.’
‘Cheer up, son – future’s full of good things coming your way. Just trust your Uncle Morris.’ He ended the call and placed his phone on the seat next to him.
‘You really think he’s got the makings?’ Benny asked from the driver’s seat, eyes meeting Cafferty’s in the rear-view mirror.
‘If he hasn’t, he’s all yours.’ Cafferty turned his head to watch the city slide past. Leith had changed – fine dining, craft beer and artisan bread – but it was still Leith. Like an old band coaxed out on the road again, smack was making a comeback. Coke had stopped being available only to the wealthy. Crack and methadone and benzos were everywhere.
Money was being made.
But the people at the top always wanted a bigger slice. If Cafferty didn’t fortify his territory, others might think he was vulnerable. He’d had meetings in Glasgow and Aberdeen, just to make sure everyone knew where things stood. Not Dundee, though – because the people shipping the drugs from Manchester hadn’t wanted it. Message enough to Cafferty’s mind: they’d be coming for him soon. And when they came, they would take out the street dealers first, making things nice and clear to him. That was why over the past few months he’d been bringing losers like Cole Burnett aboard. Let the marauders think they were taking out his best guys, his whole army. They would reckon it an easy win.
Then they would begin to relax. And their guard would come down …
‘Want some music or anything, boss?’ Benny was asking.
‘I’m fine, Benjamin, thanks. Big Ger Cafferty is absolutely tickety-boo.’
Day Five
26
The media and the rubberneckers had returned to Naver.
Lawrie Blake looked pleased with his creation when Rebus bumped into him on the street outside The Glen. The online world had magnified his original story, engendering conspiracy theories, dusting off the racier anecdotes from Ramsay Meiklejohn’s past and inventing luridly imagined versions of the anonymous threat to Samantha. Blake had his collar turned up and was wearing a large tweed cap, his phone gripped in his hand ready to record vox pops and capture photographs. Locals, however, were thin on the ground, having retreated to the relative safety of their homes. A few parents were forced to run a gauntlet of sorts as they scurried towards the school with their gawping children. Rebus was heading to the shop for a newspaper, but Blake produced one from his pocket and handed it over. Rebus unfolded it.
‘Front page, eh?’ he commented.
‘And pages three, four and five. I’ve even had a call from a press agency in London offering work. How’s your Saab?’
‘I’ve not heard. Rental’s running fine, though.’ He watched as a car cruised past, failing to find a parking space. There was TV equipment in the back. ‘You going to be talking to them?’ he asked, nodding towards the vehicle.
‘If they ask nicely. I quite fancy a move into television.’ Blake’s phone was pinging every few seconds with messages. ‘Has your daughter received any more notes?’
‘Not that I’m aware of.’
The reporter glanced at the pub. ‘You’re staying here rather than at hers – mind if I ask why?’
‘We’re not discussing Samantha, remember?’
Blake gave a thin smile. ‘Can’t blame a guy for trying. Laura called me late last night from Edinburgh. She was asking who gave me the story.’
‘Was my name mentioned?’
‘I protect my sources, Mr Rebus.’
‘I’m sure she knows anyway. It’s a small tank we’re all swimming in.’ Rebus looked around. ‘No sign of your fellow journalist, the one you were in the pub with?’
‘She’s at Strathy Castle, I think. I’m headed there soon.’
‘Don’t expect the occupants to be overly chatty – and watch out for the gardener.’
‘Oh?’
‘Criminal record and a temper.’ Rebus put a finger to his lips as he started to unlock the rental car.
‘Going somewhere nice?’
‘You planning on tailing me?’
‘No.’
He gave the young man a ha
rd stare. ‘Good.’
He made for the coast road, heading in the direction of Tongue. He looked to his left as he passed the backpacker café. A couple of bicycles and an old-fashioned camper van were parked out front. Ron Travis would be busy inside, catering for his guests. The Portakabin was still in place at Camp 1033, along with fluttering lengths of crime-scene tape and the same bored-looking uniform as before. Rebus sounded his horn and, having attracted the officer’s attention, stuck two fingers up as he passed. Checking in the rear-view mirror, he saw him dig a notebook out of his high-vis jacket. Doubtless he’d be noting the car’s details.
‘Good luck,’ Rebus muttered with a half-smile.
He took the cratered track to the steading, parking in the same spot as before. The logs had been dealt with and were neatly stacked, their top layer covered with a tarpaulin, next to which sat the motorbike. When the door to the farmhouse opened, Mick Sanderson stepped out. His eyes were on the rental car as he approached Rebus.
‘Your repair got me as far as a garage in Inverness,’ Rebus explained. He gestured towards the bike. ‘Another of your projects?’
‘It works well enough.’
‘And it belongs to you?’
‘Anyone who needs it can use it. You ever ridden one?’ Sanderson straddled the seat and gripped the handlebars.
‘Been out on it recently?’
‘The day I fixed your car.’
‘And before that?’
‘No idea.’
‘Who else uses it? Jess? Maybe Angharad Oates even?’
Sanderson’s smile was icy. ‘What’s your interest?’
Rebus offered a shrug, his hands sliding into his pockets. ‘Seen much of Samantha the past day or so?’
‘She’s been around.’
‘You know she was sent a threatening note?’
Sanderson’s face softened a little. He dismounted from the bike. ‘News to me.’ Rebus’s attention had shifted to the barn. Music was wafting from it. ‘Yoga class,’ Sanderson explained. ‘Want a cuppa?’
‘If you’re offering.’
Sanderson studied him. ‘I don’t think you’re our friend – unlikely it’ll ever happen – but you’re a friend’s father and that gets you a mug of tea.’ He paused. ‘But no more of your questions, okay?’
‘Fair enough, son. Lead the way.’
They walked the short distance to the farmhouse door, Sanderson pushing it open and allowing Rebus to precede him inside. The kettle was on the wood-burning stove, wisps of steam escaping its spout. Oates was seated at the dining table as before, the child on her lap. She was helping him draw a castle with coloured crayons.
‘Your old place?’ Rebus made show of guessing. ‘You must miss it.’
‘What’s he doing here?’ Oates demanded of Sanderson.
‘Tea, and then he’s going.’
‘That doesn’t answer my question.’ Her eyes were drilling into Rebus. Rebus nodded towards the child.
‘Didn’t catch his name last time I was here.’
She thought about not answering, but then relented. ‘Bram – short for Abraham.’
‘As in Bram Stoker? Vampires and all that?’
‘Jess liked the name.’
‘And he usually gets his way, eh? Like an old-fashioned lord and master. Are you stuck here all the time, or do you make the occasional getaway?’
‘Mr Rebus is very interested in our Kawasaki,’ Sanderson explained.
‘It’s a hefty machine,’ Rebus said. ‘Just wondering if you’ve managed to master it?’
‘This is the twenty-first century, if you hadn’t noticed.’
‘So you do take it out sometimes?’
‘We all do.’
‘Those of you who’ve got a licence … ’
‘We’re very law-abiding up here, Mr Rebus,’ Sanderson said, handing him a mug. ‘Milk’s in the jug, sugar in the bowl.’
Rebus placed the mug on the table and added a splash of milk. A second mug had been set in front of Oates, who accepted it without any show of thanks. Rebus took a slurp, peering over the rim of the mug to the plastic box of crayons.
‘Got any felt pens in there?’ he asked, shifting his focus to Oates. ‘Nice thick black ones?’
She leapt to her feet, hoisting a shocked Bram to her shoulder. ‘Get out!’ she barked.
‘You’re upsetting the wee one,’ Rebus chided her.
‘And you’re upsetting all of us! Now get the hell out.’
Rebus placed the mug back on the table. ‘Milk’s on the turn,’ he said. He was halfway to the door when he paused. ‘Seen anything of your ex-husband lately? People are getting a bit worried.’
Oates half turned her head towards Sanderson. ‘I swear to God, Mick, if you don’t kick him out, I will!’
Rebus held up both hands in a show of appeasement. ‘A peaceful, welcoming place – you really are all living the dream here.’ He closed the door after him and made for his car.
A few minutes later, as he passed the camp again, he prepared to sound his horn, but there was no sign of the uniform. He wasn’t much further on when his phone rang. It was Samantha, so he pulled into the backpackers’ parking area and answered.
‘It’s me,’ his daughter began.
‘I know – how are you doing?’
‘Press are all over this note I got. They wanted to photograph it but I couldn’t find it. I gave it to you, didn’t I?’
‘And I handed it to Creasey. Good news is, the publicity might stop whoever did it sending any more.’
‘It was you that alerted the media, wasn’t it?’
‘Time we got them on your side, Samantha. This isn’t much, but it’s a start.’
‘I’m not sure whether to thank you or not.’ He heard her sigh. ‘Are you still sleeping at the pub? Sofa’s available here … ’
‘I appreciate that, but a bed suits me better and the wee bit of distance might be good for us. How’s Carrie doing?’
‘Devastated. She’s going to get counselling, though it might mean trips to Thurso. They can’t release the body yet, so no point planning anything.’ Her voice began to crack. ‘If they arrest me, you’ll need to make the funeral arrangements.’
‘Not going to happen, trust me.’
‘It’s hard to trust anyone right now.’ She gave a long exhalation and seemed to pick herself up a little. Rebus saw that Ron Travis had come to the door. He lowered the driver’s-side window and gave a wave. Recognising him, Travis waved back then cupped the same hand to his mouth in imitation of taking a drink. Rebus shook the offer away and turned his attention back to the conversation, making Samantha repeat what she’d just been telling him.
‘Creasey delivered it all in a bag this morning – not the clothes, I suppose they’re evidence, but stuff from Keith’s pockets. Money and credit cards. His phone’s still missing, but attached to his house keys there’s a memory stick. I’d forgotten he had it.’
‘What’s on it?’ Rebus asked quietly.
‘I’ve not looked. Can’t be important, though, or Creasey would have hung onto it.’
‘True.’ Rebus was watching Travis disappear back indoors. ‘Will you still be at home in ten minutes or so?’
‘I’m meeting Julie for a coffee. She’s picking me up so I don’t have to brave whatever’s waiting for me in the village.’
‘I’m on my way,’ Rebus said, working the steering wheel with one hand.
27
Samantha and Julie were already in the car when Rebus arrived. Julie waved and smiled while Samantha got out, hugging him briefly before pressing the small plastic device into his hand.
‘Sorry about yesterday,’ she said.
‘Me too.’ He watched as she ducked back into the car, no hanging around. He hoped it was because of the chill wind and th
e sudden needles of rain. He got back into his rental and followed the two women into Naver. The TV camera crew had just packed up, and as they manoeuvred out of their space, Rebus grabbed it. The rental car was smaller than his Saab, easier to handle. He entered The Glen. May was serving coffees and teas to a table of regulars.
‘Will I be seeing you on the news tonight?’ he asked her.
‘Cheeky beggars wanted to film in here but I told them where to go.’
Rebus was waiting for her at the bar when she brought the empty tray back. He held up the memory stick. ‘Can I use your computer again?’
‘If you promise not to plant a virus.’
He promised, heading behind the bar and through the doorway into the cramped office. There was a backlog of paperwork on the large desk. On one wall was a framed photo of a younger May embracing her father outside the pub. Rebus peered at the password taped to the bottom edge of the computer screen. The hard drive was beneath the desk, and it took him some effort to lean down far enough to slot home the memory stick. Once done, he settled himself on the swivel chair. May’s face appeared in the doorway.
‘Get you a drink?’
‘I’m fine, thanks.’
‘Not hungry?’
‘Not yet.’ She was looking at the screen, not quite managing to disguise her curiosity. ‘Whatever’s on here, you’ll be the first to know,’ Rebus assured her.
‘I’ll leave you to it then.’ She began humming a tune as she returned to the bar. Rebus settled down to work.
A few dozen files. Most of them seemed to be individual photographs. He clicked through all of them. The camp, the dig, the history group. Then a few of Joe Collins, followed by Helen Carter, Stefan Novack and a man Rebus guessed must be Jimmy Hess’s grandad Frank. All four looked to be seated in armchairs in different living rooms. Keith had interviewed them in their own homes.
All that remained were the four audio files. Rebus managed to turn the volume up. Even so he had to angle his ear towards the small speaker on the front of the console. First up was Novack. The recording lasted just under fifty minutes. Rebus had mixed feelings as he listened to Keith’s voice; he wished again that he’d known him better in life, taken the trouble to get to know him. On the few occasions when he had phoned the house and Keith had answered, all he’d done was ask to speak to Samantha – no how are you? How’s work? How’s life treating you?