Set In Darkness ir-11

by Ian Rankin

  The eyes became little more than slits. 'What do you want?'

  'I want to see the Weasel.'

  'Who?'

  'Look, if he's not upstairs, just say so. But make sure you're not lying, because I get the feeling I'll be able to tell, and I won't be very happy.' He flipped open his warrant card, then stood up and held it towards the security camera in the far corner. A wall-mounted speaker crackled into life.

  'Henry, send Mr Rebus up.'

  There were two doors at the top of the stairs, but only one was open. It led to a small, neat office. Fax machine and photocopier, one desk with a laptop and surveillance screen on it, and at the second desk the Weasel. He still looked insignificant, but he was the power in this part of Edinburgh until Big Ger came home. Thinning hair greased back from a protruding forehead; a jawline that was all bones; narrow mouth, so that his face seemed to come to a point.

  'Take a seat,' the Weasel said.

  'I'll stand,' Rebus answered. He made to close the door. 'Leave it open.'

  Rebus took his hand off the door handle, thought for a moment - the room was stuffy, mixed body odours - then crossed the narrow landing to the other door. He knocked three times. 'All right in there, lads?' Pushed the door open. Three of the Weasel's men were standing just inside. 'This won't take long,' he told them, closing the door again. Then he closed the Weasel's door, too, so that it was just the two of them.

  Now he sat down. Spotted the carrier bags by one wall, whisky bottles peeping out.

  'Sorry to spoil the party,' he said. 'What can I do for you, Rebus?' The Weasel's hands were resting on the arms of his chair, as though he might be about to spring to his feet.

  'Were you here in the late seventies? I know your boss was. But he was small beer then: playing a few little games, bedding himself in. Were you with him that far back?'

  'What do you want to know?'

  'I thought I'd just told you. Bryce Callan was running things then. Don't tell me you didn't know Bryce?'

  'I know the name.'

  'Cafferty was his muscle for a while.' Rebus cocked his head. 'Any of this jarring your memory? See, I thought I could ask you, save a trip to the Bar-L and me wasting your boss's time.'

  'Ask me what?' The hands came off the chair arms. He was relaxing, now that he knew Rebus's subject was ancient history rather than current affairs. But Rebus knew that one false move on his part and the Weasel would squeal, bringing his minders charging in and ensuring Rebus a visit to A&E at the very least.

  'I want to know about Bryce Callan. Did he have a spot of bother with a builder called Dean Coghill?'

  'Dean Coghill?' The Weasel frowned. 'Never heard of him.'

  'Sure?'

  The Weasel nodded.

  'I heard Callan had been giving him grief.'

  'This was twenty years ago?' The Weasel waited till Rebus nodded. 'Then what the hell's it got to do with me? Why should I tell you anything?'

  'Because you like me?'

  The Weasel snorted. But now his face changed. Rebus turned to look at the monitor, but too late; he'd missed whatever the Weasel had seen. Heavy footsteps, taking the stairs with effort. The door swung open. The Weasel was on his feet, moving from behind the desk. And Rebus was on his feet, too.

  'Strawman!' The voice booming. Big Ger Cafferty filled the doorway. He was wearing a blue silk suit, crisp white shirt open a couple of buttons at the neck. 'Just to make my day complete.'

  Rebus just stood there, speechless for maybe the second or third time in his life. Cafferty entered the room, so that it suddenly became crowded. He brushed past Rebus, moving with the slow agility of a predator. His skin was as pale and creased as a white rhino's, his hair silver. His bullet-shaped head seemed to disappear into the neck of his shirt as he leaned down, his back to Rebus. When he straightened, he was holding one of the whisky bottles.

  'Come on,' he told Rebus, 'you and me are going for a wee ride.' Then he gripped Rebus's arm and steered him to the door.

  And Rebus, still numb, did what he was told.

  Strawman: Cafferty's nickname for Rebus.

  The car was a black 7-Series BMW. Driver in the front, and someone equally large in the passenger seat, which left Rebus and Cafferty in the back. 'Where are we going?'

  'Don't panic, Strawman.' Cafferty took a slug of whisky, passed the bottle over, and exhaled noisily. The windows were down a fraction, and cold air slapped at Rebus's ears. 'Bit of a mystery tour, that's all.' Cafferty gazed from his window. 'I've been away a while. I hear the place has changed. Morrison Street and the Western Approach Road,' he told the driver, 'then maybe Holyrood and down to Leith.' He turned to his passenger. 'Regeneration: music to my ears.' , 'Don't forget the new museum.'

  Cafferty stared at him. 'Why would I be interested in that?' He held out his hand for the bottle. Rebus took a swig and passed it across.

  'I get the horrible feeling your being here is legit,' Rebus said at last.

  Cafferty just winked.

  'How did you swing it?'

  'To be honest with you, Strawman, I think the governor didn't like it that I was running the show. I mean, that's what he's paid to do, and his own officers were giving Big Ger more respect than they gave him.' He laughed. 'The governor decided I'd be less of a grievance out here.'

  Rebus looked at him. 'I don't think so,' he said.

  'Well, maybe you're right. I dare say good behaviour and the inoperable cancer swung it for me.' He looked at Rebus. 'You still don't believe me?'

  'I want to.'

  Cafferty laughed again. 'Knew I could depend on you for sympathy.' He tapped the magazine pouch in front of him. 'The big brown envelope,' he said. 'My X-rays from the hospital.'

  Rebus reached across, pulled them out, held them up one at a time to his window.

  'The darkish area's the one you're looking for.'

  But what he was looking for was Cafferty's name. He found it at the bottom corner of each of the X-rays. Morris Gerald Cafferty. Rebus slid the sheets back into the envelope. It all looked official enough: hospital in Glasgow; radiology department. He handed the envelope to Cafferty.

  'I'm sorry,' he said.

  Cafferty chuckled quietly, then slapped the front-seat passenger on the shoulder. 'It's not often you'll hear that, Rab: an apology from the Strawman!'

  Rab half-turned. Curly black hair with long sideburns.

  'Rab got out the week before me,' Cafferty said. 'Best pals inside, we were.' He grabbed Rab's shoulder again. "One minute you're in the Bar-L, the next you're in a Beamer. Said I'd look after you, didn't I?' Cafferty winked at Rebus. 'Saw me through a few scrapes did Rab.' He rested against the back of his seat, took another gulp of whisky. 'City's certainly changed, Strawman.' His eyes fixed on the passing scene. 'Lots of things have changed.'

  'But not you?'

  'Prison changes a man, surely you've heard that? In my case, it brought on the big C He snorted.

  'How long do they say...?'

  'Now don't you go getting all maudlin on me. Here.' He passed over the bottle, then pushed the X-rays back into the seat pocket. 'We're going to forget all about these. It's good to be out, and I don't care what got me here. I'm here, and that's that.' He went back to his window-gazing. 'I hear tell there's building work going on all over.'

  'See for yourself.'

  'I intend to.' He paused. 'You know, it's very nice, just the two of us here, sharing a drink and catching up on old times... but what the hell were you doing in my office in the first place?'

  'I was asking the Weasel about Bryce Callan.'

  'Now there's a name from the crypt.'

  'Not quite: he's out in Spain, isn't he?'

  'Is he?'

  'I must have misheard. I thought you still passed a little percentage on to him.'

  'And why would I do that? He's got family, hasn't he? Let them look after him.' Cafferty shifted in his seat, as though made physically uncomfortable by the mere mention of Bryce Callan.

  'I
don't want to spoil the party,' Rebus said.

  'Good.'

  'So if you'll tell me what I want to know, we can drop the subject.'

  'Christ, man, were you always this irritating?'

  'I've been taking lessons while you were away.'

  'Your teacher deserves a fucking bonus. Well, if you've a bone stuck in your craw, spit it out.'

  'A builder called Dean Coghill.'

  Cafferty nodded. 'I knew the man.'

  'A body turned up in a fireplace at Queensberry House.'

  'The old hospital?'

  'They're turning it into part of the parliament,' Rebus was watching Cafferty carefully. His body felt tired, but his mind was fizzing, still getting over the shock. 'This body had been there twenty-odd years. Turns out there was building work going on in '78 and '79.'

  'And Coghill's firm was involved?' Cafferty was nodding. 'Fair play, I can see what you're on about. But what's it got to do with Bryce Callan?'

  'It's just that I hear Callan and Coghill might have crossed swords.'

  'If they had, Coghill would have gone home minus a couple of hands. Why don't you ask Coghill himself?'

  'He's dead.' Cafferty looked round. 'Natural causes,' Rebus assured him.

  'People come and go, Strawman. But you're always trying to dig up the corpses. One foot in the past and one in the grave.'

  'I can promise you one thing, Cafferty.'

  'And what's that?'

  'When they bury you, I won't come round after with a shovel. Yours is one corpse I'll be happy to leave rotting.'

  Rab turned his head slowly, fixing soulless eyes on Rebus.

  'Now you've upset him, Strawman.' Cafferty patted his henchman's shoulder. 'And I know I should take offence myself.' His eyes bored into Rebus's. 'Maybe another time, eh?' He leaned forward. 'Pull over!' he barked. The driver brought them to an immediate skidding halt.

  Rebus didn't need to be told. He opened his door, found himself on West Port. The car sped off again, acceleration pulling the door shut. Headed for the Grassmarket... and Holyrood after that. Cafferty had said he wanted to see Holyrood, centre of the changing city. Rebus rubbed at his eyes. Cafferty, re-entering his life now of all times. He reminded himself that he didn't believe in coincidence. He lit a cigarette and started in the direction of Lauriston Place. He could cut through the Meadows and be home in fifteen minutes.

  But his car was back in Gorgie. Hell, it could stay there till tomorrow; best of British to whoever wanted to steal it.

  When he reached Arden Street, however, there it was, waiting for him, double parked and with a note asking him to shift it so the note's author could move his own blocked car. Rebus tried the driver's door. It wasn't locked. No keys: they were in his coat pocket.

  Cafferty's men had done it.

  They'd done it simply to show that they could.

  He headed upstairs, poured himself a malt and sat on the edge of his bed. He'd checked his phone: no messages. Lorna hadn't tried to get in touch. He felt relief, tinged with disappointment. He stared at the bedclothes. Bits and pieces kept coming back to him, making no particular order. And now his nemesis was back in town, ready to reclaim its streets as his own. Rebus went back to his door and put the chain on. He was halfway down the hall when he stopped.

  'What are you doing, man?'

  He walked back, slid the chain off again. Cafferty would have no intention of going quietly. Doubtless there were scores to be settled. Rebus didn't doubt that he was one of them, which was fine by him.

  When Cafferty came, Rebus would be waiting...

  'It'd be easier with the door open,' Ellen Wylie said. She meant that they'd have more room to move, and more light to work by.

  'We'd freeze,' Grant Hood reminded her. 'I've lost all feeling in my fingers as it is.'

  They were inside the garage at the Coghill house. Another grey winter's morning, bringing chill gusts which shook the metal up-and-over door. The ceiling light was dusty and dim, and only one small frosted window gave any natural light. Wylie held a pocket torch between her teeth as she searched. Hood had brought a plug-in lamp with him, the kind mechanics used in their work bays. But its light was too piercing, and it was awkward to manoeuvre. It sat clipped to a shelf, doing its best to throw shadows over most of the interior.

  Wylie thought she'd come prepared: not just the torch, but flasks of hot soup and tea. She was wearing two pairs of wool socks under a pair of walking boots. Her chin was tucked into a scarf. The hood of her olive-green duffel coat was covering her head. Her ears were cold. Her knees were cold. The one-bar electric heater worked to a radius of about six inches.

  'We'd get done a lot quicker with the door open,' she argued.

  'Can't you hear the wind? Everything would be blown halfway to the Pentlands.'

  Mrs Coghill had brought them out a pot of coffee and some biscuits. She seemed worried about them. Loo-breaks came as their only relief. Stepping into the centrally heated house, there was a strong temptation to stay put. Grant had commented on the length of Ellen's last trip to the house. She'd snapped back that she didn't know she was being timed.

  Then they'd drifted into this argument about the garage door.

  'Anything?' he said now, for about the twentieth time.

  'You'll be the first to know,' she replied through gritted teeth. It was no good just ignoring his question: he'd go on asking, same as last time.

  'This stuff's all way too recent,' he complained, slapping a pile of paperwork down on to one of the tea chests. Unbalanced, the papers cascaded to the floor.

  'Well, that's one way to organise a search,' Wylie muttered. If they put the stuff outside when they'd finished with it, they'd have room to work in, and they'd know which files had been checked... And it would all blow away.

  'I'm no expert,' Wylie said at last, stopping to pour out some tea from the flask, 'but Coghill's business affairs look pretty disorganised, if this lot's anything to go by.'

  'He got in trouble over his VAT returns,' Hood commented.

  'And all the casual labour he employed.'

  'Doesn't make our job any easier.' Hood came over, accepted a cup from her with a nod of thanks. There was a knock, and someone came in.

  'Any left in that?' Rebus asked, nodding towards the flask.

  'Half a cup,' Wylie said. Rebus looked at the coffee cups, lifted the cleanest one and held it out while she poured.

  'How's it going?' he asked.

  Hood made a point of closing the door. 'You mean apart from the wind-chill factor?'

  'Cold's healthy,' Rebus said. 'Good for you.' He'd moved to within six inches of the heater.

  'It's slow going,' Wylie said. 'Coghill's biggest problem was he was a one-man band. Tried to run the whole business himself.'

  'Now if only he'd employed a nice personnel manager Wylie finished the thought: 'We might have what we're looking for by now.'

  'Maybe he chucked stuff out/ Rebus said. 'How far back have you found records for?'

  'He didn't throw anything out, sir: that's the real problem here. He kept every scrap of paper.' She waved a letter at him. It was on paper headed Coghill Builders. He took it from her. The estimate for construction of a one-car garage at an address in Joppa. The estimate was in pounds, shillings and pence. The date was July 1969.

  'We're looking for one year out of thirty,' Wylie said. She drained the tea, screwed the cup back on to the Thermos. 'A needle in a bloody haystack.'

  Rebus drained his cup. 'Well, sooner I let you get back to it...' He checked his watch.

  'If you're at a loose end, sir, we can always use another pair of hands.'

  Rebus looked at Wylie. She wasn't smiling. 'Another appointment,' he told her. 'Just thought I'd drop by.'

  'Much appreciated, sir,' Hood said, catching something of his partner's tone. They went back to work, watched Rebus leave.

  Wylie heard an engine start, and flung down her sheaf of papers. 'Do you believe that? Swans in, finishes off the tea
, and swans out again. And if we'd found anything, he'd have been off back to the station with it to bag the glory.'

  Hood was staring at the door. 'Think so?'

  She looked at him. 'Don't you?'

  He shrugged. 'Not his style,' he said.

  'Then why did he come?'

  Hood was still looking at the door. 'Because he can't let go-'

  'Another way of saying he doesn't trust us.' Hood was shaking his head. He picked up another box-file. 'Seventy-one,' he said, looking at it. 'Year I was born.'

  'I hope you don't mind the choice of meeting place,' Cammo Grieve said, picking his way over lengths of scaffolding which had either just come down or were just going up.

  'No problem,' Rebus said.

  'Only I wanted the excuse for a poke around here.'

  Here being the temporary home of the Scottish Parliament in the General Assembly building at the top of The Mound. The builders were hard at work. Black metal lighting gantreys had already appeared amidst the wooden ceiling beams. Gyproc walls were being cut to shape, their skeletal wooden frames standing ready to receive them. A new floor was being laid on top of the existing one. It rose amphitheatre-style in a graduated semicircle. The desks and chairs hadn't arrived yet. In the courtyard outside, the statue of John Knox had been boxed in - some said for safekeeping, some so that he could not show his disgust at the renovations to the Church of Scotland's supreme court.

  'I hear Glasgow had a building ready and waiting to accommodate the parliament,' Grieve said. He tutted, smiling. 'As if Edinburgh would let them get away with that. All the same...' He looked around. 'Shame they couldn't just wait for the permanent site to be ready.'

  'We can't wait that long, apparently,' Rebus said.

  'Only because Dewar has a bee in his bonnet. Look at the way he banjaxed Calton Hill as a site, all because he worried it was a "Nationalist symbol". Bloody man's an eejit.'

  'I'd have preferred Leith myself,' Rebus said.

  Grieve looked interested. 'Why's that then?'

  'Traffic's bad enough in the city as it is. Besides,' Rebus went on, 'it would have saved the working girls having to tramp all the way to Holyrood to ply their trade.'