by Ian Rankin
17
You Deano?”
“Who’s asking?”
It was eight p.m. and music was blaring from within the Gimlet. A chalkboard outside announced that it was 80s Night. The bouncer on the door wore a long black woolen coat and a black polo neck. His hands were in his coat pockets and his feet were splayed.
“Detective Sergeant Rebus,” Rebus said, flipping open his warrant card. “Is your boss indoors?”
“Not tonight.”
“Any idea where I can catch him?”
“No.”
Rebus pretended to be stymied, even going so far as to scratch his head.
“Looks like you’re out of luck,” the bouncer stated.
“Not me, Deano,” Rebus replied. “You.”
The man was a couple of inches taller than Rebus and carried a similar amount of heft, the difference being one of muscle tone. One look at Deano’s neck told Rebus he was a gym regular. Nicks to both eyebrows meant he had probably boxed at one time, or still did. The small, wary eyes met Rebus’s.
“How’s that then?” he asked.
“I was going to talk to Darryl in person, but I suppose a phone call will have to do. We go way back, me and your boss. Thought it only fair to warn him…”
A couple of regulars were arriving, men only a few years younger than Rebus.
“All right, Deano?” one of them said.
Deano nodded, taking a step to the side so they could get past. As the door opened, Rebus caught a blast of Duran Duran. Someone was singing along, though the band wouldn’t have thanked them for it. The door closed again and Deano resumed his staring match with Rebus.
“Warn him of what?” he asked.
“Someone’s using the Gimlet for drug deals. Like I say, I know Darryl and he’s not that stupid. I’m not saying he wouldn’t get involved, but I doubt he’d let it happen anywhere that could connect so sharply to him.” Rebus paused. “See what I’m saying?”
The bouncer was trying not to show it in his face, but he couldn’t help balling his fists and shifting his feet. Little tics that told Rebus the man was unnerved.
“Darryl’s going to want to know,” Rebus pressed on. “It’s happening right here without his say-so. That means you’re not doing your job. In fact, story is, the one doing the dealing might be an employee. Darryl’s going to want to know one of his own is in danger of bringing the Drug Squad down on him. Who knows what they’ll turn up once they start looking?”
“I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.”
“Then there’s no problem.” Rebus took the liberty of stretching out a hand and patting the bouncer’s shoulder. “I’ll just call Darryl and give him the story.”
“Could be a punter,” Deano blurted out.
“What’s that?”
“Selling the dope—could be one of the punters.”
Rebus shook his head and tried for a soulful look. “What I’ve heard is it’s someone closer to home. Someone very like yourself…” He had lifted his phone to his face, making show of scrolling down the names in his contact list. “Here we are,” he said, pressing the phone to his ear.
“Hang on a minute,” Deano said.
“What?”
“Just put the phone down.”
Rebus did so, and waited while the cogs turned inside the bouncer’s head.
“If you’re so sure it’s me, why piss around? Why let me know you know?”
“Because Darryl never needs to find out. You help me, I help you.”
“I’m nobody’s snitch.”
“Don’t fret—it’s not your boss’s secrets I’m interested in.”
“What then?”
“You sell to a young guy called Forbes McCuskey.”
“Do I? Who says?”
“I don’t have time for this, Deano.” Rebus lifted the phone again. The bouncer gripped him by the wrist.
“Okay, okay,” he said, looking up and down the street. “I know who Forbes McCuskey is.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere. You heard about the car crash?”
Deano looked genuinely puzzled. “He was in a crash?”
“His girlfriend was with him at the time. Out Kirkliston way, other side of the airport.”
“And what does that have to do with me?”
“You didn’t happen to be in the vicinity?”
Deano shook his head.
“So how does it work when Forbes buys from you?”
“He parks across the road there.” The bouncer nodded towards the spot where Rebus’s Saab sat. “Winds the window down. I go over, he tells me what he needs and I give him a price.”
“Bit of a markup, him being a posh student and all?”
“I play fair.” The man actually sounded aggrieved by the accusation.
“You know he’s the Justice Minister’s son?” Rebus watched Deano nod. “Never tempted to use that?”
“I didn’t find out until his dad died. Saw his photo on the front of the paper.”
“You sure that was the first of you twigging? Only, a few papers might pay good money for the story.”
“Hard to give them a story without being put in the frame myself.”
“True enough,” Rebus agreed. “And if Darryl were to find out you were conducting a bit of business without his okay…”
Deano stiffened, squaring his shoulders.
“How much were you selling to McCuskey?”
“Enough for him to share with friends.”
“Coke? Ecstasy?”
“As and when required, plus a bit of blaw.”
“And where do you source the stuff?”
The bouncer shook his head slowly and determinedly. “You’ve got what you’re getting.”
“I’ve hardly started, son.” Rebus took a moment to gather his thoughts. “Forbes was freelance? He wasn’t working for you?”
“No.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“A couple of weeks.”
“Is that normal?”
“He might have other stuff on his plate right now.”
“True, but I’m wondering how often he used to come see you. Maybe he’s found another outlet.”
“You think that’s what he was doing the night of the crash?”
Rebus offered a shrug. A car was slowing as it passed the bar. A cheap model with a modified exhaust. Two young men in front, two in the back. Hip-hop blaring. They saw that Deano had company and seemed to recognize what kind of company it was. With a growl from the engine, the car sped off.
“I maybe just lost you a sale,” Rebus apologized.
“They’ll be back,” Deano said. “Are we done here?”
“Just one last thing.” Rebus lit a cigarette, offering one but receiving a shake of the head. “Cab driver called Billy Saunders had a pickup here four nights back. That was the last anyone saw of him until he turned up with a bullet in his chest, floating in the canal.”
“I heard.”
“And I’m guessing by now you’ve been interviewed?” Rebus watched as the bouncer nodded. “What did you tell them?”
“I said I’d no idea who it was got picked up that night—or even if a cab ever arrived.”
“As I thought,” Rebus said. “But now you’re going to tell me the truth. See, Darryl already told me you were on the door that night. And a cab was ordered from here to go to Niddrie—and Niddrie is where the car ended up. So someone from this pub was in the back of that cab and they had to walk right past you when they left.”
“Maybe I was on my break.”
Rebus squinted through a cloud of cigarette smoke, leaning back a little in a show of disbelief. “Lying might be in your job description, Deano, but you’re really bad at it. Care to try again?” “What if the cab was for someone I know? Would they be in the frame for the driver’s murder?” Rebus shook his head. “Saunders was a worried man. He abandoned the cab and slept rough for a couple of nights. Nobody thinks it had anyt
hing to do with his passenger. We just need to know if he said anything, or seemed edgy, or maybe took a call on his mobile…”
“The answer is no,” Deano said. The door of the bar burst open and a man and woman stumbled out, arms around one another, giggling like the teenagers they no longer were. Ignoring Rebus and the bouncer, they headed off towards the flats behind the Gimlet, the woman pausing to remove her high heels, hanging on to the man for support as she did so.
“You were the passenger?” Rebus asked quietly. Deano eventually nodded.
“An urgent delivery, maybe?” Rebus guessed. “Or maybe stocks were low and you needed a top-up?”
“He was supposed to wait. I told him I’d be five minutes, maybe ten. Handed him a twenty as down payment. But when I came out, he was nowhere to be seen.”
“Did he know what was going on?”
“No.”
“You hadn’t used him before?”
“Not that I know of.”
“And he seemed fine?”
“I was texting most of the way.”
“When you handed him the money and told him to wait…”
“He just nodded.” Deano paused. “Maybe that was a bit odd. I mean, he didn’t say anything, like he was distracted. Just stared at the windscreen while I flicked the twenty onto the passenger seat.” He fixed Rebus with a look. “No way I’m telling this to anyone else.”
“I’ll need to think about that.”
“I’ll deny everything. It’ll be your word against mine.”
“I wonder whose story your boss would be likely to believe, Deano. Could be the police will be the least of your troubles.”
Rebus crossed the road and got into his car. Turned the ignition and gave a little wave in the bouncer’s direction before moving off.
Deano watched the car all the way to the T-junction. Even when it was lost to view he kept staring, as if there might be something around the corner that would emerge suddenly, changing his life utterly and forever. A distant roar told him that the hip-hop car was somewhere in the vicinity. He turned and headed into the Gimlet, knowing that the sanctuary it offered might be fleeting and deceptive.
“Anyone would think you have no social life,” Rebus said. He had recognized Clarke’s Astra parked directly outside his tenement. She was getting out of the car now, smiling tiredly.
“You don’t exactly look as if you’ve been partying,” she responded.
“The law never sleeps, Siobhan. But in your case, I might make an exception. Workload getting to you?”
“I don’t want any foul-ups.”
“They’re more likely to happen when the boss hasn’t had enough shut-eye.” Rebus was finding the key for the main door. “You coming up?”
“How strong can you make a cup of tea?”
Rebus tutted. “Warm milk for you, young lady. And a lift home after, if you’re too tired to drive…”
The flat was chilly, and Rebus turned up the radiators in the living room. He plugged his phone in to charge while he made tea. Clarke wandered into the kitchen and opened the fridge.
“You hungry?” he asked.
“I may have just lost my appetite.” She closed the door on the dried-up cheese and gray-pallored sausages.
“We could call for a delivery.”
But she shook her head and watched him remove the tea bags from either mug. Back in the living room, she rested her head against the back of the sofa, eyes closed.
“Stretch out, if you like,” Rebus said, settling into his own armchair. “Then tell me all your troubles.”
“Like I’m in therapy, you mean?” She smiled, eyes still closed. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”
“Do I sound like a man with problems?”
She angled her head and looked at him. “You are, though. Let’s start with the gun. You know something about it, scout’s honor or not, so spit it out.”
Rebus stared back at her above the rim of the mug. “There was a gun like it,” he admitted. “Doesn’t make it the same gun, mind.”
“Taken from an ex-army veteran? And then what? Kept lying around Summerhall for anyone to borrow?”
“As far as the Saints were concerned, they were repaying a debt. That soldier had served his country, so they decided to keep him out of jail.”
“It wasn’t their decision to make, John.”
“I know.”
“Who did you speak to? Paterson?” She watched him nod. “What did he say?”
“Gun was kept in his desk drawer. Then one day, just before we all got moved out, it wasn’t there anymore.”
“Only a handful of people had access to it,” Clarke stated.
“Can we be sure it was the same gun?” He saw the look she was giving him. “Okay, it’s a good bet, but it’s no more than that.”
“Whoever shot Saunders, they’ll have gunpowder residue on their skin and clothes.”
“And if they’re ex-police, they’ll know that and have dealt with it.” He held up his right hand, waggling his fingers. “Want a quick sniff, Inspector?”
“Don’t be revolting.” She lifted her mug and drank from it.
“Look, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I wanted to do a bit of checking first.”
“So you phoned Paterson and warned him?”
“I wasn’t warning him…”
“Could be construed as such by someone who doesn’t know you like I do. But I’m running a murder case here, John, and the last thing I need is you placing hurdles in the way.”
“Understood.”
“You were in the army, weren’t you? Ever carry a Browning?”
“Thirteen rounds, and you never knew when one might go off and you’d end up shooting yourself in the thigh or ankle.”
“How so?”
“Safety catch was far from foolproof. You never kept a round in the chamber.”
“Easy to use, though? Could someone who’d never fired a shot in their life find their way around one?”
Rebus nodded, then asked how the questioning of Stefan Gilmour had gone.
“He brought along a shiny lawyer.”
“Only to be expected.”
“Doesn’t make him look any less guilty.”
“I’m guessing that’s what the media pack are thinking now too.”
Clarke’s phone had sounded, letting her know she had a text. She looked at the screen.
“Uncanny,” she commented. “That’s one of them now. Laura Smith.”
“The Scotsman’s crime reporter?”
Clarke nodded. “She thinks I owe her for the gen on Forbes McCuskey and his dealing.”
“She’d be happy enough if you told her you’ve connected Summerhall to the murder weapon.”
“I’m not at that stage just yet.” She looked at him again. “What’s happening about McCuskey?”
“Father or son?”
“Both, I suppose.”
Rebus got up and headed over to the bay window, pulling it open and crouching down so he could light a cigarette and blow the smoke outside.
“I appreciate the thought,” Clarke said. “Now, about the McCuskeys…”
“You probably know as much as I do when it comes to the break-in.”
“Managed to link it to the son yet?”
“No…”
“That sounds like you’re getting closer, though.”
“Just from the way I said ‘no’?”
She nodded. “So here’s where we find out if you think you can trust me.”
“I trust you.”
“Then share.”
Rebus held up a finger. “You have to go first—how is Fox working out?”
“He’s okay. A sharp mind, even if his CID skills are a bit rusty.” “Do you trust him?”
“I think so, yes.”
“Even though he could still be playing for Elinor Macari’s team?”
“I trust him,” Clarke stated. “Now it’s your turn.”
Rebus blew smoke
through the gap in the window. “Forbes McCuskey isn’t a big player. My guess is he just buys enough to sell on to his immediate circle—probably reckons it makes him look big and important. He gets the stuff from a doorman at the Gimlet.”
“Darryl Christie’s pub?”
“The same. Not that Christie knows anything about it.” Rebus paused. “So when you question the doorman—name’s Deano, by the way—keep it low-key. He might be useful to us some day, but not if Christie’s booted him off the park.”
“And why would I be questioning this Deano character?”
“Because he was the passenger in Billy Saunders’s minicab. Needed to go to Niddrie for a bit of shopping. Says Saunders didn’t seem particularly antsy. The car was supposed to wait, but it didn’t.”
“Anything else?”
Rebus shook his head.
“And you were going to bring this to me first thing in the morning?”
“Of course.” He gestured towards her mug. “How’s the tea?” “I think the milk’s past it.”
“Past it sometimes still does the job.” He paused. “If you want to leave your car here, I can run you home. Don’t want you nodding off at the wheel.”
She was stifling a yawn, but shaking her head at the same time. “You know that your pal Gilmour connects to Owen Traynor?”
“Yes.”
“Been keeping that to yourself too?”
“Obviously not—who told you?”
“Laura.”
“Another favor owed.”
“The shining knight of the Better Together campaign is beginning to look pretty tarnished.”
“This is why I don’t vote. My ex campaigned for devolution back in ’79. Drove me demented.”
“But we’ve got the chance for a fresh start,” Clarke teased him.
“Thing about fresh starts, though, Siobhan…”
“What?”
“They usually turn out to be same old in disguise.”
As Malcolm Fox sat by his father’s bedside, he thought of Professor Norman Cuttle. It had been on the tip of his tongue to reveal to Rebus that his own father was in a home not unlike the one in Colinton. Mitch Fox was dozing. Malcolm looked around the room, seeing the few select pieces of furniture from the old house, the ones Mitch had decided to keep. Everything else had either been split between Malcolm and his sister, or else sold. A line of saliva had dried to a salty crust on Mitch’s unshaven chin. The skin looked red and sore. Malcolm would mention it to the staff. They would have an excuse ready—they always did—but he would ask anyway, just so they’d know he was paying attention.