Rather Be the Devil

27

The Galvin Brasserie.

An early dinner, Rebus and Deborah Quant the only customers in their section of the restaurant. She’d ordered a Bloody Mary and downed it in three gulps.

‘Tough day?’ Rebus guessed.

‘You ever seen someone who’s been...?’ She broke off. ‘Sorry, I forgot — you were there. Come to think of it, didn’t I hear you were bedside when Kenny Arnott passed away, too?’

‘Guilty as charged.’

She pretended to move her chair a few inches further away from him.

‘It’s not contagious,’ he said with a smile.

‘So what are we celebrating? Until an hour ago, my dinner plan involved a microwave and a corkscrew.’ She paused. ‘You’ve got some colour in your cheeks, by the way. And the weight loss shows.’

‘Maybe that’s what we’re celebrating, then. That and the fact that I got some news.’

‘Oh?’

‘Hank Marvin’s not the threat I thought he was.’

She looked puzzled, but instead of an explanation, Rebus just smiled. ‘Oh, and one other thing — that story I started to tell you?’

‘Your locked-room mystery? Don’t tell me you’ve come up with a new theory?’

The waiter was hovering to take their food order.

‘I’ll tell you over the main course.’ Rebus looked at the menu. ‘I think I’m going to have two steaks.’

‘Two?’

‘One to take home to Brillo.’

‘If you’re paying, be my guest.’

Another couple had walked in and were being greeted by the maître d’. Rebus recognised Bruce Collier, and wondered if the tanned, exotically dressed woman with him was his wife, newly back from India. He supposed there were people whose minds he should put at rest — not just Collier, but Peter Attwood and Dougie Vaughan. Didn’t they deserve to be told the whole story? Maybe one of them would even do something about it.

Collier didn’t notice Rebus. His attention was focused on his partner. Deborah Quant had finished ordering, so Rebus told the waiter what he wanted.

‘Penny for them,’ Quant said, once the waiter had left.

‘I’ve just worked out what the music on the speakers is,’ he said. ‘It’s John Martyn, “Over the Hill”.’

‘And?’

‘And nothing. It’s just, maybe I’m not there yet.’

‘Nobody said you were.’

‘I was starting to think it, though, before all of this.’

‘All of what?’

‘The last week or so, everything that’s happened. It makes me realise there’s unfinished business.’

‘There’s always unfinished business, John.’

‘Maybe, maybe not.’

‘You think you can do something about it?’

‘As long as I’ve got some fight left in me.’

‘This is Cafferty we’re talking about, yes?’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘He’s past it — you told me that yourself. Past it and long retired.’

‘If you saw him right now, you might change your mind.’

‘Why?’

‘Because,’ Rebus said, signalling to the waiter for more drinks, ‘the old devil is back...’

Nine o’clock, and the revellers were making their way through the Grassmarket and the Cowgate, stopping off at selected pubs and clubs. Cafferty had left Craw Shand with a hundred pounds of credit behind the bar of the Pirate, making Craw suddenly very popular with the other regulars. Stepping out into the darkness, he pulled on his black leather gloves and walked the short distance to the Devil’s Dram. Its doors were locked — no red carpet, no doormen. A group of half a dozen students looked as if they couldn’t quite believe it, before heading off to find another room filled with noise and flashing lights.

Cafferty kicked the doors a couple of times, then went around to the back entrance and kicked and rattled that door, too. Eventually it was yanked open from within.

‘We’re shut,’ the man snarled.

‘Who are you?’ Cafferty demanded.

‘Who’s asking?’

‘People call me Big Ger.’

The man swallowed. ‘I’m Harry.’

‘And do you run this place, Harry?’

‘Not really. It belongs to—’

‘I know who it used to belong to, and we both know he won’t be paying any bills for a while. But from what I hear, this establishment could be a goldmine with the right man in charge, and business has a way of evaporating if doors stay locked.’

‘Yeah, but—’

‘You’ve sent everyone home? The DJ? Bar staff? Chef?’

Harry nodded.

‘Well get on the phone and haul them back here!’

Cafferty squeezed past Harry and stalked through the storage and kitchen areas, emerging into the club proper. He took it all in, the motifs of imps, demons and general bad behaviour, then climbed to the mezzanine, took one look at the nearest banquette, and sat down. Eventually Harry reached the top of the stairs.

‘I don’t see you making any calls, son,’ Cafferty said with a growl.

Harry fumbled for his phone and started tapping the screen. Cafferty stretched his arms out along the back of the banquette.

‘I want this place buzzing by ten thirty. Then you can sit down with me and tell me the ins and outs.’

‘Of what?’ Harry glanced up from his screen.

‘Your old boss’s empire. Isn’t that what happens in any good company when there’s a change at the top?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And fetch me a bottle of malt — best you can find. Time this place started living up to its name.’

Morris Gerald Cafferty watched the young man sprint back down the stairs, then closed his eyes, allowing himself the luxury of a moment’s relaxation, jaw unclenching, shoulders released of their tension.

It had been a long time coming.

A long time coming.

‘But here I am again,’ he said. ‘And here I stay.’