Resurrection Men

14

Leith police station was an elderly and distinguished building on the outside, but referred to by most of its occupants as “the geriatric.” Pulling on his jacket as he led them back down its steps into the waiting afternoon, DI Bobby Hogan explained why.

“It’s like somebody in a nursing home. They might look well enough dressed — presentable and all that — but inside, their body’s started breaking down. The plumbing might leak, the heart’s a bit dicky, and the brain’s given up the ghost.” He winked at Allan Ward.

Three of them had made the trip from St. Leonard’s: Rebus was the obvious choice, of course, but Tam Barclay had made a song and dance about needing some fresh air, and Allan Ward had volunteered, even though Rebus suspected that what the young man wanted to see were signs of prostitution.

The day was bright but windy. Hogan’s jacket flapped like a sail as he finally secured his arms into its sleeves. He was glad of the excuse to be out of the station. They’d only needed to mention the Zombie Bar and he’d sprung up from his desk, looking around him for his jacket.

“If we’re in luck, Father Joe might be there,” he’d said, referring to his snitch, Joe Daly.

“It’s not called the Zombie Bar anymore,” he explained now, leading them along Tolbooth Wynd. “That place lost its license.”

“Too many brawls?” Allan Ward guessed.

“Too many drunken poets and writers,” Hogan corrected. “The more they tart Leith up, the more people seem to come looking for the sleazy side.”

“And where’s that to be found these days?” Ward asked. Hogan offered a smile, eyes turning to Rebus.

“We’ve got a live one here, John.”

Rebus nodded. Tam Barclay wasn’t looking too lively: as the day had progressed, so had his hangover. “Mixing the beer and whiskey,” he said, rubbing at his temples. He wasn’t looking forward to their trip to the pub . . .

“What’s the Zombie called now?” Rebus asked Hogan.

“Bar Z,” came the answer. “And here it is . . .”

Bar Z had windows which were all frosted glass except for a large letter Z in the center of each. The interior was chrome and gray, the tables made from some light, trendy wood which captured and retained every beer ring and cigarette burn. The music was probably called something like “trance” or “ambient,” and a chalkboard menu offered Huevos Rancheros — listed as “a Tex-Mex all-day breakfast treat” — and Snack Attacks such as blini and baba ghanoush.

However, something had gone badly wrong with the Bar Z. The only people drinking the afternoon away were the same mixture of desperate businessmen and down-at-the-heels drunks who had probably called the Zombie Bar home. The place carried an aroma of soured dreams. Hogan pointed to one of the many empty tables and asked the trio what they wanted.

“Our round, Bobby,” Rebus insisted. “You’re the one helping us out.” Ward decided on a bottle of Holsten, while Barclay only wanted cola — “as much as you can fit in a glass.” Hogan, who said he was undecided, went up to the bar with Rebus.

“Is your man here?” Rebus asked in an undertone. Hogan shook his head.

“Doesn’t mean he won’t come in. Father Joe’s the restless type: if he goes in a place and there’s no one he knows, he moves on; never stays anywhere for more than two drinks.”

“Does he have a job?”

“He has a vocation.” Hogan saw the look on Rebus’s face. “Don’t worry, he’s not a real priest. It’s just that he has the kind of face strangers tell their troubles to. That seems to fill Joe’s days to the brim . . .” The barman came up, and Rebus put in their order, including a half of IPA for Hogan and the same for himself.

“A game of two halves, eh?” Hogan announced with a smile.

“Aye, it’s a game all right, Bobby.”

Hogan picked up Rebus’s meaning. “So what’s reopened this particular can of worms?”

“I wish I knew.”

“Dickie Diamond was an arsehole, whole world knew it.”

“Any of his other cronies still around?”

“There’s one of them in here right now.”

Rebus looked around at the disconsolate, blank-eyed faces. “Who?”

Hogan just winked, and waited till the drinks had been paid for. When the barman slouched back with Rebus’s change, Hogan greeted him by name.

“Okay, Malky?”

The young man frowned. “Do I know you?”

Hogan shrugged. “Thing is, I know you.” He paused. “Still on the smack?”

Rebus, too, had placed the young man as a drug user. It was something about the eyes, the facial muscles, something about the way the body held itself. In turn, the barman recognized pigs when he saw them.

“I’m off that stuff,” Malky said.

“Take your methadone religiously?” Hogan asked with a smile. “DI Rebus here is wondering whatever happened to your uncle.”

“Which one?”

“The one we don’t hear about so much these days . . . unless you know different.” Hogan turned to Rebus. “Malky here is Dickie’s sister’s kid.”

“How long you been working here then, Malky?” Rebus asked.

“Nearly a year.” The barman’s attitude had changed from indifference to surliness.

“Did you know the place when it was the Zombie?”

“I was too young, wasn’t I?”

“Doesn’t mean they wouldn’t have served you.” Rebus lit a cigarette, offering one to Hogan.

“Has Uncle Dickie turned up?” Malky asked. Rebus shook his head. “It’s just that my mum . . . every now and then she gets all weepy, says Uncle Dickie must be dead and buried somewhere.”

“What does she think happened to him?”

“How should I know?”

“You could try asking her.” Rebus had one of his cards out. It had his pager number as well as the police switchboard. “I’d be interested to know her answer.”

Malky stuck the card in the top pocket of his shirt.

“Dying of thirst over here!” Barclay called from the table. Hogan picked up two of the drinks. Rebus was staring at Malky.

“I mean it,” he said. “You ever hear anything, I’d really like to know what happened to him.”

Malky nodded, then turned away to answer the phone. But Rebus had gripped his arm. “Where do you live, Malky?”

“Sighthill. What’s it to you?” Malky wrestled his arm free, picked up the phone.

Sighthill was perfect. Rebus knew someone in Sighthill . . .

“So what happened to this place?” Ward was asking Hogan when Rebus reached the table.

“They got their market research wrong, thought there’d be enough yuppies in Leith by now to make them a fortune.”

“Maybe if they hang on a few more years,” Barclay said, pausing halfway down his cola.

Hogan nodded. “It’s coming,” he agreed. “Just a shame we didn’t get the parliament.”

Rebus snorted. “You’d’ve been welcome to it.”

“We wanted it.”

“So what was the problem?” Ward asked.

“The MSPs didn’t want to be in Leith. Too out of the way.”

“Maybe they were scared off by the temptations of the flesh,” Ward proposed. “Not that I’m seeing any around here . . .”

The door opened and another solitary drinker entered. He was all twitches and movement, as if someone had just wound up his mechanism. He saw Hogan and gave a nod of acknowledgment, but then started heading for the bar. Hogan, however, waved him over.

“Is this him?” Ward asked, already hardening his face, turning it into a mask.

“This is him,” Hogan said. Then, to the new arrival: “Father Joe . . . I was wondering if your pastoral wanderings would bring you in here.”

Joe Daly smiled at the joke, and nodded as if it were part of some ritual between Hogan and himself. Hogan meantime was making introductions. “Now talk to the good men,” he said in closing, “while I fetch you a small libation. Jameson’s and water, no ice, yes?”

“That would serve the purpose,” Daly said, his breath already sweetened by whiskey. He watched Hogan head for the bar. “A good man in his way,” he commented.

“And was Dickie Diamond a good man too, Father Joe?” Rebus asked.

“Ah, the Diamond Dog . . .” Daly was thoughtful for a moment. “Richard could be the best friend you’d ever had, but he could be a right bastard, too. He had no forgiveness in him.”

“You haven’t seen him recently?”

“Not in five or six years.”

“Did you ever meet another friend of his called Eric Lomax?” Ward asked. “Most people called him Rico.”

“Well, it was a long time ago, as I say . . .” Daly licked his lips expectantly.

“Of course, we’d pay the going rate,” Rebus informed him.

“Ah, well . . .” Daly’s whiskey arrived and he toasted the company in Gaelic. Rebus reckoned it was a double or treble — hard to tell with the added water.

“Father Joe was just about to tell us about Rico,” Rebus explained to Hogan, who was sitting down now.

“Well,” Daly began, “Rico was from the west coast, wasn’t he? Gave a good party, so the story went. Of course, I was never invited.”

“But Dickie was?”

“Oh, assuredly.”

“This was over in Glasgow?” Barclay asked, his face more bloodless than ever.

“I suppose there would have been parties there,” Daly admitted.

“But that’s not what you meant, is it?” Rebus asked.

“Well, no . . . I meant out at the caravans. There was a site in East Lothian, Rico stayed there sometimes.”

“Caravans, plural?” Rebus checked.

“He owned more than one; rented them out to tourists and the like.”

And the like . . . They already knew Rico’s reputation, bad men from Glasgow sheltering beside east coast beaches . . . Rebus noticed that Malky the barman was busying himself wiping down the already pristine tables in their vicinity.

“They were pretty close then, Rico and Dickie?” Ward asked.

“I don’t know that I’d say that. Rico probably only came to Leith three or four times a year.”

“Did you think it strange,” Rebus asked, “that Dickie did a bunk around the same time Rico was murdered?”

“Can’t say I connected the two,” Daly said. He hoisted the glass to his mouth, drained the whiskey.

“I don’t think that’s quite true, Father Joe,” Rebus stated quietly.

The glass was placed back on the table. “Well, maybe you’re right. I suppose I did wonder about it, same as everyone else in Leith.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“And what conclusion did you draw?”

“None at all,” Daly said with a shrug. “Except that Our Lord moves in mysterious ways.”

“Amen to that,” said Hogan. Allan Ward rose to his feet, said he’d get another round.

“When you’ve finished polishing that ashtray . . . ,” he remarked to Malky. So he’d noted the barman’s actions, too. Maybe he was sharper than Rebus had given him credit for . . .

Linford was not to be deflected from his pursuit of Donny Dow. He’d called up what records they had, and was poring over them. Alongside them on his desk was a slim file with Laura Stafford’s name on it. Siobhan had taken a peek at the latter. The usual cautions and arrests: two sauna busts, one brothel bust. The brothel had been a flat above a video rental shop. The guy who owned the video shop, it was his girlfriend ran the operation upstairs. Laura had been one of the girls on duty the night the police, acting on a tip-off, had paid a visit. Bill Pryde had worked the case. His handwriting was in the margin of one page of the report: “tip-off anonymous, probably the sauna down the road . . .”

“The deep-throat business can be cutthroat, too” was Derek Linford’s comment.

He was having more joy with Donny Dow, who had been fighting since the age of ten. Arrests for vandalism and drunkenness, then Dow had taken up a healthy physical activity: Thai kickboxing. It had failed to keep him out of trouble: one charge of housebreaking — later dropped — several assaults, one drug bust.

“What sort of drugs?”

“Cannabis and speed.”

“A kickboxing headcase on speed? The mind boggles.”

“He worked as a bouncer for a time.” Linford pointed to the relevant line of the typed report. “His employer wrote a letter defending him.” He turned the page. The signature at the bottom of the letter was that of Morris G. Cafferty.

“Cafferty owned a security firm in the city,” Linford added. “Parted company with it a few years back.” He looked at Siobhan. “Still don’t think he could have clouted our art dealer?”

“I’m beginning to wonder,” Siobhan admitted.

Back at her desk, Davie Hynds had pulled his chair up alongside and was drumming a pen against his teeth.

“At a loose end?” Siobhan asked.

“I feel like the spare prick at an orgy.” He paused. “Sorry . . . that wasn’t a good way of putting it.”

Siobhan thought for a moment. “Wait here,” she said. She turned back towards Linford’s desk, but another man had entered the room and was shaking Linford’s hand. Linford nodded, as though the two knew each other, but not well. Frowning, Siobhan walked over.

“Hello,” she said. The man had picked up a sheet from Donny Dow’s file and was reading it. “I’m a DS here. Name’s Siobhan Clarke.”

“Francis Gray,” the man said. “Detective inspector.” He shook her hand, almost swamping it in his own. He was tall and broad, with a thick neck and salt-and-pepper hair, cut short.

“You two know one another?” she asked.

“We met once . . . a while back, at Fettes, right?” Gray said.

“Right,” Linford confirmed. “We’ve helped each other out by phone a couple of times.”

“I was just wondering how the inquiry was going,” Gray added.

“It’s fine,” Siobhan said. “You’re part of the Tulliallan crew?”

“For my sins.” Gray put down the sheet of paper, picked up another. “Looks like Derek here may be winding things up for you.”

“Oh, he’s a great windup merchant,” Siobhan said, crossing her arms. Gray laughed, and Linford himself joined in.

“Siobhan’s a bit of a doubting Thomas,” he stated.

Gray’s eyes widened. “Means, motive, opportunity. Looks to me like you’ve got two out of three. Least you can do now is interview the suspect.”

“Thank you, DI Gray, maybe we’ll take your advice.” The words came from behind Gray: Gill Templer had entered the room. Gray dropped the sheet. It wafted back to the desk. “Might I ask what you’re doing here?”

“Nothing, ma’am. Just out for a stroll. We have to take ten minutes every hour to stave off oxygen starvation.”

“I think you’ll find the station has plenty of corridors. There’s even a world outside, if you’d care to explore it. This, on the other hand, is the center of a murder inquiry. Last thing we need are unnecessary interruptions.” She paused. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Absolutely, ma’am.” He glanced from Siobhan to Derek. “My apologies for keeping you from your noble efforts.” And with a wink he was off. Templer watched him leave. Then, saying nothing, but with a twinkle in her eye, she headed back to her own office.

Siobhan felt like cheering. She’d been about to have a go at Gray herself, but doubted she could have scored so palpable a hit. DCS Gill Templer had just risen like a rocket in Siobhan’s estimation.

“She can be a cold bitch, can’t she?” Linford muttered. Siobhan didn’t respond: she wanted a favor from Linford and upsetting him wasn’t going to help.

“Derek,” she said, “since you’re hell for leather on Donny Dow, mind if Hynds takes a look at Marber’s cash flow? I know you’ve covered the ground already, but it’ll give the poor sod something to do.”

She stood there, hands behind her back, hoping she didn’t look and sound too drippy.

Linford gazed in Hynds’s forlorn direction. “Go ahead,” he said, reaching down to pull the relevant folder from the box on the floor beside him.

“Thanks,” Siobhan cooed, skipping back to her desk.

“Here you go,” she said to Hynds, her voice back to normal.

“What’s this?” Hynds asked, staring at the folder but not touching it.

“Marber’s finances. Laura Stafford seemed to think he had some big money coming to him. I want to know the why, when and how much.”

“And his records will tell me?”

Siobhan shook her head. “But his accountant might. The name and phone number are in there.” She tapped the file. “And don’t say I’m not generous.”

“Who was that big bastard you were speaking to?” Hynds nodded in the direction of Linford’s desk.

“Detective Inspector Francis Gray. He’s part of the Tulliallan posse.”

“He’s a big bloke.”

“The bigger they are, the harder they fall, Davie.”

“If that bugger ever looks like falling, here’s hoping we’re not in the vicinity.” He stared at the folder. “Anything else I should be asking the accountant?”

“You could ask him if there’s anything he’s been hiding from us, or his client might have been hiding from him.”

“Rare paintings? Bundles of cash?”

“Those’ll do for a start.” She paused. “Think you can manage this one on your own, Davie?”

Hynds nodded. “No problem, DS Clarke. And what will you be up to while I’m toiling at the workface?”

“I have to go see a friend.” She smiled. “But don’t worry: it’s strictly business.”

Lothian and Borders Police HQ on Fettes Avenue was known to most of the local force as “the Big House.” Either that or “Rear Window,” which didn’t refer to the Hitchcock film but to an embarrassing episode when vital documents had been stolen from the building by someone who’d climbed in through an open window on the ground floor.

Fettes Avenue was a wide thoroughfare which ended at the gates to Fettes College — Tony Blair’s old school. Fettes was where the toffs sent their kids, paying dearly for the privilege. Siobhan had yet to meet any police officers who’d been schooled there, though she knew a few from Edinburgh’s other fee-paying schools. Eric Bain, for example, had spent two years at Stewart’s Melville — years he described simply as “rough.”

“Why rough?” she asked now as they walked down the first-floor corridor.

“I was overweight, wore specs and liked jazz.”

“Enough said.”

Siobhan made to turn into a doorway, but Bain stopped her. She’d just been priding herself on her remembrance of the building’s geography, having served in the Scottish Crime Squad for a time.

“They’ve moved,” Bain told her.

“Since when?”

“Since the SCS became the SDEA.”

He led her two doors farther along and into a large office. “This is what the Drug Enforcement Agency get. Me, I’m in a closet next floor up.”

“So why are we here?”

Bain seated himself behind a desk. Siobhan found a chair and dragged it across.

“Because,” he answered, “for so long as the SDEA need me, I get a window and a view.” He swiveled on his chair, peering out at the scenery. There was a laptop computer on the desk, a pile of paperwork beside it. On the floor were stacked little black and silver boxes — peripherals of some description. Most of them looked homemade, and Siobhan would bet that Bain had constructed them himself, maybe even designed them, too. In a parallel universe somewhere, a billionaire Eric Bain was sitting by the pool of his Californian mansion . . . and the Edinburgh police were struggling with cybercrimes of all descriptions.

“So what can I do for you?” he asked.

“I’m wondering about Cafferty. I need some confirmation that he owns the Sauna Paradiso.”

Bain blinked a couple of times. “Is that it? An e-mail or phone call would have sufficed.” He paused. “Not that I’m not pleased to see you.”

She considered her response. “Linford’s back. Maybe I just wanted an excuse to get away.”

“Linford? Major Peeping Tom himself?” She’d told Bain all about Linford. It had come spilling out almost the first night he’d visited her. She’d told him why she was wary of visitors; why she closed her shutters most evenings . . .

“He’s filling in for Rebus.”

“A tough job for anyone.” He watched her nodding. “So how’s he acting?”

“As slimy as I remember . . . I don’t know, he seems to be trying . . . and then he lets the mask slip.”

“Ugh.”

She shifted in her seat. “Look, I really didn’t come here to talk about Derek Linford.”

“No, but I’m sure it helps.”

She smiled, acknowledging the truth of this. “Cafferty?” she said.

“Cafferty’s finances are byzantine. We can’t be sure if people are fronting for him, or if he might have money sunk into someone else’s scheme, a sort of silent partner or shareholder.”

“With nothing put down in writing?”

“These aren’t people who worry too much about the Department of Trade and Industry.”

“So what have you got?”

Bain was already firing up his laptop. “Not a whole lot,” he confessed. “Claverhouse and Ormiston seemed interested for a while, but that appears to be passing. They’ve gotten all excited about something else . . . something they’re not exactly willing to share. Not long now till I’m dispatched to the broom closet . . .”

“Why were they interested?”

“My guess is that they want Cafferty back behind bars.”

“So it was just a speculative trawl?”

“You have to speculate to accumulate, Siobhan.” Bain was reading what was written on the screen. Siobhan knew better than to maneuver around behind him to read it for herself. He would shut the screen down rather than let her see. It was a question of territory for him, despite their friendship. He could snoop around her flat, checking her cupboards and CDs, but there were things he felt he had to hide from her, keeping that slight but tangible distance. No one, it seemed, was allowed to get too close to Bain.

“Friend Cafferty,” he said now, “has interests in at least two Edinburgh saunas, and may have spread his wings as far as Fife and Dundee. The thing about the Paradiso is, we don’t really know who owns it. There’s a paper trail, but it leads to semi-respectable business types who probably are a front for someone else.”

“And you’re guessing that someone is Cafferty?”

Bain shrugged. “Like you say, it’s a guess . . .”

Siobhan had a thought. “What about taxi companies?”

Bain hit some more keys. “Yep, private hire firms. Exclusive Cars in Edinburgh, and a few smaller outfits dotted around West Lothian and Midlothian.”

“Not MG Cabs?”

“Where are they based?”

“Lochend.”

Bain studied the screen and shook his head.

“You know Cafferty runs a lettings agency?” Siobhan asked.

“He started that particular venture two months ago.”

“Do you know why?” She waited while Bain considered her question. He shook his head, watching her. “Care to make a guess?” she asked.

“I haven’t a clue, Siobhan, sorry. Is it relevant?”

“Right now, Eric, I don’t know what’s relevant. I’m drowning in information, only none of it seems to add up to anything.”

“Maybe if you reduced it to binary . . .”

He was making fun of her, so she stuck out her tongue.

“And to what do we owe this honor?” a voice boomed. It was Claverhouse, sauntering into the office, followed so closely by Ormiston that the two might have been connected by ankle chains.

“Just visiting,” Siobhan said, trying not to sound flustered. Bain had assured her the two SDEA men were out for the afternoon. Claverhouse slipped off his coat and hung it on a coat stand. Ormiston, dressed for outdoors, kept his jacket on, hands in its pockets.

“And how’s your boyfriend?” Claverhouse asked. Siobhan frowned. Did he mean Bain?

“Last seen at Tulliallan,” Ormiston added.

“I hear he’s got someone his own age,” Claverhouse said, mock-casually. “That must piss you off, Shiv.”

Siobhan stared at Bain, who was reddening, readying to leap to her defense. She managed to shake her head just enough for him to register the act. She had a sudden vision of Bain as a schoolkid, bullied but fighting back, earning even more derision.

“And how’s your love life, Claverhouse?” she countered. “Ormie treating you okay?”

Claverhouse sneered, immune to such jibes.

“And don’t call me Shiv,” she added. She could hear a phone trilling distantly. It was hers, tucked deep down in her bag. She wrestled it out and held it to her ear.

“Clarke,” she said.

“You wanted me to call you,” the voice said. She placed it immediately: Cafferty. She took a second to compose herself.

“I was wondering about MG Cabs,” she said.

“MG? Ellen Dempsey’s outfit?”

“One of their drivers took Edward Marber home.”

“So?”

“So it seemed like a strange coincidence, MG Cabs having the same initials as your lettings agency.” Siobhan had forgotten about the people around her. She was focusing on Cafferty’s words, his phrasing and tone of voice.

“That’s what it is, though: a coincidence. I noticed it myself a while back, even thought of stealing the name.”

“Why didn’t you, Mr. Cafferty?” Siobhan, with the phone tucked into her chin, couldn’t see behind her, but Bain was suddenly staring over her shoulder. She glanced round and saw that Claverhouse was as rigid as a statue.

Because he knew now who was on the phone.

“Ellen’s got friends, Siobhan,” Cafferty was saying.

“What sort of friends?”

“The sort it’s not worth crossing.” She could almost see his cruel, cold smile.

“I doubt there’s anyone you wouldn’t cross, Mr. Cafferty,” she offered. “You’re saying you have no dealings with MG Cabs?”

“None whatsoever.”

“Out of curiosity, who was it called a cab that night?”

“Not me.”

“I’m not saying it was.”

“Probably Marber himself.”

“You didn’t see him do it?”

“You reckon MG Cabs had something to do with it?”

“I don’t ‘reckon’ anything, Mr. Cafferty. I’m just going by the book.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“What do you mean?”

“All that time with Rebus, didn’t anything rub off on you?”

She chose not to answer. Something else had occurred to her. “How did you get this number?”

“I called the station . . . one of your colleagues gave me it.”

“Which one?” She didn’t like the idea of Cafferty having access to her mobile.

“The one I spoke to . . . I don’t remember the name.” She knew he was lying. “I’m not about to start stalking you, Siobhan.”

“Just as well for you.”

“You’ve got more balls than Tynecastle, did you know that?”

“Good-bye, Mr. Cafferty.” She cut off the call, sat and watched the display for a moment, wondering if he’d call back.

“Mr. Cafferty she calls him!” Claverhouse exploded. “What was all that about?”

“He was returning a call.”

“Did he happen to know where you were?”

“I don’t think so.” She paused. “Only Davie Hynds knew I was coming here.”

“And me,” Bain added.

“And you,” she conceded. “But he got my mobile number from someone at St. Leonard’s. I don’t think he knew I was here.”

Claverhouse was pacing the room, while Ormiston rested his bulk against the edge of one of the desks, hands still in his pockets. It took more than a call from Cafferty to fire him up.

“Cafferty!” Claverhouse exclaimed. “Right here in this room!”

“You should have said hello,” Ormiston suggested, his voice a quiet growl.

“It’s like he’s infected this fucking place,” Claverhouse spat, but his pace was slowing. “What’s your interest in him?” he finally got round to asking.

“He was one of Edward Marber’s clients,” Siobhan explained. “He was at the gallery the night Marber was killed.”

“That’s your man then,” Claverhouse decreed. “Look no further.”

“It would be nice to have some proof, though,” Siobhan told him.

“Is that what Brains is helping you with?” Ormiston asked.

“I wanted to know about Cafferty’s relationship with the Sauna Paradiso,” she admitted.

“Why?”

“Because the deceased may have been a client.” She was hedging her bets, not wanting to give away too much. It wasn’t just the Rebus connection; even between cops on the same force, there was this mistrust, this unwillingness to dilute information by spreading it around.

“Blackmail then,” Claverhouse said. “That’s your motive.”

“I don’t know,” Siobhan said. “There’s a rumor Marber might have been cheating clients.”

“Bing!” Claverhouse said, snapping his fingers. “Every frame you put on the wall, Cafferty fits it perfectly.”

“An interesting image, under the circs,” Bain commented.

Siobhan was thoughtful. “Who would Cafferty not want to tangle with?” she asked.

“You mean apart from us?” Ormiston said with the beginnings of a smile. For a while, he’d sported a bushy black mustache, but had shaved it off. Siobhan noticed that the difference made him seem younger.

“Apart from you, Ormie,” she said.

“Why?” Claverhouse asked. “What did he say?” He’d stopped pacing, but couldn’t get comfortable, standing legs apart in the middle of the room, arms folded.

“Some vague mention of people he didn’t want to cross.”

“He was probably bullshitting,” Ormiston said.

Bain scratched his nose. “Anybody out there we don’t know about?”

Claverhouse shook his head. “Cafferty’s got Edinburgh sewn up tight.”

Siobhan was only half listening. She was wondering if Ellen Dempsey maybe had friends outside Edinburgh . . . wondering if it would be worthwhile taking a look at the owner of MG Cabs. If Dempsey wasn’t fronting for Cafferty, was it possible she was doing it for someone else, someone trying to break Cafferty’s grip on the city?

A little warning bell went off in her head, because if this was true, then wouldn’t Cafferty have every reason for framing Dempsey? Ellen’s got friends, Siobhan . . . the sort it’s not worth crossing. His voice had been seductive, intimate, almost reduced to a murmur. He’d been trying to get her interested. She doubted he would do that without a reason, without some ulterior motive.

Was Cafferty trying to use her?

Only one way to find out: take a closer look at MG Cabs and Ellen Dempsey.

As she zoned back in on the conversation, Ormiston was saying something about how Claverhouse and he should try to get some shut-eye.

“Surveillance op?” Bain guessed.

Ormiston nodded, but when Bain pressed for details he just tapped his nose.

“Top secret,” Claverhouse stated, backing up his colleague. His eyes were on Siobhan as he spoke. It was as if he suspected — knew even — that she wasn’t telling him the full story about herself and Cafferty. She thought back to the time she’d spent at Fettes as part of the Crime Squad team. Claverhouse had referred to her as “Junior,” but that seemed like a lifetime ago. She returned his stare confidently. When Claverhouse blinked first, it almost seemed like a victory.