Set in Darkness

29

Jerry walked into the dole office frozen and soaked. There hadn’t been any shaving foam left in the can, so he’d had to use ordinary soap, and then his last razor was in the bath, where Jayne had blunted it shaving her legs. Cue the morning’s first argument. He’d nicked himself a couple of times; one of the spots wouldn’t stop bleeding. And now his face was stinging from the sudden sleet, and of course as soon as he got in through the dole office door, didn’t the cloud break and the sun come out?

It was a cruel city, this.

And then it turned out, after he’d waited half an hour, that his appointment wasn’t at the dole office at all, but with the DSS, which was another half-hour’s walk. He almost gave up and headed home, but something stopped him. Home: was that what it was? How come these days it felt like a prison, a place where his gaoler wife could nag and grind him down?

So he made for the DSS office, and they told him he was an hour late, and he started explaining but nobody was listening.

‘Take a seat. I’ll see what we can do.’

So he sat down with the wheezing masses, next to an old guy with a blood-curdling cough who spat on the floor when he’d finished. Jerry moved seats. The sun had dried out his jacket, but his shirt beneath was still damp, and he was shivering. Maybe he was coming down with something. Three-quarters of an hour he sat there. Other people came and went. Twice he went up to the desk, where the same woman said they were trying to find him ‘a slot’. Her mouth looked like a slot, thin and disapproving. He sat back down.

Where else was there for him to go? He thought of working in an office like Nic’s, nice and warm and with coffee on tap, watching the short skirts swish past his desk, one of them leaning over the photocopier. Christ, wouldn’t that be heaven? Nic was probably heading off to lunch now, out to some swank place with crisp white tablecloths. Business lunches and business drinks and deals done with a handshake. Anybody could do a job like that. But then not everybody married the boss’s cousin.

Nic had phoned him last night, started given him a roasting for bottling out, running off into the night like that, but making a joke of it in the end. Jerry had caught an inkling of something: Nic was afraid of him. And then it had struck him why: Jerry could tell the cops, spill the beans. Nic had to keep him sweet, that was why he turned the episode into a joke, ended with the words, ‘I forgive you. After all, we go back a long way, eh? The two of us against the world.’

Except that right now, it felt like Jerry was all on his own against the world, stuck here in this smelly hole, no one to help him. He was thinking back: two of us against the world, when had that ever been true? When had they ever been equals, partners? What in God’s name did they see in one another? He thought maybe he had an answer for that now, too. It was a way of cheating time, because when they were together they were the same kids they’d always been. And so the things they did... they really were a game, albeit a deadly serious one.

Someone left their paper behind when they went in for their interview. Christ, and the guy had turned up twenty minutes after Jerry, yet here the bastard was, waltzing into a cubicle ahead of him! Jerry slid over, picked up the tabloid, but didn’t open it. There was that bile in his gut again, that fear of what stories he might find inside: rapes, assaults, not knowing if Nic was responsible. Who knew what Nic was doing behind his back, all the nights they didn’t meet? And all the other stories, too: newly-weds, happy marriages, stormy relationships, sex problems, babies being born to famous mums. Everything bounced back on his own life, and all it did was make him feel worse.

Jayne: clock’s ticking.

Nic: time you grew up.

The minute hand on the clock above the desk moved another notch. Clock-watching: wasn’t that something you did in offices, when you weren’t watching the skirts swish past? Who was to say Nic had it so good? He’d been working for Barry Hutton’s company these past eight years, hadn’t seen much in the way of promotion.

‘Sometimes,’ he’d complained to Jerry, ‘that family thing can backfire on you. Barry daren’t promote me or everyone’ll just say it’s for who I am, not what I do. Do you see?’

And then, when Cat had left him: ‘That bastard Hutton’s just looking to get rid of me. Now Cat’s done a runner, he sees me as an embarrassment. See what she’s done to me, Jerry? The cow’s as good as lost me my job. Her and her bastard cousin!’

Fuming, seething, raging.

And this from a guy who lived in a £200,000 house and had a job and car! Who was it really needed to grow up? Jerry wondered about this more and more.

‘He’ll ditch me, Jer, soon as he gets half a chance.’

‘Jayne says she’s going to ditch me, too.’

But Nic hadn’t wanted to hear about Jayne. His only comment: ‘They’re all as bad as each other, swear to God, pal.’

All as bad as each other.

He stomped back to the desk. What was he? A dummy or what? Wasn’t he married, settled? Didn’t he deserve a bit of respect?

Didn’t he deserve that at the very least, and maybe something more besides?

The woman was there. She’d fetched herself a mug of coffee. Jerry’s throat felt dry; couldn’t stop shivering.

‘Look,’ he said, ‘are you taking the piss or what?’

She had these glasses on, thick black frames. There were lipstick smears on the rim of the mug. Her hair looked dyed, and she was getting on for fat. Middle-aged, going to seed. But at the moment, she was in a position of power, and no way she was letting him interfere with that. She gave a cold smile, blinked so he saw her blue eyeshadow.

‘Mr Lister, if you’ll try to stay calm...’

Necklace hanging around her neck, all mixed in with the creases of loose skin. Big bust on her, too. Jesus, he’d never seen a chest like it.

‘Mr Lister.’ Trying to drag his attention back to her face. But he was transfixed, his hands gripping the edge of the desk. He saw her in the back of the van, saw himself giving her a good punch in that lipsticked mouth, ripping at the blouse, necklace sent flying.

‘Mr Lister!’

She was getting to her feet. He’d been leaning further and further across the desk. And now members of staff were closing in, alerted by her yell.

‘Jesus,’ he said. Couldn’t think of anything else to say; his whole body was shaking, head spinning. He tried to clear his head, wipe the blood from the pictures there. He was eye to eye with her for a second, and he felt she could see what he’d been thinking, every vivid frame of it.

‘Oh, Jesus.’

Two big blokes coming at him; that was all he needed, get arrested. He shoved his way out of there, back into the outside world where the sun was drying the streets and everything looked eerily normal.

‘What’s happening?’ he said. He found he was crying, couldn’t stop himself. Stumbled blearily along the street, holding the wall for support. He just kept walking, breaking into a sweat eventually. It took him the best part of three hours.

He’d walked clean across town.

Grey morning. Rebus waited for the rush hour to pass before setting out.

Glasgow’s Barlinnie Prison lay just off the M8 motorway. If you knew what you were looking for, you could see it in the near distance as you drove between Edinburgh and Glasgow. It sat on the edge of the Riddrie housing scheme, unsignposted until you got really close. At visiting time, you could follow the cars and pedestrians. Tattooed men in their fifties, wiry and sunkencheeked, off to visit pals who’d got caught. Stressed mothers, kids in tow. Quiet relatives, not quite sure how things had come to this.

All of them bound for HMP Barlinnie.

The Victorian blocks sat behind high stone walls, but the reception area itself was modern. Workmen were busy on the finishing touches. A member of staff was checking visitors for drug contamination. You swiped the magic glove over them, and it came up positive if they’d recently been in contact with drugs. Positive meant no open visit: you could still go in, but only with a glass wall between you and the prisoner. Bags were being checked, and then placed inside lockers, to be retrieved on the way out. Rebus knew that the visiting area had been revamped, too, with smart new seating arrangements and even a play area for the kids.

But inside the jail, it would be the same old wings. Slopping-out was still a fact of life, and the smell permeated the interiors. There were two new wings, but restricted to sex offenders and drug users. It rankled with the ‘pros’, the career criminals who didn’t think scum like that deserved to live, never mind the special treatment.

Another new addition was the cubicles for agent interviews. This was where lawyers met their clients: glass-fronted but allowing for privacy. The Assistant Governor, Bill Nairn, seemed pleased with the renovations as he showed Rebus around. He even took Rebus into one of the cubicles, the two men sitting down opposite one another.

‘Far cry from the old days, eh?’ Nairn beamed.

Rebus nodded. ‘I’ve stayed in tattier hotels.’ The two men knew one another of old: Nairn had worked for the Procurator Fiscal’s office in Edinburgh, and then in the city’s Saughton Prison, before the promotion to the Bar-L.

‘Cafferty doesn’t know what he’s missing,’ Rebus added.

Nairn shifted in his seat. ‘Look, John, I know it grates when we let one back out...’

‘It’s not that, it’s why he’s out.’

‘The man’s got cancer.’

‘And the Guinness boss had Alzheimer’s.’

Nairn stared at him. ‘What are you saying?’

‘I’m saying Cafferty looks pretty chirpy.’

Nairn shook his head. ‘He’s ill, John. You know it and I know it.’

‘I know he said you wanted rid of him.’ Nairn looked at him blankly. ‘Because he was in danger of running the show.’

Now Nairn smiled. ‘John, you’ve seen this place. Every door’s kept locked. No easy access. Think how hard it would be for one man to run all five wings.’

‘They mix though, don’t they? Wood-shop, textiles, chapel... I’ve seen them wandering around outside.’

‘You’ve seen the trusties, and always with a guard. Cafferty didn’t have that level of freedom.’

‘He didn’t run the show?’

‘No.’

‘Then who does?’ Nairn shook his head. ‘Come on, Bill. You get drugs in here, moneylending, gang fights. You’ve got a scrap contract to strip anything valuable out of old wiring: don’t tell me none of that stuff’s been sharpened and used for a stabbing.’

‘Isolated cases, John. I’m not going to deny it: drugs are the big problem here. But it’s still petty stuff. And it wasn’t Cafferty’s bailiwick.’

‘Then whose was it?’

‘I’m telling you, it’s not organised that way.’

Rebus leaned back in his chair, studied his surroundings: clean paint and new carpets. ‘Know what, Bill? You can change the surface, but it’ll take more than that to change the culture.’

‘It’s a start, though,’ Nairn said determinedly.

Rebus scratched his nose. ‘Any chance I can see Cafferty’s medical records?’

‘No.’

‘Then can you take a look for me? Put my mind at rest.’

‘X-rays don’t lie, John. The hospitals here are pretty hot on cancer. It’s always been a west coast growth industry.’

Rebus smiled, as was expected. A solicitor was entering the cubicle next door. The prisoner followed a few moments later. He looked young, bewildered. Remand, probably; up to court later in the day. Yet to be found guilty, but already tasting the low life.

‘What was he like?’ Rebus asked.

Nairn’s pager had sounded. He was fumbling to switch it off. ‘Cafferty?’ Looking towards where the pager was clipped to his belt. ‘He wasn’t too bad. You know how it is with career villains: serve their time, just part and parcel of the job, like a temporary relocation.’

‘You think he’s changed?’

Nairn shrugged. ‘Man’s older.’ He paused. ‘I’m assuming power’s shifted in Edinburgh while he’s been away.’

‘Not so you’d notice.’

‘He’s back to his old ways, then?’

‘He’s not ready for the Costa del Sol just yet.’

Nairn smiled. ‘Bryce Callan, now there’s a name from the vaults. Never did manage to lock him up, did we?’

‘Not for want of trying.’

‘John...’ Nairn looked down at his hands, which rested on the table top. ‘You used to come and visit Cafferty.’

‘So?’

‘So it’s more than just the usual cop/villain thing with you two, isn’t it?’

‘How do you mean, Bill?’

‘I’m just saying...’ He sighed. ‘I’m not sure what I’m saying.’

‘You’re saying I’m too close to Cafferty? Maybe obsessed, not objective?’ Rebus was remembering Siobhan’s words: you didn’t need to be obsessed to be a good cop. Nairn looked about to argue. ‘I agree a hundred per cent,’ Rebus went on. ‘Sometimes I feel closer to that bastard than I do...’ He bit off the ending: to my own family. Frankly, most of the time it felt like no contest. ‘That’s why I’d rather he was in here.’

‘Out of sight, out of mind?’

Rebus leaned forward, looked around. ‘Strictly between us?’ Nairn nodded. ‘I’m scared what’ll happen, Bill.’

Nairn held his gaze. ‘He’s planning to have a go at you?’

‘If what you say is true, what’s he got to lose?’

Nairn was thoughtful. ‘What about you?’

‘Me?’

‘Say he’s going to die, natural causes. Doesn’t that cheat you? No chance of you trying to get at him? One final victory.’

One final victory.

‘Bill,’ Rebus chastised, ‘do I look the sort to you who’d have any truck with that?’

The two men smiled. Next door, the prisoner’s voice was rising.

‘But ah havnae done nuthin’!’

Nairn tutted. ‘Double negatives,’ he said.

‘Thought these booths were soundproofed?’ Rebus said. Nairn’s shrug told him they’d done their best. Then Rebus had a thought. ‘What about someone called Rab, released about the same time as Cafferty?’

Nairn nodded. ‘Rab Hill.’

‘Rab was Cafferty’s bodyguard?’

‘I wouldn’t go that far. They were only on the same wing for four, five months.’

Rebus frowned. ‘Way Cafferty tells it, they were best pals.’

Nairn shrugged. ‘Prison makes for strange alliances.’

‘Rab’s not coping too well with the outside world.’

‘No? You’ll excuse me if my heart doesn’t bleed.’

The voice from next door again: ‘How many times dae ah huv tae tell ye?’

Rebus got to his feet. Strange alliances he was thinking. Cafferty and Rab Hill. ‘How did it come about, Cafferty’s cancer?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘How was it diagnosed?’

‘Usual way. He hadn’t been feeling too hot. Took him in for tests, and bingo.’

‘Just do me one favour, Bill. Look at our friend Rab. Medical records, whatever you’ve got. Will you do that for me?’

‘Know something, John? You’re harder work than half my prisoners.’

‘Then pray a jury never finds me guilty.’

Bill Nairn was about to laugh that off, until he saw the look in Rebus’s eyes.

By the time he got to Seismic Storage, Ellen Wylie and Siobhan Clarke had finished emptying the container. On the spare desk in Reagan’s office sat eight columns of paperwork. The women were warming themselves by the heater, mugs of tea in their hands.

‘What now, sir?’ Wylie asked.

‘St Leonard’s,’ Rebus said. ‘That interview room you were using as an office, we’ll take them there.’

‘So no one else can see them?’ Siobhan guessed.

Rebus looked at her. Her face was pink with cold, nose shiny. She was wearing ankle boots with socks over black woollen tights; a pale grey scarf accentuating the colour in her cheeks.

‘Have you got two cars?’ Rebus asked. The women agreed that they had. ‘Load them up, and I’ll see you back at base, okay?’

He left them to it, drove to the South Side and was smoking a cigarette in the car park when the Chief Super arrived in his Peugeot 406.

‘Mind if I have a word, sir?’ Rebus asked, in place of any greeting.

‘Out here or in the warm?’ Farmer Watson hoisted his briefcase, checked his watch. ‘I’ve a noon appointment.’

‘This’ll only take a minute.’

‘Fair enough. My office, soon as you’ve finished out here.’

The Farmer went in, closed the door. Rebus nipped his cigarette, tossed it, and followed.

Watson was firing up the coffee-maker when Rebus knocked at his open door. He glanced up, nodded for Rebus to enter. ‘You look rough, Inspector.’

‘I was working late.’

‘What on?’

‘The Grieve case.’

The Farmer looked at him again. ‘Is that true?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Only, from what I hear, you’re involving yourself in everything but.’

‘I think the cases tie up.’

With the machine on, the Farmer retreated behind his desk. He sat down and motioned for Rebus to do the same, but Rebus stayed standing.

‘Progress?’

‘Getting there, sir.’

‘And DI Linford?’

‘He’s working his own leads.’

‘But the two of you are in contact?’

‘Absolutely, sir.’

‘And Siobhan’s keeping out of his way?’

‘He’s keeping out of hers.’

The Chief Super seemed dissatisfied. ‘I’m getting no end of flak.’

‘From Fettes?’

‘And beyond. Someone from the Scottish Secretary’s office was on to me first thing this morning, wanting results.’

‘Hard to run an election campaign’, Rebus guessed, ‘with a murder inquiry ongoing.’

The Farmer stared at him coldly. ‘Almost his exact words.’ His eyes narrowed a fraction. ‘So what’s on your mind?’

Now Rebus sat down, leaning forward, elbows on knees. ‘It’s Cafferty, sir.’

‘Cafferty?’ Whatever he’d been expecting, Watson hadn’t been expecting this. ‘What about him?’

‘He’s out of the Bar-L and back here.’

‘So I’ve heard.’

‘I want a watch kept on him.’ There was silence in the room as Rebus waited in vain for the Chief Super to comment. ‘I think we need to know what he’s up to.’

‘You know we can’t do that without good reason.’

‘His rep’s not enough?’

‘Lawyers and the media would have a field day. Besides, you know how stretched we are.’

‘We’ll be more stretched once Cafferty gets started.’

‘Started on what?’

‘I bumped into him last night.’ He saw the look on his chief’s face. ‘Completely by accident. Thing was, he’d been browsing the Scotsman’s commercial property section.’

‘So?’

‘So what’s he after?’

‘Turning a profit, maybe.’

‘That’s more or less what he said.’

‘Well then?’

Only it wasn’t the way he’d put it: a killing to be made...

‘Look,’ the Farmer rubbed his temples, ‘let’s just get on with the work at hand. Clear up the Grieve case and I’ll think about Cafferty. Deal?’

Rebus nodded distractedly. The door was still ajar. A knock came, and a uniform appeared round it. ‘Visitor for DI Rebus.’

‘Who is it?’

‘She didn’t say, sir. Just told me to tell you she’d not brought any peanuts. Said you’d understand.’

Rebus understood.

30

Lorna Grieve was in the waiting area. He unlocked the interview room, then remembered that Freddy Hastings’ stuff was piled up in there. So he told her there was a change of plan, led her across the road to the Maltings.

‘You have to be drunk before you can talk to me?’ she teased. She was dressed to the tens: tight red leather trousers tucked into knee-high black boots; a black silk blouse with plunging neckline, black suede jacket open over it. More than enough make-up, and her hair freshly styled. She was carrying shopping bags from a couple of boutiques.

Rebus ordered fresh orange and lemonade for himself. She seemed to think her words had forced him into it, rose to the occasion by asking for a Bloody Mary.

‘Mary, Queen of Scots, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘Head chopped off, that’s the bloody part.’

‘I wouldn’t know.’

‘Never drunk one? Perfect pick-me-up.’ She waited for a joke, but he didn’t offer one. Nodded when the barmaid asked if she wanted Lea and Perrin’s. They sat at a table inlaid with squares. She admired the pattern.

‘It’s so people can play chess,’ Rebus explained.

‘Loathsome game. Takes for ever, and at the end it all falls apart. No sense of climax.’ Another pause. Again, Rebus wasn’t biting.

‘Cheers,’ he said.

‘First one today.’ She took a gulp of her drink. Rebus doubted her veracity: he considered himself something of an expert, and would say she’d had at least a couple of belts already.

‘So what can I do for you?’ The commerce of the everyday: people wanting things from people. Sometimes it was an exchange, sometimes not.

‘I want to know what’s happening.’

‘Happening?’

‘The murder inquiry: we’re being kept in the dark.’

‘I don’t think that’s true.’

She lit a cigarette; didn’t offer him one. ‘Well, is anything happening?’

‘We’ll let you know as soon as we can.’

She straightened her back. ‘That’s not good enough.’

‘I’m sorry.’

She narrowed her eyes. ‘No, you’re not. The family should be told—’

‘In point of fact, it’s the widow we’d talk to first.’

‘Seona? You’ll have to get in the queue. She’s a media darling now, you know. Papers, TV... falling over themselves for a photo of the “brave widow”, carrying on where her husband left off.’ She modulated her voice, imitating Seona Grieve: ‘“It’s what Roddy would have wanted.” Like hell it is.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Roddy may have seemed the quiet type, but there was steel in him, too. His wife running for MSP? He wouldn’t have wanted that. It turns her into the martyr rather than him. He’s already being forgotten about, except when she dusts off the corpse in the great cause of publicity!’

There were only the two of them in the bar; all the same, the barmaid gave a warning look.

‘Easy,’ Rebus said.

Her eyes were liquid with tears. Rebus got the feeling they weren’t for anyone but Lorna herself: the lost one, the forgotten one. ‘I’ve got the right to know what’s going on.’ Her eyes were clearing as she looked at him. ‘Special rights,’ she said in a low voice.

‘Look,’ he said, ‘what happened that night—’

‘I don’t want to hear it.’ She shook her head, steadied herself with another gulp of Bloody Mary, reducing it to ice.

‘Whatever you’re going through, if I can help I will, but don’t resort to blackm—’

She was on her feet. ‘I don’t know why I came.’

He stood up, grabbed her hands. ‘What have you taken, Lorna?’

‘Just some... My doctor prescribed them. Not supposed to mix with alcohol.’ Her eyes were everywhere but on him. ‘That’s all it is.’

‘I’ll get a patrol car to run you—’

‘No, no, I’ll find a cab. Don’t worry.’ She modelled a smile for him. ‘Don’t worry,’ she repeated.

He picked her bags up for her; she seemed to have forgotten they were there. ‘Lorna,’ he said, ‘have you ever met a man called Gerald Sithing?’

‘I don’t know. Who is he?’

‘I think Hugh knows him. He runs a group called the Knights of Rosslyn.’

‘Hugh keeps that side of his life separate. He knows I’d laugh at him.’ She was on the verge of laughing now; she was on the verge of more than laughter. Rebus led her from the bar.

‘Why do you ask?’ she said.

‘Doesn’t matter.’ He saw Grant Hood waving from across the road. In the distance, Siobhan Clarke and Ellen Wylie were unloading their cars. Hood dodged the traffic.

‘What’s up?’ Rebus asked.

‘The reconstruction,’ Hood told him breathlessly. ‘We’ve got a printout.’

Rebus nodded thoughtfully, then looked towards Lorna Grieve. ‘Maybe you should see this,’ he said.

So they went into St Leonard’s and took her to an empty office. Hood fetched the computer graphic while Rebus provided tea. She wanted two sugars; he added a third, watched her drink.

‘What’s the mystery?’ she asked.

‘It’s a face,’ he explained slowly, studying her. ‘The university in Glasgow put it together for us from a skull.’

‘Queensberry House?’ she guessed, amused by his look of surprise. ‘Not all the brain cells have emigrated to a better place. Why do you want me to see it?’ Then that, too, came to her. ‘You think it might be Alasdair?’ She started shaking; Rebus realised his mistake.

‘Maybe it’d be better if—’

Rising to her feet, she knocked the tea on to the floor, but seemed not to notice. ‘Why? What would Alasdair be doing...? He sends postcards.’

Rebus was cursing himself for being an insensitive bastard, short-sighted, unsubtle, twisted.

And then Grant Hood was in the doorway, brandishing the picture. She snatched it from him, stared at it intently, then burst out laughing.

‘It’s nothing like him,’ she said. ‘You bloody imbecile.’

Imbecile: he hadn’t got to that one yet. He took the sheet from her. It was a good likeness of someone, but he had to agree: judging by the paintings in Alicia Grieve’s studio, this was not her son. The face was a completely different shape, hair a different colour... cheekbones, chin, forehead... No, whoever it was in the fireplace, it wasn’t Alasdair Grieve.

That would have been too simple. Rebus’s life had never been simple; no reason to suppose it would start now.

Wylie was in the doorway, too, alerted by the laughter: not a regular sound in a police station.

‘He thought it was Alasdair,’ Lorna Grieve was saying, pointing at Rebus. ‘He told me my brother was dead! As if one wasn’t enough.’ There was poison in her eyes. ‘Well, you’ve had your little laugh, and I hope you’re happy.’ She stormed out of the office and down the corridor.

‘Go after her,’ Rebus told Wylie. ‘Make sure she finds the way out. And here...’ He stooped down, retrieved the shopping bags. ‘Give her these.’

She stared at him for a moment.

‘Go!’ he yelled.

‘I hear and obey,’ Ellen Wylie muttered. After she’d gone, Rebus slumped back down on his chair, rubbed both hands through his hair. Grant Hood was watching him.

‘Not looking for tips, I hope,’ Rebus told him.

‘No, sir.’

‘Because if you are, here’s the best I can offer: study what I do, and then strive to do the exact fucking opposite. That way, you might make something of yourself.’ He dragged his hands down his face, stared at the picture.

‘Who the hell are you?’ he asked. For some reason, he knew Skelly was the key, not just to Hastings’ suicide and the four hundred grand, but to Roddy Grieve’s murder, too... and maybe a lot more besides.

They sat in the cramped interview room, door closed to passers-by. People in the station were beginning to talk about them, calling them ‘the Manson family’, ‘the Lodge’, ‘the swingers’ club’. Hood was seated in the corner. He had the computer set up. Its screen was weird: black background, orange writing. He’d warned that the disks might be corrupted. Rebus, Wylie and Clarke sat round the centre table, box-files at their feet, the computer-generated image of the Queensberry House victim in front of them.

‘You know what we have to do?’ Rebus told them. Wylie and Clarke shared a look, sceptical of that ‘we’.

‘MisPers,’ Wylie guessed. ‘Back into the files and try to match this with one of the photos.’

Rebus nodded; Wylie shook her head. He turned to Hood: ‘Any problems?’

‘Seems to be running fine,’ Hood said, hammering keys two-fingered. ‘Printer connection’s a problem. None of the ones we’ve got will fit. Might have to scour the second-hand shops.’

‘So what’s on the disks?’ Siobhan Clarke asked.

He looked at her. ‘Give me a chance.’ And got back to work. Ellen Wylie lifted the first box-file on to the table and opened it. Rebus hoisted up three more, patted them.

‘I’ve already done these,’ he said. The others looked at him. ‘Late night,’ he said, winking.

Just so they knew he wasn’t slacking.

Lunch consisted of sandwiches. By the time they broke at three for coffee, Hood was beginning to get somewhere with the disks.

‘The good news’, he said, unwrapping a chocolate bar, ‘is that the computer was a late addition to Hastings’ office.’

‘How do you work that out?’

‘The stuff on the disks, it’s all dated ’78, early ’79.’

‘My box-file goes back to ’75,’ Siobhan Clarke complained.

‘Wish You Were Here,’ Rebus said. ‘Pink Floyd. September, I think it was. Much underrated.’

‘Thank you, Professor,’ Wylie said.

‘You lot were still at nursery, I presume?’

‘I’d really like to print this stuff out,’ Grant Hood mused. ‘Maybe if I phoned around the computer shops...’

‘What sort of stuff are we talking about?’ Rebus asked.

‘Bids on land. You know, gap sites, all that.’

‘Where?’

‘Calton Road, Abbey Mount, Hillside...’

‘What was he planning to do with them?’

‘Doesn’t say.’

‘He wanted all of them?’

‘Looks that way.’

‘That’s a lot of property,’ Wylie commented.

‘Well, a lot of building sites anyway.’

Rebus left the room, came back with an A — Z. He circled Calton Road, Abbey Mount and Hillside Crescent. ‘Tell me he had plans for Greenside,’ he said. Hood sat back down at the computer. They waited.

‘Yep,’ he said. ‘How did you know?’

‘Take a look. He was drawing a circle around Calton Hill.’

‘Why would he do that?’ Wylie asked.

‘1979,’ Rebus stated. ‘The devolution referendum.’

‘With the parliament sited there?’ Siobhan guessed.

Rebus nodded. ‘The old Royal High School.’

Wylie was seeing it now. ‘With the parliament there, all that land would have been worth a fortune.’

‘He took a gamble on Scotland voting Yes,’ Siobhan said. ‘And he lost.’

‘I wonder,’ Rebus said. ‘Did he have the money in the first place? Even back in the seventies — which is prehistory for you lot — those areas weren’t exactly cheap.’

‘What if he didn’t have the money?’ Hood asked.

It was Ellen Wylie who answered: ‘Then someone else did.’

They knew what they were after now: financial records; clues that someone other than Hastings and Alasdair Grieve had been a partner in the business. They stayed late, Rebus reminding them that they could head home if they liked. But they were working as a team — uncomplaining, focused — and no one was about to break the spell. He got the feeling it had nothing to do with overtime. Out in the corridor, taking a breather, he found himself alone with Ellen Wylie.

‘Still feel hard-done-by?’ he asked.

She stopped, looked at him. ‘How do you mean?’

‘You thought I was using the pair of you; just wondering if that’s still how you feel.’

‘Keep wondering,’ she said, moving off.

At seven o’clock, he treated them to dinner at Howie’s Restaurant. They discussed the case, progress and theories. Siobhan asked when the devolution vote had taken place.

‘March first,’ Rebus told her.

‘And Skelly was killed early in ’79. Could it have happened straight after the election?’

Rebus shrugged.

‘They finished in the basement at Queensberry House on March eighth,’ Wylie said. ‘A week or so later, Freddy Hastings and Alasdair Grieve do a runner.’

‘As far as we know,’ Rebus added.

Hood, cutting into his gammon, just nodded. Rebus, big spender, had splashed out on a bottle of the house white, but they weren’t making inroads. Siobhan was sticking to water; Wylie had taken a glass of wine but had yet to touch it. Hood had finished his glass but refused a refill.

‘Why is it I’m seeing Bryce Callan?’ Rebus said.

There was silence around the table for a moment, then Siobhan: ‘Because you want to?’

‘What would have happened to the land?’ Rebus asked.

Hood: ‘It would have been developed.’

‘And what does Callan’s nephew do?’

Clarke: ‘He’s a developer. But back then he was a labourer.’

‘Learning the ropes.’ Rebus swallowed some wine. ‘Land around Holyrood, any idea what it’s worth now they’re building the parliament there rather than Calton Hill or Leith?’

‘More than it was,’ Wylie guessed.

Rebus was nodding. ‘And now Barry Hutton’s eyeing up Granton, the Gyle, God knows where else.’

‘Because that’s his job.’

Rebus was still nodding. ‘Bit easier if you’ve got something your competitors haven’t.’

Hood: ‘You mean strongarm tactics?’

Rebus shook his head. ‘I mean friends in the right places.’

‘AD Holdings,’ Hood said, tapping the screen. Rebus stood over him, eyes squinting at the orange letters. Hood pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezed his own eyes shut, then opened them and shook his head briskly, as if to shake off cobwebs.

‘Long night,’ Rebus agreed. It was nearly ten; they were on the verge of calling a halt. A lot of good work done, but still — as Rebus had been the first to pun — nothing concrete.

And now this.

‘AD Holdings,’ Hood repeated. ‘Seems that’s who they were in bed with.’

Wylie had the phone book open. ‘Not in here.’

‘Probably gone bust,’ Siobhan guessed. ‘If they ever existed.’

Rebus was smiling. ‘Bryce Callan’s initials?’

‘BC,’ Hood supplied. Then he got it: ‘BC, AD.’

‘A little private joke. AD was going to be BC’s future.’ Rebus had already been busy on the phone, asking a couple of retired colleagues about Bryce Callan. He’d sold up late in ’79. Some of what he’d sold had gone to the upstart Morris Gerald Cafferty. Cafferty had started on the west coast, 1960s muscle for loan sharks. Drifted down to London for a time, post-Krays and Richardson. Made his name and learned his trade.

‘There’s always an apprenticeship, John,’ Rebus had been told. ‘These guys don’t come fully formed from the womb. And if they don’t learn, we put them away... and we keep on putting them away.’

But Cafferty had learned fast and well. By the time he’d reached Edinburgh, associated with Bryce Callan’s operation, and then branching out on his own, he’d shown a propensity for not making mistakes.

Until he’d met John Rebus.

And now he was back, and Callan, his old employer, was tied to the case. Rebus tried to make a connection, but couldn’t.

Bottom line: late in ’79, Callan threw in the towel. Or, put another way, headed overseas to where Britain’s extradition laws didn’t apply. Because he’d had enough? Or had his fingers burned? Or because he was worried about something... some crime that could come straight back to him?

‘It’s Bryce Callan,’ Rebus said now, ‘it’s got to be.’

‘Which just leaves the one little problem,’ Siobhan reminded him.

Yes: proving it.

31

It took them the best part of the next day, Thursday, to set everything up. Trawls through company records; phone calls. Rebus spent over an hour talking to Pauline Carnett, his contact at the National Criminal Intelligence Service, then another hour talking to a retired chief superintendent who had spent eight fruitless years in the 1970s pursuing Bryce Callan. When Pauline Carnett called him back, after she’d spoken to Scotland Yard and Interpol, she had a Spanish telephone number. 950 code: Almeria.

‘I once went there on holiday,’ Grant Hood said. ‘Too many tourists; we ended up trekking into the Sierra Nevadas.’

‘We?’ Ellen Wylie said, raising an eyebrow.

‘Me and a mate,’ Hood mumbled, his neck reddening. Wylie and Siobhan shared a wink and a smile.

They would have to make the call from the Chief Super’s office: his was the only one with a speaker phone. Besides, international calls were blocked in the rest of the station. Chief Superintendent Watson would be present, but that didn’t leave much room. It was decided that the three junior officers would be kept out, but a recording made.

If the interviewee agreed.

Rebus sent Siobhan Clarke and Ellen Wylie in to negotiate with the Farmer. His first two questions to them: ‘Where’s DI Linford? What’s his take on this?’

Rebus had briefed them; they’d talked their way around Linford, pressed their case again until the Farmer, worn down, nodded his agreement.

With everything set up, Rebus sat in the Chief Super’s chair and hit the buttons. The Chief Super himself was seated across the desk, in the chair Rebus usually occupied.

‘Try not to get used to it,’ had been the Farmer’s comment.

The phone was picked up at the other end; Rebus hit the record button. A woman’s voice: Spanish.

‘Could I speak to Mr Bryce Callan, please?’

More Spanish. Rebus repeated the name. Eventually the woman went away. ‘Housekeeper?’ Rebus guessed. The Farmer just shrugged. Now someone else was picking up the receiver.

‘Yes? Who’s this?’ Annoyed. Maybe a siesta interrupted.

‘Is that Bryce Callan?’

‘I asked first.’ The voice deep, guttural: no trace that he was losing his Scottish inflections.

‘I’m Detective Inspector John Rebus, Lothian and Borders Police. I’d like to speak to Mr Bryce Callan.’

‘Fucking good manners you lot have got these days.’

‘That’ll be the customer relations training.’

Callan let out a wheezy laugh, rolling it into a cough. Catarrh: smoker. Rebus made to light a cigarette of his own. The Farmer was frowning, but Rebus ignored him. Two smokers having a chat: instant rapport.

‘So what can you do me for?’ Callan asked.

Rebus kept his tone light. ‘Is it okay if I record this, Mr Callan? Just so I’ve got a record.’

‘You might have one, son, but my sheet’s clean. No criminal convictions.’

‘I’m aware of that, Mr Callan.’

‘So what’s this about?’

‘It’s about a company called AD Holdings.’ Rebus glanced at the sheets of paper spread out on the desk. They’d done their work: could prove the company was part of Callan’s little empire.

There was a pause on the line.

‘Mr Callan? You still there?’ The Farmer was off his chair, drawing the waste bin over so Rebus could flick his ash into it. Then he went to open a window.

‘I’m here,’ Callan said. ‘Call me back in an hour.’

‘I’d really appreciate it if we could...’ Rebus realised he was talking to the dialling tone. He cut the call.

‘Bugger,’ he said. ‘Now he’s got time to fix a story.’

‘He doesn’t have to talk to us at all,’ Farmer Watson reminded him.

Rebus nodded.

‘And now he’s gone, you can put that bloody thing out,’ the Farmer added. Rebus stubbed his cigarette against the side of the bin.

They were waiting for him in the corridor, expectant faces collapsing as he shook his head.

‘He said to call back in an hour.’ He checked his watch.

‘He’ll have a story by then,’ Siobhan Clarke said.

‘What do you want me to do?’ Rebus snapped.

‘Sorry, sir.’

‘Ach, it’s not your fault.’

‘He’s given himself an hour,’ Wylie said, ‘but that means we’ve got an hour, too. Make a few more calls, keep going through Hastings’ paperwork...’ She shrugged. ‘Who knows?’

Rebus nodded his approval. She was right: anything was better than waiting. So they went back to work, fuelled by tins of soft drinks and background music courtesy of a cassette machine provided by Grant Hood. Instrumental stuff — jazz, classical. Rebus had been dubious at first, but it did help stave off the boredom. Farmer’s orders: keep the volume down.

Siobhan Clarke agreed: ‘If it got out that I listened to jazz, I’d never be able to show my face.’

An hour later, it was back upstairs to the Farmer’s office. Rebus left the door open this time; felt it was the least they deserved. Watson didn’t seem to notice. Called again, and this time it rang and rang. Callan wasn’t going to answer; of course he wasn’t.

But he did. No housekeeper this time, and straight to the point.

‘You got a conference facility?’

The Chief Super nodded. ‘Yes,’ Rebus said.

Callan gave him a number to ring: Glasgow code. The name was C. Arthur Milligan — Rebus knew him as ‘the Big C’, a nickname he shared, seemingly happily, with cancer. And Milligan was like cancer to police officers and the Procurator Fiscal’s office. He was one of the really big defence solicitors, worked a lot with the advocate Richie Cordover, Hugh’s brother. If you had Big C by your side, and Cordover defending you in court, you had the sharpest edge there was.

At a price.

The Farmer was showing Rebus how to work the conference call. Milligan’s voice: ‘Yes, Inspector Rebus, can you hear me?’

‘Loud and clear, sir.’

‘Hiya, Big C,’ Callan said. ‘I’m hearing you, too.’

‘Good afternoon, Bryce. How’s the weather out there?’

‘God knows. I’m stuck indoors because of this arsehole.’

Meaning Rebus. ‘Look, Mr Callan, I really do appreciate—’

Milligan interrupted. ‘I believe you wish to record your conversation with my client. Who else is present?’

Rebus identified the Chief Super, didn’t bother mentioning the others. Milligan and Callan had a discussion about the taping. At last, it was agreed the recording could begin. Rebus hit the button.

‘That’s us,’ he said. ‘Now if I could just—’

Milligan again: ‘If I could just say at the outset, Inspector, that my client is under no obligation of any kind to answer what questions you may have.’

‘I appreciate that, sir.’ Trying to keep his voice level.

‘And he’s only talking to you out of a sense of public duty, even though the United Kingdom is no longer his chosen country of residence.’

‘Yes, sir, and I’m very grateful.’

‘Are you charging him with anything?’

‘Absolutely not. This is for information only.’

‘And this tape wouldn’t be produced in a court of law?’

‘I shouldn’t think so, sir.’ Choosing his words carefully.

‘But you can’t be definite?’

‘I can only speak for myself, sir.’

There was a pause. ‘Bryce?’ Milligan asked.

‘Fire away,’ Bryce Callan said.

Milligan: ‘Fire away, Inspector.’

Rebus took a moment to compose himself, looking at the documents on the desk as he fished his cigarette out of the bin and relit it.

‘What are you smoking?’ Callan asked.

‘Embassy.’

‘Tuppence a bloody packet out here. I stick to cigars these days. Now get on with it.’

‘AD Holdings, Mr Callan.’

‘What about them?’

‘Your company, I believe.’

‘Nope. I had a few shares, but that’s as far as it went.’

Eyes were on Rebus from the doorway: we know that’s a lie. But Rebus didn’t want to catch Callan out, not this early on. ‘AD were buying up parcels of land around Calton Hill, using another business as a front. Two men: Freddy Hastings and Alasdair Grieve. Ever meet either of them?’

‘You’re going back how far?’

‘Late 1970s.’

‘Bloody hell, lot of water been passed since then.’

Rebus repeated the two names.

‘If you’d care to tell my client what this is about, Inspector,’ Milligan said, sounding curious himself.

‘Yes, sir. It’s a question of a sum of money.’

‘Money?’ Now Callan was hooked, too.

‘Yes, sir, quite a lot of money. We’re trying to find a home for it.’

Stares from the doorway: he hadn’t told them how he’d play it.

Callan was laughing. ‘Well, look no further, chum.’

‘How much money?’ the lawyer asked.

‘Even more than Mr Callan will be paying you for your services this afternoon,’ Rebus told him. More laughter from Callan, and a warning look from the Farmer: it didn’t do to wind up people like the Big C unnecessarily. Rebus concentrated on his cigarette. ‘Four hundred thousand pounds,’ he said at last.

‘A not inconsiderable sum,’ Milligan admitted.

‘We think Mr Callan might be able to claim it,’ Rebus told him.

‘How?’ Callan sounding cagey; wary of traps.

‘It belonged to a man called Freddy Hastings,’ Rebus explained. ‘Belonged in the sense that he carried it around with him in a briefcase. At one time, Mr Hastings was a property developer, working with AD Holdings to buy land near Calton Hill. This was in late ’78 and early ’79, prior to the referendum.’

Milligan: ‘And if there had been a Yes result, the land would have been worth a fortune?’

Rebus: ‘Possibly.’

‘What does this have to do with my client?’

‘In later years, Mr Hastings lived as a down and out.’

‘With all that money?’

‘We can only speculate why he didn’t spend it. Maybe he was holding it for someone. Maybe he was afraid.’

‘Or off his rocker,’ Callan added. But the remark was bravado; Rebus could tell he was thinking about things.

‘The point is, AD Holdings, of which we believe Mr Callan was prime mover, was using Hastings to make bids on all this land.’

‘And you think Hastings just pocketed the money?’

‘It’s one theory.’

‘So the money would belong to AD Holdings?’

‘It’s possible. Mr Hastings left no family, no will. The Treasury will claim it if no one else does.’

‘That would be a shame,’ Milligan said. ‘What do you say, Bryce?’

‘I’ve already told him, I only had a few shares in AD.’

‘You wish to add to that? Perhaps elucidate?’

‘Well, it might have been more than a few shares, now you mention it.’

Rebus: ‘You had dealings with Mr Hastings?’

‘Yes.’

‘Using his company as a front for buying land and property?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Why?’

‘Why what?’

‘You already had a company — AD Holdings. In fact, you had dozens of companies.’

‘I’ll take your word for it.’

‘So why did you need to hide behind Hastings?’

‘Work it out for yourself.’

‘I’d rather you told me.’

Milligan interrupted: ‘And why is that, Inspector?’

‘Mr Milligan, we need to be clear about whether Mr Callan here and Freddy Hastings did business together. We need some sort of proof that the money could conceivably have belonged to Mr Callan.’

Milligan was thoughtful. ‘Bryce?’ he said.

‘As it happens, he did take money off me, and then scarpered.’

Rebus paused. ‘You notified the police, of course?’

Callan laughed. ‘Of course.’

‘Why not?’

‘Same reason I used Hastings as a go-between. Filth were trying to drag my good name down, all sorts of lies and accusations. I wasn’t just buying land.’

‘You were going to build on it?’

‘Houses, clubs, bars...’

‘And you’d have needed planning permission, which Mr Hastings, with his credentials, might have found easier to come by.’

‘See? You’ve worked it out all by yourself.’

‘How much did Hastings take?’

‘Best part of half a mil.’

‘You must have been... displeased.’

‘I was raging. But he’d disappeared.’

Rebus looked towards the doorway. It explained why Hastings had changed identity so radically. It explained the money, but not why he hadn’t spent it.

‘What about Hastings’ partner?’

‘Did a runner at the same time, didn’t he?’

‘He doesn’t seem to have got any of the money.’

‘You’d have to talk to him about that.’

Milligan interrupted again. ‘Bryce, any chance you’ve got paperwork proving any of this? It would help validate any claim.’

‘I might have,’ Callan conceded.

‘Forgeries won’t count,’ Rebus warned. Callan tutted. Now Rebus sat forward in his chair. ‘But thanks for clearing that up. It brings me to a connected series of questions, if you don’t mind?’

‘Go ahead,’ Callan said breezily.

Milligan: ‘I think perhaps we should—’

But Rebus was off and running. ‘I don’t think I said how Mr Hastings died: he committed suicide.’

‘Not before time,’ Callan snapped.

‘He did so shortly after the prospective MSP Roddy Grieve was murdered. That’s Alasdair’s brother, Mr Callan.’

‘So?’

‘And also shortly after the discovery of a corpse in one of the old fireplaces at Queensberry House. You’ll remember that, Mr Callan?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I just mean, maybe your nephew Barry told you about Queensberry House.’ Rebus picked up a sheet of paper, checked the facts. ‘He was working there early in 1979, around the time of the devolution vote. That’s when you found out that all the land you’d been buying up wasn’t going to be a gold mine after all. It’s also probably when you learned that Hastings had been skimming. Either that or he’d just kept all the loot on one of the deals and pretended to you it had gone through. You’d only find out later that it hadn’t, and by then he’d have done a runner.’

‘What’s that got to do with Barry?’

‘He was working for Dean Coghill.’ Rebus picked up another sheet. Milligan was trying to interrupt, but no way Rebus was letting him. Ellen Wylie was bouncing on her toes, willing him on. ‘I think you were putting pressure on Coghill. You got him to take on Barry. Barry was working for you at the time. I think you put Barry in there to screw things up for Coghill. It was like an apprenticeship.’

Callan — Rebus could imagine his face suffused with blood: ‘Here, Milligan, you going to let him talk to me like this?’

Milligan; not Big C; not pal or chum. Oh yes, Callan was fizzing.

Rebus talked right across the pair of them. ‘See, the body went into the fireplace same time your boy Barry was there, same time you were finding out that Hastings and Grieve had ripped you off. So my question to you, Mr Callan, is: whose body is it? And why did you have him killed?’

Silence, and then the explosion: Callan screaming; Milligan threatening.

‘You lousy conniving—’

‘Must strongly object to the—’

‘Come on the phone with a load of shit about four hundred grand—’

‘Unwarranted attack on someone with no criminal record in this or any other country, a man whose reputation—’

‘I swear to God, if I was there you’d need to slap me in chains to stop me smacking you one!’

‘I’m waiting,’ Rebus said, ‘any time you want to hop on a plane.’

‘Just you watch me.’

Milligan: ‘Now, Bryce, don’t let this appalling situation goad you into... Isn’t there a senior officer present?’ Milligan checked his notes. ‘Chief Superintendent Watson, isn’t it? Chief Superintendent, I must protest in the strongest terms about these underhand tactics, entrapping my client with tales of an unclaimed fortune...’

‘The story’s true,’ Watson said into the speaker phone. ‘The money’s here. But it seems to be part of a wider mystery, and one which Mr Callan could help clear up by flying back here for a proper interview.’

‘Any recording made today is, of course, inadmissible in a court of law,’ Milligan said.

‘Really? Well,’ the Farmer said, ‘I leave questions like that to the Fiscal’s office. Meantime, am I right in thinking that your client has yet to deny anything?’

Callan: ‘Deny? What do I need to deny? You can’t touch me, you bastards!’

Rebus imagined him on his feet, face turned a colour no hours of tanning would ever match, gripping the receiver in his fist, strangling the tormentor it had become.

‘You admit it then?’ Watson asked, his voice all naïve sincerity. He winked towards the doorway as he spoke. If Rebus didn’t know better, he’d say the man was beginning to enjoy himself.

‘Piss off!’ Callan growled.

‘I think you can take that as a denial,’ Milligan said tonelessly.

‘I think you’re probably right,’ Watson agreed.

‘Away to hell, the lot of you!’ Callan yelled. There was a click on the line.

‘I think Mr Callan has left us,’ Rebus said. ‘Are you still there, Mr Milligan?’

‘I’m here, and I really do feel the need to protest in the strongest—’

Rebus cut the connection. ‘I think we just lost him,’ he told the room. There were whoops from the doorway. Rebus got up. Watson reclaimed his chair.

‘Let’s not get too carried away,’ he said as Rebus switched off the tape-recorder. ‘Pieces are beginning to fit, but we still don’t know who did the killing, or even who was killed. Without those two pieces, all the fun we’ve just had with Bryce Callan counts for nothing.’

‘All the same, sir...’ Grant Hood was grinning.

Watson nodded. ‘All the same, DI Rebus showed us the way to that man’s black heart.’ He looked at Rebus, who was shaking his head.

‘I didn’t get enough.’ He hit the rewind button. ‘I’m not sure I got anything.’

‘We know what we’re dealing with, and that’s half the battle,’ Wylie said.

‘We should bring in Hutton,’ Siobhan Clarke added. ‘It seems to revolve around him, and at least he’s here.’

‘All he has to do is deny it,’ Watson reminded her. ‘He’s not a man without influence. Drag him in here, it would reflect badly on us.’

‘Can’t have that,’ Clarke grumbled.

Rebus looked to his boss. ‘Sir, it’s my shout. Any chance you can join us?’

The Farmer glanced at his watch. ‘Just the one then,’ he said. ‘And a packet of mints for the car home — my wife can smell alcohol on my breath at twenty paces.’

Rebus brought the drinks to the table, Hood helping. Wylie just wanted cola from the gun. Hood himself was on a pint of Eighty. For Rebus: a half and a ‘hauf’. A single malt for the Farmer, and red wine for Siobhan Clarke. They toasted each other.

‘To teamwork,’ Wylie said.

The Farmer cleared his throat. ‘Speaking of which, shouldn’t Derek be here?’

Rebus filled the silence. ‘DI Linford is following up a line of inquiry of his own: a description of Grieve’s possible murderer.’

The Chief Super met his eyes. ‘Teamwork should mean just that.’

‘You don’t have to tell me, sir,’ Rebus said. ‘I’m usually the one out in the cold.’

‘Because that’s where you’ve wanted to be,’ the Chief Super reminded him. ‘Not because we wouldn’t let you in.’

‘Point taken, sir,’ Rebus said quietly.

Clarke put down her glass. ‘It’s my fault really, sir, blowing up the way I did. I think John just thought there’d be less tension if DI Linford was kept at a distance.’

‘I know that, Siobhan,’ Watson said. ‘But I also want Derek appraised of what’s been going on.’

‘I’ll talk to him, sir,’ Rebus said.

‘Good.’ They sat in silence for a minute. ‘Sorry if I put a damper on things,’ the Farmer said at last. Then he drained his glass and said he’d better be off. ‘Just get my round in first.’ They assured him he didn’t need to, that it wasn’t expected, but he got the round in anyway. When he’d gone, they could feel themselves relax. Maybe it was the alcohol.

Maybe.

Hood brought draughts over from the bar, and commenced a game against Clarke. Rebus said he never played.

‘I’m a bad loser, that’s my problem.’

‘What I hate is a bad winner,’ Clarke said, ‘the kind that rubs your nose in it.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Hood said, ‘I’ll be gentle with you.’

The lad was definitely coming out of himself, Rebus thought. Then he watched as Siobhan Clarke took her opponent apart, getting a crown while her own top row was still covered.

‘This is brutal,’ Wylie said, comforting Hood by ruffling his hair. When a second game was set up, Wylie and Hood swapped places. Hood sat across from Rebus now, and drained his first pint, replacing it with the one the Chief Super had bought.

‘Cheers,’ he said, taking a sip. Rebus raised his glass to him. ‘I can’t drink whisky,’ Hood confided. ‘Gives me blazing hangovers.’

‘Me, too, sometimes.’

‘Then why do you drink it?’

‘The pleasure before the pain: it’s a Calvinist thing.’ Hood looked at him blankly. ‘Never mind,’ Rebus told him.

‘He had it all wrong, you know,’ Siobhan Clarke said, as Wylie concentrated on her next move.

‘Who did?’

‘Callan. Using a front company so the plans stood a better chance of going through. There was an easier route.’

Wylie glanced over towards the men. ‘Wonder if she’s going to tell us?’

‘I think she wants us to guess first,’ Rebus said.

Wylie jumped one of Clarke’s draughts; Clarke retaliated. ‘Simple really,’ she said. ‘Why not just pay off the planners?’

‘Bribe the council?’ Hood smiled at the thought.

‘Bloody hell,’ Rebus said, staring into his drink. ‘Maybe that’s it...’

A comment he refused to explain, even when they threatened to make him play draughts.

‘I’ll never crack,’ he said, making light of it. But inside, his mind was buzzing with new possibilities and permutations, some of them including Cafferty’s face. He sat there wondering what the hell he could do about them...

32

Rebus and Derek Linford, the canteen at Fettes police HQ, Friday morning. Rebus nodded towards familiar faces: Claverhouse and Ormiston, Scottish Crime Squad, tucking into bacon rolls. Linford glanced in their direction.

‘You know them?’

‘I’m not in the habit of nodding at strangers.’

Linford looked at the slice of toast cooling on his plate. ‘How’s Siobhan?’

‘All the better for not seeing you.’

‘She got my note?’

Rebus drained his cup. ‘She hasn’t said anything.’

‘Is that a good sign?’

Rebus shrugged. ‘Look, you’re not suddenly going to be pals again. She could have reported you as a stalker, for Christ’s sake. How would that have gone down in Room 279?’ Rebus pointed upstairs with his thumb.

Linford’s shoulders slumped. Rebus got up, fetched a fresh cup of coffee. ‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘there’s some news.’ He went on to explain about the links between Freddy Hastings and Bryce Callan. The tension came back into Linford’s shoulders. He was forgetting about Siobhan Clarke.

‘So how does Roddy Grieve enter the equation?’ he asked.

‘That’s what we don’t know,’ Rebus admitted. ‘Revenge for the way his brother ripped off Callan?’

‘And Callan waits twenty years?’

‘I know, I can’t see it either.’

Linford stared at him. ‘But there’s something, isn’t there? Something you’re not telling me?’

Rebus shook his head. ‘But do yourself a favour: look into Barry Hutton. If it was Callan, he had to have someone here.’

‘And Barry fits the bill?’

‘He’s his nephew.’

‘Any evidence he’s not just the Rotarian businessman?’

Rebus gestured towards Claverhouse and Ormiston. ‘Ask Crime Squad, maybe they’ll know.’

‘From what little I know of Hutton, he doesn’t fit the witness description of the man on Holyrood Road.’

‘He has employees, doesn’t he?’

‘Chief Superintendent Watson’s already warned that Hutton has “friends”: how do I go snooping without raising hackles?’

Rebus looked at him. ‘You don’t.’

‘I don’t go snooping?’ Linford seemed confused.

Rebus shook his head. ‘You don’t not raise hackles. Look, Linford, we’re cops. Sometimes you have to step out from behind the desk and get in people’s faces.’ Linford didn’t look convinced. ‘You think I’m setting you up for something?’

‘Are you?’

‘Would I admit it if I was?’

‘I suppose not. I’m just wondering if this is some sort of... test.’

Rebus stood up, coffee untouched. ‘You’re getting a suspicious mind. That’s good, goes with the territory.’

‘And what territory is that?’

But Rebus just winked, walked away with hands in pockets. Linford sat there, drumming his fingers on the table, then pushed his toast away and got up, too, walked over to where the two Crime Squad detectives were sitting.

‘Mind if I join you?’

Claverhouse gestured to the spare chair. ‘Any friend of John Rebus’s...’

‘... is probably after some bloody big favour,’ Ormiston said, completing his colleague’s thought.

Linford sat in his BMW in the only spare bay at the front of Hutton Tower. Lunchtime: workers were streaming out of the building, returning later with sandwich bags, cans of soft drink. Some stood on the steps, smoking the cigarettes they couldn’t smoke indoors. It hadn’t been easy to find the place: he’d driven through a building site, the road surface not yet finished. A wooden board — CAR PARK FOR REGISTERED PERSONNEL ONLY. But one free space, which he accepted gladly.

He’d got out of the BMW, checking the wheels were intact after the rutted and pitted roadway. Sprays of grey mud radiating from his wheel arches. Car wash at day’s end. Back in the driving seat, watching the parade of sandwiches, baps and fresh fruit, he regretted not eating that breakfast toast. Claverhouse and Ormiston had whisked him upstairs, but their search on Hutton had drawn a blank other than some parking fines and the fact that his mother’s brother was one Bryce Edwin Callan.

Rebus had said, in effect, that there was no subtle way to go about this, that he would have to announce himself and his intentions. He had no good reason to walk into the building and demand a line-up of every member of staff. Even if Hutton had nothing to hide, Linford couldn’t see him agreeing. He’d want to know why, and when told would refuse the request outright and be on the phone to his lawyer, the newspapers, civil rights... And now that Linford thought about it, wasn’t this looking more and more like a wild-goose chase dreamed up by Rebus — or maybe even Siobhan — to punish him? If he walked into trouble, they’d be the ones to profit from it.

All the same...

All the same, didn’t he deserve it? And if he went along, might he be forgiven? Not that he was about to walk into the building, but surveillance... studying each employee as they left the building. It was worth an afternoon. And if Hutton himself should leave, he would follow, because if Grieve’s murderer didn’t work here, there was always the chance that he’d meet up with Hutton anyway.

A contract killing... revenge. No, he still didn’t see it. Roddy Grieve hadn’t been killed for anything in his personal or professional life — not that Linford could find. Admittedly, his family was barmy, but that in itself didn’t constitute a motive. So why had he died? Had he been in the wrong place at the wrong time, seen something he shouldn’t have? Or was it to do with the person he was about to become rather than the person he was? Someone hadn’t wanted him as an MSP. The wife came to mind again; again he dismissed her. You didn’t kill your spouse just so you could stand for parliament.

Linford rubbed his temples. The smokers on the steps were throwing him looks, wondering who he was. Eventually, they might tell Security, and that would be that. But now a car was approaching, stopping. Its driver sounded his horn, gesturing towards Linford. And now he was getting out, stomping towards the BMW. Linford slid his window down.

‘That’s my space you’re in, so if you wouldn’t mind...?’

Linford looked around. ‘I don’t see any signs.’

‘This is staff parking.’ A glance at a wristwatch. ‘And I’m late for a meeting.’

Linford looked towards where another driver was getting into his car. ‘Space there for you.’

‘You deaf or what?’ Angry face, jaw jutting and tensed. A man looking for a fight.

Linford was just about ready. ‘So you’d rather argue with me than get to your meeting?’ He looked to where the other car was leaving. ‘Nice spot over there.’

‘That’s Harley. He takes his lunch hour at the gym. I’ll be in the meeting when he gets back, and that’s his space. Which is why you move your junk heap.’

‘This from a man who drives a Sierra Cosworth.’

‘Wrong answer.’ The man yanked Linford’s door open.

‘The assault charge is going to look bloody good on your CV.’

‘You’ll have fun trying to make a complaint through broken teeth.’

‘And you’ll be in the cells for assaulting a police officer.’

The man stopped, his jaw retreating a fraction. His Adam’s apple was prominent when he swallowed. Linford took the opportunity to reach into his jacket, showing his warrant card.

‘So now you know who I am,’ Linford said. ‘But I didn’t catch your name...?’

‘Look, I’m sorry.’ The man had turned from fire to sun, his grin trying for embarrassed apology. ‘I didn’t mean to...’

Linford was taking out his notebook, enjoying the sudden reversal. ‘I’ve heard of road rage, but parking rage is a new one on me. They might have to rewrite the rule book for you, pal.’ He peered out at the Sierra, took down its registration. ‘Don’t worry about your name.’ He tapped the notebook. ‘I can get it from this.’

‘My name’s Nic Hughes.’

‘Well, Mr Hughes, do you think you’re calm enough now to talk about this?’

‘No problem, it’s just that I was in a hurry.’ He nodded towards the building. ‘You’ve got some business with...?’

‘That’s not something I can discuss, sir.’

‘Course not, no, it’s just that I was...’ The sentence trailed off.

‘You’d best get to your meeting.’ The revolving door was moving, Barry Hutton coming out, buttoning his suit. Linford knew him from newspaper photos. ‘I was just off anyway, as it happens.’ Linford beamed at Hughes, then reached for the ignition. ‘Spot’s all yours.’ Hughes stepped back. Hutton, unlocking his own car — a red Ferrari — saw him.

‘Fuck’s sake, Nic, you’re supposed to be upstairs.’

‘Right away, Barry.’

‘Right away’s not good enough, arsehole!’

And now Hutton was looking at Linford, frowning. He tutted. ‘Letting someone use your space, Nic? You’re not the man I thought you were.’ Grinning, Hutton got into the Ferrari, but then got out again, came over to the BMW.

Linford thinking: I’ve blown it; he knows my face now, knows my car. Following him is going to be a nightmare... ‘You don’t not raise hackles... Get in people’s faces.’ Well, he’d got in the Cosworth driver’s face, and here was his reward, Barry Hutton standing in front of the BMW, pointing towards him.

‘You’re a cop, aren’t you? Don’t ask me how it is you lot stick out, even in a motor like that. Look, I told the other two, and that’s all I’m saying, right?’

Linford nodded slowly. The ‘other two’: Wylie and Hood. Linford had read their report.

‘Good,’ Hutton said, turning on his heels. Linford and Hughes watched as the Ferrari’s engine fired, that low rumble like money in the bank. Hutton kicked up dust as he raced out of the car park.

Hughes was staring at Linford. Linford stared back. ‘Do something for you?’ he said.

‘What’s going on?’ The man had trouble getting the words out.

Linford shook his head, smallest of victories, and put the Beamer into gear. Crawled out of the car park, wondering if it was worth trying to catch up with Hutton. Saw Hughes in his rearview. Something not right about the man. The warrant card hadn’t just pacified him, it had freaked him out.

Something to hide? It was funny how even church ministers could break into a sweat when there was a copper in front of them. But this guy... No, he looked nothing like the description. All the same... all the same...

At the lights on Lothian Road, Barry Hutton was three cars in front. Linford decided he’d nothing to lose.

33

Big Ger Cafferty was on his own, parked outside Rebus’s flat in a metallic-grey Jaguar XK8. Rebus, locking his own car, pretended he hadn’t seen him. He walked towards the tenement door, hearing the electric hum of the Jag’s window sliding down.

‘Thought we might take another drive,’ Cafferty called.

Rebus ignored him, unlocked the door, and went into the stairwell. As the door closed behind him, he stood there, debating with himself. Then he opened the door again. Cafferty was out of the car, leaning against it.

‘Like the new motor?’

‘You bought it?’

‘You think I stole it?’ Cafferty laughed.

Rebus shook his head. ‘I just thought you might have been better off hiring, seeing how you’re on the way out.’

‘All the more reason for indulging myself while I’m here.’

Rebus looked around. ‘Where’s Rab?’

‘Didn’t think I’d need him.’

‘I don’t know whether to be flattered or insulted.’

Cafferty frowned. ‘By what?’

‘You coming here without a minder.’

‘You said it yourself the other night: that was the time to take a pop at me. Now how about that drive?’

‘How good a driver are you?’

Cafferty laughed again. ‘It’s true I’m a bit rusty. I just thought it might be more private.’

‘For what?’

‘Our little chat about Bryce Callan.’

They headed east, through the one-time slums of Craigmillar and Niddrie, now falling to the bulldozers.

‘I’ve always thought’, Cafferty said, ‘that this should be the ideal spot. Views to Arthur’s Seat, and Craigmillar Castle behind you. Yuppies would think they’d died and gone to heaven.’

‘I don’t think we say yuppies any more.’

Cafferty looked at him. ‘I’ve been away a while.’

‘True.’

‘I see the old cop shop’s gone.’

‘Just moved around the corner.’

‘And great God, all these new shopping centres.’

Rebus explained that it was called The Fort. Nothing to do with Craigmillar’s old police station, whose nickname had been Fort Apache. They were past Niddrie now, following signs to Musselburgh.

‘The place is changing so fast,’ Cafferty mused.

‘And I’m ageing fast just sitting here. Any chance of you getting to the point?’

Cafferty glanced in his direction. ‘I’ve been making the point all along, it’s just you’ve not been listening.’

‘What is it you want to tell me about Callan?’

‘Just that he called me.’

‘He knows you’re out, then?’

‘Mr Callan, like many a wealthy expat, likes to keep abreast of Scottish current affairs.’ Cafferty glanced at him again. ‘Nervous, are you?’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘Your hand’s on the door handle, like you’re ready to bale out.’

Rebus moved his hand. ‘You’re setting me up for something.’

‘Am I?’

‘And I’d bet three months’ salary there’s nothing wrong with you.’

Cafferty kept his eyes on the road. ‘So prove it.’

‘Don’t worry.’

‘Me? What have I got to worry about? It’s you that’s the nervous one, remember.’ They were silent for a moment. Cafferty slid his hands around the steering wheel. ‘Nice car, though, isn’t it?’

‘And doubtless purchased with the honest sweat of your brow.’

‘Others do my sweating for me. That’s what makes a successful businessman.’

‘Which brings us to Bryce Callan. You couldn’t even get to speak to his nephew, and suddenly he calls you out of the blue?’

‘He knows I know you.’

‘And?’

‘And he wanted to know what I knew. You haven’t made yourself a friend there, Strawman.’

‘Inside, I’m crying.’

‘You think he’s mixed up in these murders?’

‘Are you here to tell me he isn’t?’

Cafferty shook his head. ‘I’m here to tell you that his nephew’s the one you should be looking at.’

Rebus digested this.

‘Why?’ he asked at last.

Cafferty just shrugged.

‘Does this come from Callan?’

‘Indirectly.’

Rebus snorted. ‘I don’t get it. Why would Callan dump Barry Hutton in it?’ Cafferty shrugged again. ‘It’s a funny thing...’ Rebus went on.

‘What?’

Rebus stared out of his window. ‘Here we are coming into Musselburgh. Know what its nickname is?’

‘I forget.’

‘The Honest Toun.’

‘What’s funny about that?’

‘Just that you’ve brought me here to feed me a load of shite. It’s you that wants to see Hutton get burned.’ He stared at Cafferty. ‘I wonder why that should be?’

The sudden anger in Cafferty’s face seemed to give off a heat all of its own. ‘You’re mad, do you know that? You’d ignore any crime sitting in your path, sidestep it just so you could give me a bloody nose. That’s the truth, isn’t it, Strawman? You don’t want anyone else; you just want Morris Gerald Cafferty.’

‘Don’t flatter yourself.’

‘I’m trying to do you a favour here. Get you a bit of glory and maybe keep Bryce Callan from killing you.’

‘So when did you become the UN peacekeeper?’

‘Look...’ Cafferty sighed; some of the blood had left his cheeks. ‘Okay, maybe there is something in it for me.’

‘What?’

‘All you need to know is there’s more in it for John Rebus.’ Cafferty was indicating, bringing the car to a halt kerbside on the High Street. Rebus looked around; saw just the one landmark.

‘Luca’s?’ In summer, the café had queues out the door. But this was winter. Mid-afternoon and the lights were on inside.

‘Used to be the best ice cream around,’ Cafferty was saying, undoing his seat belt. ‘I want to see if it still is.’

He bought two vanilla cones, brought them outside. Rebus was pinching his nose, shaking his head incredulously.

‘One minute Callan’s putting a contract on me, the next we’re eating ice cream.’

‘It’s the small things you savour in this life, ever noticed that?’ Cafferty had already started on his cone. ‘Now if there was racing on, we could have had a flutter.’ Musselburgh Racecourse: the Honest Toun’s other attraction.

Rebus tasted the ice cream. ‘Give me something on Hutton,’ he said, ‘something I can use.’

Cafferty thought for a moment. ‘Council junkets,’ he said. ‘Everyone in Hutton’s line of work needs friends.’ He paused. ‘The city might be changing, but it still works the same old way.’

Barry Hutton went shopping: parked his car in the St James Centre and hit a computer shop, John Lewis department store, and then out on to Princes Street and the short walk to Jenners. He bought clothes, while Derek Linford pretended to study a range of neckties. The shops were all busy enough; Linford knew he hadn’t been spotted. He’d never done surveillance before, but knew the theory. He bought one of the ties — pale orange and green stripes — and swapped it for his own plain maroon.

The man Hutton had seen in the company car park had worn the maroon tie: different tie, different man.

Across the road to the Balmoral Hotel, afternoon tea with a man and a woman: business, briefcases open. Then back to the car park and the crawl to Waverley Bridge, traffic building as the rush hour neared. Hutton parked on Market Street, made for the rear entrance to the Carlton Highland Hotel. He was carrying a sports holdall. Linford made the deduction: health club. He knew the hotel had one — he’d almost joined it, but the fees had put him off. His thinking at the time: way to meet people, the city’s movers and shakers. But at a price.

He bided his time. There was a bottle of water in the glove compartment, but he knew he daren’t drink anything — just his luck to be off having a pee when Hutton came out. Ditto eating. His stomach was growling; café just along the road... He searched the glove compartment again, came up with a stick of chewing gum.

‘Bon appetit,’ he said to himself, unwrapping it.

Hutton spent an hour in the club. Linford was keeping a record of his movements, and duly noted the time to the minute. He was alone when he came out, his hair damp from the shower, holdall swinging. He had that sheen, that scrubbed confidence which came with a workout. Back into his car, and heading towards Abbeyhill. Linford checked his mobile phone. The battery was dead. He plugged it into the cigar lighter, got it charging. He wondered about calling Rebus, but to say what exactly? To ask his consent? You’re doing the right thing; keep at it. The action of a weak man.

He wasn’t weak. And here was the proof.

They were on Easter Road now, Hutton busy on his own mobile. The whole trip he’d been carrying on conversations, hardly ever glancing in rearview or side mirrors. Not that it would have mattered — Linford was three cars back.

But then suddenly they were in Leith, taking side roads. Linford hung back, hoping someone would overtake, but there was nobody there, nobody but the suspect and him. Left and right, the roads getting narrower, tenements either side of them, front doors opening directly on to the pavement. Children’s playgrounds, broken glass sparkling in the headlights. Dusk. Hutton pulling over suddenly. Down by the docks, Linford guessed. He didn’t know this part of town at all; tried to avoid it: schemes and hard-man dives. Weapons of choice: the bottle and the kitchen knife. The assaults tended to be on friends and ‘loved ones’.

Hutton had parked outside one of the hard-man dives: a tiny pub, with narrow curtained windows seven feet off the ground. Solid-looking door: you’d think the place was locked. But Hutton knew better, pushed open the door and walked straight in. He left his holdall on the Ferrari’s front seat, shopping bags in the back, the whole lot in full view.

Stupid or confident. Linford would bet the latter. He thought of the Leith pub in Trainspotting, the American tourist asking for the toilet, the schemies following him in, divvying the spoils after. That was this kind of pub. The place didn’t even have a name, just a sign outside advertising Tennent’s Lager. Linford checked his watch, entered the details in his log. A textbook surveillance. He checked his phone for messages. There weren’t any. He knew the singles club was having a night out, starting at nine. He wasn’t sure whether to go or not. Maybe Siobhan would be there again — it wasn’t her case now but you never knew. He hadn’t heard any stories about him being at the club that night, so probably Siobhan had kept her word, not said anything to anyone. That was good of her, considering... He’d given her the ammo, and after what he’d done, she still hadn’t used it.

Then again, what had he done? Loitered outside her flat like a lovelorn teenager. Not such a heinous crime, was it? It had only been the three times. Even if Rebus hadn’t found him... well, he’d have given up soon enough, and that would have been an end of it. It was down to Rebus really, wasn’t it? Landing him in it with Siobhan, leaving him marginalised at work. Christ, yes, exactly what Rebus had wanted all along. One in the eye for the Fettes fast-stream. He could rise to chief constable and it would be there, hanging over him. Rebus would be retired, of course, maybe even have drunk himself to death, but Siobhan would be around, unless she went off to get married, have kids.

Always with the power to hurt him.

He didn’t know what to do about that. The ACC had told him, no one’s irreplaceable.

He passed the time reading whatever was in the car: owner’s manual, service log, some leaflets from the passenger-side pocket: tourist attractions; old grocery lists... He was poring over his map book, looking at how much of Scotland he didn’t know, when his phone sounded, shocking him with its sudden shrill cry. He picked it up, fumbled to switch it on.

‘It’s Rebus,’ the voice said.

‘Something happened?’

‘No, it’s just... nobody’d seen you this afternoon.’

‘And you were worried?’

‘Let’s say I was curious.’

‘I’m following Hutton. He’s in a pub down in Leith. Been in there...’ He checked his watch. ‘An hour and a quarter.’

‘Which pub?’

‘No name above the door.’

‘Which street?’

Linford realised that he didn’t know. He looked around, saw nothing to help him.

‘How well do you know Leith?’ Rebus asked. Linford felt his confidence ebb.

‘Well enough,’ he said.

‘So are you North Leith or South? Port? Seafield? What?’

‘Near the port,’ Linford spluttered.

‘Can you see any water?’

‘Look, I’ve been on his tail all afternoon. He did some shopping, had a business meeting, went to his health club...’

Rebus wasn’t listening. ‘He’s got a pedigree, whether he’s straight or not.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘I mean he used to work for his uncle. He probably knows more about this sort of thing than you do.’

‘Look, I don’t need you to tell me about—’

‘Hello? Anyone home? What do you do when you need a pee?’

‘I don’t.’

‘Or something to eat?’

‘Ditto.’

‘I said you should look at people who work for him. I didn’t mean like this.’

‘Don’t tell me how to do my job!’

‘Just don’t go into that pub, okay? I’ve half an idea where you are, I’ll come down there.’

‘There’s no need.’

‘Try and stop me.’

‘Look, this is my—’ But Linford’s caller had gone.

He cursed silently, tried calling Rebus back. ‘I’m sorry,’ said the recording, ‘but the phone you have called may be switched off...’

Linford cursed again.

Did he want Rebus here, sharing his inquiry, sticking his nose in? Meddling? Soon as he arrived, he’d be told where he could go.

The pub door rattled open. All the time Hutton had been inside — one hour and twenty minutes — no one else had gone in or come out. But now here he was, emerging, bathed in light from the open door. And there was another man with him. They stood chatting in the doorway, Linford, parked across the road and down a ways, peering at this new figure. He ticked off the Holyrood description in his mind, came up with a close match.

Denims, dark bomber jacket, white trainers. Black cropped hair. Big round eyes and a permanent-looking scowl.

Hutton punched the man’s shoulder. The man didn’t seem too happy about what was being said. He put out a hand for Hutton to shake, but Hutton wasn’t having any of it. Went and unlocked his Ferrari, started the engine and headed off. The man looked like he was going to turn back into the pub. Linford had a new scenario now: in he walks with Rebus as back-up, takes the man in for questioning. Not a bad day’s work.

But the man was just shouting his goodbyes to someone. Then he headed off on foot. Linford didn’t think twice, slid from his car, made to lock it, then remembered the little squeak of acknowledgement which the alarm made. Left it unlocked.

Forgot to take his mobile.

The man seemed drunk, weaving slightly, arms hanging loose. He went into another pub, came out again scant minutes later, stood by the doorway lighting a cigarette. Then back on his travels, stopping to talk to someone he seemed to know, then slowing as he fished a mobile phone out of his jacket and took a call. Linford patted his own pockets, realised the mobile was back in his car. He’d no idea where they were, tried memorising the few street names on show. Another pub: three minutes and out again. A short cut down a lane. Linford waited till the suspect had turned left out of the lane before entering it himself, sprinting to the other end. A housing scheme now, high fences and curtained windows, sounds of TVs and kids playing. Dark passageways smelling faintly of urine. Graffiti: Easy, Provos, Hibs. More walkways, the man pausing now, knocking at a door. Linford sticking to the shadows. The door opened and the man stepped quickly inside.

Linford didn’t think it was a last stop. No keys, so probably not his home. He checked the time again, but had left his notebook back in the car, lying on the seat with the mobile. The BMW unlocked. He gnawed at his bottom lip, looked around at the concrete maze. Could he find his way back to the pub? Would his pride and joy be there if he did?

But Rebus was on his way, wasn’t he? He’d work out what had happened, keep guard till Linford came back. He took a couple of steps further back into the darkness, plunged his hands into his pockets. Bloody freezing.

When the blow came, it came silently and from behind. He was unconscious before he hit the ground.

34

Jayne had gone and done it this time. She wasn’t at her mum’s. The old crone told him: ‘Just said to tell you she was going to a friend’s, and don’t bother asking which one because she said it was better I didn’t know.’ She had her arms folded, filling the doorway of her semi-detached.

‘Well, thanks for helping me save my marriage,’ Jerry replied, heading back down the garden path. Her dog was sitting by the gate. Nice little thing, name of Eric. Jerry gave it a kick up its arse and opened the gate. He was laughing as Jayne’s mum swore at him above Eric’s yelps and howls.

Back at the flat, he went on another recce, see if she’d left any clues for him to find. No note, and at least half her clothes had gone. She hadn’t been in a temper. Evidence of this: one of his boxes of 45s was sitting on the floor, a pair of scissors next to it, but she hadn’t touched the records. Maybe a peace offering of sorts? Couple of things knocked off shelves, but put that down to her being in a hurry. He looked in the fridge: cheese, marge, milk. No beer. Nothing to drink in any of the cupboards either. He emptied his pockets on to the couch. Three quid and some change. Christ almighty, and when was the next giro due? Best part of a week away, was it? Friday night, and all he had was three quid. He searched drawers and down the back of the couch and under the bed. A grand total haul of a further eighty pence.

And the bills, staring at him from the noticeboard in the kitchen: gas, electric, council tax. Plus, somewhere, the rent and telephone. Phone bill had only come in that morning, Jerry asking Jayne why she had to spend three hours a week on the blower to her mum who only lived round the corner?

He went back through to the living room, dug out ‘Stranded’ by The Saints. B-side was even faster — ‘No Time’. Jerry had all the time in the world; thing was, he felt utterly stranded.

The Stranglers next, ‘Grip’, and he wondered if he would strangle Jayne for putting him through this.

‘Get a grip,’ he told himself.

Made a cup of tea and tried working out his options, but his mind wasn’t up to thinking. So he slumped back on to the sofa. At least he could play his music now, any time he liked. She’d taken her tapes with her — Eurythmics, Celine Dion, Phil Collins. Good riddance, the lot of them. He went along three doors to Tofu’s pad and asked if he had any blow. Tofu offered to sell him a quarter.

‘I just need enough for a joint. I’ll give it back.’

‘What? After you’ve smoked it?’

‘I mean I’ll owe you it.’

‘Yeah, you will. Like you still owe me for last Wednesday.’

‘Come on, Tofu, just one measly hit.’

‘Sorry, pal, no more tick from Tofu.’

Jerry jabbed a finger at him. ‘I’ll remember this. Don’t think I won’t.’

‘Aye, sure thing, Jer.’ Tofu closed the door. Jerry heard the chain rattle back across it.

Inside the flat again. Feeling itchy now, wanting some action. Where were your friends when you needed them? Nic... he could phone Nic. Tap him for a loan if nothing else. Christ, with the stuff Jerry knew, he had Nic over a barrel. Make the loan more of a weekly retainer. He checked the clock on the video. Gone five. Would Nic be at work, or maybe at home? He tried both numbers: no luck. Maybe he was out on the pull, a few drinks in the wine bar with some of the short skirts from the office. No place in that picture for his old comrade-in-arms. The only thing Jerry was useful for was as a punchbag, somebody to make Nic look good because he looked bad.

A stooge, plain and simple. They were all laughing at him: Jayne, her mum, Nic. Even the woman at the DSS. And Tofu... he could almost hear that bastard’s laughter, sitting snug in his padlocked flat with his bags of grass and nuggets of hash, bit of music on the hi-fi and money in his pocket. Jerry picked up the coins one by one from around him on the couch and tossed them at the blank TV screen.

Until the doorbell rang. Jayne, had to be! Okay, he had to pull himself together, act casual. Maybe be a bit huffy with her, but grown-up about it. Things happened sometimes, and it was down to those involved to... More ringing. Hang on, she’d have her keys, wouldn’t she? And now the banging of a fist on the door. Who did they owe money to? Were they taking away the TV? The video? There was precious little else.

He stood in the hallway, holding his breath.

‘I can see you, you tosser!’

A pair of eyes at the letter box. Nic’s voice. Jerry started moving forward.

‘Nic, man, I was just trying to get you.’

He unsnibbed the door and it flew inwards, driving him backwards and on to his arse. He was pulling himself upright when Nic gave him another push that sent him sprawling. Then the door slammed shut.

‘Bad move, Jerry, really, really bad move.’

‘What’re you talking about? What’ve I done this time?’

Nic was sweating profusely. His eyes were darker and colder than ever before, and his voice was like a chisel.

‘I never should’ve told you,’ he hissed.

Jerry was back up on his feet. He slid along the wall and into the living room. ‘Told me what?’

‘That Barry wanted me out.’

‘What?’ This wasn’t making sense to Jerry; he was panicking that it was his fault, that it would make sense if only he’d concentrate.

‘It wasn’t enough to grass me to the pigs—’

‘Whoah, hold on—’

‘No, you hold on, Jerry. Because when I’m finished with you...’

‘I didn’t do anything!’

‘Grassed me up and told them where I work.’

‘I never!’

‘They’ve been talking to Barry about me! There was one sitting in the car park this afternoon! He’d been there for hours, sitting in my space! Now why else would he be there, eh?’

Jerry was shaking. ‘Loads of reasons.’

Nic shook his head. ‘No, Jer, just the one. And you’re so fucking stupid you think I won’t take you with me.’

‘Christ’s sake, man.’

Nic had brought something from his pocket. A knife. A bloody great carving knife! And Jerry noticed that he was wearing gloves, too.

‘I swear to God, man.’

‘Shut up.’

‘Why would I do that, Nic? Think for a minute!’

‘Your bottle’s gone. I can see you shaking from here.’ Nic laughed. ‘I knew you were weak, but not this bad.’

‘Look, man, Jayne’s gone and I—’

‘Jayne’s the last thing you have to worry about.’ There were thumps on the ceiling. Nic glanced up. ‘Shut it!’

Jerry saw a half-chance, dived through the doorway and into the kitchen. The sink was full of dishes. He plunged a hand in, pulled out forks, teaspoons. Nic was on him. Jerry chucked the lot at him. He was screaming now.

‘Call the police! You upstairs, get on to the cops!’

Nic swung with the knife, caught Jerry on his right hand. Now a current of blood flowed down his wrist, mixing with the dishwater. Jerry cried out in pain, lashed out with a foot, caught Nic smack on the kneecap. Nic lunged again, and Jerry pushed past him, back into the living room. Tripped and fell. Fell over the box of 45s, scattering them. Nic was coming, his feet grinding one of the records into the floor.

‘Bastard,’ he was saying. ‘You won’t be saying a word against me.’

‘Nic, man, you’ve lost it!’

‘It wasn’t enough, Cat leaving me, you had to rub my nose in it. Well, pal, it’s you that’s the rapist here. I just drove the van. That’s what I’ll tell them.’ There was a sick grin on his face. ‘We got into a fight, it was self-defence. That’s what I’ll say. See, I’m the one with the brains here, Jerry-fucking-nobody. The job, the mortgage, the car. And I’m the one they’ll believe.’ He raised the knife, and Jerry lunged. Nic sort of wheezed, and froze for a second, mouth agape, then angling his chin to stare down at where the scissors protruded from his chest.

‘What were you saying about brains, man?’ Jerry said, rising to his feet as Nic slumped face forwards on to the floor.

He sat back down on the couch, Nic’s body twitching once or twice and then falling still. Jerry ran his hands through his hair. He examined his cut. It was a deep wound, and about three inches long. Hospital job, stitches. He knelt down, searched Nic’s pockets and came up with the keys to the Cosworth. Nic had never let him drive it, never once offered.

Now, at last, he had a choice. Sit here and wait it out? Get his story straight for the cops? Self-defence was the truth of it. Maybe the neighbours would tell what they’d heard. But the cops... the cops knew Nic was the rapist. And they also knew there were two men involved.

Stood to reason it was him: Nic’s pal from way back, the underachiever, Nic’s killer. They’d get witnesses who’d identify him from the nightclubs. Maybe there were clues in the van.

Not such a difficult choice then, in the end. He tossed the keys, caught them, and headed out of the flat. Left the door wide open. Pigs would only kick it in otherwise.

He wondered if Nic would have thought of that.

35

Rebus was renewing his old acquaintance with the rougher end of the Leith pub scene. Not for him the charming, rejuvenated taverns of The Shore or the gleaming Victorian hostelries to be found on Great Junction Street and Bernard Street. For the nameless howffs, the spit ’n’ sawdusts, you had to look slightly further afield, charting streets which few Scottish Office brogues from the HQ down the road ever trod. He had drawn up a shortlist of four — drew a blank with the first two. But at the third, saw Linford’s BMW parked eighty yards away, under a busted street light: smart enough to park where he wouldn’t easily be spotted. Then again, every second street light was busted.

Rebus tucked his Saab behind the BMW. He flashed his lights: no response. Got out of his car and lit a cigarette. That’s all he was: a local lighting a cigarette. But his eyes were busy. The street was quiet. There was light in the high windows of Bellman’s Bar — its name from years back. What it was called now was anybody’s guess. Probably nobody who drank there knew, or cared.

He walked past the BMW, glancing inside. Something on the passenger seat: mobile phone. Linford couldn’t be far. Taking that piss maybe, the one he’d said he wouldn’t need. Rebus smiled and shook his head, then saw that the BMW’s doors weren’t locked. He tried the driver’s side. By the interior light he could see Linford’s notebook. He reached for it, started reading, but the light went off. So he slipped into the driver’s seat, closed the door, and flipped the light back on again. Meticulous in every detail, but that didn’t count for anything if you were spotted. Rebus went back outside, inspected the few parked cars. They were ageing and ordinary, the kind that passed each MOT with a backhander to a friendly mechanic. He wouldn’t place Barry Hutton as the owner of any of them. Yet Hutton had driven here. Did that mean he’d left?

Did that mean Linford had missed him?

Suddenly, this began to seem like the best-case scenario. Rebus started to think of others, not half as appealing. He walked back to the Saab and called in, got St Leonard’s to check any activity in Leith. They got back to him pronto: quiet night so far. He sat there, smoking three or four cigarettes, killing the packet. Then he walked over to Bellman’s and pushed open the door.

Smoky inside. No music or TV. Just half a dozen men, all standing at the bar, all staring at him. No Barry Hutton; no Linford. Rebus was taking coins from his pocket as he approached.

‘Cigarette machine?’ he asked.

‘Havenae got one.’ The man behind the bar was practising a scowl. Rebus blinked sleepily.

‘Any packs behind the bar?’

‘Naw.’

He turned to look at the drinkers. ‘Any of you guys sell me some?’

‘A pound each,’ came the lightning response. Rebus snorted.

‘That’s criminal,’ he said.

‘Then fuck off and buy them somewhere else.’

Rebus took his time studying the faces, then the bar’s blunt décor: three tables, a linoleum floor the colour of ox blood, wood panelling on the walls. Pictures of yester-year’s page three girls. A dartboard gathering cobwebs. He couldn’t see any toilets. There were only four optics behind the bar, and two taps: lager or export.

‘Must do a roaring trade,’ he commented.

‘I didn’t know you’d booked a floor show tonight, Shug,’ one drinker said to the barman.

‘The floor’s where he’ll end up,’ the barman said.

‘Easy, boys, easy.’ Rebus held up his hands in appeasement, started backing away. ‘I’ll be sure to tell Barry that this is what you call hospitality.’

They weren’t falling for it, stayed silent until Shug the barman spoke. ‘Barry who?’ he said.

Rebus shrugged, turned and walked out.

It was another five minutes before he got the call. Derek Linford: already on his way to the Infirmary.

Rebus paced the corridor: didn’t like hospitals; liked this one less than most. This was where they’d brought Sammy after the hit and run.

At just after eleven, Ormiston appeared. Police officer attacked, Fettes and Crime Squad always took an interest.

‘How is he?’ Rebus asked. He wasn’t alone: Siobhan was seated with a can of Fanta, looking shell-shocked. More officers had looked in — including the Farmer and Linford’s boss from Fettes, the latter pointedly ignoring Rebus and Siobhan.

‘Not good,’ Ormiston said, searching in his pockets for change for the coffee machine. Siobhan asked him what he needed, handed over some coins.

‘Did he say what happened?’

‘Doctors didn’t want him talking.’

‘But did he tell you?’

Ormiston straightened up, plastic cup in hand. ‘He got whacked from the back, and a few kicks for good measure. Best part of a broken jaw, I’d say.’

‘So he probably wasn’t in a chatty mood,’ Siobhan said, looking at Rebus.

‘They’ve pumped him full of drugs anyway,’ Ormiston said, blowing on the liquid in his cup and eyeing it speculatively. ‘Is this coffee or soup, would you say?’

Siobhan shrugged.

‘He did write something down,’ Ormiston said at last. ‘Bugger seemed keen enough about that.’

‘What did it say?’ Siobhan asked.

Ormiston glanced towards Rebus. ‘I might be paraphrasing, but it was along the lines of: Rebus knew I was there.’

‘What?’ Rebus’s face was like stone. Ormiston repeated the words for him.

Siobhan looked from one man to the other. ‘Meaning what?’

‘Meaning,’ Rebus said, slumping into a chair, ‘he thinks I did it. Nobody else knew where he was.’

‘But it had to be whoever he was following,’ Siobhan argued. ‘Stands to reason.’

‘Not Derek Linford’s reason.’ Rebus looked up at her. ‘I phoned him, said I was on my way down. Could be I set him up, grassed him to whoever was in the bar. Or could be I was the one who whacked him.’ He looked to Ormiston for confirmation. ‘That how you see it, Ormie?’

Ormiston said nothing.

‘But why would you...?’ Siobhan’s question trailed off as she saw the answer. Rebus nodded, letting her know she was right. Revenge... jealousy... because of what Linford had done to Siobhan.

That was Linford’s thinking. The way he saw the world, it made perfect sense.

To Linford’s mind, it was perfect.

Siobhan was sitting outside the hospital in her car, debating whether to visit the patient or not, when she heard the call on her radio.

Be on the lookout for a black Ford Sierra Cosworth, driver may be Jerry Lister, wanted for questioning concerning a major incident, code six.

Code six? The codes were always changing — all except code twenty-one, officer requiring assistance. Right now a code six was suspicious death — usually meaning homicide. She called in, was told that the victim’s name was Nicholas Hughes. He’d been stabbed to death with a pair of scissors, his body found by Lister’s wife on her return home. The woman was now being treated for shock. Siobhan was thinking back to that night, the night she’d taken the short cut through Waverley. She’d taken it because of the two men in the black Sierra, one of them saying to the other, Lesbian, Jerry, and now a man called Jerry was on the run in a black Sierra.

She’d tried to get away, and in doing so had ended up involved with a tramp’s suicide.

The more she thought about it, the more she couldn’t help wondering...

36

The Farmer was apoplectic.

‘Whose idea was it for him to be tailing Barry Hutton in the first place?’

‘DI Linford was using his own initiative, sir.’

‘Then how come I see your grubby little prints all over this?’

Saturday morning, they were seated in the Farmer’s office. Rebus was edgy to start with: he had a pitch to sell, and couldn’t see his boss going for it.

‘You’ve seen his note,’ the Farmer continued. ‘“Rebus knew”. How the hell do you think that looks?’

There was so much tension in Rebus’s jaw, his cheeks were aching. ‘What does the ACC say?’

‘He wants an inquiry. You’ll be suspended, of course.’

‘Should keep me out of your way till retirement.’

The Chief Super slammed both hands against his desk, too angry to speak. Rebus took his chance.

‘We’ve got a description of the guy seen hanging around Holyrood the night Grieve was murdered. Add to this the fact that he drinks in Bellman’s, and there’s a good chance we can nab him. Bellman’s won’t give us anything; it’s the sort of pub where they look after their own. But I’ve got snitches in Leith. We’re looking for a hard man, someone who uses that pub almost as an office. With a few officers, I think I can—’

‘He says you did it.’

‘I know he does, sir. But with respect—’

‘How would it look if I put you in charge of the investigation?’ The Farmer suddenly looked tired, beaten half to death by the job.

‘I’m not asking to be put in charge,’ Rebus said. ‘I’m asking you to let me go to Leith, ask some questions, that’s all. A chance to clear my own name if nothing else.’

Watson leaned back in his chair. ‘Fettes are going ape-shit as it is. Linford was one of theirs. And Barry Hutton under unauthorised surveillance — know what that would do to any case against him? The Procurator Fiscal will have a seizure.’

‘We need evidence. That’s why we need someone in Leith with a few contacts.’

‘What about Bobby Hogan? He’s Leith based.’

Rebus nodded. ‘And I’d want him there.’

‘But you want to be there, too?’ Rebus stayed silent. ‘And we both know you’ll go there anyway, no matter what I say.’

‘Better to have it official, sir.’

The Farmer ran a hand over the dome of his head.

‘Sooner the better, sir,’ Rebus prompted.

The Chief Super started shaking his head, his eyes on Rebus. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I don’t want you down there, Inspector. It’s just not something I can sanction, bearing in mind the flak from headquarters.’

Rebus stood up. ‘Understood, sir. I don’t have permission to go down to Leith and ask my informants about the attack on DI Linford?’

‘That’s right, Inspector, you don’t. You’re awaiting suspension; I want you close by when word comes through.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ He headed for the door.

‘I mean it. You don’t leave St Leonard’s, Inspector.’

Rebus nodded his understanding. The Murder Room was quiet when he reached it. Roy Frazer was reading a paper. ‘Finished with this?’ Rebus asked, picking up another. Frazer nodded. ‘Chicken phal,’ Rebus explained, rubbing his stomach. ‘Hold all my calls and let everyone know the shunkie’s off-limits.’

Frazer nodded and smiled. Saturday morning on the bog with the paper: everyone had done it at one time.

So Rebus headed out of the station and into the car park, jumped into his Saab and got on the mobile to Bobby Hogan.

‘I’m ahead of you, pal,’ Hogan said.

‘How far?’

‘Sitting outside Bellman’s waiting for it to open.’

‘Waste of time. See if you can track down some of your contacts.’ Rebus flipped open his notebook, read the description of the Holyrood man to Hogan as he drove.

‘A hard man who likes rough pubs,’ Hogan mused when he’d finished. ‘Now where the hell would we find anyone like that in Leith these days?’

Rebus knew a few places. It was 11 a.m., opening time. Grey overcast morning. The cloud hung so low over Arthur’s Seat, you could pick out the rock only in shifting patches. Just like this case, Rebus was thinking. Bits of it visible at any one time, but the whole edifice ultimately hidden.

Leith was quiet, the day keeping people indoors. He drove past carpet shops, tattoo parlours, pawnbrokers. Laundrettes and social security offices: the latter were locked for the weekend. Most days, they’d be doing more business than the local stores. Parked his car in an alley and made sure it was locked before leaving it. At twelve minutes past opening, he was in his first pub. They were serving coffee, so he had a mug, same as the barman was drinking. Two ancient regulars watched morning television and smoked diligently: this was their day job, and they approached it with the seriousness of ritual. Rebus didn’t get much out of the barman, not so much as a free refill. It was time to move on.

His mobile went off while he was walking. It was Bill Nairn.

‘Working weekends, Bill?’ Rebus said. ‘How’s the overtime?’

‘The Bar-L never closes, John. I did what you asked, checked out our friend Rab Hill.’

‘And?’ Rebus had stopped walking. A few shoppers moved around him. They were mostly elderly, feet hardly clearing the pavement. No cars to take them to the retail parks; no energy to take the bus uptown.

‘Not much really. Released on his due date. Said he was moving through to Edinburgh. He’s seen his parole officer there...’

‘Illnesses, Bill?’

‘Well, yes, he did complain of a dicky stomach. Didn’t seem to clear up, so he had some tests. They were all clear.’

‘Same hospital as Cafferty?’

‘Yes, but I really don’t see...’

‘What’s his Edinburgh address?’

Nairn repeated the details: it was a hotel on Princes Street. ‘Nice,’ Rebus said. Then he took down the parole officer’s details, too. ‘Cheers, Bill. I’ll talk to you later.’

The second bar was smoky, its carpet tacky with the previous night’s spillage. Three men stood drinking nips, sleeves rolled up to show off their tattoos. They examined him as he entered, seemed not to find his presence objectionable enough to arouse comment. Later in the day, with sobriety a dull memory, things would be different. Rebus knew the barman, sat down at a corner table with a half-pint of Eighty and smoked a cigarette. When the barman came to empty the ashtray of its single dowp, it gave time for a couple of muted questions. The barman replied with little twitches of the head: negative. He either didn’t know or wasn’t saying. Fair enough. Rebus knew when he could push a bit harder, and this was not one of those times.

He knew as he left that the drinkers would be talking about him. They’d smelt cop on him, and would want to know what he’d been after. The barman would tell them: no harm in that. By now it would be common knowledge — and when one of their own was attacked, the police always went in quickly and with prejudice. Leith would be expecting little else.

Outside, he got on the phone again, called the hotel and asked to be put through to Robert Hill’s room.

‘I’m sorry, sir. Mr Hill’s not answering.’

Rebus cut the call.

Pub three: a relief barman, and no faces Rebus recognised. He didn’t even stay for a drink. Two cafés after that, Formica tables pockmarked with cigarette burns, the vinegary haze of brown sauce and chip fat. And then a third café, a place the men from the docks came to for huge doses of reviving cholesterol, as if it were more doctor’s surgery than eating place.

And seated at one of the tables, scooping up runny egg with a fork, someone Rebus knew.

His name was Big Po. Sometime doorman for pubs and clubs of the parish, Po’s past included a long stint in the merchant navy. His fists were nicked and scarred, face weathered where it wasn’t hidden by a thick brown beard. He was massive, and watching him squashed in at the table was like watching a normal-sized adult seated in a primary-school classroom. Rebus had the impression that the whole world had been built on a scale out of kilter with Big Po’s needs.

‘Jesus,’ the man roared as Rebus approached, ‘it’s been a lifetime and a half!’ Flecks of saliva and egg peppered the air. Heads were turning, but didn’t stay turned long. No one wanted Big Po accusing them of nosing into his business. Rebus took the proffered hand and prepared for the worst. Sure enough, it was like a car going through a crusher. He flexed his fingers afterwards, checking for fractures, and pulled out the chair opposite the man mountain.

‘What’ll you have?’ Po asked.

‘Just coffee.’

‘That counts as blasphemy in here. This is the blessed church of St Eck the Chef.’ Po nodded towards where a fat, elderly man was wiping his hands on a cook’s apron and nodding towards him. ‘Best fry-up in Edinburgh,’ Po roared, ‘is that right, Eck?’

Eck nodded again, then got back to his skillet. He looked the nervous sort, and with Big Po on the premises, who could blame him?

When a middle-aged waitress came out from behind the counter, Rebus ordered his coffee. Big Po was still busy with his fork and egg yolk.

‘Be easier with a spoon,’ Rebus suggested.

‘I like a challenge.’

‘Well, could be I’ve another for you.’ Rebus paused while the coffee arrived. It was in a see-through Pyrex cup with matching saucer. In some cafés, they were becoming trendy again, but Rebus had the feeling this was an original. He hadn’t asked for milk, but it was already added, with bubbles of white froth breaking on the surface. He took a sip. It was hot and didn’t taste of coffee.

‘So tell me what’s on your mind,’ Big Po said.

Rebus gave him the background. Po listened as he ate, finishing with a mopping-up operation involving the addition to the bare greasy plate of a liberal squirt of brown sauce, and two further slices of toast. Afterwards, Big Po tried sitting back, but there wasn’t really the room. He slurped at his mug of dark brown tea and tried to turn his bear growl into something mere mortals might recognise as an undertone.

‘Gordie’s the man to talk to about Bellman’s; used to drink there till they barred him.’

‘Barred from Bellman’s? What did he do, machine-gun the place or ask for a gin and tonic?’

Big Po snorted. ‘I think he was shagging Houton’s missus.’

‘Houton being the owner?’

Po nodded. ‘Big bad bastard.’ Which meant a lot, coming from him.

‘Is Gordie a first or last name?’

‘Gordie Burns, drinks in the Weir O’.’

Meaning the Weir O’ Hermiston, on the shore road out towards Portobello. ‘How will I know him?’ Rebus asked.

Po reached into his blue nylon windcheater, brought out a mobile phone. ‘I’ll give him a call, make sure he’s there.’

As he did so, knowing the number by heart, Rebus stared out of the steamed-up window. At call’s end, he thanked Po and stood up.

‘Not finishing your coffee?’

Rebus shook his head. ‘But this is on me.’ He walked up to the counter, handed over a fiver. Three fifty for the fry-up, cheapest coronary in town. On his way back past Big Po’s table, he patted the man’s shoulder, slid a twenty into the windcheater’s breast zip-up pocket.

‘God bless you, young sir,’ Big Po boomed. Rebus couldn’t have sworn to it, but as he closed the door behind him he got the feeling the big man was ordering another breakfast.

The Weir O’ was a civilised sort of pub: car park out front, and a chalkboard advertising a range of ‘home cooked fayre’. As Rebus stepped up to the bar and ordered a whisky, a drinker, two along, started finishing up. By the time Rebus’s drink arrived, the man was leaving, telling his companion that he’d be back in a wee while. Rebus took a minute or two to savour his own drink, then made for the door. The man was waiting for him around the corner, where the view was of disused warehouses and slag heaps.

‘Gordie?’ Rebus asked.

The man nodded. He was tall and gangly, late thirties with a long, sad face and thinning, ill-cut hair. Rebus made to hand him a twenty. Gordie paused just long enough to let Rebus know he had some pride, then pocketed the note.

‘Make it quick,’ he said, eyes darting from side to side. Traffic was thundering past, lorries mostly, travelling too quickly to take note of the two men.

Rebus kept it brief: description; pub; attack.

‘Sounds like Mick Lorimer,’ Gordie said, turning to walk away.

‘Whoah,’ Rebus said. ‘What about an address or something?’

‘Mick Lorimer,’ Gordie repeated, heading back into the pub.

John Michael Lorimer: known as Mick. Previouses for assault, entering lockfast premises, housebreaking. Bobby Hogan knew him, which was why they took Lorimer to Leith cop shop, let him sweat there for a little while before starting the questioning.

‘We’re not going to get much out of this one,’ Hogan warned. ‘Vocabulary of about a dozen words, half of which would make your granny shriek.’

And he’d been waiting for them, seated quietly in his two-storey house just off Easter Road. A ‘friend’ had let them in, and Lorimer had been in a chair in the living room, newspaper open on his lap. He’d said almost nothing, not even bothering to ask them why they were there, why they were asking him to go down to the station with them. Rebus had taken an address from the girlfriend. It was on the housing scheme where Linford had been attacked. Which was fair enough: even if they proved it was Lorimer Linford had been following, he now had an alibi — went to his girlfriend’s, didn’t leave the flat all night.

Convenient and cost-effective; no way she’d suddenly change her story, not if she knew what was good for her. From her washed-out eyes and slow movements, Rebus would guess she’d had a pretty good education at the hands of Mick Lorimer.

‘Are we wasting our time, then?’ Rebus asked. Bobby Hogan just shrugged. He’d been on the force as long as Rebus; both men knew the score. Getting them into custody was just the opening bell of the bout, and most times the fight seemed fixed.

‘We’ve got the line-ups anyway,’ Hogan said, pushing open the door to the interview room.

Leith police station wasn’t modern, not like St Leonard’s. It was a solid late-Victorian design, reminding Rebus of his old school. Cold stone walls covered with maybe their twentieth layer of paint, and lots of exposed pipework. The interview rooms were like prison cells, sparse and dulling the senses. Seated at the table, Lorimer looked as much at home as he had in his own living room.

‘Solicitor,’ he said as the two detectives entered.

‘Think you need one?’ Hogan asked.

‘Solicitor,’ Lorimer repeated.

Hogan looked to Rebus. ‘Like a broken record, isn’t he?’

‘Stuck in the wrong groove.’

Hogan turned back to Lorimer. ‘We get you for six hours to ourselves without as much as a whiff of legal advice. That’s what the law says.’ He slipped his hands into his trouser pockets. All he was doing, the gesture said, was having a bit of a chat with a friend. ‘Mick here’, he told Rebus, ‘used to be one of Tommy Telford’s doormen, did you know that?’

‘I didn’t,’ Rebus lied.

‘Had to make himself scarce when Tommy’s little empire blew up.’

Rebus was nodding now. ‘Big Ger Cafferty,’ he said.

‘We all know Big Ger wasn’t happy about Tommy and his gang.’ A meaningful look towards Lorimer. ‘Or with anyone connected to them.’

Rebus was standing in front of the table now. He leaned down so that his hands rested on the back of the empty chair. ‘Big Ger’s out. Did you know that, Mick?’

Lorimer didn’t so much as blink.

‘Large as life and back in Edinburgh,’ Rebus went on. ‘Maybe I could put you in touch with him...?’

‘Six hours,’ Lorimer said. ‘Nae bother.’

Rebus glanced towards Hogan: so much for that.

They took a break, stood outside smoking cigarettes.

Rebus was thinking aloud. ‘Say Lorimer killed Roddy Grieve. Putting aside the question of why, we think Barry Hutton was behind it.’ Hogan was nodding. ‘Two questions really: first, was Grieve meant to die?’

‘Wouldn’t put it past Lorimer to get a bit overzealous. He’s one of those guys, gets the red mist once he gets started.’

‘Second,’ Rebus went on, ‘was Grieve meant to be found? Wouldn’t they try hiding the body?’

Hogan shrugged. ‘That’s Lorimer again; hard as nails but not half as sharp.’

Rebus looked at him. ‘So say he cocked up: how come he’s not been punished?’

Now Hogan smiled. ‘Punish Mick Lorimer? You’d need a big army. Either that or you’d want to lull him, get him when his guard was down.’

Which reminded Rebus... He called the hotel again. There was still no sign of Rab Hill. Maybe face to face would be better. He needed Hill on his side. Hill was the proof, which was why Cafferty was keeping him close.

If Rebus could get to Rab Hill, he could put Cafferty away again. There was almost nothing he wanted more in the world.

‘It’d be like Christmas,’ he said aloud. Hogan asked him to explain, but Rebus just shook his head.

Mr Cowan, who’d given them the description of the man on Holyrood Road, took his time over the line-up, but picked out Lorimer eventually. While the prisoner went back to his cell, the others were led away to be given tea and biscuits until their second appearance. They were students mostly.

‘I get them from the rugby team,’ Hogan explained. ‘When I need a few bruisers. Half of them are training to be doctors and lawyers.’

But Rebus wasn’t listening. The two men were standing outside the station’s front door, enjoying a cigarette. And now an ambulance had drawn up, and its back doors were being opened, a ramp lowered. Derek Linford, face heavily bruised, head bandaged and with a surgical collar around his neck. He was in a wheelchair, and as the orderly pushed him closer, Rebus could see wiring around his jaw. His pupils had a drugged blankness to them, but when he spotted Rebus his vision cleared a little, his eyes narrowing. Rebus shook his head slowly, a mixture of sympathy and denial. Linford looked away, trying for a measure of dignity as his wheelchair was turned, the better to get it up the steps.

Hogan flicked his cigarette on to the road, just in front of the ambulance. ‘You staying out of it?’ he asked. Rebus nodded.

‘Think I’d better, don’t you?’

He’d smoked two more cigarettes before Hogan reappeared.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘he gave us the nod: Mick Lorimer.’

‘Can he talk?’

Hogan shook his head. ‘Mouth’s full of metal. All he did was nod when I gave him the number.’

‘What does Lorimer’s lawyer say?’

‘Not too happy. He was asking what medicines DI Linford had taken.’

‘Are you charging Lorimer?’

‘Oh, I think so. We’ll try assault to start with.’

‘Will it get far?’

Hogan blew out his cheeks. ‘Between you and me? Probably not. Lorimer’s not denying being the man Linford followed. Problem with that is, it opens a whole other can of worms.’

‘Unauthorised surveillance?’

Hogan nodded. ‘Defence would have a field day in court. I’ll talk to the girlfriend again. Maybe there’s a grudge there...’

‘She won’t talk,’ Rebus said with some confidence. ‘They never do.’

Siobhan went to the hospital. Derek Linford was propped up with four pillows at his back. A plastic jug of water and tabloid newspaper for company.

‘Brought a couple of magazines,’ she said. ‘Didn’t know what you liked.’ She laid the carrier bag on the bed, found a chair near by and brought it over. ‘They said you can’t talk, but I thought I’d come anyway.’ She smiled. ‘I won’t ask how you’re feeling: no point really. I just wanted you to know, it wasn’t John’s fault. He’d never do something like that... or let something like that happen to someone. He’s not that subtle.’ She wasn’t looking at him. Her fingers played with the handles on the carrier bag. ‘What happened between us... between you and me... it was my fault, I see that now. I mean, mine as much as yours. It’s not going to help anyone if you...’ She happened to glance up, saw the fire and mistrust in his eyes.

‘If you...’ But the words died in her mouth. She’d rehearsed a little speech, but could see now how little difference it would make.

‘The only person you can blame is the person who did this to you.’ She glanced up again, then looked away. ‘I’m wondering if that loathing is for me or for John.’

She watched him slowly reach for his tabloid, bringing it down on to the bedcover. There was a biro attached to it. He unclipped it and drew something on the paper’s front page. She stood up to get a better look, angling her neck. It was a rough circle, as big as he could make it, and it stood, she quickly realised, for the world, for everything, the whole damned lot.

The subject of his loathing.

‘I missed a Hibs match to come here,’ she told him. ‘That’s how important this is to me.’ He just glared. ‘Okay, bad joke,’ she said. ‘I’d have come anyway.’ But he was closing his eyes now, as if tired of listening.

She gave it a couple more minutes, then walked out. Back in her car, she remembered a call she had to make: the slip of paper with the number was in her pocket. It had only taken her twenty minutes to find it amongst the paperwork on her desk.

‘Sandra?’

‘Yes.’

‘I thought you might be out shopping or something. It’s Siobhan Clarke.’

‘Oh.’ Sandra Carnegie didn’t sound exactly pleased to hear her.

‘We think the man who attacked you has ended up getting himself killed.’

‘What happened?’

‘He was stabbed.’

‘Good. Give whoever did it a medal.’

‘Looks like it was his accomplice. He got a sudden attack of conscience. We caught him heading for Newcastle down the A1. He’s told us everything.’

‘Will you do him for murder?’

‘We’ll do him for everything we can.’

‘Does that mean I’ll have to testify?’

‘Maybe. But it’s great news, isn’t it?’

‘Yeah, great. Thanks for letting me know.’

The phone went dead in Siobhan’s hand. She made an exasperated sound. Her one planned victory of the day snatched away.

‘Go away,’ Rebus said.

‘Thanks, I will.’ Siobhan pulled out the chair and sat down opposite him, shrugged her arms out of her coat. She’d already bought her drink: fresh orange topped up with lemonade. They were in the back room of the Ox. The front room was busy: Saturday early evening, the football crowd. But the back room was quiet. The TV wasn’t on. A lone drinker over by the fire was reading the Irish Times. Rebus was drinking whisky: no empties on the table, but all that meant was he was taking his glass back for a refill each time.

‘I thought you were cutting down,’ Siobhan said. He just glared at her. ‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘I forgot whisky’s the answer to the world’s problems.’

‘It’s no dafter than yogic flying.’ He raised the glass to his mouth, paused. ‘What do you want anyway?’ Tipped the glass and let the warmth trickle into his mouth.

‘I went to see Derek.’

‘How is he?’

‘Not talking.’

‘Poor bastard can’t, can he?’

‘It’s more than that.’

He nodded slowly. ‘I know. And who’s to say he’s not right?’

Her frown brought a little vertical crease to the middle of her forehead. ‘How do you mean?’

‘It was me told him to go chasing Hutton’s men. In effect, I was telling him to tag a murderer.’

‘But you weren’t expecting him to—’

‘How do you know? Maybe I did want the bugger hurt.’

‘Why?’

Rebus shrugged. ‘To teach him something.’

Siobhan wanted to ask what: humility? Or as punishment for his voyeurism? She drank her drink instead.

‘But you don’t know for sure?’ she said at last.

Rebus made to light a cigarette, then thought better of it.

‘Don’t mind me,’ she said.

But he shook his head, slid the cigarette back into its packet. ‘Too many today as it is. Besides, I’m outnumbered.’ Nodding towards the Irish Times. ‘Hayden there doesn’t smoke either.’

Hearing his name, the man smiled across, called out, ‘For which relief, much thanks,’ and went back to his reading.

‘So what now?’ Siobhan asked. ‘Have they suspended you yet?’

‘They have to catch me first.’ Rebus began playing with the ashtray. ‘I’ve been thinking about cannibals,’ he said. ‘Queensberry’s son.’

‘What about him?’

‘I was wondering whether there are still cannibals out there, maybe more than we think.’

‘Not literally?’

He shook his head. ‘We talk about getting a roasting, chewing someone up, eating them for breakfast. We say it’s a dog-eat-dog world, but really we’re talking about ourselves.’

‘Communion,’ Siobhan added. ‘The body of Christ.’

He smiled. ‘I’ve always wondered about that. I couldn’t do it, that wafer turning to flesh.’

‘And drinking the blood... that makes us vampires as well.’

Rebus’s smile broadened, but his eyes said that his thoughts were elsewhere.

‘I’ll tell you a strange coincidence,’ she said. She went on to tell him about the night at Waverley, the black Sierra and the singles club rapist.

He nodded at the story. ‘And I’ll tell you a stranger one: that Sierra’s licence number was found in Derek Linford’s notebook.’

‘How come?’

‘Because Nicholas Hughes worked for Barry Hutton’s company.’ Siobhan made to form a question, but Rebus anticipated it. ‘Looks like complete coincidence at this stage.’

Siobhan sat back and was thoughtful for a moment. ‘Know what we need?’ she said at last. ‘I mean in the Grieve case. We need corroboration, witnesses. We need someone who’ll talk to us.’

‘Better get the Ouija board out then.’

‘You still think Alasdair’s dead?’ Waited till he’d shrugged. ‘I don’t. If he was six feet under, we’d know about it.’ She broke off, watching Rebus’s face clear suddenly. ‘What did I say?’

He was looking at her. ‘We want to talk to Alasdair, right?’

‘Right,’ she agreed.

‘Then all we have to do is issue the invitation.’

She was puzzled now. ‘What sort of invitation?’

He drained his glass, got to his feet. ‘You better do the driving. Knowing my luck recently, I’d wrap us round a lamp-post.’

‘What invitation?’ she repeated, struggling to get her arms into the sleeves of her coat.

But Rebus was already on his way. As she passed the man with the newspaper, he raised his glass and wished her good luck.

His tone implied that she’d need it.

‘You know him then,’ she complained, heading for the outside world.

37

The funeral of Roderick David Rankeillor Grieve took place on an afternoon of steady sleet. Rebus was at the church. He stood towards the back, hymnary open but not singing. Despite the short notice, the place was packed: family members from all over Scotland, plus establishment figures — politicians, media, people from the banking world. There were representatives from the Labour hierarchy in London, playing with their cuff links and checking their silent pagers, eyes darting around for faces they ought to know.

At the church gates, members of the public had gathered, ghouls on the lookout for anyone worth an autograph. Photographers, too, with deadlines to meet, wiping beads of water from zoom lenses. Two TV crews — BBC and independent — had set up their vans. There was a protocol to be observed: invitees only in the churchyard. Police were patrolling the perimeter. With so many public figures around, security was always going to be an issue. Siobhan Clarke was out there somewhere, mingling with the public, scrutinising them without seeming to.

The service seemed long to Rebus. There wasn’t just the local minister: the dignitaries had to make their speeches, too. Protocol again. And, filling the front pews, the immediate family. Peter Grief had been asked if he’d sit with his aunts and uncles, but preferred to be with his mother, two rows back. Rebus spotted Jo Banks and Hamish Hall, five rows ahead of his own. Colin Carswell, the Assistant Chief Constable, was wearing his best uniform, looking slightly piqued that there wasn’t room for him in the row in front, where so many distinguished invitees had crammed themselves that they had to rise and sit in single, fluid movements.

Speech after speech, the centre aisle decked with wreaths. Roddy Grieve’s old headmaster had spoken haltingly and softly, so that each clearing of the throat from the pews drowned out half a sentence. The coffin, dark polished oak, gleaming brass handles, was resting on a trestle. The hearse had been a venerable Rolls-Royce. Limos clogged the narrow streets around the church, some of the cars sporting national flags — representatives from the various Edinburgh consulates. Out on the path, Cammo Grieve had given Rebus a half-twist of his mouth, a sombre smile of greeting. He’d done most of the organising, drawing up lists of names, liaising with officials. After the interment, there was to be a finger buffet at a hotel in the West End. Fewer invitees to this function: family and close friends. There’d be a police presence — security again — but provided by the Scottish Crime Squad.

As another hymn got under way, Rebus slipped from the back of the congregation and out into the churchyard. The burial site was eighty yards away, a family plot containing the deceased’s father and one set of grandparents. The hole had already been dug, its edges covered with lengths of green baize. There was melt water in the bottom of the grave. The mound of earth and clay sat ready to one side. Rebus smoked a cigarette, paced the area. Then when he’d finished, he didn’t know what to do with the dowp: nicked it and popped it back into the packet.

He heard the church doors opening, the organ music swelling. Walked away from the graveside and took up position at a nearby grouping of poplars. Half an hour later it was all over. Howls and handkerchiefs, black ties and lost looks. As the mourners filtered away, their emotions went with them. What was left was industry, as the diggers got busy filling in the hole. Car doors, engines revving. The scene was cleared in minutes. The churchyard was just that again: no voices or cries, just a crow’s defiant call and the crisp working of shovels.

Rebus moved further away, towards the rear of the church building, but keeping the graveside in view. Trees and headstones camouflaging him. The headstones were worn almost smooth. He got the feeling very few these days were privileged to have their resting place here. There was a much larger purpose-built cemetery across the road. He picked out a few names — Warriston, Lockhart, Milroy — and read evidence of infant mortality. Hellish to lose a son or daughter. Now Alicia Grieve had lost two.

An hour he waited, feet growing icy as the damp penetrated his shoe soles. The sleet wasn’t letting up, the sky a hard grey shell, muffling the life beneath. He didn’t smoke; smoke might draw attention. Even kept his breathing slow and regular, each exhalation a billowing indication of life. Just a man coming to terms with mortality, graveyard memories of past family, past friends. Rebus had ghosts in his life: they came hesitantly these days, not sure how welcome they’d be. Came to him as he sat in darkness, incidental music playing. Came to him on the long nights when he had no company, a gathering of souls and gestures, movement without voice. Roddy Grieve might join them some day, but Rebus doubted it. He hadn’t known the man in life, and had little to share with his shade.

He’d spent all day Sunday in pursuit of Rab Hill. At the hotel, they admitted that Mr Hill had checked out the previous evening. A bit of pressing, and Rebus was informed that Mr Hill hadn’t been seen for a day or two beforehand. Then Mr Cafferty had explained that his friend had been called away. He’d settled the account, keeping his own room open, date of departure uncertain. Cafferty was the last person Rebus wanted to talk to about Hill. He’d been shown the bedroom — nothing had been left behind. As staff said, Mr Hill had brought only the one canvas duffel bag with him. Nobody’d seen him leave.

Rebus’s next stop had been Hill’s parole officer. It had taken him a couple of hours to track down her home phone number, and she’d been none too pleased to have her Sunday disturbed.

‘Surely it can wait till tomorrow.’

Rebus was beginning to doubt it. Eventually she’d given him what she could. Robert Hill had attended two interviews with her. He wasn’t due to see her again until the following Thursday.

‘I think you’ll find he misses that appointment,’ Rebus told her, putting down the receiver.

He’d spent his Sunday evening parked outside the hotel; no sign of either Cafferty or Hill. Monday and Tuesday he’d been back at St Leonard’s, while his future was debated by people so far up the ladder they were little more than names to him. In the end, he was kept on the case. Linford hadn’t been able to offer any real evidence to support his claim, but Rebus got the feeling it was more to do with PR. Gill Templer, the rumour went, had argued that the last thing the force needed was more bad publicity, and pulling a well-known officer from a high-profile inquiry would have the media vultures hovering.

Her approach had gone straight to the deepest fears of the High Hiedyins. Only Carswell, the story went, voted for Rebus’s suspension.

Rebus still had to thank her.

He looked up now and saw a cream trench coat moving across the grass towards the grave, hands deep in pockets, head bowed. Moving briskly, and with definite purpose. Rebus started moving, too, eyes never leaving the figure. A man, tall, thick hair slightly tousled, giving an impression of boyishness. He was standing graveside as Rebus approached. The diggers were still working, nearly done now. The headstone would come later. Rebus felt slightly dizzy, the way gamblers sometimes did when long odds romped home. Three feet behind the figure now... Rebus stopped, cleared his throat. The man’s head half-turned. His back straightened. He began to walk away, Rebus following.

‘I’d like you to come with me,’ he said quietly, his performance watched by the gravediggers. The man said nothing, kept moving.

Rebus repeated the request, this time adding: ‘There’s another grave you should see.’

The man slowed, but didn’t stop.

‘I’m a police officer, if that’s what you’re worried about. You can check my warrant card.’

The man had stopped on the path, only a yard or two inside the gate. Rebus moved around in front of him, seeing the full face for the first time. Sagging flesh, but suntanned. Eyes which spoke of experience and humour and — above all — fear. A cleft chin, showing flecks of grey stubble. Weary from travel, mistrustful of this stranger, this strange land.

‘I’m Detective Inspector Rebus,’ Rebus said, holding up the warrant card.

‘Whose grave?’ It was said almost in a whisper, no sign of native accent.

‘Freddy’s,’ Rebus said.

Freddy Hastings had been buried in a barren spot in a sprawling cemetery on the other side of the city. No marker had been erected, so that they stood by an anonymous soft hillock, the bare earth covered patchily with sections of turf.

‘There weren’t many turned out for this one,’ Rebus said. ‘Couple of fellow officers, old flame, couple of winos.’

‘I don’t understand. How did he die?’

‘He killed himself. Saw something in the paper, and decided, God knows why, that he’d had enough of hiding.’

‘The money...’

‘Oh, he spent some of it at first, but after that... Something made him leave it untouched, for the most part. Maybe he was waiting for you to show up. Maybe it was just the guilt.’

The man didn’t say anything. His eyes were glassy with tears. He reached into his pocket for a handkerchief and wiped at his face, shivering as he replaced it.

‘Bit parky this far north, eh?’ Rebus said. ‘Where have you been living?’

‘The Caribbean. I run a bar there.’

‘Bit of a ways from Edinburgh.’

He turned towards Rebus. ‘How did you find me?’

‘I didn’t have to: you found me. All the same, the paintings helped.’

‘Paintings?’

‘Your mother, Mr Grieve. She’s been putting you on canvas ever since you left.’

Alasdair Grieve wasn’t sure if he wanted to see his family.

‘At this time,’ he argued, ‘it might be too much.’

Rebus nodded. They were seated in an interview room at St Leonard’s. Siobhan Clarke was there, too.

‘Don’t suppose’, Rebus said, ‘you want your visit here trumpeted from the Castle ramparts?’

‘No,’ Grieve agreed.

‘Incidentally, what name do you go by these days?’

‘My passport says Anthony Keillor.’

Rebus wrote the name down. ‘I won’t ask where you got the passport.’

‘I wouldn’t tell you if you did.’

‘Couldn’t shrug off every link with the past, though, could you? Keillor, short for Rankeillor.’

Grieve stared. ‘You know my family.’

Rebus shrugged. ‘When did you find out about Roddy?’

‘A few days after it happened. I thought of coming back then, but didn’t know what good it would do. Then I saw the funeral announcement.’

‘I wouldn’t have thought it would make the Caribbean papers.’

‘The Internet, Inspector. The Scotsman online.’

Rebus nodded. ‘And you thought you’d take the chance?’

‘I always liked Roddy... thought it was the least I could do.’

‘Despite the risks?’

‘It was twenty years ago, Inspector. Hard to know after that length of time...’

‘Just as well it was me at that graveside and not Barry Hutton.’

The name brought back all sorts of memories. Rebus watched them pass across Alasdair Grieve’s face. ‘That bastard,’ Grieve said at last. ‘Is he still around?’

‘Land developer of the parish.’

Grieve scowled, muttered the word ‘Christ’.

‘So,’ Rebus said, leaning forward, resting his elbows on the table, ‘I think maybe it’s time you told us who the body in the fireplace belongs to.’

Grieve stared at him again. ‘The what?’

When Rebus had explained, Grieve started to nod.

‘Hutton must have put the body there. He was working at Queensberry House, keeping an eye on Dean Coghill for his uncle.’

‘Bryce Callan?’

‘The same. Callan was grooming Barry. Looks like he did a good job of it, too.’

‘And you were in cahoots with Callan?’

‘I wouldn’t call it that.’ Grieve half rose from the table, then stopped. ‘Do you mind? I get a bit claustrophobic.’

Grieve began pacing what floor space there was. Siobhan was standing by the door. She smiled reassuringly at him. Rebus handed him a photo — the computer-generated face from the fireplace.

‘How much do you know?’ Grieve asked Rebus.

‘Quite a bit. Callan was buying up lots of land around Calton Hill, presumably with both eyes on a new parliament. But he didn’t want the planners knowing it was him, so he used Freddy and you as a front.’

Grieve was nodding. ‘Bryce had a contact in the council, someone in the planning department.’ Rebus and Siobhan exchanged a look. ‘He’d given Bryce a promise on the parliament site.’

‘Bloody risky, though: it was all down to how the vote went in the first place.’

‘Yes, but that looked solid at first. It was only later the fix went in, the government making damned sure it wouldn’t happen.’

‘So, Callan had all this land and now nothing was going to happen to make it worth anything?’

‘The land was still worth something. But he blamed us for everything.’ Grieve laughed. ‘As if we’d rigged the election!’

‘And?’

‘Well... Freddy had been playing silly buggers with the figures, telling Callan we’d had to pay more for the land than was the case. Callan found out, wanted the difference back plus the money he’d paid as a fee for fronting the whole thing.’

‘He sent someone round?’ Rebus guessed.

‘A man called Mackie.’ Grieve tapped the photo. ‘One of his thugs, a real piece of work.’ He rubbed at his temples. ‘Christ, you don’t know how strange it feels, saying all this at last...’

‘Mackie?’ Rebus prompted. ‘First name Chris?’

‘No, not Chris: Alan or Alex... something like that. Why?’

‘It’s the name Freddy took for himself.’ Guilt again? Rebus wondered. ‘So how did Mackie end up dead?’

‘He was there to scare us into paying, and he could be very scary. Freddy just got lucky. There was a knife he kept in his drawer, a sort of letter opener. Took it with him that night for protection. We were supposed to be meeting Callan, sort it all out. Car park off the Cowgate, late night... the pair of us were scared shitless.’

‘But you went anyway?’

‘We’d discussed doing a runner... but, yes, we went anyway. Hard to turn down Bryce Callan. Only Bryce wasn’t there. It was this guy Mackie. He gave me a couple of whacks on the head — one of my ears still doesn’t work properly. Then he turned on Freddy. He had this gun, hit me with the butt. I think Freddy was going to get worse... I’m sure of it. He was the one in charge, Callan knew that. It was self-defence, I’d swear to it. All the same, I don’t think he meant to kill Mackie, just...’ He shrugged. ‘Just stop him, I suppose.’

‘Stabbed him through the heart,’ Rebus commented.

‘Yes,’ Grieve agreed. ‘We could see straight off he was dead.’

‘What did you do?’

‘Dumped him back in his car and ran for it. We knew we had to split up, knew Callan would have to kill us now, no two ways about it.’

‘And the money?’

‘I told Freddy I didn’t want anything to do with it. He said we should meet, a year to the day, a bar on Frederick Street.’

‘You didn’t make the meet?’

Grieve shook his head. ‘I was someone else by then, somewhere I was getting to know and like.’

Freddy had travelled, too, Siobhan was thinking: all the places he’d told Dezzi about.

But a year to the day, when Alasdair didn’t show, Freddy Hastings had walked into the building society on George Street, just round the corner from Frederick Street, and opened an account in the name of C. Mackie...

‘There was a briefcase,’ Siobhan asked.

Grieve looked at her. ‘God, yes. It belonged to Dean Coghill.’

‘The letters on it were ADC.’

‘I think Dean’s his second name, but he liked it better than the first. Barry Hutton brought us one lot of cash in that briefcase, boasted how he’d taken it from Coghill; “Because I can, and there’s nothing he can do about it.”’ He shook his head.

‘Mr Coghill’s dead,’ Siobhan said.

‘Chalk up another victim to Bryce Callan.’

And though Coghill had died of natural causes, Rebus knew exactly what Grieve meant.

Rebus and Siobhan, a powwow in the CID suite.

‘What’ve we got?’ she asked.

‘Lots of bits,’ he acknowledged. ‘We’ve got Barry Hutton heading out to check on Mackie, finding the body. Not far from Queensberry House, so he takes the body there, walls it in. Chances were, it wouldn’t be found for centuries.’

‘Why?’

‘Couldn’t have the police asking questions, I suppose.’

‘How come no one called Mackie ended up posted a MisPer?’

‘Mackie belongs to Bryce Callan, no one to mourn him or post him missing.’

‘And Freddy Hastings kills himself when he reads the story in the paper?’

Rebus nodded. ‘The whole thing’s coming back again, and he can’t deal with it.’

‘I’m not sure I understand him.’

‘Who?’

‘Freddy. What made him do what he did, living like that...’

‘There’s a slightly more pressing concern,’ Rebus told her. ‘Callan and Hutton are getting away with this.’

Siobhan was leaning against her desk. She folded her arms. ‘Well, in the end, what did they do? They didn’t kill Mackie, they didn’t push Freddy Hastings off North Bridge.’

‘But they made it all happen.’

‘And now Callan’s a tax exile, and Barry Hutton’s a reformed character.’ She waited for him to say something, but he didn’t. ‘You don’t think so?’ Then she remembered what Alasdair Grieve had said in the interview room.

‘A contact in the council,’ she quoted.

‘Someone in the planning department,’ Rebus quoted back.

38

It took them a week to get everything together, the team working flat out. Derek Linford was convalescing at home, drinking his meals through a straw. As someone commented, ‘Every time an officer takes a kicking, the brass has to reward them.’ The feeling was Linford would be going on a promotion shortlist. Meantime, Alasdair Grieve was acting the tourist. He’d got himself a room at a bed and breakfast on Minto Street. They weren’t letting him leave the country, not quite yet. He’d surrendered his passport, and had to report each day to St Leonard’s. The Farmer didn’t think they’d be charging him with anything, but as the witness to a fatal assault, a case-file would have to be prepared. Rebus’s unofficial contract with Grieve: stay put, and your family needn’t know you’re back.

The team compiled their case. Not just the Roddy Grieve team, but Siobhan and Wylie and Hood, Wylie making sure she had a desk by a window: her reward, she said, for all the hours in the interview room.

They had help from further afield, too — NCIS, Crime Squad, the Big House. And when they were ready, there was still work to be done. A doctor had to be arranged, the suspect contacted and informed that a solicitor might be a good idea. He would know they’d been asking questions; even in his state, he’d have to know — friends tipping him the wink. Again, Carswell argued against Rebus’s involvement; again, he was voted down, but only just.

When Rebus and Siobhan turned up at the detached, walled house on Queensferry Road, there were three cars in the driveway: both doctor and solicitor had already arrived. It was a big house, 1930s vintage, but next to the main artery between the city and Fife. That would knock £50k from the value, easy; even so, it had to be worth a third of a million. Not bad for a ‘toon cooncillor’.

Archie Ure was in bed, but not in his bedroom. To avoid the stairs, a single bed had been erected in the dining room. The dining table now sat out in the hall, six formal chairs upended and resting on its polished surface. The room was redolent of illness: that stuffy, fusty smell of sweat and unbrushed teeth. The patient sat up, breathing noisily. The doctor had just finished his examination. Ure was hooked up to a heart monitor, his pyjama top unbuttoned, thin black wires disappearing beneath circles of flesh-toned tape. His chest was near hairless, falling with each laboured exhalation like a punctured bellows.

Ure’s solicitor was a man called Cameron Whyte, a short, meticulous-looking individual who, according to Ure’s wife, had been a family friend for the past three decades. He was seated on a chair at the bedside, briefcase on his knees and a fresh pad of A4 lined paper resting atop it. Introductions had to be made. Rebus did not shake Archie Ure’s hand, but did ask how he was feeling.

‘Bloody fine till all this nonsense,’ was the gruff response.

‘We’ll try to be as quick as we can,’ Rebus said.

Ure grunted. Cameron Whyte went on to ask some preliminary questions, while Rebus opened one of the two cases he was carrying and brought out the cassette machine. It was a cumbersome piece of kit, but would record two copies of the interview and time-stamp each one. Rebus went over the procedure with Whyte, who watched carefully as Rebus set the date and time, then broke open two fresh tapes. There were problems with the flex, which just barely stretched from the wall socket, and then with the double-headed microphone, whose lead just made it to the bed. Rebus shifted his own chair, so that he was seated in a claustrophobic triangle with lawyer and patient, the mike resting on top of the duvet. The whole process had taken the best part of twenty minutes. Not that Rebus was hurrying: he was hoping the wait might bore Mrs Ure into retreating. She did disappear at one point, returning with a tray containing teacups and pot. Pointedly, she poured for the doctor and lawyer, but told the police officers to ‘serve yourselves’. Siobhan did so smilingly, before moving back to stand by the door, there being no chair for her — and little enough room for one. The doctor was seated at the far side of the bed, beside the heart monitor. He was young, sandy-haired, and seemed bemused by the whole scene being acted out before him.

Mrs Ure, unable to get next to her husband, stood by the solicitor’s shoulder, making him twitch with discomfort. The room grew hotter, stuffier. There was condensation on the window. They were at the rear of the house, with a view on to a sweeping expanse of lawn, ringed by trees and bushes. A bird table had been fixed into the ground near the window, tits and sparrows visiting from time to time, peering into the room, dismayed by the quality of service.

‘I could die of boredom,’ Archie Ure commented, sipping apple juice.

‘Sorry about that,’ Rebus said. ‘I’ll see what I can do to help.’ He was opening his second case, pulling out a fat manila folder. Ure seemed momentarily transfixed by its sheer weight, but Rebus pulled out a single sheet and laid it on top, creating a makeshift desk much like the lawyer’s.

‘I think we can start,’ Rebus said. Siobhan crouched on the floor and activated the recorder. Nodded to let him know both tapes were rolling. Rebus identified himself for the record, then asked the others present to do likewise.

‘Mr Ure,’ he said, ‘do you know a man called Barry Hutton?’

It was one question Ure had been expecting. ‘He’s a property developer,’ he said.

‘How well do you know him?’

Ure took another sip of juice. ‘I run the council’s planning department. Mr Hutton always has schemes coming before us.’

‘How long have you been head of planning?’

‘Eight years.’

‘And before that?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘I mean, what positions did you fill.’

‘I’ve been a councillor for the best part of twenty-five years; not many posts I haven’t filled at one time or another.’

‘But mostly planning?’

‘Why bother asking? You already know.’

‘Do I?’

Ure’s face twisted. ‘Quarter of a century, you make a few friends.’

‘And your friends tell you we’ve been asking questions?’

Ure nodded, went back to his drink.

‘Mr Ure nods,’ Rebus said, for the benefit of the tape. Ure looked up at him. There was a measure of loathing there, but something in the man was prepared to enjoy this game, because that’s what it was to him: a game. Nothing they could pin on him; no need to say anything incriminating.

‘You were on the planning board in the late seventies,’ Rebus went on.

‘’Seventy-eight to ’83,’ Ure agreed.

‘You must have come across Bryce Callan?’

‘Not really.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means I know his name.’ Both Ure and Rebus watched the lawyer scratch a note on his pad. Rebus noticed he was using a fountain pen, his letters tall and slanting. ‘I don’t recall his name ever cropping up on a planning application.’

‘How about Freddy Hastings?’

Ure nodded slowly: he’d known this name would come up, too. ‘Freddy was around for a few years. Bit of a wide boy, liked to gamble. All the best developers do.’

‘And was Freddy a good gambler?’

‘He didn’t last long, if that’s what you’re getting at.’

Rebus opened the file, pretending to check something. ‘Did you know Barry Hutton back then, Mr Ure?’

‘No.’

‘I believe he was dipping a toe in the water at that time.’

‘Maybe so, but I wasn’t on the beach.’ Ure wheezed out a laugh at his joke. His wife stretched an arm across the solicitor, touched her husband’s hand. He patted hers. Cameron Whyte looked trapped. He’d had to stop scratching on his pad, seemed relieved when Mrs Ure withdrew the arm.

‘Not even selling the ice creams?’ Rebus asked. Both Ures, husband and wife, glared at him.

‘No need to be glib, Inspector,’ the lawyer drawled.

‘I apologise,’ Rebus said. ‘Only it wasn’t cones you were selling, was it, Mr Ure? It was information. As a result of which, to coin a phrase, you ended up with the lolly.’ Behind him, he could hear Siobhan choke back a laugh.

‘That’s a strong accusation, Inspector,’ Cameron Whyte said.

Ure turned his head towards his lawyer. ‘Do I need to deny that, Cam, or do I just wait for him to fail to prove it?’

‘I’m not sure I can prove it,’ Rebus admitted guilelessly. ‘I mean, we know someone in the council tipped off Bryce Callan about the parliament site, and probably about land in the area that could be available for purchase. We know someone smoothed the way for a lot of plans put forward by Freddy Hastings.’ Rebus fixed eyes with Ure. ‘Mr Hastings’ business partner of the time, Alasdair Grieve, has given us a full statement.’ Rebus searched in the folder again, read from a transcript: ‘We were told there wouldn’t be any problems with consents. Callan had that under control. Someone in planning was making sure.’

Cameron Whyte looked up. ‘I’m sorry, Inspector, maybe my ears aren’t what they were, but I failed to hear my client’s name mentioned there.’

‘Your ears are fine, sir. Alasdair Grieve never knew the mole’s name. Six people on the planning committee at that time: could have been any one of them.’

‘And presumably,’ the lawyer went on, ‘other members of council staff had access to such information?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘Everyone from the Lord Provost down to the typing pool?’

‘I wouldn’t know, sir.’

‘But you should know, Inspector, otherwise such flimsy allegations could get you into serious trouble.’

‘I don’t think Mr Ure will want to sue,’ Rebus said. He kept stealing glances at the heart monitor. It wasn’t as good as a lie detector, but Ure’s rate had leapt in the past couple of minutes. Rebus again made a show of glancing at his notes.

‘A general question,’ he said, again fixing eyes with Ure. ‘Planning decisions can make people millions of pounds, can’t they? I don’t mean the councillors themselves, or whoever else is responsible for taking the decisions... but the builders and developers, anyone who owns land or property near the development site?’

‘Sometimes, yes,’ Ure conceded.

‘So these people, they need to be on good terms with the decision-makers?’

‘We’re under constant scrutiny,’ Ure said. ‘I know you think we’re probably all bent, but even if someone wanted to take a backhander, chances are they’d be found out.’

‘Which means there’s a chance they wouldn’t?’

‘They’d be a fool to try.’

‘Plenty of fools around, if the price is right.’ Rebus glanced back down at his notes. ‘You moved into this house in 1980, is that right, Mr Ure?’

It was Whyte who answered. ‘Look, Inspector, I don’t know what you’re insinuating—’

‘August 1980,’ Ure interrupted. ‘Money from my wife’s late mother.’

Rebus was ready. ‘You sold her house to pay for this one?’

Ure was immediately suspicious. ‘That’s right.’

‘But she had a two-bedroom cottage in Dumfriesshire, Mr Ure. Hardly comparable to Queensferry Road.’

Ure was silent for a moment. Rebus knew what he was thinking. He was thinking: if they’ve dug that far back, what else do they know?

‘You’re an evil man!’ Mrs Ure snapped. ‘Archie’s just had a heart attack, and you’re trying to kill him off!’

‘Don’t fret, love,’ Archie Ure said, trying to reach out for her.

‘Again, Inspector,’ Cameron Whyte was saying, ‘I must protest at this line of questioning.’

Rebus turned to Siobhan. ‘Any more tea in that pot?’ Ignoring the flurry of voices; the doctor getting out of his chair, concerned at his patient’s state of agitation. Siobhan poured. Rebus nodded his thanks. He turned back to them again.

‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘I missed all that. Point I was going to make is that if there’s money to be made on projects in Edinburgh, how much more power would someone have if they were in charge of planning for the whole of Scotland?’ He sat back, sipped the tea, waited.

‘I don’t follow,’ the lawyer said.

‘Well, the question was really for Mr Ure.’ Rebus looked at Ure, who cleared his throat before speaking.

‘I’ve already said, at council level there are all sorts of checks and scrutinies. At national level, they’d be multiplied tenfold.’

‘Doesn’t quite answer the question,’ Rebus commented affably. He shifted in his chair. ‘You were runner-up to Roddy Grieve in the ballot, weren’t you?’

‘So?’

‘With Mr Grieve dead, you should have taken his place.’

‘If she hadn’t stuck her oar in,’ Mrs Ure spat.

Rebus looked at her. ‘I’m assuming that by “she” you mean Seona Grieve?’

‘That’s enough, Isla,’ her husband said. Then, to Rebus: ‘Say your piece.’

Rebus shrugged. ‘It’s just that by rights, with the candidate out of the way, the nomination should have been yours. No wonder you got a shock when Seona Grieve stepped forward.’

‘Shock? It nearly killed him. And now you come in here, stirring it—’

‘I said be quiet, woman!’ Ure had turned on to one side, leaning on an elbow, the better to confront his wife. The beeping of the heart monitor seemed louder to Rebus. The patient was being coaxed on to his back by his doctor. One of the wires had come loose.

‘Leave me alone, man,’ Ure complained. His wife had folded her arms, her mouth and eyes reduced to narrow, angry fissures. Ure took another sip of juice, lay his head back against the pillows. His eyes were focused on the ceiling.

‘Just say your piece,’ he repeated.

Rebus all of a sudden felt a pang of pity for the man, a bond that recognised their common mortality, their pasts paved with guilt. The only enemy Archie Ure had now was death itself, and such self-knowledge could change a man.

‘It’s a supposition really,’ Rebus said quietly. He was shutting them all out; it was just him and the man in the bed now. ‘But say a developer had someone in the council he could trust to make the right decision. And say this councillor was thinking of running for parliament. Well, if they got in... with all that experience behind them — over twenty years mostly spent in city planning — they’d be odds-on for a similar post. Planning supremo for the new Scotland. That’s a lot of power to wield. The power to say aye or nay to projects worth billions. All that knowledge, too: which areas are going to get redevelopment grants; where this factory or that housing development is going to be sited... Got to be worth something to a developer. Almost worth killing for...’

‘Inspector,’ Cameron Whyte warned. But Rebus had pulled his chair as close to the bed as he could get it. Just him and Ure now.

‘See, twenty years ago, I think you were Bryce Callan’s mole. And when Bryce moved away, he handed you on to his nephew. We’ve checked: Barry Hutton hit a golden streak early on in the game. You said it yourself, a good developer is a gambler. But everyone knows the only way to beat the house is if you cheat. Barry Hutton was cheating, and you were his edge, Mr Ure. Barry had high hopes for you, and then Roddy Grieve ended up selected in your place. Barry couldn’t have that. He decided to have Roddy Grieve followed. Maybe only so he could be “persuaded”, but Mick Lorimer went too far.’ Rebus paused. ‘That’s the name of the man who killed Roddy Grieve: Lorimer. Hutton hired him; we know that.’ He could feel Siobhan shifting uneasily behind him — the tape running, catching him saying something they couldn’t yet prove.

‘Roddy Grieve was drunk. He’d just been selected and wanted a look at his future. I think Lorimer watched Roddy Grieve climb the fence into the parliament site and then followed him. And suddenly, with Grieve out of the way, it was your show again.’ Now Rebus narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. ‘What I can’t figure out is the heart attack: was it because you realised a man had been murdered, or was it when Seona Grieve stepped into her husband’s shoes, depriving you all over again?’

‘What do you want?’ Ure’s voice was hoarse.

‘There’s no evidence, Archie,’ the lawyer was saying.

Rebus blinked, his eyes never leaving Ure’s. ‘What Mr Whyte says is not quite true. I think we’ve got enough to present in court, but not everyone would agree. We need just that little bit more. And I think you want it, too. Call it a legacy.’ His voice was almost a whisper now; he hoped the recorder was catching it. ‘After all the shit, a clean break of sorts.’

Silence in the room, except for the monitor, its bleeping slower now. Archie Ure raised himself up so he was sitting unsupported. He crooked a finger, beckoning Rebus closer. Rebus half rose from his chair. A whisper in his ear: it wouldn’t make the tape. All the same, he needed to hear...

Ure’s breathing sounded even more laboured this close, hot rasps against Rebus’s neck. Grey bristles on the man’s cheeks and throat. Hair oily. When washed, it would be soft and fluffy like a baby’s. Talcum powder, that sweet masking smell: his wife probably used it on him, stopping bed sores.

Lips close to his ear, grazing it at one point. Then the words, louder than a whisper, words everyone was meant to hear.

‘Nice fucking try.’

And then wheezing laughter, rising in volume, filling the room with sudden, violent energy, drowning out the doctor’s advice, the machine’s staccato arrhythmia, the wife’s pleas. The lawyer’s glasses were knocked flying as she lunged at her husband, sensing something. As Whyte leaned down to retrieve them, Isla Ure half clambered across his back. The doctor was studying the machine, pushing Archie Ure back down on to the bed. Rebus stood back. The laughter was for him. The defiance was for him. The red-veined eyes, bulging from their sockets, were for him. All that was demanded of Rebus was that he play the part of spectator.

For now the laughter had a choked, rending sound to it, disappearing in a white noise of gargled froth as the face turned puce, the chest falling and refusing to rise. Isla Ure shrieking now.

‘Not again, Christ! Not again!’

Cameron Whyte was rising to his feet, glasses back in place. His teacup had been knocked over, a brown stain spreading across the pale pink carpet. The doctor was speaking, Siobhan springing forward to help: she’d had the training. So had Rebus, come to that, but something held him back: the audience didn’t clamber on to the stage. The performance had to belong to the actor.

While the doctor issued instructions, he was sliding his body atop his patient, readying himself for CPR. Siobhan was ready to administer mouth-to-mouth. Pyjama shirt wide open, fists flattened one on the other, right at the centre of the chest...

The doctor started, Siobhan counting for him.

‘One, two, three, four... one, two, three.’ She pinched the nose, blew into the mouth. Then the doctor started pushing again, almost lifting himself off the bed with the effort.

‘You’ll break his ribs!’

Isla Ure was sobbing, knuckles to her mouth. Siobhan’s mouth locked on to the dying man’s. Breath of life.

‘Come on, Archie, come on!’ the doctor roared, as if decibels could counter death. Rebus knew, or feared he knew: if you wished for death, it came for you all too easily. Every step you took, it shadowed your thoughts, waiting for that invitation. It sensed despair, and tiredness and resignation. He could almost sense it in the room. Archie Ure had willed death upon himself, consumed it readily and with that final relished bellow, because it was the only possible victory.

Rebus couldn’t despise him for it.

‘Come on, come on!’

‘. . three, four... one, two...’

The lawyer stood pale-faced, one arm missing from his glasses, snapped underfoot. And Isla Ure, head down by her husband’s ear, voice cracked to the point of unintelligibility.

‘Allu... archmon... allu-yoosweess...’

For all the noise, the sweeping chaos of the room, it was an echo of laughter which filled Rebus’s ears. The final, stripped-down laughter of Archie Ure. His eyes gazed past the bed, caught movement behind the window. The bird table, a robin clinging to its underside, head turned towards the human pantomime within. First robin he’d seen this winter. Someone had told him once they weren’t seasonal, but if that were the case, then why did you only ever see them in the cold months?

One more question to add to the list.

Two, three minutes had passed. The doctor was tiring. He checked for a pulse in the throat, then put his ear to the chest cavity. The wires were hanging dislodged. The monitor making no sound at all; just three red LED letters where numbers had previously been:

Now flashing to a new message:

The doctor slid his feet off the bed and on to the floor. Cameron Whyte had picked up the teacup. His spectacles sat at the wrong angle on his face. The doctor was pushing his hair back from his forehead, sweat gleaming in his eyelashes and dripping from his nose. Siobhan Clarke’s lips looked dry and pale, as if some of the life had been sucked from them. Isla Ure was lying across her husband’s face, shoulders juddering. The robin had flown off, its spirit unfettered by doubt.

John Rebus bent down, retrieved the microphone from the floor. ‘Interview ends at...’ He checked his watch. ‘Eleven thirty-eight a.m.’

Eyes turned to him. When he stopped the tapes, it was as if he’d switched off Archie Ure’s life-support.

39

Fettes HQ, the office of the Assistant Chief Constable. Colin Carswell, the ACC (Crime), listened to the jumble of noises which made up the last five minutes of the recording.

You had to be there, Rebus felt like telling him. He identified: the moment when Ure sat up, beckoning him closer... the moment flecks of foam had appeared at the corners of his twisted mouth... the sound of the doctor climbing on to the bed... and that dull static was the mike hitting the floor. From then on, everything was muffled. Rebus turned the bass down, upped the treble and volume. Even so, most of the sounds were indistinct.

Carswell had the two reports — Rebus’s and Siobhan Clarke’s — on the desk in front of him. He’d moistened his thumb before perusing them, lifting each page by a corner. Between them, they’d put together a second-by-second account of Archie Ure’s demise, their timings matched to the tape.

There was one other copy of the tape, of course. It had been handed over to Cameron Whyte. Whyte said that Ure’s widow was considering a claim against the police. That’s why they were here in the ACC’s office. Not just Rebus, but Siobhan and the Farmer, too.

More static: that was the mike being picked up. Interview ends at... eleven thirty-eight a.m.

Rebus stopped the tape. Carswell had listened to it twice now. After the first listen, he’d asked a couple of questions. Now he sat back, hands pressed together in front of his nose and lips. The Farmer made to mimic him, saw what he was doing and lowered his hands, pressing them between his legs instead. Then, seeing this as an unflattering pose to strike, he removed them quickly, laid them on his knees.

‘Prominent local politician dies under police questioning,’ Carswell commented. He might have been repeating a newspaper headline, but in fact so far they’d managed to keep the truth away from the newshounds. The lawyer had seen the sense of it, and had prevailed with the widow: a headline like that, and people would begin asking questions. Why had police wanted to talk to the recent heart-attack victim? She had enough to cope with without all that.

And she had concurred, while at the same time urging Whyte to ‘sue the bastards for every penny’.

Words which acted like a frozen sword to the spines of the High Hiedyins at the Big House. So, just as Cameron Whyte and his team were doubtless poring over the tape, looking to build their case, the lawyers for Lothian and Borders Police were already seated in a room along the corridor, ready to take delivery of the evidence.

‘A fatal error of judgement, Chief Superintendent,’ Carswell was telling the Farmer. ‘Sending someone like Rebus into a situation like that. I had my doubts all along, of course, and now I find myself vindicated.’ He looked at Rebus. ‘I wish I could take some pleasure in that.’ He paused. ‘A fatal error,’ he repeated.

Fatal error, Rebus was thinking. ERR RESET.

‘With respect, sir,’ the Farmer said, ‘we could hardly be expected to know...’

‘Sending someone like Rebus to interview a sick man is tantamount to unlawful killing.’

Rebus clenched his jaw, but it was Siobhan who spoke. ‘Sir, Inspector Rebus has been invaluable to this investigation throughout.’

‘Then how come one of our best officers ends up with his face wired together? How come a long-time Labour councillor is in one of the fridges at the Cowgate? How come we don’t have a single solitary conviction? And bloody unlikely to get one now.’ Carswell pointed to the tape machine. ‘Ure was as good a shout at it as we were going to get.’

‘There was nothing wrong with the line of questioning,’ the Farmer said quietly. He looked like he wanted to go sit hunched in a corner till gold-watch day.

‘Without Ure, there’s no case,’ Carswell persisted, his attention focused on Rebus. ‘Not unless you think Barry Hutton will crack under your rapier-like assault.’

‘Give me a rapier and let’s see.’

Carswell threw him a furious look. The Farmer started apologising.

‘Look, sir,’ Rebus interrupted, eyes fixed on the ACC, ‘I feel as badly about this as anyone. But we didn’t kill Archie Ure.’

‘Then what did?’

‘Maybe a guilty conscience?’ Siobhan offered.

Carswell leapt to his feet. ‘This whole investigation has been a farce from the start.’ He was pointing at Rebus. ‘I hold you responsible, and so help me I’ll make sure you pay for it.’ He turned to the Farmer. ‘And as for you, Chief Superintendent... well, it’s not a very pretty end to your career, is it?’

‘No, sir. But with respect, sir...’

Rebus could see a change in Watson’s demeanour.

‘What?’ Carswell asked.

‘Nobody asked your blue-eyed boy to keep tabs on Hutton. No one told him to head off into a Leith housing scheme in pursuit of a possible murder suspect. Those were his decisions and they got him where he is now.’ The Farmer paused. ‘I think you’re putting up a smokescreen so everyone will conveniently forget those facts. The officers here...’ the Farmer looked at them, ‘my officers... also have your protégé pegged as a peeper. Something else you’ve conveniently ignored.’

‘Careful now...’ Carswell’s eyes were boring into the Farmer.

‘I think that time’s past, don’t you?’ The Farmer pointed to the tape machine. ‘Same as you, I’ve listened to that tape, and I can’t see a damned thing wrong with DI Rebus’s methods or his line of questioning.’ He stood up, face to face with Carswell. ‘You want to make something of it, fine. I’ll be waiting.’ He started heading for the door. ‘After all, what have I got to lose?’

Carswell told them to get the hell out, but it was too late: they were already gone.

Down in the canteen, they left the food on their plates, pushed it around, feeling numb, and didn’t talk very much. Rebus turned to the Farmer.

‘What happened there?’

The Chief Super shrugged, tried to smile. The fight had gone out of him again; he looked exhausted. ‘I just got fed up, simple as that. Thirty years I’ve been on the force...’ He shook his head. ‘Maybe I’ve just had a bellyful of the Carswells. Thirty years, and he thinks he can talk to me like that.’ He looked at the pair of them, tried out a smile.

‘I liked your parting shot,’ Rebus said: ‘“What have I got to lose?”’

‘Thought you might,’ the Farmer said. ‘You’ve used it on me often enough.’ Then he went to fetch three more coffees — not that they’d finished the first ones; he just needed to be moving — and Siobhan leaned back in her chair.

‘What do you think?’ she asked.

‘Golgotha via Calvary,’ he said. ‘And don’t bother looking for the return portion.’

‘Not that you like to exaggerate.’

‘Know what really sticks in my craw? We might be crucified for this, and that bastard Linford’s going to get a peg up.’

‘At least we can eat solids.’ She tossed the fork on to her plate.

40

‘Why here?’ Rebus said.

He was walking across a frozen lawn in Warriston Crematorium’s garden of remembrance. Big Ger Cafferty was wearing a black leather flying-jacket with fur collar, zipped to the chin.

‘Remember, you came on a run with me once, years back?’

‘Duddingston Loch.’ Rebus was nodding. ‘I remember.’

‘But do you remember what I told you?’

Rebus thought for a moment. ‘You said we’re a cruel race, and at the same time we like pain.’

‘We thrive on defeat, Strawman. And this parliament will put us in charge of our own destinies for the first time in three centuries.’

‘So?’

‘So it’s maybe a time for looking forward, not back.’ Cafferty stopped. His breath came out as a grey vapour. ‘But you... you just can’t leave the past alone, can you?’

‘You brought me to a garden of remembrance to tell me I’m living in the past?’

Cafferty shrugged. ‘We all have to live with the past; doesn’t mean we have to live in it.’

‘Is this a message from Bryce Callan?’

Cafferty looked at him. ‘I know you’re going after Barry Hutton. Think you’ll get a result?’

‘It’s been known to happen.’

Cafferty chuckled. ‘Something I know to my cost.’ He started walking again. The only things visible in the flower beds were roses, their branches clipped back, looking brittle and stunted but with the promise of renewal hibernating within. That’s us, Rebus thought, thorns and all. ‘Morag died a year back,’ Cafferty was saying. Morag: his wife.

‘Yes, I heard.’

‘They said I could go to the funeral.’ Cafferty kicked at a stone, sent it flying into a flower bed. ‘I didn’t go. The guys in the Bar-L, they thought that made me hard.’ A wry smile. ‘What do you think?’

‘You were scared.’

‘Maybe I was at that.’ He looked at Rebus again. ‘Bryce Callan isn’t as forgiving as I am, Strawman. You managed to put me away, and you’re still walking around. But now Bryce knows you’re after Barry, he’s got to have you put out of the game.’

‘Then he goes away, too.’

‘He’s not that stupid. Remember: where there’s no body, there’s no crime.’

‘I’ll just disappear?’

Cafferty was nodding. ‘Whether you get your precious result or not.’ He stopped walking. ‘Is that what you want?’

Rebus stopped, looked around as if enjoying the view for the last time. ‘What’s it to you?’

‘Maybe I like having you around.’

‘Why?’

‘Who else cares about me?’ Cafferty chuckled again. In the distance, Rebus could see Cafferty’s car — the grey Jag — the Weasel standing beside it, not quite daring to rest against its paintwork. Shuffling his feet in an effort to defrost them.

‘Speaking of no body, no crime... where’s Rab Hill?’

Cafferty looked at him. ‘Yes, I heard you’d been asking.’

‘It’s Rab that has cancer, not you. He went for tests, came back with the news and told his good friend.’ Rebus paused. ‘You switched X-rays somehow.’

‘NHS,’ Cafferty said. ‘Don’t pay those doctors half what they’re worth.’

‘I’m going to prove it, you know that.’

‘You’re a cop with a vendetta. Not much a poor citizen like me can do about that.’

‘Maybe I could ease up a little,’ Rebus said.

‘In return for...?’

‘Testify against Bryce Callan. You were there in ’79, you know what was going on.’

Cafferty shook his head. ‘That’s not the way to play it.’

Rebus stared at him. ‘Then what is?’

Cafferty ignored the question. ‘It’s a cold place this, isn’t it?’ he said instead. ‘When they bury me, I want it to be somewhere warm.’

‘You’ll be going somewhere warm,’ Rebus told him. ‘Might even be a bit too warm.’

‘And you’re on the side of the angels, eh?’ They were heading for the car now. Rebus stopped; his Saab was parked the other side of the chapel. Cafferty didn’t check; he half waved and kept on walking. ‘Next funeral I go to will probably be yours, Strawman. Anything you want put on your headstone?’

‘How about “Died peacefully in his sleep, aged ninety”?’

Cafferty laughed with the confidence of the immortal.

Rebus turned, retraced his steps. He was out in the open, and his shoulders jerked when he heard a sharp report, but it was only the Weasel slamming shut the door of the Jag. Rebus walked round to the front of the chapel, opened the door and stepped inside. There was an anteroom, a big book of remembrance open on a marble-topped table. A red silk marker kept it open at the day’s date on the previous year: eight names, meaning eight cremations that day, eight grieving families who might or might not turn up to pay their respects. No... that wasn’t right. Not the date of cremation... these were dates of death. He kept the place but started at the back of the book, letting the as-yet-empty sheets slide through his fingers. There’d be names in there eventually. If Cafferty was right, his wouldn’t be among them: he’d just disappear. He didn’t know how he felt about that. Didn’t feel anything really. Today’s date: no names entered as yet. But cars had been pulling away as he’d been arriving, a teenager peering out at him from the back seat of a limousine, black tie knotted awkwardly at the throat.

Yesterday: no names; too soon. Day before that: none. Then it was back to the weekend. Friday: nine names — the cremations had probably taken place yesterday. Rebus looked down the list, neat entries made in black ink by someone with a gift for calligraphy. Fountain pen: thick downstrokes, tapering flicks. Dates of birth, maiden names...

Bingo.

Robert Wallace Hill. Known as Rab.

He’d died the previous Friday. The funeral had probably taken place yesterday, the ashes scattered over the garden of remembrance: the reason Cafferty had come here, paying his respects to the man who’d been his ticket out of jail. Rab, his body riddled with cancer. Rebus saw it all now. Rab, with his release date coming, the cancer a cruel blow. Taking the news back to the Bar-L, confiding in Cafferty, who’d feigned illness, gone for tests himself, arranging the switch of records, some bribe or threat to a doctor. Rab pumped full of painkillers, his release date almost coinciding with Cafferty’s. Doubtless paid well: money for a decent send-off, an envelope thick with banknotes finding its way to any family left behind.

Rebus somehow doubted Cafferty would return to the chapel a year down the line. He’d have more important things on his mind. He’d be back in business. And Rab? Well, hadn’t Cafferty said it himself: a time for looking forward, not back. Christmas was on its way. 1999 would bring the Scottish Parliament back to Edinburgh. In the spring, they’d flatten the old brewery, start constructing the glass boxes which would eventually house the MSPs. Glass walls: the theme was openness, accountability. Okay, till then they’d be meeting in a church hall on The Mound, but even so...

Even so. So what?

‘And then you die,’ he muttered to himself, turning to leave the chapel.

He got on his mobile to the mortuary, asked Dougie who’d done the autopsy on Rab Hill. The answer: Curt and Stevenson. He thanked Dougie, punched in Curt’s number. He was thinking of Rab’s body: ashes now. Where there’s no body, there’s no crime. But there’d be the autopsy report, and when it showed up the cancer, Rebus would have evidence enough to have Cafferty re-examined.

‘It was an overdose,’ Curt explained. ‘He’d been a user in prison, got a bit too greedy when he came out.’

‘But when you opened him up, what else did you find?’ Rebus was holding the phone so tightly, his wrist was hurting.

‘Family were against it, John.’

Rebus blinked. ‘A young man... suspicious death.’

‘Some religious thing... church I’d never heard of. Their lawyer put it in writing.’

I’ll bet he did, Rebus thought. ‘There was no autopsy?’

‘We did as much as we could. Chemical tests were clear enough...’

Rebus cut the call, screwed shut his eyes. A few flakes of snow fell on his lashes. He was slow to blink them away.

No body, no evidence. He shivered suddenly, remembering Cafferty’s words: Yes, I heard you’d been asking. Asking about Rab Hill. Cafferty had known... known that Rebus knew. So easy to administer an overdose to a sick man. So easy for someone like Cafferty, someone with so much to lose.

41

The few days running up to Hogmanay were a nightmare. Lorna had sold her story to a tabloid — Model’s Night-Time Romp With Murder Case Cop. Rebus’s name hadn’t been mentioned... not yet.

It was a move which might ostracise her from husband and family alike, but Rebus could see why she’d done it. There was a middle-page spread, showing her to her best in diaphanous clothing, face and hair done to the nines. Maybe it was the relaunch she thought she needed. Maybe it was a case of using what she had.

A moment’s notoriety.

Rebus could see his career crumbling before him. To keep herself in the news, she’d have to name names, and Carswell would pounce. So Rebus went to see Alasdair, and made him a proposition. Alasdair phoned his sister at High Manor, talked her round. They were on the phone forty minutes, at the end of which Rebus handed Alasdair’s passport back and wished him good luck. He’d even driven him out to the airport. Grieve’s parting words to him: ‘Home in time for New Year.’ A handshake and a brief wave of farewell. Rebus had felt obliged to warn that they might need him back to give testimony. Grieve had nodded, knowing he could always refuse. Either that or keep moving...

Rebus wasn’t working on Hogmanay. A trade-off because he’d been on call over Christmas. The town had been quiet, which hadn’t stopped the cells filling up. Sammy had sent him a present: the CD edition of the Beatles’ White Album. She was staying down south, visiting her mum. Siobhan had left her present to him in his desk drawer: a history of Hibernian FC. He flicked through it during the dead hours, hours when he’d no need to be at the station. When he wasn’t reading about the Hibs, he was poring over case-notes, trying to restructure them into something more acceptable to the Procurator Fiscal. He’d had a series of meetings with various advocates depute. So far, they were of the opinion that the only person they could try with any hope of securing a conviction was Alasdair Grieve: accessory to... fleeing the scene of...

Another good reason for putting Grieve on the plane.

And now it was Hogmanay, and everyone was talking about how bad the television had been. Princes Street would fill tonight, maybe two hundred thousand revellers. The Pretenders were playing, almost reason enough to go along, but he knew he’d stay home. He wasn’t risking the Ox: too close to the mayhem, and getting there would be difficult. Barriers had been erected, ringing the city centre. So he’d headed to Swany’s instead.

When he was a kid, all the mothers would be out bleaching their front steps, busy house cleaning: you had to see the New Year in with a clean house. There’d be sandwiches and stovies for the drinkers. Chimes at midnight: someone tall and dark waiting outside, carrying bottle and lump of coal, plus something to eat. Welcoming the New Year with a knock at the door. Songs and ‘doing a turn’. One of his uncles had played harmonica, an aunt might sing with a tear in her eye, a catch in her throat. Tables groaning with black bun and shortie, Madeira cake, crisps and peanuts. Juice in the kitchen for the kids, maybe homemade ginger beer. Steak pie sitting in the oven, waiting to be cooked for lunch. Strangers would see a light on, knock and be welcomed in. Anyone was welcome into your home, on that night if no other.

And if no one came... then you sat and waited. You didn’t go out until you’d been ‘first-footed’: it was bad luck. One aunt had sat alone for a couple of days; everyone thought she was at her daughter’s. Elsewhere: songs in the street, handshakes, drunken reminiscence and prayers for a better year to come.

The old days. And now Rebus was old himself, heading home from Swany’s at eleven. He’d see the New Year in alone, and would go out tomorrow even though he’d had no first foot. Maybe he’d walk under a ladder, too, and step on every crack in the pavement.

Just to show that he could.

His car was parked one street over from Arden Street — no spaces available near his flat. He unlocked the boot and extracted his carry-out: a bottle of Macallan, six bottles of Belhaven Best, paprika crisps, dry roasted peanuts. There was a pizza in the freezer, and some sliced tongue in the fridge. Enough to see him through. He’d been saving the White Album; could think of worse ways to see in the New Year.

One of them was standing by his tenement door: Cafferty.

‘Would you look at us?’ Cafferty said, opening his arms. ‘Both on our ownios, this of all nights!’

‘Speak for yourself.’

‘Oh, right,’ Cafferty said, nodding, ‘you’re hosting the social event of the year — I’d forgotten. A bevvy of beauties are on their way as I speak, scented and mini-skirted.’ He paused. ‘Merry Christmas, by the way.’ He tried handing something to Rebus, who wasn’t of a mind to take it. Something small and shiny...

‘Twenty fags?’

Cafferty shrugged. ‘An impulse buy.’

Rebus had three packets waiting for him upstairs. ‘Keep them,’ he said. ‘Maybe I’ll get lucky and you’ll get cancer.’

Cafferty tutted. His face seemed huge, moon-like in the sodium light. ‘I thought we’d take a drive.’

Rebus stared at him. ‘A drive?’

‘Where d’you fancy: Queensferry, Portobello...?’

‘What’s so urgent?’ Rebus put his carrier bags down; they clinked musically as they came to rest.

‘Bryce Callan.’

‘What about him?’

‘You don’t have a case, do you?’ Rebus didn’t respond. ‘Won’t get one either. And I haven’t noticed any worry lines on Barry Hutton’s brow.’

‘So?’

‘So maybe I can help.’

Rebus shuffled his feet. ‘And why would you do that?’

‘I might have my reasons.’

‘Reasons you didn’t have ten days ago when I asked?’

‘Maybe you didn’t ask nicely enough.’

‘Then I’ve got some bad news: my manners haven’t improved with age.’

Cafferty smiled. ‘Just a drive, Strawman. You can do your drinking, and fill me in on the case.’

Rebus narrowed his eyes. ‘Land developer,’ he mused. ‘It would be branching out, wouldn’t it?’

‘Easier to do if you can take over an existing business,’ Cafferty admitted.

‘Barry Hutton’s business? I put him away, you step in. I can’t see Bryce being too happy.’

‘My problem.’ Cafferty winked. ‘Let’s go for that drive. Stick a note on the door, let the glamour models know the party’s shifted back an hour.’

‘They won’t be happy. You know what models are like.’

‘Overpaid and underfed, you mean? Would that be the opposite of yourself, DI Rebus?’

‘Ha ha.’

‘Careful now,’ Cafferty warned. ‘This time of the season, a split side can take ages to heal.’

Somehow, they’d been moving while they talked, and Rebus was surprised to find that he’d picked up his carrier bags, too. Now they stood by the Jag. Cafferty yanked open the driver’s door, slid in behind the steering wheel in a single, practised movement. Rebus stood there a moment longer. Hogmanay, last day of the year: a day for paying debts, balancing the books... a day for finishing things.

He made to get in.

‘Sling the booze in the back,’ Cafferty suggested. ‘I’ve a hip flask in the glove compartment, twenty-five-year-old Armagnac. Wait till you taste this stuff. I’m telling you, it would turn a heathen into John the fucking Baptist.’

But Rebus had extracted the Macallan from one of his bags. ‘I’ll stick to my own,’ he said.

‘Not a bad drop either.’ Cafferty was making a great effort not to be offended. ‘Make sure you waft some of it my way, so I can at least inhale.’ He turned the ignition. The Jaguar purred like the cat it resembled. And suddenly they were moving, looking to the outside world like nothing more suspicious than two friends out for a jaunt. South to the Grange, and further south to Blackford Hill, then east towards the coast. And Rebus talked, as much for his own benefit as Cafferty’s. About the pact two business friends had made with a devil called Bryce Callan, a pact which would lead to a killing. About how the killer waited in vain for his friend to return, living rough — a disguise against detection, or a route to penitence? Past lessons learned by Barry Hutton, now a successful businessman, seeing an opportunity for fresh riches and increased fame: replaying that game from twenty years before, determined that his man on the council would become his player in parliament...

At the end of the story Cafferty seemed thoughtful, then said, ‘So it’s tainted before it begins?’

‘Maybe,’ Rebus replied, putting the bottle back to his mouth. Portobello: that’s where they looked to be headed, maybe park by the harbour and sit with windows open. But Cafferty headed on to Seafield Road and started driving towards Leith.

‘There’s some land up this way I’m thinking of buying,’ he explained. ‘Got some plans drawn up, builder called Peter Kirkwall did the costings.’

‘For what?’

‘Leisure complex — restaurant, maybe a cinema or health club. Some luxury flats parked on top.’

‘Kirkwall works with Barry Hutton.’

‘I know.’

‘Hutton’s sure to find out.’

Cafferty shrugged. ‘Something I just have to live with.’ He gave a smile Rebus couldn’t read. ‘I heard about this plot of land next to where they’re building the parliament. It sold for three-quarters of a million four years ago. Know what its price is now? Four million. How’s that for a yield?’

Rebus pushed the cork back into the bottle. This stretch of road was all car dealers, wasteland behind, and then the sea. They headed up a narrow, unlit lane, its surface uneven. A large metal fence at the far end. Cafferty stopped the Jag, got out and took a key to the padlock, pulled the heavy metal chain free and pushed the gates open with his foot.

‘What’s there to see?’ Rebus asked, uneasy now, as Cafferty got back into the driving seat. He could run, but it was a long way to civilisation, and he was dead beat. Besides, he was done running.

‘It’s all warehouses just now. If you coughed too loud, they’d collapse. Easy enough to bulldoze, and there’s a quarter-mile of seafront to play with.’

They drove through the gates.

‘A quiet place for a chat,’ Cafferty said.

But they weren’t here to chat; Rebus knew that now. He turned his head, saw that another car was following them into the compound. It was a red Ferrari. Rebus turned back to Cafferty.

‘What’s going on?’

‘Business,’ Cafferty said coldly, ‘that’s all.’ He stopped the Jag, pulled on the handbrake. ‘Out,’ he ordered. Rebus didn’t move. Cafferty got out of the car, left his door open. The other car had pulled up alongside. Both sets of headlamps stayed on dipped, illuminating the cracked concrete surface of the compound. Rebus focused on one of the weeds, its jagged shadow crawling up the wall of one of the warehouses. Rebus’s door was pulled open. Hands grabbed at him. He heard a soft click as his seat belt was unlocked, and then he was being dragged out, thrown on to the cold ground. He took his time looking up. Three figures, silhouetted against the headlamps, breath billowing from their dark faces. Cafferty and two others. Rebus started getting to his feet. The single malt had fallen from the car, smashed on the concrete. He wished he’d taken one more hit of it while he had the chance.

A boot to the chest had enough force to send him on to his backside. He put his hands out behind him, steadying himself, so that he was unprotected when the next blow came. To the face this time, connecting with his chin, cracking his head back. He felt the snap as bones in his neck uttered a complaint.

‘Can’t take a warning,’ a voice said: not Cafferty’s. A thin man, younger. Rebus narrowed his eyes, shielded them with a hand as though peering into the sun.

‘It’s Barry Hutton, isn’t it?’ Rebus asked.

‘Pick him up,’ was the barked response. The third man — Hutton’s man — pulled Rebus to his feet as though he were made of cardboard, held him from behind.

‘Gonny teach you,’ Hutton hissed. Rebus could make out the features now: face tight with anger, mouth downturned, nose pinched. He was wearing black leather driving gloves. A question — absurd under the circumstances — flashed through Rebus’s mind: wonder if they were a Christmas present?

Hutton hit him with a fist, connecting with Rebus’s left cheek. Rebus rode the blow, but still felt it. As he turned his face, he caught a glimpse of the man pinning him from behind. It wasn’t Mick Lorimer.

‘Lorimer isn’t with you tonight, then?’ Rebus asked. Blood was pooling in his mouth. He swallowed it. ‘Were you there the night he killed Roddy Grieve?’

‘Mick just doesn’t know when to stop,’ Hutton said. ‘I wanted the bastard warned off, not on a slab.’

‘You just can’t get the staff these days.’ He felt the grip around his chest tighten, forcing the breath from his lungs.

‘No, but there always seems to be a smart-arsed cop around when you least need it.’ Another blow, this time bursting Rebus’s nose open. Tears pounded from his eyes. He tried blinking them away. Oh, Jesus Christ, that hurt.

‘Thanks, Uncle Ger,’ Hutton was saying. ‘That’s one I owe you.’

‘What else are partners for?’ Cafferty said. He took a step forward, and now Rebus could see his face clearly. It was dead of any emotion. ‘You wouldn’t have been this careless, Strawman, not five years back.’ He stepped back again.

‘You’re right,’ Rebus said. ‘Maybe after tonight I’ll retire.’

‘You’ll do that all right,’ Hutton said. ‘A nice long rest.’

‘Where’ll you put him?’ Cafferty asked.

‘Plenty of sites we’re working on. A nice big hole and half a ton of concrete.’

Rebus wrestled, but the grip was fierce. He raised a foot, stomped hard, but his captor was wearing steel toecaps. The grip tightened, like a thick metal band, crushing him. He let out a groan.

‘But first, a bit more fun,’ Hutton was saying. He came close, so his face was inches from Rebus’s. Then Rebus felt pain explode behind his eyeballs as Hutton’s knee thudded into his groin. Bile rose in his throat, the whisky seeking the quickest exit route. The grip loosened, fell away, and he dropped to his knees. Mist in front of his eyes, thick as haar, the sea singing in his ears. He wiped his hand across his face, clearing his vision. Fire was spreading out from his groin. Whisky fumes at the back of his throat. When he tried breathing through his nose, huge bubbles of blood expanded and popped. The next blow caught him on the temple. A kick this time, sending him rolling across concrete to end hunched foetus-like on the ground. He knew he should get up, take the fight to them. Nothing to lose. Go down kicking and scratching, punching and spitting. Hutton was crouching in front of him, pulling his head up by the hair.

There were explosions in the distance: the fireworks at the Castle, meaning it was midnight. The sky was lit with coloured blooms, blood-red, aching yellow.

‘You’ll stay hidden a sight longer than twenty years, believe me,’ Hutton was saying. Cafferty was standing just behind him, holding something. Light from the fireworks glinted from it. A knife, blade had to be eight or nine inches. Cafferty was going to do it himself. A determined grip on the handle. This was the moment they’d been coming to, ever since the Weasel’s office. Rebus almost welcomed it: Cafferty rather than the young thug. Hutton had camouflaged his criminality well, the veneer thick and brightly polished. Rebus would take Cafferty every time...

But now the sea was washing over all of it, washing Rebus, cleaning him with its flow of noise, building in his ears to a deafening roar, the shadows and light blurring, becoming one...

Fade to grey.

42

He woke up.

Frozen, aching, as if he’d spent the night in a sepulchre. His eyes were crusted. He prised them open. Cars all around him. Couldn’t stop shivering, body temperature dangerously low. He rose shakily to his feet, held on to one of the cars for support. Garage forecourt; had to be Seafield Road. He broke the crust of blood in his nostrils, started breathing fast. Get that blood pumping round his body. His shirt and jacket were spattered with blood, but no wounds, no sign that he’d been stabbed or slashed.

What the hell is this?

It wasn’t light yet. He angled his watch to the nearest street lamp: three thirty. Started patting his pockets, found his mobile and entered the access code. Got the night shift at St Leonard’s.

Is this heaven or hell?

‘I need a car,’ he said. ‘Seafield Road, the Volvo concession.’

He ran on the spot while he waited, patting himself with aching arms. Still couldn’t stop shivering. The patrol car took ten minutes, two uniforms emerging from it.

‘Christ, look at you,’ one of them said.

Rebus stumbled into the back seat. ‘That heating on full blast?’ he asked.

The uniforms got into the front, closed their doors. ‘What happened to you?’ the passenger asked.

Rebus thought the question over. ‘I’m not sure,’ he said at last.

‘Happy New Year anyway, sir,’ the driver said.

‘Happy New Year,’ the passenger added.

Rebus tried to form the words; couldn’t. Slouched down in the seat instead and concentrated on staying alive.

He took a team back to the compound. The concrete surface was like a skating rink.

‘What’s happened here?’ Siobhan Clarke asked.

‘Wasn’t like this,’ Rebus answered, fighting to keep his balance. The hospital had been reluctant to let him go. But his nose wasn’t broken, and though he might be seeing some blood in his urine, there wasn’t any sign of internal injury or infection. It was one of the nurses who’d made the comment: ‘Lot of blood for a busted nose.’ She was studying his clothes at the time. It had made him think: lacerations and grazes to the face, a cut on the inside of the cheek and a bloody nose. He had spatters of blood all over him. Saw the knife again, Cafferty standing behind Barry Hutton...

And now, standing pretty much where he’d been only ten hours before... nothing except the sheet of ice.

‘It’s been hosed down,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘They hosed away the blood.’

He began to walk back towards the car.

Barry Hutton wasn’t home. His girlfriend hadn’t seen him since the previous evening. His car was parked outside his office block, locked and with the alarm set, no sign of the keys. No sign of Barry Hutton either.

They found Cafferty at the hotel. He was enjoying morning coffee in the lounge. Hutton’s man — now Cafferty’s, if he hadn’t been all along — was reading a paper at a neighbouring table.

‘I’ve just found out what they’re charging come the millennium,’ Cafferty said of the hotel. ‘Shysters, the lot of them. Wrong line of work, you and me.’

Rebus sat down opposite his nemesis. Siobhan Clarke introduced herself, stayed standing.

‘Two of you,’ Cafferty mused. ‘That means corroboration.’

Rebus turned to Siobhan. ‘Go wait outside.’ She didn’t move. ‘Please.’ She hesitated, then turned and stomped off.

‘A fiery one that.’ Cafferty laughed, sitting forward, face suddenly showing concern. ‘How are you, Strawman? Thought I was going to lose you there.’

‘Where’s Hutton?’

‘Christ, man, how should I know?’

Rebus turned to the bodyguard. ‘Go to Warriston Crem, check the name Robert Hill. Cafferty’s minders tend to live short lives.’ The man stared at him blankly.

‘Has Barry not turned up, then?’ Cafferty was feigning amazement.

‘You killed him. Now you step into his shoes.’ Rebus paused. ‘Which was the plan all along?’

Cafferty just smiled.

‘What’s Bryce Callan going to say?’ Rebus watched the smile broaden still further. He began nodding. ‘Bryce okayed it? This was where it was always headed?’

Cafferty spoke in an undertone. ‘You can’t go around bumping off people like Roddy Grieve. It’s bad for everyone.’

‘But you can murder Barry Hutton?’

‘I saved your neck, Strawman. You owe me.’

Rebus pointed a finger. ‘You took me there. You set the whole trap, and Hutton walked into it.’

‘You both walked into it.’ Cafferty was almost preening. Rebus wanted to stick a fist in his face, and Cafferty knew it. He looked around at the elegant surroundings. Chintz and antimacassars, chandeliers and sound-deadening carpets. ‘Wouldn’t do, really now, would it?’

‘I’ve been thrown out of better places than this.’ Rebus glowered. ‘Where is he?’

Cafferty sat back. ‘You know the story about the Old Town? Reason it’s so narrow and steep, there’s some big serpent buried under it.’ He waited for Rebus to get it; decided to supply the punchline himself. ‘Room for more than one snake under the Old Town, Strawman.’

The Old Town: the building works around Holyrood — Queensberry House, Dynamic Earth, Scotsman offices... hotels and apartments. So many building sites. Lots of good, deep holes, filling with concrete...

‘We’ll look for him,’ Rebus said. Cafferty’s words in the garden of remembrance: where there’s no body, there’s no crime.

Cafferty shrugged. ‘You do that. And be sure to hand your clothes in as evidence. Maybe his blood’s mixed in there with yours. Maybe it’ll be you who has to do some explaining. Me, I was here all evening.’ He waved an arm casually. ‘Ask around. It was a hell of a party, a hell of a night. By next Hogmanay... well, who knows what we’ll all be doing? We’ll have our parliament by then, and this... this will all be history.’

‘I don’t care how long it takes,’ Rebus warned. But Cafferty just laughed. He was back, and in charge of his Edinburgh, and that was all that mattered...

Acknowledgements

I’d like to thank the following: Historic Scotland, for providing a tour of Queensberry House; The Scottish Office Constitution Group; Professor Anthony Busuttil, University of Edinburgh; the staff at Edinburgh Mortuary; staff at St Leonard’s police station and Lothian and Borders Police HQ; the Old Manor Hotel, Lundin Links (especially Alistair Clark and George Clark).

The following books and guides were helpful: ‘Who’s Who in the Scottish Parliament’ (a supplement provided with Scotland on Sunday, the issue of 16 May 1999); Crime and Criminal Justice in Scotland by Peter Young (Stationery Office, 1997); A Guide to the Scottish Parliament edited by Gerry Hassan (Stationery Office, 1999); The Battle for Scotland by Andrew Marr (Penguin, 1992).

The lyrics to ‘Wages Day’ are by Ricky Ross. The track can be found on the Deacon Blue albums Raintown and Our Town: the Greatest Hits.

I’d also like to thank Angus Calder for permission to quote from his poem ‘Love Poem’, and Alison Hendon, who brought another poem to my attention and gifted me the title of this book.