Set in Darkness (28 page)

Cammo Grieve: wanting a meeting; suggesting time and place. ‘If it’s at all convenient, don’t bother getting back to me. I’ll see you there.’

Bryce Callan was long gone. Rebus checked his watch. He knew someone he could talk to. Wasn’t sure it would help, but he’d made the offer to Wylie and Hood. It didn’t do to go crapping on the junior officers.

Remembering how he’d just dumped a bucketload on Derek Linford, Rebus grew thoughtful.

Another ten minutes of the Blue Nile – ‘Walk Across the Roofops’, ‘Tinseltown in the Rain’ – and he decided it
was time to take his own walk. Not across the rooftops, but down to his car. He was heading for the badlands of Gorgie.

Gorgie was the centre of Big Ger Cafferty’s operations. Cafferty had been Edinburgh’s biggest player until Rebus had put him in Barlinnie Prison. But Cafferty’s empire still existed, maybe even flourished, under the control of a man called the Weasel. Rebus knew that the Weasel operated out of a private cab company in Gorgie. The place had been torched a while back, but had risen from the ashes. There was a small front office, with a compound behind. But the Weasel did his business upstairs, in a room few people knew about. It was nearly ten by the time Rebus got there. He parked the car and left it unlocked: this was probably the safest place in the city.

The front office comprised a counter, with chair and telephone behind, and a bench-seat in front. The bench-seat was where you sat if you were waiting for your cab. The man seated behind the counter eyed Rebus as he walked in. He was on the phone, taking details of a morning booking: Tollcross to the airport. Rebus sat on the bench and picked up a copy of the evening paper from the day before. Fake wood panelling surrounded him. The floor was linoleum. The man finished his call.

‘Can I help you?’ he asked.

He had black hair so badly cut it looked like an ill-fitting wig, and a nose which hadn’t so much been broken in the past as thoroughly dismantled. His eyes were narrow, almond-shaped, and his teeth were crooked where they existed at all.

Rebus took a look around. ‘Thought the insurance money might have bought better than this.’

‘Eh?’

‘I mean it’s no better than what was here before Tommy Telford torched the place.’

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

‘I want to see the Weasel.’

‘Who?’

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

‘Henry, send Mr Rebus up.’

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

‘Take a seat,’ the Weasel said.

‘I’ll stand,’ Rebus answered. He made to close the door.

‘Leave it open.’

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

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

‘Sorry to spoil the party,’ he said.

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

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

‘What do you want to know?’

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

‘I know the name.’

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

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

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

‘Dean Coghill?’ The Weasel frowned. ‘Never heard of him.’

‘Sure?’

The Weasel nodded.

‘I heard Callan had been giving him grief.’

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

‘Because you like me?’

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

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

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

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

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

Strawman: Cafferty’s nickname for Rebus.

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

‘Where are we going?’

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

‘Don’t forget the new museum.’

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

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

Cafferty just winked.

‘How did you swing it?’

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

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

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

‘I want to.’

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

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

‘The darkish area’s the one you’re looking for.’

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

‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

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

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

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

‘But not you?’

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

‘How long do they say . . . ?’

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

‘See for yourself.’

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

‘I was asking the Weasel about Bryce Callan.’

‘Now there’s a name from the crypt.’

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

‘Is he?’

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

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

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

‘Good.’

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

‘Christ, man, were you always this irritating?’

‘I’ve been taking lessons while you were away.’

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

‘A builder called Dean Coghill.’

Cafferty nodded. ‘I knew the man.’

‘A body turned up in a fireplace at Queensberry House.’

‘The old hospital?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘I can promise you one thing, Cafferty.’

‘And what’s that?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cafferty’s men had done it.

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

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

‘What are you doing, man?’

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

When Cafferty came, Rebus would be waiting . . .

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

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