‘You’ll have to go back that way, sir,’ a uniform was explaining now, as Rebus tried to squeeze through the gap between one metal crash barrier and a tenement wall. The accent was English.
Rebus made show of looking back in the direction the man was pointing.
‘You mean, cut along the Meadows, through the hordes and the coaches, and take a right at Tollcross, then make a sudden stop at the first barricade on Lothian Road, where I’ll be politely told to “go back that way, sir”?’
The officer’s eyes narrowed. When Rebus moved a hand towards his inside pocket, he even took a step back.
‘Easy, pal, easy,’ Rebus said, bringing out his warrant card. ‘We’re supposed to be on the same side.’
The officer studied the ID for longer than Rebus felt necessary. ‘CID,’ he said, handing it back. ‘Something going down?’ He hauled at the barrier, giving Rebus more room.
‘Could be a close shave,’ Rebus answered, heading on his way.
A close shave it was. Barber’s shop on Rose Street. An occasional Saturday treat: hot towels, unguents, the works. Even a splash of cologne afterwards. They didn’t use cut-throat razors these days: fear of hep B and HIV. Little disposable blades instead. Still gave a good shave, even though Rebus missed the sliding of the cut-throat against the leather strap. As a kid, he’d watched his father get a regular wet shave, the barber winking at him as he honed the gleaming blade.
‘Might call it a day,’ the barber told Rebus now. ‘Most of my bookings have cancelled.’
‘Wimps,’ Rebus said.
‘Half the shops on Princes Street are shut. Some with the boards up. That fellow Geldof, he wants a million marchers.’
‘He won’t get them,’ Rebus said. ‘Man runs a decent concert, but that’s about it. He’ll get his moment in the sun, shake hands with George W even, and that’ll be about it.’
The barber snorted. ‘We’re maybe cynical old buggers, John.’
‘I marched in the sixties.’
‘But not now?’
Rebus just shrugged. It was different then, he wanted to say. But he wasn’t sure that was true. He was different then; no doubt about that. He’d always assumed ideals were for the young, but the people he’d seen heading for the march … they’d been all ages. Probably all backgrounds and creeds, too. The sun was out, and forty miles up the road at Gleneagles, eight men would sit down to make decisions affecting the whole planet. Not that there was any pressure. Edinburgh’s own Chief Constable would be there too, shuffling around in the background, usurped by spooks and Special Branch, bodyguards and Marines. Jack McConnell kept saying how great it was for Scotland, putting the place on the map. Rebus wondered how close Jack would get to the real power; suspected he’d be little more than a meeter and greeter, positioned front-of-house while the real work went on elsewhere.
‘Off to the Ox?’ the barber said.
‘As per,’ Rebus acknowledged. A wee Saturday afternoon session: racing on TV and a filled roll to feed the soul. The Live Eight concert would be on later. He’d probably watch The Who and Pink Floyd – especially the Floyd; had to see it with his own eyes. If Dave Gilmour let Roger Waters back on stage with him, anything was possible … maybe even world peace, an end to hunger and a cure for global warming.
‘Might shut up shop and follow you,’ the barber said.
‘I’ll wait,’ Rebus offered. The man nodded and began to sweep up. Rebus stepped outside for a cigarette, watching through the window as towels were dumped in a laundry bag, cutters cleaned, the basin rinsed. There was something comforting in observing a person’s routine. It was a ritual that placed a full stop at the end of a working day, and it showed pride, too. Combs and clippers went into a little leather pouch, which was rolled up and tied shut. They’d go home with the barber: his talisman.
At last he turned off the lights and switched on the alarm, locking the door behind him. He looked up at the sky. Rebus nodded to let him know he could hear it too: a cacophony of chants, whistles and drums in the near distance. The march had reached Princes Street.
‘Fancy a quick look-see?’ the barber asked.
‘Sure,’ Rebus said.
They walked down together. More barricades separated the slow parade from bemused shoppers. Policemen stood with arms folded, legs slightly parted. This was ritual, too. Rebus didn’t doubt there’d be troublemakers dotted about the place. Something like this would be a magnet for the city’s tearaways, never mind the international brotherhood of anarchists. But right now it all looked as innocuous as a cavalcade.
‘Think anyone’s listening?’ the barber asked. But Rebus couldn’t answer that. He noticed that the windows of the shops behind them were covered with protective boards.
‘Even the Ann Summers shop,’ the barber said with a laugh. ‘Can you see the good folk of Edinburgh looting a few bits of cheeky lingerie?’
Rebus shook his head. ‘It’s the Basque separatists they’re afraid of,’ he said, lighting another cigarette.
Just for a moment, as he smoked and watched the march, there was the temptation to join in, to add another particle to the mass. But he knew he lacked the passion and the faith. He could try comforting himself with the thought that it wouldn’t change anything. The rules of the game were well established, the cards already dealt. But doing nothing wouldn’t change anything either. In the end it was the barber who broke the spell, offering up a shrug of his own, that most Scottish of gestures. As if synchronised, the two men turned away from the march.
They wouldn’t have let you smoke anyway, Rebus told himself. But he knew he would spend the rest of the day wondering. Wondering, and maybe even regretting.
Penalty Claus
They even had a name for themselves: the Holly and Ivy Gang.
It was Debby’s idea. ‘They’re our aliases.’
Her mother, Liz, wasn’t so sure. ‘Why do we need aliases? And which one am I?’
‘You’re Ivy.’
Liz snorted at this. ‘Why can’t I be Holly?’
‘The name’s just something they can use about us on the news.’
‘But that’s my whole point – we’re good at this, and that means we don’t get anywhere near the news.’
‘But just in case …’
‘Besides which, there’s only the two of us, so we’re not technically a “gang”.’
‘Bandits, then. The Holly and Ivy Bandits …’
Liz was in the electric wheelchair. Debby was on a hard plastic seat next to her. They were at a table in a fast-food restaurant on Princes Street. Debby’s chair was bolted to the floor, meaning she couldn’t get comfortable. They were having a bit of a rest. Edinburgh wasn’t a place they knew well. They’d come by train, booking off-peak to make it worthwhile. Liz had her head screwed on about such things. No point making money on the day if your outgoings added up to more.
‘Harsh economic realities,’ she’d explained, nodding slowly at her own wisdom.
Debby was in her early twenties, Liz her mid forties. They lived in a scheme on the outskirts of Glasgow. Glasgow’s shopping streets had given them their first taste of success, three years back. The run-up to Christmas, that was their season. They’d get want-lists from friends and would always say, ‘We’ll see what we can do.’ But the lists had to be specific: electrical goods were usually too bulky and well guarded. Clothes and perfumes were what it came down to. Dresses and tops; posh underwear; Paris brands. Liz in the wheelchair, shopping bags hooked over its handles, a travel rug on her lap. Debby light-fingered and shrewd, eyes in the back of her head.
There’d be security staff, but they could be blindsided or distracted. CCTV wasn’t always the all-seeing eye. The clothes would carry security tags, but that was where the wheelchair came in. Exiting each shop, Liz would get a bit clumsy and barge into the alarm rail, setting it off. There’d be apologies from Debby as she helped her mother manoeuvre the chair past the obstacle. The staff would be helpful, might even say that the
security measures were a pain. No one, so far, had ever stopped them and asked for a rummage.
There was a big ‘but’, though. It wasn’t the sort of stunt you could pull time and again. If you went back to the same shop and set the alarm off a second time, there’d be a bit more suspicion. So they’d moved the operation from Glasgow to Dundee last year, and now it was Edinburgh’s turn. Princes Street: big names … department stores and fashion chains … easy pickings. They’d already done three shops, and after the burger and fizzy drink would try at least two more.
‘Need the loo?’ Debby asked. Her mother shook her head. The stuff they’d lifted so far, Debby had gone into Princes Street Gardens with it and found a hiding place in a clump of bushes. Always a worry: you never knew if it would be waiting for you at the day’s end. But you couldn’t risk the tags setting off alarms as you entered other shops – a lesson learned after their very first attempt. Besides, they needed the shopping bags on the back of the wheelchair nice and empty, the travel rug unbulging.
Their next port of call was all of twenty yards further along the street. Liz had felt it worth pointing out that Princes Street was good for wheelchairs: ramped pavements, helpful pedestrians. Waverley Station had been more of a challenge, sunk as it was beneath street level. All the same, the day was shaping up. They’d even discussed going further afield next time – Carlisle or Newcastle or Aberdeen. Debby wasn’t sure about England: ‘we’d stand out a mile with these accents’. But her mother had added that maybe they didn’t need to wait a whole year. Their friends were always after clothes and make-up and other bits and pieces.
‘This operation could go global,’ was the seed she planted in her daughter’s head.
Their chosen shop turned out to be less than brilliant. The better stuff was kept under glass. The available accessories looked cheap because they were cheap. It was a question of weighing up the risks. The guard was in a uniform of sorts and prowled the floor like he was pacing a cage, just waiting to pounce. The music was too loud for Liz’s taste. The place was packed with customers, too. There was a sort of ideal midway point: you didn’t want it to be dead, but neither did you want too many pairs of eyes on you. That was one thing about the wheelchair: it drew attention. You had to be careful.
On their way to the exit, Liz did some clumsy reversing. The alarm rang out, the red light on the sensor flashing. Debby started to chide her and the security guard came over. She told him she was sorry.
‘One too many sherries,’ she explained. ‘Lucky there’s nobody with a breathalyser.’
‘It happens,’ the guard said with a smile. He was resetting the alarm as Liz trundled the chair out through the doors. Her way was blocked by a pair of legs. She looked up and saw that the man had his arms folded. He was smiling too, but she sensed there was nothing friendly about it.
‘Aw, no,’ was all she said.
‘So who does the wheelchair belong to?’
Liz and Debby were seated in one of the interview rooms at Gayfield Square police station. Detective Inspector John Rebus was standing, arms folded again.
‘It was my gran’s,’ Debby answered.
Rebus nodded slowly. Even he – though he would never admit as much – had been surprised when Liz Doherty had opted for a patrol car over a van with a ramp at the back. She had risen from the wheelchair with what might have passed for a sheepish look and walked to the car unaided.
‘And where’s your gran now?’ he asked.
‘Buried her four years back. Nobody ever came for the wheelchair …’
Liz asked for a cup of tea. Rebus told her she’d get one in a minute.
‘Before that,’ he said, ‘I need you to tell me where the rest of the stuff is.’
The silence was broken by Debby. ‘What stuff ?’
Rebus made a tutting sound, as though disappointed in her. He dragged the empty chair out from under the table and sat down so he was facing both women.
‘You’re not as smart as you think you are. Store detectives tend to share gossip about their day. They’d start telling each other about the clumsy woman in the wheelchair. Glasgow two years back and Dundee last. So you might say alarm bells were ringing across the country. First shop you were in today, they got on the phone. You’d done two more by the time I could get to the scene. We’ve got CCTV going back three years. It was just a matter of time …’
‘Don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Liz muttered.
Rebus tutted again. ‘Christmas in the cells for the pair of you. Is there a Mr Doherty?’
‘Aye,’ from the mother. A shake of the head from the daughter.
‘Best tell him he’ll be doing his own cooking.’
‘Couldn’t boil an egg,’ Debby blurted out. Then, turning towards her mother, ‘And he’s not Mr Doherty. He’s just a fat guy you brought home one night.’
‘That’s enough from you,’ her mother snapped back.
Rebus let them bicker for a few more minutes, biding his time by checking messages on his phone. Debby kept looking at the device greedily. Her own mobile had been taken from her at the booking desk. Half an hour had passed, and she was suffering the texting DTs.
‘What did we ever do without these?’ Rebus asked out loud, twisting the knife.
‘So when do we get out?’ Liz Doherty was fixing him with a look.
‘When the process says you can,’ Rebus assured her. ‘But I’m still waiting to hear where the rest of the stuff is. Hidden up a lane somewhere? Or how about Princes Street Gardens? Me, I’d probably say the Gardens. Edinburgh’s not your turf. Laziest option’s probably the one you went for.’ He turned his attention back to his phone’s screen.
‘Am I warm?’ he asked into the silence. ‘Toasty warm,’ he decided.
He gave it a couple more minutes, then got up, stretched, and left the room. Liz Doherty was reminding him about the tea as he closed the door on her. He went to the machine and got one for himself, then took it outside so he could smoke a cigarette. He had half a mind to phone his colleague, Siobhan Clarke. She was on a surveillance operation and hadn’t replied to the dozen or so mischievous texts he’d sent her over the course of the past twenty-four hours. It was mid afternoon, but dark and damp in the car park. A metal No Smoking notice on the brick wall had seen so many butts stubbed out on it that its message had been all but obliterated. Rebus stood next to it and tried not to think about Christmas. He would be on his own, because that was how he liked it. There were a couple of pubs he could visit on the day itself. He’d buy himself something decent for dinner, and a better-than-usual bottle of malt. Maybe a few CDs and a DVD box-set. Sorted. Then, mid evening would come the phone call or the door buzzer. Siobhan Clarke, feeling sorry for him and maybe a little for herself, though she would never admit it. She’d want them to watch a soppy comedy, or go for a stroll through the silent streets. He had already considered his options, but felt he couldn’t let her down, couldn’t scurry out of town for the day or unplug his phone.
‘Humbug,’ he said, stabbing the remains of his cigarette against the sign.
Back indoors, a couple of officers were discussing the bag-snatcher. He’d gone and done it again, the little sod. His targets were the elderly and infirm, walking frames and wheelchairs a speciality. There’d be a handbag hanging from one or the other, and he’d have his hand in and out of it in a flash, hurtling from the scene with bus passes, purses and keepsakes, none of which ever turned up, meaning he was either dumping them intelligently or else keeping them as trophies. Description: denims and a dark hooded top. The local evening paper had been having a go at the police for their inability to stop him, interviewing victims and potential targets.
Shopping centres were what he liked. The Gyle, Waverley, Cameron Toll.
‘Got to be the St James Centre one of these days,’ one of the officers was saying. Yes, that was Rebus’s feeling, too. The St James Centre, sited at the east end of Princes Street. Plenty of exits. All on one level, meaning it wa
s popular with the walking frames and wheelchairs.
Walking frames and wheelchairs …
Rebus ran a finger from his chin to his Adam’s apple, then made his way back to the interview room.
There had obviously been a bit of a falling-out. The daughter was up on her feet, standing in one corner with her back to the room. The mother had decided to turn away from her in her chair. Rebus cleared his throat.
‘All out of tea,’ he said. ‘But I’ve brought something else instead.’
Both women turned their heads towards him. Both asked the same question: ‘What?’
‘A deal,’ Rebus said, retaking his seat and motioning for Debby Doherty to do the same.
Siobhan Clarke had another two hours left of her shift. She was seated in an unmarked car alongside a detective constable called Ronnie Wilson. The small talk had run out of steam almost before it had begun. Ronnie had no interest in football or music. He built models – galleons and racing cars and the like. There were blobs of glue on the tips of his fingers, which he took delight in picking clean. And he had a cold, a persistent sniffle. Siobhan had tried the radio, but he only seemed to like the classical station, and then proceeded to hum along to the first three tunes, causing Siobhan to switch the sound off. There was a faint aroma in the car: the cheese and onion sandwich Wilson had brought with him from home; the chive and sour cream crisps he’d bought from a petrol station. Every now and then he would attempt to dislodge a morsel from between his teeth with his tongue or a fingernail, making sucking noises throughout.
They were parked in a suburban street. It was lined with cars and vans, meaning they stood out less. They were sixty yards shy of John Kerr’s bungalow. The family was at home – wife Selina and teenage son and daughter. Everyone but John Kerr himself. Kerr had gone on the run from prison two days ago. He’d been done for fraud, tax evasion and a dozen or so further money-related crimes, but all without landing his employer in it with him. Kerr was the accounting brain behind Morris Gerald Cafferty’s operation. Cafferty had more or less run Edinburgh these past several decades. If money was to be made from anything illegal, you’d usually find his name linked to it somewhere. But despite a lengthy court appearance and a slew of questions and inferences, Kerr had kept his trap shut. Then, on a community work placement to the west of the city, he’d simply walked off the job and not come back.