Rebus was trying to remember if there had been whispers at the time. Maybe – somewhere above his pay grade . . .
‘They closed the place before it ever got to an inquiry,’
Cafferty went on.
‘Are we talking about something specific? Something involving your pals Jeffries and Ritter?’
‘I wasn’t quite the biggest player in the city back then – I’m talking 1985 – but I was making my move . . .’ The man seemed lost in memories. He sat on the edge of the sofa, legs splayed, elbows on knees, one mitt wrapped around the beer bottle. ‘There was that no-man’s-land, that sort of grey area where people like me got to know the movers and shakers.’
‘People like David Minton?’
Cafferty shook his head. ‘I never knew Minton. But he was friends with an MP called Howard Champ. Remember him?’
‘I know the name. Died a few years back.’
‘I only knew him vaguely. Then one night I get a phone call.
There’s been an incident – I think the word used was “accident”.’
‘At Acorn House?’
‘In one of the bedrooms. And now there’s a dead kid complicating the situation.’
Rebus found he was holding his breath as he listened.
‘Something had gone wrong. A lad in his early teens had expired.’
‘Howard Champ phoned you?’
‘He got someone else to do it,’ Cafferty corrected him. ‘I’m guessing that was Tolland, though I didn’t know his name back then.’
‘Did he say what had happened?’
‘Just that Howard Champ needed my help.’
‘You went to Acorn House?’
‘No way I was setting foot in that place!’
‘So you sent a couple of your men – Jeffries and Ritter?’
Cafferty nodded slowly.
‘And they dealt with the problem?’ Rebus could hear the blood pounding in his ears as he spoke. ‘How did they do that?’
‘Took the body away.’
‘Away where?’
‘Some woods near where they’d grown up.’
Rebus thought for a moment. ‘No repercussions?’
‘Kids went AWOL all the time. This one had no family to speak of, just an overstretched social worker who ended up getting a holiday cruise and a new kitchen.’
‘He had a name though, right, the lad who died?’
‘I never heard it.’
Rebus exhaled loudly, then got to his feet, leaving the room for a minute. He returned with two glasses of malt. Cafferty took one with a nod of thanks. Rebus walked to the window and stared out at the silent, well-ordered world.
‘What the hell do we do with this?’ he asked.
‘You tell me.’
‘Tolland was there . . . you arranged the burial . . . Howard Champ was the culprit. Where does David Minton fit in?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘If it’s some kind of payback . . . they’ve waited thirty years.
I don’t get it.’
‘Me neither.’
‘And Jeffries and Ritter – they’re the obvious targets, yet nothing’s happened to them.’
‘Agreed.’
The slight chuckle Rebus gave had no humour in it whatsoever. ‘I’m completely and utterly stumped for something to say.’
‘Maybe I shouldn’t have told you. Could be I’m reading too much into it, seeing ghosts that aren’t there . . .’
‘Maybe.’
‘But you don’t think so?’
‘The boy didn’t have close family?’
‘No.’
‘There’ll still be records somewhere, though.’
‘Will there?’
‘Damned if I know.’ Rebus ran his hand through his hair.
‘There must be people around who worked at Acorn House, or were kept there.’
‘But as of right now, you’ve only got my word for it – and you’re the only one I’m telling.’ The two men’s eyes met. ‘I’m serious. It’s not a can of worms your lot would be opening, it’s a room full of snakes. Everything got kept quiet, Acorn House was shut down without a murmur. I can’t think of anyone who’d thank you for shining a torch on any of it.’
‘You won’t talk to the police?’
‘An official investigation isn’t going to get anywhere.’
Rebus sipped his whisky while he gathered his thoughts.
‘What did you get out of it at the time?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Howard Champ – did he pay you off?’
‘He offered.’
‘You declined?’
‘He knew he owed me – that was more important.’
Rebus nodded slowly. ‘A gangster scaling the ladder – handy to have a local MP in your pocket. You never spoke about it to anyone?’
‘No.’
‘How about Jeffries and Ritter?’
‘They knew better than to go blabbing.’
‘Well someone knew – either all along, or they found out about it later. Tolland was the first to die – maybe his conscience got the better of him.’
‘Who would he tell?’
Rebus shrugged. ‘But with Howard Champ long deceased, the wanted list was pretty small: Tolland himself, then Minton, then you.’ Rebus paused. ‘Who do you think would be next?’
‘Apart from Jeffries and Ritter?’ Cafferty shrugged. ‘Other staff, maybe, or kids who knew but kept quiet.’
‘Some easier to trace than others. Minton had been a public figure . . . You too, for that matter . . . And Tolland was all over the papers when he won the lottery.’
‘The money he had, why didn’t they blackmail him rather than do him in?’
‘Because money doesn’t interest them, I suppose.’ Rebus turned back towards the window and the view.
‘Can you do anything with this?’ Cafferty asked.
‘On my own? I really don’t know.’
‘Will you try?’
‘It’s not like I’ve got anything else on my plate, is it?’ When Rebus turned his head towards his guest, Cafferty rewarded him with a smile that mixed relief and gratitude.
‘Remember,’ he said after a moment, the smile fading.
‘There may well be people who don’t want Acorn House dusted off.’
Rebus nodded solemnly, raising the glass to his lips again.
*
Fox paced the corridor, his phone pressed to his ear. It was the third time he had tried Alec Bell, and this time the man decided to answer.
‘What’s the panic?’ Bell said.
‘Took your time getting back to me.’
‘Big powwow with Ricky. What can I do for you, Fox?’
‘You told me Jackie Dyson is your mole.’
‘Did I?’
‘You know you did. I need to know if you were spinning me a line.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I ran into him at Fettes.’
‘Running into him’s one thing . . .’
‘He knows I’m a cop now. None of your lot seemed to have told him.’
‘You talked to him?’
‘So he also knows I know about the mole.’ Fox could hear Bell sucking air through his teeth. ‘Meaning that if you lied to me . . .’
‘I didn’t.’
‘Sure about that?’
‘He’s not going to be too happy that anyone outside the team knows about him. Don’t suppose it matters, though.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘The meeting we just had – Joe Stark clocked the boss.
Means we’re packing up.’
‘You’ll be replaced with another team?’
‘Who knows.’
‘And Dyson?’
‘Will be considering his options. He was embedded in the gang long before Operation Junior got green-lit.’
‘It really is him, isn’t it?’ Fox pressed. ‘The mole, I mean?’
‘I’m guessing the mask didn’t slip . . .’
/> ‘Firmly glued on. He didn’t even say sorry for knocking me out. Reckon he’d have used that blade if I hadn’t intervened?’
‘You said earlier you were worried he’s gone native – I can assure you he hasn’t. Ricky spoke to him a day or so back.’
Fox digested this. ‘So that’s that, then? Back to Gartcosh?’
‘I wish I could say it’s been fun.’
‘Or even productive. You think the gang will keep looking?’
‘Joe’s got a bit of juggling to do. Dennis’s goons were just that – who knows how they’ll fit in with the old man. Joe had a meeting with Darryl Christie earlier. All seemed amicable enough. No idea what they were talking about, though. Lip-reader’s what we need, next time round. Not that there’ll be a next time. One thing that’ll probably gladden your heart – Beth’s been sent packing. She blew up at Ricky and that’s that.
Feel free to gloat.’
‘Not my style.’
Alec Bell gave a loud sigh. ‘Beth had it tough in her early years. Joining the police was the making of her. Never any love in her family – mum and dad drinking and fighting. She had to look after herself, her brother and her gran. That’s the calibre of person you just shat on – hope the thought keeps you warm at night.’
‘What about Beth, Alec? Does she keep you warm at night?’
The phone went dead, just as Siobhan Clarke appeared at the top of the stairs. Fox squeezed it tight in his hand and caught up with her.
‘How did the interviews go?’ he asked.
‘Compston wouldn’t let us record him. I’ve got notes to write up.’
‘And the others?’
‘We settled for the boss man and Hastie herself.’
‘Did she give you anything?’
Clarke nodded. ‘Whether I believe it or not is another matter. Do you want to listen?’
Fox nodded. ‘And if there’s anything else I can be doing . . .’
‘I’ll have a think.’ Clarke sounded distracted. She was looking at her own phone’s screen. ‘Thought John wanted in on this, but he’s gone silent all of a sudden.’
‘Should we be worried about that?’
‘Usually means trouble for somebody.’ She gave a fatigued smile. ‘Is the day nearly over? I could use a drink.’
‘I heard the Gimlet went up in smoke.’
‘Fire investigators say arson.’
‘Might explain why Christie and Stark met up.’
‘You heard about that?’ She nodded. ‘I suppose it might.’
‘Both of them very well-behaved, too – what does that tell us?’
‘If I’m being honest, Malcolm, it tells me the square root of zero. How about you?’
‘I forget the Starks aren’t really your bailiwick.’
She smiled at the word. ‘Only the son. And then only if he really does tie in to Lord Minton.’
‘Which seems less likely now, correct? So a separate inquiry’s going to have to be launched?’
‘Probably – now that Joe Stark’s been apprised that the note was probably a red herring.’
‘That’s why he stormed in here? How did he find out?’
‘You’ve just told me he had a meeting earlier with Darryl Christie . . .’
‘Christie’s got someone at Fettes?’
‘This is Police Scotland we’re talking about, Malcolm.
There’ll always be someone who likes to talk.’ Clarke had her phone to her ear, trying Rebus again.
‘Text him instead,’ Fox advised. ‘Tell him we’ll be at the Ox later – and we’re buying.’
‘It might come to that.’ She looked at him. ‘How are you doing anyway?’
‘I’m okay.’
‘Nice bit of drama at lunchtime, wasn’t it? Joe Stark and his heavies barging in.’
‘I missed all the action,’ Fox lied. ‘Pretty typical, eh?’
‘Were you serious about the Ox later?’
‘Only if you really want to catch John.’
‘And if I don’t?’
‘There are other places. Some of them even serve food.’
‘Sounds good to me.’
‘I’ll maybe bide my time till then listening to that Beth Hastie recording,’ Fox said. ‘Just out of interest, you understand . . .’
Twenty Six
Acorn House wasn’t Acorn House any more. The one-time borstal was still standing, but it had become a private health clinic, specialising in cosmetic procedures. This much Rebus gleaned from the large sign fixed to the red-brick wall. The detached Victorian house was constructed of the same material.
It stood on the edge of Colinton Village, a well-heeled suburb of the city whose sign welcomed visitors to ‘A Historic Conservation Village’. The main road was busy with commuters heading home, so Rebus pulled his Saab up on to the pavement, leaving just about enough room for pedestrians to get past. His phone told him Siobhan Clarke had tried calling again. He knew he couldn’t speak to her, not quite yet. She was quick, and would sense something was up. He could lie to her, but she wouldn’t be happy until she knew what was troubling him.
He had no intention of entering the building – what would be the point? It would have changed, and he barely recalled its interior anyway from his one and only visit. He really just wanted a sense of the place. Whatever garden had once lain in front of the house had been replaced with loose chippings, to create a car park capable of accommodating half a dozen clients and as many staff members. The houses to either side sat at a
good distance. He imagined the windows covered in net curtains – maybe even the original wooden shutters, the kind that could be locked from the inside. A big, anonymous place of detention where pretty much anything could happen without society outside knowing or – very possibly – caring. Kids who had pilfered, or set fire to things, or carried out muggings and housebreakings. Kids who were quick to anger, lacking empathy and good breeding. Kids gone feral.
Problem kids.
Rebus had done a quick internet search, turning up almost nothing of value. It was as if Acorn House – existing prior to the World Wide Web – had been not consigned to history but practically erased from it.
He pulled out his phone and rang Meadowlea.
‘My name’s John Rebus. I was there earlier visiting Paul Jeffries – sorry again about my friend. The thing is, we weren’t completely straight with you. I work for the police.’
‘Yes?’
Rebus had recognised the man’s voice, the same one who had spoken to him at the door.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t catch your name earlier.’
‘Trevor.’
‘Well, Trevor, remember you were telling me about the friend who visited Mr Jeffries? I think you said they were at school together?’
‘It was Zoe who mentioned that.’
‘Of course it was,’ Rebus apologised, ‘but the name Dave Ritter rang a bell with both of you.’
‘That’s right.’
‘I was just wondering when Mr Ritter last visited.’
‘A couple of months back.’
‘So he’s not due any time soon? Does he phone ahead?’
‘I think so.’
‘Would you have a contact number for him?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Or his address in Ullapool? Would Mr Jeffries have a diary or an address book? Maybe you could take a look.’
‘Is Paul in some sort of trouble?’
‘I won’t lie to you – it’s possible. Any strange visitors? Any letters or notes he’s received that seemed a bit odd?
Threatening, even?’
‘Nothing like that.’ Trevor sounded disturbed by the thought.
‘I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about, but maybe you can let me know if anything does arrive. I’ll give you my mobile number.’ He reeled it off. ‘And if you could get me the dates Dave Ritter visited, plus anything about him that might be hidden away in Mr Jeffries’ room . . .’
‘It??
?s against the rules to go prying into our residents’ things.’
‘In which case, I might have to get a search warrant.’ Rebus hardened his tone. ‘Ask yourself which is going to be less stressful for your residents.’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Thank you. And you’ll call me if anything even the least bit out of the ordinary happens?’
‘Promise.’
‘Fine then. Thanks again.’
‘But you have to give your word . . .’
‘About what?’
‘You’ll never let that maniac friend of yours come here again.’
*
Cafferty had brought a curry back to his Quartermile apartment.
He ate from the containers – lamb rogan josh, pilau rice, saag aloo, washed down with the remaining half-bottle of Valpolicella. He had half a mind to visit Paul Jeffries again – see how much of the old Paul was still in there, waiting to be awoken by the right trigger.
The right trigger.
That was another thing: he’d been thinking about a gun, wondering if he needed one. Would a gun make him feel any safer? He wasn’t sure. He’d always had muscle around him in the past, but who could he trust? Andrew Goodman would lend him guys. Thing was, they wouldn’t be Cafferty’s men, not the way Dennis had soldiers and Joe his trusted cronies. Darryl Christie had not as yet found a lieutenant – he had infantry, but no one other than himself to marshal them. When his phone buzzed, he saw that it was Christie calling. Despite himself, he smiled, wiping grease from his fingers as he swallowed a final dollop of food.
It was as if they were on the same wavelength.
‘Just thinking about you,’ Cafferty admitted, answering.
‘In a good way, I hope.’
‘Always, Darryl. What’s on your mind?’
‘The police have been stringing Joe Stark along, telling him his son was part of this thing with the notes. Turns out not to be true.’
‘I can see why they’d want to keep Joe in the dark.’
Cafferty was sucking a finger clean. ‘Once he starts to take it personally . . .’
‘Well that’s the stage we’re entering. So if I were you, I wouldn’t move too far from that hotel room of yours.’
‘There is an alternative, you know.’
‘You and me? We team up and take out the threat?’
‘It’s how wars are often fought.’