‘How about I team up with Joe instead? With Dennis gone, he needs someone to replace him, no?’
‘I doubt Dennis’s men would warm to that scenario. You’d have to go through every single one of them, and that’s not really your style.’
‘Then we’re left with The Good, the Bad and the Ugly – you, me and Joe, standing in a cemetery wondering who to aim at first.’
Cafferty smiled. ‘Wasn’t there buried treasure in that scene too?’
‘There was.’
‘And two out of three alive at the end?’
‘You’re thinking those are pretty good odds?’
‘I prefer not to gamble these days, son. As you get older, you realise just how much you hate losing.’
‘Then walk away. Keep everything you’ve got.’
‘Sounds good.’
‘It’s the only sensible option, I promise you.’
Christie ended the call. Cafferty placed the phone on the worktop and picked up the wine, draining it and stifling a sour belch.
Walk away. Those had been the words, but Cafferty knew that wasn’t how Christie visualised things – at the end of his version of the film, Cafferty had a noose around his neck.
Either that, or he was lying cold and dead on the ground.
He squeezed his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose.
‘And then there’s Acorn House,’ he muttered to himself, bringing back the memory of the one time he wished he had just walked away . . .
Joe Stark stared from his hotel window at a passing parade of night-time buses. He could hear trains as they squealed to a halt every few minutes at one of the platforms in the station opposite. There were tannoyed announcements too, and occasional drunken shouts from pedestrians. His home back in Glasgow was a detached 1960s property in a quiet neighbourhood, the same house Dennis had grown up in. Joe had been thinking about the lad with mixed emotions. It wasn’t that he wouldn’t miss him. On the other hand, Dennis had been readying to topple him, Joe knew that for a fact.
He’d been greedy, and hungry for it – Walter and Len had said as much on more than one occasion, having picked up whispers from Glasgow’s pubs and clubs. It had only been a matter of time – weeks rather than months. Dennis’s lads were probably gathered in one of the other bedrooms, plotting. Or maybe deciding whether to plot. Joe knew he couldn’t look weak. He had to seem to be filled with bile and ready to wreak revenge.
But who was in the frame? Did it matter? He could strike down Cafferty or Christie or a complete bloody stranger for that matter. What counted was to take out somebody.
He was a good kid, Walter Grieve had said, because it was the sort of sentiment you were duty-bound to express. But one look at Walter had told Joe the man didn’t really believe it – and with good reason. Because in toppling his father, Dennis
and his gang would have been obliged to take Walter and Len out of the game too.
Truth was, Joe wished he could feel something other than an echoing emptiness. He’d tried to force a few private tears, but none had come. If his wife were still alive, it would be different. It would all be different. Slowly, as he continued to stare from the window, Joe Stark began replacing images of his son with those of his dear-departed Cath.
And finally his stubborn eyes began to water.
The white car was parked directly outside Rebus’s flat. Having been unable to find a space on Arden Street, Rebus had left his own Saab on the next street over. As he approached the front door of the tenement, the window slid down on the driver’s side of the Evoque.
‘Any chance of a word?’ Darryl Christie said.
‘I’m busy.’
‘It’ll take five minutes. I can come up, if you like.’
‘No way.’
‘Then get in.’
The window slid closed. Christie was starting the engine as Rebus got in. He reversed out of the space and headed downhill towards the Meadows.
‘Taking me somewhere nice?’ Rebus enquired.
‘Driving helps me think. Are you keeping busy?’
‘Not bad.’
‘You heard about the Gimlet?’
‘A sad loss to few.’
‘Maybe so, but it’s where I learned the ropes. You could call that a sentimental attachment.’
‘Any idea who did it?’
Christie gave him a sharp glance. ‘Isn’t that a question for the police? Not that any of your lot seem interested. Wonder why that is.’
‘Probably reckon it’s an insurance job.’
‘You and me know different.’ Christie paused. They were on Melville Drive, heading towards Tollcross. ‘Joe Stark tells me it wasn’t his doing.’
‘You believe him?’
‘Not sure. Here’s the thing, though – Dennis is killed and my pub gets torched. Doesn’t it look to you like the start of a war?’
‘Only if you let it.’
‘Well I know damned fine I didn’t have anything to do with the hit on Dennis, and if his gang didn’t firebomb the Gimlet . . .’
‘Someone’s doing a bit of stirring?’
‘That’s my best guess, and we both know who’s holding the nice long spoon.’
Rebus gave a half-smile. ‘It’s an old saying, you know: “You need a long spoon to sup with the devil.”’
‘I’ve heard it said about Fifers, too – you grew up in Fife, didn’t you?’
‘This isn’t about me, though, is it?’
‘No.’
‘It’s about Cafferty.’
‘Oh yes.’ They had turned left and were heading for Bruntsfield. Rebus realised it was a circuit. They would take the next fork and end up back in Marchmont. ‘Think about it,’ Christie was saying quietly. ‘Cafferty pits the Stark clan against me, knowing Joe isn’t strong enough to run Edinburgh
by himself. The old guard and the new end up battling one another, and Cafferty watches it all happen from the sidelines.’
‘You’re forgetting Cafferty got a note and a bullet both.’
It was Christie’s turn to smile. ‘You don’t see, do you? No one saw who fired that shot. Could easily be a put-up job, Cafferty painting himself as victim so nobody figures him for Dennis’s unfortunate demise.’
Rebus was shaking his head. ‘Look, I can’t tell you what I know that you don’t, but I think you’re in danger of reading this whole thing wrong. Give me a few days and I can maybe prove it.’
‘I’m not sure it’ll wait that long.’
‘I’m asking you, Darryl. You might well be right about there being other forces at work, but Cafferty’s not the man.’
‘Are you his man, though?’
‘Never was, never will be.’
They were approaching Marchmont Road. ‘What makes you so sure about Cafferty?’ Christie asked.
‘Couple of days, I might have an answer for you.’
‘Nothing you can say to me right now that would put my mind at rest?’
‘I think Cafferty’s as nervous as you are. Which makes me grateful neither of you uses a nine-mil pistol.’
‘Don’t tell me Cafferty couldn’t lay his hands on one if he felt the need.’
‘You too, come to that.’
‘And maybe a cop could too, eh?’ They were entering Arden Street. Christie stopped the car in the middle of the road to let Rebus out.
‘A few days,’ Rebus reminded him.
‘We’ll see,’ Darryl Christie said, moving off before Rebus had even managed to get the door fully closed.
He looked to where the Evoque had been parked. A neighbour had grabbed the space already. Cursing under his breath, Rebus dug his house keys out of his pocket.
DAY SEVEN
Twenty Seven
Alec Bell and Jake Emerson were on duty in the unmarked Vauxhall Insignia, engine running so the cabin stayed above freezing. They each held a beaker of coffee, having taken over the watch only twenty minutes previously. Emerson was not Bell’s favoured partner, but Beth Hastie had been b
anished into the wilderness. Emerson was young and a fast learner, but always ready to show off. The music he liked meant nothing to Bell, and his personal life – most of it revolving around social media – made almost less sense to the older man.
‘Will Beth face a disciplinary?’ he was asking now. Bell shrugged. ‘Leaves us one short – will there be a new recruit? I can suggest a couple of names.’
‘Way Ricky’s talking, we’ll all be going home sooner rather than later.’ Bell craned his neck to see the front door of the modern hotel. It was part of a new development close by Haymarket station. You could hear the trains chuntering past, and every now and then a tram signalled its presence with an old-fashioned clang that Emerson had suggested had to be digitised.
‘No way that’s the real thing.’
The gang had moved into four rooms in the hotel – six sharing, and a single room for Joe Stark. The place had a glass
front, with sliding doors leading to the reception area. There were a few trendy-looking chairs and sofas there, along with a flat-screen TV tuned to Sky News. The breakfast room was on the same floor, with a bar on the mezzanine above. This much the team knew, but they had precious little else. Joe and his men had enjoyed a quiet evening – dinner at an Indian place nearby, then a couple of pints at Ryrie’s. No meetings, clandestine or otherwise, and no trouble. The log from the previous six-hour shift was almost completely blank.
The Insignia was parked in a metered bay behind a taxi rank, not more than fifty feet from the hotel steps. Jake Emerson yawned noisily and tried shaking some life into himself.
‘Me, I love this part of the job,’ he drawled. ‘It’s why I joined CID in the first place.’
‘We’ll try to arrange for a car chase later if you like.’
‘Only if we get some decent wheels.’ He drummed his fingers against the dashboard. ‘This thing couldn’t outgun a Segway.’
‘Hang on,’ Bell interrupted him. ‘Bit of movement. Looks like Walter Grieve’s come outside for a smoke.’
Grieve was turning up the collar of his coat. He took in the scenery as he lit a cigarette, then crossed the road towards the station.
‘Do I follow on foot?’ Emerson asked.
‘Not till I say so.’ Bell watched as Grieve walked past the station entrance. ‘Where’s he off to?’ he said. ‘Maybe just stretching his legs . . .’
Yes, because Grieve was crossing the street again. He was on the pavement behind them now, sauntering back to the hotel.
He passed the car, stopped to drop his cigarette on the ground, and stubbed it out. Then he turned, a gotcha smile on his face.
He came over to the passenger-side window and rapped on it with his knuckles.
‘What do I do?’ Emerson asked.
But Bell was already pressing the button, the window sliding halfway open. Grieve rested both hands on it and leaned down, his face almost inside the car.
‘All right, officers?’ he said. ‘Bit of information for you from Mr Stark. Most of us are heading back to Glasgow, there being a funeral to organise. Couple of the lads might stick around a day or so – they hear there’s a castle worth seeing.
Should make things a bit easier for you. Okay?’
Still beaming the same false smile, he straightened up, thumped one meaty fist on the car roof and continued on his way.
‘Jesus,’ Emerson muttered, his hand trembling a fraction as he lifted the coffee cup to his mouth. Bell had his phone out. He pressed it to his ear and waited for Ricky Compston to pick up.
‘News?’ Compston said, sounding almost painfully hopeful.
‘Just a confirmation, really.’
‘Confirmation of what?’
‘That Operation Junior is toast.’
Albert Stout lived in the village of Gullane, in a detached Edwardian house looking on to a golf course. There were hardy souls out there already, just about visible through the morning haar, as Rebus closed the door of his Saab. He had phoned ahead and Stout was waiting for him. Rebus didn’t like the old bugger – as a journalist he had been devious, crooked and a thorn in the side of Lothian and Borders Police. The house was cold and smelled of damp. Mouldering piles of newsprint sat in
the hall, while the staircase was mostly covered in books. The carpeting was threadbare, as was its owner. Moths had been at the saggy oatmeal cardigan, and there was a three-day growth of grey stubble on Stout’s chin and cheeks.
‘Well, well,’ the man cackled. ‘Didn’t think I’d ever clap eyes on you again.’
‘Sorry to disappoint you.’ Rebus was ushered into a space that doubled as sitting room and office. ‘Still writing your memoirs?’
‘Keeps me out of mischief.’ Stout gestured for Rebus to sit.
The sofa was a sprawl of paperwork, so Rebus lowered himself on to an arm, while Stout took the leather-bound chair behind his work desk. ‘Tell me, is young Laura still in work?’
‘Laura Smith?’ Rebus watched the old man nod. ‘She’s hanging in there.’ Until his retirement, Stout had been chief crime correspondent for the Scotsman, a role Laura Smith now occupied.
‘Good luck to her – the industry’s on its last legs.’
‘You’ve been saying that for twenty years.’
‘That’s often the way of it when the patient’s on life support – sometimes it’s kinder to switch off the machines.’
Stout peered at his guest, hands clasped across his stomach. He belied his surname these days, and Rebus wondered about the weight loss. Though he’d been nicknamed the Ghoul back in the day for his ability suddenly to appear at crime scenes, he had always been overweight, belt straining at its final notch. He wasn’t quite cadaverous now, but he was on his way.
‘Still,’ Stout mused, ‘Laura’s stuck at it, which speaks of tenacity if nothing else.’ He broke off. ‘You weren’t expecting a cup of tea, I hope?’
‘Don’t want to put you to any trouble.’
‘Well that’s something we’re agreed on. So what’s on your mind, Inspector?’ He stopped again. ‘No, you must be retired by now, surely?’
‘As a matter of fact, I am. But Police Scotland have offered me a bit of work, so . . .’
‘Work of an archaeological nature, I’m guessing.’
‘That’s why I’m here, talking to a fossil.’
Stout looked ready to take offence, but changed his mind and chuckled. ‘Don’t let me stop you,’ he said.
‘I’m looking into an assessment centre called Acorn House.’
Stout’s mouth formed an O. ‘Particularly the mid 1980s. You remember that lottery winner, the one who was killed a few weeks back? He’d worked there.’
‘Had he now?’ Stout’s chair protested as he leaned back in it.
‘And we’re just checking his background, looking for anyone who might have had a grudge . . .’
Stout gave a thin smile, his eyes suddenly alive and boring into Rebus’s. ‘I think you’re doing more than that. Tell me I’m wrong.’
Rebus considered his options. ‘You’re not,’ he eventually conceded. ‘I’ve been hearing stuff about Acorn House, stuff that makes me think it should have been taken apart at the time and people sent to jail.’
‘It did have a certain reputation.’
‘How much did you know back then?’
‘Rumours mostly, winks and nudges. Lawyers, MPs, public figures . . . taxis dropping them off late at night and returning to fetch them before dawn. Children – children, mind – in hotel rooms with men old enough to be their fathers and grandfathers . . . walked in on by unsuspecting housemaids who
then felt an urgent need to unburden themselves on someone like me for the price of a drink.’
‘Any names?’
‘Names?’
‘These public figures.’
‘Plenty of names, Rebus. Plenty of interesting names.’
‘Care to share a few?’
Stout studied him. ‘Maybe you should be giving the names and I’ll tell you what
I think.’
Rebus shook his head. ‘That doesn’t work for me.’
‘I don’t work for you either, so do me the courtesy of answering just one question – are you here to uncover the truth, or to ensure it stays hidden?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘When the lottery millionaire was killed, did the attacker maybe take something – journals or a confession?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘And that’s not what you’re worried about?’
‘No.’
‘How do I know you’re not lying?’
‘You don’t.’
Stout gave him a hard stare, but Rebus didn’t blink.
‘Hmmm,’ the old man eventually said. He unclasped his hands and pressed them to his desk. ‘What happened in that place was a scandal – or should have been. But there was never any hard evidence. I twice asked my editor for money so we could set up a watch on the comings and goings, maybe grease a few palms.’
‘He said no?’
‘Actually, he said yes, but then his mind was changed for him.’
‘Somebody had a word?’
‘The proprietor at that time liked nothing better than rubbing shoulders with the great and the good. They’d invite him to dinners, pour him the best brandy and light a cigar for him. And then they’d whisper that certain things were never to be followed up.’
‘Including Acorn House?’
‘Especially Acorn House. Story after story found itself spiked.’
‘How about other papers?’
‘Same thing. You heard no end of rumours, but you couldn’t print them.’
‘Did none of the staff or kids ever come forward?’
‘One or two,’ Stout admitted. ‘They talked to me and to others, but we needed something concrete.’
‘What are my chances after all these years?’
‘Pretty much non-existent.’
‘But there’ll be people out there who were resident at Acorn House?’
‘Undoubtedly. They probably won’t talk, though, even though the climate these days is more sympathetic to victims.
Either they’ll be too scared, or they won’t want to deal with the memories. Even if they do talk, they’d be incriminating the dead and the nearly dead, and it would be one person’s word against another’s.’