He almost thought she’d said growing up aggrieved.
Alicia took a key from her cardigan pocket, unlocked the door to her studio. It was just one room inside, the stone walls whitewashed and spattered with paint. Paint on the floor, too. Three easels of different sizes. Threads of cobweb hanging from the ceiling. And against one wall, a series of portraits, head and neck only, the canvasses of varying size. The same man, caught at different stages of his life.
‘Good God,’ Lorna gasped, ‘it’s Alasdair.’ She started sorting through the portraits; there were over a dozen.
‘I imagine him growing, ageing,’ Alicia said quietly. ‘I see him in my mind and then I paint him.’
Fair-haired, sad-eyed. A troubled man, despite the smiles the artist had given him. And nothing at all like Chris Mackie.
‘You never said anything.’ Lorna had picked up one of the paintings to study it more closely. Her finger brushed the shadowing of cheekbones.
‘You’d have been jealous,’ her mother said. ‘No good denying it.’ She turned to Rebus. ‘Alasdair was my favourite, you see. And when he ran away . . .’ She looked at her own work. ‘Maybe this was my way of explaining it.’ When she turned back, she saw that Siobhan was still holding the photographs. ‘May I?’ She took them, held them up to her face.
Recognition lit up her eyes. ‘Where is he?’
‘You know him?’ Siobhan asked.
‘I need to know where he is.’
Lorna had put down the portrait. ‘He killed himself, Mother. The tramp who left all the money.’
‘Who is he, Mrs Grieve?’ Rebus asked.
Alicia’s hands were shaking as she went through the photos again. ‘I’ve been so wanting to talk to him.’ There were tears in her eyes. She wiped them with her wrist. Rebus had taken a step forward.
‘Who is it, Alicia? Who’s the man in the photographs?’
She looked at him. ‘His name’s Frederick Hastings.’
‘Freddy?’ Lorna came over to look. She pried the police photo from her mother’s fingers.
‘Well?’ Rebus asked.
‘I suppose it could be. It’s twenty years since I last laid eyes on him.’
‘But who was he?’ Siobhan asked.
Suddenly Rebus remembered. ‘Alasdair’s business partner?’
Lorna was nodding.
Rebus turned to Siobhan. She looked puzzled.
‘You say he’s dead?’ Alicia asked. Rebus nodded. ‘He’d have known where Alasdair is. Those two were inseparable. Maybe there’s an address amongst his belongings.’
Lorna was looking at the other photos, the ones of ‘Chris Mackie’ at the hostel. ‘Freddy Hastings a tramp.’ Her laughter was a sudden explosion in the room.
‘I don’t think there was any address,’ Siobhan was telling Alicia Grieve. ‘I’ve been through his effects several times.’
‘Maybe we’d best go back to the house,’ Rebus announced. Suddenly, he had a lot more questions to ask.
Lorna made another pot of tea, but this time fixed herself a drink, half-and-half whisky and spring water. She’d made the offer, but Rebus had turned it down. Her eyes were on him as she took the first sip.
Siobhan had her notebook out, pen ready.
Lorna exhaled; the fumes wafted all the way to where Rebus was sitting. ‘We thought they’d gone off together,’ she began.
‘Utter nonsense,’ her mother interrupted.
‘Okay, you didn’t think they were gay.’
‘They disappeared at the same time?’ Siobhan asked.
‘Looked like. After Alasdair had been gone a few days, we tried contacting Freddy. No sign of him.’
‘Was he reported as a missing person?’
Lorna shrugged. ‘Not by me.’
‘Family?’
‘I don’t think he had any.’ She looked to her mother for confirmation.
‘He was an only child,’ Alicia said. ‘Parents died within a year of one another.’
‘Left him some money, most of which I thought he’d lost.’
‘They both lost money,’ Alicia added. ‘That’s why Alasdair ran off, Inspector. Bad debts. He was too proud to ask for help.’
‘But not too proud to clear off,’ Lorna couldn’t help saying. Her mother fixed her with a glare.
‘When was this?’ Rebus asked.
‘Some time in ’79.’ Lorna looked to her mother for confirmation.
‘Halfway through March,’ the old woman said.
Rebus and Siobhan locked eyes. March ’79: Skelly.
‘What sort of business did they have?’ Siobhan asked, keeping her voice under control.
‘Their last foray was into property.’ Lorna shrugged again. ‘I don’t know much more than that. Probably bought places they couldn’t sell on.’
‘Land development?’ Rebus guessed. ‘Would that be it?’
‘I don’t know.’
Rebus turned to Alicia, who shook her head. ‘Alasdair was very private in some ways. He wanted us to think he was so capable . . . so self-sufficient.’
Lorna got up to refill her glass. ‘My mother’s way of saying he was hopeless at most things.’
‘Unlike you, I suppose,’ Alicia snapped.
‘If they ran off because they were in debt,’ Siobhan said, ‘how come Mr Hastings had nearly half a million pounds in a briefcase a year or so on?’
‘You’re the detectives, you tell us.’ Lorna sat down again.
Rebus was thoughtful. ‘All this stuff about the two men’s business failings, is there anything to back it up, or is it another clan myth?’
‘What are you suggesting?’
‘It’s just that we could do with a few solid facts in this case.’
‘What case?’ The alcohol was kicking in; Lorna’s voice had turned combative, her cheeks tinged with red. ‘You’re supposed to be investigating Roddy’s murder, not Freddy’s suicide.’
‘The Inspector thinks they may be linked,’ Alicia said, nodding at her own deduction.
‘What makes you say that, Mrs Grieve?’ Rebus asked.
‘Freddy was interested in us, you say. Do you think he could have killed Roddy?’
‘Why would he do that?’
‘I don’t know. Something to do with the money, perhaps.’
‘Did Roddy and Freddy know one another?’
‘They met a few times, when Alasdair brought Freddy to the house. Maybe other times, too.’
‘So if Roddy met Freddy again after twenty years, you think he’d have recognised him?’
‘Probably.’
‘I didn’t,’ Lorna said, ‘when you showed me the photos.’
Rebus looked at her. ‘No, you didn’t.’ He was thinking: or did you? Why had she handed the photos back to Siobhan rather than passing them to her mother?
‘Did Mr Hastings have an office?’
Alicia nodded. ‘In Canongate, not far from Alasdair’s flat.’
‘Can you remember the address?’
She recited it, seeming pleased that she still had the ability.
‘And his home?’ Siobhan was writing in her notebook.
‘A flat in the New Town,’ Lorna said. But again it was her mother who gave the address.
The hotel’s downstairs dining room was quiet at lunchtime. Diners either preferred the bistro-style restaurant on the ground floor or else didn’t know of this second restaurant’s existence. The décor was minimalist, oriental, and the elegantly set tables had plenty of space between them. A discreet place for a conversation. Cafferty got to his feet, shook Barry Hutton’s hand.
‘Uncle Ger, sorry I’m late.’
Cafferty shrugged, while a flunky helped Hutton into his chair. ‘Long time since anyone called me that,’ he said with a smile. ‘It’s not like it’s true.’
‘It’s what I always called you.’
Cafferty nodded, examining the well-dressed young man before him. ‘But look at you now, Barry. Doing so well for yourself.’
&
nbsp; It was Hutton’s turn to shrug. Menus were being handed out.
‘Any drinks, gentlemen?’ the waiter asked.
‘Calls for champagne, I think,’ Cafferty said. He winked at Hutton. ‘And this is on me, so no arguing.’
‘I wasn’t about to. It’s just that I’ll stick to water, if that’s all right.’
The smile stuck to Cafferty’s face. ‘Whatever you want, Barry.’
Hutton turned to the waiter. ‘Vittel, if you have it. Evian otherwise.’
The waiter bowed his head, turned to Cafferty. ‘And will you still be requiring the champagne, sir?’
‘Didn’t hear me say otherwise, did you?’
The waiter made his little bow again and headed off.
‘Vittel, Evian . . .’ Cafferty chuckled and shook his head. ‘Christ, if Bryce could see you now.’ Hutton was busy adjusting his shirt cuffs. ‘Rough morning, was it?’
Hutton looked up, and Cafferty knew something had happened. But the younger man was shaking his head. ‘I don’t drink at lunchtime, that’s all.’
‘Then you’ll have to let me buy you dinner.’
Hutton looked around the restaurant. There were only two other diners in the place, seated at a far corner and deep in what looked like a business conversation. Hutton studied the faces, but didn’t recognise them. He turned back to his host.
‘You’re staying here?’
Cafferty nodded.
‘Did you sell the house?’
Cafferty nodded again.
‘And made a fair bit on it, I’d guess.’ Hutton looked at him.
‘Money’s not everything though, is it, Barry? That’s one thing I’ve learned.’
‘You mean good health? Happiness?’
Cafferty pressed his palms together. ‘You’re young still. Wait a few years and maybe you’ll see what I mean.’
Hutton nodded, not really sure what the older man was getting at. ‘You got out pretty early,’ he commented.
‘Time off for good behaviour.’ Cafferty sat back as one waiter produced a basket of bread rolls, and another asked if he wanted the champagne chilled or served slightly cool.
‘Chilled,’ Cafferty said, looking at his guest. ‘So, Barry, business is good, eh? That’s what I hear.’
‘I’m not complaining.’
‘And how’s your uncle?’
‘Fine, as far as I know.’
‘You ever see him?’
‘He won’t set foot back here.’
‘I know that. I thought maybe you headed out there. Holidays and stuff.’
‘I can’t remember my last holiday.’
‘All work and no play, Barry,’ Cafferty counselled.
Hutton looked at him. ‘It’s not all work.’
‘Glad to hear it.’
Their food order was taken, and the drinks arrived. They toasted one another, Hutton refusing the offer of ‘just one wee glass’. He took his water neat: no ice, no lemon.
‘What about you?’ he asked at last. ‘Not many people come straight from the Bar-L to a place like this.’
‘Let’s just say I’m comfortable,’ Cafferty said with a wink.
‘Of course, you kept a lot of your business interests going while you were away?’
Cafferty heard the quotation marks around business interests. He nodded slowly. ‘Lot of people would be disappointed if I hadn’t.’
‘I don’t doubt it.’ Hutton tore open one of the tiny, glazed rolls.
‘Which brings me to our little lunch here,’ Cafferty went on.
‘A business lunch then?’ Hutton asked. When Cafferty nodded, he felt a little more comfortable. It wasn’t just a meal any more; he wasn’t wasting his time.
25
Jerry’s face recoiled from the slap. He was getting used to slaps recently. But this wasn’t Jayne.
This was Nic.
He felt his cheek beginning to sting, knew the imprint of a hand would be forming there, pinkish red against his pale skin. Nic’s hand would be stinging, too: small consolation.
They were in Nic’s Cosworth. Jerry had just got in. It had been Nic who’d called – Monday night – and Jerry had jumped at the chance of escape. Jayne was in front of the telly, arms folded, eyes drooping. They’d eaten their tea watching the news: sausage, beans and egg. No chips: the freezer was bare, and neither of them felt like taking the trip to the chip shop. That was when the argument had started.
Ya useless lump of . . .
It’s you needs to get off your fat arse, no’ me . . .
Then the phone call. The phone was Jayne’s side of the couch, but she ignored it.
‘Two guesses who that’ll be,’ was all she said. He was hoping she’d be wrong, that it would be her mum. Then he could say, ‘That’s you quietened,’ as he handed over the receiver.
Because if it was Nic . . . Nic on a Monday night, he never usually went out Mondays . . . that could probably mean only one thing.
And now here they were together in the car, and Nic was having a go at him.
‘See that stunt you pulled, you ever do something as stupid as that again . . .’
‘What stunt?’
‘Phoning me at work, ya donkey!’
Jerry thought he was in for another slap, but Nic punched him in the side instead. Not too hard: he was calming down a bit.
‘I wasn’t thinking.’
Nic snorted. ‘When did you ever?’ The engine was already turning over. He slammed the car into gear and got a squeal from the tyres as they sped off. No indicator or mirror; a car behind tooted its horn three or four times. Nic checked the rearview, saw an old guy, all by himself. So he gave him the finger and a mouthful of abuse.
When did you ever?
Jerry’s mind was working back, forming answers. Hadn’t he been the one who’d done most of the shoplifting? And the one who bought them their booze when they were under age, because he was that bit taller and older-looking than Nic. Nic: smooth, shiny face, still like a kid’s even now; thick dark hair always cut and styled. Nic was the one the girls went for, Jerry hanging back to see if any of them would find him worth talking to.
Nic at college, telling Jerry stories of shagging marathons. Even then, even back then there’d been glimpses: she didn’t fancy that, so I slapped her till she did . . . had her wrists held in one hand and I was pumping away like.
It was as if the world deserved his violence, and would accept it because in every other way he was just fine, just perfect. The night Nic had met Catriona . . . he’d given Jerry a slap that night, too. They’d been to a couple of bars – Madogs, trendy but pricey, Princess Margaret was supposed to’ve drunk there, and the Shakespeare, next to the Usher Hall. That’s where they’d met Cat and her friends, who were off to see some play at the Lyceum, something to do with horses. Nic knew one of the girls, introduced himself to the group, Jerry mute but keen beside him. And Nic had got talking to this other girl, Cat, short for Catriona. Not a bad looker, but not the best of the bunch either.
‘Are you at Napier?’ someone asked Jerry.
‘Naw,’ he said, ‘I’m in the electronics business.’ That was his line. They were supposed to think he was a games designer, maybe ran his own software company. But it never seemed to work. They asked questions he couldn’t answer, until he laughed and admitted he drove a fork-lift. There were smiles at the news, but not much more in the way of conversation.
When the group headed off to their play, Nic nudged Jerry. ‘Solid gold, pal,’ he said. ‘Cat’s meeting me after for a drink.’
‘Like her then?’
‘She’s all right.’ A wary look. ‘She is, eh?’
‘Oh aye, she’s rare.’
Another nudge. ‘And she’s related to Bryce Callan. That’s her surname: Callan.’
‘So?’
Nic going wide-eyed. ‘Never heard of Bryce Callan? Fuck me, Jerry, he runs the place.’
Jerry looking around the pub. ‘This place?’
‘Ya tube, he
runs Edinburgh.’
Jerry nodding, even though he still didn’t understand.
Later, a few more boozers down the road, he’d asked if he could go with Nic when he met Catriona.
‘Don’t be wet.’
‘What am I supposed to do then?’
They were walking along the pavement, and Nic had stopped suddenly, facing him, his eyes glowering.
‘I’ll tell you what would be a start – you growing up. Everything’s changed, we’re not kids now.’
‘I know that. I’m the one with the job, the one that’s getting married.’
And Nic had slapped him. Not hard, but the act itself shocking Jerry rigid.
‘Time to grow up, pal. You might have a job but everywhere I take you, you just stand there like a drink of fucking water.’ Grabbing Jerry’s face. ‘Study me, Jer, watch how I do things. You might start growing up.’
Growing up.
Jerry wondered if this was what growing up brought you to: the two of them, in the Cosworth, and, it being a Monday night, out on the hunt. There were Monday-night singles clubs, usually catering to a slightly older clientele. Not that Nic minded what age the women were. He just wanted one of them. Jerry risked a glance at his friend. So good-looking . . . why did he need to do it this way? What was his problem?
But Jerry knew the answer to that. Cat was the problem. The problem of Cat was there at every bloody turn.
‘Where we going then?’ he asked.
‘The van’s parked in Lochrin Place.’ Nic’s voice was cold. Jerry was feeling the boak again in his stomach, like he was breathing bile. But the thing was . . . once they got started, he knew it would be joined by a completely different feeling: he’d get excited, same as Nic. Hunters, the pair of them.
‘Treat it like a game,’ Nic had said the first time.
Treat it like a game.
And his heart would beat faster, groin tingling. With the gloves and the ski mask, and sitting in the Bedford van, he was a different person. Not Jerry Lister any more, but someone out of a comic book or a film, someone stronger and scarier. Someone you had to fear. It was almost enough to tamp down the dry boak. Almost.