Set in Darkness

  Camaraderie on the night shift. One officer shared his sandwich snack with Rebus. ‘I always seem to make one more than I need.’ Salami and lettuce on wholemeal bread. A carton of orange juice if Rebus wanted one, but he shook his head.

  ‘This is fine,’ he said.

  Back at his desk, he jotted notes based on his findings, flagging some of the pages by dint of fixing Post-it notes to them. Looked at the office clock and saw it was almost midnight. Reached into his pocket and checked his cigarette packet: just the one left. That decided it. He locked the files in a drawer, put his coat on, and headed out. Cut through to Nicolson Street. There were all-night shops there, three or four of them. Cigarettes and a snack on his shopping list; maybe something for tomorrow’s breakfast. The street was noisy. A group of teenagers screaming for a non-existent taxi; people weaving home, cartons of carry-out food held close to them, faces bathing in steam. Underfoot: greasy wrappings, dropped gobbets of tomato and onion, squashed chips. An ambulance sped past, blue light flashing but sirenless, eerily silent amidst the street’s cacophony. Conversations turned high decibel by drink. And older groups, too, well dressed, heading home from a night at the Festival Theatre or Queen’s Hall.

  Clusters of young people, standing in doorways and the corners of buildings. Voices low, eyes scanning. Rebus saw crime where none existed; or perhaps it was that he was attuned to the possibility of crime. Had the midnight revels always been this harsh and alarming? He didn’t think so. The city was changing for the worse, and no amount of imaginative construction in glass and concrete could hide the fact. The old city was dying, wounded by these roars, this new paradigm of . . . not lawlessness exactly, but certainly lack of respect: for surroundings, neighbours, self.

  The fear was all too apparent in the tense faces of the elders, their theatre programmes tightly rolled. But there was something mixed in with the fear: sadness and impotence. They couldn’t hope to change this scene; they could only hope to survive it. And back home they would collapse on the sofa, door locked and bolted, curtains or shutters closed tight. Tea would be poured into the pot, biscuits nibbled as they stared at the wallpaper and dreamed of the past.

  There was a scrum outside Rebus’s chosen shop. Cars had drawn up kerbside, music blaring from within. Two dogs were attempting to copulate, cheered on by their youthful owners as girls squealed and looked away. Rebus went inside, the glare forcing his eyes closed for a moment. A pack of lorne sausage, four rolls. Then up to the counter for cigarettes. A white poly bag to take his purchases home. Home meant turning right, but he turned left.

  He needed to pee, that was all, and the Royal Oak was near by. Just off the main drag, the place never seemed to close. Thing was, he could use their toilet without entering the bar, so it wasn’t as if he was going there to drink. You walked through the doorway, and the bar was straight ahead through another door, but if you headed down the stairs, that’s where the toilets were. The toilets, plus another, quieter bar. The upstairs bar at the Oak was famous. Open late, and always, it seemed, with live music. Locals would sing the old songs, but then some Spanish flamenco guitarist might do his piece, followed by a guy with an Asian face and Scots inflections playing the blues.

  You never could tell.

  As Rebus made for the stairs, he looked in through the window. The pub was tiny, and packed this night with gleaming faces: old folkies and hardened drinkers, the curious and the captivated. Someone was singing unaccompanied. Rebus saw fiddles and an accordion, but resting while their owners concentrated on the rich baritone voice. The singer was standing in the corner. Rebus couldn’t see him, but that’s where all eyes were focused. The words were by Burns:

  What force or guile could not subdue,

  Through many warlike ages,

  Is wrought now by a coward few,

  For hireling traitors’ wages . . .

  Rebus was halfway down when he stopped. He’d recognised one of the faces. Back up he went, his face a bit closer to the window this time. Yes, seated next to the piano: Cafferty’s pal, the one from the Bar-L. What was his name? Rab, that was it. Sweating, hair slick. His face was jaundiced, eyes dull. His fist was wrapped around what Rebus took to be a vodka and orange.

  And then the singer took a step forward, and now Rebus saw who it was.

  Cafferty.

  The English steel we could disdain,

  Secure in valour’s station,

  But English gold has been our bane –

  Such a parcel of rogues in a nation . . .

  As the verse ended, Cafferty glanced towards the window. He was smiling grimly as Rebus pushed open the door, starting the final verse as Rebus made his way to the bar. Rab was watching, trying to place him perhaps. One of the barmaids took Rebus’s order: a half of Eighty and a whisky. There was no conversation in the bar, respectful silence and even a tear in one patriot’s eye as she sat on her stool with her brandy and Coke raised to her lips, her ragged boyfriend stroking her shoulders from behind.

  When the song finished, there was applause, a few whistles and cheers. Cafferty bowed his head, lifted his whisky glass and toasted the room. As the clapping subsided, the accordionist took it as his cue to commence. Cafferty accepted a few compliments as he made his way to the piano, where he leaned down to mutter something in Rab’s ear. Then, as Rebus had known he would, he came over to the bar.

  ‘Something to ponder, come the election,’ Cafferty said.

  ‘Plenty of rogues in Scotland,’ Rebus said. ‘I can’t see how independence would mean less of them.’

  Cafferty wasn’t going to rise to it. Instead, he toasted him, emptied his glass, and ordered another. ‘And one for my friend Strawman.’

  ‘I’ve got one,’ Rebus said.

  ‘Be nice to me, Strawman. I’m celebrating coming home.’ Cafferty eased a folded newspaper out of his pocket, placed it on the bar top. It was folded at the commercial property section.

  ‘In the market?’ Rebus asked.

  ‘I might be,’ Cafferty said with a wink.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘I hear there’s a killing to be made, way the Old Town is now.’

  Rebus nodded towards the piano, where Rab had angled his chair, the better to watch the bar. ‘He’s not just on the booze, is he? What is it, jellies?’

  Cafferty looked over towards his minder. ‘Place like the Bar-L, you take whatever you need. Mind you,’ he smiled, ‘I’ve been in cells bigger than this.’

  Two glasses of malt had arrived. Cafferty added a dribble of water to his, while Rebus watched. Rab seemed to him such an unlikely companion – doubtless fine in a place like the Bar-L; you’d need muscle there. But out here, back on his home ground where he had all the men he needed, what was it tied Cafferty to Rab, Rab to Cafferty? Had something happened in jail . . . or was something happening out here? Cafferty was holding the jug above Rebus’s glass, awaiting a reaction. Rebus nodded eventually, and when the pouring was done raised the glass.

  ‘Cheers,’ he said.

  ‘Slainte.’ Cafferty took a sip, let it roll around his mouth.

  ‘You seem surprisingly chipper,’ Rebus told him, lighting a cigarette.

  ‘What good’s a long face going to do?’

  ‘You mean apart from cheering me up?’

  ‘Ah, you’re a hard man. I sometimes wonder if you’re not harder than me even.’

  ‘Want to put it to the test?’

  Cafferty laughed. ‘In my current condition? And you with a face like thunder?’ He shook his head. ‘Another time maybe.’

  They stood in silence, Cafferty applauding when the accordionist finished. ‘He’s French, you know. Barely a word of English.’ Then, to the musician: ‘Encore! Encore, mon ami!’

  The accordionist acknowledged this with a bow. He was seated at one of the tables, a guitarist beside him tuning up for the next slot. When he began to play again, something a little more sombre this time, Cafferty turned to Rebus.

  ‘Funny, you bringin
g up Bryce Callan the other day.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Just that I’d been meaning to call Barry, see how old Bryce was doing.’

  ‘And what did Barry say?’

  Cafferty looked down into his drink. ‘He didn’t say anything. I got as far as some dogsbody, who told me he’d pass my message on.’ His face was dark, but he laughed anyway. ‘Wee Barry still hasn’t got back.’

  ‘Wee Barry is a big player these days, Cafferty. Maybe he can’t afford to be seen with you.’

  ‘Aye, well, good luck to him, but he’ll never be a quarter the man his uncle was.’ He drained his glass; Rebus felt obliged to order refills. Between times, he drained his half-pint and the blended whisky which had accompanied it, so he could now concentrate on the malt. Why the hell was Cafferty telling him all this?

  ‘Maybe Bryce did the right thing,’ Cafferty said, as their drinks came. ‘Getting out like that, retiring to the sun.’

  Rebus added water to both glasses. ‘You thinking of following him?’

  ‘I might at that. I’ve never been abroad.’

  ‘Never?’

  Cafferty shook his head. ‘The ferry to Skye, that was enough for me.’

  ‘There’s a bridge these days.’

  Cafferty scowled. ‘Wherever they find romance, they replace it.’

  Privately, Rebus didn’t disagree, but he was damned if Cafferty was going to know that. ‘The bridge is a lot handier,’ he said instead.

  Cafferty’s scowl looked even more pained. But it wasn’t that . . . he was in real pain. He bent forward, hand going to his stomach. Put down his drink and fumbled in his pocket for some tablets. He was wearing a dark woollen blazer with a black polo neck beneath. He shook two tablets out, washed them down with water poured into an empty glass.

  ‘You okay?’ Rebus asked, trying not to sound too concerned.

  Cafferty caught his breath at last, patted Rebus’s forearm as though reassuring a friend.

  ‘Bit of indigestion, that’s all.’ He picked up his drink again. ‘We’re all on the way out, eh, Strawman? Barry could have gone the way of his uncle, but instead he’s a businessman. And you . . . I’ll bet most of your CID colleagues are younger, college-educated. The old ways don’t work any more, that’s what they’ll tell you.’ He opened his arms. ‘If I’m a liar, let me hear it.’

  Rebus stared at him, then looked down. ‘You’re not a liar.’

  Cafferty seemed pleased to have found common ground. ‘You can’t be too far off retirement.’

  ‘I’ve a few years in me yet.’

  Cafferty raised his hands in surrender. ‘The phrase more’s the pity never entered my mind.’

  And this time when he laughed, Rebus almost joined in. Another round of whiskies was ordered. This time, Cafferty added a vodka and fresh, which he took over to Rab. When he came back, Rebus asked again about the bodyguard.

  ‘Only, the way he looks tonight, I’m not sure he’d be much use to you.’

  ‘He’d do fine in a clinch, don’t you worry.’

  ‘I’m not worried. I’m just thinking this may be the best chance I ever get to take a pop at you.’

  ‘Take a pop at me? Christ, man, state I’m in, if you sneezed I’d be in a thousand pieces on the floor. Now come on, have another.’

  Rebus shook his head. ‘I’ve got work to do.’

  ‘At this hour?’ Cafferty’s voice had risen so much, other drinkers were looking at him. Not that he was paying them any heed. ‘No crows to scare off this time of night, Strawman.’ He laughed again. ‘Not too many of these old howffs left, eh? It’s all theme pubs now. Do you remember the Castle o’ Cloves?’

  Rebus shook his head.

  ‘Best pub there was. I drank there often. And now . . . well, down it came. They built a DIY store where it stood. Just up the road from your cop shop.’

  Rebus nodded. ‘I know the spot.’

  ‘All changing,’ Cafferty said. ‘Maybe you’d be better out of the game, after all.’ He lifted the glass to his lips. ‘Just a thought, mind.’ He finished the drink.

  Rebus took a deep breath. ‘Ah-choo!’ Making show of sneezing across Cafferty’s chest, then studying his handiwork. His eyes met Cafferty’s. If looks were weapons, they’d have cleared the pub. ‘You lied to me,’ Rebus said quietly, walking away from the bar as the guitarist finally got his instrument in tune.

  ‘You’ll go to your grave a gobshite!’ Cafferty yelled, brushing flecks of saliva from his polo neck. His voice stilled the music for a moment. ‘Hear me, Strawman? I’ll be dancing on your bastard coffin!’

  Rebus let the door close behind him, inhaled the street’s smoke-free air. Noises off: more kids heading home. He rested his head against a wall, a cold compress for his burning thoughts.

  I’ll be dancing on your coffin.

  Strange words to come from a dying man. Rebus walked: down Nicolson Street to the Bridges, and from there down into the Cowgate. He stopped near the mortuary, smoked a cigarette. He still had his bag with him: rolls and sausage. He felt like he’d never be hungry again. His stomach was too full of bile. He sat on a wall.

  I’ll be dancing on your coffin.

  A jig it would be, unrestrained and awkward, but a jig all the same.

  Back up Infirmary Street. Back along to the Royal Oak. He kept back from the windows this time. No music: just a man’s voice.

  How slow ye move, ye heavy hours,

  The joyless day how dreary.

  It wasna sae ye glinted by,

  When I was wi’ my dearie . . .

  Cafferty again; another of Burns’ songs. His voice full of pain and pleasure, pulsing with life. And Rab, seated by the piano, eyes almost closed, breathing laboured. Two men fresh minted from the Bar-L. One dying in full voice; the other wasted on freedom.

  It was wrong. It was very, very wrong.

  Rebus felt it in his own doomed heart.

  Part Three

  Beyond

  This

  Mist

  Yet frost under sunlight can sparkle like hope

  even while muscles cramp, and the freezing damp

  can whisper ‘let the bottle rest for once.

  There are warm mysteries beyond this mist.’

  Angus Calder, ‘Love Poem’

  29

  Jerry walked into the dole office frozen and soaked. There hadn’t been any shaving foam left in the can, so he’d had to use ordinary soap, and then his last razor was in the bath, where Jayne had blunted it shaving her legs. Cue the morning’s first argument. He’d nicked himself a couple of times; one of the spots wouldn’t stop bleeding. And now his face was stinging from the sudden sleet, and of course as soon as he got in through the dole office door, didn’t the cloud break and the sun come out?

  It was a cruel city, this.

  And then it turned out, after he’d waited half an hour, that his appointment wasn’t at the dole office at all, but with the DSS, which was another half-hour’s walk. He almost gave up and headed home, but something stopped him. Home: was that what it was? How come these days it felt like a prison, a place where his gaoler wife could nag and grind him down?

  So he made for the DSS office, and they told him he was an hour late, and he started explaining but nobody was listening.

  ‘Take a seat. I’ll see what we can do.’

  So he sat down with the wheezing masses, next to an old guy with a blood-curdling cough who spat on the floor when he’d finished. Jerry moved seats. The sun had dried out his jacket, but his shirt beneath was still damp, and he was shivering. Maybe he was coming down with something. Three-quarters of an hour he sat there. Other people came and went. Twice he went up to the desk, where the same woman said they were trying to find him ‘a slot’. Her mouth looked like a slot, thin and disapproving. He sat back down.

  Where else was there for him to go? He thought of working in an office like Nic’s, nice and warm and with coffee on tap, watching the short skirts swish past his desk, one o
f them leaning over the photocopier. Christ, wouldn’t that be heaven? Nic was probably heading off to lunch now, out to some swank place with crisp white tablecloths. Business lunches and business drinks and deals done with a handshake. Anybody could do a job like that. But then not everybody married the boss’s cousin.

  Nic had phoned him last night, started given him a roasting for bottling out, running off into the night like that, but making a joke of it in the end. Jerry had caught an inkling of something: Nic was afraid of him. And then it had struck him why: Jerry could tell the cops, spill the beans. Nic had to keep him sweet, that was why he turned the episode into a joke, ended with the words, ‘I forgive you. After all, we go back a long way, eh? The two of us against the world.’

  Except that right now, it felt like Jerry was all on his own against the world, stuck here in this smelly hole, no one to help him. He was thinking back: two of us against the world, when had that ever been true? When had they ever been equals, partners? What in God’s name did they see in one another? He thought maybe he had an answer for that now, too. It was a way of cheating time, because when they were together they were the same kids they’d always been. And so the things they did . . . they really were a game, albeit a deadly serious one.

  Someone left their paper behind when they went in for their interview. Christ, and the guy had turned up twenty minutes after Jerry, yet here the bastard was, waltzing into a cubicle ahead of him! Jerry slid over, picked up the tabloid, but didn’t open it. There was that bile in his gut again, that fear of what stories he might find inside: rapes, assaults, not knowing if Nic was responsible. Who knew what Nic was doing behind his back, all the nights they didn’t meet? And all the other stories, too: newly-weds, happy marriages, stormy relationships, sex problems, babies being born to famous mums. Everything bounced back on his own life, and all it did was make him feel worse.

  Jayne: clock’s ticking.

  Nic: time you grew up.

  The minute hand on the clock above the desk moved another notch. Clock-watching: wasn’t that something you did in offices, when you weren’t watching the skirts swish past? Who was to say Nic had it so good? He’d been working for Barry Hutton’s company these past eight years, hadn’t seen much in the way of promotion.