‘Sometimes,’ he’d complained to Jerry, ‘that family thing can backfire on you. Barry daren’t promote me or everyone’ll just say it’s for who I am, not what I do. Do you see?’
And then, when Cat had left him: ‘That bastard Hutton’s just looking to get rid of me. Now Cat’s done a runner, he sees me as an embarrassment. See what she’s done to me, Jerry? The cow’s as good as lost me my job. Her and her bastard cousin!’
Fuming, seething, raging.
And this from a guy who lived in a £200,000 house and had a job and car! Who was it really needed to grow up? Jerry wondered about this more and more.
‘He’ll ditch me, Jer, soon as he gets half a chance.’
‘Jayne says she’s going to ditch me, too.’
But Nic hadn’t wanted to hear about Jayne. His only comment: ‘They’re all as bad as each other, swear to God, pal.’
All as bad as each other.
He stomped back to the desk. What was he? A dummy or what? Wasn’t he married, settled? Didn’t he deserve a bit of respect?
Didn’t he deserve that at the very least, and maybe something more besides?
The woman was there. She’d fetched herself a mug of coffee. Jerry’s throat felt dry; couldn’t stop shivering.
‘Look,’ he said, ‘are you taking the piss or what?’
She had these glasses on, thick black frames. There were lipstick smears on the rim of the mug. Her hair looked dyed, and she was getting on for fat. Middle-aged, going to seed. But at the moment, she was in a position of power, and no way she was letting him interfere with that. She gave a cold smile, blinked so he saw her blue eyeshadow.
‘Mr Lister, if you’ll try to stay calm . . .’
Necklace hanging around her neck, all mixed in with the creases of loose skin. Big bust on her, too. Jesus, he’d never seen a chest like it.
‘Mr Lister.’ Trying to drag his attention back to her face. But he was transfixed, his hands gripping the edge of the desk. He saw her in the back of the van, saw himself giving her a good punch in that lipsticked mouth, ripping at the blouse, necklace sent flying.
‘Mr Lister!’
She was getting to her feet. He’d been leaning further and further across the desk. And now members of staff were closing in, alerted by her yell.
‘Jesus,’ he said. Couldn’t think of anything else to say; his whole body was shaking, head spinning. He tried to clear his head, wipe the blood from the pictures there. He was eye to eye with her for a second, and he felt she could see what he’d been thinking, every vivid frame of it.
‘Oh, Jesus.’
Two big blokes coming at him; that was all he needed, get arrested. He shoved his way out of there, back into the outside world where the sun was drying the streets and everything looked eerily normal.
‘What’s happening?’ he said. He found he was crying, couldn’t stop himself. Stumbled blearily along the street, holding the wall for support. He just kept walking, breaking into a sweat eventually. It took him the best part of three hours.
He’d walked clean across town.
Grey morning. Rebus waited for the rush hour to pass before setting out.
Glasgow’s Barlinnie Prison lay just off the M8 motorway. If you knew what you were looking for, you could see it in the near distance as you drove between Edinburgh and Glasgow. It sat on the edge of the Riddrie housing scheme, unsignposted until you got really close. At visiting time, you could follow the cars and pedestrians. Tattooed men in their fifties, wiry and sunkencheeked, off to visit pals who’d got caught. Stressed mothers, kids in tow. Quiet relatives, not quite sure how things had come to this.
All of them bound for HMP Barlinnie.
The Victorian blocks sat behind high stone walls, but the reception area itself was modern. Workmen were busy on the finishing touches. A member of staff was checking visitors for drug contamination. You swiped the magic glove over them, and it came up positive if they’d recently been in contact with drugs. Positive meant no open visit: you could still go in, but only with a glass wall between you and the prisoner. Bags were being checked, and then placed inside lockers, to be retrieved on the way out. Rebus knew that the visiting area had been revamped, too, with smart new seating arrangements and even a play area for the kids.
But inside the jail, it would be the same old wings. Slopping-out was still a fact of life, and the smell permeated the interiors. There were two new wings, but restricted to sex offenders and drug users. It rankled with the ‘pros’, the career criminals who didn’t think scum like that deserved to live, never mind the special treatment.
Another new addition was the cubicles for agent interviews. This was where lawyers met their clients: glass-fronted but allowing for privacy. The Assistant Governor, Bill Nairn, seemed pleased with the renovations as he showed Rebus around. He even took Rebus into one of the cubicles, the two men sitting down opposite one another.
‘Far cry from the old days, eh?’ Nairn beamed.
Rebus nodded. ‘I’ve stayed in tattier hotels.’ The two men knew one another of old: Nairn had worked for the Procurator Fiscal’s office in Edinburgh, and then in the city’s Saughton Prison, before the promotion to the Bar-L.
‘Cafferty doesn’t know what he’s missing,’ Rebus added.
Nairn shifted in his seat. ‘Look, John, I know it grates when we let one back out . . .’
‘It’s not that, it’s why he’s out.’
‘The man’s got cancer.’
‘And the Guinness boss had Alzheimer’s.’
Nairn stared at him. ‘What are you saying?’
‘I’m saying Cafferty looks pretty chirpy.’
Nairn shook his head. ‘He’s ill, John. You know it and I know it.’
‘I know he said you wanted rid of him.’ Nairn looked at him blankly. ‘Because he was in danger of running the show.’
Now Nairn smiled. ‘John, you’ve seen this place. Every door’s kept locked. No easy access. Think how hard it would be for one man to run all five wings.’
‘They mix though, don’t they? Wood-shop, textiles, chapel . . . I’ve seen them wandering around outside.’
‘You’ve seen the trusties, and always with a guard. Cafferty didn’t have that level of freedom.’
‘He didn’t run the show?’
‘No.’
‘Then who does?’ Nairn shook his head. ‘Come on, Bill. You get drugs in here, moneylending, gang fights. You’ve got a scrap contract to strip anything valuable out of old wiring: don’t tell me none of that stuff’s been sharpened and used for a stabbing.’
‘Isolated cases, John. I’m not going to deny it: drugs are the big problem here. But it’s still petty stuff. And it wasn’t Cafferty’s bailiwick.’
‘Then whose was it?’
‘I’m telling you, it’s not organised that way.’
Rebus leaned back in his chair, studied his surroundings: clean paint and new carpets. ‘Know what, Bill? You can change the surface, but it’ll take more than that to change the culture.’
‘It’s a start, though,’ Nairn said determinedly.
Rebus scratched his nose. ‘Any chance I can see Cafferty’s medical records?’
‘No.’
‘Then can you take a look for me? Put my mind at rest.’
‘X-rays don’t lie, John. The hospitals here are pretty hot on cancer. It’s always been a west coast growth industry.’
Rebus smiled, as was expected. A solicitor was entering the cubicle next door. The prisoner followed a few moments later. He looked young, bewildered. Remand, probably; up to court later in the day. Yet to be found guilty, but already tasting the low life.
‘What was he like?’ Rebus asked.
Nairn’s pager had sounded. He was fumbling to switch it off. ‘Cafferty?’ Looking towards where the pager was clipped to his belt. ‘He wasn’t too bad. You know how it is with career villains: serve their time, just part and parcel of the job, like a temporary relocation.’
‘You
think he’s changed?’
Nairn shrugged. ‘Man’s older.’ He paused. ‘I’m assuming power’s shifted in Edinburgh while he’s been away.’
‘Not so you’d notice.’
‘He’s back to his old ways, then?’
‘He’s not ready for the Costa del Sol just yet.’
Nairn smiled. ‘Bryce Callan, now there’s a name from the vaults. Never did manage to lock him up, did we?’
‘Not for want of trying.’
‘John . . .’ Nairn looked down at his hands, which rested on the table top. ‘You used to come and visit Cafferty.’
‘So?’
‘So it’s more than just the usual cop/villain thing with you two, isn’t it?’
‘How do you mean, Bill?’
‘I’m just saying . . .’ He sighed. ‘I’m not sure what I’m saying.’
‘You’re saying I’m too close to Cafferty? Maybe obsessed, not objective?’ Rebus was remembering Siobhan’s words: you didn’t need to be obsessed to be a good cop. Nairn looked about to argue. ‘I agree a hundred per cent,’ Rebus went on. ‘Sometimes I feel closer to that bastard than I do . . .’ He bit off the ending: to my own family. Frankly, most of the time it felt like no contest. ‘That’s why I’d rather he was in here.’
‘Out of sight, out of mind?’
Rebus leaned forward, looked around. ‘Strictly between us?’ Nairn nodded. ‘I’m scared what’ll happen, Bill.’
Nairn held his gaze. ‘He’s planning to have a go at you?’
‘If what you say is true, what’s he got to lose?’
Nairn was thoughtful. ‘What about you?’
‘Me?’
‘Say he’s going to die, natural causes. Doesn’t that cheat you? No chance of you trying to get at him? One final victory.’
One final victory.
‘Bill,’ Rebus chastised, ‘do I look the sort to you who’d have any truck with that?’
The two men smiled. Next door, the prisoner’s voice was rising.
‘But ah havnae done nuthin’!’
Nairn tutted. ‘Double negatives,’ he said.
‘Thought these booths were soundproofed?’ Rebus said. Nairn’s shrug told him they’d done their best. Then Rebus had a thought. ‘What about someone called Rab, released about the same time as Cafferty?’
Nairn nodded. ‘Rab Hill.’
‘Rab was Cafferty’s bodyguard?’
‘I wouldn’t go that far. They were only on the same wing for four, five months.’
Rebus frowned. ‘Way Cafferty tells it, they were best pals.’
Nairn shrugged. ‘Prison makes for strange alliances.’
‘Rab’s not coping too well with the outside world.’
‘No? You’ll excuse me if my heart doesn’t bleed.’
The voice from next door again: ‘How many times dae ah huv tae tell ye?’
Rebus got to his feet. Strange alliances he was thinking. Cafferty and Rab Hill. ‘How did it come about, Cafferty’s cancer?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘How was it diagnosed?’
‘Usual way. He hadn’t been feeling too hot. Took him in for tests, and bingo.’
‘Just do me one favour, Bill. Look at our friend Rab. Medical records, whatever you’ve got. Will you do that for me?’
‘Know something, John? You’re harder work than half my prisoners.’
‘Then pray a jury never finds me guilty.’
Bill Nairn was about to laugh that off, until he saw the look in Rebus’s eyes.
By the time he got to Seismic Storage, Ellen Wylie and Siobhan Clarke had finished emptying the container. On the spare desk in Reagan’s office sat eight columns of paperwork. The women were warming themselves by the heater, mugs of tea in their hands.
‘What now, sir?’ Wylie asked.
‘St Leonard’s,’ Rebus said. ‘That interview room you were using as an office, we’ll take them there.’
‘So no one else can see them?’ Siobhan guessed.
Rebus looked at her. Her face was pink with cold, nose shiny. She was wearing ankle boots with socks over black woollen tights; a pale grey scarf accentuating the colour in her cheeks.
‘Have you got two cars?’ Rebus asked. The women agreed that they had. ‘Load them up, and I’ll see you back at base, okay?’
He left them to it, drove to the South Side and was smoking a cigarette in the car park when the Chief Super arrived in his Peugeot 406.
‘Mind if I have a word, sir?’ Rebus asked, in place of any greeting.
‘Out here or in the warm?’ Farmer Watson hoisted his briefcase, checked his watch. ‘I’ve a noon appointment.’
‘This’ll only take a minute.’
‘Fair enough. My office, soon as you’ve finished out here.’
The Farmer went in, closed the door. Rebus nipped his cigarette, tossed it, and followed.
Watson was firing up the coffee-maker when Rebus knocked at his open door. He glanced up, nodded for Rebus to enter. ‘You look rough, Inspector.’
‘I was working late.’
‘What on?’
‘The Grieve case.’
The Farmer looked at him again. ‘Is that true?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Only, from what I hear, you’re involving yourself in everything but.’
‘I think the cases tie up.’
With the machine on, the Farmer retreated behind his desk. He sat down and motioned for Rebus to do the same, but Rebus stayed standing.
‘Progress?’
‘Getting there, sir.’
‘And DI Linford?’
‘He’s working his own leads.’
‘But the two of you are in contact?’
‘Absolutely, sir.’
‘And Siobhan’s keeping out of his way?’
‘He’s keeping out of hers.’
The Chief Super seemed dissatisfied. ‘I’m getting no end of flak.’
‘From Fettes?’
‘And beyond. Someone from the Scottish Secretary’s office was on to me first thing this morning, wanting results.’
‘Hard to run an election campaign’, Rebus guessed, ‘with a murder inquiry ongoing.’
The Farmer stared at him coldly. ‘Almost his exact words.’ His eyes narrowed a fraction. ‘So what’s on your mind?’
Now Rebus sat down, leaning forward, elbows on knees. ‘It’s Cafferty, sir.’
‘Cafferty?’ Whatever he’d been expecting, Watson hadn’t been expecting this. ‘What about him?’
‘He’s out of the Bar-L and back here.’
‘So I’ve heard.’
‘I want a watch kept on him.’ There was silence in the room as Rebus waited in vain for the Chief Super to comment. ‘I think we need to know what he’s up to.’
‘You know we can’t do that without good reason.’
‘His rep’s not enough?’
‘Lawyers and the media would have a field day. Besides, you know how stretched we are.’
‘We’ll be more stretched once Cafferty gets started.’
‘Started on what?’
‘I bumped into him last night.’ He saw the look on his chief’s face. ‘Completely by accident. Thing was, he’d been browsing the Scotsman’s commercial property section.’
‘So?’
‘So what’s he after?’
‘Turning a profit, maybe.’
‘That’s more or less what he said.’
‘Well then?’
Only it wasn’t the way he’d put it: a killing to be made . . .
‘Look,’ the Farmer rubbed his temples, ‘let’s just get on with the work at hand. Clear up the Grieve case and I’ll think about Cafferty. Deal?’
Rebus nodded distractedly. The door was still ajar. A knock came, and a uniform appeared round it. ‘Visitor for DI Rebus.’
‘Who is it?’
‘She didn’t say, sir. Just told me to tell you she’d not brought any peanuts. Said you’d understand.’
Rebus understood.
30
Lorna Grieve was in the waiting area. He unlocked the interview room, then remembered that Freddy Hastings’ stuff was piled up in there. So he told her there was a change of plan, led her across the road to the Maltings.
‘You have to be drunk before you can talk to me?’ she teased. She was dressed to the tens: tight red leather trousers tucked into knee-high black boots; a black silk blouse with plunging neckline, black suede jacket open over it. More than enough make-up, and her hair freshly styled. She was carrying shopping bags from a couple of boutiques.
Rebus ordered fresh orange and lemonade for himself. She seemed to think her words had forced him into it, rose to the occasion by asking for a Bloody Mary.
‘Mary, Queen of Scots, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘Head chopped off, that’s the bloody part.’
‘I wouldn’t know.’
‘Never drunk one? Perfect pick-me-up.’ She waited for a joke, but he didn’t offer one. Nodded when the barmaid asked if she wanted Lea and Perrin’s. They sat at a table inlaid with squares. She admired the pattern.
‘It’s so people can play chess,’ Rebus explained.
‘Loathsome game. Takes for ever, and at the end it all falls apart. No sense of climax.’ Another pause. Again, Rebus wasn’t biting.
‘Cheers,’ he said.
‘First one today.’ She took a gulp of her drink. Rebus doubted her veracity: he considered himself something of an expert, and would say she’d had at least a couple of belts already.
‘So what can I do for you?’ The commerce of the everyday: people wanting things from people. Sometimes it was an exchange, sometimes not.
‘I want to know what’s happening.’
‘Happening?’
‘The murder inquiry: we’re being kept in the dark.’
‘I don’t think that’s true.’
She lit a cigarette; didn’t offer him one. ‘Well, is anything happening?’
‘We’ll let you know as soon as we can.’
She straightened her back. ‘That’s not good enough.’
‘I’m sorry.’
She narrowed her eyes. ‘No, you’re not. The family should be told—’