Wylie glanced over towards the men. ‘Wonder if she’s going to tell us?’
‘I think she wants us to guess first,’ Rebus said.
Wylie jumped one of Clarke’s draughts; Clarke retaliated. ‘Simple really,’ she said. ‘Why not just pay off the planners?’
‘Bribe the council?’ Hood smiled at the thought.
‘Bloody hell,’ Rebus said, staring into his drink. ‘Maybe that’s it . . .’
A comment he refused to explain, even when they threatened to make him play draughts.
‘I’ll never crack,’ he said, making light of it. But inside, his mind was buzzing with new possibilities and permutations, some of them including Cafferty’s face. He sat there wondering what the hell he could do about them . . .
32
Rebus and Derek Linford, the canteen at Fettes police HQ, Friday morning. Rebus nodded towards familiar faces: Claverhouse and Ormiston, Scottish Crime Squad, tucking into bacon rolls. Linford glanced in their direction.
‘You know them?’
‘I’m not in the habit of nodding at strangers.’
Linford looked at the slice of toast cooling on his plate. ‘How’s Siobhan?’
‘All the better for not seeing you.’
‘She got my note?’
Rebus drained his cup. ‘She hasn’t said anything.’
‘Is that a good sign?’
Rebus shrugged. ‘Look, you’re not suddenly going to be pals again. She could have reported you as a stalker, for Christ’s sake. How would that have gone down in Room 279?’ Rebus pointed upstairs with his thumb.
Linford’s shoulders slumped. Rebus got up, fetched a fresh cup of coffee. ‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘there’s some news.’ He went on to explain about the links between Freddy Hastings and Bryce Callan. The tension came back into Linford’s shoulders. He was forgetting about Siobhan Clarke.
‘So how does Roddy Grieve enter the equation?’ he asked.
‘That’s what we don’t know,’ Rebus admitted. ‘Revenge for the way his brother ripped off Callan?’
‘And Callan waits twenty years?’
‘I know, I can’t see it either.’
Linford stared at him. ‘But there’s something, isn’t there? Something you’re not telling me?’
Rebus shook his head. ‘But do yourself a favour: look into Barry Hutton. If it was Callan, he had to have someone here.’
‘And Barry fits the bill?’
‘He’s his nephew.’
‘Any evidence he’s not just the Rotarian businessman?’
Rebus gestured towards Claverhouse and Ormiston. ‘Ask Crime Squad, maybe they’ll know.’
‘From what little I know of Hutton, he doesn’t fit the witness description of the man on Holyrood Road.’
‘He has employees, doesn’t he?’
‘Chief Superintendent Watson’s already warned that Hutton has “friends”: how do I go snooping without raising hackles?’
Rebus looked at him. ‘You don’t.’
‘I don’t go snooping?’ Linford seemed confused.
Rebus shook his head. ‘You don’t not raise hackles. Look, Linford, we’re cops. Sometimes you have to step out from behind the desk and get in people’s faces.’ Linford didn’t look convinced. ‘You think I’m setting you up for something?’
‘Are you?’
‘Would I admit it if I was?’
‘I suppose not. I’m just wondering if this is some sort of . . . test.’
Rebus stood up, coffee untouched. ‘You’re getting a suspicious mind. That’s good, goes with the territory.’
‘And what territory is that?’
But Rebus just winked, walked away with hands in pockets. Linford sat there, drumming his fingers on the table, then pushed his toast away and got up, too, walked over to where the two Crime Squad detectives were sitting.
‘Mind if I join you?’
Claverhouse gestured to the spare chair. ‘Any friend of John Rebus’s . . .’
‘. . . is probably after some bloody big favour,’ Ormiston said, completing his colleague’s thought.
Linford sat in his BMW in the only spare bay at the front of Hutton Tower. Lunchtime: workers were streaming out of the building, returning later with sandwich bags, cans of soft drink. Some stood on the steps, smoking the cigarettes they couldn’t smoke indoors. It hadn’t been easy to find the place: he’d driven through a building site, the road surface not yet finished. A wooden board – CAR PARK FOR REGISTERED PERSONNEL ONLY. But one free space, which he accepted gladly.
He’d got out of the BMW, checking the wheels were intact after the rutted and pitted roadway. Sprays of grey mud radiating from his wheel arches. Car wash at day’s end. Back in the driving seat, watching the parade of sandwiches, baps and fresh fruit, he regretted not eating that breakfast toast. Claverhouse and Ormiston had whisked him upstairs, but their search on Hutton had drawn a blank other than some parking fines and the fact that his mother’s brother was one Bryce Edwin Callan.
Rebus had said, in effect, that there was no subtle way to go about this, that he would have to announce himself and his intentions. He had no good reason to walk into the building and demand a line-up of every member of staff. Even if Hutton had nothing to hide, Linford couldn’t see him agreeing. He’d want to know why, and when told would refuse the request outright and be on the phone to his lawyer, the newspapers, civil rights . . . And now that Linford thought about it, wasn’t this looking more and more like a wild-goose chase dreamed up by Rebus – or maybe even Siobhan – to punish him? If he walked into trouble, they’d be the ones to profit from it.
All the same . . .
All the same, didn’t he deserve it? And if he went along, might he be forgiven? Not that he was about to walk into the building, but surveillance . . . studying each employee as they left the building. It was worth an afternoon. And if Hutton himself should leave, he would follow, because if Grieve’s murderer didn’t work here, there was always the chance that he’d meet up with Hutton anyway.
A contract killing . . . revenge. No, he still didn’t see it. Roddy Grieve hadn’t been killed for anything in his personal or professional life – not that Linford could find. Admittedly, his family was barmy, but that in itself didn’t constitute a motive. So why had he died? Had he been in the wrong place at the wrong time, seen something he shouldn’t have? Or was it to do with the person he was about to become rather than the person he was? Someone hadn’t wanted him as an MSP. The wife came to mind again; again he dismissed her. You didn’t kill your spouse just so you could stand for parliament.
Linford rubbed his temples. The smokers on the steps were throwing him looks, wondering who he was. Eventually, they might tell Security, and that would be that. But now a car was approaching, stopping. Its driver sounded his horn, gesturing towards Linford. And now he was getting out, stomping towards the BMW. Linford slid his window down.
‘That’s my space you’re in, so if you wouldn’t mind . . . ?’
Linford looked around. ‘I don’t see any signs.’
‘This is staff parking.’ A glance at a wristwatch. ‘And I’m late for a meeting.’
Linford looked towards where another driver was getting into his car. ‘Space there for you.’
‘You deaf or what?’ Angry face, jaw jutting and tensed. A man looking for a fight.
Linford was just about ready. ‘So you’d rather argue with me than get to your meeting?’ He looked to where the other car was leaving. ‘Nice spot over there.’
‘That’s Harley. He takes his lunch hour at the gym. I’ll be in the meeting when he gets back, and that’s his space. Which is why you move your junk heap.’
‘This from a man who drives a Sierra Cosworth.’
‘Wrong answer.’ The man yanked Linford’s door open.
‘The assault charge is going to look bloody good on your CV.’
‘You’ll have fun trying to make a complaint through broken teeth.’
??
?And you’ll be in the cells for assaulting a police officer.’
The man stopped, his jaw retreating a fraction. His Adam’s apple was prominent when he swallowed. Linford took the opportunity to reach into his jacket, showing his warrant card.
‘So now you know who I am,’ Linford said. ‘But I didn’t catch your name . . . ?’
‘Look, I’m sorry.’ The man had turned from fire to sun, his grin trying for embarrassed apology. ‘I didn’t mean to . . .’
Linford was taking out his notebook, enjoying the sudden reversal. ‘I’ve heard of road rage, but parking rage is a new one on me. They might have to rewrite the rule book for you, pal.’ He peered out at the Sierra, took down its registration. ‘Don’t worry about your name.’ He tapped the notebook. ‘I can get it from this.’
‘My name’s Nic Hughes.’
‘Well, Mr Hughes, do you think you’re calm enough now to talk about this?’
‘No problem, it’s just that I was in a hurry.’ He nodded towards the building. ‘You’ve got some business with . . . ?’
‘That’s not something I can discuss, sir.’
‘Course not, no, it’s just that I was . . .’ The sentence trailed off.
‘You’d best get to your meeting.’ The revolving door was moving, Barry Hutton coming out, buttoning his suit. Linford knew him from newspaper photos. ‘I was just off anyway, as it happens.’ Linford beamed at Hughes, then reached for the ignition. ‘Spot’s all yours.’ Hughes stepped back. Hutton, unlocking his own car – a red Ferrari – saw him.
‘Fuck’s sake, Nic, you’re supposed to be upstairs.’
‘Right away, Barry.’
‘Right away’s not good enough, arsehole!’
And now Hutton was looking at Linford, frowning. He tutted. ‘Letting someone use your space, Nic? You’re not the man I thought you were.’ Grinning, Hutton got into the Ferrari, but then got out again, came over to the BMW.
Linford thinking: I’ve blown it; he knows my face now, knows my car. Following him is going to be a nightmare . . . ‘You don’t not raise hackles . . . Get in people’s faces.’ Well, he’d got in the Cosworth driver’s face, and here was his reward, Barry Hutton standing in front of the BMW, pointing towards him.
‘You’re a cop, aren’t you? Don’t ask me how it is you lot stick out, even in a motor like that. Look, I told the other two, and that’s all I’m saying, right?’
Linford nodded slowly. The ‘other two’: Wylie and Hood. Linford had read their report.
‘Good,’ Hutton said, turning on his heels. Linford and Hughes watched as the Ferrari’s engine fired, that low rumble like money in the bank. Hutton kicked up dust as he raced out of the car park.
Hughes was staring at Linford. Linford stared back. ‘Do something for you?’ he said.
‘What’s going on?’ The man had trouble getting the words out.
Linford shook his head, smallest of victories, and put the Beamer into gear. Crawled out of the car park, wondering if it was worth trying to catch up with Hutton. Saw Hughes in his rearview. Something not right about the man. The warrant card hadn’t just pacified him, it had freaked him out.
Something to hide? It was funny how even church ministers could break into a sweat when there was a copper in front of them. But this guy . . . No, he looked nothing like the description. All the same . . . all the same . . .
At the lights on Lothian Road, Barry Hutton was three cars in front. Linford decided he’d nothing to lose.
33
Big Ger Cafferty was on his own, parked outside Rebus’s flat in a metallic-grey Jaguar XK8. Rebus, locking his own car, pretended he hadn’t seen him. He walked towards the tenement door, hearing the electric hum of the Jag’s window sliding down.
‘Thought we might take another drive,’ Cafferty called.
Rebus ignored him, unlocked the door, and went into the stairwell. As the door closed behind him, he stood there, debating with himself. Then he opened the door again. Cafferty was out of the car, leaning against it.
‘Like the new motor?’
‘You bought it?’
‘You think I stole it?’ Cafferty laughed.
Rebus shook his head. ‘I just thought you might have been better off hiring, seeing how you’re on the way out.’
‘All the more reason for indulging myself while I’m here.’
Rebus looked around. ‘Where’s Rab?’
‘Didn’t think I’d need him.’
‘I don’t know whether to be flattered or insulted.’
Cafferty frowned. ‘By what?’
‘You coming here without a minder.’
‘You said it yourself the other night: that was the time to take a pop at me. Now how about that drive?’
‘How good a driver are you?’
Cafferty laughed again. ‘It’s true I’m a bit rusty. I just thought it might be more private.’
‘For what?’
‘Our little chat about Bryce Callan.’
*
They headed east, through the one-time slums of Craigmillar and Niddrie, now falling to the bulldozers.
‘I’ve always thought’, Cafferty said, ‘that this should be the ideal spot. Views to Arthur’s Seat, and Craigmillar Castle behind you. Yuppies would think they’d died and gone to heaven.’
‘I don’t think we say yuppies any more.’
Cafferty looked at him. ‘I’ve been away a while.’
‘True.’
‘I see the old cop shop’s gone.’
‘Just moved around the corner.’
‘And great God, all these new shopping centres.’
Rebus explained that it was called The Fort. Nothing to do with Craigmillar’s old police station, whose nickname had been Fort Apache. They were past Niddrie now, following signs to Musselburgh.
‘The place is changing so fast,’ Cafferty mused.
‘And I’m ageing fast just sitting here. Any chance of you getting to the point?’
Cafferty glanced in his direction. ‘I’ve been making the point all along, it’s just you’ve not been listening.’
‘What is it you want to tell me about Callan?’
‘Just that he called me.’
‘He knows you’re out, then?’
‘Mr Callan, like many a wealthy expat, likes to keep abreast of Scottish current affairs.’ Cafferty glanced at him again. ‘Nervous, are you?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘Your hand’s on the door handle, like you’re ready to bale out.’
Rebus moved his hand. ‘You’re setting me up for something.’
‘Am I?’
‘And I’d bet three months’ salary there’s nothing wrong with you.’
Cafferty kept his eyes on the road. ‘So prove it.’
‘Don’t worry.’
‘Me? What have I got to worry about? It’s you that’s the nervous one, remember.’ They were silent for a moment. Cafferty slid his hands around the steering wheel. ‘Nice car, though, isn’t it?’
‘And doubtless purchased with the honest sweat of your brow.’
‘Others do my sweating for me. That’s what makes a successful businessman.’
‘Which brings us to Bryce Callan. You couldn’t even get to speak to his nephew, and suddenly he calls you out of the blue?’
‘He knows I know you.’
‘And?’
‘And he wanted to know what I knew. You haven’t made yourself a friend there, Strawman.’
‘Inside, I’m crying.’
‘You think he’s mixed up in these murders?’
‘Are you here to tell me he isn’t?’
Cafferty shook his head. ‘I’m here to tell you that his nephew’s the one you should be looking at.’
Rebus digested this.
‘Why?’ he asked at last.
Cafferty just shrugged.
‘Does this come from Callan?’
‘Indirectly.’
Rebus snorted. ‘I don’t get it. Why woul
d Callan dump Barry Hutton in it?’ Cafferty shrugged again. ‘It’s a funny thing . . .’ Rebus went on.
‘What?’
Rebus stared out of his window. ‘Here we are coming into Musselburgh. Know what its nickname is?’
‘I forget.’
‘The Honest Toun.’
‘What’s funny about that?’
‘Just that you’ve brought me here to feed me a load of shite. It’s you that wants to see Hutton get burned.’ He stared at Cafferty. ‘I wonder why that should be?’
The sudden anger in Cafferty’s face seemed to give off a heat all of its own. ‘You’re mad, do you know that? You’d ignore any crime sitting in your path, sidestep it just so you could give me a bloody nose. That’s the truth, isn’t it, Strawman? You don’t want anyone else; you just want Morris Gerald Cafferty.’
‘Don’t flatter yourself.’
‘I’m trying to do you a favour here. Get you a bit of glory and maybe keep Bryce Callan from killing you.’
‘So when did you become the UN peacekeeper?’
‘Look . . .’ Cafferty sighed; some of the blood had left his cheeks. ‘Okay, maybe there is something in it for me.’
‘What?’
‘All you need to know is there’s more in it for John Rebus.’ Cafferty was indicating, bringing the car to a halt kerbside on the High Street. Rebus looked around; saw just the one landmark.
‘Luca’s?’ In summer, the café had queues out the door. But this was winter. Mid-afternoon and the lights were on inside.
‘Used to be the best ice cream around,’ Cafferty was saying, undoing his seat belt. ‘I want to see if it still is.’
He bought two vanilla cones, brought them outside. Rebus was pinching his nose, shaking his head incredulously.
‘One minute Callan’s putting a contract on me, the next we’re eating ice cream.’
‘It’s the small things you savour in this life, ever noticed that?’ Cafferty had already started on his cone. ‘Now if there was racing on, we could have had a flutter.’ Musselburgh Racecourse: the Honest Toun’s other attraction.
Rebus tasted the ice cream. ‘Give me something on Hutton,’ he said, ‘something I can use.’