Cafferty thought for a moment. ‘Council junkets,’ he said. ‘Everyone in Hutton’s line of work needs friends.’ He paused. ‘The city might be changing, but it still works the same old way.’
Barry Hutton went shopping: parked his car in the St James Centre and hit a computer shop, John Lewis department store, and then out on to Princes Street and the short walk to Jenners. He bought clothes, while Derek Linford pretended to study a range of neckties. The shops were all busy enough; Linford knew he hadn’t been spotted. He’d never done surveillance before, but knew the theory. He bought one of the ties – pale orange and green stripes – and swapped it for his own plain maroon.
The man Hutton had seen in the company car park had worn the maroon tie: different tie, different man.
Across the road to the Balmoral Hotel, afternoon tea with a man and a woman: business, briefcases open. Then back to the car park and the crawl to Waverley Bridge, traffic building as the rush hour neared. Hutton parked on Market Street, made for the rear entrance to the Carlton Highland Hotel. He was carrying a sports holdall. Linford made the deduction: health club. He knew the hotel had one – he’d almost joined it, but the fees had put him off. His thinking at the time: way to meet people, the city’s movers and shakers. But at a price.
He bided his time. There was a bottle of water in the glove compartment, but he knew he daren’t drink anything – just his luck to be off having a pee when Hutton came out. Ditto eating. His stomach was growling; café just along the road . . . He searched the glove compartment again, came up with a stick of chewing gum.
‘Bon appetit,’ he said to himself, unwrapping it.
Hutton spent an hour in the club. Linford was keeping a record of his movements, and duly noted the time to the minute. He was alone when he came out, his hair damp from the shower, holdall swinging. He had that sheen, that scrubbed confidence which came with a workout. Back into his car, and heading towards Abbeyhill. Linford checked his mobile phone. The battery was dead. He plugged it into the cigar lighter, got it charging. He wondered about calling Rebus, but to say what exactly? To ask his consent? You’re doing the right thing; keep at it. The action of a weak man.
He wasn’t weak. And here was the proof.
They were on Easter Road now, Hutton busy on his own mobile. The whole trip he’d been carrying on conversations, hardly ever glancing in rearview or side mirrors. Not that it would have mattered – Linford was three cars back.
But then suddenly they were in Leith, taking side roads. Linford hung back, hoping someone would overtake, but there was nobody there, nobody but the suspect and him. Left and right, the roads getting narrower, tenements either side of them, front doors opening directly on to the pavement. Children’s playgrounds, broken glass sparkling in the headlights. Dusk. Hutton pulling over suddenly. Down by the docks, Linford guessed. He didn’t know this part of town at all; tried to avoid it: schemes and hard-man dives. Weapons of choice: the bottle and the kitchen knife. The assaults tended to be on friends and ‘loved ones’.
Hutton had parked outside one of the hard-man dives: a tiny pub, with narrow curtained windows seven feet off the ground. Solid-looking door: you’d think the place was locked. But Hutton knew better, pushed open the door and walked straight in. He left his holdall on the Ferrari’s front seat, shopping bags in the back, the whole lot in full view.
Stupid or confident. Linford would bet the latter. He thought of the Leith pub in Trainspotting, the American tourist asking for the toilet, the schemies following him in, divvying the spoils after. That was this kind of pub. The place didn’t even have a name, just a sign outside advertising Tennent’s Lager. Linford checked his watch, entered the details in his log. A textbook surveillance. He checked his phone for messages. There weren’t any. He knew the singles club was having a night out, starting at nine. He wasn’t sure whether to go or not. Maybe Siobhan would be there again – it wasn’t her case now but you never knew. He hadn’t heard any stories about him being at the club that night, so probably Siobhan had kept her word, not said anything to anyone. That was good of her, considering . . . He’d given her the ammo, and after what he’d done, she still hadn’t used it.
Then again, what had he done? Loitered outside her flat like a lovelorn teenager. Not such a heinous crime, was it? It had only been the three times. Even if Rebus hadn’t found him . . . well, he’d have given up soon enough, and that would have been an end of it. It was down to Rebus really, wasn’t it? Landing him in it with Siobhan, leaving him marginalised at work. Christ, yes, exactly what Rebus had wanted all along. One in the eye for the Fettes fast-stream. He could rise to chief constable and it would be there, hanging over him. Rebus would be retired, of course, maybe even have drunk himself to death, but Siobhan would be around, unless she went off to get married, have kids.
Always with the power to hurt him.
He didn’t know what to do about that. The ACC had told him, no one’s irreplaceable.
He passed the time reading whatever was in the car: owner’s manual, service log, some leaflets from the passenger-side pocket: tourist attractions; old grocery lists . . . He was poring over his map book, looking at how much of Scotland he didn’t know, when his phone sounded, shocking him with its sudden shrill cry. He picked it up, fumbled to switch it on.
‘It’s Rebus,’ the voice said.
‘Something happened?’
‘No, it’s just . . . nobody’d seen you this afternoon.’
‘And you were worried?’
‘Let’s say I was curious.’
‘I’m following Hutton. He’s in a pub down in Leith. Been in there . . .’ He checked his watch. ‘An hour and a quarter.’
‘Which pub?’
‘No name above the door.’
‘Which street?’
Linford realised that he didn’t know. He looked around, saw nothing to help him.
‘How well do you know Leith?’ Rebus asked. Linford felt his confidence ebb.
‘Well enough,’ he said.
‘So are you North Leith or South? Port? Seafield? What?’
‘Near the port,’ Linford spluttered.
‘Can you see any water?’
‘Look, I’ve been on his tail all afternoon. He did some shopping, had a business meeting, went to his health club . . .’
Rebus wasn’t listening. ‘He’s got a pedigree, whether he’s straight or not.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I mean he used to work for his uncle. He probably knows more about this sort of thing than you do.’
‘Look, I don’t need you to tell me about—’
‘Hello? Anyone home? What do you do when you need a pee?’
‘I don’t.’
‘Or something to eat?’
‘Ditto.’
‘I said you should look at people who work for him. I didn’t mean like this.’
‘Don’t tell me how to do my job!’
‘Just don’t go into that pub, okay? I’ve half an idea where you are, I’ll come down there.’
‘There’s no need.’
‘Try and stop me.’
‘Look, this is my—’ But Linford’s caller had gone.
He cursed silently, tried calling Rebus back. ‘I’m sorry,’ said the recording, ‘but the phone you have called may be switched off . . .’
Linford cursed again.
Did he want Rebus here, sharing his inquiry, sticking his nose in? Meddling? Soon as he arrived, he’d be told where he could go.
The pub door rattled open. All the time Hutton had been inside – one hour and twenty minutes – no one else had gone in or come out. But now here he was, emerging, bathed in light from the open door. And there was another man with him. They stood chatting in the doorway, Linford, parked across the road and down a ways, peering at this new figure. He ticked off the Holyrood description in his mind, came up with a close match.
Denims, dark bomber jacket, white trainers. Black cropped hair. Big round eyes an
d a permanent-looking scowl.
Hutton punched the man’s shoulder. The man didn’t seem too happy about what was being said. He put out a hand for Hutton to shake, but Hutton wasn’t having any of it. Went and unlocked his Ferrari, started the engine and headed off. The man looked like he was going to turn back into the pub. Linford had a new scenario now: in he walks with Rebus as back-up, takes the man in for questioning. Not a bad day’s work.
But the man was just shouting his goodbyes to someone. Then he headed off on foot. Linford didn’t think twice, slid from his car, made to lock it, then remembered the little squeak of acknowledgement which the alarm made. Left it unlocked.
Forgot to take his mobile.
The man seemed drunk, weaving slightly, arms hanging loose. He went into another pub, came out again scant minutes later, stood by the doorway lighting a cigarette. Then back on his travels, stopping to talk to someone he seemed to know, then slowing as he fished a mobile phone out of his jacket and took a call. Linford patted his own pockets, realised the mobile was back in his car. He’d no idea where they were, tried memorising the few street names on show. Another pub: three minutes and out again. A short cut down a lane. Linford waited till the suspect had turned left out of the lane before entering it himself, sprinting to the other end. A housing scheme now, high fences and curtained windows, sounds of TVs and kids playing. Dark passageways smelling faintly of urine. Graffiti: Easy, Provos, Hibs. More walkways, the man pausing now, knocking at a door. Linford sticking to the shadows. The door opened and the man stepped quickly inside.
Linford didn’t think it was a last stop. No keys, so probably not his home. He checked the time again, but had left his notebook back in the car, lying on the seat with the mobile. The BMW unlocked. He gnawed at his bottom lip, looked around at the concrete maze. Could he find his way back to the pub? Would his pride and joy be there if he did?
But Rebus was on his way, wasn’t he? He’d work out what had happened, keep guard till Linford came back. He took a couple of steps further back into the darkness, plunged his hands into his pockets. Bloody freezing.
When the blow came, it came silently and from behind. He was unconscious before he hit the ground.
34
Jayne had gone and done it this time. She wasn’t at her mum’s. The old crone told him: ‘Just said to tell you she was going to a friend’s, and don’t bother asking which one because she said it was better I didn’t know.’ She had her arms folded, filling the doorway of her semi-detached.
‘Well, thanks for helping me save my marriage,’ Jerry replied, heading back down the garden path. Her dog was sitting by the gate. Nice little thing, name of Eric. Jerry gave it a kick up its arse and opened the gate. He was laughing as Jayne’s mum swore at him above Eric’s yelps and howls.
Back at the flat, he went on another recce, see if she’d left any clues for him to find. No note, and at least half her clothes had gone. She hadn’t been in a temper. Evidence of this: one of his boxes of 45s was sitting on the floor, a pair of scissors next to it, but she hadn’t touched the records. Maybe a peace offering of sorts? Couple of things knocked off shelves, but put that down to her being in a hurry. He looked in the fridge: cheese, marge, milk. No beer. Nothing to drink in any of the cupboards either. He emptied his pockets on to the couch. Three quid and some change. Christ almighty, and when was the next giro due? Best part of a week away, was it? Friday night, and all he had was three quid. He searched drawers and down the back of the couch and under the bed. A grand total haul of a further eighty pence.
And the bills, staring at him from the noticeboard in the kitchen: gas, electric, council tax. Plus, somewhere, the rent and telephone. Phone bill had only come in that morning, Jerry asking Jayne why she had to spend three hours a week on the blower to her mum who only lived round the corner?
He went back through to the living room, dug out ‘Stranded’ by The Saints. B-side was even faster – ‘No Time’. Jerry had all the time in the world; thing was, he felt utterly stranded.
The Stranglers next, ‘Grip’, and he wondered if he would strangle Jayne for putting him through this.
‘Get a grip,’ he told himself.
Made a cup of tea and tried working out his options, but his mind wasn’t up to thinking. So he slumped back on to the sofa. At least he could play his music now, any time he liked. She’d taken her tapes with her – Eurythmics, Celine Dion, Phil Collins. Good riddance, the lot of them. He went along three doors to Tofu’s pad and asked if he had any blow. Tofu offered to sell him a quarter.
‘I just need enough for a joint. I’ll give it back.’
‘What? After you’ve smoked it?’
‘I mean I’ll owe you it.’
‘Yeah, you will. Like you still owe me for last Wednesday.’
‘Come on, Tofu, just one measly hit.’
‘Sorry, pal, no more tick from Tofu.’
Jerry jabbed a finger at him. ‘I’ll remember this. Don’t think I won’t.’
‘Aye, sure thing, Jer.’ Tofu closed the door. Jerry heard the chain rattle back across it.
Inside the flat again. Feeling itchy now, wanting some action. Where were your friends when you needed them? Nic . . . he could phone Nic. Tap him for a loan if nothing else. Christ, with the stuff Jerry knew, he had Nic over a barrel. Make the loan more of a weekly retainer. He checked the clock on the video. Gone five. Would Nic be at work, or maybe at home? He tried both numbers: no luck. Maybe he was out on the pull, a few drinks in the wine bar with some of the short skirts from the office. No place in that picture for his old comrade-in-arms. The only thing Jerry was useful for was as a punchbag, somebody to make Nic look good because he looked bad.
A stooge, plain and simple. They were all laughing at him: Jayne, her mum, Nic. Even the woman at the DSS. And Tofu . . . he could almost hear that bastard’s laughter, sitting snug in his padlocked flat with his bags of grass and nuggets of hash, bit of music on the hi-fi and money in his pocket. Jerry picked up the coins one by one from around him on the couch and tossed them at the blank TV screen.
Until the doorbell rang. Jayne, had to be! Okay, he had to pull himself together, act casual. Maybe be a bit huffy with her, but grown-up about it. Things happened sometimes, and it was down to those involved to . . . More ringing. Hang on, she’d have her keys, wouldn’t she? And now the banging of a fist on the door. Who did they owe money to? Were they taking away the TV? The video? There was precious little else.
He stood in the hallway, holding his breath.
‘I can see you, you tosser!’
A pair of eyes at the letter box. Nic’s voice. Jerry started moving forward.
‘Nic, man, I was just trying to get you.’
He unsnibbed the door and it flew inwards, driving him backwards and on to his arse. He was pulling himself upright when Nic gave him another push that sent him sprawling. Then the door slammed shut.
‘Bad move, Jerry, really, really bad move.’
‘What’re you talking about? What’ve I done this time?’
Nic was sweating profusely. His eyes were darker and colder than ever before, and his voice was like a chisel.
‘I never should’ve told you,’ he hissed.
Jerry was back up on his feet. He slid along the wall and into the living room. ‘Told me what?’
‘That Barry wanted me out.’
‘What?’ This wasn’t making sense to Jerry; he was panicking that it was his fault, that it would make sense if only he’d concentrate.
‘It wasn’t enough to grass me to the pigs—’
‘Whoah, hold on—’
‘No, you hold on, Jerry. Because when I’m finished with you . . .’
‘I didn’t do anything!’
‘Grassed me up and told them where I work.’
‘I never!’
‘They’ve been talking to Barry about me! There was one sitting in the car park this afternoon! He’d been there for hours, sitting in my space! Now why else would he
be there, eh?’
Jerry was shaking. ‘Loads of reasons.’
Nic shook his head. ‘No, Jer, just the one. And you’re so fucking stupid you think I won’t take you with me.’
‘Christ’s sake, man.’
Nic had brought something from his pocket. A knife. A bloody great carving knife! And Jerry noticed that he was wearing gloves, too.
‘I swear to God, man.’
‘Shut up.’
‘Why would I do that, Nic? Think for a minute!’
‘Your bottle’s gone. I can see you shaking from here.’ Nic laughed. ‘I knew you were weak, but not this bad.’
‘Look, man, Jayne’s gone and I—’
‘Jayne’s the last thing you have to worry about.’ There were thumps on the ceiling. Nic glanced up. ‘Shut it!’
Jerry saw a half-chance, dived through the doorway and into the kitchen. The sink was full of dishes. He plunged a hand in, pulled out forks, teaspoons. Nic was on him. Jerry chucked the lot at him. He was screaming now.
‘Call the police! You upstairs, get on to the cops!’
Nic swung with the knife, caught Jerry on his right hand. Now a current of blood flowed down his wrist, mixing with the dishwater. Jerry cried out in pain, lashed out with a foot, caught Nic smack on the kneecap. Nic lunged again, and Jerry pushed past him, back into the living room. Tripped and fell. Fell over the box of 45s, scattering them. Nic was coming, his feet grinding one of the records into the floor.
‘Bastard,’ he was saying. ‘You won’t be saying a word against me.’
‘Nic, man, you’ve lost it!’
‘It wasn’t enough, Cat leaving me, you had to rub my nose in it. Well, pal, it’s you that’s the rapist here. I just drove the van. That’s what I’ll tell them.’ There was a sick grin on his face. ‘We got into a fight, it was self-defence. That’s what I’ll say. See, I’m the one with the brains here, Jerry-fucking-nobody. The job, the mortgage, the car. And I’m the one they’ll believe.’ He raised the knife, and Jerry lunged. Nic sort of wheezed, and froze for a second, mouth agape, then angling his chin to stare down at where the scissors protruded from his chest.