‘You’ll break his ribs!’
Isla Ure was sobbing, knuckles to her mouth. Siobhan’s mouth locked on to the dying man’s. Breath of life.
‘Come on, Archie, come on!’ the doctor roared, as if decibels could counter death. Rebus knew, or feared he knew: if you wished for death, it came for you all too easily. Every step you took, it shadowed your thoughts, waiting for that invitation. It sensed despair, and tiredness and resignation. He could almost sense it in the room. Archie Ure had willed death upon himself, consumed it readily and with that final relished bellow, because it was the only possible victory.
Rebus couldn’t despise him for it.
‘Come on, come on!’
‘. . . three, four . . . one, two . . .’
The lawyer stood pale-faced, one arm missing from his glasses, snapped underfoot. And Isla Ure, head down by her husband’s ear, voice cracked to the point of unintelligibility.
‘Allu . . . archmon . . . allu-yoosweess . . .’
For all the noise, the sweeping chaos of the room, it was an echo of laughter which filled Rebus’s ears. The final, stripped-down laughter of Archie Ure. His eyes gazed past the bed, caught movement behind the window. The bird table, a robin clinging to its underside, head turned towards the human pantomime within. First robin he’d seen this winter. Someone had told him once they weren’t seasonal, but if that were the case, then why did you only ever see them in the cold months?
One more question to add to the list.
Two, three minutes had passed. The doctor was tiring. He checked for a pulse in the throat, then put his ear to the chest cavity. The wires were hanging dislodged. The monitor making no sound at all; just three red LED letters where numbers had previously been:
ERR
Now flashing to a new message:
RESET
The doctor slid his feet off the bed and on to the floor. Cameron Whyte had picked up the teacup. His spectacles sat at the wrong angle on his face. The doctor was pushing his hair back from his forehead, sweat gleaming in his eyelashes and dripping from his nose. Siobhan Clarke’s lips looked dry and pale, as if some of the life had been sucked from them. Isla Ure was lying across her husband’s face, shoulders juddering. The robin had flown off, its spirit unfettered by doubt.
John Rebus bent down, retrieved the microphone from the floor. ‘Interview ends at . . .’ He checked his watch. ‘Eleven thirty-eight a.m.’
Eyes turned to him. When he stopped the tapes, it was as if he’d switched off Archie Ure’s life-support.
39
Fettes HQ, the office of the Assistant Chief Constable. Colin Carswell, the ACC (Crime), listened to the jumble of noises which made up the last five minutes of the recording.
You had to be there, Rebus felt like telling him. He identified: the moment when Ure sat up, beckoning him closer . . . the moment flecks of foam had appeared at the corners of his twisted mouth . . . the sound of the doctor climbing on to the bed . . . and that dull static was the mike hitting the floor. From then on, everything was muffled. Rebus turned the bass down, upped the treble and volume. Even so, most of the sounds were indistinct.
Carswell had the two reports – Rebus’s and Siobhan Clarke’s – on the desk in front of him. He’d moistened his thumb before perusing them, lifting each page by a corner. Between them, they’d put together a second-by-second account of Archie Ure’s demise, their timings matched to the tape.
There was one other copy of the tape, of course. It had been handed over to Cameron Whyte. Whyte said that Ure’s widow was considering a claim against the police. That’s why they were here in the ACC’s office. Not just Rebus, but Siobhan and the Farmer, too.
More static: that was the mike being picked up. Interview ends at . . . eleven thirty-eight a.m.
Rebus stopped the tape. Carswell had listened to it twice now. After the first listen, he’d asked a couple of questions. Now he sat back, hands pressed together in front of his nose and lips. The Farmer made to mimic him, saw what he was doing and lowered his hands, pressing them between his legs instead. Then, seeing this as an unflattering pose to strike, he removed them quickly, laid them on his knees.
‘Prominent local politician dies under police questioning,’ Carswell commented. He might have been repeating a newspaper headline, but in fact so far they’d managed to keep the truth away from the newshounds. The lawyer had seen the sense of it, and had prevailed with the widow: a headline like that, and people would begin asking questions. Why had police wanted to talk to the recent heart-attack victim? She had enough to cope with without all that.
And she had concurred, while at the same time urging Whyte to ‘sue the bastards for every penny’.
Words which acted like a frozen sword to the spines of the High Hiedyins at the Big House. So, just as Cameron Whyte and his team were doubtless poring over the tape, looking to build their case, the lawyers for Lothian and Borders Police were already seated in a room along the corridor, ready to take delivery of the evidence.
‘A fatal error of judgement, Chief Superintendent,’ Carswell was telling the Farmer. ‘Sending someone like Rebus into a situation like that. I had my doubts all along, of course, and now I find myself vindicated.’ He looked at Rebus. ‘I wish I could take some pleasure in that.’ He paused. ‘A fatal error,’ he repeated.
Fatal error, Rebus was thinking. ERR RESET.
‘With respect, sir,’ the Farmer said, ‘we could hardly be expected to know . . .’
‘Sending someone like Rebus to interview a sick man is tantamount to unlawful killing.’
Rebus clenched his jaw, but it was Siobhan who spoke. ‘Sir, Inspector Rebus has been invaluable to this investigation throughout.’
‘Then how come one of our best officers ends up with his face wired together? How come a long-time Labour councillor is in one of the fridges at the Cowgate? How come we don’t have a single solitary conviction? And bloody unlikely to get one now.’ Carswell pointed to the tape machine. ‘Ure was as good a shout at it as we were going to get.’
‘There was nothing wrong with the line of questioning,’ the Farmer said quietly. He looked like he wanted to go sit hunched in a corner till gold-watch day.
‘Without Ure, there’s no case,’ Carswell persisted, his attention focused on Rebus. ‘Not unless you think Barry Hutton will crack under your rapier-like assault.’
‘Give me a rapier and let’s see.’
Carswell threw him a furious look. The Farmer started apologising.
‘Look, sir,’ Rebus interrupted, eyes fixed on the ACC, ‘I feel as badly about this as anyone. But we didn’t kill Archie Ure.’
‘Then what did?’
‘Maybe a guilty conscience?’ Siobhan offered.
Carswell leapt to his feet. ‘This whole investigation has been a farce from the start.’ He was pointing at Rebus. ‘I hold you responsible, and so help me I’ll make sure you pay for it.’ He turned to the Farmer. ‘And as for you, Chief Superintendent . . . well, it’s not a very pretty end to your career, is it?’
‘No, sir. But with respect, sir . . .’
Rebus could see a change in Watson’s demeanour.
‘What?’ Carswell asked.
‘Nobody asked your blue-eyed boy to keep tabs on Hutton. No one told him to head off into a Leith housing scheme in pursuit of a possible murder suspect. Those were his decisions and they got him where he is now.’ The Farmer paused. ‘I think you’re putting up a smokescreen so everyone will conveniently forget those facts. The officers here . . .’ the Farmer looked at them, ‘my officers . . . also have your protégé pegged as a peeper. Something else you’ve conveniently ignored.’
‘Careful now . . .’ Carswell’s eyes were boring into the Farmer.
‘I think that time’s past, don’t you?’ The Farmer pointed to the tape machine. ‘Same as you, I’ve listened to that tape, and I can’t see a damned thing wrong with DI Rebus’s methods or his line of questioning.’ He stood up, face to face with Ca
rswell. ‘You want to make something of it, fine. I’ll be waiting.’ He started heading for the door. ‘After all, what have I got to lose?’
Carswell told them to get the hell out, but it was too late: they were already gone.
Down in the canteen, they left the food on their plates, pushed it around, feeling numb, and didn’t talk very much. Rebus turned to the Farmer.
‘What happened there?’
The Chief Super shrugged, tried to smile. The fight had gone out of him again; he looked exhausted. ‘I just got fed up, simple as that. Thirty years I’ve been on the force . . .’ He shook his head. ‘Maybe I’ve just had a bellyful of the Carswells. Thirty years, and he thinks he can talk to me like that.’ He looked at the pair of them, tried out a smile.
‘I liked your parting shot,’ Rebus said: ‘“What have I got to lose?”’
‘Thought you might,’ the Farmer said. ‘You’ve used it on me often enough.’ Then he went to fetch three more coffees – not that they’d finished the first ones; he just needed to be moving – and Siobhan leaned back in her chair.
‘What do you think?’ she asked.
‘Golgotha via Calvary,’ he said. ‘And don’t bother looking for the return portion.’
‘Not that you like to exaggerate.’
‘Know what really sticks in my craw? We might be crucified for this, and that bastard Linford’s going to get a peg up.’
‘At least we can eat solids.’ She tossed the fork on to her plate.
40
‘Why here?’ Rebus said.
He was walking across a frozen lawn in Warriston Crematorium’s garden of remembrance. Big Ger Cafferty was wearing a black leather flying-jacket with fur collar, zipped to the chin.
‘Remember, you came on a run with me once, years back?’
‘Duddingston Loch.’ Rebus was nodding. ‘I remember.’
‘But do you remember what I told you?’
Rebus thought for a moment. ‘You said we’re a cruel race, and at the same time we like pain.’
‘We thrive on defeat, Strawman. And this parliament will put us in charge of our own destinies for the first time in three centuries.’
‘So?’
‘So it’s maybe a time for looking forward, not back.’ Cafferty stopped. His breath came out as a grey vapour. ‘But you . . . you just can’t leave the past alone, can you?’
‘You brought me to a garden of remembrance to tell me I’m living in the past?’
Cafferty shrugged. ‘We all have to live with the past; doesn’t mean we have to live in it.’
‘Is this a message from Bryce Callan?’
Cafferty looked at him. ‘I know you’re going after Barry Hutton. Think you’ll get a result?’
‘It’s been known to happen.’
Cafferty chuckled. ‘Something I know to my cost.’ He started walking again. The only things visible in the flower beds were roses, their branches clipped back, looking brittle and stunted but with the promise of renewal hibernating within. That’s us, Rebus thought, thorns and all. ‘Morag died a year back,’ Cafferty was saying. Morag: his wife.
‘Yes, I heard.’
‘They said I could go to the funeral.’ Cafferty kicked at a stone, sent it flying into a flower bed. ‘I didn’t go. The guys in the Bar-L, they thought that made me hard.’ A wry smile. ‘What do you think?’
‘You were scared.’
‘Maybe I was at that.’ He looked at Rebus again. ‘Bryce Callan isn’t as forgiving as I am, Strawman. You managed to put me away, and you’re still walking around. But now Bryce knows you’re after Barry, he’s got to have you put out of the game.’
‘Then he goes away, too.’
‘He’s not that stupid. Remember: where there’s no body, there’s no crime.’
‘I’ll just disappear?’
Cafferty was nodding. ‘Whether you get your precious result or not.’ He stopped walking. ‘Is that what you want?’
Rebus stopped, looked around as if enjoying the view for the last time. ‘What’s it to you?’
‘Maybe I like having you around.’
‘Why?’
‘Who else cares about me?’ Cafferty chuckled again. In the distance, Rebus could see Cafferty’s car – the grey Jag – the Weasel standing beside it, not quite daring to rest against its paintwork. Shuffling his feet in an effort to defrost them.
‘Speaking of no body, no crime . . . where’s Rab Hill?’
Cafferty looked at him. ‘Yes, I heard you’d been asking.’
‘It’s Rab that has cancer, not you. He went for tests, came back with the news and told his good friend.’ Rebus paused. ‘You switched X-rays somehow.’
‘NHS,’ Cafferty said. ‘Don’t pay those doctors half what they’re worth.’
‘I’m going to prove it, you know that.’
‘You’re a cop with a vendetta. Not much a poor citizen like me can do about that.’
‘Maybe I could ease up a little,’ Rebus said.
‘In return for . . . ?’
‘Testify against Bryce Callan. You were there in ’79, you know what was going on.’
Cafferty shook his head. ‘That’s not the way to play it.’
Rebus stared at him. ‘Then what is?’
Cafferty ignored the question. ‘It’s a cold place this, isn’t it?’ he said instead. ‘When they bury me, I want it to be somewhere warm.’
‘You’ll be going somewhere warm,’ Rebus told him. ‘Might even be a bit too warm.’
‘And you’re on the side of the angels, eh?’ They were heading for the car now. Rebus stopped; his Saab was parked the other side of the chapel. Cafferty didn’t check; he half waved and kept on walking. ‘Next funeral I go to will probably be yours, Strawman. Anything you want put on your headstone?’
‘How about “Died peacefully in his sleep, aged ninety”?’
Cafferty laughed with the confidence of the immortal.
Rebus turned, retraced his steps. He was out in the open, and his shoulders jerked when he heard a sharp report, but it was only the Weasel slamming shut the door of the Jag. Rebus walked round to the front of the chapel, opened the door and stepped inside. There was an anteroom, a big book of remembrance open on a marble-topped table. A red silk marker kept it open at the day’s date on the previous year: eight names, meaning eight cremations that day, eight grieving families who might or might not turn up to pay their respects. No . . . that wasn’t right. Not the date of cremation . . . these were dates of death. He kept the place but started at the back of the book, letting the as-yet-empty sheets slide through his fingers. There’d be names in there eventually. If Cafferty was right, his wouldn’t be among them: he’d just disappear. He didn’t know how he felt about that. Didn’t feel anything really. Today’s date: no names entered as yet. But cars had been pulling away as he’d been arriving, a teenager peering out at him from the back seat of a limousine, black tie knotted awkwardly at the throat.
Yesterday: no names; too soon. Day before that: none. Then it was back to the weekend. Friday: nine names – the cremations had probably taken place yesterday. Rebus looked down the list, neat entries made in black ink by someone with a gift for calligraphy. Fountain pen: thick downstrokes, tapering flicks. Dates of birth, maiden names . . .
Bingo.
Robert Wallace Hill. Known as Rab.
He’d died the previous Friday. The funeral had probably taken place yesterday, the ashes scattered over the garden of remembrance: the reason Cafferty had come here, paying his respects to the man who’d been his ticket out of jail. Rab, his body riddled with cancer. Rebus saw it all now. Rab, with his release date coming, the cancer a cruel blow. Taking the news back to the Bar-L, confiding in Cafferty, who’d feigned illness, gone for tests himself, arranging the switch of records, some bribe or threat to a doctor. Rab pumped full of painkillers, his release date almost coinciding with Cafferty’s. Doubtless paid well: money for a decent send-off, an envelope thick with banknotes finding
its way to any family left behind.
Rebus somehow doubted Cafferty would return to the chapel a year down the line. He’d have more important things on his mind. He’d be back in business. And Rab? Well, hadn’t Cafferty said it himself: a time for looking forward, not back. Christmas was on its way. 1999 would bring the Scottish Parliament back to Edinburgh. In the spring, they’d flatten the old brewery, start constructing the glass boxes which would eventually house the MSPs. Glass walls: the theme was openness, accountability. Okay, till then they’d be meeting in a church hall on The Mound, but even so . . .
Even so. So what?
‘And then you die,’ he muttered to himself, turning to leave the chapel.
He got on his mobile to the mortuary, asked Dougie who’d done the autopsy on Rab Hill. The answer: Curt and Stevenson. He thanked Dougie, punched in Curt’s number. He was thinking of Rab’s body: ashes now. Where there’s no body, there’s no crime. But there’d be the autopsy report, and when it showed up the cancer, Rebus would have evidence enough to have Cafferty re-examined.
‘It was an overdose,’ Curt explained. ‘He’d been a user in prison, got a bit too greedy when he came out.’
‘But when you opened him up, what else did you find?’ Rebus was holding the phone so tightly, his wrist was hurting.
‘Family were against it, John.’
Rebus blinked. ‘A young man . . . suspicious death.’
‘Some religious thing . . . church I’d never heard of. Their lawyer put it in writing.’
I’ll bet he did, Rebus thought. ‘There was no autopsy?’
‘We did as much as we could. Chemical tests were clear enough . . .’
Rebus cut the call, screwed shut his eyes. A few flakes of snow fell on his lashes. He was slow to blink them away.
No body, no evidence. He shivered suddenly, remembering Cafferty’s words: Yes, I heard you’d been asking. Asking about Rab Hill. Cafferty had known . . . known that Rebus knew. So easy to administer an overdose to a sick man. So easy for someone like Cafferty, someone with so much to lose.