“You should do something about that,” Rebus commented. “Lots of the city still like that.”
“Have you been drinking, Inspector?”
“Only when off-duty, sir.” Rebus fussed in his pocket until he found the pack.
“There’s no smoking in here,” Anderson warned him.
Rebus looked at the cigarette pack as though it had crawled unnoticed into his hand. He apologized and put it away again. “Didn’t see you at the funeral, sir,” he told the MP.
“Which funeral?”
“Ben Webster. You were a good friend to him in his early days.”
“I was otherwise engaged.” The MP made a show of checking his watch.
“Ben’s sister told me that once her brother was dead, Labor would soon forget about him.”
“I think that’s unreasonable. Ben was a friend of mine, Inspector, and I did want to attend the funeral...”
“But you’ve been busy,” Rebus said, all understanding. “And here you are, trying to catch a quick, quiet meal with your wife, and I come barging in unannounced.”
“It happens to be my wife’s birthday. We managed—God knows how—to keep a window free—”
“And I’ve gone and smudged it.” Rebus turned to the wife. “Many happy returns.”
The waiter was placing a wineglass in front of Rebus. “Maybe some water instead?” Anderson suggested. Rebus nodded.
“Have you been busy with the G8?” the MP’s wife leaned forward to ask him.
“Busy despite the G8,” Rebus corrected her. He saw husband and wife exchange a glance, knew what they were thinking. A hungover cop, wired from all the demonstrations and the chaos and now the bombings. Damaged goods, to be handled with care.
“Can this really not wait till morning, Inspector?” Anderson asked quietly.
“I’m looking into Ben Webster’s death,” Rebus explained. His voice sounded nasal, even to his own ears, and there was a creeping mist at the edges of his vision. “Can’t seem to find a reason for him to take his own life.”
“More likely an accident, surely,” the MP’s wife offered.
“Or he was given a hand,” Rebus stated.
“What?” Anderson’s hands stopped arranging the cutlery in front of him.
“Richard Pennen wants to link overseas aid to arms sales, doesn’t he? How’s it going to work—he donates a chunk of money in exchange for looser controls?”
“Don’t be absurd.” The MP allowed his voice to betray his irritation.
“Were you at the castle that night?”
“I was busy at Westminster.”
“Any chance that Webster had words with Pennen? Maybe at your behest?”
“What sort of words?”
“Cutting back the arms trade...turning all those guns into plow-shares.”
“Look, you can’t just go around defaming Richard Pennen. If there’s any evidence, I’d like to see it.”
“Me, too,” Rebus agreed.
“Meaning there’s none? And you’re basing this witch hunt on what exactly, Inspector?”
“On the fact that Special Branch wants me to butt out, or at the very least toe the line.”
“While you’d prefer to cross that same line?”
“Only way of getting anywhere.”
“Ben Webster was an outstanding member of parliament and a rising star in his party.”
“And he’d have supported you to the hilt in any leadership contest,” Rebus couldn’t help adding.
“Now you’re just being bloody scurrilous!” Anderson snarled.
“Was he the sort to get up the nose of big business?” Rebus asked. “The sort who couldn’t be bribed or bought off?” His head was feeling even muzzier.
“You seem exhausted, Officer,” the MP’s wife said, voice sympathetic. “Are you sure this really can’t wait?”
Rebus was shaking his head, aware of its sheer mass. Felt like he might crash through the floor, his body was so heavy...
“Darling,” the MP’s wife was telling her husband, “here’s Rosie.”
A flustered-looking young woman was squeezing her way between the tables. The staff looked worried that they might be asked to sit four at a table intended for two.
“I left message after message after message,” Rosie was saying, “and then thought maybe you weren’t getting them.”
“No signal,” Anderson growled, tapping his phone. “This is the inspector.”
Rebus had risen to his feet, offering Anderson’s secretary his chair. She shook her head, avoiding eye contact.
“The inspector,” she was telling the MP, “is currently under suspension, pending an inquiry into his conduct.” Now her eyes met Rebus’s. “I made a couple of calls...”
One of Anderson’s substantial eyebrows had lifted.
“I did say I was off-duty,” Rebus reminded him.
“I’m not sure it was quite as cut-and-dried as that. Ah...the appetizers.” Two waiters were hovering, one with smoked salmon, the other with a bowl of orange-colored soup. “You’ll be leaving now, Inspector.” It was statement rather than request.
“Ben Webster deserves a bit of consideration, don’t you think?”
The MP ignored this, unfolding his napkin. But his secretary had no such qualms.
“Get out!” she snarled.
Rebus nodded slowly, and half turned before remembering something. “Pavements round my way are in a shocking state,” he told his MP. “Maybe you could spare the time to visit your constituency once in a while.”
“Jump in,” the voice ordered. Rebus turned and saw that Siobhan had parked in front of his tenement.
“Car looks good,” he told her.
“Just as well, the money your friendly mechanic charged.”
“I was just headed upstairs...”
“Change of plan. I need you to come with me.” She paused. “You okay?”
“Had a couple of drinks earlier. Did something I probably shouldn’t.”
“Now there’s a novelty.” But she still managed to look aghast when he told her about his trip to the restaurant.
“Another lecture in store, no doubt” went his closing words.
“You don’t say.” Siobhan closed her own door as Rebus got into the passenger seat.
“What about you?” he asked. So she told him about her parents and the contents of Stacey Webster’s camera. Reached into the backseat and handed him the evidence.
“So now we go talk to the councilman?” Rebus guessed.
“That was the plan. Why are you smiling?”
He pretended to be studying the pictures. “Your mum says she’s not bothered who whacked her...Nobody seems worried about Ben Webster’s death...And yet here we both are.” He lifted his face toward her and gave a tired smile.
“It’s what we do,” she replied quietly.
“My point exactly. No matter what anyone thinks or says. I just worry that you’ve learned all the wrong lessons from me.”
“Credit me with a bit of sense,” she chided him, putting the car into gear.
Councilman Gareth Tench lived in a sizable Victorian villa on Duddingston Park. It was a main road, but its houses were set back far enough to give them some privacy. Not five minutes’ drive from Niddrie, yet it was another world: respectable, middle class, quiet. There was a golf course to the rear of the properties, and Portobello Beach was within striking distance. Siobhan had taken a route along Niddrie’s main road, so they could see that the campsite was disappearing fast.
“Want to drop in on your boyfriend?” Rebus teased.
“Maybe you should stay in the car,” she retorted, “let me talk to Tench.”
“I’m as sober as a judge,” Rebus argued. “Well...getting there anyway.” They’d stopped at a garage on Ratcliffe Terrace so he could buy Irn-Bru and Tylenol.
“Inventor deserves the Nobel Prize,” Rebus had stated, without specifying which product he was referring to.
There were two c
ars parked in Tench’s forecourt. The whole front garden had been paved to make room for them. Lights blazed in the living room.
“Good cop, bad cop?” Rebus suggested as Siobhan rang the doorbell. She rewarded him with the beginnings of a smile. The door was opened by a woman.
“Mrs. Tench?” Siobhan asked, holding up her ID. “Any chance of a word with your husband?”
Then Tench’s voice from inside the house: “Who is it, Louisa?”
“Police, Gareth,” she bellowed back, retreating a little by way of invitation. They didn’t need asking twice, and were in the living room by the time Tench trudged downstairs. The fittings weren’t to Rebus’s taste: sashed velvet drapes; brass lamps fixed to the walls on either side of the fireplace; two oversize sofas taking up much of the floor space. Oversize and brassy seemed to describe Louisa Tench, too. She wore dangling earrings and a clatter of bracelets. The tan had come from a bottle or salon, as had the piled auburn hair. A little too much blue eye shadow and pink lipstick. He counted five carriage clocks in the room and decided that nothing here had been chosen by the councilman.
“Evening, sir,” Siobhan said as Tench walked into the room. He rolled his eyes heavenward in reply.
“Don’t they ever let up, Lord? Should I sue for harassment?”
“Before you do that, Mr. Tench,” Siobhan went on calmly, “maybe you could look at this photo.” She handed it to him. “You recognize your constituent, of course?”
“He’s the same one you hooked up with outside the court,” Rebus added helpfully. “And by the way...Denise says hello.”
Tench glanced fearfully toward his wife. She was back in her chair, staring at the TV with its sound muted. “What about these photos then?” he said, louder than was strictly necessary.
“You’ll notice that he’s attacking that woman with a wooden stick,” Siobhan continued. Rebus was watching carefully—and listening, too. “In this next photo, he’s trying to melt back into the crowd. But you’ll agree that he’d just attacked an innocent bystander.”
Tench looked skeptical, eyes flitting between one photo and the other. “Digital, aren’t they?” he pointed out. “Easy enough to manipulate.”
“It’s not the photos that are being manipulated here, Mr. Tench,” Rebus thought it his duty to state.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“We want his name,” Siobhan said. “We can get it tomorrow morning from the court, but we’d prefer to get it from you.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Why’s that then?”
“Because we’d—” Siobhan paused. “Because I’d like to know what the connection is. Twice at the campsite, you just happened along to save the day”—she stabbed a finger at one photo—“from him. Next thing you’re waiting for him when he comes out of police custody. And now this.”
“He’s just another kid from the wrong part of town,” Tench said, keeping his voice down but emphasizing each word. “Wrong parents, wrong school, wrong choices at every fork in the road. But he lives on my turf and that means I look out for him, same as I would do for any other poor bloody kid in his position. If that’s a crime, DS Clarke, then I’m ready to go into the dock and argue my case.” A fleck of saliva escaped his mouth and hit Siobhan on the cheek. She brushed it away with the tip of a finger.
“His name,” she repeated.
“He’s already been charged...”
Louisa Tench was back in her chair, one leg crossed over the other, her eyes on the muted television.
“Gareth,” she said, “Emmerdale.”
“Don’t want your wife missing her soap, do you, Mr. Tench?” Rebus added. The opening titles were already on-screen. She had the remote in her hand, finger poised above the volume button. Three pairs of eyes boring into Gareth Tench, and Rebus mouthing the name Denise again...
“Carberry,” Tench said. “Keith Carberry.”
Music burst suddenly from the TV. Tench slid his hands into his pockets, stalked out of the room. Rebus and Siobhan waited a few moments, then said their good-byes to the woman who was tucking her legs beneath her on the chair. She ignored them, lost in a world of her own. The front door was ajar, Tench waiting for them outside, arms folded, feet apart.
“A smear campaign’s not going to do anyone any good,” he told them.
“Just doing our job, sir.”
“I grew up near a farm, DS Clarke,” he said. “I know bullshit when I smell it.”
Siobhan looked him up and down. “And I know a clown when I see one, even out of costume.” She walked toward the pavement, Rebus pausing in front of Tench, leaning forward toward his ear.
“The woman your boy smacked is her mother. That means this never ends, understood? Not until we get a result we’re happy with.” Leaned back again and nodded, reinforcing the message. “Wife doesn’t know about Denise then?” he added.
“That’s how you connected me to Ozyman,” Tench guessed. “Ellen Wylie told you.”
“Not very clever of you, Councilman, playing away from home. This is more a village than a city, bound to come out sooner or—”
“Christ, Rebus, it wasn’t like that!” Tench hissed.
“Not for me to say, sir.”
“And now I suppose you’ll go tell your employer? Well, let him do what he likes—I’m not about to bow down to his kind...or yours.” Tench gave a look of defiance. Rebus stood his ground a moment longer, then gave a smile and followed Siobhan back to the car.
“Special dispensation?” he asked, once he’d fastened his seat belt. She looked across, saw that he was waving a cigarette pack.
“Keep the window open,” she ordered. Rebus lit the cigarette and blew smoke into the evening sky. They’d only gone forty yards when a car pulled out in front of them, then braked, blocking half the road.
“Hell’s this?” Rebus hissed.
“Bentley,” Siobhan told him. Sure enough, as the brake lights dimmed, Cafferty emerged from the driver’s side, walking purposefully toward them, leaning down so his head was framed by Rebus’s open window.
“You’re a ways from home,” Rebus advised him.
“So are you. A wee visit to Gareth Tench, eh? I hope he’s not trying to buy you off.”
“He thinks you’re paying us five hundred a week,” Rebus drawled. “Made a counteroffer of two grand.” He blew smoke into Cafferty’s face.
“I’ve just bought a pub in Portobello,” Cafferty said, wafting his hands in front of him. “Come and have a drink.”
“Last thing I need,” Rebus told him.
“A soft drink then.”
“What is it you want?” Siobhan said. Her hands still gripped the steering wheel.
“Is it just me,” Cafferty asked Rebus, “or is she toughening up?” Suddenly, he reached a hand through the window, snatching one of the photos from Rebus’s lap. Took a couple of steps back into the road, holding it close to his face. Siobhan was out of the car in an instant, marching toward him.
“I’m not in the mood for this, Cafferty.”
“Ah,” he was saying, “I did hear something about your mother...And I recognize this little bastard.”
Siobhan stopped dead, hand caught in midgrab for the photo.
“Name’s Kevin or Keith,” Cafferty went on.
“Keith Carberry,” she told him. Rebus was getting out of the car, too, by now. He could see that Cafferty had snared her.
“Nothing to do with you,” Rebus warned him.
“Of course not,” Cafferty agreed. “I can understand it’s personal. Just wondered if I could help, that’s all.”
“Help how?” Siobhan asked.
“Don’t listen to him,” Rebus warned. But Cafferty’s gaze had her transfixed.
“Any way I can,” he said quietly. “Keith works for Tench, doesn’t he? Wouldn’t it be better to bring down both of them, rather than just the messenger?”
“Tench wasn’t in Princes Street Gardens.”
“And young Keith doesn’t hav
e the sense he was born with,” Cafferty countered. “Tends to make lads like him suggestible.”
“Christ, Siobhan,” Rebus pleaded, gripping her by the arm. “He wants Tench taken down. Doesn’t matter to him how it happens.” He wagged a finger at Cafferty. “She’s not part of this.”
“I was only offering...” Cafferty held up his hands in surrender.
“What’s with the stakeout anyway? Got a baseball bat and a shovel in the Bentley?”
Cafferty ignored him, gave Siobhan back the photograph. “Pound to a penny, Keith’s playing pool at that place in Restalrig. Only one way to find out...”
Her eyes were on the photo. When he said her name, she blinked a couple of times and focused on him instead. Then she shook her head.
“Later,” she said.
He gave a shrug. “Whenever you like.”
“You won’t be there,” she declared.
He tried to look hurt. “Hardly fair after everything I’ve told you.”
“You won’t be there,” she repeated. Cafferty turned his attention to Rebus.
“Did I say she was toughening up? Might have been an understatement.”
“Might have been,” Rebus agreed.
21
He’d been steeping in a bath for twenty minutes when the intercom buzzed. Decided to ignore it, then heard his cell ringing. Whoever it was left a message—the phone beeped afterward to let him know. When Siobhan had dropped him, he’d warned her to go straight home, get some rest.
“Shit,” he said, realizing that she might be in trouble. Got out of the bath and wrapped a towel around himself, leaving wet footprints as he padded into the living room. But the message wasn’t from Siobhan. It was Ellen Wylie. She was outside in her car.
“Never been so popular with the ladies,” he muttered, punching the call-back button. “Give me five minutes,” he told her. Then he went and changed back into his clothes. The intercom sounded again. He let her in and waited at the door, listening to the sand paper sound of her shoes as she climbed the two flights of stone steps.
“Ellen, always a pleasure,” he said.
“I’m sorry, John. We were all down at the pub, and I just couldn’t stop thinking about it.”