“Classic honey trap,” Rebus muttered.
“Once you get a taste...” she said teasingly.
“You’re still going to walk away from him,” he demanded.
“Or what?” Her eyes burned into him. “You’ll go tell him something he already knows?”
“Sooner or later, Cafferty’s walking the plank—you really want to be there with him?”
“I’m a good swimmer.”
“It’s not water you’ll end up in, Molly—it’s jail. Time inside will play havoc with those looks, I guarantee it. See, slipping confidential info to a criminal is just about as serious as it gets.”
“You sell me out, Rebus, Eric gets sold out, too. So much for protecting him.”
“Price has to be paid.” Rebus flicked away the remains of the cigarette. “First thing tomorrow, I’ll be talking to him. Your bags had better be packed.”
“What if Mr. Cafferty doesn’t agree?”
“He will. Once your cover’s blown, CID could be feeding you any amount of manure dressed as caviar. Cafferty takes one bite, and we’ve got him.”
Her eyes were still fixed on his. “So why aren’t you doing that?”
“Sting operation means telling the brass...and that really would be the end of Eric’s career. You walk away now, I get Eric back. Too many lives shat on by your boss, Molly. I just want a few of them sluiced down.” He reached into his pocket for his cigarettes, opened the pack, and offered her one. “So what do you say?”
“Time’s up,” one of the doormen called, pressing a finger to his earpiece. “Clients three-deep in there.”
She looked at Rebus. “Time’s up,” she echoed, turning toward the backstage door. Rebus watched her go, lit himself another cigarette, and decided the walk home across the Meadows would do him good.
His phone was ringing as he unlocked the door. He picked it up from the chair.
“Rebus,” he said.
“It’s me,” Ellen Wylie said. “What the hell’s been happening?”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve had Siobhan on the phone. I don’t know what you’ve been saying to her, but she’s in a hell of a state.”
“Gareth Tench is dead.”
“It was me who told you, remember?”
“She thinks she should take some of the blame.”
“I tried telling her she’s crazy.”
“That’ll have helped.” Rebus started turning on the lights. He wanted them all on—not just the living room, but the hall and the kitchen, the bathroom and his bedroom.
“She sounded pretty pissed off with you.”
“You don’t need to sound so happy about it.”
“I spent twenty minutes calming her down!” Wylie yelled. “Don’t you dare start accusing me of enjoying any of this!”
“Sorry, Ellen.” Rebus meant it, too. He sat on the edge of the bath, shoulders slumped, phone tucked in against his chin.
“We’re all tired, John, that’s the trouble.”
“I think my troubles go just that little bit deeper, Ellen.”
“So go beat yourself up about it—wouldn’t be the first time.”
He puffed air from his cheeks. “So what’s the bottom line with Siobhan?”
“Maybe give her a day to calm down. I told her she should drive up to T in the Park, let off some steam.”
“Not a bad idea.” Except that his own weekend plans included the Borders...looked like he’d be heading south unaccompanied. No way he could invite Ellen—didn’t want it getting back to Siobhan.
“At least we can rule Tench out as a suspect,” Wylie was saying.
“Maybe.”
“Siobhan said you’d be arresting some kid from Niddrie?”
“Probably already in custody.”
“So it has nothing to do with the Clootie Well or BeastWatch?”
“Coincidence, that’s all.”
“So what happens now?”
“Your notion of a weekend break sounds good. Everybody’s back to work on Monday...we can organize a proper murder inquiry.”
“You won’t be needing me then?”
“There’s a place for you if you want it, Ellen. You’ve got a whole forty-eight hours to think it over.”
“Thanks, John.”
“But do me a favor...give Siobhan a call tomorrow. Let her know I’m worried.”
“Worried and sorry?”
“I’ll leave the wording to you. Night, Ellen.” He ended the call and studied his face in the bathroom mirror. He was surprised not to see scourge marks and raw flesh. Looked much the same as ever: sallow and needing a shave, hair unkempt, bags under his eyes. He gave his cheeks a few slaps and headed through to the kitchen, made himself a cup of instant coffee—black; the milk had decided it was sour—and ended up seated at the dining table in the living room. The same faces stared down at him from his walls:
Cyril Colliar.
Trevor Guest.
Edward Isley.
He knew that on TV the main topic would still be the London bombs. Experts would be debating What Could Have Been Done and What to Do Next. All other news would have been pushed aside. Yet he still had his three unsolved murders—which were actually Siobhan’s now that he thought of it. Chief constable had put her in charge. Then there was Ben Webster, receding into obscurity with each turn of the news cycle.
Nobody’d blame you for coasting...
Nobody but the dead.
He rested his head on his folded arms. Saw the well-fed Cafferty descending that million-pound staircase. Saw Siobhan falling for his tricks. Saw Cyril Colliar doing his dirty work and Keith Carberry doing his dirty work and Molly and Eric Bain doing his dirty work. Cafferty coming downstairs, perfumed from the shower, smelling sweeter than any nosegay.
Cafferty the mobster knew Steelforth’s name.
Cafferty the author had met Richard Pennen.
Who else...?
Who else have you talked to...?
Cafferty with his tongue protruding...Maybe Siobhan herself...
No, not Siobhan. Rebus had seen the way she acted at the murder scene—she hadn’t known a thing.
Which didn’t mean she hadn’t wanted it to happen. Hadn’t wished it into existence by letting her eyes meet Cafferty’s for just that second too long. Rebus heard a plane climbing into the sky from the west. There weren’t many late flights out of Edinburgh. He wondered if maybe it was Tony Blair or some of his minions. Thank you, Scotland, and good night. The summit would have enjoyed the best the country had to offer—scenery, whiskey, ambience, food. The morsels turning to ash as that red London bus exploded. And meantime three bad men had died...and one good man—Ben Webster—and one Rebus wasn’t sure about even now. Gareth Tench might have been acting from the best of motives, but with his conscience hammered into submission by circumstance.
Or he could have been on the cusp of wrenching away Cafferty’s tarnished crown.
Rebus doubted he would ever know for sure. He stared at the phone lying in front of him on the dining table. Seven digits and he’d be connected to Siobhan’s apartment. Seven tiny points of pressure on the keypad. How could something be so difficult?
“What makes you think she’s not better off without you?” he found himself asking the silver lozenge. It replied with a bleep, and his head twitched upward. He snatched at it, but all it was trying to tell him was that its battery was low.
“No lower than mine,” he muttered, rising slowly to his feet to seek out the charger. He’d just plugged it in when it rang: Mairie Henderson.
“Evening, Mairie,” Rebus said.
“John? Where are you?”
“At home. What’s the problem?”
“Can I e-mail you something? It’s the story I’m writing on Richard Pennen.”
“You need my proofreading skills?”
“I just want—”
“What’s happened, Mairie?”
“I had a run-in with three of Pennen’s goons. Th
ey were wearing uniforms, but they were no more cops than I am.”
Rebus eased himself down onto the arm of his chair. “One of them called Jacko?”
“How did you know?”
“I’ve met them, too. What happened?”
She told him, adding her suspicion that they might have spent time in Iraq.
“And now you’re scared?” Rebus guessed. “That’s why you want to make sure there are copies of your piece?”
“I’m sending out a few...”
“But not to other journalists, right?”
“Don’t want to put temptation in their way.”
“No copyright on scandal,” Rebus agreed. “Do you want to take things any further?”
“How do you mean?”
“You were right the first time—impersonating a cop is a serious matter.”
“Once I’ve filed my copy, I’ll be fine.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure, but thanks for asking.”
“If you need me, Mairie, you’ve got my number.”
“Thanks, John. Good night.”
She ended the call and left him staring at his phone. The charge symbol came on again, the battery taking its little sips of electricity. Rebus walked to the dining table and switched on his laptop. Plugged the cable into the phone socket and managed to get himself online. It never ceased to amaze him when it actually worked. Her e-mail was waiting for him. He clicked to download it and added her story to one of his folders, hoping he’d be able to find it again. There was another e-mail, this time from Stan Hackman.
Better late than never, it read. Here I am back in the Toon and about to hit a few nightspots. Just time to let you know about our Trev. Interview notes say he moved to Coldstream for a time—don’t say why or for how long. Hope this helps. Your pal, Stan.
Coldstream—same place as the man he’d had the fight with outside Swany’s on Ratcliffe Terrace...
“Clickety-click,” Rebus said to himself, deciding he was owed a drink.
Saturday, July 9, 2005
25
Only a week since Rebus had walked down to the Meadows and found all those people there, dressed in white.
A long time in politics, so the saying went. Every moment of every day, life moved on. The hordes of people making the pilgrimage north today would be headed for the outskirts of Kinross and T in the Park. Sports fans would venture farther west, to Loch Lomond and the final rounds of the Scottish Open golf championship. Rebus figured his own route south would take under two hours, but there were a couple of detours first—Slateford Road to start with. He sat in the idling car, staring up at the windows of the converted warehouse. Thought he could tell Eric Bain’s flat. The curtains were open. Rebus was playing the Elbow CD again, the singer comparing the leaders of the free world to kids chucking stones. He was about to get out of the car when he saw Bain himself shambling into view, returning from the corner shop. He hadn’t shaved or combed his hair. His shirt wasn’t tucked in. He carried a carton of milk and wore a dazed expression. In most people, Rebus might have put it down to tiredness. He rolled down his window and sounded the horn. Bain took a second or two to recognize him and crossed the road toward the car.
“Thought that was you,” Rebus stated. Bain said nothing, just nodded, mind elsewhere. “She’s left you then?” This seemed to focus Bain’s thoughts.
“Left a message saying someone would come by to pick up her stuff.”
Rebus nodded. “Get in, Eric. We need to have a little chat.”
But Bain stood his ground. “How did you know?”
“Talk to anyone, Eric, they’ll tell you I’m the last one who should be giving relationship advice—” Rebus paused. “On the other hand, we can’t have you passing inside information to Big Ger Cafferty.”
Bain stared at him. “You...?”
“I had a word with Molly last night. If she’s scampered, that means she’d rather keep working at the Nook than stay shacked up with you.”
“I don’t...I’m not sure I...” Bain’s eyes widened as though lit by a jolt of caffeine. The milk carton fell from his grasp. His hands reached in through the window and found Rebus’s throat. His teeth were bared with the effort. Rebus pushed himself back toward the passenger seat, one hand scrabbling at Bain’s fingers, the other finding the window button. Up went the glass, trapping Bain. Rebus slid all the way over to the passenger side and exited the car. Walked around to where Bain was extracting his arms from the door frame. As Bain turned, Rebus kneed him in the crotch, sending him down onto his knees in the widening pool of milk. Rebus swung a punch at Bain’s chin and sent him onto his back. Straddled him, holding his shirt by its open collar.
“Your fault, Eric, not mine. One whiff of pussy and you start spilling your guts. And according to your ‘girlfriend’ you were delighted to oblige, even after you’d figured out it wasn’t just natural curiosity on her part. Made you feel important, did it? That’s the reason most informers start gabbing.”
Bain wasn’t putting up any sort of a struggle, apart from a jerking of his shoulders—and even this fell far short of resistance. In point of fact, he was sobbing, face spattered with droplets of milk, like a kid whose favorite plaything had just been lost. Rebus rose to his feet, straightening his own clothes.
“Get up,” he ordered. But Bain seemed content to lie there, so Rebus hauled him to his feet. “Look at me, Eric,” he said, drawing out a handkerchief and holding it out. “Here, wipe your face.”
Bain did as he was told. There was a bubble of snot swelling from one of his nostrils.
“Now listen,” Rebus ordered. “The deal I made with her was that if she left, we’d let it go at that. Meaning I don’t go telling Fettes about any of this—and you get to keep your job.” Rebus angled his face until Bain met his eyes. “Do you understand?”
“Plenty more jobs.”
“In IT? Sure, and they all love an employee who can’t keep secrets from strippers.”
“I loved her, Rebus.”
“Maybe so, but she was playing you like Clapton with a six-string...What’re you smiling at?”
“I’m named after him...my dad’s a fan.”
“Is that a fact?”
Bain looked up at the sky, his breathing slowing a little. “I really thought she—”
“Cafferty was using you, Eric—end of story. But here’s the thing...” Rebus made sure he had eye contact. “You can’t go near her, you don’t go to the Nook pining for her. She’s sending someone for her stuff because she knows that’s how it works.” Rebus emphasized his point by chopping the air karate-style with his hand.
“You saw her that day in the apartment, Rebus. She must’ve liked me at least a little bit.”
“Keep thinking that if you like...just don’t go asking her. If I hear you’re trying to contact her, don’t think I won’t tell Corbyn.”
Bain mumbled something Rebus didn’t catch. He asked him to repeat it. Bain’s eyes drilled into him.
“It wasn’t about Cafferty at the start.”
“Whatever you say, Eric. But it was about him eventually...trust me on that.”
Bain was silent for a few moments. He stared down at the pavement. “I need more milk.”
“Best get yourself cleaned up first. Look, I’m heading out of town. You’re going to spend all day turning this over—what if I give you a ring tomorrow, you can let me know the score?”
Bain nodded slowly, tried handing Rebus back his handkerchief.
“You can keep that,” he was advised. “Got a friend you can talk to?”
“On the Net,” Bain said.
“Whatever works.” Rebus patted his shoulder. “Are you okay now? I need to get going.”
“I’ll manage.”
“Good boy.” Rebus took a deep breath. “I’m not going to apologize for what I did, Eric...but I’m sorry you had to get hurt.”
Bain nodded again. “It’s me who should—”
But Rebus si
lenced him with a shake of the head. “All in the past now. Just got to pick yourself up and move on.”
“No use crying over spilled milk?” Bain offered with an attempt at a smile.
“Been trying my damnedest not to say it these past ten minutes,” Rebus admitted. “Go stick your head under the shower, wash it all away.”
“Might not be that easy,” Bain said quietly.
Rebus nodded agreement. “But all the same...it’s a start.”
Siobhan had spent a good forty minutes soaking in the bath. Normally, she only had time for a shower in the morning, but today she was determined to pamper herself. About a third of a bottle of Space NK bath foam, and a big glass of fresh orange juice. BBC 6 music on her digital radio and her cell phone switched off. The ticket to T in the Park was on the sofa in the living room, next to a list of things she would need—bottled water and snacks, her fleece, suntan lotion (well, you never could tell). Last night she’d been on the verge of calling Bobby Greig and offering him her ticket. But why should she? If she didn’t go, she’d just end up slouched on the sofa with the TV playing. Ellen Wylie had called first thing, told her she’d been talking to Rebus.
“He’s sorry,” Ellen had reported.
“Sorry for what?”
“For anything and everything.”
“Nice of him to tell you instead of me.”
“My fault,” Ellen had admitted. “I said he should leave you in peace for a day or so.”
“Thanks. How’s Denise?”
“Still in bed. So what’s the plan for today? Bopping yourself into a sweat at Kinross, or would you rather we go somewhere and drown all our sorrows?”
“I’ll bear that offer in mind. But I think you’re right—Kinross might be just what I need.”
Not that she’d be staying the night. Although her ticket was valid for both days, she’d had quite enough of the outdoors life. She wondered if the dope dealer from Stirling would be there, plying his trade. Maybe this time she would decide to indulge, break yet another rule. She knew plenty of officers who did a bit of pot; had heard rumors of some who even did coke at weekends. All kinds of ways to unwind. She considered the options, and decided she’d better pack a couple of condoms, just in case she did end up in someone’s tent. She knew two women PCs who were heading to the festival. They were hoping to rendezvous with her by text message. A wild pair they were, with a crush on the front men with the Killers and Keane. They were already in Kinross—wanted to be sure of a place front of stage.