Rebus closed the door and took up position by the wall, Clarke easing herself on to the chair opposite Cafferty. He gave her a little bow, inclining the great dome of his head but keeping the hands where they were.
‘I was wondering when you would pull me in,’ he said.
‘So you knew it was coming?’ Clarke had placed a blank pad of paper on the table and was taking the top off her pen.
‘With DI Rebus only days away from the scrapheap?’ The gangster glanced in Rebus’s direction. ‘I knew you’d dream up some pretext for giving me grief.’
‘Well, as it happens, we’ve got slightly more than a pretext—’
‘Did you know, Siobhan,’ Cafferty broke in, ‘that John here sits outside my house of an evening, making sure I’m tucked up in bed? I’d say that level of protection goes somewhat beyond the call of duty.’
Clarke was trying not to be deflected. She placed her pen on the table, but then had to stop it rolling towards the edge. ‘Tell us about Alexander Todorov,’ she began.
‘Say again?’
‘The man you bought a tenner’s worth of cognac for last Wednesday night.’
‘In the bar of the Caledonian Hotel,’ Rebus added.
‘What? The Polish guy?’
‘Russian, actually,’ Clarke corrected him.
‘You live a mile and a half away,’ Rebus pressed on. ‘Makes me wonder why you’d need a room.’
‘To get away from you, maybe?’ Cafferty made show of guessing. ‘Or just because I can afford one.’
‘And then you sit in the bar, buying drinks for strangers,’ Clarke added.
Cafferty unlinked his hands so he could raise a finger, as if to stress a point. ‘Difference between Rebus and me - he’d sit in the bar all night and buy drinks for no bugger.’ He gave a cold chuckle. ‘This is the sum total of why you’ve dragged me here - because I bought some poor immigrant a drink?’
‘How many “poor immigrants” do you reckon would wander into that bar?’ Rebus asked.
Cafferty made show of thinking, closing his sunken eyes and then opening them again. They were like dark little pebbles in his huge pale face. ‘You have a fair point,’ he admitted. ‘But the man was still a stranger to me. What’s he gone and done?’
‘He’s gone and been murdered,’ Rebus said, with as much restraint as he could muster. ‘And as of right now, you’re the last person who saw him alive.’
‘Whoa there.’ Cafferty looked from one detective to the other. ‘The poet guy, the one I saw in the papers?’
‘Attacked on King’s Stables Road, maybe fifteen or twenty minutes after drinking with you. What was it the pair of you fell out about?’
Cafferty ignored Rebus and concentrated on Clarke. ‘Do I need my solicitor here?’
‘Not as yet,’ she said levelly. Cafferty smiled again.
‘Are you not wondering, Siobhan, why I’m asking you and not Rebus? He outranks you, after all.’ Now he turned back to Rebus. ‘But you’re days from the scrapheap, just like I say, while Siobhan here’s still on the way up. If the pair of you have got a case on the go, my guess is that Old Man Macrae will have seen sense and put Shiv in charge.’
‘Only my friends get to call me Shiv.’
‘My apologies, Siobhan.’
‘Far as you’re concerned, I’m Detective Sergeant Clarke.’
Cafferty whistled through his teeth and slapped one meaty thigh. ‘Trained her to perfection,’ he repeated. ‘And rare entertainment with it.’
‘What were you doing at the Caledonian Hotel?’ Clarke asked, as if he’d never spoken.
‘Having a drink.’
‘And staying in a room?’
‘It can be murder, finding a taxi home.’
‘So how did you meet Alexander Todorov?’
‘I was in the bar . . .’
‘Alone?’
‘But only because I wanted to be - unlike DI Rebus there, I have plenty of friends I can drink and have a laugh with. I’m betting you’d be fun to drink with, too, DS Clarke, so long as misery-guts was elsewhere.’
‘And Todorov just happened to sit next to you?’ Clarke was guessing.
‘I was on a stool at the bar. He was standing, waiting to get served. Barman was crafting a cocktail, so we had a minute or two to talk. I liked him well enough to put his drink on my tab.’ Cafferty offered an exaggerated shrug. ‘He slugged it, said thanks, and buggered off.’
‘He didn’t offer to buy one back?’ Rebus asked. He took the poet to be a drinker of the old school; etiquette would have demanded no less.
‘Actually he did,’ Cafferty admitted. ‘I told him I was fine.’
‘Here’s hoping the CCTV backs you up,’ Rebus commented.
For the first time, Cafferty’s mask slipped a little, though the unease was momentary at best. ‘It will,’ he stated.
Rebus just nodded slowly while Clarke suppressed a smile. Good to know they could still rattle Cafferty.
‘Victim was beaten without mercy,’ Rebus went on. ‘If I’d thought about it, I’d’ve had you in the frame from the word go.’
‘You always did like framing people.’ Cafferty turned his gaze on Clarke. So far all she’d added to the top sheet of paper was a sequence of doodles. ‘Three, four times a week, he’s in that old banger of his, parked on the street outside my house. Some people would cry “harassment” - what do you think, DS Clarke? Should I apply for one of those restraining orders?’
‘What did the two of you talk about?’
‘Back to the Russian guy again?’ Cafferty sounded disappointed. ‘Far as I can recollect, he said something about Edinburgh being a cold city. I probably said he was dead right.’
‘Maybe he meant the people rather than the climate.’
‘And he’d still have been right. I don’t mean you, of course, DS Clarke - you’re a little ray of sunshine. But those of us who’ve lived here all our lives, well, we can be on the morose side, wouldn’t you agree, DI Rebus? A pal of mine told me once it’s because we’ve never stopped being invaded - a silent invasion, to be sure, quite a pleasant invasion, and sometimes more a trickle than an onslaught, but it’s made us ... prickly - some more than most.’ Giving a sly glance towards Rebus.
‘You’ve still not explained why you were paying for a room at the hotel,’ Rebus stated.
‘I thought I had,’ Cafferty countered.
‘Only if you mistake us for half-wits.’
‘I agree, “halfwits” would be stretching it.’ Cafferty gave another chuckle. Rebus had slipped his hands into his trouser pockets, the better to curl them into unseen fists. ‘Look,’ Cafferty went on, seeming suddenly to tire of the game, ‘I bought a drink for a stranger, somebody mugged him, end of story.’
‘Not until we know the who and the why,’ Rebus corrected him.
‘What else did you talk about?’ Clarke added.
Cafferty rolled his eyes. ‘He said Edinburgh was cold, I said yes. He said Glasgow was warmer, I said maybe. His drink arrived and we both said “cheers” ... Come to think of it, he had something with him. What was it? A compact disc, I think.’
Yes, the one Charles Riordan had given him. Two dead men sharing a curry. Rebus clenching and unclenching his hands. Clenching and unclenching. Cafferty, he realised, stood for everything that had ever gone sour - every bungled chance and botched case, suspects missed and crimes unsolved. The man wasn’t just the grit in the oyster, he was the pollutant poisoning everything within reach.
And there’s no way I can take him down, is there?
Unless God really was up there, handing Rebus this last slim chance.
‘The disc wasn’t on the body,’ Clarke was saying.
‘He took it with him,’ Cafferty stated. ‘Slipped it into one of his pockets.’ He patted his right-hand side.
‘Meet any other Russians in the bar that night?’ Rebus asked.
‘Now you mention it, there were some rum accents - I thought they must be Gaels or some
thing. Soon as they started with the ceilidh songs, I swore I’d be heading for bed.’
‘Did Todorov speak to any of them?’
‘How should I know?’
‘Because you were with him.’
Cafferty slapped both hands against the greasy tabletop. ‘One drink I had with him!’
‘So you say.’ Got you rattled again, you bastard!
‘Meaning you were the last person he spoke with before he died,’ Clarke reinforced.
‘You’re saying I followed him? Put the boot in him? Fine, let’s take a look at this CCTV of yours . . . let’s get the barman in here to say how late I stayed at the bar. You’ve obviously seen my tab - what time was it signed for? I didn’t move from that place until gone midnight. Room full of witnesses ... signed bar tab ... CCTV.’ He held up three fingers triumphantly. There was silence in IR3. Rebus eased himself from the wall and took the couple of steps which left him standing beside Cafferty’s chair.
‘Something happened in that bar, didn’t it?’ he said, his voice not much above a whisper.
‘Sometimes I wish I had your fantasy life, Rebus, I really do.’
There was a sudden knock at the door. Clarke released the breath she’d been holding and called out for whoever it was to come in. Todd Goodyear edged nervously around the door.
‘What do you want?’ Rebus snapped. Goodyear’s eyes were on the gangster, but the message was for Clarke.
‘Fire investigator’s got some news.’
‘Is she here?’ Clarke asked.
‘In the suite,’ he confirmed.
‘Fresh blood,’ Cafferty drawled, measuring Goodyear from head to toe. ‘What’s your name, son?’
‘PC Goodyear.’
‘A police constable out of uniform?’ Cafferty smiled. ‘CID must be desperate. Is he your replacement, Rebus?’
‘Thanks, Goodyear,’ was all Rebus said, nodding to let the young man know he was dismissed. Cafferty, however, had other ideas. ‘Used to know a heid-the-ba’ called Goodyear . . .’
‘Which one?’ Todd Goodyear decided to ask. Cafferty’s smile turned into a laugh.
‘You’re right - there was old Harry, used to run a pub on Rose Street. But I was thinking of more recent times.’
‘Solomon Goodyear,’ Todd stated.
‘That’s the one.’ Cafferty’s eyes gleamed. ‘Sol, everyone calls him.’
‘My brother.’
Cafferty nodded slowly. Rebus was gesturing for Goodyear to hoof it, but Cafferty’s stare held the young man captive. ‘Now I think of it, Sol did have a brother . . . never seemed to want to talk about him, though. Does that make you the black sheep, PC Goodyear?’ He was laughing again.
‘Tell the FI we’ll be there in a minute,’ Clarke interrupted, but still Goodyear didn’t move.
‘Todd?’ Rebus’s use of his first name seemed to break the spell. Goodyear nodded and disappeared around the door again.
‘Nice kid,’ Cafferty mused. ‘He’ll be your pet project then, DS Clarke, for when Rebus slopes off into the sunset, just like you used to be Rebus’s.’ When neither detective spoke, Cafferty decided to quit while he was ahead. He stretched his spine, arms extended to either side, and started getting to his feet. ‘We done here?’
‘For the moment,’ Clarke conceded.
‘You don’t want me to make a statement or anything?’
‘Wouldn’t be worth the paper it was written on,’ Rebus growled.
‘Get all the digs in while you can,’ Cafferty advised. He was at eye level with his old adversary. ‘See you tonight maybe - same time, same place. I’ll be thinking of you, freezing in your car. Speaking of which, it was a nice touch turning off the heating in here - it’ll make my room at the hotel feel all the cosier.’
‘Speaking of the Caledonian,’ Clarke decided to add, ‘you bought a lot of drinks that night - eleven, according to your tab.’
‘Maybe I was thirsty - or just generous.’ His gaze settled on her. ‘I can be the generous sort, Siobhan, when the circumstances are right. But then you know that already, don’t you?’
‘I know a lot of things, Cafferty.’
‘Oh, I’m sure of that. Maybe we can talk about them while you give me a lift back into town.’
‘Bus stop’s across the road,’ Rebus said.
18
‘Something happened in that bar,’ Rebus repeated as he walked with Clarke back to the CID suite.‘So you said.’
‘Cafferty was there for a reason. He’s never squandered so much as a quid in his life, so what’s he doing booked into one of the dearest hotels in town?’
‘I doubt he’ll tell us.’
‘But his stay happens to coincide with the oligarchs.’ She looked at him and he gave a shrug. ‘Looked it up in the dictionary. Thought maybe it had to do with oil.’
‘It means a small group of powerful people, right?’ Clarke checked.
‘Right,’ Rebus confirmed.
‘Thing is, John, we’ve also got this woman at the car park . . .’
‘Cafferty could have put her there. He’s owned a fair few brothels in his time.’
‘Or she could be nothing to do with it. I’m going to have Hawes and Tibbet talk to the witnesses, see if the e-fit jogs any memories. But meantime, there’s a more pressing question - namely, what the hell are you doing running a one-man stakeout on Big Ger Cafferty?’
‘I prefer “vendetta” to “stakeout”.’ She seemed ready to say something but he held up his hand. ‘I was outside his place last night, as it happens, and he was at home.’
‘So?’
‘So he’s keeping a room at the Caledonian, but not spending much time there.’ They had arrived at the door to CID. ‘And that means he’s up to something.’ Rebus opened the door and went in.
Katie Glass had been given a mug of strong-looking tea and was studying it warily.
‘DC Tibbet always does that,’ Rebus warned her. ‘If you want tannin poisoning, feel free to drink up.’
‘I might pass,’ she said, placing the mug on the corner of a desk. Rebus introduced himself and shook her hand. Clarke thanked her for coming in and asked if she’d found something.
‘Early days,’ Glass hedged.
‘But . . .?’ Rebus nudged, knowing there was more.
‘We may have a source for the fire: small glass bottles filled with a chemical of some kind.’
‘What kind of chemical?’ Clarke asked, folding her arms. All three were standing, while Hawes and Tibbet listened in from behind their desks. Todd Goodyear was standing by one of the windows, staring out. Rebus wondered if he’d been tracking Cafferty’s departure.
‘Gone for analysis,’ the fire inspector was saying. ‘If I had to guess, I’d say maybe it was cleaning fluid of some kind.’
‘Household cleaner?’
Glass shook her head. ‘Bottles were too small. But this was a man who had a lot of tapes in his house ...’
‘Cassette cleaner,’ Rebus stated. ‘For wiping oxidation off the heads of the cassette decks.’
‘Impressive,’ Glass said.
‘I used to have a thing about hi-fi.’
‘Well, at least one of the bottles looks like someone had wadded some tissue into its neck. It was sitting in the midst of a pile of melted tape casings.’
‘In the living room?’
Glass nodded.
‘So you think it was deliberate?’
Now she shrugged. ‘Thing is, if you wanted to kill someone in a fire, usually you’d go to town - slosh petrol around the place, that sort of thing. This was a couple of sheets of loo roll and a small bottle of something flammable.’
‘I think I see what you’re getting at,’ Rebus told her. ‘Maybe Riordan wasn’t the target.’ He paused to see if anyone would beat him to it. ‘The tapes were,’ he eventually explained.
‘The tapes?’ Hawes asked, forehead creasing.
‘Piled around the little home-made pyre.’
‘Meaning wha
t exactly?’
‘That Riordan had something somebody wanted.’
‘Or something they didn’t want anyone else to have,’ Clarke added, running a finger beneath her chin. ‘Is there anything at all left of those tapes, Katie?’
Glass gave another shrug. ‘Most of the tape itself is done to a crisp. Some of the casings fared a little better.’
‘So there could still be writing on them?’
‘It’s possible,’ Glass conceded. ‘We’ve got a slew of stuff that the fire didn’t quite get to - dunno how playable any of it will be. Heat, smoke and water may have done their bit. We’ve also got some of the deceased’s recording equipment - again, the stuff on the hard disks might be salvageable.’ She didn’t sound optimistic.
Rebus caught Siobhan Clarke’s eye. ‘Right up Ray Duff’s street,’ he said.
Goodyear had turned away from the window and was trying to catch up. ‘Who’s Ray Duff?’
‘Forensics,’ Clarke explained. But she was focusing on Rebus. ‘How about the engineer at Riordan’s studio? He might be able to help.’
‘Could have kept back-ups,’ Tibbet piped up.
‘So,’ Glass said, folding her arms, ‘do I send the stuff here, or to forensics, or the dead man’s studio? Whatever the answer, I’ll have to keep your D Division colleagues in the loop.’
Rebus thought for a moment, then puffed out his cheeks, exhaled noisily, and said: ‘DS Clarke’s in charge.’
Freddie the barman was on duty again. Rebus had spent a few minutes outside the Caledonian Hotel, smoking a cigarette and watching the choreography of passing traffic. Two taxis were parked in the cab rank, the drivers chatting to one another. The Caledonian’s liveried doorman was giving directions to a couple of tourists. The elaborate clock at the corner of Fraser’s department store was being photographed, presumably by another tourist. There never seemed to be enough rooms in Edinburgh for these visitors; new hotels were always being proposed, considered and constructed. He could think of five or six off the top of his head, all opening within the past ten years, and with more to come. It gave the impression of Edinburgh as a boom-town. More people than ever seemed to want to work there, or visit, or do business. The Parliament had brought plenty of opportunities. Some argued that independence would spoil things, others that it would build on the success while dealing with devolution’s failings. It interested him that a hard-nosed executive like Stuart Janney would cosy up to a nationalist like Megan Macfarlane. But not as much as these Russian visitors interested him. Big place, Russia, and rich in all manner of resources. You could drop Scotland into it dozens of times over. So why were these men here? Rebus was more than curious.