Exit Music

  ‘I left you in charge at Gayfield.’

  ‘You left without so much as a word.’

  Perhaps Starr sensed that this was not an argument he could win. He glanced around at the onlookers - Reynolds; the mortuary staff - and allowed his face to soften. ‘A discussion for another time, perhaps,’ he offered.

  Clarke, though she’d already decided not to push it, let him sweat for a moment as she pretended to think it over. ‘Fine,’ she said at last.

  He nodded and turned to the mortuary attendants. ‘You did the right thing, calling us. If they try anything else, you know where we are.’

  ‘Think they’ll sneak him out in the middle of the night?’ one of the men speculated.

  One of his colleagues gave a chuckle. ‘Been a while since we’ve had one of those, Davie,’ he commented.

  Siobhan Clarke decided not to ask.

  33

  They gathered around a table in the back room of the Oxford Bar. Word had gone out that John Rebus needed a bit of privacy, meaning they had the space to themselves. Nevertheless, they kept their voices low. First thing Rebus had done was explain his suspension and admit that it was dangerous for them to be seen with him. Clarke had sipped her tonic water - no gin tonight. Colin Tibbet had looked to Phyllida Hawes for a lead.‘If I have to choose between Derek Starr and yourself ... no contest,’ Hawes had decided.

  ‘No contest,’ Tibbet had echoed, without sounding completely convinced.

  ‘What’s the worst they can do to me?’ Todd Goodyear had added. ‘Send me back to uniform at West End? It’s going to happen anyway.’ And he’d raised his half-pint of beer in Rebus’s direction.

  After which, they’d started detailing the day’s events, Rebus careful to edit his own version - since he was supposed to be on suspension.

  ‘You’ve still not talked to Megan Macfarlane or Jim Bakewell?’ he asked Clarke.

  ‘I’ve been a bit busy, John.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Goodyear said, almost choking on a mouthful of ale, ‘that reminds me - while you were at the mortuary, Bakewell’s office called. There’s a meeting with him pencilled in for tomorrow.’

  ‘Thanks for the heads-up, Todd.’

  He winced visibly. Hawes was saying something about being thankful for any excuse to get out of the office.

  ‘Isn’t space to swing a cat,’ Tibbet concurred. ‘I opened my desk drawer this afternoon, somebody had left half a sandwich in it.’

  ‘Did they treat you to lunch at the bank?’ Rebus asked.

  ‘Just a couple of foie gras baps,’ Hawes informed him. ‘To be honest, the place reminded me of a very slick and upmarket production line, but a production line nonetheless. ’

  ‘Ten billion in profits.’ Tibbet still couldn’t take it in.

  ‘More than some countries’ GDPs,’ Goodyear added.

  ‘Here’s hoping they stick around if we get independence, ’ Rebus said. ‘Put them and their nearest competitor together, well, it’s not a bad start for a wee country.’

  Clarke was looking at him. ‘You think that’s why Stuart Janney’s staying close to Megan Macfarlane?’

  Rebus shrugged. ‘Nationalists wouldn’t want the likes of FAB packing up and shipping out. That gives the bank a bit of leverage.’

  ‘I didn’t see any levers sticking out of Ms Macfarlane.’

  ‘But she is the future, isn’t she? Banks don’t make profits without playing a long game - sometimes a very long game.’ He grew thoughtful. ‘Maybe they’re not the only ones at that...’

  His phone started to vibrate, so he checked the number. Another mobile, one he didn’t know. He flipped the phone open.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Strawman ...’ Cafferty’s pet name for Rebus, its origins all but lost down the years. Rebus was on his feet, making for the front bar, down the couple of steps and then out into the night.

  ‘You’ve changed your number,’ Rebus told the gangster.

  ‘Every few weeks. But I don’t mind friends knowing it.’

  ‘That’s nice.’ Since he was outside, Rebus took the opportunity to get a cigarette going.

  ‘They’ll be the death of you, you know.’

  ‘We all have to go sometime.’ Rebus was remembering what Stone had said about taps on Cafferty’s phones ... could they listen in on a mobile? Maybe another reason Cafferty kept changing numbers.

  ‘I want to see you,’ the gangster was saying.

  ‘When?’

  ‘Now, of course.’

  ‘Any particular reason?’

  ‘Just come to the canal.’

  ‘Whereabouts on the canal?’

  ‘You know,’ Cafferty drawled, ending the conversation. Rebus stared at the phone before snapping it shut. He had wandered out into the lane. No problem this time of night - no traffic. And if any cars did venture along Young Street, the noise they made was a giveaway. So he stood there in the middle of the road, smoking his cigarette and facing Charlotte Square. One of the regulars had told him a while back that the Georgian building facing him at the far end of the street was the residence of the First Minister. He wondered what the country’s leader made of the occasional motley crews to be found smoking outside the Oxford Bar . . .

  The door opened and Siobhan Clarke emerged, sliding her arms into the sleeves of her coat. Todd Goodyear was right behind her, a single half-pint having provided ample sufficiency.

  ‘That was Cafferty,’ Rebus told them. ‘He wants to see me. You two headed somewhere?’

  ‘Got to meet my girlfriend,’ Goodyear explained. ‘Going to see the Christmas lights.’

  ‘It’s still November,’ Rebus complained.

  ‘They were switched on at six tonight.’

  ‘And I thought I’d start heading home,’ Clarke added.

  Rebus wagged a finger. ‘Should never leave a pub together - people will talk.’

  ‘Why does Cafferty want to see you?’ Clarke asked.

  ‘He didn’t say.’

  ‘Are you going to go?’

  ‘Don’t see why not.’

  ‘Where’s the meeting - somewhere well lit, I hope?’

  ‘The canal, near that bar at the Fountainbridge basin... What are Phyl and Col up to?’

  ‘Thinking about Princes Street Gardens,’ Goodyear said. ‘Ferris wheel and the ice rink are open for business.’

  Clarke’s eyes were fixed on Rebus. ‘You after some back-up? ’

  The look on his face was answer enough.

  ‘Well . . .’ Goodyear was turning up his collar as he examined the weather. ‘See you in the morning, eh?’

  ‘Keep your nose clean, Todd,’ Rebus advised him, watching as the young man headed towards Castle Street.

  ‘He’s all right, isn’t he?’ he offered. Clarke, however, was not to be deflected.

  ‘You can’t just go meeting Cafferty by yourself.’

  ‘It’s not like it’s the first time.’

  ‘But any one of them could be the last.’

  ‘If I’m found floating, at least you’ll know who to pull in.’

  ‘Don’t you dare joke about this!’

  He rested the palm of his hand against her shoulder. ‘Siobhan, it’s fine,’ he assured her. ‘But there is a fly of sorts in the ointment... SCD could be watching Cafferty.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I had a run-in with them last night.’ Seeing the look on her face, he withdrew his hand and held it up in a show of appeasement. ‘I’ll explain later, but the thing is, they want me keeping my distance.’

  ‘Then that’s what you should do.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ he said, making to hand her Stone’s business card. ‘And what I want you to do is ring this guy Stone and tell him DI Rebus needs an urgent word.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Use the phone in the Ox - don’t want him tracing your mobile. You stay anonymous, say Rebus wants a meet at the petrol station. Then hang up.’

  ‘Christ’s sake, John...’ She was staring at
the card.

  ‘Hey, another forty-eight hours and I’ll be out of your hair.’

  ‘You’re suspended from duty and you’re still in my hair.’

  ‘Like a brush through the tangles, eh?’ Rebus said with a smile.

  ‘More like malfunctioning curling tongs,’ Clarke told him, but she headed back into the bar anyway to make the call.

  ‘Took your time,’ was Cafferty’s opening line. He was on the same footbridge across the canal, hands in the pockets of his long camel-hair coat.‘Where’s your car?’ Rebus asked, glancing back towards the deserted patch of wasteland.

  ‘I walked. Only takes ten minutes.’

  ‘And no bodyguard?’

  ‘No need,’ Cafferty stated.

  Rebus lit another cigarette. ‘So you knew I was here the other night?’

  ‘It was Sergei’s driver who recognised you.’ The one who’d stared daggers at Rebus, that night at the hotel. ‘Were you with us all the way to Granton?’

  ‘It was a nice night for a drive.’ Rebus tried blowing smoke towards Cafferty’s face, but the breeze whipped it away.

  ‘It’s all legit, you know. Follow us all you like.’

  ‘Thanks, I will.’

  ‘Sergei loves Scotland, that’s what it comes down to. His dad used to read him Treasure Island. I had to take him to Queen Street Gardens. Pond there’s supposed to be what gave Robert Louis Stevenson the idea.’

  ‘Fascinating.’ Rebus was staring at the canal’s glassy surface. Might only be three or four feet deep, but he’d known men drown in it.

  ‘He’s thinking of bringing his businesses here,’ Cafferty said.

  ‘Didn’t know we had a lot of tin and zinc mines.’

  ‘Well, maybe not all his businesses.’

  ‘I can’t see the point really - it’s not as if we don’t have an extradition treaty with Russia.’

  ‘You sure about that?’ Cafferty said with a teasing smile. ‘Anyway, we do have a policy on political asylum, don’t we?’

  ‘Not sure your pal fits the bill.’

  Cafferty just smiled again.

  ‘That night in the hotel,’ Rebus pushed on, ‘you and Todorov, then you and Andropov, plus a government minister called Bakewell... what was that really all about?’

  ‘I thought I’d already explained - I’d no idea who it was I bought a drink for.’

  ‘You didn’t know that Todorov and Andropov grew up together?’

  ‘No.’

  Rebus flicked ash into the air. ‘So what was it you were discussing with the Minister for Economic Development?’

  ‘I’m betting you’ve asked Sergei the same question.’

  ‘How do you think he answered?’

  ‘He probably told you they were talking about economic development - it happens to be true.’

  ‘You seem to be in the market for a lot of land, Cafferty. Andropov puts up the money, you act as his factor?’

  ‘All above board.’

  ‘Does he know about your history as a landlord? Flats stuffed with tenants, fire risks ignored, dole cheques lifted and cashed . . .’

  ‘You really are clutching at straws, aren’t you? Anyone would think you were in there.’ Cafferty jabbed a finger towards the canal.

  ‘You own a flat on Blair Street, it’s let to Nancy Sievewright and Eddie Gentry.’ Just the two tenants, now Rebus thought of it; unusual for one of Cafferty’s fire traps. ‘Nancy’s friendly with Sol Goodyear,’ he went on, ‘so friendly, in fact, that she gets her gear from him. Same night Sol gets himself stabbed in Haymarket, Nancy trips over Todorov’s body at the foot of Sol’s lane.’ Rebus had brought his face close to the gangster’s. ‘See what I’m getting at?’ he hissed.

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘And now the consulate want to spirit Todorov’s body away.’

  ‘Those straws I mentioned, Rebus, I’m losing count of them.’

  ‘They’re not straws, Cafferty, they’re chains, and guess who it is they seem to be winding themselves around?’

  ‘Steady,’ Cafferty cautioned. ‘With language like that, you might want to start writing a bit of poetry yourself.’

  ‘Problem with that is, the only words I can find to rhyme with “Cafferty” are “evil” and “bastard”.’

  The gangster grinned, showing off expensive dental work. Then he sniffed the air and strolled to the far side of the bridge. ‘I grew up not too far from here, did you know that?’

  ‘I thought it was Craigmillar.’

  ‘But I’d an aunt and uncle in Gorgie, they looked after me when my mum was working. Dad legged it a month before I was due.’ He turned towards Rebus. ‘You didn’t grow up in the city, did you?’

  ‘Fife,’ Rebus stated.

  ‘You won’t remember the abattoir then. Occasionally, you’d get a bull making a break for it. The alarm would sound and us kids would be kept indoors until the sharp-shooter arrived. I remember one time, I watched from the window. Bloody great beast it was, with snot and steam belching from it, kicking up its legs at the thought of all that bloody freedom.’ He paused. ‘Right up until the moment the gunman went down on one knee, got his aim right, and shot it in the head. Those legs buckled and the gleam left its eyes. For a time there, I used to think that was me - the last free bull.’

  ‘You’re full of bull all right,’ Rebus retorted.

  ‘Thing is,’ Cafferty said with a smile that was almost rueful, ‘nowadays, I think maybe it’s you, Rebus. You’re bucking and kicking and snorting, because you can’t deal with the idea of me being legit.’

  ‘That’s because “idea” is as far as it gets.’ He paused, flicking the remains of his cigarette into the water. ‘Why the hell did you bring me here, Cafferty?’

  The gangster shrugged. ‘Not too many chances left for these little tête-à-têtes. And when Sergei told me you’d followed us that night . . . well, maybe I was just looking for the opportunity.’

  ‘I’m touched.’

  ‘I heard on the news that DI Starr’s been shipped in to head up the inquiry. They’ve already put you out to pasture, haven’t they? Just as well the pension’s healthy...’

  ‘And all of it clean.’

  ‘Siobhan’s got her chance to shine now.’

  ‘She’s a match for you, Cafferty.’

  ‘Let’s wait and see.’

  ‘Just so long as I’ve got a ringside seat.’

  Cafferty’s attention had shifted to the high brick wall, beyond which lay the development site. ‘Nice talking to you, Rebus. Enjoy that walk into the sunset.’

  But Rebus didn’t budge. ‘Have you heard about the Russian guy in London? Got to be careful who you play with, Cafferty.’

  ‘No one’s about to poison me, Rebus. Sergei and me, we see things the same way. Few years from now, Scotland’s going to be independent - not a shred of doubt about that. Sitting on twenty years’ worth of North Sea oil and God alone knows how much more in the Atlantic. Worst-case scenario, we do a deal with Westminster and end up with eighty or ninety per cent of the cut.’ Cafferty gave a slow shrug. ‘And then we’ll go and spend the money on our usual leisure pursuits - booze, drugs and gambling. Put a super-casino in every city, and watch the profits stack up ...’

  ‘Another of your silent invasions, eh?’

  ‘Soviets always did think there’d be revolution in Scotland. Won’t matter to you, though, will it? You’ll be out of the game for good.’ Cafferty gave a little wave of the hand and turned his back.

  Rebus stood his ground a bit longer but knew there was little to be gained from sticking around. All the same, he hesitated. The Cafferty of the other evening had been an actor on a stage, with props including the car and the driver. Tonight’s Cafferty was different, more reflective. Lots of faces in Cafferty’s wardrobe ... a mask for every occasion. Rebus considered offering him a lift home, but why the hell would he want to do that? Instead he turned and headed back to his car, lighting another cigarette on the way. The gangster??
?s story about the bull stayed with him. Was that how retirement would feel, all that strange and disconcerting freedom, but brutally short?

  ‘No Leonard Cohen for you when we get home,’ he chided himself. ‘You’re morbid enough as it is.’

  Instead, he played Rory Gallagher: ‘Big Guns’ and ‘Bad Penny’, ‘Kickback City’ and ‘Sinnerboy’. The whisky slipped down, just the three large ones with about as much water again. And after Rory came Jackie Leven, and Page and Plant after that. He thought about calling Siobhan, then decided against it. Let her have a bit of a break from John Rebus’s worries. He hadn’t eaten anything but didn’t feel hungry.When his phone rang, he’d probably been asleep for the best part of an hour. The whisky glass was still there on the arm of the chair, his hand gripped around it.

  ‘Didn’t spill a drop, John,’ he congratulated himself, hoisting his phone in his free hand.

  ‘Hiya, Shiv,’ he said, having recognised her number. ‘Checking up on me?’

  ‘John ...’ Her tone of voice said it all: something had happened, something bad.

  ‘Spit it out,’ he told her, rising from the chair.

  ‘Cafferty’s in intensive care.’ She left it at that for a moment. Rebus clawed his free hand through his hair, then realised he shouldn’t have a free hand. The glass had dropped to the carpet, meaning he now had splashes of whisky on his shoes.

  ‘What happened?’ he asked.

  ‘Precisely the question I was about to ask you,’ she blurted out. ‘What the hell happened at the canal?’

  ‘We just talked.’

  ‘Talked?’

  ‘Cross my heart.’

  ‘Must’ve been a pretty robust exchange, then, seeing how he’s got a fractured skull. Plus broken bones, contusions ...’

  Rebus’s eyes narrowed. ‘He was found by the canal?’

  ‘Too right he was.’

  ‘Is that where you are now?’

  ‘Shug Davidson took the trouble to call me.’

  ‘I’ll be there in five minutes.’

  ‘No, you won’t... you’ve been drinking, John. Your voice goes nasal after the first four or five.’

  ‘So send a car for me.’

  ‘John...’