Exit Music

  The last door off the landing led to a narrow, winding stairwell. More rooms at the top of the house: one containing a full-size snooker table covered with a dustsheet, the other a well-stocked library. Rebus recognised the shelves - he’d bought the same ones from Ikea. The books were mostly dusty paperbacks, thrillers for the gentleman and romances for the lady. There were also some children’s books which had probably belonged to Cafferty’s son. The house felt little used, the floorboards creaking underfoot. He reckoned the gangster seldom took the trouble to climb this final set of stairs.

  Heading back down, Rebus returned to Cafferty’s office. It was a good-sized room with a window looking on to the back garden. Again, the curtains were closed, but Rebus risked easing them open so he could take a look at the coach-house. Two cars parked in front of it - the Bentley and an Audi - and no sign of the bodyguard. Rebus closed the curtains again and switched on the light. There was an old bureau in the centre of the room, covered with paperwork - domestic bills, by the look of it. Rebus sat in the leather chair and started opening drawers. The first thing he came across was a gun, a pistol of some kind with what looked like Russian lettering along the barrel.

  ‘Little present from your pal?’ Rebus guessed. There was, however, no ammo in the clip, and no sign of any bullets in the drawer. It was a long time since Rebus had held a firearm. He tested it for weight and balance, then used his handkerchief to place it back where he’d found it. Financial statements in the next drawer down. Cafferty had sixteen grand in his current account and a further quarter of a million earning him interest on the money market. His portfolio of shares added another hundred thousand to the pot. Rebus saw no sign of any mortgage payments, meaning Cafferty probably owned the house outright. This part of town, it had to be worth a million and a half. Nor would this be the end of the gangster’s wealth; Stone had hinted at various shell companies and offshore holdings. Cafferty owned bars, clubs, the lettings agency, and a snooker hall. He was rumoured to hold a stake in a cab company. Rebus suddenly noticed something in the corner: a venerable safe with a tumbler lock. It was the colour of verdigris and came from Kentucky. Walking over to it, he was unsurprised to find it locked. The only combination he could think of to try was Cafferty’s birthday. Eighteen ten forty-six. Rebus pulled the handle and the heavy door swung open.

  He allowed himself a smile. Couldn’t think why he had memorised that number, but it hadn’t been wasted.

  Inside the safe: two boxes of nine-mil ammo, four thick wads of notes, twenties and fifties, some business ledgers, computer disks, a jewellery box containing the late wife’s necklaces and earrings. Rebus lifted out Cafferty’s passport and flicked through it: no visits to Russia. Birth certificate for the man himself, birth and death for the wife and son. The wedding certificate showed that Cafferty had married in 1973 at the registry office in Edinburgh. He replaced each item and studied the disks - no labels, no writing. There wasn’t even a computer in the office... point of fact, he hadn’t seen one anywhere in the house. On the bottom shelf of the safe sat a small cardboard box. Rebus lifted it out and opened it. It contained two dozen shiny silver discs. CDs, he thought at first. But holding one up to the light, he saw that it was marked DVD-R, 4.7G. Rebus was no technophile, but he reckoned whatever this was, it would play on the system upstairs. There was no writing on any of the discs, but coloured dots had been added to each one - some green, some blue, some red, some yellow.

  Rebus closed the safe and spun the dial, then switched off the light and padded back upstairs, the box of discs in his hand. The home cinema boasted shuttered windows and a row of leather recliners, behind which was a further row comprising two double-seater sofas. He crouched down in front of the battery of machines and slotted the DVD home, then switched on the screen and retreated to one of the chairs. It took him three different remotes to get everything - screen, DVD player and loudspeakers - working. Seated on the edge of the black leather chair, he began to watch what appeared to be surveillance footage . . .

  A room. A living room. Untidy, and with bodies sprawled. Two of the bodies disentangled themselves and headed elsewhere, holding hands. There was a sudden cut to a bedroom, the same two figures appearing, peeling off their clothes as they started to kiss. Teenagers. Rebus recognised neither of them; didn’t recognise the setting either - somewhere a lot tattier than Cafferty’s own house.

  Okay, so the gangster got his jollies from amateur porn ... Rebus skipped ahead but the action stayed with the couple and their coupling. They were filmed from above and from the side. Another skip and the girl was in a bathroom, seated on the pan and then stripping off again to take a shower. She was skinny, almost emaciated, and had bruises on her arms. He skipped again but there was nothing else on the disc.

  Next one - with a blue dot rather than a green. Different yet similar location; different yet all-too-familiar action.

  ‘Showing your pervy side, Cafferty,’ Rebus muttered, ejecting the disc. He tried another green dot - back to the characters from the first disc. Pattern emerging, John ... Red dot: another flat, some communal dope-smoking, a girl having a bath, a guy pleasuring himself in his bedroom.

  Rebus wasn’t looking for any surprises from the yellow dot. Immediately, he was launched into the same set-ups as previously, but with one important difference - he knew both the flat and the actors.

  Nancy Sievewright; Eddie Gentry. The flat on Blair Street. The flat which belonged to MGC Lettings.

  ‘Well, well,’ Rebus said to himself. There was footage of a party in the living room. Dancing and booze and what looked to Rebus like a few lines of coke to go with the dope. A blow-job in the bathroom, a punch-up in the hall. Next disc: Sol Goodyear had come to pay his respects, rewarded with a romp in Nancy’s bedroom and some shared moments in the cramped shower cubicle. After he’d gone, she settled down with the hash he’d left and rolled herself a healthy joint. Living room, bathroom, her bedroom, the hallway.

  ‘Everything but the kitchen.’ Rebus paused. ‘The kitchen,’ he repeated to himself, ‘and Eddie Gentry’s bedroom . . .’

  By the time he’d reached the final disc in the box he’d grown bored. It was like watching one of those TV reality shows, but with no adverts to break the monotony. This last disc was different, though: no little colour-coded sticker. And it had sound. Rebus found himself watching the same room he was sitting in. The chairs and sofas had been filled by men. Cigar-smoking men. Men slurping wine from crystal glasses. Voluble, slurred, happy men, who were being shown a DVD.

  ‘Wonderful meal that,’ one of them told the host. There were grunts of agreement, smoke billowing. The camera was pointing at the men, meaning it had to be ... Rebus got to his feet and approached the plasma screen. There was a small hole drilled into the wall just above one corner of the TV. You’d never see it, or else you might take it for a bit of botched DIY. Rebus peered into it, but couldn’t see anything. He exited the room and entered the one next door - en suite bathroom. Cabinet attached to a mirrored wall. Inside the cabinet: nothing... no camera, no wires. He put his eye to the peephole and was looking into the screening room. Back in the home cinema, the men’s comments left Rebus in no doubt that they were watching some of the same footage he’d just viewed.

  ‘Wish my wife was that dirty.’

  ‘Maybe if you plied her with Class A rather than Chardonnay ...’

  ‘Worth a shot, I suppose.’

  ‘And they don’t know you’re watching them, Morris?’

  Cafferty’s voice, from the back of the room: ‘Not a clue,’ he growled happily.

  ‘Didn’t Chuck Berry get in trouble for something like this?’

  ‘Getting a few ideas for the good lady, Roger?’

  ‘Married twenty-odd years, Stuart.’

  ‘I’ll take that as a no ...’

  Rebus found himself on his knees in front of the screen. Roger and Stuart, with their wine and cigars, stuffed to the gills by Cafferty and now enjoying this very different form
of corporate hospitality.

  Roger Anderson.

  Stuart Janney.

  First Albannach’s brightest and best...

  ‘Michael will be gutted he missed this,’ Janney added with a laugh. Meaning, no doubt, Sir Michael Addison. But Rebus reckoned Janney was dead wrong. He ejected the disc and went back to the one with the party on it. Bathroom blow-job, the donor bearing an uncanny resemblance to Gill Morgan, aspiring actress and Sir Michael’s pampered stepdaughter. Same head had been bent over one of the coke trails in the living room. Rebus went back to the footage of the home cinema, tried to work out which DVD the group was watching. Kept his eyes glued to the two bankers, wondering if either of them would exhibit signs of clocking their boss’s stepkid. Grounds for a revenge attack on Cafferty? Maybe so. But what were they doing there in the first place? Rebus could think of several reasons. From the bank statements, Rebus now knew that Cafferty kept his various onshore accounts with FAB. Added to which, he was going to introduce a new and wealthy client to the bank - Sergei Andropov. And maybe the pair of them would be looking to do a deal with FAB, a vast commercial loan to help them buy up hundreds of acres of Edinburgh.

  Andropov was relocating, ducking out of Russia altogether to escape prosecution. Maybe he thought the Scottish Parliament could be persuaded not to extradite him. Maybe he was buying his way into a forthcoming independent Scotland. Small country; easy to become a very big fish...

  Cafferty oiling the wheels.

  Hosting a memorable party... and secretly taping it. For his own satisfaction? Or to be used against the men themselves? Rebus couldn’t see it having much effect on the likes of Janney and Anderson. But now another man was rising to his feet from one of the sofas. Looked to Rebus as if only Cafferty and this man had been occupying the back row.

  ‘Bathroom?’ he enquired.

  ‘Across the hall,’ his host obliged. Yes, Cafferty wouldn’t want him using the en suite through the wall; couldn’t risk the camera being found.

  ‘Won’t ask why you need it, Jim,’ Stuart Janney commented to a few rugby-club guffaws.

  ‘Nothing sordid, Stuart,’ the man called Jim responded, making his exit.

  Jim Bakewell, Minister for Economic Development. Meaning Bakewell had lied at the Parliament, telling Siobhan he’d not met Cafferty until that night at the hotel.

  ‘Try making a complaint to the Chief Constable now, Jimbo,’ Rebus muttered, stabbing a finger in Bakewell’s direction.

  There wasn’t an awful lot more to the DVD. After half an hour, the spectators had wrung as much interest as possible from the show. There were three further members of the party who were new to Rebus. They looked like business types, ruddy-faced and big-bellied. Builders? Contractors? Maybe even councillors ... Rebus knew he could probably find out, but that would mean taking the recording. Which was fine, so long as no one noticed it was missing. If anyone found out Rebus had been here, Cafferty’s defence team would have a field day.

  ‘Oh aye, John? What defence team is that then?’

  Yes, because where was the crime? Bugging flats you were renting? Small beer - the magistrate would watch the DVDs with a good deal of interest, then stick the gangster with a pittance of a fine. Rebus made sure everything was switched off, no prints left behind, then headed downstairs and unlocked the safe again, replacing the box, keeping just the one disc for himself. Down the white marble hall and out into the sweet-smelling air, door secure behind him. He’d have to get Cafferty’s keys back to him, but first he had some thinking to do. He took a left out of the gate and another left at the top of the road, heading for Bruntsfield Place and the first available taxi.

  Eddie Gentry, replete with eyeliner and the red bandanna, opened the door to him.‘Nancy’s out,’ he said.

  ‘Have you patched things up?’

  ‘We had a frank exchange of views.’

  Rebus smiled. ‘Going to invite me in, Eddie? And by the way, I liked your CD.’

  Gentry considered his options, then turned and pushed open the living-room door. Rebus followed him inside.

  ‘Ever watch Big Brother, Eddie?’ Rebus was making a circuit of the room, hands in pockets.

  ‘Life’s too short.’

  ‘It is that,’ Rebus seemed to agree. ‘Tell you something I didn’t spot when I was here before.’

  ‘What?’

  Rebus looked up. ‘Your ceilings have been lowered.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  Rebus nodded. ‘Done before you moved in?’

  ‘Suppose so.’

  ‘There might be original features - cornices, ceiling roses . . . Why do you reckon the landlord would want them covered up?’

  ‘Insulation?’

  ‘How so?’

  Gentry shrugged. ‘Makes the rooms smaller, meaning easier to heat.’

  ‘The rooms are all the same, then? Fake ceilings?’

  ‘I’m not an architect.’

  Rebus locked eyes with the young man, saw the slightest twitch at a corner of his mouth. Eddie Gentry was not feeling comfortable. The detective gave a low, drawn-out whistle.

  ‘You know, don’t you?’ he asked. ‘You’ve known all along?’

  ‘Known what?’

  ‘Cafferty’s got you wired - cameras in the ceiling, in the walls ...’ He pointed towards a corner of the room. ‘See that hole? Looks like someone’s botched a bit of drilling?’ Gentry’s face gave nothing away. ‘There’s a lens pointing at us. But you already know that. For all I know, maybe it’s even your job to set the camera rolling.’ Gentry had folded his arms across his chest. ‘That session you did at CR Studios - I’m betting it didn’t come cheap. Did Cafferty pay for it? Was that part of the deal? Bit of money in your pocket ... cheap rent ... no overcrowding ... and all you had to do was throw a few parties.’ Rebus was thinking it through. ‘Dope provided by Sol Goodyear - and I’m betting it came cheap, too. Know why?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because Sol works for Cafferty. He’s the dealer, you’re the pimp . . .’

  ‘Fuck you.’

  ‘Careful, son.’ Rebus jabbed his forefinger towards the young man. ‘Have you heard what happened to Cafferty?’

  ‘I heard.’

  ‘Maybe someone didn’t like what he’d been doing. Remember that party with Gill Morgan?’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘That the only footage of her you got?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’ Rebus looked disbelieving. ‘I never watched any of it.’

  ‘Just handed it over, eh?’

  ‘No harm done, was there?’

  ‘I don’t think you’re qualified to judge that, Eddie. Does Nancy know?’

  Gentry shook his head.

  ‘Just you, eh? Did he tell you he was doing the selfsame thing in some of his other flats?’

  ‘You mentioned Big Brother earlier - what’s the difference? ’

  Rebus was standing close to the young man when he answered. ‘Difference is, they know they’re being watched. I can’t really decide who’s the sleazier, you or Cafferty. He was watching complete strangers, but you, Eddie, were filming your mates.’

  ‘Is there a law against it?’

  ‘Oh, I’m fairly sure there is. How often does the taping happen?’

  ‘Three or four times - tops.’

  Because by then Cafferty was bored, and moved on to a new flat, new tenants, new faces and bodies ... Rebus walked into the hallway, looked for the hole and found it. Nancy’s bedroom: again, the false ceiling; again, the neatly drilled hole. The bathroom was the same. When Rebus emerged into the hallway, Gentry was leaning against the wall, arms still folded, jaw jutting defiantly.

  ‘Where’s the hardware?’ Rebus asked.

  ‘Mr C took it.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Few weeks back. Like I told you, it was only three or four times . . .’

  ‘Doesn’t make it any less sordid. Let’s take a look at your room.’ Rebus didn’t wait for an invitation, opened th
e door to Gentry’s bedroom and asked where the cables were.

  ‘They used to come down from the ceiling. Had them hooked up to a DVD recorder. If anything interesting was happening, I only had to press the record button.’

  ‘And now the whole lot’s been installed in some other flat so your landlord can show a fresh slice of grainy porn to his sweaty pals.’ Rebus was shaking his head slowly. ‘Wouldn’t want to be in your shoes when Nancy finds out...’

  Gentry didn’t so much as flinch. ‘I think it’s time you were leaving,’ he stated. ‘Show’s over.’

  Rebus responded by getting right into the young man’s face. ‘You couldn’t be more wrong, Eddie - this particular show’s only just getting started.’ He squeezed past, out into the hallway, pausing by the front door. ‘I lied by the way - that music of yours is going nowhere. You’ve just not got the talent, pal.’

  Closed the door after him and stood for a moment at the top of the stairs, reaching into his pocket for his cigarettes.

  Job done.

  40

  The CID suite at Gayfield Square might as well have been a swimming pool - all they were doing was treading water. Derek Starr knew it, and was having trouble motivating the group. There wasn’t enough for them to do. No exciting new leads on either Todorov or Riordan. Forensics had produced a partial fingerprint from the small bottle of cleaning fluid, but all they knew so far was that it belonged neither to Riordan nor to anyone on the database. Terry Grimm had supplied information that Riordan’s house was visited weekly by a team of cleaners from an agency, though they were usually told not to bother with the living-room-cum-studio. But any one of them could have left the print. No one was about to claim for certain that it belonged to the arsonist. It looked like another dead end. Same went for the e-fit of the hooded woman outside the multistorey: officers had taken copies door-to-door, returning to the station with nothing but sore feet.Having gone through the proper channels, Starr had at last secured CCTV footage from the few cameras in and around Portobello, but no one was very hopeful - all they showed was early-morning traffic. Again, without knowing how the attacker had reached Riordan’s house, it was needle-in-a-haystack stuff. The way Starr himself kept looking at Siobhan Clarke, he knew she was holding back on him. Twice in the space of half an hour he’d asked her what she was working on.