Standing in another's man grave

after they’d grown a bit. That has to have been the brother and his family.’

‘Not necessarily.’

‘I’ve always loved that positive attitude of yours.’

‘That used to be my line.’ She paused, then asked him what he reckoned it all meant.

‘I’m not sure.’

‘Worth another word in Dempsey’s ear?’

He gave a shrug and concentrated on his beer. Clarke checked the time on her phone.

‘A quick one?’ Rebus suggested.

‘Got a home life waiting for me,’ she said with a shake of the head.

‘Meaning. .?’

‘Post to open, bills to pay, washing to do.’

He nodded his understanding and glanced at his watch: he’d left it too late to collect his own laundry. ‘We’ll catch up again soon,’ he said.

She had risen to her feet and extended her right hand towards him. Rebus took it and they shook, though it felt wrong, too formal. Was it her way of saying that their time together was done? Before he could ask, she was gone.

‘Just you and me, eh?’ he said to his pint glass. ‘Same as it ever was.’ Then he leaned back and focused his attention on the wall opposite, thinking some more about Gregor Magrath, and families, and secrets.

It was mid evening at Jo-Jo Binkie’s. Frank Hammell had gone to see his dentist earlier for some repair work. Nobody had dared to ask him about the cuts on his face. He was watching from the balcony as the DJ twitched and danced behind his decks. Not that the man played records — it was all CDs, MP3s and laptops. The music wasn’t to Hammell’s taste, but Darryl was after a younger crowd, a crowd less careful with its money. The place was hipper these days, and people came from all over — sometimes in coaches from out west or Fife or the borders. A few dozen dancers gyrated below; Hammell checked out the talent. There was one skinny blonde, he could almost see down the front of her short, low-cut dress.

Almost.

A couple of staffers patrolled the periphery, on the lookout for trouble. Hammell didn’t know their names. They were new. Almost everybody was new. Darryl had explained — people not turning up on time; people bad- mouthing Hammell behind his back: they had to be replaced. People too old to handle the job; people who didn’t pull their weight. Tonight, as Hammell had walked into his own club, he hadn’t recognised a single person working the door. Even Rob the Reliable had gone AWOL. It was the same with the staff at his pubs: out with the old and in with the new. Darryl called it ‘refreshing the brand’. Still, there was money coming in — no mean feat in a recession, as Darryl himself had suggested — and thanks to some creative accounting, not all of it went out again.

Hammell ran his tongue over the replacement filling. It didn’t seem quite smooth, but he liked the coarseness. He felt movement next to him and turned to see Darryl himself standing there. Hammell patted the young man’s upper arm in greeting.

‘Not a bad crowd for a week night,’ he said over the music.

‘It’ll get busier,’ Darryl stated. He was in another new-looking suit, dark, with a pale-green shirt beneath.

‘Where’s Rob tonight?’

Darryl turned his attention from the dancers to his employer. ‘I had to let him go,’ he said.

Hammell lifted an eyebrow. ‘What happened?’

‘Nothing happened. But with you up north, it made it easier for me to tell him to take a walk. He got a bit of money, same as the others.’

‘He was a good guy.’

‘He was your guy, Frank, that was Rob’s problem.’ Christie gestured towards the dance floor. ‘Now it’s all my guys.’

Hammell pulled back his shoulders and bunched his fists. ‘What the fuck’s going on?’

Darryl Christie answered with a cold smile. ‘You’re out, Frank, that’s what’s going on. I’ve got some paperwork arriving from your lawyer — now my lawyer, too. You’re going to sell me your entire business for one pound sterling.’

‘You little shit bag, get your arse out of here.’ Hammell was standing toe to toe with him, flecks of saliva flying from his mouth. ‘After all I’ve done for you? Ungrateful wee bastard.’ He jerked a thumb towards the stairwell. ‘Go on, before I rip your head from your fucking neck!’

‘Look again,’ Christie said calmly. Hammell looked, and saw three men appearing at the top of the stairs. Doormen. Men whose names and faces he didn’t know. Darryl Christie’s men.

‘I’ve got everything,’ Christie went on, his voice still icy calm. ‘Passwords, account details, everything. The offshore banks, the numbers you don’t think anyone knows about. It did for Al Capone and it’ll do for you. Taxman’ll have a field day.’

‘What’s your mum going to say?’

‘Not one damned thing, because you’re not going near her again. You’re steering clear of my family from now on.’ Christie paused. ‘Unless you want me to tell her about you and my sister.’

Hammell’s face froze.

‘It was Annette who told me,’ Christie went on. ‘That’s how she was — no way she could keep it to herself. I nearly whacked you over the back of the head for that — that and everything else.’

‘There’s not a chance in hell of me signing anything.’

‘Then a memory stick arrives at HMRC sometime tomorrow. Not even enough time for you to leave the country — not when I’ve got your passport in the same safe place as everything else.’

The three doormen were standing behind Hammell, awaiting orders. When Hammell made his move, they grabbed him by the shoulders, stopping him from getting to their employer.

‘I made you who you are,’ Hammell growled, trying to wrestle free. ‘Gave you a job, took you to my house. .’

‘And pretty soon I’ll have a house just like it,’ Christie said. ‘But there’ll always be a difference between us.’

Hammell glared at him. ‘What?’ he couldn’t help asking. Christie leaned closer.

‘I won’t trust anyone,’ he confided, gesturing for the doormen to take Hammell to the office.

‘I’m signing fuck all!’ Hammell called out as he was led away. But he would sign, Darryl was sure of it. He rested his forearms on the balcony as he entered the text into his phone. It was to his father, and the message was succinct.

All done and dusted.

Even though he knew that wasn’t quite the case.

59

Having managed a broken night’s sleep, Rebus arrived at the Fettes HQ car park to find it half empty. The sky wasn’t fully light yet, street lamps still burning. He locked his car and entered the building. The main reception was manned by the same officer who’d called up to SCRU that first day to tell him there was a visitor downstairs for DI Magrath. Another member of the team might have answered, or Rebus could have been on a cigarette break.

And everything would have been different.

He took the stairs rather than the lift — every little bit helped, as his doctor had told him at his last check-up. Even so, he needed the help of the banister and a breather at the halfway stage. The corridor was deserted, as were the offices he passed. He opened the door to SCRU and stood on the threshold. The place was frozen in time — half-filled crates; waste bin emptied by a cleaner and waiting to be used again; marker pens and paper clips; mugs needing to be rinsed. At his desk he found a clean sheet of paper, dated it, and jotted down the barest details of his meeting with Sally Hazlitt. Then he signed it and opened her case file, clipping it to the inside front cover.