notebooks, and neither did his wife. Rebus reached across to the bottle of beer and took a slug from it. His hand rested against a letter that had been sitting there a couple of days, the one inviting him to interview by Lothian and Borders Police Applications Board. There was a date for his medical, plus a sheet to be signed and returned, once its boxes had been ticked. Rebus read through it for the umpteenth time as he rubbed the guitar pick between his fingers.
‘Maybe if I’d bought the actual bloody guitar,’ he muttered to himself, before rising to his feet in search of a pen.
Cafferty’s house was a detached Victorian mansion on a leafy street off Colinton Road. It sat in half an acre of grounds with its own coach house. There were plenty of public rooms, but Cafferty usually retreated to his study with its view of the back garden. There was a big old chair there that he’d owned since he was in his twenties. He sat in it to read books, and to think. Tonight he was thinking about Darryl Christie. Christie had invited him to Annette’s funeral. Cafferty had duly turned up at the chapel, noting that the young man had brought some muscle with him — half a dozen faces Cafferty didn’t know. Young but toughened — maybe army vets who’d bailed from Iraq or Afghanistan. They stood apart from the main phalanx of mourners and followed at a distance when the procession headed for the graveside, Darryl and his two younger brothers acting as pall-bearers with three other men.
No Frank Hammell. No Derek Christie.
The cop from up north was there. Cafferty didn’t know her name, but he’d seen her on TV. He’d thought he might see Rebus, but that was another no-show. One of the thickset young men had made his way through the mourners towards Cafferty, leaning in to mutter in his ear that ‘Mr Christie would like a word before you go.’ Cafferty had hung back, watching people as they readied to go to the reception. Darryl had helped his mother into the limo, pecking her on the cheek and closing the door. Then he’d straightened his jacket and tie and headed for Cafferty. Cafferty held out a hand but Christie ignored it.
‘You holding up?’ Cafferty had felt it polite to ask.
‘That’s not the question you really want an answer to.’
‘All right then — where’s Frank Hammell?’
‘He’s out of the game. Signed all his businesses over to me.’ Christie’s eyes had come to rest on Cafferty’s. ‘Is that okay with you?’
‘Why shouldn’t it be?’
‘Because you still want to feel like a player. But we both know that’s not going to happen now. I’ve seen the way you operate, and that means I’m armed for any fight you want to start.’
‘I’m past all that.’
‘Those are the right words, but your brain needs to start believing them. I’ve studied hard, Cafferty, and I know which bits of this city Hammell controlled. As things stand, I’m not looking for a war — what’s yours is still yours. Only thing that’ll change that is if you decide this is a good time to try a bit of poaching or border-crossing. Do we understand one another?’
And only then had Christie reached out his hand towards Cafferty. The kid was eighteen!
But he had shaken the hand nonetheless.
Now, as he sat in his study, he knew Darryl Christie had made the right move at the right time. The changeover had been smooth. Hammell was keeping his head down, but as yet no one was saying he wouldn’t be seen alive.
The cheek of the little bastard!
A clever sod, though; not to be underestimated or misjudged. Cafferty was embarrassed at the way he himself had played the whole thing — trying to be avuncular, an arm around a shoulder — when Darryl already had his plans in place, as cool and calculating as you liked.
It was to be admired, at least in the short term.
But when all was said and done, the lad was still in his teens. There were hard lessons he had not yet learned. Mistakes would be made, along with enemies. No one was untouchable.
No one.
Which was why Cafferty rose from his chair and checked that both front and back doors were bolted. .
65
On Saturday morning, Rebus called Magrath again. This time, the phone did not ring. Instead, a different automated voice told him the number he had dialled had not been recognised and he should try again. He took more care the second time, but got the selfsame message.
‘Changed your number, Gregor?’ he asked quietly. Then he nodded to himself and went to take a shower.
By late lunchtime, he was parked on the seafront at Rosemarkie, directly opposite the cottage. He sounded his horn a few times, keeping watch on the windows for signs of life. All the curtains were closed. When he eventually went to check, brushing past the Land Rover, there was mail lying on the mat inside the porch. He went next door and the neighbour answered.
‘Remember me?’ Rebus asked. ‘I was here before.’
The elderly woman agreed that yes, Rebus was not a stranger.
‘Just wondering if you’ve seen hide or hair of Gregor.’
‘He was at the shop yesterday, collecting his paper.’
‘He’s all right, then? It’s just that he’s not answering his door and the place looks deserted.’
‘He’s had reporters turning up at all hours,’ the woman explained. ‘And the phone, too — I can hear it ringing and ringing.’ She paused, leaning in towards Rebus and lowering her voice. ‘You heard what happened?’
Rebus nodded, as he felt was expected.
‘Awful business, just awful. You never think these things will. . Well, you know what I mean.’
‘Plenty of talk in the village, I suppose.’
The woman tilted her head back. ‘You wouldn’t credit it.’
‘Is everybody agreed it’s beyond belief?’ Rebus was doing his best to sound like a local himself. He had relaxed his stance and was resting his weight against the door frame, arms folded — just two old cronies having a chinwag.
‘Beyond belief,’ the woman echoed.
‘No doubters?’ Rebus raised an eyebrow. ‘It’s just that there usually are.’
‘There’s hardly a family around here Kenny Magrath hasn’t helped out at one time or another.’
‘I’m sure that’s true, but all the same. .’
But the woman was shaking her head in a resolute fashion.
‘So you’re all sticking together, looking after your own?’ Rebus’s tone had hardened. She frowned, took a step back and started to close the door on him.
‘Has Gregor given you his new number, by any chance?’
The click of the door as it locked was his only reply. ‘Nice speaking to you,’ he muttered, returning to Magrath’s cottage and hammering on the door.
The rain was falling again — huge sleety gobbets of the stuff, making slapping sounds as they hit his shoulders and back. He retreated to the Saab and sat there, waiting for the storm to pass. The sky was almost black, and he switched the wipers on. Hailstones now, bouncing off the surface of the road, coating it white. Rebus turned the engine on and put the car into reverse, backing seventy feet along the road until he was outside Kenny Magrath’s garden. Again, the house looked deserted. The upstairs blinds were closed and the octagonal conservatory had no lights on. The windscreen was steaming up, so he turned the fan to high and opened his window an inch. After a few minutes, the hail stopped. The sky remained leaden, but there wasn’t even rain, just a
