“You mean Claverhouse?”
Bain nodded. “It’s hush-hush. If he finds out I’ve been blabbing . . .”
“They’re after Cafferty again?”
“Can we drop it, please? I only have to get through this one job, then I’m off to the Forensic Computer Branch. Did you know their workload’s increasing twenty percent every three months?”
Siobhan was on her feet, walking over to the window. The shutters were closed, but she stood there as though staring at some startling new vista. “Whose workload? The SDEA?”
“The FCB — you’re not listening . . .”
“Cafferty?” she said, almost to herself.
Cafferty owned the Paradiso . . . Edward Marber had frequented the place . . . And there was a story that Marber had been cheating his clients . . .
“I was supposed to interview him today,” she said quietly.
“Who?”
She turned her head towards Bain; it was as if she’d forgotten he was there. “Cafferty,” she told him.
“What for?”
She didn’t hear him. “He was across in Glasgow . . . due back tonight.” She checked her watch.
“It’ll wait till Monday,” Bain said.
She nodded agreement. Yes, it could wait. Maybe if she could gather a bit more ammo first.
“Okay,” Bain said. “So sit down again and relax.”
She slapped a hand against her thigh. “How can I relax?”
“It’s easy. All you do is sit yourself down, take a few deep breaths and start telling me a story.”
She looked at him. “What sort of story?”
“The story of why it is that you’re suddenly so interested in Morris Gerald Cafferty . . .”
Siobhan backed away from the window, sat down again and took a few deep breaths. Then she reached down and picked her phone up off the floor. “There’s just one thing I have to do first . . .”
Bain rolled his eyes. But then Siobhan’s call was answered and he broke into a smile.
She was ordering pizza.
6
On Monday morning, Rebus was back at Tulliallan in time for breakfast. He’d spent most of Saturday in the Oxford Bar, passing time first with one set of drinkers, then with another. Finally, he’d headed back to his flat and fallen asleep in the chair, waking at midnight with a raging thirst and a thumping head. He’d not been able to get back to sleep until dawn, meaning he didn’t wake until midday on Sunday. A visit to the laundrette had filled in the afternoon, and he’d gone back to the Ox in the evening.
All in all, then, not a bad weekend.
At least he wasn’t having the blackouts anymore. He could remember the conversations he’d had in the Ox, the jokes he’d been told, the TV shows playing in the background. At the start of the Marber inquiry, he’d been at a low ebb, the past seeming to suffocate him just as surely as the present. Memories of his marriage and the day he had moved into the Arden Street flat with his young wife. That first night, he’d watched from the window as a middle-aged drunk across the street leaned for all his life against a lamppost, struggling for balance, seemingly asleep though standing. Rebus had felt an affection for the man; he’d felt affection for most things back then, newly married and with a first-time mortgage, Rhona talking about kids . . .
And then, a week or two before the tea-throwing incident, Rebus himself had become that man: middle-aged and clutching at the selfsame lamppost, struggling to focus, the crossing of the street an impossible proposition. He’d been due at Jean’s for dinner, but had got comfortable at the Ox, slipping outside to phone her with some lie. He’d probably walked back to Arden Street, couldn’t recall his journey. Hanging on to that lamppost and laughing at the memory of the man. When a neighbor had tried to help, Rebus had gripped the lamppost all the harder, crying out that he was useless, only good for sitting at a desk, making phone calls.
He hadn’t been able to look the neighbor in the face since . . .
After breakfast, he stepped outside for a cigarette and found a commotion on the parade ground. A lot of the probationers were out there. The CID intake were halfway through their five-week induction. As part of the training, they had to raise money for charity, and one of them had promised a parachute jump into the parade ground at 0915. There was a big letter X marking the spot. It was made from two lengths of shiny red material, weighted down with stones. A few of the probationers were squinting skywards, hands shading their eyes.
“Maybe got RAF Leuchars to help out,” one of them was suggesting.
Rebus stood with his hands in his pockets. He’d signed a sponsorship form, putting himself down for a five- quid donation should the jump succeed. A rumor was going around that a Land Rover with armed forces plates was parked in the driveway. Two men in light-gray uniforms could be seen at one of the windows in the building which fronted the parade ground.
“Sir,” one of the probationers said, making to pass Rebus. They usually did that, part of the training. You could get half a dozen of them in the corridors, all going “Sir.” He tried to ignore it. A door was opening, all eyes turning towards it. A young man emerged, wearing a one-piece flight suit, what looked like a parachute harness clamped around his chest. He was carrying a metal-framed chair. He nodded and beamed smiles at the crowd, who watched in silence as he made his way towards the X, planting the chair down firmly in its center. Rebus blew out air through his mouth, shaking his head slowly at the knowledge of what was to come. The CID recruit climbed onto the chair, crouched and placed his hands together, as if readying to dive into a pool. And then he jumped. Dust kicked up as he hit the ground. He stood up straight, opened his arms wide as if to accept the acclaim of his audience. There was some muttering, confused looks. The recruit picked up the chair. Behind their window, the RAF officers were smiling.
“What was that?” someone asked in disbelief.
“That, son, was a parachute jump,” Rebus said, his admiration tempered only by the knowledge that he’d just lost a fiver. He recalled that when he’d been going through his CID training, he’d raised money by taking part in an all-day relay attempt on the assault course. These days, he’d be lucky if he could walk it once through . . .
Back in the syndicate room, he announced that the jump had been successful. There were frowns and shrugs. Jazz McCullough, who had been made senior investigating officer, was talking to Francis Gray. Tam Barclay and Allan Ward were busy compiling the filing system. Stu Sutherland was explaining the structure of the investigation to a twitchy-looking DCI Tennant. Rebus sat down and pulled a sheaf of papers towards him. He worked for a solid half hour, glancing up every now and then to see if Gray had any message for him. When a break was announced, Rebus slipped a sheet of paper from his pocket and added it to the pile. With a cup of tea in his hand, he asked McCullough if he fancied swapping jobs.
“Fresh perspective and all that,” he explained. McCullough agreed with a nod, went and sat down in front of the papers. Gray had just finished a short conversation with Tennant.
“He looks antsy,” Rebus commented.
“The brass are in the house,” Gray explained.
“What sort of brass?”
“Chief constables. Half a dozen of them, here for some meeting or other. I doubt they’ll be bothering us, but Archie isn’t so sure.”
“He doesn’t want them meeting the remedial class?”
“Something like that,” Gray offered with a wink.
Just then, McCullough called out Rebus’s name. Rebus walked over to the table. McCullough was holding the sheet of paper. Rebus made a show of reading it.
“Christ, that had clean escaped me,” he said, hoping he sounded surprised. Gray was at his shoulder.
“What is it?”
Rebus turned his head, fixing Gray’s eyes with his own. “Jazz has just dug this up. Two officers from Glasgow visited Edinburgh, looking for one of Rico’s associates, a guy called Dickie Diamond.”
“So?” This from Tennant, who had joined the group.
