“I wish you’d been there. Will I see you next time you’re in town?”
“Of course.”
“And will that be anytime soon?”
“Hard to say, Jean . . .”
“Well . . . take care of yourself.”
“Don’t I always?” he said, ending the call with a “bye” before she could answer the question.
Back inside, there was excitement in the break-out area. Archie Tennant stood with arms folded, chin tucked into his chest, as though deep in thought. Tam Barclay was waving his arms around as if trying to attract attention to the point he was making. Stu Sutherland and Jazz McCullough were wanting their own say. Allan Ward looked to have walked into the middle of it, and wanted an explanation, while Francis Gray was an oasis of calm, seated on one of the sofas, one leg crossed over the other, a black polished shoe moving from side to side like a baton controlling the performers.
Rebus didn’t say anything. He just squeezed past Ward and took a seat next to Gray. A ray of low sunshine was coming in through the windows, throwing an exaggerated silhouette of the group onto the far wall. Rebus wasn’t reminded of an orchestra anymore, but of some puppet show.
With only one man pulling the strings.
Still Rebus said nothing. He noticed the mobile phone nestled in Gray’s expansive crotch, took out his own phone again and decided that it was heavier and older. Probably obsolete. He’d taken an earlier model to a shop because of a fault, only to be told it would be cheaper to replace than fix.
Gray was studying Rebus’s phone, too. “I got a call,” he said.
Rebus looked up at the tumult. “Must’ve been a good one.”
Gray nodded slowly. “I had a few favors outstanding, so I put the word around Glasgow that we were looking at Rico Lomax.”
“And?”
“And I got a call . . .”
“Whoah, whoah,” Archie Tennant suddenly called out, unfolding his arms and raising them. “Let’s all slow down here, okay?”
The noise ceased. Tennant took in each man with his gaze, then lowered his arms. “Okay, so we’ve got new information . . .” He broke off, fixing his stare on Gray. “Your informant’s one hundred percent?”
Gray shrugged. “He’s reliable.”
“What new information?” Ward asked. Sutherland and Barclay started answering, until Tennant told them to shut up.
“Okay, so it turns out that Rico’s pub, the one he’d been drinking in the night he died, was owned at the time by a certain Chib Kelly, who we know started winching Rico’s widow soon after.”
“How soon after?”
“Does it matter?”
“Did the investigation know at the time . . . ?”
The questions were coming thick and fast, and once again Tennant had to appeal for quiet. He looked to Gray.
“Well, Francis,
“Search me,” Gray said.
“Do any of you remember coming across this fact in any of the files?” Tennant looked around, received only shakes of the head. “Big question then: is it material to the case?”
“Could be.”
“Got to be.”
“Crime of passion.”
“Absolutely.”
Tennant grew thoughtful again, letting the voices wash over him.
“Could be we need to talk to Chib himself, sir.” Tennant looked to the speaker: John Rebus.
“Yeah, sure,” Ward was saying. “He’s definitely going to incriminate himself.” The sneer reappeared.
“It’s the proper course of action,” Rebus said, repeating a phrase they’d had drummed into them at the MMI talk.
“John’s right,” Gray said, his eyes on Tennant. “In a
“I thought getting in people’s faces was your precise problem, DI Gray,” Tennant said coolly.
“Could be. But it’s been getting me results these past twenty-odd years.”
“Maybe not for much longer, though.” The threat lay in the air between the two men.
“Seems logical to at least talk to the man,” Rebus said. “After all, this isn’t just a test, it’s a real, flesh-and- blood case.”
“You weren’t half as keen to follow up the Edinburgh angle, John,” Jazz McCullough stated, slipping his hands into his pockets.
“Jazz has got a point,” Gray said, turning his head to face Rebus. “Something you’re not telling us, DI Rebus?”
Rebus wanted to grab Gray and hiss at him:
“Who says
“I can’t see us all in a room with Chib Kelly,” Stu Sutherland commented.
“What? Too much like hard work for you, Stu?” Ward taunted.
“This isn’t getting us anywhere,” Tennant piped up. “Since DI Rebus is suddenly all hot and bothered about ‘proper courses of action,’ the first thing we need to do is see whether this really is new ground. And that means plowing back through the files, seeing if Chib Kelly’s mentioned anywhere as landlord . . . What was the pub called anyway?”
“The Claymore,” Gray offered. “It’s since become the Dog and Bone, gone a bit upmarket.”
“Still owned by Kelly?” Rebus asked.
Gray shook his head. “Some English chain: all book-lined walls and clutter. More like walking into a junk shop than a pub.”
“The thing to do,” Tennant was saying, “is get back into those files, see what we can come up with.”
“We could maybe manage an hour or two,” Gray offered, looking at his watch.
“Plans for tonight, Francis?” Tennant asked.
“John’s shipping us through to Edinburgh for a night on the town.” Gray’s hand landed heavily on Rebus’s shoulder. “Make a change from the lounge, eh, John?”
Rebus didn’t say anything, didn’t hear the rest of the group saying things like “Nice one” and “Good idea.” He was concentrating too hard on Francis Gray, wondering what the hell he was up to.
9
“What the hell are you up to?”
It was a snarling question, and it came from behind the closed door. There was a muffled reply. The secretary smiled up at Siobhan and Hynds. She had the telephone receiver to her ear. Siobhan could hear the phone buzzing somewhere behind the door. Then it appeared to be snatched up.
“What?”
The secretary actually flinched. “Two police officers to see you, Mr. Cafferty. They did make an appointment . . .” Sounding apologetic, a slight tremble in her voice. She listened to whatever her employer was telling her, then put the receiver down. “He’ll be with you in a moment, if you’ll take a seat . . .”
“Must be a joy to work for.”
“Yes.” The secretary forced a smile. “Yes, he is.”
“Plenty secretarial jobs going. Friday’s
