Siobhan retreated to the line of three chairs, taking Hynds with her. There wasn’t space in the outer office for a coffee table. Two desks: one currently occupied by the secretary, the other a shambles of paperwork. The place had probably been a shop until fairly recently. It was sandwiched between a baker’s and a stationer’s, its large window looking onto the nondescript street. They were west and south of the city center, not far from Tollcross. The area held no fond memories for Siobhan, who had crashed her car once, years back, while confused by the range of options at the Tollcross road junction. Five routes crisscrossing at the lights, and her having not long passed her test, the car a gift from her parents . . .
“I couldn’t work here,” Hynds was telling the secretary. He nodded in the direction of the street. “That smell from the baker’s.” Then he patted his stomach and smiled. The secretary smiled back, more from relief, Siobhan thought, than anything else — relief that Hynds wasn’t meaning her employer . . .
The onetime shop was now MGC Lettings. Across the window was printed the legend THE ANSWER TO YOUR PROPERTY NEEDS. When they’d arrived, Hynds had asked why a “criminal genius” would need such a boring front. Siobhan couldn’t answer that. She knew Cafferty had other interests in the city, predominantly a minicab firm out at Gorgie. The fresh paintwork and new carpet led her to believe that MGC Lettings was a recent venture.
“Hope that’s not one of his tenants he’s got in there,” Hynds said now. If the secretary heard him, she pretended otherwise. She’d slipped on a pair of headphones and looked to be typing out a letter from a dictation machine. Siobhan had picked up some of the sheets from the messy table. They were listings of properties to let. Most were tenement flats in the less salubrious parts of town. She handed one to Hynds.
“A lot of agencies, they’ll say things like ‘No DSS.’ No mention of that here.”
“So?”
“Ever heard of landlords cramming their flats with people from Social Security, then ripping them off?” Hynds looked blank. “The claimants have to hand over their benefit books. Landlord meantime gets the rent money from the DSS. He’s quids in.”
“But this is a lettings agency. Anyone can walk in wanting a flat . . .”
“Doesn’t mean everyone gets one.”
Hynds took time digesting this, then looked around the walls. Two calendars and a week planner. No original works of art.
The door to the inner office opened and a ratty-looking man shuffled quickly towards the exit. Then a figure filled the doorway. He was wearing a white shirt, near-luminous in its newness, and a silk tie the color of spilled blood. His sleeves were rolled up, the arms thick and hairy. The head was large and round, like a bowling ball, the wiry silver hair cropped short. The eyes sparkled darkly.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” the mouth said. “I’m Mr. Cafferty. How can I help you?”
As Siobhan and Hynds stood up, Cafferty asked if they wanted tea or coffee. They shook their heads.
“Donna can fetch it from the baker’s,” he assured them. “No trouble.”
Still no takers, so he led them into his office. There wasn’t much to it: a desk, with nothing but a telephone on it; a gray four-drawer filing cabinet; a small window of frosted glass. The lights were on, but the place felt like a clean, well-lit cave. A dog had risen to its feet. It was a brown and white spaniel, and it made straight for Siobhan, sniffing her feet, wiping its wet nose against her hand when she held it out.
“Sit, Claret!” Cafferty snapped. The dog retreated to its corner.
“Nice dog,” Siobhan commented. “Why Claret?”
“I’m a fiend for red wine,” Cafferty said with a smile.
Against one wall, still shrouded in bubble wrap, were what looked like three or four framed pictures or paintings, reminding Siobhan of the ones in Marber’s house. Hynds made straight for them, though Cafferty had directed him towards one of the chairs in front of the desk.
“Not got round to putting these up yet?” Hynds asked.
“Don’t know that I ever will,” Cafferty replied.
Siobhan had seated herself, and, as intended, Cafferty didn’t know whether to focus his attention on her or Hynds. He couldn’t keep an eye on both at once.
“DC Hynds is a bit of an aficionado,” Siobhan explained, as Hynds peered at each canvas in turn.
“Is he now?” Cafferty growled. His jacket was over the back of his chair, and he was sitting forward, as if fearful of crushing it in some way. His shoulders seemed massive. Siobhan thought he looked like a caged predator, not quite hiding its ability to pounce.
“Here’s a Hastie,” Hynds said, lifting the painting so Siobhan could see. Covered in polythene as it was, she could just make out swatches of color and a thick white frame. “Did you buy this at the preview, Mr. Cafferty?”
“No.”
Siobhan looked over to Hynds. “None of the paintings have been moved from the exhibition,” she said, as if reminding him.
“Oh, yes,” he said, nodding, then he shook his head almost imperceptibly, letting her know the Vettriano wasn’t there.
Siobhan turned her attention to Cafferty. “Did you happen to buy anything on the night?”
“I didn’t, as it happens.”
“Nothing there you fancied?”
Cafferty rested his forearms on the edge of the desk. “You’re Siobhan Clarke, aren’t you?” He smiled. “I’d forgotten, but now I remember.”
“And what exactly is it you remember, Mr. Cafferty?”
“You work with Rebus. Only I hear he’s been stuck back in training school.” He made a tutting sound. “And Detective Constable Hynds here . . . his first name is David, correct?”
Hynds straightened up. “That’s right, sir.”
Cafferty was nodding.
“I’m impressed,” Siobhan said, keeping her voice level. “You know who we are. So you should know why we’re here.”
“Same reason you visited Madame Cyn: you want to ask me about Eddie Marber.” Cafferty watched as Hynds walked around to the front of the desk and sat down next to Siobhan. “It was Cyn told me your name, DC Hynds,” he said with a wink.
“You were at the private view, the night Edward Marber was killed.”
“I was, yes.”
“You didn’t sign the guest book,” Hynds stated.
“Didn’t see any reason to.”
“How long did you stay at the party?”
“I arrived late, stayed till just about the end. A few people were heading on to dinner. They wanted Eddie to go with them, but he said he was tired. I . . . he called for a taxi.” Cafferty shifted his arms slightly. The hesitation interested Siobhan, and she knew Hynds had caught it as well. Neither of them filled the silence. Eventually, Cafferty continued. “I think we all left the gallery around eight or quarter past. I went out for a few drinks.”
“Anywhere in particular?”
“That new hotel in the Scotsman Building. I wanted to see what it was like. And after that, the Royal Oak, listened to a bit of folk music . . .”
“Who was playing?” Siobhan asked.
Cafferty shrugged. “People just turn up and play.”
Hynds had his notebook out. “Were you with anyone, Mr. Cafferty?”
“A couple of business associates.”
“And their names?”
But Cafferty shook his head. “That’s a private matter. And before you go saying anything, I know you’re going to try to set me up for this, but it won’t work. I liked Eddie Marber, liked him a lot. I felt as miserable as anyone when I heard what happened.”
“You don’t know of any enemies he might have had?” Siobhan asked.
“Not one,” Cafferty said.
“Not even the people he’d cheated?” Claret’s ears suddenly pricked up, as though comprehending this last word.
Cafferty’s eyes narrowed. “Cheated?”
