“Big Ger? Of course I’ve heard of Big Ger . . . not someone called ‘Morris.’ Not even sure I ever knew his surname . . .”
“He never comes to the cab office?”
“Look, as far as I know, MG is run by my boss — Ellen Dempsey. She’s the one gives me my jobs.”
“Your boss is a woman?” Hynds asked. Wallace just looked at him, and Hynds cleared his throat, as if to acknowledge that it had been a stupid question.
Siobhan had her mobile out. “What’s the number?”
“Whose number?” Wallace asked.
“MG’s.” Wallace gave it to her and she pushed the buttons. Her call was answered immediately.
“MG Cabs, how may we help?”
“Is that Ms. Dempsey?” Siobhan asked.
There was a pause, and the voice became less welcoming. “Who is this?”
“Ms. Dempsey, my name is Detective Sergeant Clarke, St. Leonard’s CID. I’m currently interviewing one of your drivers, Samuel Wallace.”
“Christ, not again: how often do you need to hear the story?”
“Until we’re satisfied that we have all the information we need.”
“So how can I help?”
“You could tell me how MG Cabs got its name.”
“What?”
“The letters MG: what do they stand for?”
“The sports car.”
“Any particular reason?”
“I like them. MG means you’re going to get a cab
“And that’s it?”
“I don’t see what this has to —”
“Ever heard of a man called Morris Gerald Cafferty — Big Ger?”
“He’s got a cab outfit in the west end: Exclusive Cars. Does a lot of top-end business.”
“Top-end?”
“Executives . . . businesspeople. They need Mercs to collect them at the airport.”
Siobhan looked at Sammy Wallace. She was trying to visualize him in a peaked cap and white gloves . . .
“Well, thanks for your help.”
“I still don’t see what this —”
“Any idea who made the call to MG Cabs?”
“Which call?”
“The one ordering a car for Mr. Marber.”
“I assume he made it himself.”
“There’s no record of it. We’ve checked his calls with the phone company.”
“What do you want me to do about it?”
“A man’s dead, Ms. Dempsey.”
“Plenty more clients out there, DS Clarke . . .”
“Well, thanks again for your help,” Siobhan said coldly. “Good-bye.” She ended the call, placed the phone on the desk between her hands. Wallace had his own hands spread across it, palms down, fingers as wide apart as they would go.
“Well?” he said.
Siobhan picked up a pen and played with it. “I think that’s everything for now, Mr. Wallace. DC Hynds, maybe you could show Mr. Wallace out . . .”
When Hynds came back, he wanted to know what Ellen Dempsey had said, so Siobhan told him.
He snorted with laughter. “And I thought I was making a joke . . .”
She shook her head slowly. “MGs are fast and sporty, you see.”
“That’s as may be,” Hynds said, “but Mr. Wallace’s car is a K-reg Ford rustbucket. Added to which, when he got outside he was just getting a ticket.”
“Don’t suppose that thrilled him.”
Hynds sat down. “No, I don’t suppose it did.” He watched Siobhan turning the pen over in her hands. “So where do we go now?”
A uniform was standing in the open doorway. “Wherever it is,” he said, “you’ve got about five minutes to move.” He then started dragging a stack of four tubular metal chairs into the already cramped space.
“What’s going on?” Hynds asked.
“I think we’re about to be invaded,” Siobhan told him. Moreover, she suddenly remembered who and why . . .
12
Rebus had driven to Tulliallan that morning only to turn around and drive back again, this time taking Stu Sutherland and Tam Barclay with him. He’d watched the maneuverings concerning who should travel with whom. Gray had offered to take the Lexus, and Allan Ward had immediately volunteered to be one of the passengers.
“You better come along too, Jazz,” Gray had said. “My sense of direction’s hopeless.” Then he’d looked towards Rebus. “You all right with Stu and Tam?”
“Fine,” Rebus had said, wishing there was some way to bug Gray’s car.
On the drive and between hungover yawns, Barclay kept talking about the National Lottery.
“Wouldn’t like to think how much I’ve wasted on it these past years.”
“All for good causes, though,” Sutherland told him while trying to pick bits of breakfast bacon from between his teeth with a thumbnail.
“Thing is,” Barclay went on, “once you’ve started, how can you stop? Week you don’t put a line on is the week you’ll win it.”
“You’re trapped,” Sutherland agreed. Rebus was checking his rearview mirror. The Lexus was right behind him. Nobody inside it seemed to be speaking. Gray and Jazz in the front, Ward slouched in the rear.
“Eight or nine million, that’s all I want,” Barclay was saying. “It’s not like I’m greedy . . .”
“Guy I know won just over a million,” Sutherland confided. “He didn’t even stop working, can you credit that?”
“Thing about the rich,” Barclay offered, “they never seem to have any money. It’s all tied up in stocks and stuff. You’ve got a guy who owns a castle, but hasn’t got the price of a pack of smokes.”
Sutherland laughed from the backseat. “True enough, Tam,” he said.
Rebus was wondering about that . . . about rich men who couldn’t spend their money because it was tied up, or because as soon as they started to spend, they’d also look conspicuous . . .
“How much d’you think that Lexus costs?” Rebus asked, eyes again on the rearview. “Reckon Francis had a wee lottery win himself?”
Sutherland turned his neck to peer out of the back window. “Maybe thirty grand,” he said. “Be honest, it’s not exactly outrageous on a DI’s salary . . .”
“Then how come I’m driving a fourteen-year-old Saab?” Rebus said.
“Maybe you’re not careful with your money,” Sutherland offered.
“Oh aye,” Rebus came back, “you saw as much last night — every penny poured into the interior of my palatial bachelor pad.”
Sutherland snorted and went back to picking his teeth.
“Ever totted up what you spend on booze and ciggies?” Barclay asked. “You could probably buy a new Lexus every year.”
Rebus didn’t trust himself to do the calculation. “I’ll take your word for it,” he said instead. A legal-sized packet had been waiting for him at Tulliallan: Strathern’s notes on Bernie Johns. He hadn’t had time to open it yet,
