“Didn’t stop you putting her and Big Ger Cafferty on the front page, did it?”
“I thought about it years back, you know…” The reporter sounded as if he was getting comfortable, ready for a chat. “Not just Cafferty though-interviews with all the gangsters, east coast and west. How they got started, codes they live by…”
“Well, thanks for that, but have I tuned in to a talk show here or what?”
The reporter snorted. “Just making conversation.”
“Don’t tell me: it’s a ghost ship there, am I right? They’re all out with their laptops, trying to transform the march into elegant prose? Here’s the thing, though…a guy fell from the castle ramparts last night, and I didn’t see anything about it in your paper this morning.”
“We didn’t get wind of it till too late.” The reporter paused. “Straight suicide though, right?”
“What do you think?”
“I asked you first.”
“Actually, it was me that asked first-for Mairie Henderson’s number.”
“Why?”
“Give me her number, and I’ll tell you something I’m not going to tell her.”
The reporter thought for a moment, then asked Rebus to hang on. He was back half a minute later. Meantime, the receiver had been making a noise, letting him know someone else was trying to reach him. He ignored it, jotted down the number the reporter gave him.
“Thanks,” he said.
“Now do I get my little treat?”
“Ask yourself this: straight suicide, why is a Special Branch slimeball called Steelforth clamping down on it?”
“Steelforth? How do you spell-”
But Rebus had cut off the connection. His phone began ringing immediately. He didn’t answer; he had more than half an idea who it would be-Operation Sorbus had his number, would have taken about a minute for Steelforth to work out whose home address it belonged to. Another minute to call Derek Starr and ascertain he didn’t know anything about anything.
Brreeep-brreeep-brreeeppp.
Rebus put the TV on again; pressed the mute button on the remote. No news, just kids’ programs and pop videos. The chopper was circling again. He made sure it wasn’t his tenement.
“Just because you’re paranoid, John…” he muttered to himself. His phone had stopped ringing; he made the call to Mairie Henderson. They’d been close friends a few years back; traded info for stories, stories for info. Then she’d gone and written a book about Cafferty-written it with the gangster’s full cooperation. Asked Rebus for an interview, but he’d refused. Asked again later.
“Way Big Ger talks about you,” she’d cajoled, “I really think you need to give your side.”
Rebus hadn’t felt that need at all.
Which hadn’t stopped the book being a roaring success, not just in Scotland but farther afield. U.S., Canada, Australia. Translations into sixteen languages. For a time, he couldn’t pick up the paper without reading about it. Couple of prizes, TV talk shows for journalist and subject. Wasn’t enough that Cafferty had spent his life ruining people and their communities, terrorizing them; now he was a full-scale celebrity.
She’d sent Rebus a copy of the book; he’d sent it back by return mail. Then he’d gone out two weeks later and bought himself a copy-half price on Princes Street. Flicked through it but hadn’t had the stomach for the whole thing. Nothing brought the bile up quicker than a penitent…
“Hello?”
“Mairie, it’s John Rebus.”
“Sorry, the only John Rebus I know is dead.”
“Now that’s hardly fair…”
“You sent my book back! After I’d signed it to you and everything!”
“Signed it?”
“You didn’t even read the inscription?”
“What did it say?”
“It said, ‘Whatever it is you’re wanting, get stuffed.’”
“Sorry about that, Mairie. Let me make it up to you.”
“By asking a favor?”
“How did you guess?” He smiled into the receiver. “You going to the march?”
“Thinking about it.”
“I could buy you a tofu burger.”
She gave a snort. “Long time since I was that cheap a date.”
“I’ll throw in a mug of decaf…”
“What the hell do you want, John?” The words cold, but the voice thawing a little.
“I want some info on an outfit called Pennen Industries. Used to be Ministry of Defense. I think they’re in town right now.”
“And why am I interested?”
“You’re not, but I am.” He paused to light a cigarette, exhaled smoke as he spoke. “Did you hear about Cafferty’s chum?”
“Which one?” Trying not to sound interested.
“Cyril Colliar. That missing scrap from his jacket has turned up.”
“With Cafferty’s confession written on it? He told me you wouldn’t give up.”
“Just thought I’d let you know-it’s not exactly common knowledge.”
She was silent for a moment. “And Pennen Industries?”
“Something else entirely. You heard about Ben Webster?”
“It was on the news.”
“Pennen was paying for his stay at the Balmoral.”
“So?”
“So I’d like to know a bit more about them.”
“Their managing director’s name is Richard Pennen.” She laughed, sensing his bemusement. “Ever heard of Google?”
“And you just did that while we’re talking?”
“Do you even have a computer at home?”
“I bought a laptop.”
“So you’re on the Internet?”
“In theory,” he confessed. “But, hey, I play a mean game of Minesweeper.”
She laughed again, and he knew it was going to be all right between them. He heard something hissing in the background, the clinking of cups.
“Which cafe are you in?” he asked.
“ Montpelier ’s. There are people outside, all dressed in white.”
Montpelier ’s was in Bruntsfield; five minutes by car. “I could come buy you that coffee. You can show me how to use my laptop.”
“I’m just leaving. Want to meet later at the Meadows?”
“Not especially. How about a drink?”
“Maybe. I’ll see what I can find about Pennen, call you when I’m finished.”
“You’re a star, Mairie.”
“And a best seller to boot.” She paused. “Cafferty’s share went to charity, you know.”
“He can afford to be generous. Talk to you later.” Rebus finished the call, decided to check for messages. There was only the one. Steelforth’s voice had gotten just a dozen words out before Rebus cut it off. The unfinished threat echoed in his head as he crossed to the stereo and filled the room with the Groundhogs.
Don’t ever try to outsmart me, Rebus, or I’ll…
“…break most of the major bones,” Professor Gates was saying. He gave a shrug. “Fall like that, what else can you expect?”
