“What about him?”
“I hear there’s been some progress. I want to know how much.”
“Who told you?”
“It’s true then?”
“Think I’d tell you even if it was?”
Cafferty gave a snarl, hands shooting forward, propelling Rebus backward into the hall, where he collided with the wall. Cafferty grabbed at him again, teeth bared, but Rebus was ready, managed to get a handful of the T-shirt. The two men wrestled, twisting and turning, moving farther down the hall until they were in the doorway to the living room. Neither had said a word, eyes and limbs doing their talking. But Cafferty glanced into the room and seemed to freeze. Rebus was able to free himself from his grasp.
“Jesus Christ.” Cafferty was staring at the two boxes on the sofa-part of the Colliar case notes, brought home from Gayfield the previous night. Lying on the top was one of the autopsy photos, and, just visible beneath, an older photograph of Cafferty himself. “What’s all this stuff doing here?” Cafferty asked, breathing heavily.
“None of your damned business.”
“You’re still trying to pin this on me.”
“Not as much as I was,” Rebus admitted. He walked over to the mantelpiece and grabbed the whiskey. Lifted his glass from the floor and poured. “It’ll be public knowledge soon enough,” he said, pausing to drink. “We think Colliar’s not the only victim.”
Cafferty’s eyes narrowed as he tried to take this in. “Who else?”
Rebus shook his head slowly. “Now get the hell out.”
“I can help,” Cafferty said. “I know people.”
“Oh yeah? Trevor Guest ring a bell?”
Cafferty thought for a moment before conceding defeat.
“What about a garage called Keogh’s?”
Cafferty stiffened his shoulders. “I can find things out, Rebus. I’ve got contacts in places that would frighten you.”
“Everything about you frightens me, Cafferty; fear of contamination, I suppose. How come you’re so het up about Colliar?”
Cafferty’s eyes strayed to the whiskey bottle. “Got a spare glass?” he asked.
Rebus fetched one from the kitchen. When he returned, Cafferty was reading Mairie’s covering note.
“I see Ms. Henderson’s been lending a hand.” Cafferty gave a cold smile. “I recognize her handwriting.”
Rebus said nothing; poured a small measure into the glass.
“I prefer malt,” Cafferty complained, wafting the contents under his nose. “What’s your interest in Pennen Industries?”
Rebus ignored this. “You were going to tell me about Cyril Colliar.” Cafferty made to sit down. “Stay on your feet,” Rebus commanded. “You’re not going to be here that long.”
Cafferty knocked back the drink and placed the empty glass on the table. “It’s not Cyril I’m interested in as such,” he admitted. “But when something like that happens…well, rumors get started. Rumors that someone’s out there with a grudge. Never very good for business. As you well know, Rebus, I’ve had enemies in the past.”
“Funny how I never see them anymore.”
“Plenty of jackals out there who’d like a share of the spoils…my spoils.” He stabbed a finger into his own chest.
“You’re getting old, Cafferty.”
“Same as you. But there’s no retirement package in my line of business.”
“And meantime the jackals get younger and hungrier?” Rebus guessed. “And you need to keep proving yourself.”
“I’ve never backed down, Rebus. Never will.”
“It’ll come out soon enough, Cafferty. If there’s no connection between you and the other victims, then there’s no reason for anyone to see it as a vendetta.”
“But meantime…”
“Meantime what?”
Cafferty gave a wink. “Keogh’s Garage and Trevor Guest.”
“Leave them to us, Cafferty.”
“Who knows, Rebus, maybe I’ll see what I can turn up about Pennen Industries, too.” Cafferty started to walk out of the room. “Thanks for the drink and the wee bit of exercise. Think I’ll go join the tail end of the march. Poverty’s always been a great concern of mine.” He paused in the hall, taking in his surroundings. “Never seen it as bad as this though,” he added, heading for the stairwell.
5
The Right Honorable Gordon Brown, MP, chancellor of the exchequer, had already started to speak when Siobhan entered the room. An audience of nine hundred had gathered in the Assembly Hall at the top of the Mound. The last time Siobhan had been there, the place was acting as temporary home to the Scottish parliament, but the parliament now had lavish premises of its own opposite the queen’s residence at Holyrood, leaving the Assembly Hall once again the exclusive property of the Church of Scotland who, along with Christian Aid, had organized the evening’s event.
Siobhan was there for a meeting with Edinburgh ’s chief constable, James Corbyn. Corbyn had been in charge just over a year, having replaced Sir David Strathern. There had been mutters of dissent over the appointment. Corbyn was English, a “bean counter,”and “too bloody young.” But Corbyn had proved himself a hands-on copper who made regular visits to the front line. He was seated a few rows back, in full dress uniform, cap resting on his lap. Siobhan knew she was expected so found a space by the doors, content to listen to the chancellor’s vows and pledges. When he announced that Africa ’s poorest thirty-eight countries would see a debt write-off, there was spontaneous applause. But when the clapping died down, Siobhan was aware of a voice of dissent. A lone protester had stood up. He was wearing a kilt, and he lifted it to reveal a cut-out picture of Tony Blair’s face on the front of his underpants. Security moved in quickly, and those around the man helped with the process. As he was dragged to the doors, the fresh applause was for security. The chancellor, who had busied himself tidying his notes, continued where he’d left off.
The commotion, however, provided useful cover for James Corbyn to make his move. Siobhan followed him out of the hall and introduced herself. There was no sign of the protester or his captors, just a few civil servants pacing the floor, waiting for their master to finish. They carried document files and cell phones and seemed exhausted by the day’s events.
“DCI Macrae says we have a problem,” Corbyn stated. No niceties; straight to the heart of the matter. He was in his early forties, with black hair parted to the right. Solidly built, just over six feet in height. There was a large mole on his right cheek, which Siobhan had been warned not to stare at.
“Bloody hard to keep eye contact,” Macrae had told her, “with that thing in your sight line…”
“We may have three victims,” she said now.
“And a murder site on the G8’s doorstep?” Corbyn snapped.
“Not exactly, sir. I don’t think we’ll find bodies there, just trace evidence.”
“They’ll be out of Gleneagles by Friday. We can stall the investigation till then.”
“On the other hand,” Siobhan offered, “the leaders don’t start arriving till Wednesday. Three full days away…”
“What are you proposing?”
“We keep things low-key but do as much as we can. Forensics can make a full sweep by then. The one definite victim we have is an Edinburgh guy, no need to go disturbing the bigwigs.”
Corbyn studied her. “You’re a DS, am I right?”
Siobhan nodded.
“Bit junior to be heading something like this.” It didn’t sound like criticism; he was simply stating a fact.
