There should be fuss.
John Martyn was singing about some people being crazy. A little later, he would move on to 'Grace and Danger' itself, followed by 'Johnny Too Bad'.
'Singing my whole life story,' John Rebus told his whisky glass.
What the hell was he going to do with himself if Cafferty was out of bounds? If Stone and his men did actually manage to put the gangster away, cleanly and coldly?
There should be mess.
There should be fuss.
There should be blood…
Day Seven. Thursday 23 November 2006
27
Rebus was parked on the other side of Gayfield Square from the police station. He had a pretty good view of the news crews. TV cameras were being erected or dismantled, depending on how early the teams had arrived. Journalists paced the pavement, mobile phones pressed to their ears, keeping a respectful distance from each other so as not to be tempted into a bit of eavesdropping.
Photographers were wondering how to get anything usable from the dismal cop-shop frontage. Rebus had watched a trickle of suits climb the steps and enter the building. He recognised some – Ray Reynolds, for example. Others were new to him, but they all looked like CID, meaning they'd been seconded to the team. Rebus bit into the remains of his breakfast roll and chewed slowly. When buying the roll, he'd added a coffee, newspaper and orange juice to the order. Skimming through the paper, he'd found more news of the ailing Litvinenko – the poisoning still a mystery – but no mention of Todorov and only a paragraph on Charles Riordan, at the foot of which he was directed to the obituary columns further back. He learned that Riordan had worked on various rock tours in the 1980s, including Big Country and Deacon Blue. One of the musicians was quoted as saying that 'Charlie could mix a sweet sound in an aircraft hangar.' Further back in time, he'd been a session musician, appearing on albums by Nazareth, Frankie Miller and the Sutherland Brothers, which meant Rebus probably owned stuff he'd played on.
'Wish I'd known,' he'd said to himself.
Staring out at the media scrum, he wondered who had leaked the information that the Todorov and Riordan deaths were being linked. Didn't really matter; bound to come out sooner or later.
But it did mean he'd lost an opportunity for leverage. There was a favour he was after, and it would have been nice to offer the titbit in return…
Still no sign of his quarry, however. But an official-looking car had drawn up, Corbyn stepping out, pausing for photos in his smart uniform, shiny cap, and black leather gloves. A morale booster for the troops would be the excuse, but Rebus knew Corbyn would have been alerted to the media. Nothing warmed a chief constable more than a hungry news gathering. He'd have them eating out of his hand. Rebus punched Siobhan's number into his phone.
'High Hiedyin alert,' he warned her.
'Who and where?'
'Corbyn himself, posing for the press. Give him two minutes and he'll be in your face.'
'Meaning you're nearby…'
'Don't worry, he can't see me. How's it all going?'
'We're going to have to speak to Nancy Sievewright yet again.'
'Has she had any more grief from the banker?'
'Not that I know of.' Clarke paused. 'So what else are you up to, apart from this morning's stakeout?'
'To tell you the truth, I'm just relieved I don't have to come in… not with officers of the calibre of Rat-Arse Reynolds to contend with.'
'Don't.'
'Thought I saw young Todd heading inside, too, clean suit and everything…'
Tes.'
'I was thinking you might've dropped him, now his brother's part of the deal.'
'Phyl shares your interest, but Todd's busy reviewing about two hundred hours of committee tapes made by Charles Riordan.
Should keep him out of harm's way.'
'And you've kept the Chief informed?'
'That's my call, not yours.'
Rebus tutted, and watched as Corbyn gave a final wave to the reporters before entering the reception area. 'He's inside,' he said into the mouthpiece.
'Suppose I'd better get ready to look surprised.'
'Pleasantly surprised, Shiv. Might get you an extra brownie point.'
'I'm going to talk to him about your suspension.'
'You'll be on a hiding to nothing.'
'Even so…' She drew in some breath. 'And talk of the devil…'
The phone went dead in Rebus's hand. He nipped it shut and drummed his fingers against the steering wheel.
'Where are you, Mairie?' he muttered. But just as he uttered these words, Mairie Henderson appeared around the corner from East London Street, moving briskly uphill towards the police station.
She had a notebook in one hand, pen and Dictaphone in the other, and a large black satchel slung over one shoulder. Rebus sounded his horn, but she paid no heed. He tried again with the same lack of effect, and didn't want to attract any attention other than hers.
So he gave up and got out of the car, taking up position next to it with hands in pockets. Henderson was in conversation with one of her colleagues. Then she collared a photographer and asked him what shots he'd been taking. Rebus recognised him, thought his name was Mungo or something, knew he'd worked with Mairie in the past. A text arrived on her phone and she checked it while still talking to the snapper, before punching some buttons and making a call. Phone to her ear, she moved away from the melee towards the patch of grass which sat in the middle of Gayfield Square.
There was some litter there – empty wine bottles and fast-food wrappers – which she frowned at as she spoke. Then she lifted her eyes and saw Rebus. He was smiling. She kept her gaze on him as she spoke. Conversation over, she skirted the patch of grass. Rebus was back in the car; no point letting anyone else see him. Mairie Henderson climbed into the passenger seat, holding her satchel on her lap.
°What's up?' she said.
'And hello to you, Mairie. How's the newspaper business?'
'Crumbling at the seams,' she admitted. 'Between the freesheets and the Internet, readers willing to pay for their news are rapidly disappearing.'
'And ad revenue with them?' Rebus guessed.
'Meaning cutbacks,' she sighed.
'Not so much work for a freelancer like yourself?'
'There are still plenty of stories, John, it's just that the editors are loath to pay for them. Haven't you noticed the tabloids – they advertise for readers to send in news and pics…' She rested her head against the back of the seat, closing her eyes for a moment.
Rebus felt an unexpected jab of sympathy. He'd known Mairie for years, during which time they'd traded tips
