'What's so urgent?' Rebus put his carrier bags down; they clinked musically as they came to rest.
'Bryce Callan.'
'What about him?'
'You don't have a case, do you?' Rebus didn't respond. 'Won't get one either. And I haven't noticed any worry lines on Barry Hutton's brow.'
'So?'
'So maybe I can help.'
Rebus shuffled his feet. 'And why would you do that?'
'I might have my reasons.'
'Reasons you didn't have ten days ago when I asked?'
'Maybe you didn't ask nicely enough.'
'Then I've got some bad news: my manners haven't improved with age.'
Cafferty smiled. 'Just a drive, Strawman. You can do your drinking, and fill me in on the case.'
Rebus narrowed his eyes. 'Land developer,' he mused. 'It would be branching out, wouldn't it?'
'Easier to do if you can take over an existing business,' Cafferty admitted.
'Barry Hutton's business? I put him away, you step in. I can't see Bryce being too happy.'
'My problem.' Cafferty winked. 'Let's go for that drive. Stick a note on the door, let the glamour models know the party's shifted back an hour.'
'They won't be happy. You know what models are like.', 'Overpaid and underfed, you mean? Would that be the opposite of yourself, DI Rebus?'
'Ha ha.'
'Careful now,' Cafferty warned. 'This time of the season, a split side can take ages to heal.'
Somehow, they'd been moving while they talked, and Rebus was surprised to find that he'd picked up his carrier bags, too. Now they stood by the Jag. Cafferty yanked open the driver's door, slid in behind the steering wheel in a single, practised movement. Rebus stood there a moment longer. Hogmanay, last day of the year: a day for paying debts, balancing the books... a day for finishing things.
He made to get in.
'Sling the booze in the back,' Cafferty suggested. 'I've a hip flask in the glove compartment, twenty- five-year-old Armagnac. Wait till you taste this stuff. I'm telling you, it would turn a heathen into John the fucking Baptist.'
But Rebus had extracted the Macallan from one of his bags. 'I'll stick to my own,' he said.
'Not a bad drop either.' Cafferty was making a great effort not to be offended. 'Make sure you waft some of it my way, so I can at least inhale.' He turned the ignition. The Jaguar purred like the cat it resembled. And suddenly they were moving, looking to the outside world like nothing more suspicious than two friends out for a jaunt. South to the Grange, and further south to Blackford Hill, then east towards the coast. And Rebus talked, as much for his own benefit as Cafferty's. About the pact two business friends had made with a devil called Bryce Callan, a pact which would lead to a killing. About how the killer waited in vain for his friend to return, living rough - a disguise against detection, or a route to penitence? Past lessons learned by Barry Hutton, now a successful businessman, seeing an opportunity for fresh riches and increased fame: replaying that game from twenty years before, determined that his man on the council would become his player in parliament...
At the end of the story Cafferty seemed thoughtful, then said, 'So it's tainted before it begins?'
'Maybe,' Rebus replied, putting the bottle back to his mouth. Portobello: that's where they looked to be headed, maybe park by the harbour and sit with windows open. But Cafferty headed on to Seafield Road and started driving towards Leith.
'There's some land up this way I'm thinking of buying.' he explained. 'Got some plans drawn up, builder called Peter Kirkwall did the costings.'
'For what?'
'Leisure complex - restaurant, maybe a cinema or health club. Some luxury flats parked on top.'
'Kirkwall works with Barry Hutton.'
'I know.'
'Hutton's sure to find out.'
Cafferty shrugged. 'Something I just have to live with.' He gave a smile Rebus couldn't read. 'I heard about this plot of land next to where they're building the parliament. It sold for three-quarters of a million four years ago. Know what its price is now? Four million. How's that for a yield?'
Rebus pushed the cork back into the bottle. This stretch of road was all car dealers, wasteland behind, and then the sea. They headed up a narrow, unlit lane, its surface uneven. A large metal fence at the far end. Cafferty stopped the Jag, got out and took a key to the padlock, pulled the heavy metal chain free and pushed the gates open with his foot.
'What's there to see?' Rebus asked, uneasy now, as Cafferty got back into the driving seat. He could run, but it was a long way to civilisation, and he was dead beat. Besides, he was done running.
'It's all warehouses just now. If you coughed too loud, they'd collapse. Easy enough to bulldoze, and there's a quarter-mile of seafront to play with.'
They drove through the gates.
'A quiet place for a chat,' Cafferty said.
But they weren't here to chat; Rebus knew that now. He turned his head, saw that another car was following them into the compound. It was a red Ferrari. Rebus turned back to Cafferty.
'What's going on?'
'Business,' Cafferty said coldly, 'that's all.' He stopped the Jag, pulled on the handbrake. 'Out,' he ordered. Rebus didn't move. Cafferty got out of the car, left his door open. The other car had pulled up alongside. Both sets of headlamps stayed on dipped, illuminating the cracked concrete surface of the compound. Rebus focused on one of the weeds, its jagged shadow crawling up the wall of one of the warehouses. Rebus's door was pulled open. Hands grabbed at him. He heard a soft click as his seat belt was unlocked, and then he was being dragged out, thrown on to the cold ground. He took his time looking up. Three figures, silhouetted against the headlamps, breath billowing from their dark faces. Cafferty and two others. Rebus started getting to his feet. The single malt had fallen from the car, smashed on the concrete. He wished he'd taken one more hit of it while he had the chance.
A boot to the chest had enough force to send him on to his backside. He put his hands out behind him, steadying himself, so that he was unprotected when the next blow came. To the face this time, connecting with his chin, cracking his head back. He felt the snap as bones in his neck uttered a complaint.
'Can't take a warning,' a voice said: not Cafferty's. A thin man, younger. Rebus narrowed his eyes, shielded them with a hand as though peering into the sun.
'It's Barry Hutton, isn't it?' Rebus asked.
'Pick him up,' was the barked response. The third man - Hutton's man - pulled Rebus to his feet as though he were made of cardboard, held him from behind.
'Gonny teach you,' Hutton hissed. Rebus could make out the features now: face tight with anger, mouth downturned, nose pinched. He was wearing black leather driving gloves. A question - absurd under the circumstances - flashed through Rebus's mind: wonder if they were a Christmas present?
Hutton hit him with a fist, connecting with Rebus's left cheek. Rebus rode the blow, but still felt it. As he turned his face, he caught a glimpse of the man pinning him from behind. It wasn't Mick Lorimer.
'Lorimer isn't with you tonight, then?' Rebus asked. Blood was pooling in his mouth. He swallowed it. 'Were you there the night he killed Roddy Grieve?'
'Mick just doesn't know when to stop,' Hutton said. 'I wanted the bastard warned off, not on a slab.'
'You just can't get the staff these days.' He felt the grip around his chest tighten, forcing the breath from his lungs.
'No, but there always seems to be a smart-arsed cop around when you least need it.' Another blow, this time bursting Rebus's nose open. Tears pounded from his eyes. He tried blinking them away. Oh, Jesus Christ, that hurt.
