Now Linford realised. He tried to think of something to say.
'Save it,' Rebus advised him. 'We both know what's going on here. You're a peeping Tom.'
'That's a lie.'
Rebus tutted. 'Try a bit more conviction next time.' He paused. 'Otherwise a conviction's just what you're going to get.'
'And what about you, eh?' Sneering. 'A quickie, was it? I notice it didn't take you long.'
'If you'd been noticing anything, you'd have seen me get into my car.' Rebus shook his head. 'How long's this been going on? Don't you think the neighbours will suss eventually? Strange man shuffling up and down the stairs at all hours...?'
Rebus went down a step to meet Linford at eye level.
'Go away now,' he said quietly. 'And don't come back. If you do, first thing I do is tell Siobhan. And after her, your boss at Fettes. They might like pretty boys there, but they don't go big on perverts.'
'It would be your word against mine.'
Rebus shrugged. 'What have I got to lose? You, on the other hand...' He let the sentence drift away. 'One more thing: it's my case now. I want you to stay out of the way; do you understand?'
'The brass won't go for it,' Linford scoffed. 'Without me, they'll take it away from you.'
'Will they?'
'Bet on it.' Derek Linford turned and started down the stairs. Rebus watched him leave, then climbed to the next landing. From the window, he could see Siobhan's living room and one of her bedrooms. Her curtains still weren't closed. She was seated on her sofa, chin resting on one hand, staring into space. She looked utterly miserable, and somehow he didn't think coffee was the answer.
He called her from his mobile as he headed home. She didn't sound too upset. Back at his own flat, he collapsed into the chair with a single measure of Bunnahabhain. 'Westering home', it said on the bottle, and they'd quoted from the ballad: Light in the eye, and it's goodbye to care. Yes, he'd known malts that could do that. But it was a sham relief. He got up, added a dribble of water to the drink and put some music on the hi-fi: Siobhan's tape of the Blue Nile. There were messages on his answerphone. Ellen Wylie: progress report, and reminding him he'd said he'd find out about Bryce Callan.
Cammo Grieve: wanting a meeting; suggesting time and place. 'If it's at all convenient, don't bother getting back to me. I'll see you there.'
Bryce Callan was long gone. Rebus checked his watch. He knew someone he could talk to. Wasn't sure it would help, but he'd made the offer tb Wylie and Hood. It didn't do to go crapping on the junior officers.
Remembering how he'd just dumped a bucketload on Derek Linford, Rebus grew thoughtful.
Another ten minutes of the Blue Nile - 'Walk Across the Roofops', 'Tinseltown in the Rain' - and he decided it was time to take his own walk. Not across the rooftops, but down to his car. He was heading for the badlands of Gorgie.
Gorgie was the centre of Big Ger Cafferty's operations. Cafferty had been Edinburgh's biggest player until Rebus had put him in Barlinnie Prison. But Cafferty's empire still existed, maybe even flourished, under the control of a man called the Weasel. Rebus knew that the Weasel operated out of a private cab company in Gorgie. The place had been torched a while back, but had risen from the ashes. There was a small front office, with a compound behind. But the Weasel did his business upstairs, in a room few people knew about. It was nearly ten by the time Rebus got there. He parked the car and left it unlocked: this was probably the safest place in the city.
The front office comprised a counter, with chair and telephone behind, and a bench-seat in front. The bench-seat was where you sat if you were waiting for your cab. The man seated behind the counter eyed Rebus as he walked in. He was on the phone, taking details of a morning booking: Tollcross to the airport. Rebus sat on the bench and picked up a copy of the evening paper from the day before. Fake wood panelling surrounded him. The floor was linoleum. The man finished his call.
'Can I help you?' he asked.
He had black hair so badly cut it looked like an ill-fitting wig, and a nose which hadn't so much been broken in the past as thoroughly dismantled. His eyes were narrow, almond-shaped, and his teeth were crooked where they existed at all.
Rebus took a look around. 'Thought the insurance money might have bought better than this.'
'Eh?'
'I mean it's no better than what was here before Tommy Telford torched the place.'
The eyes became little more than slits. 'What do you want?'
'I want to see the Weasel.'
'Who?'
'Look, if he's not upstairs, just say so. But make sure you're not lying, because I get the feeling I'll be able to tell, and I won't be very happy.' He flipped open his warrant card, then stood up and held it towards the security camera in the far corner. A wall-mounted speaker crackled into life.
'Henry, send Mr Rebus up.'
There were two doors at the top of the stairs, but only one was open. It led to a small, neat office. Fax machine and photocopier, one desk with a laptop and surveillance screen on it, and at the second desk the Weasel. He still looked insignificant, but he was the power in this part of Edinburgh until Big Ger came home. Thinning hair greased back from a protruding forehead; a jawline that was all bones; narrow mouth, so that his face seemed to come to a point.
'Take a seat,' the Weasel said.
'I'll stand,' Rebus answered. He made to close the door. 'Leave it open.'
Rebus took his hand off the door handle, thought for a moment - the room was stuffy, mixed body odours - then crossed the narrow landing to the other door. He knocked three times. 'All right in there, lads?' Pushed the door open. Three of the Weasel's men were standing just inside. 'This won't take long,' he told them, closing the door again. Then he closed the Weasel's door, too, so that it was just the two of them.
Now he sat down. Spotted the carrier bags by one wall, whisky bottles peeping out.
'Sorry to spoil the party,' he said. 'What can I do for you, Rebus?' The Weasel's hands were resting on the arms of his chair, as though he might be about to spring to his feet.
'Were you here in the late seventies? I know your boss was. But he was small beer then: playing a few little games, bedding himself in. Were you with him that far back?'
'What do you want to know?'
'I thought I'd just told you. Bryce Callan was running things then. Don't tell me you didn't know Bryce?'
'I know the name.'
'Cafferty was his muscle for a while.' Rebus cocked his head. 'Any of this jarring your memory? See, I thought I could ask you, save a trip to the Bar-L and me wasting your boss's time.'
'Ask me what?' The hands came off the chair arms. He was relaxing, now that he knew Rebus's subject was ancient history rather than current affairs. But Rebus knew that one false move on his part and the Weasel would squeal, bringing his minders charging in and ensuring Rebus a visit to A&E at the very least.
'I want to know about Bryce Callan. Did he have a spot of bother with a builder called Dean Coghill?'
'Dean Coghill?' The Weasel frowned. 'Never heard of him.'
'Sure?'
The Weasel nodded.
'I heard Callan had been giving him grief.'
'This was twenty years ago?' The Weasel waited till Rebus nodded. 'Then what the hell's it got to do with me? Why should I tell you anything?'
'Because you like me?'
The Weasel snorted. But now his face changed. Rebus turned to look at the monitor, but too late; he'd missed whatever the Weasel had seen. Heavy footsteps, taking the stairs with effort. The door swung open. The Weasel was on his feet, moving from behind the desk. And Rebus was on his feet, too.
'Strawman!' The voice booming. Big Ger Cafferty filled the doorway. He was wearing a blue silk suit,
