'And he wanted to know what I knew. You haven't made yourself a friend there, Strawman.'
'Inside, I'm crying.'
'You think he's mixed up in these murders?'
'Are you here to tell me he isn't?'
Cafferty shook his head. 'I'm here to tell you that his nephew's the one you should be looking at.'
Rebus digested this.
'Why?' he asked at last.
Cafferty just shrugged.
'Does this come from Callan?'
'Indirectly.'
Rebus snorted. 'I don't get it. Why would Callan dump Barry Hutton in it?' Cafferty shrugged again. 'It's a funny thing...' Rebus went on.
'What?'
Rebus stared out of his window. 'Here we are coming into Musselburgh. Know what its nickname is?'
'I forget.'
'The Honest Toun.'
'What's funny about that?'
'Just that you've brought me here to feed me a load of shite. It's you that wants to see Hutton get burned.' He stared at Cafferty. 'I wonder why that should be?'
The sudden anger in Cafferty's face seemed to give off a heat all of its own. 'You're mad, do you know that? You'd ignore any crime sitting in your path, sidestep it just so you could give me a bloody nose. That's the truth, isn't it, Strawman? You don't want anyone else; you just want Morris Gerald Cafferty.'
'Don't flatter yourself.'
'I'm trying to do you a favour here. Get you a bit of glory and maybe keep Bryce Callan from killing you.'
'So when did you become the UN peacekeeper?'
'Look...' Cafferty sighed; some of the blood had left his cheeks. 'Okay, maybe there is something in it for me.'
'What?'
'All you need to know is there's more in it for John Rebus.' Cafferty was indicating, bringing the car to a halt kerbside on the High Street. Rebus looked around; saw just the one landmark.
'Luca's?' In summer, the cafe had queues out the door. But this was winter. Mid-afternoon and the lights were on inside.
'Used to be the best ice cream around,' Cafferty was saying, undoing his seat belt. 'I want to see if it still is.'
He bought two vanilla cones, brought them outside. Rebus was pinching his nose, shaking his head incredulously.
'One minute Callan's putting a contract on me, the next we're eating ice cream.'
'It's the small things you savour in this life, ever noticed that?' Cafferty had already started on his cone. 'Now if there was racing on, we could have had a flutter.' Musselburgh Racecourse: the Honest Toun's other attraction.
Rebus tasted the ice cream. 'Give me something on Hutton.' he said, 'something I can use.'
Cafferty thought for a moment, 'Council junkets,' he said. 'Everyone in Hutton's line of work needs friends.' He paused, 'The city might be changing, but it still works the same old way.'
Barry Hutton went shopping: parked his car in the St James Centre and hit a computer shop, John Lewis department store, and then out on to Princes Street and the short walk to Jenners. He bought clothes, while Derek Linford pretended to study a range of neckties. The shops were all busy enough; Linford knew he hadn't been spotted. He'd never done surveillance before, but knew the theory. He bought one of the ties - pale orange and green stripes - and swapped it for his own plain maroon.
The man Hutton had seen in the company car park had worn the maroon tie: different tie, different man.
Across the road to the Balmoral Hotel, afternoon tea with a man and a woman: business, briefcases open. Then back to the car park and the crawl to Waverley Bridge, traffic building as the rush hour neared. Hutton parked on Market Street, made for the rear entrance to the Carlton Highland Hotel. He was carrying a sports holdall. Linford made the deduction: health club. He knew the hotel had one - he'd almost joined it, but the fees had put him off. His thinking at the time: way to meet people, the city's movers and shakers. But at a price.
He bided his time. There was a bottle of water in the glove compartment, but he knew he daren't drink anything - just his luck to be off having a pee when Hutton came out. Ditto eating. His stomach was growling: cafe just along the road... He searched the glove compartment again, came up with a stick of chewing gum.
'Bon appetit,' he said to himself, unwrapping it.
Hutton spent an hour in the club. Linford was keeping a record of his movements, and duly noted the time to the minute. He was alone when he came out, his hair damp from the shower, holdall swinging. He had that sheen, that scrubbed confidence which came with a workout.
Back into his car, and heading towards Abbeyhill. Linford checked his mobile phone. The battery was dead. He plugged it into the cigar lighter, got it charging. He wondered about calling Rebus, but to say what exactly? To ask his consent? You're doing the right thing; keep at it. The action of a weak man.
He wasn't weak. And here was the proof.
They were on Easter Road now, Hutton busy on his own mobile. The whole trip he'd been carrying on conversations, hardly ever glancing in rearview or side mirrors. Not that it would have mattered - Linford was three cars back.
But then suddenly they were in Leith, taking side roads. Linford hung back, hoping someone would overtake, but there was nobody there, nobody but the suspect and him. Left and right, the roads getting narrower, tenements either side of them, front doors opening directly on to the pavement. Children's playgrounds, broken glass sparkling in the headlights. Dusk. Hutton pulling over suddenly. Down by the docks, Linford guessed. He didn't know this part of town at all; tried to avoid it: schemes and hard-man dives. Weapons of choice: the bottle and the kitchen knife. The assaults tended to be on friends and 'loved ones'.
Hutton had parked outside one of the hard-man dives: a tiny pub, with narrow curtained windows seven feet off the ground. Solid-looking door: you'd think the place was locked. But Hutton knew better, pushed open the door and walked straight in. He left his holdall on the Ferrari's front seat, shopping bags in the back, the whole lot in full view.
Stupid or confident. Linford would bet the latter. He thought of the Leith pub in Trainspotting, the American tourist asking for the toilet, the schemies following him in, divvying the spoils after. That was this kind of pub. The place didn't even have a name, just a sign outside advertising Tennent's Lager. Linford checked his watch, entered the details in his log. A textbook surveillance. He checked his phone for messages. There weren't any. He knew the singles club was having a night out, starting at nine. He wasn't sure whether to go or not. Maybe Siobhan would be there again - it wasn't her case now but you never knew. He hadn't heard any stories about him being at the club that night, so probably Siobhan had kept her word, not said anything to anyone. That was good of her. considering... He'd given her the ammo, and after what he'd done, she still hadn't used it.
Then again, what had he done? Loitered outside her flat like a lovelorn teenager. Not such a heinous crime, was it? It had only been the three times. Even if Rebus hadn't found him... well, he'd have given up soon enough, and that would have been an end of it. It was down to Rebus really, wasn't it? Landing him in it with Siobhan, leaving him marginalised at work. Christ, yes, exactly what Rebus had wanted all along. One in the eye for the Fettes fast-stream. He could rise to chief constable and it would be there, hanging over him. Rebus would be retired, of course, maybe even have drunk himself to death, but Siobhan would be around, unless she went off to get married, have kids.
Always with the power to hurt him.
He didn't know what to do about that. The ACC had told him, no one's irreplaceable.
