‘Sorry, boss. Need me to bring the car round?’
‘What I need you to do is get off your fat arse and go talk to a few people. Chinese student was mugged last night and her phone taken. If it’s some wee fud from the schemes, he’ll be blabbing about it. You need to go to those schemes and find out who he is.’
‘What for?’
‘Because I’m telling you to!’
‘Sure, boss, absolutely.’
‘Attack happened in Marchmont, so maybe start in the south–Moredun, Gracemount… psycho country, in other words. You got any contacts there?’
‘Some, aye.’
‘Fuck are you waiting for then? News or no news, phone me in two hours.’
Cafferty stabbed at his mobile, ending the call. He waited for his breathing to return to normal. Maybe sixty or seventy per cent of his job was act and attitude. He wasn’t like some of these younger thugs who needed to be tooled up to get what they wanted. A look and a word was usually enough–or it had been in the past. It was getting harder, the world was changing. The younger model of gangster tended to have no boundaries and no off-switch. They were creeping north from places like Manchester and Liverpool, muscling in on cities like Dundee where the last thing the resident population needed was a cheaper but altogether more venal and threatening source of drugs. So far Cafferty’s reputation had protected much of his Edinburgh operation, but he wasn’t sure that would last much longer. Even so, he still had his club, the boutique hotel in the New Town, the car wash and the betting shop.
And then there were the flats he rented out, many of the classier ones to overseas students. Predominantly these days those students were Chinese. One of their number got attacked with no comebacks, they might begin to wonder if Edinburgh was the place for them. Wouldn’t matter so much if there were other nationalities to replace them, but with the uncertainty of Brexit… A large part of his income was clean these days and he wanted to keep it that way. Property had proven a solid investment, and he was considering moving into commercial land development–Stewart Scoular’s domain, to be precise. It was a world he hoped would bring him closer to people of quality, people like Lady Isabella and the bin Mahmoud family. People like Giovanni Morelli.
And further all the time from Benny and his ilk.
Cafferty cast his eyes around the room he was standing in.
‘Never enough,’ he said to himself.
No matter how much and how far, it was never anything like enough.
11
The main street of Naver was busier than Rebus had seen it. Knots of locals deep in conversation, cars cruising up and down, their occupants drinking in every moment and interaction. Rebus knew that the media would be on their way, too, ready to swell the ranks of gawpers. He unlocked his Saab and turned the ignition. The engine started first time but didn’t sound one hundred per cent. When he pushed down hard on the accelerator, eyes turned to look at him. He turned the engine off and got out again.
He kept his head down as he walked, ignoring the couple of questioning voices, people who obviously knew who he was. The house he wanted was towards the end of the street. He rang the doorbell and waited. A woman in her seventies, slightly stooped, opened the door and gestured him inside as if welcoming a refugee. She gripped both his hands in her own.
‘A terrible, terrible shock to all of us.’
‘Thanks for seeing me at such short notice, Mrs McKechnie.’
‘Not at all, not at all. Please, this way. And call me Joyce.’
The sitting room was small and cluttered, china ornaments everywhere, framed family photos covering the walls. The fire was lit and seemed to be sucking all the oxygen from the confined space. There was a metal tray on the coffee table, cups, best china, and biscuits laid out. A man a few years younger than Mrs McKechnie had risen to his feet.
‘Edward Taylor,’ he said, shaking Rebus’s hand.
‘Sit down, the pair of you,’ Joyce McKechnie commanded. ‘Let me sort this out.’ She lifted the teapot. ‘Edward takes his black.’
‘Spot of milk, thanks,’ Rebus told her, sloughing off his jacket. Taylor was offering the plate of shortbread but Rebus shook his head.
‘Dreadful news about Keith,’ Taylor said. ‘My condolences.’
‘Thank you.’ There was silence until McKechnie had settled herself. ‘And I want to thank you again for agreeing to speak to me.’
‘The very least we can do,’ McKechnie said. Her accent was local, but Rebus got the feeling Taylor was from further south.
‘Even from my short time here, it’s obvious to me that Keith loved the history group.’
‘He was our hope for the future,’ Taylor said. ‘The rest of us are in what some would call our twilight years.’
‘The other members?’ Rebus nudged.
‘I phoned Anna, but no answer,’ Joyce McKechnie said. ‘I don’t think they’re back from their holiday.’
Anna and Jim Breakspear: the two other names Rebus had found in Keith Grant’s notes.
‘A select gathering,’ he commented.
‘On paper, we’ve well over a dozen members, but not everyone can spare as much time as they’d like.’
‘On the other hand,’ Taylor added, ‘Keith held down a full-time job and still played his part.’ He began to fiddle with one of the buttons on his dun-coloured cardigan.
‘You’re all fairly spry, though,’ Rebus reasoned. ‘I saw the digging you’d been doing.’
McKechnie gave a chuckle. ‘We twisted a few arms and managed to rally volunteers from the youth club.’
Rebus nodded his understanding and switched on his phone, finding the photo he needed. He rose to his feet, turning the screen away from him and holding it out. ‘Keith’s satchel has been found, but it was empty. What would you expect to be in it?’
Taylor peered
