‘Interesting, no?’ Fox said once they were back on the pavement.
‘We certainly got him rattled.’
‘You reckon he’s holding back?’
Clarke nodded. ‘Same as you do. Question is: what do we do about it?’
‘There are forensic accountants at Gartcosh. I might offer it to them.’
Clarke was thoughtful for a moment. ‘For someone accused of racism, he has a demonstrably international taste in friends.’
‘As long as they’re rich and not Jewish.’
‘What about the golf course angle? The one near where bin Mahmoud was killed?’
‘You reckon there’s anything there?’
‘I’ve no idea, Malcolm.’ She checked the time on her phone.
‘Walkies for Brillo?’
‘Poor wee sod’s been waiting long enough. You coming along, or do you need to report back to Cafferty?’ She watched him start to scowl. ‘I’m just teasing,’ she said.
‘I don’t think you are,’ he answered, stuffing his hands into his pockets and turning away.
‘You’ve nothing to apologise for,’ Clarke told herself in an undertone. ‘You’re not the one caught between a gangster and Special Branch…’
Cafferty was at his usual banquette on the mezzanine level at the Jenever Club, nursing his usual lemonade, when Benny called with news.
‘Might have something, boss. Good shout on Moredun. This guy lives just off Moredunvale Road, runs the local gang there. Not unknown to the cops.’
Cafferty took a sip of his drink. ‘A name would be nice, Benjamin.’
‘Cole Burnett.’
‘Like the stuff we used to mine?’
Benny spelled it for him.
‘Never heard of him,’ Cafferty admitted, more to himself than to his employee.
‘Want me to haul him in?’
‘You’ve seen him?’
‘Not yet. Got his address, though.’
‘And what makes you so sure he’s our guy?’
‘He has a taste for nicking phones. A shove and a kick and he’s off.’
‘Who does he sell them to?’ Cafferty listened to the silence as Benny tried to work out how best to tell him he had no idea. ‘Doesn’t matter. But yes, I want him hauled in. Maybe to the club, though let’s wait till it’s shut. Not much noise escapes the cellars–you could have the Hulk wired up to the mains and no one on the street outside would know.’
‘Car battery does the job just as well,’ Benny commented.
‘You’d know more about that than I would,’ Cafferty said, though both of them knew that wasn’t strictly true.
14
It was gone midnight by the time May Collins ushered the final customers out. She had been joined for the evening shift by a barman called Cameron. He was in his twenties and lived in a caravan behind the pub, which he shared with his tattoos and facial piercings.
‘The room you’re in is his by rights,’ Collins had explained to Rebus, ‘but he’d rather be where he is.’
Rebus helped clear the tables of glasses and other detritus, while Collins stacked stools and chairs and Cameron loaded the glasswasher.
‘Leave the floor till morning,’ Collins suggested.
‘Busiest we’ve been in a while.’ Cameron didn’t sound displeased. There had been no hassle, no rowdiness. The pub had become a community hub, inquisitive journalists given short shrift. Two of the journalists had been around the last drinkers to leave–one from Inverness, one from Aberdeen. The one from Inverness had approached Rebus at one point to tell him: ‘Laura Smith says hello and that you should call her back.’ To which Rebus had responded with a few choice words of his own, causing the reporter to retreat, spending the rest of the evening in a huddle with his fellow newshound.
There had been toasts to Keith’s memory and reminiscences from those who’d known him, but behind it all lay the vast whispered question: did they have a murderer in their midst? Rebus had eavesdropped on a few suggestions. It was travellers, strangers, immigrants. Hadn’t there been a murder in Thurso a couple of years back, the culprit never caught? And hadn’t that been caused by a blow to the skull too? Necessary stories, he knew–an attempt to deflect rather than explain the reality of the situation. One wilder theory saw a poltergeist placed squarely in the frame.
‘I’ve seen strange things out that way,’ the proposer had told his rapt audience. ‘Lights, sounds, shadows moving behind the main fence…’
Catching Rebus’s eye, Collins had shaken her head slowly.
He’d spent the evening nursing a single pint, which, once flat, he’d switched for a whisky, adding plenty of water.
‘Sorry not to be putting more into the coffers,’ he’d apologised, handing a five-pound note across the bar.
‘We’re doing grand without you,’ Collins had replied.
She opened the till now and scooped notes and coins into a bag. ‘Just going to put this in the safe,’ she told Cameron, disappearing through a doorway.
Cameron was behind the bar again, pouring himself a cider, everything done that needed doing. Rebus studied the gantry. Among the bottles sat a coat of arms, a few faded postcards from overseas, a fake twenty-pound note, examples of various foreign currencies, and a few snaps taken in the bar down the years.
‘That’s May’s dad,’ Cameron said, tapping one of the photos. ‘Used to run this place until it got too much for him. Long before my time, mind.’
‘Does he still come in?’
The barman shook his head. ‘I think the place holds too many memories. Good ones, I mean, but he’s a shadow of himself these days.’
‘I know the feeling.’
Cameron managed a wry smile. ‘You’re staying the night here, eh?’
‘Samantha needs a bit of space.’
‘Understandable, I suppose.’ He had finished the cider in a few hefty gulps. ‘That’s me then.’ He lifted his denim jacket from a hook.
‘Did you have much to do with Keith?’
‘Served him a few drinks now and then.’
Rebus’s eyes were on the gantry again. ‘What used to be there?’ He nodded towards a triangular arrangement of thin nails.
‘Believe it or not, a revolver.’ Cameron pointed to each nail in turn. ‘Barrel rested on that, trigger guard on that, grip on that. Think it belonged to Mr Collins, but I’m not sure. Rusted all to hell.’
‘What happened to it?’
The barman gave a shrug. ‘May tossed it, I guess. Not every drinker wants
