Lauderdale and Rebus it was a dislike of Flower, though Lauderdale was slowly being drawn into the Flower camp.
Rebus, however, had contempt even for the funny way the man spelt his first name. He called him ‘Little Weed’ and thought probably Flower had something to do with the taxman’s sudden enquiries.
In the operation against the money lenders, Flower was to lead the other surveillance team. Typically, in an effort to appease the man, Lauderdale offered him the pick of the surveillances. One would be of a pub where the lenders were said to hang out and take payments. The other would be of what looked like the nominal HQ of the gang, an office attached to a mini-cab firm on Gorgie Road.
‘I’ve okayed the Gorgie surveillance with Divisional HQ West,’ said Lauderdale, as ever efficient behind a desk. Take him out onto the streets, Rebus knew, and he was about as efficient as pepper on a vindaloo.
‘Well,’ said Flower, ‘if it’s okay with Inspector Rebus, I think I’d prefer the watch on the pub. It’s a bit closer to home.’ And Flower smiled.
‘Interesting choice,’ said Rebus, his arms folded, legs stretched out in front of him.
Lauderdale was nodding, his eyes flitting between the two men. ‘Well, that’s settled then. Now, let’s get down to details.’
The same details, in fact, that Rebus and he had gone through in the hour prior to Flower’s arrival. Rebus tried to concentrate but couldn’t. He was desperate to get back to the Central Hotel records. But the more agitated he grew, the slower things moved.
The plan itself was simple. The money lenders worked out of the Firth Pub in Tollcross. They picked up business there, and generally hung around waiting for debtors to come and pay the weekly dues. The money was taken at some point to the office in Gorgie. This office also was used as a drop-off point by debtors, and here the leading visible player could be found.
The men working out of the Firth were bit-parts. They collected cash, and maybe even used some verbal persuasion when payment was late. But when it came to the crunch, everyone paid dues to Davey Dougary. Davey turned up every morning at the office as prompt as any businessman, parking his BMW 635CSi beside the battered mini-cabs. On the way from car to office, if the weather was warm he would slip his jacket off and roll up his shirt- sleeves. Yes, Trading Standards had been watching Davey for quite some time.
There would be Trading Standards officers involved in both surveillances. The police were really only there to enforce the law; it was a Trading Standards operation in name. The name they had chosen was Moneybags. Another interesting choice, thought Rebus, so original. Keeping surveillance in the pub would mean sitting around reading newspapers, circling the names of horses on the betting sheet, playing pool or the jukebox or dominoes. Oh yes, and drinking beer; after all, they didn’t want to stand out in the crowd.
Keeping surveillance on the office meant sitting in the window of a disused first floor room in the tenement block across the road. The place was without charm, toilet facilities, or heating. (The bathroom fittings had been stolen during a break-in earlier in the year, down to the very toilet-pan.) A happy prospect, especially for Holmes and Clarke who would bear the burden of the surveillance, always supposing Holmes recovered in time. He thought of his two junior officers spending long days huddling for warmth in a double sleeping-bag. Hell’s bells. Thank God Dougary didn’t work nights. And thank God there’d be some Trading Standards bodies around too.
Still, the thought of nabbing Davey Dougary warmed Rebus’s heart. Dougary was bad the way a rotten apple was. There was no repairing the damage, though the surface might seem untainted. Of course, Dougary was one of Big Ger Cafferty’s ‘lieutenants’. Cafferty had even turned up once at the office, captured on film. Much good would it do; he’d have a thousand good reasons for that visit. There’d be no pinning him in court. They might get Dougary, but Cafferty was a long way off, so far ahead of them they looked like they were pushing their heap of a car while he cruised in fifth gear.
‘So,’ Lauderdale was saying. ‘We can start with this as of next Monday, yes?’
Rebus awoke from his reverie. It was clear that much had been discussed in his spiritual absence. He wondered if he’d agreed to any of it. (His silence had no doubt been received as tacit consent.)
‘I’ve no problem with that,’ said Flower.
Rebus moved again in his seat, knowing that escape was close now. ‘I’ll probably need someone to fill in for DS Holmes.’
‘Ah yes, how is he doing?’
‘I haven’t heard today, sir,’ Rebus admitted. ‘I’ll call before I clock off.’
‘Well, let me know.’
‘We’re putting together a collection,’ Flower said.
‘For Christ’s sake, he’s no’ deid yet!’
Flower took the explosion without flinching. ‘Well, all the same.’
‘It’s a nice gesture,’ Lauderdale said. Flower shrugged his shoulders modestly. Lauderdale opened his wallet and dug out a reluctant fiver, which he handed to Flower.
Hey, big spender, thought Rebus. Even Flower looked startled. ‘Five quid,’ he said, unnecessarily.
Lauderdale didn’t want any thanks. He just wanted Flower to take the money. His wallet had disappeared back into its cave. Flower stuck the note in his shirt pocket and rose from his chair. Rebus stood too, not looking forward to being in the corridor alone with Flower. But Lauderdale stopped him.
‘A word, John.’
Flower sniffed as he left, probably thinking Rebus was to receive a dressing down for his outburst. In fact, this wasn’t what Lauderdale had in mind.
‘I was passing your desk earlier. I see you’ve got the files on the Central Hotel fire. Old news, surely?’ Rebus said nothing. ‘Anything I should know about?’
‘No, sir,’ said Rebus, rising and making for the door. He reckoned Flower would be on his way by now. ‘Nothing you should know about. Just some reading of mine. You could call it a history project.’
‘Archaeology, more like.’
True enough: old bones and hieroglyphs; trying to make the dead come to life.
‘The past is important, sir,’ said Rebus, taking his leave.
4
The past was certainly important to Edinburgh. The city fed on its past like a serpent with its tail in its mouth. And Rebus’s past seemed to be circling around again too. There was a message on his desk in Clarke’s handwriting. Obviously she’d gone to visit Holmes, but not before taking a telephone call intended for her superior.
DI Morton called from Falkirk. He’ll try again another time. He wouldn’t say what it’s about.
Very cagey. I’ll be back in two hours.
She was the sort who would make up the two hours by staying late a few nights, even though Rebus had deprived her of a reasonable lunch-break. Despite being English, there was something of the Scottish Protestant in Siobhan Clarke. It wasn’t her fault she was called Siobhan either. Her parents had been English Literature lecturers at Edinburgh University back in the 1960s. They’d lumbered her with the Gaelic name, then moved south again, taking her to be schooled in Nottingham and London. But she’d come back to Edinburgh to go to college, and fallen in love (her story) with Edinburgh. Then she’d decided on the police as a career (alienating her friends and, Rebus suspected, her liberal parents). Still, the parents had bought her a New Town flat, so it couldn’t be all strife.
Rebus suspected she’d do well in the police, despite people like him. Women did have to work harder in the force to progress at the same pace as their male colleagues: everyone knew it. But Siobhan worked hard enough, and by Christ did she have a memory. A month from now, he could ask her about this note on his desk, and she’d remember the telephone conversation word for word. It was scary.
It was slightly scary too that Jack Morton’s name had come up at this particular time. Another ghost from Rebus’s past. When they’d worked together six years ago, Rebus wouldn’t have given the younger Morton more than four or five years to live, such was his steady consumption of booze and cigarettes.
There was no contact phone number. It would have taken only a few minutes to find the number of Morton’s nick, but Rebus didn’t feel like it. He felt like getting back to the files on his desk. But first he phoned the Infirmary
