the Bowery at the bottom of Easter Road.
But instead he said, ‘Loon called McPhail, he’s the one watching Gorgie. He’s in charge.’
Oliphant nodded. ‘You know the way it works, come back in a day or two. There’ll be money if the gen’s on the nail.’
But Steele shook his head. ‘I’m off up to Aberdeen.’
‘So you are,’ said Oliphant. ‘Tell you what,’ he tore a sheet from a pad, ‘give me your address and I’ll send on the cash.’
Andy Steele had fun inventing the address.
Cafferty was playing snooker when he got the message. He had a quarter share in an upmarket snooker hall and leisure complex in Leith. The intended market had been yuppies, working class lads scraping their way up the greasy pole. But the yuppies had vanished in a puff of smoke. So now the complex was shifting cannily downmarket with video bingo, happy hour, an arcade full of electronic machines, and plans for a bowling alley. Teenagers always seemed to have money in their pockets. They would carve the bowling alley out of the little-used gymnasium, the restaurant next to it, and the aerobics room beyond that.
Staying in business, Cafferty had found, was all about remaining flexible. If the wind changed, you didn’t try to steer in the opposite direction. Mooted future plans included a soul club and a 1940s ballroom, the latter complete with tea dances and ‘blackout nights’. Groping nights, Cafferty called them.
He knew he was crap at snooker, but he liked the game. His theory ‘was fine; it was the practice that was lacking. Vanity prevented him taking lessons, and his renowned lack of patience would have dissuaded all but the most foolhardy from giving them. On Mo’s advice, he’d tried a few other sports-tennis, squash, even skiing one time. The only one he’d enjoyed was golf. He loved thwacking that ball all over the place. Problem was, he didn’t know when to hold back, he was always overshooting. If he hadn’t split at least a couple of balls after nine holes, he wasn’t happy.
Snooker suited him. It had everything. Tactics, ciggies, booze, and a few sidebets. So here he was again in the hall, overhead lights flooding the green tables, dusk everywhere else. Quiet, too, therapeutic; just the clack of the balls, the occasional comment or joke, a floor-stomp with the cue to signal a worthy shot. Then Jimmy the Ear was coming towards him.
‘Phone call from the house,’ he told Cafferty. Then he gave him Oliphant’s message.
Andrew McPhail trusted Rebus about as far as he could toss a caber into a gale. He knew he should be running for cover right now, let the caber land where it might. There were several ways it could go. Rebus might be setting up a meeting between McPhail and Maclean. Well, McPhail could prepare himself against this. Or it might be some other kind of ruse, probably ending up with a beating and the clear message to get the fuck out of Edinburgh.
Or it could be straight. Aye, if the spirit-level was bent. Rebus had asked McPhail to deliver a message, a letter. He’d even handed over the envelope. The message was for a man called Cafferty, who would be leaving the taxi office on Gorgie Road around ten.
‘So what’s the message?’
‘Never you mind,’ Rebus had said.
‘Why me?’
‘It can’t come from me, that’s all you need to know. Just make sure it’s him, and give him the envelope.’
‘This stinks.’
‘I can’t make it any simpler. We’ll meet afterwards and fix up your new future. The ball’s already rolling.’
‘Aye,’ said McPhail, ‘but where the fuck’s the net?’
Yet here he was, walking up Gorgie Road. A bit cold, threatening rain. Rebus had taken him to St Leonard’s this afternoon, let him shower and shave, even provided some clean clothes which he’d picked up from Mrs Mackenzie’s.
‘I don’t want a tramp delivering my post,’ he’d explained. Ah, the letter. McPhail wasn’t donnert; he’d torn the envelope open earlier this evening. Inside was a smaller brown envelope with some writing on the front: NO PEEKING NOW, McPHAIL!
He’d thought about opening it anyway. It didn’t feel like there was much inside, a single sheet of paper. But something stopped him, a pale spark of hope, the hope that everything was going to be all right.
He didn’t have a watch, but was a good judge of time. It felt like ten o’clock. And here he was in front of the taxi office. There were lights on inside, and cabs ready and waiting outside. Their busiest shift would be starting soon, the rides home after closing time. The night air smelt like ten o’clock. Diesel from the railway lines, rain close by. Andrew McPhail waited.
He saw the headlights, and when the car-a Jag-swerved and mounted the pavement his first thought was: drunk driver. But the car braked smoothly, stopping beside him, almost pinning him to the wire fence. The driver got out. He was big. A gust of wind flapped his long, hair, and McPhail saw that one ear was missing.
‘You McPhail?’ he demanded. The back door of the Jag was opening slowly, another man getting out. He wasn’t as big as the driver, but he somehow
The letter was in McPhail’s pocket. ‘Cafferty?’ he asked, forcing the word from his lungs.
The smiling man blinked lazily in acknowledgement. In McPhail’s other pocket was the broken neck of a whisky bottle he’d found beside an overflowing bottle bank. It wasn’t much of a weapon, but it was all he could afford. Even so, he didn’t rate his chances. His bladder felt painfully full. He reached for the letter.
The driver pinned his arms to his side and swung him around, so he was face to face with Cafferty, who swung a kick into his groin. The butt of a three-section snooker cue slipped expertly from Cafferty’s coat sleeve into his hand. As McPhail doubled over, the cue caught him on the side of the jaw, fracturing it, dislodging teeth. He fell further forwards and was rewarded with the cue on the back of his neck. His whole body went numb. Now the driver was pulling his head up by the hair and Cafferty was forcing his mouth open with the cue, working it past his tongue and into his throat.
‘Hold it there!’ Two of them, a man and a woman, running from across the street and holding open their IDs. ‘Police officers.’
Cafferty lifted both hands away, raising them head high. He had left the cue in McPhail’s mouth. The driver released the battered man, who remained upright on his knees. Shakily, Andrew McPhail started to pull the snooker cue out of his throat. There were sirens close by as a police car approached.
‘It’s nothing, officer,’ Cafferty was saying, ‘a misunderstanding.’
‘Some misunderstanding,’ said the male police officer. His sidekick slipped her hand into McPhail’s pocket. She felt a broken bottle. Wrong pocket. From the other pocket she produced the letter, crumpled now. She handed it to Cafferty.
‘Open this, please, sir,’ she said.
Cafferty stared at it. ‘Is this a set-up?’ But he opened it anyway. Inside was a scrap of paper, which he unfolded. The note was unsigned. He knew who it was from anyway. ‘Rebus!’ he spat. ‘That bastard Rebus!’
A few minutes later, as Cafferty and his driver were being taken away, and the ambulance was arriving for Andrew McPhail, Siobhan picked up the note which Cafferty had dropped. It said simply, ‘I hope they sell your skin for souvenirs.’ She frowned and looked up at the surveillance window, but couldn’t see anyone there.
Had she seen anything, it would have been the outline of a man making the shape of a gun from his fist, lining up the thumb so Cafferty was in its sights, and pulling the imaginary trigger.
Bang!
35
Nobody at St Leonard’s believed Holmes and Siobhan were there that night simply out of an exaggerated sense of duty. The more credible version had them meeting for a clandestine shag and just happening upon the beating. Lucky there was film in the surveillance camera. And didn’t the photos come out well?
With Cafferty in custody, they got the chance to take away his things and have yet another look at the… including the infamous coded diary. Watson and Lauderdale were poring over xeroxed sheets from it when there
