‘Careful,’ Oram said.
He lifted his hand and saw spots of pale blue paint on the tips of his fingers. Oram handed him a rag from a pile further along the bench.
‘I’ve got some white spirit if you want.’
Rebus shook his head. ‘It’ll come off. Nice colour, though.’
‘Posh paint for the premium lets.’
He put the rag back on the bench and took out a card with his number on it. ‘When you next talk to your dad, tell him to give me a bell.’ He placed the card on top of the used rag. ‘By the way, how long ago did you last see him?’
‘Three weeks, more or less.’
‘I know he was trying to get off the booze, but did you ever take him to the Moorfoot?’ He watched Oram shake his head. ‘Not even for sentimental reasons?’
‘He hated the fact it wasn’t his pool hall any more.’
‘You like the place, though?’
Oram offered a shrug. ‘It’s round the corner from the house.’ He looked around him. ‘I’ve got work I need to be getting on with.’
‘Aye, me too.’
‘What will you tell Cafferty?’
‘As little or as much as I think he needs to know. And Tommy, if I thought Cafferty meant your dad any harm, I wouldn’t be doing this. Tell Jack he’s safe — I’ll be there to make sure.’
Oram picked up the card and slid it into his pocket. ‘I’ll tell him,’ he said. Rebus wanted to believe him, but he wasn’t sure that he did.
Back in his car, he wondered about the young man and what he’d already had to deal with in his young life. Maybe his future would be brighter. The two kids were pedalling hard across the rutted playing field towards their own futures, their dog trotting behind them. Rebus sounded his horn in farewell as he passed them.
Jack Oram hadn’t been close to his brother and didn’t attend his funeral. Unlikely he’d have sent money to the widow, using it instead to tide him over during his time on the run.
‘Hell’s going on here?’ Rebus muttered to himself as he drove.
11
Cafferty’s assistant was waiting at the door.
‘Andrew, right?’ Rebus said.
‘No dogs,’ Andrew said, eyes on Brillo.
‘He’s house-trained, unlike your boss.’
‘They spread germs.’
‘Okay, in that regard maybe he is like your boss, but if I leave him out here, he’ll howl the place down.’
Andrew stared at him, then disappeared back inside, the door clicking after him. Rebus checked, but it was locked.
‘Clever boy,’ he muttered. Brillo looked at him expectantly. ‘Yes, you too.’
A minute later, the door reopened, Andrew standing back to let dog and owner in. ‘Still need to frisk you,’ he announced.
‘Just me, or the dog too?’
‘Just you.’
Rebus stretched his arms out to either side. ‘I used to be in the army, you know. They showed us how to kill someone with a rolled-up magazine to the throat. Maybe you should sweep the premises for potential weapons.’
Andrew patted him down without saying anything. Once he’d finished, he met Rebus’s eyes. ‘You were probably a piece of work in your day.’
‘I held my own against your employer, if that’s what you mean.’
‘Changed times, though.’
‘As a man called Dylan once sang.’
‘Who?’
Rebus gave a theatrical sigh before starting down the long hallway.
‘I want him kept on the leash,’ Cafferty warned. He was seated by the window. A trolley table had been placed in front of him, a newspaper open on it alongside a hot drink and his phone. ‘I take it there’s news,’ he said, his focus on the day’s headlines.
‘Oram’s been seen,’ Rebus obliged, ‘though not for a few weeks. His son seems to think he got wind you were looking for him and headed for the hills again. Makes me wonder if I’m the first person you’ve had working on it.’
‘How wounded would your pride be if you weren’t?’ Cafferty paused, hands resting on the newspaper. ‘What makes you so sure the son’s not spinning you a story?’
‘He wouldn’t be the only one, would he?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘There was no love lost between Oram and his brother. The son reckons his dad wouldn’t have handed over a bean.’
Cafferty made a noise at the back of his throat. He folded the paper closed and focused on Rebus. ‘You’ve been busy, I’ll grant you.’
‘I even went to QC Lettings, your old stamping ground. Nobody there seems to have had dealings with Jack Oram, though there is one Oram they know — the son works for them.’
‘News to me.’ Cafferty’s fleshy brow furrowed. ‘He never gave that money to the family?’
‘Who told you he did?’
But Cafferty wasn’t about to answer. Brillo had stopped sniffing his immediate surroundings and sent up a quiet mewl of complaint.
‘Mind if I give him some water?’
It took Cafferty a moment to make up his mind. ‘One of the yellow bowls, cupboard above the sink. I never use them.’
‘Dinner parties only?’
Cafferty was studying the back page of the paper, filled with sports coverage. ‘Siobhan still a Hibs fan?’ he asked.
‘Far as I know.’
On his way to the sink, Rebus passed the coffee table. A pile of mail sat there, a larger envelope at the bottom. He could make out the words MGC Lettings on its corner. He angled his head towards Cafferty, but the man was still reading — or putting up a decent pretence. Rebus filled the bowl from the tap, placing it on the floor next to the coffee table. The slurps that started coming from Brillo covered any sound as he lifted the letters above the larger envelope. Its contents had been removed — a single sheet of paper, a photocopy of a blurry photograph, no writing. The profile of a man in a living room, patterned wallpaper behind him, shot from the doorway, one edge of the door coming into frame.
‘Noisy little bastard,’ Cafferty grumbled, starting to turn his chair around. The trolley didn’t make it easy, and he had to reverse away from it, giving Rebus plenty of time to step away from the envelopes and gaze instead at Brillo.
‘So what’s next on the agenda?’ Cafferty asked.
Rebus gave a shrug. ‘If he’s gone, he’s gone.’
‘You said it yourself, though — the son works for the lettings agency. Good reason for his dad to go there, yet nobody seems to have seen him? Tell me you don’t think that’s a bit skew-whiff?’
‘You didn’t take me on to look at the lettings firm.’
‘The son must know more than he’s telling,’ Cafferty persisted.
‘I drove past the Gallery of Modern Art earlier. They’ve a huge neon sign outside —“There Will Be No Miracles Here”, it says.’ Might be art, but that doesn’t mean it’s wrong.’
‘I’m not asking for a miracle, just another day or two of your time. His old allies, his old haunts...’
‘I already tried the Potter’s Bar.’
‘And?’
‘Yet another dead loss. How much did he take from you anyway?’
‘Hard to say. Fifteen, maybe twenty grand.’
Rebus had crouched down to give Brillo a pat.
‘There’s something else bugging you,’ Cafferty said, edging his wheelchair closer. The movement spooked Brillo. Rebus scooped the dog up into his arms, cradling it. ‘You been painting?’ Cafferty had noticed the smears of blue on Rebus’s fingers.
‘Man needs a hobby,’ Rebus told him. ‘And yes, something else is bugging me — it’s called Tynecastle.’
‘Cop shop rather than stadium, I’m guessing.’