‘Skeletons are about to come tumbling out of closets.’
‘Unfortunate for some.’
‘Present company included.’
‘We’re old men. We’ll be well down the list, no?’
‘I wouldn’t be so sure. Malcolm Fox is in town.’
‘Never liked that man.’
‘Didn’t stop you trying to tuck him into your pocket.’
‘I tried that with you too, if I remember correctly.’
‘Plenty still reckon you succeeded.’
‘Which amounts to more or less the same thing, while saving me a packet.’ Cafferty’s smile was as frosty as the top of the Pentlands.
‘Fox isn’t exactly on my pall-bearers list,’ Rebus said, ‘and there’s nothing he likes better than getting to grips with bent cops. No shortage of those at Tynie, some of them with ties to you — everything from nicked cars to Tony Barlow.’
Cafferty was on the move again, back to his trolley and his newspaper. ‘This is all because of that cop knocking his wife about?’
‘You’ve heard.’
‘Not much in the paper, but Andrew gets his news online. All the juicier when the victim’s brother-in-law is a weel-kent face, and James Pelham is definitely that.’ Cafferty paused, lost in thought for a moment. ‘The cop plans to cut a deal, is that it? And he’s got you rattled, which means Alan Fleck is probably rattled, too.’
‘I hope I’m not putting thoughts in your head.’
‘Thoughts are about all I’ve got left.’ His eyes met Rebus’s. ‘Another day or two, a bit more digging, that’s all I’m asking. Otherwise, I’d say a partial refund is due. What’s your outlay been so far — a couple of beers and a quarter-tank of petrol? Allies and old haunts, John — just to humour me.’ He peered into his mug. ‘Andrew!’ he bellowed. ‘I need a top-up!’
‘Floor could do with a wipe, too,’ Rebus commented. ‘Brillo’s not the most refined drinker.’
‘Tony Barlow,’ Cafferty mused. ‘There’s a name I’ve not heard in a while.’
‘Maybe we should add him to your apology list?’
‘Don’t tell me it still rankles?’
‘Francis Haggard was working at Tynecastle back then, Cafferty. Probably not much wrong with his memory.’
‘Stress can take years off your life, you know. You need to learn how to switch off.’ Cafferty noticed Andrew hovering in the doorway. ‘Mr Rebus and his mutt are just leaving. I’ll have my tea after.’
Once he’d seen Rebus out, Andrew brought the fresh mug to Cafferty, who was at the window, eye pressed to the telescope.
‘Not that you’re obsessed with the guy or anything,’ Andrew said. Cafferty turned, noting that Andrew had put a jacket on.
‘Off out?’
‘You know me. But I’ve got my phone and you’ve got your panic button.’
‘I never panic.’
‘Okay, your alarm, then.’
‘Nightclub, is it?’
‘Bit early. Might go for a drive first, check out the town.’
‘Send me photos if anything stands out.’
‘I always do, don’t I?’
Cafferty peered through the telescope. ‘There he goes,’ he said. ‘Not yet quite KO’d, but well on his way.’
‘It’s all working out, then?’
‘It’s all working out,’ Cafferty confirmed with a nod. He would wait until Andrew had left the room before attempting to pick up the mug. He didn’t like people noticing the slight tremor in his hands.
Christine Esson was driving home when Ronnie Ogilvie called her.
‘How are you doing?’ she asked him.
‘Minimal discomfort.’
‘Need anything bringing?’
‘I think I’m fine for tonight. Just bored.’
‘So you’re going through your contacts and you’ve reached E?’
‘Is that you finished for the day?’
‘Thank God.’
‘A hard one?’
‘Thanks to half the force putting their feet up like you.’
‘So what have you been doing?’
‘Driving around looking for Haggard.’
‘He’s gone AWOL?’
‘Seems so.’
‘Edinburgh’s a small city. His options are limited.’
‘Thanks, Sherlock.’
‘Though I suppose some brethren aren’t going to bust a gut hunting down one of their own — present company not included, obviously.’
‘Obviously.’
‘How’s it working out with Siobhan?’
Esson gave a sigh she knew would be audible. ‘We seem to be cut from different cloth, Ronnie. I never used to think that, but I do now.’
‘You joined a profession, Christine. With Siobhan, every case is more likely to turn into a crusade.’
Esson nodded along as she signalled to turn right. ‘We had to visit Tynecastle. Could have done with some armour and shields.’
‘Did they close ranks? Only to be expected.’
‘Except we also suspect they broke into Francis Haggard’s home and trashed it.’
‘Because of what he did to his wife?’
‘Because his defence is that working at Tynecastle is what drove him to it. And now he’s scarpered and could be anywhere.’
‘He’s scared they’ll come after him?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Work’s finished, Christine. Go home, forget about it for a few hours, maybe watch a film.’
‘I dare say you can suggest some.’ She signalled left. Five more minutes and she’d be at her front door. Ronnie was right: the job was just that to her, a job. Once upon a time it had maybe meant more, but not these days. The uniforms at Tynecastle might be pigs, but they were pigs with a sense of purpose, while she was beginning to doubt, beginning to coast.
‘First thing I’m doing after quarantine,’ Ogilvie was saying, ‘is hitting a wine bar.’
‘I hope I’m invited.’
‘Of course. And maybe Haggard will be done and dusted by then.’
‘I wouldn’t bet on it.’
‘Do you think Siobhan will hand it back to me?’
‘I wouldn’t bet on that either.’
‘She’s found herself another crusade?’
‘Something like that. Bye, Ronnie.’
‘Wine night is coming, Christine. Hang in there.’
She ended the call and drove the final few hundred yards in silence, Ogilvie’s words echoing around her brain.
Hang in there... hang in there... hang in there...
12
As usual, the Crew had convened in a pub in Fountainbridge, its back room set aside for them by dint of a sign on the door saying Private Function. Rob Driscoll had tried his best to keep things focused, but his colleagues didn’t make it easy. Chris Agnew had started flicking foam from his pint at those nearest him, who’d retaliated in kind. Then the first beer mat had come whizzing across the room, and the place had become a school playground until Alan Fleck appeared through the door. Everything had calmed down fast after that. Three-plus years a civilian, but there was still something about the guy that made them behave themselves, and for the next hour they were good as gold.
Driscoll was the first to leave, being in dire need of a cigarette. Outside, he sparked one up and angled his head, sending the smoke skywards, feeling the knots of tension in his neck and shoulders. The rush hour was winding down, though a procession of crawling buses kept the thoroughfare noisy. People trudging past him on their way home had their heads lowered, unwilling to engage. He wished more of them would take off those bloody masks. He liked studying faces. They were like pages a life was written on. He had studied his own reflection half an hour back in the mirror above the sink in the men’s toilet. Handsome enough, though age was creeping up. ‘Single, solvent and fancy-free,’ as his mum had said recently. She’d never liked his ex, had phoned him on the day of the divorce and sung Cliff Richard’s ‘Congratulations’ down the line to him. He exhaled more smoke and was reaching into his jacket for his phone when a hand landed heavily on his shoulder.