A hand snaked between Rebus and Oram, scooping up the empty glasses. Beecham waited for Rebus to give him his undivided attention.
‘I told you to offski,’ he announced.
‘It’s not even half-time,’ Rebus complained, nodding in the direction of the screens.
‘Game’s over for you, pal. All the floodlights are going dark.’
‘I need to fetch the pizza anyway,’ Oram explained, rising to his feet and starting to zip up his thin jacket.
‘Maybe see you at that club, eh?’ Rebus said. Then, to Beecham, ‘Your mate Crosbie’s putting me on the guest list.’
‘Shit list more like,’ Beecham said.
Drinkers waiting to be served had started yelling about the drought conditions. He headed off in their direction. Rebus focused on Oram.
‘Remember what I said — don’t get in more trouble than you can handle.’
‘You’re not my dad.’
‘He’d want what’s best for you.’
‘Maybe that’s not what I want, though.’
Rebus shrugged. ‘Be nice to your mum — no olives for a change.’
‘You were joking about the club, right? You’re not going there?’
‘Not a chance in hell, son,’ Rebus said, the bar erupting as the ball went into a net.
Rebus had walked Brillo, fed both dog and owner, and then poured himself into the armchair in his living room alongside a second whisky. The hi-fi system was playing Jackie Leven at barely discernible volume. Even so, as Siobhan Clarke answered his call, she recognised the song.
‘“Single Father”?’ she said.
‘I taught you well.’
‘In some respects maybe. What can I do for you, John?’
‘Who said I want anything?’
‘I think I just did.’
‘Well, now that you mention it...’
‘Hang on, let me find my mug.’
‘Home or office?’
‘Still at MIT. I had a meeting with Gina Hendry earlier.’
Rebus took a sip of his drink. ‘I think I’ve found part of the reason Francis Haggard could afford the good life.’
‘He was on the take,’ Clarke stated.
‘On top of that, though.’
‘So tell me.’
‘I can’t go into details yet, but I do have something for you — Chris Agnew.’
‘What about him?’
‘He had a bit of a barney earlier with Rob Driscoll.’
‘You’ve been hanging out with Tynecastle?’
‘Maybe I happened to stumble into them.’
‘Well, isn’t that just great?’
‘I never liked it, you know.’
‘What?’
‘The way I was held up as something they should aspire to.’
There was a sharp burst of laughter in his ear. ‘Oh, I think you did, John. I think you lapped it up. You forget how long I worked with you and saw you in action trading on that reputation of yours.’
‘Maybe you’ve a point,’ he eventually conceded. ‘But only because it worked. I collected a few scalps, didn’t I?’
‘And didn’t they look fetching, draped around your neck?’ The silence stretched between them until she sighed. ‘Chris Agnew, you say?’
‘Not Haggard’s biggest fan, according to Driscoll.’
‘I don’t think Haggard had many cheerleaders at Tynecastle.’
‘This seems to go back further though, something more personal.’
‘Meaning what?’
‘The widow, maybe?’
‘Playing away from home? I get no whiff of that at all.’
‘Maybe the sister, then? The two are close, right?’
‘Absolutely.’ Clarke paused. ‘Though Gina did mention a bit of friction.’
‘If there is a connection between Agnew and one of them, and then Haggard gets violent against Cheryl...’
‘Violent against both of them, actually. When he shoved his way into Stephanie’s house, he ended up jabbing a finger at her. She reckons he was warning her that worse was to come.’
‘But worse didn’t come, did it? Instead, he ended up in the mortuary.’
The silence stretched again until Clarke broke it.
‘Is this Tynecastle’s doing? Pushing for a domestic so we stop digging into stuff they need kept hidden?’
‘By sacrificing one of their own? How does that make sense?’
‘Because they’re not so much a crew as a pack of wolves — leave the weak and the wounded behind; always look out for number one.’
‘This is me, Siobhan. Telling you what I saw and heard.’
‘So tell me how Haggard came by all that cash.’
‘Not yet.’
‘You could be put on a charge for obstruction.’
‘Well, that would definitely loosen my tongue.’
‘I’ll bet.’ She gave another sigh.
‘Still working your way through the Complaints files?’
‘There’s a good reason no action’s ever been taken.’
‘Lack of corroborating evidence?’
‘There are times I hate Scots law.’
‘Well, that’s something we can agree on.’
‘That and Jackie Leven,’ Clarke said.
‘You’ll take a closer look at Chris Agnew? He has a bit of a rep as a ladies’ man. They call him the Swordsman at Tynecastle.’
‘And they tell me the Scottish male lacks romance.’
‘I’ll let you get back to your files,’ Rebus said.
‘And I’ll let you get back to your music.’
‘Hey, I’m working here,’ Rebus said. ‘Oh, one last thing. That bit of bother you and Fox had at the nightclub — one of the bouncers wasn’t called C or Crosbie, was he?’
‘Yes, as it happens.’
‘He owns the Moorfoot, meaning the Potter’s Bar as was.’
‘He might also drive a Range Rover bought from your pal Alan Fleck.’
‘Someone mentioned a web to me earlier tonight,’ Rebus said. ‘This feels an awful lot like that.’
‘I’ll add Chris Agnew to my shopping list, John.’
‘I’m sure he’d be delighted to come in for another interview. Thanks, Siobhan.’
He ended the call, sat back and thought about that burst of laughter. Yes, he’d collected some scalps, but at the cost of a higher number of disciplinary hearings. Yes, there were pats on the back from the rank and file, who wished they could get away with the stuff he did. He knew none of that made him a good cop, not in an age of brains rather than brute force. And yes, buried in his past there were probably enough booby-traps to blow him to smithereens — most months he thought about them, wondering if and when. Scots law — that need for corroboration — had probably saved his skin. He did still feel bad about Tony Barlow, too, though Alan Fleck had been right — the actual blame went back to someone else.
‘I’m not a real criminal, am I?’ he asked Brillo, who lay on the floor next to the radiator, eyes closed. One of the dog’s ears pricked up. ‘Would I be living like this if I was, eh?’ He got up and refilled his glass, adding a decent drop of water. Then, once he’d settled himself in his chair again, he made the second of his planned calls.
‘If you would move just a couple of streets,’ Cafferty drawled, ‘I could see right into you.’