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‘What makes you think I’m not out on the Meadows?’

‘You’re playing music. Now, what the hell do you want?’

‘I know who sent you that picture.’

‘Good for you.’

‘You know too, don’t you? Beth Mackenzie?’

‘Ah, you’re getting warm.’

Warmer than you know, Rebus thought to himself.

‘I also know why,’ he continued. ‘Wallpaper’s the same as when you owned the place, left there as a memento of the time you were royally shafted by a bunch of cops.’

‘Is that a fact?’

‘And it just so happens the man in the picture is the one responsible — it was Francis Haggard who shinned up the drainpipe.’

‘I didn’t know that.’

‘You sure?’

‘I had nothing to do with Haggard and whatever happened to him. If I’d wanted anyone punished, it would have been your good pal Fleck. Christ knows how I stopped myself.’

‘Meantime the Mackenzies have taken over your turf, the illicit along with the legal. Your old flame’s done well for herself, considering.’

‘What has any of this got to do with the job I gave you?’ Cafferty was trying not to sound rattled. ‘You just can’t help yourself, can you, Strawman? Have to keep sticking your neb in.’

Rebus touched the sides of his nose, feeling the rawness there.

‘I’m not going to deny it,’ he said.

‘But there’s no photo any more, is there, which means nothing for any CID team to get their teeth into.’

‘The photo was taken on a phone, Cafferty. It’s not like the old days when you could torch a negative.’

‘Is this your way of stalling because you’re no nearer finding Jack Oram?’

‘I’m on his scent, don’t you worry.’

‘Never shit a shitter, Rebus.’

‘As God is my witness.’

‘Some trial proceedings those would be.’

‘It might all connect to the Moorfoot — you’ll know the place, of course?’

‘The Potter’s Bar as was?’

‘Now run by an ex-con of your acquaintance.’

‘You’ve lost me.’

‘Kenny Beecham, the man who sold you out and lost you all that money. You saw to it he went away. Now he runs the Moorfoot and pays you no doubt handsomely for the privilege of not having his throat cut again.’

‘My, my.’

‘Starting to wish I’d done a bit more slacking?’

‘You’ve been busy, granted.’

‘A friend of Beecham’s called Crosbie has his name above the door to fool the licensing board. Crosbie works as a doorman at a club owned by Beth Mackenzie’s daughter. Now did I forget anything...? Oh yes, Jack Oram’s son Tommy is a regular fixture at the Moorfoot and owes Gaby Mackenzie for his job at QC Lettings.’

‘Okay, you lost me somewhere back there.’

‘I’m not sure that I did,’ Rebus said quietly. ‘But even so, all you need to know is that I’ve got my headlights on. Doesn’t mean the whole road’s visible, but I can see enough.’

‘If the whole road isn’t visible, you might want to trade up to a new car. Maybe you even know someone who has them to spare.’

‘It must sting that he convinced you not to retaliate?’

‘It was business, Rebus. One storage facility out of dozens, one night out of thousands.’ Cafferty paused. ‘They never told you or cut you in?’

‘The sum total of a ton for setting up the meeting.’

‘Bloody hell, you came cheap. You might have been the only thing that day that stopped me wrapping my hands around Alan Fleck’s windpipe.’

‘I take it as a compliment that you didn’t.’

‘It would have led to complications, though — Fleck was right about that.’

Rebus drained the whisky from his glass and swallowed.

‘Something nice?’ Cafferty enquired.

‘At my age, you have to treat yourself. Never know if your eyes will open tomorrow.’

‘Come over and have a nightcap.’

‘I’m fine where I am.’

‘When you find Jack, make sure he knows I’ll meet him anywhere he likes. Five minutes is all I’m asking.’

‘Even though he didn’t give the money to his brother’s family?’

‘You should maybe ask him about that first, just in case I’m not going to like the answer.’

‘I’ll do that then,’ Rebus said, as Cafferty ended the call.

The CD hadn’t quite finished yet. He sat back and let it wash over him, eyes staring towards the darkness.

‘Like hell I will,’ he muttered, as Jackie Leven sang about a morning that never comes.

24

‘You at home?’ Geoff Dickinson asked when Fox answered his phone.

‘Yes. And no serious and organised crime to report.’

‘Knock knock, then.’

Fox went to the door and unlocked it. Dickinson was on the doorstep, placing his phone back in his pocket.

‘Bungalowland suits you.’

Fox looked past him to the black Vauxhall Insignia parked kerbside. ‘I expected something flashier.’

‘Flashier gets you noticed — not my style. Besides, that’s not a car, it’s my office.’

Fox ushered him inside. ‘Must be urgent,’ he said.

‘Actually, I was just passing.’ Dickinson saw the look of disbelief Fox was giving him. ‘In a manner of speaking, anyway. Just been out to East Lothian. Small-time dealer by the name of Guy Strathairn. Privileged background and all that, reduced to dealing hash and pills from a caravan.’

‘What happened?’

‘He met the acquaintance of a baseball bat or similar and is now relaxing in one of the wards at the infirmary. They torched his caravan, too. Our thinking is, Mackenzie is tightening the screws on any and all opposition. And by the way, the latest attempted shipment never even made it across the Channel. Expect to see a lot of very strung-out people real soon.’ He had settled on the sofa in Fox’s living room. ‘This is nice. Tidy for a bachelor pad, too.’

‘Can I get you something?’

‘Everything I need is in my office out there. He looked at Fox. ‘How’s the case going?’

‘We might have had a breakthrough regarding Haggard’s movements in the hours before he was killed.’

‘And how does that get you closer to catching his killer?’

‘We won’t know that till we get there.’

‘Still applying pressure to Fleck and his minions?’

Fox nodded. ‘My sources say we should be looking at Tony Barlow.’

‘You have sources? Good for you.’

‘Fleck says John Rebus played a role. My thinking is, that’s by way of a diversion.’

‘Could be, but it’s a good sign if they’re turning against each other.’

Fox thought for a moment. He was perched on the lip of the armchair, as if ready to act. ‘Mackenzie sells drugs to his tenants, but he sells them elsewhere, too. Tynecastle seem to take their share, and they’re pretty pally with the security staff at the club where Gaby Mackenzie DJs.’

‘What are you saying?’

‘I’m saying the daughter might know more than we think.’

‘Oh, I don’t doubt it.’ Dickinson took out his phone again, found what he was looking for, and turned the screen towards Fox, who had to stand and cross to the sofa to get a better look. ‘We think this is Guy Strathairn’s assailant.’

‘I know him,’ Fox said, catching Dickinson by surprise. ‘I was at the nightclub where he works, saw him in action.’

‘Unless he was pummelling someone, I don’t think you can really say you saw him in action. His name’s Crosbie. You definitely do not want to get on the wrong side of him.’