‘Smith is behind the Courant?’
‘Tell me I’m wrong. I’m not, though. And when I think of the tip-offs I’ve given her in the past... then she goes and shits all over us.’
‘Is she hurt?’
‘Her living room’s a mess, but that’s about all.’
‘One of our lot?’
‘None of us knew she was the blogger, did we?’
‘If you say so.’ Fleck lifted his mug and sipped from it. ‘So who was being targeted, the journalist or the blogger?’
‘I’m just happy some bastard’s got her in their sights. Might keep her off our backs for a while.’
‘Like she’s our biggest problem.’
‘You’re thinking John Rebus might be, after last night?’
‘He’s not the sort to take kindly to his nose getting mashed.’
‘What do you suggest?’
‘I suggest you keep everyone focused. More MIT interviews with the Crew today, aye? Pep talk for each one of them before they head in. I’ll do some thinking about everything else. Who’s in charge of investigating the fire-raising, do we know?’
‘I can find out.’
‘Might be an idea to do that then. If it’s a friendly face, so much the better.’
‘No way they can tie it to us.’
‘That won’t stop fuckers like Fox trying. Once everybody knows it was Smith who snapped that photo outside the pub, there’ll be fingers pointing our way.’ Fleck paused. ‘You’re sure none of your boys could have worked it out?’
‘Fairly sure.’
‘Say one of them did — who would your money be on?’
‘Chris Agnew,’ Driscoll said after only the slightest hesitation.
‘Me too, probably. Let’s talk again later. And Rob?’
‘Yes, Sarge?’
‘No more losing your head, okay?’
‘Yes, Sarge.’
Fleck ended the call. His tea was a bit cooler than he liked, so he poured it away and made a fresh mug. It was still too early to take one upstairs, so instead he wandered through to what his wife always termed his den. There was a desk there, and a fairly antiquated computer, plus a leather chesterfield sofa where he could stretch his legs out and read. But this morning he was more minded to pace the floor, rubbing at the stubble on his chin with his free hand.
One thing and one thing alone mattered to him: his own neck. He would save it at all costs. He had already waved Tony Barlow in front of Fox in the hope of ensnaring Rebus, but he wasn’t sure Fox had fallen for it. He knew that Fox wanted a sacrifice, and ideally that would be Fleck himself. But the man was a pragmatist — they all were, once they got high enough up the greasy pole. He would settle for less. The only thing almost certainly unacceptable to him was no result at all. Fleck knew he could offer a result. Rebus for one, Driscoll or Agnew for another. Others too, if it came to it.
But John Rebus first, obviously.
Fraser and Elizabeth Mackenzie always tried to have a family breakfast. At first it had been a way of corralling the teenage Gaby so they could at least check she still had a pulse. These days, however, Gaby tended to eat on the move, comparing herself to a shark. If they were lucky, they had her company for the length of time it took to swipe a banana from the fruit bowl and juice from the fridge. Today she was elsewhere, meaning they ate in a silence that outsiders might have thought companionable.
There was always good coffee, and Fraser always drank too much of it, Beth sticking to green tea. She was dressed for the gym and managing to force down some slices of kiwi fruit and mango. Her husband had made himself porridge, a hangover from childhood. He had his phone out, as did Beth.
‘The word online,’ he said, ‘is that the Courant is actually a reporter called Laura Smith.’
‘I could have told you that,’ his wife stated.
‘You didn’t tell James when he asked.’
‘Which is why he went and asked Gaby instead. She wasn’t quite so circumspect.’ She peered at him above her phone.
Mackenzie closed his eyes briefly. ‘How did you know it was this journalist?’ he enquired.
‘Stephanie told me ages back, when the photos of James and his floozy changed hands.’ She paused. ‘There are some things you’re better off not knowing. Your side of the business is yours and mine is mine. Best if it’s kept that way.’
‘So there’s no point asking you about Tommy Oram’s father?’
‘What about him?’
‘I did a Google search. Theory still seems to be that he’s long dead, yet that man Rebus swore he was alive.’
‘He is,’ Beth stated. ‘I’ve seen him.’
‘Where?’ Mackenzie put his phone down and pressed his hands together.
‘The lock-up.’ She spooned more fruit into her mouth and chewed.
‘What lock-up?’
‘Where Tommy keeps the tools of his trade.’
‘What were you doing there?’
She gave him a stare before replying. ‘Jealous, are we?’ She smiled and sniffed. ‘Anyway, I told him to beat it. His son had turned the place into a bloody pied-à-terre — can you imagine?’
‘The man who was looking for him — did you tell him any of this?’
‘Rebus? Don’t be stupid.’
‘You know him?’
‘He stuck pretty close to Big Ger back in the day. I never knew whether to be envious or worried.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘It was like they hated that they couldn’t live without one another. Speaking of which...’
‘Yes?’
‘You and James. I know you go back a long way, but he’s about to crash and burn, we both know it. This fraud thing’s going to see him in court.’
‘He says not.’
‘That’s because he can’t have his investors getting the jitters, but the clever money is already deserting him and I don’t want anyone thinking we’re idiots.’
‘He’s Gaby’s godfather, for Christ’s sake.’
‘And yet we’re the ones who seem to have done him all the favours down the years — and that includes Gaby.’ She paused. ‘If you can’t bring yourself to cut the ties, I’ll be happy to.’
Mackenzie had closed his eyes again. It was as if he were exhausted by the world and everything in it, while Beth only felt more energised with each new day.
‘Okay, I’ll talk to him,’ he eventually said.
‘And to your money men, too. Sooner the better, Fraser.’
‘What is it you know, Beth?’
She lifted a final spoonful of fruit to her mouth. ‘Drink your coffee, love,’ she said.
Rebus got to Ferry Road early, pulling into the gym’s car park and turning off the ignition. He was hoping Beth Mackenzie was a creature of habit. Commuters paraded past, heading by bus and car, on bike or on foot, to jobs in town. As a bus came to a halt in the traffic, Rebus got a better view of its passengers, most of them plugged into their phones. None looked particularly thrilled with the way their lives had worked out.
He recalled his early days on the force. He’d joined in his twenties, by which time a stint in the army had scraped away any youthful idealism. He knew from the start that he was destined to shore up defences that would always remain permeable. His mentors had all been from the old school. The station at Summerhall — one of his very earliest postings — hadn’t been too dissimilar from Tynecastle in its culture. You either clicked or you didn’t stick around. Rebus hadn’t minded bending rules and crossing lines. Everybody knew that the real trouble started when there was no one at the top of the criminal heap. Petty rivalries and vying to fill the vacuum caused all manner of problems. Better by far to have a Big Ger Cafferty keeping order and stability — even if that meant doing him the occasional favour. Rivals had come and gone, having found Cafferty to be a formidable mix of the shrewd and the ruthless. Rebus wondered how the man was feeling now, perched in his penthouse, weakened and isolated. He knew Cafferty hardly went out, didn’t want people to see him in a wheelchair, his physical heft diminished. New players had run onto the field, and all Cafferty could do was watch.