‘Fuck’s sake,’ Driscoll muttered as he strode, his loaded utility belt weighing him down. A couple of pedestrians pointed him in the right direction. Very helpful, yes, thank you very much, and did you try stopping him yourselves? Of course you bloody didn’t. That’s your job, Officer.
And there he was, had to be the guy, jeans unzipped and pissing against the doors of St Mary’s Cathedral, no bolt of lightning striking him down. A few revellers had stopped nearby and had their phones out to capture proceedings, soon to be shared on social media. Having got himself presentable again, the man jabbed a finger in their direction.
‘Go home and kill yourselves,’ he barked. ‘Cut your throats. You have to do it!’ His voice, not quiet to start with, was rising steadily. ‘Know who I am? I’m the devil’s son. And I’m telling you to do it.’
‘Right you are then,’ one of the onlookers said.
The man took a couple of belligerent steps towards the group. ‘You need to listen to me. If you don’t listen to me, I’ll cut you myself.’
‘You’re not cutting anybody,’ Driscoll interrupted, causing the man to turn towards him. His eyes were gaping, the pupils dark pinpricks. Driscoll had his baton in one hand, pepper spray in the other. No taser, though — Turnbull had one, but then Turnbull was, as usual, nowhere in the useful vicinity. The urine deposited against the place of worship was now pooling around Driscoll’s shoes, despite his efforts to steer clear.
‘Satan is my father,’ the man was telling him.
‘That must be handy.’
‘You’ll go home tonight and kill yourself.’
‘But I’ve a new car coming next week.’
‘If you won’t do it, then I...’ The man’s hand went into the back pocket of his ratty denims. Driscoll took his chance and launched the baton at him. It hit him square across the cheekbone and sent him reeling. He stayed on his feet, though, so Driscoll set about the back of his knees, buckling him. He sprayed the man’s face from close range, but that only seemed to rile him further. He was trying to get back to his feet, screaming like a wild animal, when Driscoll gave him another whack to the head. Two taps used to be sufficient — more than sufficient — but tonight it wasn’t working. He placed his weight on the man’s back, forcing him prone, then pushed the length of his baton hard against the exposed neck, holding it in place with his knee. The man started gurgling and gasping.
‘You’re killing him!’ a bystander cried out.
‘Given half a chance, he’d have cut your face off,’ Driscoll answered. He ran a hand over the pockets of the man’s jeans but couldn’t feel anything. The man started thrashing out with his legs.
‘You just going to watch?’ Driscoll called to the civilians. Not that they were just watching — a couple of them were still filming everything. ‘Aye, get your fucking fill,’ he spat. ‘It’s all any of you are good for.’
He heard running footsteps: Agnew and Turnbull. One took the man’s legs while the other got busy with the cuffs.
‘About bloody time,’ Driscoll told them.
‘You might want to ease off the guy’s neck, Rob,’ Agnew advised. ‘He’s going a funny colour.’
Driscoll did as he was told and started getting to his feet. The bottom third of his trousers felt damp, and he knew the reason why. Realising that he was still being filmed, he flicked the Vs at the group.
‘Fuck the lot of you,’ he said, scooping his pepper spray up off the pavement.
Day Eight
29
Rebus was seated in the window of a café on Duke Street, walking distance from Leith police station, when Malcolm Fox arrived.
‘Five minutes,’ Fox stressed, perching on the chair opposite.
‘You’re a busy man, Malcolm, I appreciate that.’ A bacon roll and mug of tea were placed in front of Rebus, and Fox looked tempted, but he shook his head when the server asked. Rebus squirted brown sauce over the filling and closed the roll, taking a bite.
‘And that’s one minute gone,’ Fox said.
Rebus chewed and swallowed, reaching for the tea.
‘Everything okay with the inquiry?’ he eventually asked.
‘You know I can’t discuss that.’
‘Well, let’s head for safer ground then — Fraser Mackenzie.’
‘What about him?’
‘He’s in Organised Crime’s sights, yes? I’m wondering how long he’s been there.’
Fox gave him a stare. ‘Siobhan’s been talking. She shouldn’t have.’
‘My guess would be that it’s happened only recently — around the time Cafferty emerged from hospital into a wheelchair and the pandemic shut everything down.’
‘So what?’
‘It’s just, you’ve maybe got it wrong — focusing on the husband, I mean.’
Fox was probably unaware that his hands were gripping the rim of the table. ‘I’m listening.’
‘Beth Mackenzie used to go out with Cafferty. Ancient history, but she maybe learned a few things. Her husband owns a lettings agency with what could be termed a challenging clientele. Not all of them, by any means, but enough. Her daughter, Gaby, is a club DJ — a world not averse to chemical substances.’
‘I’ve seen her at work.’
‘Clubs were closed during lockdown, meaning a lot of doormen needing a wage. Useful in all kinds of ways to an outfit like QC. Up until that point, as far as you know, Mackenzie had been happy operating as an above-board businessman?’ Fox conceded as much with a shrug. ‘Well, maybe he still is. Mother and daughter, on the other hand...’
‘I always enjoy your stories, John, but so far that’s all I’m hearing. Doesn’t really matter if it’s Fraser Mackenzie or any other member of his family, what we need at Gartcosh is some hard evidence.’
‘It matters,’ Rebus said quietly.
Fox was getting to his feet, seemingly impatient. ‘A phone call would have done the job every bit as well.’
‘But then I’d have been deprived of your company, Malcolm.’
‘Come to me with evidence, John. Maybe then we can cut a deal.’
‘You think I’m doing this to save my own skin?’
‘I don’t really care why you’re doing it. All I know is there’s going to be fallout and you could end up doing time.’ Fox paused. ‘I’m here if and when you decide to talk.’
‘And if I’d prefer a more neutral face?’
‘There’s always Geoff Dickinson at Organised Crime.’
‘You’d give him the credit rather than taking it for yourself?’
‘Maybe that’s because I doubt there’ll be any credit to take.’
Fox left the café, marching along the pavement as if on parade.
‘Same prick you always were,’ Rebus muttered. Some sauce had dripped from his roll onto the plate. He looked at it, then touched it with a fingertip, transferring it to his mouth.
Hard evidence...
‘Might be able to help you there, Malky,’ Rebus said to himself, getting to grips with the roll again. Then, after a further moment’s thought, ‘Never even asked about my face...’
Katherine Trask stomped into her office from the press conference, slamming the door after her.
‘Looks like it went well,’ George Gamble chuckled from behind his desk.