Fox was standing right next to her. He leaned down, a hand on the back of her chair, his lips almost touching her ear.
‘You told Rebus about the Mackenzies, didn’t you?’ he whispered.
‘Would I do that? I’m shocked you’d even ask.’
‘His theory is, it’s the mother and daughter in charge rather than the father. On the way back here from talking to him, I got thinking...’
‘You reckon he could be right?’
‘He might never have been much of a police officer, but he was always a gifted detective.’
‘So you’ll take it to Geoff Dickinson?’
‘Wouldn’t you?’
‘Tell him you want something in return, though — Agnew’s phone records asap.’
‘You reckon he’s got more clout than the actual ACC?’
‘Clout, no; contacts, almost certainly.’
Fox met her eyes. ‘Whispers, you said?’
‘Did I?’
‘Agnew and Haggard, bad blood — you’ve heard whispers.’ He paused. ‘Originating where, I wonder? Maybe best I don’t ask, eh?’
He was interrupted by Esson and Ritchie, who were ready to leave.
‘I’m on the end of the phone if you need me,’ Clarke told them.
‘The one and only Big Ger Cafferty,’ Ritchie was saying, like he was off to his first pop concert.
The morning was foggy, which suited Rebus fine. While he drove, he whistled an old tune he couldn’t quite name. He checked at the top of the lane, but everything was quiet, so he manoeuvred the Saab down it, stopping directly outside the lock-up. He was still whistling when he got out and surveyed the structure in front of him. He began working away at the rim of the door with the heavy-duty crowbar, pausing to take his jacket off, placing it on the passenger seat. Stealth was not exactly possible, the sounds of his efforts reverberating and rising into the air. It was a good crowbar, he’d been assured, so he had to blame the workman rather than the tool for the amount of effort it was taking. Then again, the door to the lock-up was reinforced — possibly more than was strictly necessary to protect some tools, paint pots and foldaway beds.
The first bike arrived before he’d finished the job. Rebus didn’t recognise the face above the handlebars.
‘Off you fuck,’ he told the kid.
‘You’re dead,’ the face said, slewing the bike a hundred and eighty degrees and speeding off.
Rebus had wrenched his shoulder but knew he could live with it. The door gave with a clank and he hauled it open, keeping hold of the crowbar as he walked in. He made straight for the workbench with the shelves of paint pots above. Lifted one down and prised it open. Pale green matt emulsion, matching some of the blotches on the bench’s surface, the ones that had been tacky to the touch. He upended the can slowly, paint splattering out. When he peered inside the emptied pot, he saw something wedged against its bottom.
He took out the rubber gloves he’d bought and slipped them on before reaching in to ease out the wrapped package. A lesson learned from Cafferty, he reckoned — storing something of value in an innocuous setting. Drugs would surely be kept in a secure vault, not left lying in a lock-up in one of the less salubrious parts of town. Looking around, he found an old newspaper. He separated its sheets and placed the package on one of them before starting on the next tin.
His phone pinged with a message, Sammy checking he was still okay for Sunday lunch and warning that Carrie had a new piano tune for him to hear.
Wouldn’t miss it for the world, he texted back.
When he looked up from his phone, two bikes had arrived outside, the one from before plus backup. Still no sign of Buster or his owner. The riders tried a few blasphemous threats, but Rebus ignored them, except to pick up the crowbar, giving it a brief wave in their direction.
He had six more pots to go. It took only a few minutes to relieve them of their contents. He used more sheets of newspaper to wrap the packets, then started carrying everything out to the Saab, opening the boot and loading up. He guessed there to be a couple of kilos, maybe closer to three. If it was cocaine, that probably made it worth six figures; more if it was heroin. He would have known the going rate at one time. Had Jack Oram discovered the drugs, or had his son maybe hinted or said something? Rebus knew he’d find out eventually.
He took a final look around. There could be other hiding places, but trouble was almost certainly only moments away. His eyes settled on the box of empty spirits bottles — litre sizes, the kind you only got duty-free or in pubs and clubs. Cheap brands of vodka, gin and whisky. Then there was the mound of rags. And on the floor beneath the workbench a couple of plastic jerrycans.
Nodding to himself, he got into the car and reversed up the lane. He was halfway to the main road when he saw the bikes heading straight towards him, the dog, Buster, lagging a long way behind. Four bikes in total, spread out across the road and being pedalled furiously, the riders’ bums up out of each saddle. And there at the centre was the face he knew. Their nameless leader.
He watched as the boy, teeth bared in fury, drew something from his waistband. ‘Christ,’ he said out loud as the pistol was aimed at his windscreen. He yanked on the steering wheel and bumped up onto the pavement, heading across a section of the muddy park, losing traction for a moment before slewing the car back onto the roadway and checking in his rear-view mirror. They had pivoted their bikes and were not about to give up the pursuit. He just hoped young angry legs were no match for the Saab’s antiquated engine. But now there was a white car turning into the estate, and Rebus was on the wrong side of the road. He turned the steering wheel hard and almost shredded a tyre or two against the kerb, while the white car was forced to bump up onto the opposite pavement. The Saab growled on to Calder Road, this time almost sideswiping a black cab on the roundabout. Rebus ignored the blaring horn, and when he next checked in the mirror, there was no sign of his pursuers. He allowed himself a long exhalation. That was the easy bit done and dusted.
Now he just had to wait.
‘I’ve been trying to get you,’ Clarke said when Ronnie Ogilvie called her.
‘Got a bit hectic here for a while.’
‘You brought Crosbie in?’
‘Lovely guy. We’re meeting up this weekend to play golf.’
‘But meantime, in the real world?’
‘He doesn’t deny it’s his car or him at the wheel. But he says he was nowhere near Laura Smith’s house and wouldn’t know her if he saw her.’
‘So what was he doing there at that time of night? He lives and works the other side of the city.’
‘Not strictly true. As well as being a doorman, he also does a bit of chauffeuring for the Mackenzies. He was dropping the daughter home, meaning the family home in Cramond. After that, he drove to his flat in Craigmillar. He says the daughter will vouch for him.’
‘Cramond to Craigmillar via Broughton Street?’
‘You and I might choose a more direct route. He just shrugged when I suggested as much.’
‘Could you get a search warrant for the car? Hard to transport a petrol bomb without a bit of spillage.’
‘Probable cause, Siobhan? Plus I’m sure he’d have an explanation, plausible or otherwise.’
‘So you’ve let him go?’
‘Pending further enquiries. Any chance of you helping me out?’
‘He might be involved in the local drugs trade, though that’s not for public consumption. Also pally with the crew at Tynecastle police station — the ones that indulge, at any rate. Bar he owns used to be connected to Big Ger Cafferty. I’d say that gives you plenty to be getting on with.’