‘Goodnight, Siobhan.’
He ended the call and pointed the Saab towards Craigmillar.
Bring the stuff...
He was going to have to make something up. Stall them. Prevaricate.
Either that or tell the truth.
He tossed a coin in his mind. Made his decision.
There were lights on in the Moorfoot, but the door was locked. Rebus bunched his fist and gave a confident-sounding thump. The door opened just wide enough to allow him in. The man called Crosbie locked it again after him and gave him a shove, propelling him towards the bar, behind which Beecham stood. Untended glasses sat on tables, some of them barely started.
‘All of this for me?’ Rebus pretended to speculate. ‘Regulars can’t have been happy about early closing.’ There was a glass on the bar with the dregs of a whisky inside. He sniffed it and drained it before scoping the room.
‘How’s the firebombing business?’ he asked casually.
‘Don’t push it,’ Beecham said. ‘Crosbie’s just about ready to start tearing heads off as it is.’
‘I was told Jack Oram would be joining us.’
‘And we were told you’d have something to trade.’
‘I need to see Jack first.’
‘Good luck with that.’ Crosbie’s voice was a low growl. He was behind Rebus, close enough for his sweat to be an issue. Rebus angled his body a little, an eye on both men.
‘Meaning he’s no longer with us,’ he stated.
‘A wetsuit and an oxygen tank, you’d be in with a shout,’ Crosbie said.
‘Off the coast would mean he might be washed up sooner or later,’ Rebus speculated. ‘I’m guessing a quarry?’
‘Where’s the stuff?’ Beecham demanded.
‘To cut to the chase, I’ve not got it. Car’s parked outside if you want to check. Boot’s been jemmied open and is now well and truly shagged. I’m amazed I made it here without getting pulled over.’
‘Who took it?’
‘He works for Cafferty. Name’s Andrew. Drives a white Audi.’
‘Fuck,’ Crosbie muttered. Beecham looked at him.
‘You know him? This Andrew?’
‘Didn’t realise he belonged to Cafferty.’
‘Well,’ said Rebus, trying to sound matter-of-fact, ‘I’ll leave you to go tell Beth Mackenzie you need to pay Cafferty a call.’
‘You’re going nowhere,’ Beecham stated. ‘Except maybe to hang out with Jack Oram.’
Rebus scratched at his chin, taking his time. ‘Funny, isn’t it,’ he said, trying to keep his tone conversational, the words directed at Beecham, ‘you working for Mackenzie so you can keep paying off Cafferty? I don’t suppose you do very much other than turn a blind eye when deals are being done and hand over crates of empties for use as petrol bombs. But all that makes you is a hamster on a wheel. Reckon you’ve got the balls to go fetch that consignment from Cafferty, or will Beth require the big guns? And there’s another thing — neither of you has mentioned Fraser Mackenzie yet. He’s not even in the picture, is he?’
‘What does it matter?’ Beecham said.
‘I don’t like the idea of going to my grave with unanswered questions, that’s all.’ Rebus turned his head towards Crosbie. ‘You’re not an ex-con — you wouldn’t have got the licence here if you were — so I’m guessing you were either army or police.’
‘Army.’
‘Ever serve in Northern Ireland? Me too. Explains why you know your way around a petrol bomb. But that was a friend of mine you nearly killed — and for what?’
‘Crosbie never can say no when a skirt asks,’ Beecham answered.
‘Shut it, you,’ Crosbie snarled.
‘So the world of the nightclub bouncer beckoned,’ Rebus went on, ‘which was fine until lockdown. Was it mother or daughter who reeled you in?’
‘Fuck do you care?’
‘I’m just working my way up to why you felt the need to kill Jack Oram.’
‘He was drunk and mouthy,’ Beecham said. ‘Turned physical. Not a good combo when Crosbie is in one of his moods.’
Rebus gave a slow nod. ‘One problem dealt with. Might not be so easy with me, though.’
‘You think people care about a washed-up ex-cop?’ Beecham asked with a sneer.
‘I didn’t mean it like that. Hang on, let me show you my phone...’
Neither man paid much notice that Rebus was taking a step back at the same time as he reached into his coat. He whipped out the crowbar and swung it at Crosbie’s head. It was a glancing blow at best, but better than nothing. Beecham grabbed the record player and heaved it in Rebus’s direction before following it over the bar. Rebus aimed the crowbar at his knuckles and struck gold. Beecham howled as he retreated, grabbing a bottle and smashing it to give himself a ragged-edged weapon.
Rebus turned and made for the door, but Crosbie slammed into him from behind, buffeting him against the solid wood, the air flying from his lungs. He managed to turn the lock, but had only opened the door an inch when he was dragged back into the bar, by which time Beecham had joined his partner. The crowbar was prised from his grip, Crosbie flinging it across the floor. Still winded, Rebus had little resistance to offer, every breath sending stabs of pain through him. Crosbie forced him to his knees, hands around his throat, the pressure intensifying. Rebus’s own hands were clasped around Crosbie’s, but no way he could loosen the grip. His eyes began bulging, choking sounds gurgling from his throat, the blood roaring in his ears...
Suddenly there was a fourth voice in the bar.
‘Thought that was your car.’
Rebus’s vision was fogged as he looked up towards the doorway. Tommy Oram stood there, aiming a pistol. Looked to Rebus a lot like the one the kid on the bike had been brandishing earlier.
‘Step away from him,’ Tommy ordered. Beecham and Crosbie shuffled backwards, making sure there was some distance between them. If he tried firing at one, the other would make his move. Rebus was gasping as he rose shakily to his feet, one hand at his throat, feeling for damage.
‘Your nose is bleeding,’ Tommy informed him.
‘I’m getting used to it.’ Rebus swiped at the blood with the back of his free hand.
‘Some mess you and your police pals made of my lock-up. Don’t know what made me think I might find you here or hereabouts.’
Rebus nodded towards Beecham and Crosbie. ‘They killed your dad, right here in this pub.’
‘He’s fucking lying!’ Beecham roared.
‘He’s not, though, is he?’ Tommy said in a quiet voice. ‘It’s why I kept coming in, so you wouldn’t think I had an inkling. I was hoping you’d let something slip. You probably would have, sooner or later.’ He glanced towards Rebus. ‘My dad didn’t like what I was mixed up in. He knew Crosbie worked the door at Elemental as well as owning this place, on paper at least. Stood to reason he would come barging in here and get on the wrong side of you.’ His attention was focused once more on Beecham and Crosbie. ‘Then he vanishes, leaving no proof, no witnesses...’
‘There still aren’t,’ Beecham stated.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Rebus countered. ‘Not too many quarries around Edinburgh. Won’t take a team of divers long to check them.’ He had taken out his phone. ‘Just need to call it in.’
‘And what happens when they get here?’ Beecham went on. ‘Who’s the one pointing a gun at two innocent men? Won’t be us they’ll be taking in. Best thing you can do, Tommy, is walk away, let us deal with this.’
‘Like you dealt with my dad?’
‘That was Crosbie. Nothing to do with me.’
The look Crosbie gave him was incendiary. ‘Bastard,’ he spat, flinging himself at Beecham, the two men starting to wrestle, twisting and turning. Rebus saw it as the ruse it was, but nothing like quickly enough, the two men suddenly launching themselves at Tommy Oram. The gun exploded into life, turning Beecham into a momentary waxwork before he angled his head down to examine the hole in the front of his shirt. Crosbie had paused too, but for only a moment. It was long enough for Tommy to take aim and fire a second time. The noise was deafening, the smell of burning powder filling even Rebus’s blood-clogged nostrils. He watched Crosbie drop to his knees, hands pressed to the wound. Beecham had fallen backwards like an axed tree. Tommy was breathing heavily, gun still held out in front of him. He looked resigned to his fate, nothing but jail time ahead of him despite saving a man’s life.