‘Yet here you are, luck of the devil.’
‘Not so lucky for you, though.’
‘You can’t blame a man for trying.’
‘Trying to do what? Get people killed, take back your old empire so you can start poisoning Edinburgh again?’
‘If not me, then somebody else,’ Cafferty snarled. ‘Everybody knows the way it has to be. I just couldn’t stand the thought of it being Fraser Mackenzie.’
‘Fraser?’ Rebus raised an eyebrow. ‘You’ve no idea, have you? It’s your old flame Beth running the show. The daughter provides muscle from her nightclub and the pair of them make quite a team, believe me.’
Cafferty’s face creased as he took this on board.
‘They’ve almost certainly been keeping Tynecastle sweet, too — another tactic Beth learned from you. Not that your relationship with the Crew was wholly amicable. After that stunt you pulled, getting them to cripple Tony Barlow—’
‘With your help, Strawman,’ Cafferty interrupted.
‘With my help,’ Rebus acknowledged. ‘But that’s when they decided to do the Constitution Street job, just so you’d know they weren’t quite as controllable as you’d hoped.’ He paused. ‘So what happens now?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘You’ve got hold of the Mackenzies’ stash — reckon Beth’s going to let you keep what’s hers?’
‘She can try taking it.’
‘I wouldn’t bet against her. You might want to warn Andrew he’s up against superior forces.’
‘I’m the one in charge, Strawman!’ Cafferty’s voice had risen.
‘I know you think you are, but from where I’m standing, you’re just a greedy old man in a wheelchair.’
‘A greedy old man who still pulls the strings — yours included!’
‘Maybe time to cut them, then.’
Cafferty watched as Rebus poured and downed a final drink, then walked to the sofa, picking up the saltire cushion. He was carrying it in front of him as he approached the wheelchair.
‘A young man’s going to jail because of what you did to his dad all those years ago. A young man who saved my skin. Means I owe him, wouldn’t you agree?’
‘Don’t be stupid,’ Cafferty started to say. ‘You know it doesn’t—’
Rebus muffled the rest of the sentence, pushing the cushion hard into Cafferty’s face. The man was strong; he got a grip of Rebus’s wrists and tried to dislodge him, reminding Rebus of how close he’d come to dying on the floor of the Moorfoot. When Cafferty realised his efforts were futile, he scrabbled for the wheelchair’s controls, propelling it backwards. It didn’t get far, brought to a halt by impact with the heavy coffee table. The front wheels lifted off the ground as Rebus continued to press, Cafferty’s muffled protestations growing weaker over time.
Rebus could still hear singing coming from the Meadows, and a dog barking, and a distant siren. Somewhere, someone needed help. Somewhere, bad things were happening. He’d spent his whole life in that world, a city perpetually dark, feeling increasingly weighed down, his heart full of headstones.
There would be frost on the paths in the morning. He would have to be careful when he took Brillo for his first walk of the day.
Now
As senior counsel readied to pronounce, Rebus looked at all the cameras situated around the courtroom, broadcasting their images to the distant jury.
Cameras: he had failed to take them into account. Bought after the attack that had put Cafferty in the wheelchair, placed surreptitiously around the airy living room, recording Rebus’s assault and the eventual faltering of that assault as he thought of his daughter and granddaughter, imagining them visiting him in the prison that would be home until he died. So he had removed the cushion from Cafferty’s face, watching the man taking in huge gulps of air, hoarse sounds escaping his throat. Then he had walked away, saying nothing, not looking back.
And Cafferty had died anyway, his heart giving out, leaving Rebus on a murder charge.
All at once, he felt his balance start to go and reached out for the handrail in front of him. His heart was pounding and the pain in his chest was a constant now. The judge had noticed and held a hand up to pause proceedings.
‘Is the accused feeling all right?’
‘Just a bit dizzy there for a second.’
‘A glass of water?’
Rebus shook his head.
‘Very well. Pray continue, Mr Bartleby.’
Siobhan and Sammy were right — he should see a doctor. There was one he could consult at the prison. His legal team had argued that, bearing in mind his health issues, he should not be kept on remand, but that had cut no ice with the judge. Rebus was a danger to the public, apparently, and had to be kept under lock and key. Both Siobhan and Sammy had been to see him during visiting hours, Sammy explaining that she’d left Carrie and Brillo with a friend. He’d asked her what she’d told his granddaughter.
‘That there was a bad man and you tried to do something about him.’
He’d smiled afterwards, thinking it not a bad epitaph. But then hadn’t he been a bad man himself, consorting with many more devils than angels? He’d broken laws and skewed evidence and taken bungs, arrested guilty people for crimes they hadn’t committed when he couldn’t hold them to account for the ones they’d actually carried out. He’d used his fists and his feet as weapons of intimidation. It was all there in those Complaints boxes, including stuff he’d probably long forgotten.
Siobhan was going to take the promotion, but meantime she was kept busy with preparations for the trial of Stephanie Pelham. A lot was going to come out in court, none of it exactly beneficial to Tynecastle police station. Driscoll had already tendered his resignation. Clarke didn’t think Agnew would be far behind. Jack Oram’s body had eventually been recovered from a disused quarry in West Lothian. Crosbie — who had been too thrawn to die from the bullet wounds, unlike his lifelong pal — had been charged not only with Jack Oram’s murder but also for his role in a spate of fire-raising incidents. Tommy, too, would appear in a courtroom soon enough. Clarke had speculated that Rebus could end up doing time alongside both Tommy and Crosbie — and potentially Fraser Mackenzie and James Pelham too. The Mackenzies, Gaby included, were under investigation for all manner of offences and conspiracies, giving Laura Smith enough material to keep her busy and solvent for the foreseeable.
‘Have you seen Fox since he went back to Gartcosh?’ Rebus had enquired of Clarke.
‘He tells me he’s got his fingers crossed for you.’
‘But did you see any evidence?’
‘No, now you come to mention it.’ Which had caused them both to smile.
‘Does he still think he can get Alan Fleck?’
‘Malcolm’s not the type to give up. That’s one thing the two of you seem to have in common.’
‘It won’t be him, though, will it? It’ll be you.’
‘I suppose so.’ Her face had fallen a little.
‘And you’ll do it right, Siobhan. Because it has to be done right.’
Fleck himself had asked to visit Rebus in detention, but Rebus had denied him. He knew Fleck would be after a favour: since Rebus was going away for a stretch, might he be minded to take with him some of the flak coming Fleck’s way? No doubt compensation would be offered, but Rebus was done with covering his old pal’s back. As soon as Siobhan had shifted to Complaints, Rebus would have her visit him. There were stories that needed to be told, and no more fitting person to hear his confession. He kept thinking of Francis Haggard, still unsure if his intention to tell all was fuelled by shame or self-preservation.