‘All right,’ she said in a toneless voice. ‘Who was it told you?’
‘You’re sure you want to know?’
‘Just tell me, for Christ’s sake.’
‘Morris Gerald Cafferty.’
‘Aka Big Ger.’ She nodded almost imperceptibly. ‘Photos and video?’
It was Fox’s turn to nod. ‘Not that he showed me any.’
‘Unlikely to be a bluff, though?’
‘He sounded fairly confident.’ Fox paused. ‘You’ve always managed to keep your personal life private...’
‘You know who my husband is, though?’
Yes, Fox knew. His name was Dennis Jones; he was vice chancellor of one of the newer west-coast universities. ‘I’m guessing it’s not financial impropriety,’ he posited. ‘Not sure that would yield much in the way of interesting footage.’
Lyon’s mouth twitched. ‘An affair,’ she said, her eyes fixed on the desktop. ‘Not a student, before you ask — a member of staff, also married. Brief, stupid and finished.’
‘Speaking of stupid... Could the two of them have enjoyed a night out in Edinburgh? Maybe at a club on the Cowgate?’
‘Cafferty owns one, does he? Covered by plenty of cameras, I assume.’ She picked up a pen, studied it and tossed it back onto the desk. ‘Why are men such bloody idiots?’
‘You said it’s over — is that because you found out?’
‘And made the usual ultimatum.’
‘Recently?’
She gave him a hard stare. ‘Does it matter?’ But then she relented. ‘A couple of months back.’ She sprang to her feet, walking behind her chair, gripping its frame with both hands. ‘So what now?’ she asked.
‘He says he can make it all go away if we do him a favour.’
Lyon shook her head determinedly. ‘You know we can’t do that.’
‘If it helps, it’s nothing illegal. He just wants us to mount an operation, do some digging, maybe a spot of surveillance...’
‘Against a competitor?’
Fox shrugged. ‘I’d assume so. We might have a better idea afterwards.’
‘What does he expect us to find?’
‘I’m not sure he knows.’
‘And who’s the target?’
‘A developer called Stewart Scoular.’
‘I know the name.’
‘He was an MSP for the shortest time. I happened to see him yesterday evening.’
‘Oh?’
‘Drinking in Cafferty’s club. He was with a couple of friends of Salman bin Mahmoud.’
‘He’s part of your investigation?’
Fox shook his head. ‘He’s not been flagged up as yet.’
‘Well, I’d say he’s been flagged up now, wouldn’t you agree?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Nothing as yet to suggest Saudi state involvement?’
‘No.’
‘I’ll keep Special Branch posted.’ Lyon considered for a moment before sitting down again. ‘I should meet with Cafferty.’
‘With respect, that would be reckless. I’m happy to act as intermediary.’
‘Do we have anything at all on this man Scoular? He’s not come onto our radar at any point?’
‘Is there any harm in looking?’
‘You tell me, Malcolm. How far would you trust your chum Cafferty?’
‘No distance at all. But he wants something and he thinks we’re his best chance of getting it. And I am intrigued by his interest in Scoular...’
‘So we humour him until we have an answer?’
‘Or until he hands over the photos and video.’
Lyon pointed a finger at Fox. ‘You need to be shown what he’s got, Malcolm. I don’t want to see it, but you should. Just so we know we’re not dealing with a bullshitter.’
‘Understood.’
‘And any digging that happens, the quieter it’s done the better.’ Her eyes brightened. ‘In fact, the case you’re attached to is perfect — just lasso Scoular and make him part of it. Can you do that without attracting undue attention?’
‘I doubt I could raise a surveillance operation.’
‘Depends what you dig up, doesn’t it?’ There was the merest edge of need to her voice and her demeanour.
‘I’ll do everything in my power, ma’am,’ Malcolm Fox said.
9
When Rebus answered the knock at the door, May Collins was standing there, solemn-faced and holding out two large carrier bags.
‘They’re yours if you want them,’ she said. ‘Belonged to my late husband. You’re about the same size. I mean, I’m assuming you’ll be staying put, and you won’t find many clothes shops around here...’ She broke off.
Rebus accepted both bags and peered into one of them. ‘You’ve heard, then?’ he said.
‘Oh John, isn’t it terrible?’ Her voice cracked. ‘How’s Samantha doing?’
‘She’s taken Carrie to a friend’s.’
‘Were you the one who broke the news?’
Rebus sucked in some air, nodding while exhaling.
‘That must have been terrible.’
Terrible? Rebus wasn’t sure the word was strong enough. Samantha had backed away from him, lashing out when he tried to touch her, wailing and roaring and inconsolable. Shock soon replaced the look of horror: what would she say to Carrie? What words would lessen the blow? She had looked at her phone, checking the time. She would have to go to the school. Where was her coat?
Her father: you need to sit down first. Just take five minutes.
‘Haven’t you done enough?!’ A yell of accusation, a howling at the only thing in the world at that moment close enough to deserve it. And when Rebus tried reaching out again, she slapped at his hands. ‘I’ve managed fine without you all these years...’
Despite Rebus having given no answer, May Collins was nodding as if he had — a nod of sympathy and understanding. ‘I could make you a cup of tea, but I’m not sure that would help. A belt of whisky maybe?’
Rebus shook his head, watching as Collins remembered something. ‘Mick got your car started. He’s not saying it’ll get you home, but I’ve got the key.’
Rebus took it from her. ‘What do I owe him?’
‘I doubt he’d accept anything — especially now.’ She gave another sigh. ‘If you need me, you know where I am.’
They both turned at the sound of vehicles speeding past. Two cars, one van, no markings. Professionals who were about to be busy at Camp 1033.
‘I’m not sure I should be asking,’ May Collins said quietly, ‘but did he do away with himself?’ Rebus’s face remained impassive. ‘An accident then?’
‘No accident,’ he said.
Her mouth formed a large O, her eyes widening at the realisation.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘I suppose I’d better...’ She was twisting the top half of her body, motioning to leave while hoping he would invite her to stay.
‘Thanks for the clothes,’ Rebus said, going back into the bungalow and closing the door.
In the bathroom he selected a few items and changed into them, then went into the kitchen and stuffed his own clothes into the machine, selecting the quickest wash available. A car was drawing up outside. He beat Creasey to the door and was waiting for him.
‘Mind if I come in?’ the young detective sergeant enquired, as solicitously as any funeral director. Rebus led the way to the living room.
‘Samantha’s at a friend’s.’
‘How’s she doing?’ Rebus could only shrug. ‘And the little one?’
Another shrug. ‘I wasn’t there when Samantha told her — if she’s told her.’
Creasey settled on the edge of the sofa. ‘It’s bloody awful news, of course, and it’ll take time to sink in...’