‘That’s a gamble you’re willing to take?’ Cafferty’s eyes were on Fox now. ‘Yes or no, DI Fox? Or hadn’t you better check with your boss first, see what she wants you to do?’
Fox’s mouth opened a fraction, but no words formed. Clarke had opened the car door and was swivelling her legs out onto the roadway. Cafferty’s hand clamped around Fox’s forearm.
‘Think very carefully, DI Fox.’ He nodded towards Clarke’s back. ‘This isn’t your future — Gartcosh is; Jennifer Lyon is; a seat at the top table is.’
Fox shook his arm free and opened the door. ‘My future, my decision,’ he said, climbing out.
‘Absolutely.’ Cafferty was laughing lightly as Fox slammed the door closed. Clarke, having given up asking Benny for his surname, was on her way back to the station’s main door. Fox caught her up.
‘Lyon knows all about this?’ she asked in an undertone.
‘Yes.’
‘That’s the armour you were talking about?’ Fox nodded. ‘In which case, he’ll think he’s already won.’
‘How do you make that out?’
‘Even if you give him nothing, he can say you did his bidding, and Lyon knew about it and sanctioned it.’
‘So?’
‘So the pair of you might have to go on record and deny it — in other words, lie to whoever is asking.’
‘And?’
She stopped just short of the door, turning so she was face to face with him. ‘He tapes everything that happens in his club, Malcolm. What makes you think he stops there?’
‘The car?’
‘All it takes is for him to switch on his phone’s voice memo app. Plus you’ve been in his penthouse. Chances are everything you said there has been recorded.’
Fox couldn’t help looking over his shoulder at the car. It was starting to move, but Cafferty had left the rear window open, his eyes on the two detectives as he passed.
‘He’s won,’ Fox said quietly, statement rather than question. ‘I feel a bit sick.’
‘I hope it wasn’t the fish,’ Clarke replied, making show of pressing her hand to her stomach.
‘How can you joke about this?’
She considered for a moment and then shrugged. ‘Thinking he’s won doesn’t mean he has. It’s not over yet, Malcolm.’ She watched the car glide away from them into the night. ‘Not nearly over...’
As Benny drove to the Jenever Club, Cafferty phoned Cole Burnett.
‘It’s your Uncle Morris, Cole. How are things at your end?’
The teenager’s voice was nasal and ever-so-slightly slurred. ‘It’s all good, all good.’
‘Got an address or two for me?’
‘Aye.’
‘Well, let’s not say any more until we meet face to face. You know my place on the Cowgate? I’ll see you there in an hour.’
‘Okay.’
‘Cheer up, son — future’s full of good things coming your way. Just trust your Uncle Morris.’ He ended the call and placed his phone on the seat next to him.
‘You really think he’s got the makings?’ Benny asked from the driver’s seat, eyes meeting Cafferty’s in the rear-view mirror.
‘If he hasn’t, he’s all yours.’ Cafferty turned his head to watch the city slide past. Leith had changed — fine dining, craft beer and artisan bread — but it was still Leith. Like an old band coaxed out on the road again, smack was making a comeback. Coke had stopped being available only to the wealthy. Crack and methadone and benzos were everywhere.
Money was being made.
But the people at the top always wanted a bigger slice. If Cafferty didn’t fortify his territory, others might think he was vulnerable. He’d had meetings in Glasgow and Aberdeen, just to make sure everyone knew where things stood. Not Dundee, though — because the people shipping the drugs from Manchester hadn’t wanted it. Message enough to Cafferty’s mind: they’d be coming for him soon. And when they came, they would take out the street dealers first, making things nice and clear to him. That was why over the past few months he’d been bringing losers like Cole Burnett aboard. Let the marauders think they were taking out his best guys, his whole army. They would reckon it an easy win.
Then they would begin to relax. And their guard would come down...
‘Want some music or anything, boss?’ Benny was asking.
‘I’m fine, Benjamin, thanks. Big Ger Cafferty is absolutely tickety-boo.’
Day Five
26
The media and the rubberneckers had returned to Naver.
Lawrie Blake looked pleased with his creation when Rebus bumped into him on the street outside The Glen. The online world had magnified his original story, engendering conspiracy theories, dusting off the racier anecdotes from Ramsay Meiklejohn’s past and inventing luridly imagined versions of the anonymous threat to Samantha. Blake had his collar turned up and was wearing a large tweed cap, his phone gripped in his hand ready to record vox pops and capture photographs. Locals, however, were thin on the ground, having retreated to the relative safety of their homes. A few parents were forced to run a gauntlet of sorts as they scurried towards the school with their gawping children. Rebus was heading to the shop for a newspaper, but Blake produced one from his pocket and handed it over. Rebus unfolded it.
‘Front page, eh?’ he commented.
‘And pages three, four and five. I’ve even had a call from a press agency in London offering work. How’s your Saab?’
‘I’ve not heard. Rental’s running fine, though.’ He watched as a car cruised past, failing to find a parking space. There was TV equipment in the back. ‘You going to be talking to them?’ he asked, nodding towards the vehicle.
‘If they ask nicely. I quite fancy a move into television.’ Blake’s phone was pinging every few seconds with messages. ‘Has your daughter received any more notes?’
‘Not that I’m aware of.’
The reporter glanced at the pub. ‘You’re staying here rather than at hers — mind if I ask why?’
‘We’re not discussing Samantha, remember?’
Blake gave a thin smile. ‘Can’t blame a guy for trying. Laura called me late last night from Edinburgh. She was asking who gave me the story.’
‘Was my name mentioned?’
‘I protect my sources, Mr Rebus.’
‘I’m sure she knows anyway. It’s a small tank we’re all swimming in.’ Rebus looked around. ‘No sign of your fellow journalist, the one you were in the pub with?’
‘She’s at Strathy Castle, I think. I’m headed there soon.’
‘Don’t expect the occupants to be overly chatty — and watch out for the gardener.’
‘Oh?’
‘Criminal record and a temper.’ Rebus put a finger to his lips as he started to unlock the rental car.
‘Going somewhere nice?’
‘You planning on tailing me?’
‘No.’
He gave the young man a hard stare. ‘Good.’
He made for the coast road, heading in the direction of Tongue. He looked to his left as he passed the backpacker café. A couple of bicycles and an old-fashioned camper van were parked out front. Ron Travis would be busy inside, catering for his guests. The Portakabin was still in place at Camp 1033, along with fluttering lengths of crime-scene tape and the same bored-looking uniform as before. Rebus sounded his horn and, having attracted the officer’s attention, stuck two fingers up as he passed. Checking in the rear-view mirror, he saw him dig a notebook out of his high-vis jacket. Doubtless he’d be noting the car’s details.
‘Good luck,’ Rebus muttered with a half-smile.
He took the cratered track to the steading, parking in the same spot as before. The logs had been dealt with and were neatly stacked, their top layer covered with a tarpaulin, next to which sat the motorbike. When the door to the farmhouse opened, Mick Sanderson stepped out. His eyes were on the rental car as he approached Rebus.