‘So here’s a tip for you, Cole — if you use the thing, dig the bullet out of wherever it’s ended up. Do not leave it at the scene.’
He replayed the conversation in his head as he stared at the ceiling, hands clasped around the back of his head. He thought of Les’s aunt, of her home of nine years being turned into a factory. She’d be the one going to jail when the bust came. Cafferty would remain nicely distanced from the fallout. He lived in a top-floor flat in a nice part of town. He had his club and his big car and his hangers-on. He had a lot of things Cole wanted. Yet who was he? What was he? Just another fucker who got lucky. Wasn’t like he had an invisibility cloak or some Marvel-style weaponry. His only shield was his rep; the sort of hard man drunks talked pish about in old men’s pubs.
Cole raised himself up from his prone position, swung his feet off the bed and onto the carpeted floor. Stopped the music. Walked to the window, pushing it as far open as it would go. He wanted to stick his head out and howl at the sky, a sky that had only just turned dark.
Instead of which, he returned to the bed. Sat on it. Looked at his phone. Gnawed on his bottom lip. Made his decision and called the number.
‘Fuck is it?’ the voice at the other end demanded.
‘I can get you the dough,’ Cole said. ‘So how soon can I have it?’
‘You fussed about make and model?’
‘As long as it works.’
‘Tomorrow then. Deets later.’
The call was ended. Cole picked up the open can of energy drink and took a slug before starting to text some mates. Time to ask a few favours...
Day Six
32
Rebus, May and Cameron were in the kitchen finishing breakfast when they heard a noise at the pub’s locked and bolted front door. May went to investigate, Rebus knowing full well what she’d find. Sure enough, she returned slightly flustered, trying not to show it.
‘Cameron,’ she announced. ‘Our fingerprints are needed. Police are waiting in the bar.’
‘What’s going on?’ Cameron asked.
‘They found a gun. They think it might be the one from here.’ She fetched her jacket from the coat rail. ‘I’ve got to go with them — they need Dad’s prints too.’
Cameron pushed a last corner of bread into his mouth as he rose from his chair. Rebus was up too. He followed May into the bar. The print kit had been set up on one of the tables. Robin Creasey was studying the photographs of John Lennon.
‘Have you had any sleep?’ Rebus asked.
‘Not much.’ He turned his attention to May. ‘You and your father will have to come to Inverness, I’m afraid. That’s where the firearm is and we need an identification.’
‘Won’t our fingerprints be proof enough?’ May enquired.
‘Would showing May a photograph suffice?’ Rebus added.
‘I don’t think so.’ But Creasey produced his phone anyway and opened its picture gallery, holding the screen close to May’s face as he used a finger to slide between shots. Rebus changed position so he could view over May’s shoulder. A rusty revolver, with a piece of white muslin cloth covering a section of the grip. He knew the cloth’s purpose: blood and hair beneath, not the sort of thing you wanted civilians seeing. As Creasey flipped back through the gallery, he had eyes only for May, checking her reaction. She had placed a palm to one cheek as if to aid concentration.
‘Looks similar,’ she eventually conceded.
‘We think there are marks that will correspond to the nails on the wall.’ Creasey nodded to where a photographer was busy getting close-ups of the gap below the optics while an assistant held up a simple wooden ruler as a measurement aid.
‘Easier just to bring the gun here,’ Rebus suggested. ‘Inverness is a hellish long trip for a frail old man.’
‘We’ll be fine, John,’ May attempted to reassure him. Then, to Cameron: ‘You going to be okay on your own?’
The young barman was seated at the table while his prints were taken. ‘These’ll be destroyed after, won’t they? Not kept on some Big Brother database?’
‘Never fear,’ Creasey said, which didn’t seem to console Cameron in the least.
When May’s turn came to sit at the table, Rebus drew Creasey to one side. ‘So what’s your thinking now?’ he asked in an undertone.
Creasey gave the beginnings of a shrug. ‘As ever, I’m keeping an open mind.’
‘The gun was lifted from here for a reason. Maybe the same reason it was used against Keith.’
‘Or it was just handy in the heat of the moment. Like I say, I’m ruling nothing out.’ Creasey rolled his shoulders and gave his neck a few stretches.
‘Racking up the miles,’ Rebus commented. ‘How long till Forensics finish with the gun?’
‘I’ll have a report later today. Blood and hair have gone for analysis. They’re checking for fibres and prints. It dates to the 1940s. Hasn’t been decommissioned but it’s corroded to hell, trigger and cylinder jammed. Barrel full of gunk and no bullets in any of the chambers.’
‘Serial number?’
‘Just about readable. Luckily there’s a guy in the lab knows someone who fancies himself an expert. If it can be traced, we’ll trace it.’ Creasey opened his notebook and glanced at it. ‘It’s a Webley .38, Mark 4, apparently. Turned them out by the crateload during the war.’
‘State it’s in, has it definitely spent time in the sea?’
Creasey fixed Rebus with a look. ‘You’re doubting Mr Collins’ story?’
‘Like you, I’m ruling nothing out.’
‘Amount of wear and tear makes his version of events feasible. If we need to, we can probably carbon-date the sand in the cylinder.’
The scraping of chair legs against the floor caused them both to turn round. May Collins was on her feet.
‘Ready when you are,’ she told Creasey, all businesslike. Then, to Rebus: ‘Pay’s not great, but there’s a shift for you here if you’re willing.’
‘I can manage,’ Cameron argued.
‘If needed, I can be here,’ Rebus said. May nodded without meeting his eyes. She fastened her jacket and checked she had her phone.
‘Best behaviour while Mummy’s gone,’ she said, pausing at the door until Creasey had opened it for her. Rebus and Cameron watched as the rest of the crew followed. Once the door was closed, Cameron bolted it again.
‘Not nearly opening time yet,’ he explained. ‘Not that I couldn’t do with a drink after all that.’ He was behind the bar by now, his fingers touching the three thin nails. Then he flinched and cursed, tugging the sleeve of his jumper over his hand and rubbing at the nails and the mirrored glass behind.
‘They’ll call that tampering with the evidence,’ Rebus chided him.
‘I call it protecting the innocent,’ Cameron countered. ‘Do we need to get some more tea on?’
‘Wouldn’t go amiss. And if it’s okay with you, I need time on the computer, look a few things up.’
‘What sort of things?’
‘Local history to start with.’
‘You could always consult Keith’s group.’
‘Might end up at that, but meantime...’
Cameron nodded, whether he understood or not. ‘I’ll get that brew going,’ he said, heading in the direction of the kitchen.
Having rung the bell, Rebus could sense Samantha hesitating on the other side of the door, checking through the spyhole. He heard the sound of a chain being slid open and the lock being turned.
‘Can’t be too careful, eh?’ he offered as the door swung wide. ‘Unlike the old days.’