‘Some hope.’ Rebus drained his glass. ‘Look at that,’ he said, pointing out a machine on the corner of the bar. ‘Jelly bean dispenser, twenty pence a throw. Two things the Scots are famous for, Jack: our sweet tooth and alcohol consumption.’
‘Two more things we’re famous for,’ Morton said.
‘What?’
‘Avoiding the issue and feeling guilty all the time.’
‘You mean Calvinism?’ Rebus chuckled. ‘Christ, Jack, I thought the only Calvin you knew these days was Mr Klein.’
Jack Morton was staring at him, seeking eye-to-eye contact. ‘Give me another reason why a man would let himself go.’
Rebus snorted. ‘How long have you got?’
Morton to Rebus: ‘As long as it takes.’
‘Not nearly enough, Jack. Here, have a proper drink.’
‘This is a proper drink. That stuff you’re drinking, that’s not really a drink.’
‘What is it then?’
‘An escape clause.’
Jack said he’d drive Rebus to Barlinnie, didn’t ask why he wanted to go there. They took the M8 to Riddrie; Jack knew all the routes. They didn’t say much during the trip, until Jack asked the question which had been hanging between them.
‘How’s Sammy?’
Rebus’s daughter, now grown up. Jack hadn’t seen her in nearly ten years.
‘She’s fine.’ Rebus had a change of subject ready. ‘I’m not sure Chick Ancram likes me. He keeps... studying me.’
‘He’s a shrewd customer, be nice to him.’
‘Any particular reason?’
Jack Morton bit back an answer, shook his head. They turned off Cumbernauld Road, approached the jail.
‘Look,’ Jack said, ‘I can’t hang around. Tell me how long you’ll be and I’ll send a patrol car for you.’
‘An hour should do it.’
Jack Morton checked his watch. ‘An hour it is.’ He held out his hand. ‘Good to see you again, John.’
Rebus took the hand, squeezed.
6
‘Big Ger’ Cafferty was waiting when he reached the Interview Room.
‘Well, Strawman, this is an unexpected pleasure.’
Strawman: Cafferty’s name for Rebus. The prison guard who had brought Rebus seemed disinclined to leave, and there were already two guards in the room keeping an eye on Cafferty. He’d already escaped once from Barlinnie, and now that they had him back, they were intent on keeping him.
‘Hello, Cafferty.’ Rebus sat down across from him. Cafferty had aged in prison, losing his tan and some musculature, putting on weight in all the wrong places. His hair was thin and greying quickly, and there was stubble on chin and cheekbones. ‘I’ve brought you something.’ He looked at the guards, eased the half-bottle out of his pocket.
‘Not allowed,’ one guard snapped.
‘Don’t worry, Strawman,’ Cafferty said. ‘I’ve plenty of hooch, this place is practically swimming in the stuff. It’s the thought that counts, eh?’
Rebus dropped the bottle back into his pocket.
‘I take it you’ve a favour to ask?’
‘Yes.’
Cafferty crossed his legs, utterly at ease. ‘What is it?’
‘You know Joseph Toal?’
‘Everyone and their dog knows Uncle Joe.’
‘Yes, but you know him.’
‘So?’ There was an edge to Cafferty’s smile.
‘I want you to phone him, get him to speak to me.’
Cafferty considered the request. ‘Why?’
‘I want to ask him about Anthony Kane.’
‘Tony E1? I thought he was dead.’
‘He left his prints at a murder scene in Niddrie.’ Never mind what the boss said, Rebus was treating this as murder. And he knew the word would make more of an impression on Cafferty. It did. His lips rounded into an O, and he whistled.
‘That was stupid of him. Tony E1 didn’t used to be so stupid. And if he was still working for Uncle Joe... There could be fallout.’ Rebus knew that connections were being made in Cafferty’s mind, and they all led to Joseph Toal becoming his Barlinnie neighbour. There would be reasons for Cafferty to want Toal inside: old scores, debts unpaid, territory encroached. There were always old scores to be settled. Cafferty came to his decision.
‘You’ll need to get me a phone.’
Rebus got up, walked over to the guard who’d barked ‘Not allowed’, slipped the whisky into the man’s pocket.
‘We need to get him a phone,’ he said.
They marched Cafferty left and right through corridors until they reached a payphone. They’d had to pass through three sets of gates.
‘This is as near to the outside as I’ve been in a while,’ Cafferty joked.
The guards weren’t laughing. Rebus provided the money for the call.
‘Now,’ said Cafferty, ‘let’s see if I remember...’ He winked at Rebus, pressed seven digits, waited.
‘Hello?’ he said. ‘Who’s that?’ He listened to the name. ‘Never heard of you. Listen, tell Uncle Joe that Big Ger wants a word. Just tell him that.’ He waited, glanced at Rebus, licked his lips. ‘He says what? Tell him I’m phoning from the Bar-L and money’s short.’
Rebus pushed another coin home.
‘Well,’ Cafferty growing angry, ‘tell him he’s got a tattoo on his back.’ He covered the mouthpiece. ‘Not something Uncle Joe goes blabbing about.’
Rebus got as close as he could to the earpiece, heard a dull rasp of a voice.
‘Morris Gerald Cafferty, is that you? I thought someone was winding me up.’
‘Hello, Uncle Joe. How’s business?’
‘Loupin’. Who’s listening in?’
‘At the last count, three monkeys and a dick.’
‘You always liked an audience, that was your problem.’
‘Sound advice, Uncle Joe, but years too late.’
‘So what do they want?’ They: Rebus the dick and the three monkey guards.
‘The dick’s from Edinburgh CID, he wants to come talk to you.’
‘What about?’
‘Tony El.’
‘What’s to tell? Tony hasn’t worked for me in a twelvemonth.’
‘Then tell the nice policeman that. Seems Tony’s been up to his old tricks. There’s a cold one in Edinburgh, and Tony’s prints on the scene.’
A low growclass="underline" human.
‘You got a dog there, Uncle Joe?’
‘Tell the cop I don’t have anything to do with Tony.’
‘I think he wants to hear it for himself.’
‘Then put him on.’
Cafferty looked to Rebus, who shook his head.
‘And he wants to look you in the eye while you’re telling him.’
‘Is he a poof or what?’
‘He’s old school, Uncle Joe. You’ll like him.’
‘Why did he come to you?’
‘I’m his Last Chance Saloon.’
‘And why the fuck did you agree?’
Cafferty didn’t miss a beat. ‘A half-bottle of usquebaugh.’
‘Jesus, the Bar-L must be drier than I thought.’ The voice not so rough.
‘Send a whole bottle over and I’ll tell him to go fuck himself.’
A croaky laugh. ‘Christ, Cafferty, I miss you. How long to go?’
‘Ask my lawyers.’
‘Are you still keeping your hand in?’
‘What do you think?’
‘It’s what I hear.’
‘Nothing wrong with your hearing.’
‘Send the bastard over, tell him he gets five minutes. Maybe I’ll come see you one of these days.’
‘Better not, Uncle Joe, when visiting time ends they might have misplaced the key.’
More laughter. The line went dead. Cafferty put down the receiver.
‘You owe me, Strawman,’ he growled, ‘so here’s my favour: put that old bastard away.’