But Rebus was already walking towards freedom.
The car was waiting for him, Morton keeping his word. Rebus gave the address he’d memorised from the Toal files. He was sitting in the back, two woolly suits in the front. The passenger turned in his seat.
‘Isn’t that where Uncle Joe lives?’
Rebus nodded. The woolly suits exchanged a look.
‘Just get me there,’ Rebus ordered.
The traffic was heavy, people heading home. Elastic Glasgow, stretching in four directions. The housing scheme, when they reached it, was much like any scheme its size in Edinburgh: grey pebbledash, barren play areas, tarmac and a smattering of fortified shops. Kids on bikes stopping to watch the car, eyes as keen as sentries’; brisk baby buggies, shapeless mothers with dyed blonde hair. Further into the estate, driving slowly: people watching from behind their windows, men at pavement corners, muttered confabs. A city within a city, uniform and enervating, energy sapped, nothing left but obstinacy: the words NO SURRENDER on a gable-end, a message from Ulster just as relevant here.
‘Are you expected?’ the driver asked.
‘I’m expected.’
‘Thank Christ for that at least.’
‘Any other patrol cars around?’
The passenger laughed nervously. ‘This is the frontier, sir. The frontier has a way of keeping its own law and order.’
‘If you had his money,’ the driver said, ‘would you live here?’
‘He was born here,’ Rebus said. ‘And I believe his house is a bit special.’
‘Special?’ The driver snorted. ‘Well, judge for yourself.’
He brought the car to a stop at the entrance to a cul-de-sac. Rebus saw at the end of the cul-de-sac two houses which stood out from their neighbours for a single reason: they boasted stone cladding.
‘One of those?’ Rebus asked.
‘Pick either door.’
Rebus got out of the car, leaned back in. ‘Don’t you dare drive away.’ He slammed his door shut and walked up the cul-de-sac. He chose the left-hand of the two identical semi-detacheds. The door was opened from within, and an oversized man in a bulging T-shirt ushered him in.
‘You the rozzer?’ They were standing in a cramped hallway. Rebus nodded. ‘Through there.’
Rebus opened the door to the living room, and did a double-take. The connecting wall between the two semis had been knocked through, providing a double-sized living space, open plan. The room also went further back than should have been feasible. Rebus was reminded of Dr Who’s Tardis, and, alone in the room, walked towards the back of the house. A large extension had been added, including a sizeable conservatory. This should have minimised the space left for a garden, but the lawn outside was plentiful. There were playing-fields backing on to the house, and Rebus saw that Uncle Joe had taken a chunk out of these fields for his garden.
Planning permission, of course, was out of the question.
But then who needed planning permission?
‘I hope your ears don’t need cleaning,’ a voice said. Rebus turned and saw that a small, stooped man had entered the room. He held a cigarette in one hand, while his other was busy with a walking-stick. He shuffled in carpet slippers towards a well-used armchair and fell into it, hands gripping the greasy antimacassars, walking-stick lying across his lap.
Rebus had seen photographs of the man, but they hadn’t prepared him for the reality. Joseph Toal really did look like someone’s uncle. He was in his seventies, stocky, with the hands and face of a one-time coalminer. His forehead was all rippled flesh, and his thin grey hair was swept back and Brylcreemed. His jaw was square, eyes watery, and his glasses hung from a string around his neck. When he raised the cigarette to his lips, Rebus saw nicotine fingers, bruised ingrown nails. He was wearing a shapeless cardigan over an equally shapeless sports shirt. The cardigan was patched, loose threads hanging from it. His trousers were brown and baggy, stained at the knees.
‘Nothing wrong with my ears,’ Rebus said, coming forward.
‘Good, because I’ll say it only once.’ He sniffed, controlling his breathing. ‘Anthony Kane worked for me twelve, thirteen years, not all the time — short-term contracts. But then a year ago, maybe a little over, he told me he was walking, wanted to be his own boss. We parted on amicable terms, I haven’t seen him since.’
Rebus gestured to a chair. Toal nodded to let him know he could sit. Rebus took his time getting comfortable.
‘Mr Toal —’
‘Everybody calls me Uncle Joe.’
‘As in Stalin?’
‘You think that’s a new joke, son? Ask your question.’
Go: ‘What was Tony planning to do when he left your employ?’
‘He didn’t go into specifics. Our parting conversation was... curt.’
Rebus nodded. He was thinking: I had an uncle who looked very much like you; I can’t even remember his name.
‘Well, if that’s everything...’ Toal made a show of starting to rise.
‘Do you remember Bible John, Uncle Joe?’
Toal frowned, understanding the question but not its intent. He reached down to the floor for an ashtray, stubbed his cigarette into it. ‘I remember fine. Hundreds of coppers on the street, it was bad for business. We cooperated a hundred per cent, I had men out hunting the bugger for months. Months! And now this new bastard turns up.’
‘Johnny Bible?’
Pointing to himself: ‘I’m a businessman. The slaughter of innocents sickens me. I’ve had all my taxi drivers — ’ he paused — ‘I have interests in a local taxi firm — and I’ve instructed every single driver: keep your eyes peeled and your ears open.’ He was breathing heavily. ‘If anything comes to me, it’ll go straight to the cops.’
‘Very public spirited.’
Toal shrugged. ‘The public is my business.’ Another pause, a frown. ‘What’s all this to do with Tony El?’
‘Nothing.’ Toal looked unconvinced. ‘Call it tangential. Is it OK to smoke?’
‘You’re not staying long enough to enjoy it.’
Rebus lit up anyway, staying put. ‘Where did Tony El go?’
‘He didn’t send a postcard.’
‘You must have some idea.’
Toal thought about it, when he shouldn’t have needed to. ‘Somewhere south, I think. Maybe London. He had friends down there.’
‘London?’
Toal wouldn’t look at Rebus. He shook his head. ‘I heard he headed south.’
Rebus stood up.
‘Is it that time already?’ Toal showed effort getting to his feet, steadying himself with the walking-stick. ‘And here we were just getting to know one another. How’s Edinburgh these days? Know what we used to say about it? Fur coat and nae knickers, that’s Edinburgh.’ A hacking laugh turned into a hacking cough. Toal gripped the walking-stick with both hands, knees almost buckling.
Rebus waited until he’d finished. The old man’s face was puce, sweat breaking out. ‘That may be true,’ he said, ‘but I don’t see too many fur coats around here, never mind the knickers.’
Toal’s face broke into a grin, showing yellow dentures. ‘Cafferty said I’d like you, and you know what?’
‘What?’
The grin turned to a scowl. ‘He was wrong. And now I’ve seen you, I’m wondering more than ever why he sent you here. Not just for the price of a half-bottle, not even Cafferty’s that cheap. You better get yourself back to Edinburgh, laddie. And take care of yourself, I hear it’s not as safe as it used to be.’
Rebus walked to the far end of the living room, deciding to leave by the other front door. There was a staircase next to it, and someone came bounding down, nearly colliding with him. A big man in bad clothes, a face that said he wasn’t too bright, arms tattooed with thistles and pipers. He’d be about twenty-five, and Rebus recognised him from the photos in the file: Mad Malky Toal, a.k.a. ‘Stanley’. Joseph Toal’s wife had died in childbirth, too old really to be having kids. But their first two had died, one in infancy, one in a car smash. So now there was only Stanley, heir apparent, and towards the back of the queue when the IQs were being divvied.