‘Enough!’ Cafferty barked. Storey turned towards him, ready to channel his anger elsewhere. But there was something about Cafferty... even at the age he was, overweight and naked in a tub...
It would take a braver — or more foolish — man than Storey to stand up to him.
Something Storey knew immediately. He made the right decision, shoulders untensing, fists unclenching, trying to control his coughs and splutters.
‘Well, boys,’ Cafferty went on, ‘I think it’s past both your bedtimes, isn’t it?’
‘I’m not finished yet,’ Rebus stated.
‘I thought you were,’ Cafferty said. It sounded like an order, but Rebus dismissed it with a twitch of the mouth.
‘Here’s what I want.’ His attention was on Storey now. ‘I said I can’t prove anything, but that might not stop me trying — and shit has a way of making a smell, even when you can’t see it.’
‘I’ve told you, I didn’t know who “Deep Throat” was.’
‘And you weren’t just a tiny bit suspicious, even when he gave you a tip such as who owned the red BMW?’ Rebus waited for an answer, but got none. ‘See, Felix, the way it’ll seem to most people, either you’re dirty or else incredibly stupid. Neither looks good on the old CV.’
‘I didn’t know,’ Storey persisted.
‘But I’m betting you had an inkling. You just ignored it and concentrated on all those brownie points you’d be getting.’
‘What do you want?’ Storey croaked.
‘I want the Yurgii family — the mother and kids — released from Whitemire. I want them housed somewhere you’d choose for yourself. By tomorrow.’
‘You think I can do that?’
‘You’ve blown an immigrant scam apart, Felix — they owe you.’
‘And that’s it?’
Rebus shook his head. ‘Not quite. Chantal Rendille... I don’t want her deported.’
Storey seemed to be waiting for more, but Rebus was finished.
‘I’m sure Mr Storey will see what he can do,’ Cafferty said levelly — as if his was always the voice of reason.
‘Any of your illegals turn up in Edinburgh, Cafferty...’ Rebus began, knowing the threat to be empty.
Cafferty knew it too, but he smiled and bowed his head. Rebus turned to Storey. ‘For what it’s worth, I think you just got greedy. You saw a golden chance and you weren’t going to question it, far less turn it down. But there’s a chance to redeem yourself.’ He jabbed a finger in Cafferty’s direction. ‘By pointing your guns at him.’
Storey nodded slowly, both men — locked in combat just moments before — now staring at the figure in the tub. Cafferty had half turned, as if he’d already dismissed them from his mind and his life. He was busy with the control panel, jets suddenly gushing into the tub again. ‘You’ll bring your trunks next time?’ he called as Rebus started heading for the driveway.
‘And an extension cable,’ Rebus called back.
For the two-bar electric fire. Watch the lights change colour when that hit the water...
Epilogue
The Oxford Bar.
Harry poured Rebus a pint of IPA, then told him there was a ‘journo’ in the back room. ‘Fair warning,’ Harry said. Rebus nodded and took his drink through. It was Steve Holly. He was perusing what looked like the next morning’s paper, folded it closed at Rebus’s approach.
‘Jungle drums are going mental,’ he said.
‘I never listen to them,’ Rebus replied. ‘Try never to read the tabloids either.’
‘Whitemire’s approaching meltdown, you’ve got a strip-club owner in custody, and there’s a story the paramilitaries have been muscling in on Knoxland.’ Holly raised his hands. ‘I hardly know where to start.’ He laughed and hoisted his glass. ‘Actually, that’s not strictly true... want to know why?’
‘Why?’
He wiped foam from his top lip. ‘Because everywhere I look, I come across your dabs.’
‘Do you?’
Holly nodded slowly. ‘Given the inside gen, I could make you the hero of the piece. That would put you on the fast track out of Gayfield Square.’
‘My saviour,’ Rebus offered, concentrating on his beer. ‘But tell me this... Remember that story you wrote about Knoxland? The way you twisted it so the refugees became the problem?’
‘They are a problem.’
Rebus ignored this. ‘You wrote it that way because Stuart Bullen told you to.’ It sounded like a statement, and when Rebus looked into the reporter’s eyes, he knew it was true. ‘What did he do — phone you? Ask a favour? Pair of you scratching one another’s backs again, just like when he used to give you tip-offs on any celebs leaving his club...’
‘I’m not sure what you’re getting at.’
Rebus leaned forward on his chair. ‘Didn’t you wonder why he was asking?’
‘He said it was a matter of balance, giving the locals a voice.’
‘But why?’
Holly shrugged. ‘I just reckoned he was your everyday racist. I’d no idea he had something he was trying to hide.’
‘You know now though, don’t you? He wanted us focusing on Stef Yurgii as a race crime. And all the time, it was him and his men... with slime like you at their beck and call.’ Though Rebus was staring at Holly, he was thinking of Cafferty and Felix Storey, of the many and various ways in which people could be used and abused, conned and manipulated. He knew he could unload it all on Holly, and maybe the reporter would even do something with it. But where was the proof? All Rebus had was the queasy feeling in his gut. That, and a few embers of rage.
‘I only report the stuff, Rebus,’ the reporter said. ‘I don’t make it happen.’
Rebus nodded to himself. ‘And people like me try to clean up afterwards.’
Holly’s nostrils twitched. ‘Speaking of which, you’ve not been swimming, have you?’
‘Do I look the type?’
‘I wouldn’t have thought so. All the same, I can definitely smell chlorine...’
Siobhan was parked outside his flat. As she emerged from the driver’s side, he could hear bottles chiming in her carrier bag.
‘We can’t be working you hard enough,’ Rebus told her. ‘I heard you’d taken time off for a dook in Duddingston Loch.’ She managed a smile. ‘You’re okay, though?’
‘I will be after a couple of glasses... Always supposing you’re not expecting different company.’
‘You mean Caro?’ Rebus slid his hands into his pockets and gave a shrug.
‘Was it my fault?’ Siobhan asked into the silence.
‘No... but don’t let that stop you taking the blame. How’s Major Underpants?’
‘He’s fine.’
Rebus nodded slowly, then brought the key from his pocket. ‘No cheap plonk in that bag, I hope.’
‘The finest bin ends in town,’ she assured him. They climbed the two flights together, finding comfort in the silence. But at Rebus’s landing, he stopped short and uttered a curse. His door was ajar, the jamb splintered.
‘Bloody hell,’ Siobhan said, following him inside.
Straight to the living room. ‘TV’s gone,’ she stated.
‘And the stereo.’
‘Want me to phone it in?’
‘And provide punchlines for Gayfield all next week?’ He shook his head.
‘I’m assuming you’re insured?’
‘I’ll need to check I kept the payments up...’ Rebus broke off as he noticed something. A scrap of paper on his chair by the bay window. He crouched down to peer at it. Nothing but a seven-digit number. He picked up his phone and made the call, staying in a crouch as he listened. An answering machine, telling him all he needed to know. He ended the call, stood back up.