Friday
14
Morris Gerald Cafferty lived in a penthouse duplex in the Quartermile development, just across the Meadows from Rebus’s tenement. Rebus tied Brillo up at the entrance and pressed the bell. A camera lens was above it. Rebus got in close, knowing his face would be filling a small monitor somewhere upstairs.
‘Yes?’ Cafferty’s voice enquired.
‘Got a minute?’
‘Just barely.’ But Rebus was buzzed in anyway. He took the lift. Last time he’d been there, Cafferty’s gangland rival Darryl Christie had been only a few minutes ahead of him, armed and looking to take Cafferty out. But Cafferty had prevailed and Christie was serving time, meaning Edinburgh belonged to Cafferty now, and this was his eyrie, protected by CCTV and concierges.
He’d left the apartment door open, so Rebus went in. The short corridor led to a large open-plan space. Cafferty was pouring coffee from a cafetière.
‘I forget how you take it.’
‘Just as it comes.’
‘No sugar?’
‘No sugar.’
‘Men our age, we have to look after ourselves.’ Cafferty handed over the plain white mug and gave Rebus an inspection. ‘Not too bad for a man with a debilitating condition.’
‘You look okay too, more’s the pity.’
Cafferty looked better than okay, actually. Winning back Edinburgh had taken years off him. He’d always had heft, but he seemed to have a renewed spring in his step.
‘There’s a gym practically opposite,’ he explained, patting his stomach. ‘I go when I can. You still got that bloody mutt?’
‘He’s parked outside. Stand on your terrace some nights and you’ll see us just by Jawbone Walk. I take it business is good?’
‘Nobody drinks the way they used to. Licensed trade is always a battle.’
‘And the minicabs? Car wash? Flat rentals?’
‘I see you’re still keeping au fait.’
‘I hear that place you took over from Darryl Christie is struggling, though.’
‘The Devil’s Dram?’ Cafferty shrugged. ‘Good times and bad, John. I’m thinking of changing the focus from whisky to gin.’
‘I’m guessing you’d never part with it — not after what you went through to win it.’
‘Ever been to see Darryl?’
Rebus shook his head. ‘How about you?’
‘I did try once but he knocked me back.’
‘Weren’t you afraid that once you walked into the Bar-L they’d lock the doors and not let you out again?’
‘Legitimate businessman, John. That’s what the judge said at the trial.’
‘Aye, and like you, I could hear the inverted commas.’
‘Tone of voice isn’t what gets written down, though.’ The two of them were standing a few feet apart. Time was, they’d already have been weighing up the trading of physical blows, but now that each was afraid of the cost of losing, words would have to suffice. Cafferty was gesturing to a corner of the room behind Rebus, where the TV was showing a morning news channel. He’d turned the sound down, so they could see Catherine Bloom but not hear her.
‘She’s enjoying it too much,’ Cafferty commented. ‘All this attention, she thinks it gives her life meaning.’
‘She’s fought for years.’
‘Years she could have been spending on herself. The woman’s hollowed out, John. Don’t tell me you can’t see it.’ Cafferty had pulled out one of the shiny steel chairs from beneath the glass-topped dining table. He perched there, waiting until Rebus took the seat opposite. ‘I’m assuming she’s why you’re here.’
‘Why else?’
Cafferty smiled, pleased to have been proved right. ‘Murder inquiry means looking at the old case. Old case was one of yours. But like I said to you at the time, I had nothing to do with any of it.’
‘I’m wondering what happened to Conor Maloney.’
Cafferty held out a hand. ‘Pass me your phone and I’ll show you how to use Google.’
‘I’ve looked at Google. He seems to have gone walkabout.’
‘Right enough, last I heard, he was taking a lot of cruises. Tax exile sort of thing.’
‘When was that?’
‘Four, five years ago. Conor might have overstepped the mark.’
‘How so?’
‘Trying to make friends in South America. Plenty drugs and money there, but they don’t play games. He wasn’t to their liking.’
‘So he’s on the run?’
‘Taxman might be after him, but I’ve not heard that the Colombians are — or the gardai, come to that. He’s just keeping his head down, enjoying a well-earned retirement.’
‘He severed his links to Adrian Brand?’
‘Conor liked the idea of a golf course, maybe a whole string of them, but it was only a passing notion.’
‘Would he have liked learning that a private investigator was sniffing around?’
‘You asked me that at the time, John.’
‘But now Bloom’s body has turned up...’
‘Not my concern.’
‘The thing I remember about our interview back then is how you tried to deflect attention on to an Aberdeen crime family — the Bartollis. If we’d gone after them, that would have suited you just fine.’
Cafferty smiled at the memory. ‘Can’t blame a man for trying. How’s the coffee?’
‘A bit weak, like your answers.’
‘It’s decaf. Better for the blood pressure. I can add a tot of something stronger, if you like.’
‘I’ll survive.’
‘I don’t doubt that.’ Cafferty ran a hand over his shaven head. It was shaped like a bowling ball, with folds of fat at the nape of the neck. Nicks and bits of scar tissue evidence of the knocks he’d taken, all the way back to childhood. In gangs from his early teens, working his way up, learning and staying lucky and toughening his hide. There were probably points in his life where he could have turned to left or right, but he hadn’t taken them. He’d vanquished his rivals, done some time, and now sat in his penthouse, alone and probably still dissatisfied. Rebus couldn’t help thinking of his own tenement flat, and those night-time walks, and the solitariness, part of his mind always on his shadow self, Morris Gerald Cafferty.
‘Will they want to talk to me, do you think?’ Cafferty was asking.
‘They might.’
‘Who’s in charge, anyone I know?’
‘A DCI called Graham Sutherland.’
‘From Inverness originally?’
‘I don’t know.’
Cafferty was nodding to himself. ‘Pretty sure that’s him. He’s just a name to me though — no run-ins to speak of.’
‘Siobhan Clarke’s on the team, too.’
‘Always a pleasure to do business with Siobhan. Is she still going out with Malcolm Fox?’
‘They were never an item.’
‘I heard otherwise.’
‘If you paid for that, you might want a refund.’
‘And Fox is still at Gartcosh?’
‘Have you tried Google?’
‘Touché, John.’ Cafferty smiled again, scratching at his jawline. ‘They probably will want to talk to me. I told you back then, I put money into one of Jackie Ness’s films.’ Cafferty watched Rebus nod. ‘It was actually Billy Locke who asked me. Billy was Ness’s partner in the business. He was looking for new angels — that was what he called us. You got treated to a good dinner and he gave you his spiel, and you either got out your chequebook or you didn’t.’
‘A chequebook?’ Rebus sounded sceptical.
‘You’re right — I was always strictly cash. Not that I put in much, and I got it back with interest. They asked me if I wanted my name added to the credits, but I said no.’
‘Why?’
‘By the time it came out, Stuart Bloom had gone missing.’