‘I like a bit of Burt Bacharach in the morning,’ Clarke said.
‘It’s Ninja Horse.’
‘Do me a favour then and put it back in the stable.’
With a final sneer, the young man moved off. There was a glass staircase leading to a VIP balcony area directly above the long mirrored bar. As Clarke started to climb, the music cut off abruptly. The place was being readied for the night to come, vacuum cleaners busy, bottles restocked, chairs and stools repositioned. Darryl Christie was watching from his upstairs table, nose still strapped but eyes a bit less swollen, if no less bruised. He had paperwork spread out in front of him, and made show of turning each sheet so it sat blank side up as Clarke approached.
‘I’m not Customs and Excise, Darryl,’ she pretended to complain.
‘Maybe it’s my trade secrets I’m hiding — how to build a successful club from nothing.’
There was a glass of sparkling water next to him. He lifted it to his mouth, sipping through a bright red straw, content to wait for what she had to say.
‘Craw Shand is back on the street,’ she obliged.
‘Is that right?’
‘If anything happens to him, you’ll have me to answer to.’
‘The big bad DI Clarke?’ Christie stifled a grin. ‘Thing I’ve learned about getting even with someone, it’s best to leave a bit of time. Could be weeks, could be months — there’s still the anticipation.’
‘Is that how it was with the man who killed your sister?’
Christie’s cheekbones tightened. ‘He killed more than one kid. He was never going to last long in jail.’
‘Barlinnie, wasn’t it? I’m guessing that means Joe Stark did the organising — his city, his sphere of influence. You and him still close, Darryl?’
‘What’s it to you, Officer?’
‘Just because we’ve charged Shand doesn’t mean we’ve stopped looking. That includes everyone you know, friend or foe.’
‘So you’ll have pulled Cafferty in, then?’
‘Maybe after we talk to Joe Stark.’
‘You can talk till you’re blue in the face, won’t make the slightest difference.’ He was rising to his feet with effort, gasping a little as the pain hit his ribs.
‘Your mum reckons you owe me for catching Shand so quickly.’
‘And not touching him would balance the books between us? Nice try, Siobhan.’ He was standing only a few inches from her. ‘It was good to see you in here a few weeks back. Did you enjoy your evening? From the CCTV, it looked like you did. Seven G and Ts I think I counted.’ He gave another grin, gesturing towards the staircase. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me...’
She stood her ground for a moment, and he gave a little bow of his head to tell her she’d made her point. So she went back down the steps, the smell of disinfectant heavy in the air. As she retraced her route across the floor of the main room, imps and demons staring down at her, the music started up again, setting her teeth on edge. Back out on the pavement, she paused to take a few deep breaths, then noticed her phone was buzzing. She checked the screen: her pal in the Police Scotland control room.
‘What is it, Tess?’
‘Body fished out of Leith Docks, not far from the Britannia.’
‘Suicide?’
‘Bit of a Houdini if it is. Houdini in reverse, I suppose I mean.’
‘Spit it out then.’
‘I’m hearing his hands were tied behind his back.’
‘That does make it suspicious.’
‘I thought so. But the reason I thought you’d be interested is one of our lot recognised the face.’
Clarke froze, eyes on the doors of the Devil’s Dram.
Please God, she said to herself. But surely not so soon...
She realised Tess was spelling out a name, a name that meant something to her.
‘Give me that again,’ she demanded, then ended the call and found Rebus’s number.
‘Yes, Siobhan?’ he answered.
‘They’ve just fished Robert Chatham out of the docks,’ she said.
‘Fuck,’ retorted Rebus.
She was thinking what else to tell him when she realised he’d hung up.
The Royal Yacht Britannia had a permanent berth to the rear of the Ocean Terminal shopping centre and the adjoining multistorey car park. At right angles to this berth stood a reception building used for passengers embarking and disembarking the smaller classes of cruise ship. With no such ships in the vicinity, the building was kept locked, but it had been opened now and was a hive of activity as police, forensic specialists, photographers and an assortment of ancillary staff buzzed around, under the supervision of the crime scene manager. The corpse itself lay dockside, a makeshift tent erected to protect it from general view.
Rebus caught sight of Deborah Quant and one of her colleagues, both in protective overalls, headgear and elasticated overshoes. She had eased up her face mask so it sat against her forehead, her hand cupped to her mouth to keep the conversation private. Nearby, a small white van had parked. Its rear doors were open to reveal rubber diving suits and oxygen tanks, two men waiting, arms folded, to be told what to do.
The crime scene manager’s name was Haj Atwal. He carried a clipboard with him and used it to gesture towards Siobhan Clarke.
‘Signed in?’
‘At the cordon,’ she confirmed. ‘You know John Rebus?’
The two men shook hands. Rebus asked how long the victim had been in the water.
‘Exactly what our medical friends are discussing. From what I’ve heard so far, the autopsy will answer a few questions.’ Atwal paused, staring at Rebus. ‘Thought you’d been put out to pasture?’
‘I’m here for a bit of a graze,’ Rebus replied.
‘John spoke with the victim only yesterday morning,’ Clarke explained. ‘Always supposing he is who we think he is.’
‘Facial recognition by the first uniform on the scene,’ Atwal stated. ‘Plus his wallet was in his pocket — credit cards and driving licence. We got his phone, too.’
‘Anything strike you as missing?’
‘Not a thing.’
‘So not mugged for his belongings, then?’
Atwal’s look said he wasn’t about to start a guessing game. His strengths were the procedural and the verifiable. Clarke watched as another van trundled into view. Bigger than the one belonging to the dive team, with a black paint job. It might even have been the same one she’d parked next to at the mortuary.
‘Everybody’s itching to get on with it,’ Atwal commented.
‘Only natural,’ Rebus said, nodding in the direction of the victim. ‘That’s one of our own lying there.’
‘He was retired, though, same as you — so the two of you weren’t meeting to talk business?’
‘Problem is, that’s exactly what we were doing — a case everyone else thought was extinct.’
‘Seems to me it might just have become active,’ Atwal concluded, moving away to answer a question from one of his team.
Rebus and Clarke kept their distance from the body, watching everyone work. Eventually Deborah Quant spotted them and, after a word to her colleague, headed in their direction. She lifted her mask again. No smiles or greetings; all business.
‘Suspicious death,’ she stated. ‘More than that, I can’t say right now.’
‘Any cuts and bumps?’ Rebus enquired.
‘None that couldn’t have been sustained from an amount of time in the water.’
Rebus studied their surroundings. ‘High fences and security cameras. Not the easiest place to dump a body.’
‘Someone will have to check tidal currents. He could have gone in the water anywhere between Cramond and Portobello.’