‘Talk?’
‘There’s nothing to worry about, Craw. Whoever thumped Darryl maybe thought they were doing me a favour. I have to admit, I almost wish I’d had a ringside seat. If it was you, well, I just want to shake your hand.’
Shand looked down. Cafferty had extended a hand wrapped in a black leather glove. When he reached out his own, Cafferty clamped it so hard, Shand couldn’t help but wince. The pressure stayed on as Cafferty spoke.
‘But if it wasn’t you, Craw, then I need to know the who and the why, because secret benefactors make me almost as nervous as out-and-out scumbags. So we’ll go back to yours, have a cup of tea and a chat.’ Cafferty reached past Shand with his free hand and grabbed a packet of biscuits. ‘My treat,’ he said.
‘It was me that hit him,’ Shand blurted out. ‘I’ve been charged and everything.’
Cafferty released his grip. ‘Maybe you did and maybe you didn’t. Could be you’re covering for somebody or you heard something you shouldn’t. I watched you on your way here, Craw. You’re almost as invisible as me. Means people don’t even notice you when you’re practically under their nose.’ He wrinkled his face. ‘Though the whiff coming off you might offer them a clue.’
‘There’s no hot water.’
‘Not been paying your gas bill, Craw?’ Cafferty dug in his pocket and lifted out a roll of banknotes. ‘I might be able to help you there. Let’s go have that chat, eh? Somewhere a bit more private than here...’
Forty minutes later, Cafferty closed the door of Craw Shand’s house and walked down the overgrown path. He had called for a taxi, but preferred to wait for it outside in the cold. He had kept his gloves on throughout, mostly to avoid skin contact with any of the greasy furniture. He hadn’t bothered with tea, either, reckoning the mugs would be less than pristine. Shand had broken open the pack of biscuits and he’d eaten one of those, while watching the damaged cogs of Shand’s brain try to find some purchase. Stories had come — version upon version of something probably not even close to the truth. But Cafferty had probed, and Cafferty had been patient, and Shand had played a final hand.
A bar in the Cowgate... Craw couldn’t be sure which one. The man had turned a corner into an alley to keep the call more private. Gone midnight and students were on the prowl, chanting and singing. Shand was just walking. He’d scored a cigarette and paused to smoke it. And had heard snatches of the phone call. A few details that stuck. About a man given a pasting in his own driveway. Next morning he had headed to Inverleith and found a street that seemed about right, a house that seemed about right. And he’d made up his mind to say he’d done it.
No, he hadn’t caught sight of whoever was on the phone. Male. Probably a local accent.
It wasn’t much and Cafferty doubted it was the whole story, but it was something.
‘You’re sure it was a local accent?’ he had asked.
‘It was noisy and late, I’d had a few beers...’
Cafferty rubbed at the underside of his jaw as he stood on the pavement. He knew this part of town, had spent some of his early years here. It had been feral then, a place where you learned quickly or perished. These streets had been his teacher, and the education gained here had sustained him. But there were probably plenty more like Craw Shand, victims of circumstance, floating on the surface and buffeted by every passing wave. Cafferty had encountered enough of them in his time.
He had thought those days were over. Maybe he would have been content to drift into retirement if anyone but Darryl Christie had come along. He had thought of himself as Christie’s mentor, and the lad had played along for a while, all the time planning to barge Cafferty aside. His business had grown quickly and he had grown with it. No please or thank you — just alliances with each and every one of Cafferty’s adversaries in the other cities, until Cafferty’s own territory had withered.
Could he just sit on his hands and allow them to get away with that? So far they’d let him be, but history suggested this was a state of affairs that wouldn’t last. Cafferty thought of it as a reckoning. And it was coming.
When the black cab arrived, he climbed into the back, his face almost as dark as the sky overhead.
‘Snow later maybe,’ the driver informed him.
‘I didn’t know I was getting a weather forecast,’ Cafferty growled. ‘Just fucking drive.’
There was a white Range Rover parked further along the street, most of it hidden behind a rusting transit van. Its driver was using the hands-free option as he watched the taxi head for Peffermill Road.
‘That’s him leaving now,’ he said. ‘Do I stay here or what?’
‘He didn’t take Shand with him?’
‘No.’
‘Maybe follow him then. I wouldn’t mind knowing where he calls home these days...’
When Siobhan Clarke arrived at Gayfield Square, she was told that her visitor had already gone up.
‘Thanks,’ she said.
She climbed the stairs to CID, but the only people in the room were Christine Esson and Ronnie Ogilvie.
‘Two doors along,’ Esson stated.
Clarke headed along the corridor and into another of the offices, where John Rebus was busy at the photocopier.
‘I might have guessed,’ she said.
Rebus half turned towards her and spotted the beaker of coffee. ‘I hope that’s for me.’
‘Not a chance.’ Clarke watched him tidy up the sheets he’d just printed. More were churning from the machine. ‘The file I brought you,’ she commented.
‘Of course.’
‘You’re giving James’s team the originals but keeping copies for yourself?’
‘Yup.’
Clarke rested against the nearest desk. ‘I shouldn’t really be surprised.’
‘It was always going to happen, Siobhan, and I reckoned I could do it here for free.’
‘Knowing I would know.’
‘I’m always going to assume you’re on my side.’
‘Plus I was bound to find out one way or another.’ She took a slurp of the coffee.
‘Been back to Darryl’s house this morning?’
‘I’m not that much of a masochist.’
‘So what’s on the cards for today?’
‘We’re supposed to show Darryl some photos and voice recordings.’
‘To see if he can pick out Craw as his attacker?’
‘Waste of time, right?’
‘Right.’
‘What about you — I’m guessing you’ve got something planned?’
‘Dropping this lot round to Leith.’
‘And after that?’
‘Irons in fires, Siobhan.’
‘Make sure you pick up the end that won’t burn you.’
‘I’m always careful.’
‘Robert Chatham probably thought he was careful, too.’
Rebus paused, then nodded. ‘You’ll be checking on Craw later, I dare say.’
‘If I get time.’
‘No trouble last night?’
‘Patrol cars managed three passes in his neighbourhood. Believe it or not, they even got out and did a bit of walking.’
‘You reckon they really did?’
‘They wouldn’t lie to CID, would they?’
‘Perish the thought,’ Rebus said, before cursing under his breath. ‘Another paper jam,’ he muttered. ‘What is it with these things?’ He looked to her for guidance.
‘All right, let me look at it.’ Clarke placed her coffee on the desk and walked over to the machine, sliding out the paper tray and easing the stuck sheet from between the rollers. When she glanced over her shoulder, Rebus was stealing a slug of coffee.
‘Don’t worry,’ he assured her. ‘I’m not infectious...’
One thing he hadn’t considered was that an eleven o’clock consultation might not get under way until at least quarter to twelve. The hospital waiting room wasn’t the most inspiring of spots. He hadn’t bothered to bring a paper, and the day-old one he found on a chair kept him occupied for not much more than ten minutes. He was just about to tell the receptionist that he was a busy man and would need to make another appointment, but his name was called before the words came out.