‘Me paying someone, though?’
‘Yes, well, that had crossed my mind.’
‘And what does your friend Joe say?’
Christie seemed to consider this. ‘Mr Stark has been a bit quiet.’
‘That’s not like him.’
‘He did phone to commiserate, of course.’
‘But no bedside visit? Looks like things might be cooling between you, Darryl...’
‘The beating made me look weak. Joe Stark can’t abide weakness.’ The two men were leaning against the balcony rail, hands clasping it. ‘If you really wanted rid of me,’ Christie went on, ‘this is as good a chance as any — one shove and I’m a goner.’
‘Think of the witnesses, though.’
‘It would be your word against theirs.’
‘There isn’t a hit out on you, Darryl — not one that came from me. Not this week, at least.’
The two men shared a wary smile.
‘You know they’ve charged someone?’ Christie said, turning at last towards Cafferty. ‘He’s called Craw Shand.’
‘Oh aye?’
‘You’ve not come across him?’
‘Name doesn’t—’
‘This morning, for example. At his house.’
Cafferty’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’re having him watched?’
‘Of course I am.’
‘But you don’t think he’s your attacker?’
‘He tells lies for the fun of it. But he knows stuff he shouldn’t, which means that whoever hit me, Shand knows them.’
‘Not me, son.’
‘No?’
Cafferty shook his head slowly, maintaining eye contact throughout.
‘Then why pay him a visit?’
‘Same reason you just gave — he knows something.’
‘And?’
‘And he stuck to his story,’ Cafferty said, making sure not to blink, not to give any tells.
‘Why’s it so important to you?’
‘Because my name’s on two lists — yours and CID’s. I’m as interested in finding out as you are.’
‘So you can give them a hug of thanks?’
‘So I can know.’
Christie considered this. ‘I think I remember you saying as much once — back in the days when you thought you could mould me. Something clichéd about knowledge being power.’
‘It’s a cliché because it happens to be true.’
Christie nodded, pretending to be interested in the view again as he spoke. ‘It might be all to do with a guy called Anthony Brough.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘We had a business arrangement that didn’t work out. Now he’s nowhere to be found.’
‘Local, is he? Scottish, I mean?’
‘Yes.’
‘So what does he do?’
‘He’s an investment broker, offices in Rutland Square.’
‘Does he owe you money, or is it the other way round?’
‘I’d just like to know his whereabouts.’
‘And you think I can help?’
Christie offered a shrug. ‘I’m not having much luck on my own.’
‘Did you think to ask Joe Stark or any of your other old pals?’
‘Like I say, I seem to be on my own.’
‘So I get to be your best friend now, is that it?’
Christie met Cafferty’s eyes. ‘Joe Stark is an old man. One day soon he’s going to topple.’
‘And you step into the vacuum?’
‘I wouldn’t mind taking over his show, leaving Edinburgh to someone else. It’s a beautiful city, but it’s starting to bore me.’ He paused. ‘At least say you’ll think about it — for old times.’
‘Of course I’ll think about it.’
The two men shook hands and began to move indoors.
‘Have you seen my house?’ Christie asked.
‘No.’
‘It’s a bit like your old place. This is very different — what changed?’
‘Eighteen rooms and I used about four of them. At least you’ve got a family to fill yours.’
Christie nodded. ‘You’ll put the word out?’ he asked, watching Cafferty close the balcony door.
‘About Anthony Brough? I don’t see why not.’
‘I knew you’d still have ears on the street.’
‘The fruits of a lifetime spent doling out drinks and the odd banknote.’ Cafferty paused. ‘You should get a bit of personal protection — seriously.’
‘You mean a bodyguard?’
‘Either that or a weapon — I’m assuming you’ll know someone who could help.’
‘Never really been my style, but thanks for the advice.’ Christie was making for the hallway and the front door. Cafferty leaned past him to open it.
‘By the way,’ Cafferty asked. ‘Seen the Russian lately?’
Christie stopped on the welcome mat outside the door. ‘What Russian?’
Cafferty held up a hand, palm out. ‘Have it your way, Darryl.’
‘No, I’m serious — what Russian?’
‘Just something I heard.’
Christie gave a shrug and a shake of the head.
‘Must have misunderstood,’ Cafferty said, beginning to close the door.
Christie walked to the lift, jabbed the button and waited, hands clenched at his sides, eyes staring at his blurry reflection in the brushed aluminium doors.
‘He’s Ukrainian, you prick,’ he said under his breath.
11
Fox had to admit it — he was impressed.
The MIT room was all focused activity, with Alvin James at its centre, keeping it that way. A map had been found and pinned to the wall. On it, coloured pins showed the spot where the body had been found, the victim’s home, and other locations associated with him, from the café where he’d met Rebus to the bars and clubs he worked and the gym where he spent much of his free time. James had already said it: the man would have been no pushover, meaning they were probably looking for two or more assailants. The currents of the Firth of Forth had been scrutinised. Western Harbour, where the body had ended up, was hemmed in by two breakwaters, leaving a narrow access channel. According to the expert they’d consulted, the body had most likely either been thrown into the harbour itself or put in the water somewhere in the vicinity. That still left them a lot of coastline, and aerial photographs had been sourced and pinned up next to the map. The highlights of the autopsy report were there, too, as were lists of the deceased’s friends and associates. But the timeline of Chatham’s final day was still far from complete.
Anne Briggs was transcribing the interview with Liz Dolan, while the others were on their phones, arranging to talk with the names on the lists. Fox had a list of his own to work through. It had just arrived from Chatham’s mobile phone provider, and sat on his desk next to a similar sheet detailing the past month’s landline activity. Internet browsing and downloads were only given as totals, but numbers called and texts sent were laid out in more comprehensive terms. The phone Chatham called most often was his home landline, usually in the evening — probably bored and cold as he waited to see some action at work. One number interested Fox — a mobile number. No calls to it, but over a hundred texts in a single month. Fox had tapped it into his own phone, but it went to an automated answering service. He hung up, and asked Briggs for Liz Dolan’s mobile number. Briggs told him. Not a match. And he could see Dolan’s mobile now — Chatham had texted it a couple of dozen times during the month. Fox put a question mark beside the mystery number and kept working.
Less than five minutes later, he had something. James could see it in his face, and strode over to the desk.
‘Gimme,’ he said.
‘Each and every Saturday, around twelve noon,’ Fox obliged, tapping his finger against the number called. ‘A two- to three-minute call to the same landline.’