‘There’ve been warnings.’
‘Oh?’
‘One night, Darryl left the car kerbside. Next morning, the front tyres had been slashed. That was about two weeks ago. Then last week, the bin went up.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Put it out for collection, and somebody torched it. Take a look for yourself.’
The bin was to the right of the back door, its plastic lid warped and blackened, part of one side melted halfway down.
‘You didn’t report this?’
‘Darryl said it was most likely kids. I’m not sure he believed it himself. No one else in the street got the same treatment.’
‘You think he was being targeted?’
McKie gave a shrug, which sent her coat sliding to the ground. She stooped to pick it up, brushing it clean before wrapping herself in it again.
‘Have you spoken to him since last night?’
‘He didn’t see anything. They got him on the back of the head as he was locking the car. Says he dropped like a stone. Bastards must’ve kept hitting him once he was out cold.’
‘He reckons there was more than one assailant?’
‘He’s no idea — this is me talking.’
‘Are you aware of any other incidents or threats? Maybe a note?’
McKie shook her head. ‘Whatever’s going on, Darryl will find out.’ She glared at Clarke. ‘Maybe that’s what you’re afraid of, eh?’
‘Your son would be unwise to take matters into his own hands, Ms McKie.’
‘He’s always been his own man, though, even when he was a kid — insisted on keeping his dad’s name for the school register, after the bastard running out on us and everything. Then when Annette died...’ She paused and took a deep breath, as if controlling some strong emotion. ‘Darryl grew up fast. Fast and strong and smart. A lot smarter than you lot.’
Clarke’s phone was buzzing. She dug it out of her pocket and studied the screen.
‘Answer it if you like.’
But Clarke shook her head. ‘It can wait. Could you have a word with Darryl for me?’
‘And tell him what?’
‘That I’d like to speak to him. That he should agree to see me.’
‘You know he’s not going to tell you anything.’
‘I’d still like to try.’
McKie considered this, then gave a slow nod.
‘Thank you,’ Clarke said. ‘I could come back this evening, maybe see your other sons at the same time.’
‘You get extra money for working late?’
‘I wish.’
Eventually, Gail McKie smiled. It took years from her, and Clarke was reminded of the woman she’d been when posing for cameras and questions at press conferences back when Annette was still missing. A lot of changes had taken place since, and Darryl had changed most of all.
‘Around seven?’ Clarke suggested.
‘We’ll see,’ McKie said.
Heading for the gate, Clarke looked at her phone again. One missed call. No message. A number she recognised.
‘What the hell do you want, Malcolm?’ she sighed, slipping the phone back into her pocket.
3
Rebus stood outside Cafferty’s house on a wide, leafy street in Merchiston, staring at the For Sale sign. He’d already made a circuit of the garden, peering through any windows that weren’t curtained or shuttered, satisfying himself that the house had been emptied. He took out his phone and called Cafferty’s mobile, but it just rang and rang. A neighbour across the way was watching from a downstairs window. Rebus waved and then crossed the road, meeting the woman as she opened her door.
‘When did he move out?’ Rebus asked.
‘About ten days ago.’
‘Any idea why?’
‘Why?’ she echoed. It was obviously not the question she’d expected.
‘Or his new address,’ Rebus added.
‘Somebody did say they’d seen him at Quartermile.’
Quartermile: the site of the old Edinburgh Royal Infirmary, now redeveloped.
‘Would he have left his new address with anyone?’
‘Mr Cafferty kept himself pretty much to himself.’
‘Probably didn’t go down well, though, when that bullet went through his window a while back.’
‘The story I heard was, he fell against the pane and broke it.’
‘Trust me, he didn’t. How much is he asking?’ Rebus angled his head towards the house opposite.
‘That’s not the sort of thing we bandy about.’
‘Maybe I’ll phone the agent, then.’
‘You do that.’ The door was being closed again, not hurriedly but with polite Edinburgh finality, so Rebus walked back to his Saab and got in, tapping the solicitor’s number into his phone.
‘Price on application,’ he was eventually told.
‘Is this not me applying?’
‘If you’d care to make an appointment to view...’
He ended the call instead and drove into town. There was an underground car park at the heart of Quartermile, but Rebus stopped on a yellow line instead. The site now boasted amenities such as shops, a gym and a hotel. The old red- and grey-stone buildings of the original hospital had been joined by towers of glass and steel, with the best addresses looking south across the Meadows towards the Pentland Hills. In the sales office Rebus admired a scale model of the site, and even picked up a brochure. The woman on duty offered him a chocolate from an open tin, and he took it with a smile, before asking Cafferty’s whereabouts.
‘Oh, we don’t share that kind of information.’
‘I’m a friend of his.’
‘Then I’m sure you can track him down.’
Rebus gave a twist of the mouth and took out his phone again, this time composing a text.
I’m outside your new place. Come say hello.
Back at his car, he thought about how he used to fill gaps like this in his life with a cigarette, instead of which he walked to the Sainsbury’s on Middle Meadow Walk and queued for a box of chewing gum. He was almost at the Saab again when his phone buzzed: incoming message.
You’re bluffing.
Rebus typed a reply: Nice Sainsbury’s, if you can put up with the students.
And waited.
It was a further four or five minutes before Cafferty emerged from a gate at the side of one of the older blocks. His head was huge, shaped like a cannonball, the silver hair shaved close to the skull. He wore a long black woollen coat and red scarf, an open-necked white shirt visible beneath, exposing tufts of chest hair. His eyes, which always seemed smaller than they should be, had the same piercing quality as ever. Rebus reckoned they had served Cafferty well over the years, as sharp and fearful a weapon as any in his armoury.
‘What the hell do you want?’ Cafferty growled.
‘An invite to the house-warming, maybe.’
Cafferty stuffed his hands into his pockets. ‘Doesn’t feel like a social call, but last time I looked you were still retired, so what’s on your mind?’
‘Just our old friend Darryl Christie. I’m remembering the last time we talked about him. You as good as said you had a bit of fight left in you.’
‘So?’
‘So he’s been put in hospital.’
Cafferty’s mouth formed an O. He lifted a hand from one pocket and rubbed at his nose.
‘Been taking acting lessons?’ Rebus asked.
‘This is the first I’m hearing of it.’
‘And you’ll have a cast-iron alibi for last night, I’m guessing?’
‘Isn’t that the sort of thing a detective should be asking?’
‘I’m pretty sure they will. Your name’s being mentioned in dispatches.’
‘Darryl trying to stir things up?’ Cafferty nodded to himself. ‘And why shouldn’t he? It’s an open goal and I’d probably do the same myself.’