‘Actually, you did — when that bullet hit your living-room window.’
‘Fair point.’ Cafferty looked around him, sniffing the air. ‘I was just about to have my mid-morning coffee. I don’t suppose it would hurt if you sat in the vicinity.’
‘Aren’t the cafés rammed with people bunking off their lectures?’
‘I’m sure we can find a quiet corner,’ Cafferty said.
Not the first two places they tried, but the third, a Starbucks on Forrest Road. A double espresso for Cafferty and an Americano for Rebus. He’d made the mistake of asking for a large, which seemed to mean a mug almost the size of his head.
Cafferty stirred sugar into his own tiny cup. They hadn’t quite found a corner, but apart from a few students poring over textbooks and laptops, the place was quiet and their table private enough.
‘Always music in these places,’ Cafferty commented, eyes on the ceiling-mounted speakers. ‘Same in restaurants and half the shops. Drives me demented...’
‘And it’s not even real music,’ Rebus added. ‘Not like we had in our day.’
The two men shared a look and then a wry smile, concentrating on their drinks for a moment.
‘I’ve been wondering when you would show up,’ Cafferty eventually said. ‘Not about Darryl Christie, but just generally. I had this image of you driving past my house at regular intervals, wondering if you’d catch me in the middle of something, something you could take to court.’
‘Except I’m not a detective any more.’
‘Citizen’s arrest then, maybe.’
‘Why’s your old place on the market?’
‘I was rattling around in it. Time to downsize.’
‘And then there was that bullet.’
Cafferty shook his head. ‘Nothing to do with that.’ He took another sip of the thick black liquid. ‘So Darryl’s got on the wrong side of somebody, eh? Occupational hazard — we both know that.’
‘He’s a big player in the city, though, probably the biggest unless you know otherwise.’
‘Doesn’t make him immune.’
‘Especially not if the man he shunted aside decides on a comeback.’
‘Nobody shunted me,’ Cafferty bristled, squaring his shoulders.
‘You went quietly then, and you’re thrilled to leave the city in his hands.’
‘I might not go that far.’
‘Any names for me?’
‘Names?’
‘You said it yourself — he got on somebody’s wrong side.’
‘It’s not your job any more, Rebus. Did they forget to tell you that?’
‘Doesn’t stop me being nosy.’
‘Obviously not.’
‘And a man needs a hobby. I can’t begin to guess what yours might be.’ Cafferty glared at him, and the two men lapsed into silence, focusing on their drinks again until Rebus held up a finger. ‘I recognise that tune,’ he said.
‘It’s Bruce Collier, isn’t it?’
Rebus nodded. ‘Did you ever see him live?’
‘The Usher Hall.’
‘In ’78?’
‘Around then.’
‘You remember the Maria Turquand murder, then?’
‘At the Caley Hotel?’ Cafferty was nodding. ‘It was the lover, wasn’t it? Got his new squeeze to lie through her teeth and dodged a life sentence.’
‘You reckon?’
‘It’s what everyone thought, your lot included. He moved back up this way, you know.’
‘The lover?’
‘No, Bruce Collier. Think I read that somewhere.’
‘Is he still playing?’
‘Christ knows.’ Cafferty drained the dregs of his coffee. ‘We about done here, or are you still waiting for me to confess to thumping Darryl?’
‘I’m not in any hurry.’ Rebus gestured towards his mug. ‘I’ve got about half a vat left here.’
‘Then I’ll leave you to finish it. You’re a man of leisure after all, about time you faced up to the fact.’
‘And what about you? How do you keep busy?’
‘I’m a businessman. I do business.’
‘Every last bit of it above board?’
‘Unless your successors prove otherwise. How is Siobhan, by the way?’
‘Haven’t seen her in a while.’
‘She still stepping out with DI Fox?’
‘Is this you trying to impress me? Showing you still have your ear to the ground? If so, you’d best get your hearing checked.’
Cafferty was on his feet, adjusting his scarf, tightening it around his throat. ‘Okay, Mr Amateur Detective. Here’s something for you.’ He leaned over the seated Rebus, so that their foreheads almost touched. ‘Look for a Russian. You can thank me later.’
And with a smile and a wink he was gone.
‘Hell’s that supposed to mean?’ Rebus muttered to himself, brow furrowed. Then he realised that the song Bruce Collier had just finished singing was a version of the Beatles’ ‘Back in the USSR’.
‘Look for a Russian,’ he repeated, staring into his coffee and feeling a sudden need to pee.
Time was, Siobhan Clarke got a frisson just walking through the door of Gayfield Square police station. Each day brought new cases and different challenges, and there might even be something big about to break — a murder or serious assault. Now, though, Police Scotland parachuted in their own squad for high-profile inquiries, meaning the local CID was reduced to a support role — and where was the fun in that? Every day now it seemed there were grumblings and mutterings; fellow officers ticking off the days till retirement or pulling sickies. Tess in the control room was a good source of general gossip, even if the gossip itself was grim.
Clarke had had to park in a pay bay, too, having failed to find a space at the station. So, having put in the maximum amount, she was tapping an alarm reminder into her phone as she climbed the stairs to the CID suite. In four hours she’d have to move the car or face a fine. There was a sign she could use for her windscreen — OFFICIAL POLICE VEHICLE. But she’d tried that once and returned to find someone had scored the car all down one side.
Nice.
The CID suite wasn’t big, but then it wasn’t busy. Her two DCs, Christine Esson and Ronnie Ogilvie, were seated at their computers, tapping away. With her head angled downwards, only Esson’s short dark hair was visible.
‘Good of you to drop in,’ Clarke heard her comment.
‘I was out at Darryl Christie’s house.’
‘Word is he’s had a bit of an accident.’ Esson had stopped typing and was studying her boss.
‘We all know he’s a respectable entrepreneur and everything,’ Clarke said, slipping out of her jacket and draping it over the back of her chair, ‘but could you find me anything we’ve got on his activities and associates?’
‘No problem.’
Clarke turned to Ogilvie. ‘Uniforms are talking to the neighbours. I need to know what they find. And make sure they look at any and all CCTV recordings from dusk till the paramedics arrived.’
Esson looked up from her screen. ‘Does Morris Gerald Cafferty count as an associate?’
‘Quite the opposite, I’d think, unless we learn anything to the contrary.’
‘We’re taking this seriously then?’ Ogilvie asked. He had started growing a moustache and was running a finger and thumb down either side of it. Pale and gangly, he always reminded Clarke of a long-stemmed plant starved of sunlight.
‘According to Christie’s mother,’ she told him, ‘their car and rubbish bin were attacked recently. Looks like a classic escalation.’
‘So was last night an attempt on his life?’
Clarke considered for a moment, then shrugged. ‘Is the boss in his broom cupboard?’
Esson shook her head. ‘But I think I hear his dainty tread.’