“Blackmail then,” Claverhouse said. “That’s your motive.”
“I don’t know,” Siobhan said. “There’s a rumor Marber might have been cheating clients.”
“Bing!” Claverhouse said, snapping his fingers. “Every frame you put on the wall, Cafferty fits it perfectly.”
“An interesting image, under the circs,” Bain commented.
Siobhan was thoughtful. “Who would Cafferty not want to tangle with?” she asked.
“You mean apart from us?” Ormiston said with the beginnings of a smile. For a while, he’d sported a bushy black mustache, but had shaved it off. Siobhan noticed that the difference made him seem younger.
“Apart from you, Ormie,” she said.
“Why?” Claverhouse asked. “What did he say?” He’d stopped pacing, but couldn’t get comfortable, standing legs apart in the middle of the room, arms folded.
“Some vague mention of people he didn’t want to cross.”
“He was probably bullshitting,” Ormiston said.
Bain scratched his nose. “Anybody out there we don’t know about?”
Claverhouse shook his head. “Cafferty’s got Edinburgh sewn up tight.”
Siobhan was only half listening. She was wondering if Ellen Dempsey maybe had friends outside Edinburgh . . . wondering if it would be worthwhile taking a look at the owner of MG Cabs. If Dempsey wasn’t fronting for Cafferty, was it possible she was doing it for someone else, someone trying to break Cafferty’s grip on the city?
A little warning bell went off in her head, because if this was true, then wouldn’t Cafferty have every reason for framing Dempsey? Ellen’s got friends, Siobhan . . . the sort it’s not worth crossing. His voice had been seductive, intimate, almost reduced to a murmur. He’d been trying to get her interested. She doubted he would do that without a reason, without some ulterior motive.
Was Cafferty trying to use her?
Only one way to find out: take a closer look at MG Cabs and Ellen Dempsey.
As she zoned back in on the conversation, Ormiston was saying something about how Claverhouse and he should try to get some shut-eye.
“Surveillance op?” Bain guessed.
Ormiston nodded, but when Bain pressed for details he just tapped his nose.
“Top secret,” Claverhouse stated, backing up his colleague. His eyes were on Siobhan as he spoke. It was as if he suspected — knew even — that she wasn’t telling him the full story about herself and Cafferty. She thought back to the time she’d spent at Fettes as part of the Crime Squad team. Claverhouse had referred to her as “Junior,” but that seemed like a lifetime ago. She returned his stare confidently. When Claverhouse blinked first, it almost seemed like a victory.
15
“And you haven’t seen him since?”
The woman shook her head. She was seated in her fifth-floor flat in the Fort, a high-rise on the edge of Leith. There would have been great coastal views from the windows of the cramped living room, if they hadn’t been so filthy. The room smelled of cat pee and leftovers, not that Rebus could see any physical evidence of cats. The woman’s name was Jenny Bell and she had been Dickie Diamond’s girlfriend at the time he’d disappeared.
When the door had been answered by Bell, Barclay had given Rebus a look which seemed to suggest that he could see why Diamond had done a midnight flit. Bell wore no makeup, and her clothes were shapeless and gray. The seams of her slippers had given way, and so had her teeth — leaving her mouth shrunken and lacking the dentures she probably wore when expecting company. This made her speech difficult to understand, especially for Allan Ward, who sat now on the arm of the sofa, a frown of concentration drawing his eyebrows together.
“Haven’t clapped eyes on him,” Bell stated. “He’d’ve gotten a good kicking if I had.”
“What did everyone think when he offskied?” Rebus asked.
“That he owed money, I suppose.”
“And did he?”
“Me for starters,” she said, jabbing a finger into her prodigious bosom. “Nearly two hundred he had from me.”
“In one go?”
She shook her head. “Bit here, bit there.”
“How long had you been an item?” Barclay asked.
“Four, five months.”
“Was he staying here?”
“Sometimes.”
There was a radio playing somewhere, either in another room or in the flat next door. Two dogs were involved in some noisy challenge outside. Jenny Bell had the electric heater on, and the room was stifling. Rebus didn’t suppose it helped that he and Ward had been drinking, adding alcoholic fumes to the general miasma. Bobby Hogan had given them Bell’s address, but made some excuse and headed back to the station. Rebus didn’t blame him.
“Miss Bell,” he said now, “did you ever go to the caravan with Dickie?”
“A few weekends,” she admitted, almost with a leer. Meaning: dirty weekends. Rebus could sense Ward give an involuntary shiver as the image filled his consciousness. Bell’s eyes had narrowed. She was concentrating on Rebus. “I’ve seen you before, haven’t I?”
“Could be,” Rebus admitted. “I do a bit of drinking down this way.”
She shook her head slowly. “This was a long time back. In a bar . . .”
“Like I say —”
“Weren’t you with Dickie?”
Rebus shook his head; Ward and Barclay were studying him. Hogan had hinted that Bell’s memory was “shot to hell.” Hogan had been mistaken . . .
“About the caravan,” Rebus pressed on, “whereabouts was it exactly?”
“Somewhere Port Seton way.”
“You knew Rico Lomax, didn’t you?”
“Oh aye, nice man, Rico.”
“Ever go with Dickie to one of his parties?”
She nodded vigorously. “Wild times,” she grinned. “And no neighbors to kick up a stink.”
“Unlike here, you mean?” Ward guessed. At which point, someone through the wall started shouting at their offspring:
“I’m telling you to clean that up!”
Bell stared at the wall. “Aye, not like here,” she replied. “There’s more space in a bloody caravan for a start.”
“What did you think when you heard Rico had been killed?” Barclay asked.
She shrugged. “What was there to think? Rico was what he was.”
“And what was he?”
“You mean apart from a bloody good shag?” She started cackling, offering a view of pale pink gums.
“Did Dickie know?” Ward asked.
“Dickie was there,” she declared.
“He didn’t object?” Ward asked. She just stared at him.
“I think,” Rebus explained for Ward’s benefit, “Miss Bell is saying that Dickie was a participant.”
Bell grinned at the look on Ward’s face as he digested this. Then she started cackling again.
“Is there a shower at St. Leonard’s?” Ward asked on the drive back.
“Reckon you need one?”
“Half an hour’s scrubbing should suffice.” He scratched his leg, which made Rebus start to feel itchy.
“That’s an image that will be with me to the grave,” Barclay stated.
“Allan in the shower . . . ?” Rebus teased.
“You know damned well what I mean,” Barclay complained. Rebus nodded. They were quiet for the rest of the journey. Rebus lingered in the car park, saying he needed a cigarette. After Ward and Barclay had disappeared inside, he reached for his mobile, called Enquiries and got the number for Calder Pharmacy in Sighthill. He knew the pharmacist there, a guy called Charles Shanks, who lived in Dunfermline and taught kickboxing in his spare time. When his call was answered, he asked for Shanks.
“Charles? John Rebus here. Look, do pharmacists have some kind of Hippocratic oath?”
“Why?” The voice sounded amused . . . and a little suspicious.
“I just wanted to know if you were doling out methadone to an addict called Malky Taylor.”
“John, I’m really not sure I can help.”
“All I want to know is whether he’s doing okay, sticking with the program . . . ?”