“On the other hand,” Rebus continued, “I got it from the horse’s mouth, so to speak.”
“You’re sure it wasn’t the horse’s arse?”
Rebus just shrugged. “That’s for you and your compadre to decide.”
Ormiston folded his arms. “And why in God’s name would the Weasel rat his boss out to you?”
“That’s what I want to talk to Claverhouse about.” Rebus paused. “I want to apologize.”
Ormiston’s eyebrows rose slowly. Then he unfolded his arms and reached for the phone.
“This I have to see,” he said.
“You’re shipping it out?” Rebus guessed. He was in the warehouse. The carcass of the lorry had already been removed. Now the warehouse was more than half filled with new-looking wooden packing crates. They were nailed closed and stacked two high across most of the floor. “Does that mean you’re splitting the glory with Customs and Excise?”
“Rules are rules,” Claverhouse said. Rebus ran his palm over the surface of one crate, then made a fist and rapped on it. Claverhouse smiled. “Bet you can’t guess which crate they’re in.”
“Crate or crates?”
“That would be telling.”
There was the smell of fresh wood in the air. “You’re expecting someone to try taking them?” Rebus surmised.
“Not exactly, but we know the word is out. There’s only so much you can do with security, but . . .”
“But this way at least it’ll take them an hour or two to find the right boxes?” Rebus was nodding, actually quite impressed with Claverhouse’s thinking. “Why not just shift the drugs?”
“And they’d be safer where exactly . . . ?”
“I don’t know . . . Fettes or somewhere.”
“The Big House? All open windows and no alarms?”
“Maybe not,” Rebus agreed.
“Anyway, you’re right, they’re going to be shifted. Just as soon as we’ve squared everything with Customs . . .” Claverhouse thought of something. “Ormie said you had some apology you wanted to make?”
Rebus nodded again. “About Weasel. I think I was too soft on him. You told me it would be two fathers having a talk, and I let that happen . . . stopped thinking like a cop. So I wanted to apologize.”
“And that’s why he came to your flat that night?”
“He came to warn me that Cafferty knew about the haul.”
“Information you decided to hold back from us?”
“You already knew, didn’t you?”
“We knew word was out.”
“Well, anyway . . .” Rebus sniffed, gazed around him. “You’ve got this place sewn up, right? Cafferty would have wanted to catch you unawares . . .”
“Security’s round the clock,” Claverhouse confirmed. “Padlocks on the gates, razor-wire fences . . . And my little puzzle to contend with at the end of it all.”
Rebus looked at Ormiston. “Do you know which crates the stuff’s in?”
Ormiston stared back, unblinking.
“Stupid question,” Rebus muttered aloud. Claverhouse smiled. “I want you to know,” Rebus told him, “that I really do feel bad about not snaring the Weasel for you. I gave him far too easy a ride. That sent the wrong message: he thought I was doing it on purpose, which meant he owed me.”
“And fed you the news on Cafferty to even things up?” Claverhouse was nodding.
“But now that I’ve opened a line of communication with him,” Rebus went on, “maybe I can still bring him over to our side.”
“Too late for that now,” Claverhouse informed him. “Looks like the Weasel has jumped ship. He hasn’t been seen since the night he went to your flat.”
“What?”
“I think he panicked.”
“Which was what we wanted,” Ormiston admitted. The look he received from his partner shut him up.
“We put word out,” Claverhouse explained, “that we were readying to charge Weasel’s son with the whole shebang.”
“You thought if he got scared enough, he’d come in?”
Claverhouse nodded.
“And he ran instead?” Rebus was trying to make sense of it. The Weasel had shown no sign at all that he was planning flight.
“Would he have flown, without taking Aly with him?”
Claverhouse seemed to contort his whole body into a shrug, letting Rebus know the subject was closed. “Takes a big man to admit when he’s wrong,” he said instead, addressing Rebus. “I didn’t think you had it in you.” Then he stuck out a hand, which Rebus, after only a moment’s debate, accepted. He was still thinking of the Weasel, trying to assess whether the man could do any harm to Rebus and his plans. He came up blank. Whatever had happened to him, Rebus couldn’t spare the time or space for conjecture. He had to focus, draw all his energy together.
Look after number one.
23
The six o’clock headlines were just ending when Siobhan switched off her engine. She was parked in the forecourt of MG Cabs. The large tarmac parking area boasted half a dozen assorted Vauxhalls, and a single brand-new, flame-red MG sports car. There was a white flagpole, from which drooped a St. Andrew’s Cross. The office was a prefab building, with a garage next to it, where a solitary mechanic in gray overalls was working on the engine of an Astra. Lochend wasn’t far from Easter Road — home of Hibernian, Siobhan’s chosen football team — but she didn’t know the area at all. It seemed to be mostly low-rise and terraced housing with a smattering of neighborhood shops. She hadn’t really expected anyone to be here, but the cab business was round-the-clock, she now realized. All the same, she doubted Ellen Dempsey would still be on duty. That was fine: all she wanted was a feel for the place, maybe ask a couple of questions of the mechanic or anyone else she could find.
“Having trouble?” she asked, approaching the garage.
“That’s it, fixed,” he said, dropping the hood. “Maintenance check.” He slid into the driver’s seat, revved the engine a couple of times. “Sweet as a nut. Office is in there.” He nodded towards the prefab. Siobhan was studying him. Through the oil and grease on the backs of his hands she could see old homemade tattoos. He was skinny, with a pale face and thinning hair which stuck out above the ears. Something about him made her think: ex-offender. She recalled that Sammy Wallace, the driver who’d taken Marber home, had boasted a police record.
“Thanks,” she told the mechanic. “Who’s manning the phone tonight?”
He looked at her, saw her for what she was. “Mrs. Dempsey’s inside,” he said coldly. Then he shifted the Astra into reverse and started maneuvering it out of the garage and into a parking space, the driver’s-side door still open so that Siobhan had to take a step back or risk being hit by it. He glowered at her through the windshield, and she knew she hadn’t made a friend.
There were two steps up to the office. She tapped on the glass door. A woman was seated behind a desk. The woman looked up, sliding the spectacles from her nose, and gestured for her to enter. Siobhan closed the door after her.
“Mrs. Dempsey? I’m sorry to trouble you . . .” She was opening her bag to find her warrant card.
“Don’t bother with that,” Ellen Dempsey said, leaning back in her chair. “I can see you’re a cop.”
“Detective Sergeant Clarke,” Siobhan said by way of introduction. “We spoke on the phone.”
“Indeed we did, DS Clarke. What can I do for you?” Dempsey motioned towards the chair on the other side of the desk, and Siobhan sat down. Ellen Dempsey was in her mid-forties. Full-figured but well preserved. The ringed creases of skin around her neck were a better indicator of her age than was her carefully made-up face. The dark-brown hair had probably been dyed, but it was hard to tell. No nail polish, no jewelry on her fingers, just a chunky ladies’ Rolex on her left wrist.
“I just thought you’d like to know that Sammy Wallace is off the hook,” Siobhan said.
Dempsey was making a show of tidying some papers. In truth, the desk was about as neat as could be, the paperwork divided into four piles, with four labeled folders waiting to be filled.