At the end of the story Cafferty seemed thoughtful, then said, ‘So it’s tainted before it begins?’
‘Maybe,’ Rebus replied, putting the bottle back to his mouth. Portobello: that’s where they looked to be headed, maybe park by the harbour and sit with windows open. But Cafferty headed on to Seafield Road and started driving towards Leith.
‘There’s some land up this way I’m thinking of buying,’ he explained. ‘Got some plans drawn up, builder called Peter Kirkwall did the costings.’
‘For what?’
‘Leisure complex — restaurant, maybe a cinema or health club. Some luxury flats parked on top.’
‘Kirkwall works with Barry Hutton.’
‘I know.’
‘Hutton’s sure to find out.’
Cafferty shrugged. ‘Something I just have to live with.’ He gave a smile Rebus couldn’t read. ‘I heard about this plot of land next to where they’re building the parliament. It sold for three-quarters of a million four years ago. Know what its price is now? Four million. How’s that for a yield?’
Rebus pushed the cork back into the bottle. This stretch of road was all car dealers, wasteland behind, and then the sea. They headed up a narrow, unlit lane, its surface uneven. A large metal fence at the far end. Cafferty stopped the Jag, got out and took a key to the padlock, pulled the heavy metal chain free and pushed the gates open with his foot.
‘What’s there to see?’ Rebus asked, uneasy now, as Cafferty got back into the driving seat. He could run, but it was a long way to civilisation, and he was dead beat. Besides, he was done running.
‘It’s all warehouses just now. If you coughed too loud, they’d collapse. Easy enough to bulldoze, and there’s a quarter-mile of seafront to play with.’
They drove through the gates.
‘A quiet place for a chat,’ Cafferty said.
But they weren’t here to chat; Rebus knew that now. He turned his head, saw that another car was following them into the compound. It was a red Ferrari. Rebus turned back to Cafferty.
‘What’s going on?’
‘Business,’ Cafferty said coldly, ‘that’s all.’ He stopped the Jag, pulled on the handbrake. ‘Out,’ he ordered. Rebus didn’t move. Cafferty got out of the car, left his door open. The other car had pulled up alongside. Both sets of headlamps stayed on dipped, illuminating the cracked concrete surface of the compound. Rebus focused on one of the weeds, its jagged shadow crawling up the wall of one of the warehouses. Rebus’s door was pulled open. Hands grabbed at him. He heard a soft click as his seat belt was unlocked, and then he was being dragged out, thrown on to the cold ground. He took his time looking up. Three figures, silhouetted against the headlamps, breath billowing from their dark faces. Cafferty and two others. Rebus started getting to his feet. The single malt had fallen from the car, smashed on the concrete. He wished he’d taken one more hit of it while he had the chance.
A boot to the chest had enough force to send him on to his backside. He put his hands out behind him, steadying himself, so that he was unprotected when the next blow came. To the face this time, connecting with his chin, cracking his head back. He felt the snap as bones in his neck uttered a complaint.
‘Can’t take a warning,’ a voice said: not Cafferty’s. A thin man, younger. Rebus narrowed his eyes, shielded them with a hand as though peering into the sun.
‘It’s Barry Hutton, isn’t it?’ Rebus asked.
‘Pick him up,’ was the barked response. The third man — Hutton’s man — pulled Rebus to his feet as though he were made of cardboard, held him from behind.
‘Gonny teach you,’ Hutton hissed. Rebus could make out the features now: face tight with anger, mouth downturned, nose pinched. He was wearing black leather driving gloves. A question — absurd under the circumstances — flashed through Rebus’s mind: wonder if they were a Christmas present?
Hutton hit him with a fist, connecting with Rebus’s left cheek. Rebus rode the blow, but still felt it. As he turned his face, he caught a glimpse of the man pinning him from behind. It wasn’t Mick Lorimer.
‘Lorimer isn’t with you tonight, then?’ Rebus asked. Blood was pooling in his mouth. He swallowed it. ‘Were you there the night he killed Roddy Grieve?’
‘Mick just doesn’t know when to stop,’ Hutton said. ‘I wanted the bastard warned off, not on a slab.’
‘You just can’t get the staff these days.’ He felt the grip around his chest tighten, forcing the breath from his lungs.
‘No, but there always seems to be a smart-arsed cop around when you least need it.’ Another blow, this time bursting Rebus’s nose open. Tears pounded from his eyes. He tried blinking them away. Oh, Jesus Christ, that hurt.
‘Thanks, Uncle Ger,’ Hutton was saying. ‘That’s one I owe you.’
‘What else are partners for?’ Cafferty said. He took a step forward, and now Rebus could see his face clearly. It was dead of any emotion. ‘You wouldn’t have been this careless, Strawman, not five years back.’ He stepped back again.
‘You’re right,’ Rebus said. ‘Maybe after tonight I’ll retire.’
‘You’ll do that all right,’ Hutton said. ‘A nice long rest.’
‘Where’ll you put him?’ Cafferty asked.
‘Plenty of sites we’re working on. A nice big hole and half a ton of concrete.’
Rebus wrestled, but the grip was fierce. He raised a foot, stomped hard, but his captor was wearing steel toecaps. The grip tightened, like a thick metal band, crushing him. He let out a groan.
‘But first, a bit more fun,’ Hutton was saying. He came close, so his face was inches from Rebus’s. Then Rebus felt pain explode behind his eyeballs as Hutton’s knee thudded into his groin. Bile rose in his throat, the whisky seeking the quickest exit route. The grip loosened, fell away, and he dropped to his knees. Mist in front of his eyes, thick as haar, the sea singing in his ears. He wiped his hand across his face, clearing his vision. Fire was spreading out from his groin. Whisky fumes at the back of his throat. When he tried breathing through his nose, huge bubbles of blood expanded and popped. The next blow caught him on the temple. A kick this time, sending him rolling across concrete to end hunched foetus-like on the ground. He knew he should get up, take the fight to them. Nothing to lose. Go down kicking and scratching, punching and spitting. Hutton was crouching in front of him, pulling his head up by the hair.
There were explosions in the distance: the fireworks at the Castle, meaning it was midnight. The sky was lit with coloured blooms, blood-red, aching yellow.
‘You’ll stay hidden a sight longer than twenty years, believe me,’ Hutton was saying. Cafferty was standing just behind him, holding something. Light from the fireworks glinted from it. A knife, blade had to be eight or nine inches. Cafferty was going to do it himself. A determined grip on the handle. This was the moment they’d been coming to, ever since the Weasel’s office. Rebus almost welcomed it: Cafferty rather than the young thug. Hutton had camouflaged his criminality well, the veneer thick and brightly polished. Rebus would take Cafferty every time...
But now the sea was washing over all of it, washing Rebus, cleaning him with its flow of noise, building in his ears to a deafening roar, the shadows and light blurring, becoming one...