Suicide seemed the obvious conclusion, grief finally catching up with the orphaned son. Except that Ben Webster had screamed as he fell. And the guards had been alerted to an intruder. Besides, why that particular night? That location? The world’s media hitting town…
A very public gesture.
And Steelforth…well, Steelforth wanted it all swept away. Nothing must deflect attention from the G8. Nothing must be allowed to perturb the various delegations. Rebus had to admit, the reason he was holding on to the case was simply to piss off the Special Branch man. He got up from the table and went into the kitchen, made himself another mug of coffee, and brought it back through to the living room. He changed channels on the TV but couldn’t find any feeds from the march. The Hyde Park crowd looked to be enjoying themselves, though there was some sort of enclosure directly in front of the stage, sparsely filled. Security maybe; either that or media. Geldof wasn’t asking for money this time around; what Live 8 wanted was to focus hearts and minds. Rebus wondered how many concert-goers would afterward heed the call and trek the four hundred miles north to Scotland. He lit a cigarette to go with his coffee, sat down in an armchair, and stared at the screen. He thought again of the Clootie Well, of the ritual played out there. If Ray Duff was right, they had at least three victims, and a killer who had made a shrine of sorts. Did that mean someone local? How well known was the Clootie Well outside Auchterarder? Did it appear in travel books, tourist brochures? Had it been chosen for its proximity to the G8 summit, the killer guessing that all those extra police patrols were bound to mean his grim little offering was found? In which case, was his spree now finished?
Three victims…no way they were going to keep that away from the media. CC Rider…Keogh’s Garage…a cash card…The killer was making it easy for them; he wanted them to know he was out there. World’s press gathered in Scotland as never before, giving him an international stage. And Macrae would relish the opportunity. He’d be out there in front of them, chest puffed up as he answered their questions, Derek Starr right beside him.
Siobhan had said she would call Macrae from the march, let him know the lab’s findings. Ray Duff meantime would be doing more tests, trying for DNA fingerprints from the blood, seeing if any hairs or fibers could be isolated and identified. Rebus thought about Cyril Colliar again. Hardly a typical victim. Serial killers tended to prey on the weak and the marginalized. A case of wrong place, wrong time? Killed in Edinburgh, but the scrap from his jacket ends up in the woods in Auchterarder, just as Operation Sorbus is getting started. Sorbus: a kind of tree…the CC Rider’s patch left in a wooded glade…If there was any hint of a connection with the G8, Rebus knew the spooks would wrench the case out of Siobhan’s hands and out of his. Steelforth wouldn’t have it any other way. The killer taunting them.
Leaving calling cards.
There was a knock at his door. Had to be Siobhan. He stubbed out the cigarette, stood up, and took a look around the room. It wasn’t too bad: no empty beer cans or pizza boxes. Whiskey bottle by the chair; he picked it up, put it on the mantelpiece. Switched the TV to a news channel and headed for the door. Swung it open and recognized the face, felt his stomach clench.
“That’s your conscience salved then, is it?” he asked, feigning indifference.
“Pure as the driven fuckin’ snow, Rebus. But can you say the same?”
Not Siobhan. Morris Gerald Cafferty. Dressed in a white T-shirt bearing the slogan MAKE POVERTY HISTORY. Hands in trouser pockets. Slid them out slowly and held them up to show Rebus they were empty. A head the size of a bowling ball, shiny and all but hairless. Small, deep-set eyes. Glistening lips. No neck. Rebus made to shut the door on him, but Cafferty pressed a hand to it.
“That any way to treat an old pal?”
“Go to hell.”
“You look like you’ve beat me to it-did that shirt come off a scarecrow?”
“And who dresses you-the girls from What Not to Wear?”
Cafferty snorted. “I did meet them on breakfast TV, actually. See, isn’t this better? We’re having a nice wee chat.”
Rebus had stopped trying to close the door. “Hell are you doing here, Cafferty?”
Cafferty was examining his palms, brushing imaginary grime from them. “How long have you been living here, Rebus? Got to be thirty years.”
“So?”
“Ever hear of moving up in the world?”
“Christ, now it’s Location, Location, Location…”
“You’ve never tried to improve your situation, that’s what I can’t understand.”
“Maybe I should write a book about it.”
Cafferty grinned. “I’m thinking of a follow-up, charting a few more of our little disagreements.”
“Is that why you’re here? Memory needs refreshing, does it?”
Cafferty’s face darkened. “I’m here about my boy Cyril.”
“What about him?”
“I hear there’s been some progress. I want to know how much.”
“Who told you?”
“It’s true then?”
“Think I’d tell you even if it was?”
Cafferty gave a snarl, hands shooting forward, propelling Rebus backward into the hall, where he collided with the wall. Cafferty grabbed at him again, teeth bared, but Rebus was ready, managed to get a handful of the T-shirt. The two men wrestled, twisting and turning, moving farther down the hall until they were in the doorway to the living room. Neither had said a word, eyes and limbs doing their talking. But Cafferty glanced into the room and seemed to freeze. Rebus was able to free himself from his grasp.
“Jesus Christ.” Cafferty was staring at the two boxes on the sofa-part of the Colliar case notes, brought home from Gayfield the previous night. Lying on the top was one of the autopsy photos, and, just visible beneath, an older photograph of Cafferty himself. “What’s all this stuff doing here?” Cafferty asked, breathing heavily.
“None of your damned business.”
“You’re still trying to pin this on me.”
“Not as much as I was,” Rebus admitted. He walked over to the mantelpiece and grabbed the whiskey. Lifted his glass from the floor and poured. “It’ll be public knowledge soon enough,” he said, pausing to drink. “We think Colliar’s not the only victim.”
Cafferty’s eyes narrowed as he tried to take this in. “Who else?”
Rebus shook his head slowly. “Now get the hell out.”
“I can help,” Cafferty said. “I know people.”
“Oh yeah? Trevor Guest ring a bell?”
Cafferty thought for a moment before conceding defeat.
“What about a garage called Keogh’s?”
Cafferty stiffened his shoulders. “I can find things out, Rebus. I’ve got contacts in places that would frighten you.”
“Everything about you frightens me, Cafferty; fear of contamination, I suppose. How come you’re so het up about Colliar?”
Cafferty’s eyes strayed to the whiskey bottle. “Got a spare glass?” he asked.
Rebus fetched one from the kitchen. When he returned, Cafferty was reading Mairie’s covering note.
“I see Ms. Henderson’s been lending a hand.” Cafferty gave a cold smile. “I recognize her handwriting.”
Rebus said nothing; poured a small measure into the glass.
“I prefer malt,” Cafferty complained, wafting the contents under his nose. “What’s your interest in Pennen Industries?”
Rebus ignored this. “You were going to tell me about Cyril Colliar.” Cafferty made to sit down. “Stay on your feet,” Rebus commanded. “You’re not going to be here that long.”
Cafferty knocked back the drink and placed the empty glass on the table. “It’s not Cyril I’m interested in as such,” he admitted. “But when something like that happens…well, rumors get started. Rumors that someone’s out there with a grudge. Never very good for business. As you well know, Rebus, I’ve had enemies in the past.”