Ways which started with a friendly taxman …
More than one person that Sunday read the story on the front page of their morning paper with a mixture of anguish, fear, guilt, and fury. Telephone calls were made. Words were exchanged like bullets. But being Sunday, there wasn’t much anyone could do about the situation except, if they were of a mind, pray. If the off-licences had been open, or the supermarkets and grocer’s shops allowed to sell alcohol, they might have drowned their sorrows or assuaged their anger. As it was, the anger just built, and so did the anguish. Block by block, the structure neared completion. A roof, that was all it lacked. Something to keep the pressure in, or nature’s forces out.
And it was all because of John Rebus. This was more or less agreed. John Rebus was out there with a battering ram, and more than one person was of a mind to unlock the door and let him in-let him into their lair. And then lock the door after him.
28
The meeting in Farmer Watson’s office had been arranged for nine in the morning. Presumably, they wanted Rebus at his groggiest and most supine. He might growl loudly in the morning, but he didn’t normally start biting till afternoon. That everyone from Watson to the canteen staff knew he was being fitted up didn’t make things any less awkward. For a start, the investigation into the Central Hotel murder wasn’t official, and Watson still wasn’t keen to sanction it. So Rebus had been working rogue anyway. Give the Farmer his due, he looked after his team. They managed between them to concoct a story whereby Rebus had been given permission to do some digging into the files on his own time.
‘With a view towards the case perhaps being reopened at a later date as fresh evidence allowed,’ said the Farmer. His secretary, a smart woman with a scary taste in hair colourants, copied down these closing words. ‘And date it a couple of weeks ago.’
‘Yes, sir,’ she said.
When she’d left the room, Rebus said, ‘Thank you, sir.’ He’d been standing throughout the proceedings, there being space for just the one chair, the one the secretary had been seated on. He now stepped gingerly over piles of files and placed his bum where hers had latterly been.
‘I’m covering my hide as well as yours, John. And not a word to anyone, understand?’
‘Yes, sir. What about Inspector Flower, won’t he suspect? He’s bound to complain to Chief Inspector Lauderdale at least.’
‘Good. Him and Lauderdale can have a chinwag. There’s something you’ve got to understand, John.’ Watson clasped his hands together on the desk, his head sinking into huge rounded shoulders. He spoke softly. ‘I know Lauderdale’s after my job. I know I can trust him as far as I’d trust an Irish scoor-oot.’ He paused. ‘Do you want my job, Inspector?’
‘No fear.’
Watson nodded. ‘That’s what I mean. Now, I know you’re not going to be sitting on your hands for the next week or two, so take some advice. The law can’t be tinkered with the way you tinker with an old car. Think before you do anything. And remember, stunts like buying a gun can get you thrown off the force.’
‘But I didn’t buy it, sir,’ said Rebus, reciting the story they’d thought up, ‘it came into my possession as a potential piece of evidence.’
Watson nodded. ‘Quite a mouthful, eh? But it might just save your bacon.’
‘I’m vegetarian, sir,’ Rebus said. A statement which caused Watson to laugh very loudly indeed.
They were both more than a little interested in what was happening in Gorgie. The initial news had not seemed promising. Nobody had turned up at the office, nobody at all. An extra detail was now keeping a watch on the hospital where Dougary lay in traction. If nothing happened at the Gorgie end, they’d switch to the hospital until Dougary was up and about. Maybe he’d keep working from his bedside. Stranger things had happened.
But at eleven-thirty, a brightly polished Jag pulled into the taxi lot. The chauffeur, a huge man with long straight hair, got out, and when he opened the back door, out stepped Morris Gerald Cafferty.
‘Got you, you bastard,’ hissed DS Petrie, firing off a whole roll of film in the excitement. Siobhan was already telephoning St Leonard’s. And after talking with CI Lauderdale, as instructed (though not by Lauderdale) she phoned Arden Street. Rebus picked up the phone on its second ring.
‘Bingo,’ she said. ‘Cafferty’s come calling.’
‘Make sure the photographs are dated and timed.’
‘Yes, sir. How did the meeting go?’
‘I think the Farmer’s in love with me.’
‘They’re both going in,’ said Petrie, at last lifting his finger from the shutter release. The camera motor stopped. Madden, who had come over to the window to watch, asked who they were.
At the same time, Rebus was asking a similar question. ‘Who’s with Big Ger?’
‘His driver.’
‘Man mountain with long hair?’
‘That’s him.’
‘That’s also the guy who got his ear eaten by Davey Dougary.’
‘No love lost there, then?’
‘Except now the man mountain’s working for Big Ger.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Knowing Big Ger, I’d say he put him on the payroll just to piss off Dougary.’
‘Why would he do that?’
‘His idea of a joke. Let me know when they come out again.’
‘Will do.’
She phoned him back half an hour later. ‘Cafferty’s taken off again.’
‘He didn’t stay long.’
‘But listen, the chauffeur stayed put.’
‘What?’
‘Cafferty drove off alone.’
‘Well, I’ll be buggered. He’s putting the man mountain in charge Dougary’s accounts!’
‘He must trust him.’
‘I suppose he must. But I can’t see the big chap having much experience running a book. He’s strictly a guard dog.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning Big Ger will have to nurse him along. Meaning Big Ger will be down at that office practically every day. It couldn’t be better!’
‘We’d better get in some more film, then.’
‘Aye, don’t let that stupid bugger Petrie run out again. How’s his face by the way?’
‘Itchy, but it hurts when he scratches.’ Petrie glanced over, so she told him, ‘Inspector Rebus was just asking after you.’
‘Was I buggery,’ said Rebus. ‘I hope his nose drops off and falls in his thermos.’
‘I’ll pass your good wishes on, sir,’ said Siobhan.
‘Do that,’ replied Rebus. ‘And don’t be shy about it either. Right, I’m off to a funeral.’
‘I was talking to Brian, he said he’s a pall-bearer.’
‘Good,’ said Rebus. ‘That means I’ll have a shoulder to cry on.’
Warriston Cemetery is a sprawling mix of graves, from the ancient (and sometimes desecrated) to the brand new. There are stones there whose messages have been eroded away to faint indents only. On a sunny day, it can be an educational walk, but at nights the local Hell’s Angels chapter have been known to party hard, recreating scenes more like New Orleans voodoo than Scottish country dancing.
Rebus felt Eddie would have approved. The ceremony itself was simple and dignified, if you ignored the wreath in the shape of an electric guitar and the fact that he was to be buried with an Elvis LP cover inside the casket.
Rebus stood at a distance from proceedings, and had turned down an invitation by Pat Calder to attend the reception afterwards, which was to be held not in the hollow Heartbreak Cafe but in the upstairs room of a nearby hostelry. Rebus was tempted for a moment-the chosen pub served Gibson’s-but shook his head the way he’d shaken Calder’s hand: with regrets.
Poor Eddie. For all that Rebus hadn’t really known him, for all that the chef had tried scalping him with a panful of appetisers, Rebus had liked the man. He saw them all the time, people who could have made so much of their lives, yet hadn’t. He knew he belonged with them. The losers.