‘Owned by a company called Geronimo Holdings.’
‘Which in turn is owned by Big Ger?’
‘And sweetly, the word Geronimo includes both his and his wife’s names. So what do you make of it?’
‘Looks to me like Ger probably won his half of the business in a bet with Bone.’
‘Either that,’ added Holmes, ‘or he got it in lieu of protection money Bone couldn’t afford.’
‘Maybe,’ said Rebus. ‘But the bet’s more likely.’
‘After all,’ said Siobhan, ‘Bone won the car in a bet with Cafferty. They’ve gambled together in the past.’
Rebus nodded. ‘Well, it all adds up to a tight connection between the two of them. And there’s a tighter connection too, though I can’t prove it just yet.’
‘Hang on,’ said Siobhan, ‘if the stabbing and the smashed window are to do with protection or gambling, then they’re to do with Cafferty. Which means, since Cafferty owns half the business, that Cafferty smashed his own window.’
Rebus was shaking his head. ‘I didn’t say they were to do with protection or gambling.’
‘And where does the cousin fit in?’ Holmes interrupted.
‘My my,’ commented Rebus, ‘you are keen to be back, aren’t you? I’m not sure exactly where Kintoul fits in, but I’m getting a fair idea.’
‘Hold on,’ said Holmes, ‘here we are.’
They all watched as a battered purple mini drove up to the taxi offices. When the driver’s door opened, the man mountain squeezed himself out.
‘Like toothpaste from the tube,’ said Rebus.
‘Christ,’ added Holmes, ‘he must’ve taken out the front seats.’
‘All alone today,’ Siobhan noted.
‘I’ll bet Cafferty drops in sometime, though,’ said Rebus, ‘just to check. He’s been ripped off badly in the past, he won’t want it happening again.’
‘Ripped off badly?’ Siobhan echoed. ‘How do you know that?’ Rebus winked at her. ‘It’s an odds-on bet,’ he said.
He had to wait till after lunch for the information he needed. He had it faxed to him at a local newsagent’s. During the long wait in Gorgie, he’d discussed the case with Holmes and Siobhan. They both were of the same mind in one particular: nobody would testify against Cafferty. And of like minds in another: they couldn’t even be sure Cafferty had anything to do with it.
‘I’ll find out this afternoon,’ Rebus told them, heading out to pick up the fax.
He was getting used to walking with the cane, and as long as he kept moving, the leg itself didn’t stiffen up. But he knew the drive to Cardenden wouldn’t do him much good. He considered the train, but ruled it out in short order. He might want to escape from Fife in a hurry; and Scotrail’s timetables just didn’t fit the bill.
It was just after two-thirty when he pushed open the door of Hutchy’s, betting shop. The place was airless, smelling old and undusted. The cigarette butts on the floor were probably last week’s. There was a two-thirty-five race, and a few punters lined the walls waiting for the commentary. Rebus didn’t let the look of the place put him off. Nobody wanted to bet in a plush establishment: it meant the bookie was making too much money. These tawdry surroundings were all psychology. You might not be winning, the bookmaker was saying, but look at me, I’m not doing any better.
Except that he was.
Rebus noticed a half-familiar face studying the form on one of the newspapers pinned to the wall. But then this town was full of half-familiar faces. He approached the glass-partitioned desk. ‘I’d like a word with Mr Greenwood, please.’
‘Do you have an appointment?’
But Rebus was no longer talking to the woman. His attention was on the man who’d looked up from a desk behind her. ‘Mr Greenwood, I’m a police officer. Can we have a word?’
Greenwood thought about it, then got up, unlocked the door of the booth, and came out. ‘Round here,’ he said, leading Rebus to the rear of the shop. He unlocked another door, letting them into a much cosier and more private office.
‘Any trouble?’ he asked immediately, sitting down and reaching into his desk drawer for a bottle of whisky.
‘Not for me, sir,’ Rebus said. He sat down opposite Greenwood and stared at him. Christ, it was difficult after all these years. But Midge’s portrait wasn’t so far off the mark. A chess player would be making ready to play a pawn; Rebus decided to sacrifice his queen. ‘So, Eck,’ he said, getting comfortable, ‘how’ve things been?’
Greenwood looked around. ‘Are you talking to me?’
‘I suppose I must be. My name’s not Eck. Do you want to keep playing games? Fine then, let’s play games.’ Greenwood was pouring himself a large whisky. ‘Your name is Eck Robertson. You fled from the Cafferty gang taking with you quite a lot of Big. Ger’s money. You also took another man’s identity-Thomas Greenwood. You knew Tommy wouldn’t complain because he was dead. Another one of Big Ger’s incredible disappearing acts. You took his name and his identity, and you set up for yourself in the arse-end of Fife, living out of a suitcase full of money till you got this place in profit.’ Rebus paused. ‘How am I doing?’
Greenwood, aka Eck Robertson, swallowed loudly and refilled his glass.
‘You took too much of Greenwood’s identity, though. When you set up here, Inland Revenue got onto you for an unpaid income tax bill. You wrote to them, and eventually you paid up.’ Rebus brought the faxed sheets from his pocket. ‘I’ve got a copy of your letter here, along with some earlier stuff from the real Thomas Greenwood. Wait till a handwriting expert gets hold of them in court. Have you ever seen those guys work on a jury? It’s like Perry Mason. Even I can see the signatures aren’t the same.’
‘I changed my writing style.’
Rebus smiled. ‘Changed your face too. Dyed hair, shaved off your moustache, contact lense…tinted. Your eyes used to be hazel, didn’t they, Eck?’
‘I keep telling you, my name’s-’
Rebus got up. ‘Whatever you say. I’m sure Big Ger will recognise you quick enough.’
‘Wait a minute, sit down.’ Rebus sat and waited. Eck Robertson tried to smile. He flicked on his radio for a moment and listened to the race, then flicked it off again. A six-to-one shot had romped home.
‘Another win for the bookies,’ Rebus said. ‘Always liked the horses, didn’t you? Not as much as Tam, though, Tam just loved betting. He bet you he could screw money out of Big Ger without Ger noticing. Creaming it off just a little at a time, but it all mounted up. Here.’ Rebus tossed the drawing of Tam Robertson onto the desk. ‘Here’s what he might look like these days if Big Ger hadn’t found out.’
Eck Robertson stared at the drawing, tracing a finger over it.
‘You had to do a runner before Big Ger caught you, so you took the money. Then Radiator ran too. After all, he’d introduced the two of you into the gang. He’d be in for punishment too.’ Rebus paused again. ‘Or did Big Ger catch up with him?’
Robertson, eyes still on the drawing, shrugged.
‘Well, whatever,’ said Rebus. ‘I think I’ll have that whisky now.’ His leg was hurting like blazes, his knuckles white on the handle of the cane. It took Robertson a while to pour the drink. ‘So,’ Rebus asked him, ‘anything you want to add?’
‘How did you find me?’
‘Somebody spotted you.’
Robertson nodded. ‘The chef, what’s his name? Ringan? I saw him in some pub in Cowdenbeath. He looked like he was on a bender, so I got out fast. I didn’t think he’d seen me, and if he had I didn’t think he’d recognise me. I was wrong, eh?’
‘You were wrong.’ Rebus sipped the whisky like it was medicine on a spoon.
‘It was Aengus Gibson,’ Robertson said suddenly. ‘Aengus Gibson had the gun.’
And then he told the rest of the story. Tam had been cheating at poker, as usual. But Aengus was on to him, and drew the gun. Shot Tam dead. ‘We scarpered.’
‘What?’ Rebus was disbelieving. ‘No thoughts of revenge? That young drunk had just killed your brother!’