Rebus sat. ‘I’m interested in someone,’ he began. ‘And I think you might know him: Stuart Bullen.’
Cafferty’s top lip curled. ‘Wee Stu,’ he said. ‘I knew his old man better.’
‘I don’t doubt it. But what do you know about the son’s recent activities?’
‘He been a naughty boy then?’
‘I’m not sure.’ Rebus took a sip of tea. ‘You know he’s in Edinburgh?’
Cafferty nodded slowly. ‘Runs a strip club, doesn’t he?’
‘That’s right.’
‘And as if that wasn’t hard enough work, now he’s got you digging at his scrotum.’
Rebus shook his head. ‘All it is, a girl’s run off from home and her mum and dad got the idea she might be working for Bullen.’
‘And is she?’
‘Not that I know of.’
‘But you went to see Wee Stu and he got up your nose?’
‘I just came away with a few questions...’
‘Such as?’
‘Such as what’s he doing in Edinburgh?’
Cafferty smiled. ‘You telling me you don’t know any west-coast hard men who’ve made the move east?’
‘I know a few.’
‘They come here because in Glasgow they can’t walk ten yards without someone having a go at them. It’s the culture, Rebus.’ Cafferty gave a theatrical shrug.
‘You’re saying he wants a clean break?’
‘Through there, he’s Rab Bullen’s son, always will be.’
‘Which means someone somewhere just might have put a price on his head?’
‘He’s not running scared, if that’s what you’re thinking.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because Stu’s not the type. He wants to prove himself... stepping out from his old man’s shadow... you know what it’s like.’
‘And running a lap bar’s going to do that?’
‘Maybe.’ Cafferty studied the surface of his drink. ‘Then again, maybe he’s got other plans.’
‘Such as.’
‘I don’t know him well enough to answer that. I’m an old man, Rebus: people don’t tell me as much as they used to. And even if I did know something... why the hell would I bother to tell you?’
‘Because you nurse a grudge.’ Rebus placed his half-empty mug on the varnished wooden floor. ‘Didn’t Rab Bullen rip you off on one occasion?’
‘Mists of time, Rebus, mists of time.’
‘So as far as you know, the son’s clean?’
‘Don’t be stupid — nobody’s clean. Have you looked around you recently? Not that there’s much to see from Gayfield Square. Can you still smell the drains in the corridors?’ Cafferty smiled at Rebus’s silence. ‘Some people still tell me stuff... just now and again.’
‘Which people?’
Cafferty’s smile widened. ‘“Know thine enemy”, that’s what they say, isn’t it? I dare say it’s why you keep all my press cuttings.’
‘It’s not for your pop-star looks, that’s for sure.’
Cafferty’s mouth gaped in a huge yawn. ‘Hot tub always does that to me,’ he said by way of apology, fixing Rebus with a stare. ‘Something else I hear is that you’re working the Knoxland stabbing. Poor sod had... what? Twelve? Fifteen wounds? What do Messrs Curt and Gates think of that?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Looks to me like a frenzy... someone out of control.’
‘Or just very, very angry,’ Rebus countered.
‘Same thing in the end. All I’m saying is, it might have given them a taste.’
Rebus’s eyes narrowed. ‘You know something, don’t you?’
‘Not me, Rebus... I’m happy just sitting here and growing old.’
‘Or heading down to England to meet your scumbag friends.’
‘Sticks and stones... sticks and stones.’
‘The Knoxland victim, Cafferty... what is it you’re not telling me?’
‘Think I’m going to sit here and do your job for you?’ Cafferty shook his head slowly, then grasped the arms of the chair and started to rise to his feet. ‘But now it’s time for bed. Next time you come, bring that nice DS Clarke with you, and tell her to pack her bikini. In fact, if you’re sending her, you can stay at home.’ Cafferty laughed longer and louder than was merited as he led Rebus towards the front door.
‘Knoxland,’ Rebus said.
‘What about it?’
‘Well, since you brought it up... remember a few months back, we had the Irish trying to muscle in on the drugs scene there?’ Cafferty made a noncommittal gesture. ‘Seems they could be back... Would you happen to know anything about that?’
‘Drugs are for losers, Rebus.’
‘That’s an original line.’
‘Maybe I don’t think you merit any of my better ones.’ Cafferty held the front door open. ‘Tell me, Rebus... all those stories about me, do you keep them in a scrapbook with little hearts doodled on the front?’
‘Daggers, actually.’
‘And when they make you retire, that’s what you’ll have waiting for you... a few final years alone with your scrapbook. Not much of a legacy, is it?’
‘And what exactly are you leaving behind, Cafferty? Any hospitals out there named after you?’
‘Amount I give to charity, there might well be.’
‘All that guilt money, it doesn’t change who you are.’
‘It doesn’t need to. Thing you have to realise is, I’m happy with my lot.’ He paused. ‘Unlike some I could name.’
Cafferty was chuckling softly as he closed the door on Rebus.
Day five
Friday
15
The first Siobhan heard of it was on the morning news.
Muesli with skimmed milk; coffee; multivitamin juice. She always ate at the kitchen table, wrapped in her dressing gown — that way, if she spilled anything, she didn’t have to worry. A shower afterwards, and then her clothes. Her hair took only a few minutes to dry, which was why she was keeping it short. Radio Scotland was usually just background noise, a babble of voices to fill the silence. But then she picked up the word ‘Banehall’, and turned the volume up. She’d missed the gist, but the studio was handing over to an outside broadcast:
‘Well, Catriona, police from Livingston are at the scene as I speak. We’re being kept behind a cordon, of course, but a forensic team, dressed in regulation white overalls with hoods and masks, is entering the terraced house. It’s a council-owned property, maybe two or three bedrooms, with grey harled walls and all its windows curtained. The front garden’s overgrown, and a small crowd of onlookers has gathered. I’ve managed to talk to some of the neighbours and it appears the victim was known to police, though whether this will have any bearing on the case remains to be seen...’
‘Colin, have they revealed his identity yet?’
‘Nothing official, Catriona. I can tell you that he was a local man of twenty-two years, and that his demise appears to have been pretty brutal. Again, though, we’ll have to await the press conference for a more detailed account. Officers here say that’ll happen in the next two to three hours.’
‘Thank you, Colin... and there’ll be more on that story in our lunchtime programme. Meantime, a Central Scotland list MSP is calling for the closure of the Whitemire detention centre sited just outside Banehall...’
Siobhan unhooked her phone from its charger, but then couldn’t remember the number for Livingston police station. And who did she know there anyway? Only DC Davie Hynds, and he’d been there less than a fortnight: another casualty of the changes at St Leonard’s. She headed to the bathroom, checked her face and hair in the mirror. A splash and a wet comb might do for once. She didn’t have time for anything else. Decided, she dashed into the bedroom and yanked open the wardrobe doors.