Rebus opened the bag and lifted out Blacksmith’s first album. Collier stared at it for a moment.
‘You really think I’m going to give you an autograph?’
Rebus shook his head. ‘I just wanted you to know I was a genuine fan, back in the mists of time.’ He pretended to study the LP sleeve. Its edges were frayed and there was a cigarette burn in one corner. ‘Bit like yourself, Mr Collier — it’s seen better days...’
Fox followed Rebus outside as the door slammed behind them.
‘Good line,’ he said admiringly.
‘Better still if nobody could say the same about me.’ Rebus stifled a cough and popped a piece of gum into his mouth.
‘So what now? Back to Leith?’
‘If you like.’
‘What’s the alternative?’
‘You’ve got me thinking about all those phone calls Chatham made...’
‘And?’
‘And I have half a mind to go talk to Kenny Arnott.’
‘Will he speak to you without a warrant card?’
‘I don’t know.’
Fox pretended to consider for a moment. ‘Maybe best if I come with you, then.’
‘Well, if you insist...’
As they got into the Saab, Rebus tossed the carrier bag on to the back seat.
‘They any good?’ Fox asked.
‘Dogshit,’ Rebus replied, starting the engine.
20
‘Do we know if this guy Arnott connects to either Cafferty or Christie?’ Rebus asked as he drove.
‘Rab Chatham worked a few nights at the Devil’s Dram,’ Fox said. ‘How come Christie doesn’t use his own security? Wouldn’t that make more sense?’
Rebus mulled this over. ‘Darryl’s a new breed of gangster. He buys in what he needs for as long as he needs it. An army of full-time heavies doesn’t come cheap. Added to which, you’re never sure when one of them’s going to learn too much about you and sell you out to the competition.’
‘Or else maybe start plotting a coup against you?’
‘That too,’ Rebus acknowledged. ‘Back in the day, Cafferty was surrounded by henchmen. One of them — name of Weasel — turned out to be a major liability. Over in the west, people like Joe Stark want to be seen flanked by muscle — reminds them how big and important they are. Our Darryl isn’t that way inclined. I doubt he sees himself as anything other than a businessman, providing services people require.’
‘Drugs, gambling, dodgy loans...’
‘And more besides.’ Rebus was bringing the Saab to a stop outside an unloved brick of a building near Pilrig Park.
‘It’s a boxing club,’ Fox commented.
‘Brought your gloves with you?’ Rebus enquired as he undid his seat belt and got out.
The door to Kenny’s Gym was unlocked, so they walked into a busy room filled with male perspiration. Two heavyweights sparred in the ring, their arms, chests and backs heavily tattooed. Punchbags were getting good use elsewhere, and a wiry young lad was dripping sweat as he used a skipping rope in front of a full-length mirror. There were weights and a couple of rowing machines on the far side of the room. Three men who were watching the action in the ring seemed to be having a conversation comprised almost entirely of profanities.
‘I’m sure your mothers are very proud,’ Rebus announced, drawing their attention to him. He had stuffed his hands into his pockets and spread his feet.
‘Anyone smell a big fat side of bacon?’ one of the three said, scowling.
‘Can’t fault your nose,’ Rebus answered. ‘Which is pretty impressive, judging by its shape. How did the other guy look afterwards?’
The man had started to move forwards, but a hand on his shoulder stopped him. It was the man next to him who took a few steps towards Rebus. He had curly brown hair and a round freckled face, the eyes not unwelcoming.
‘The other guy,’ he answered, ‘looked like Tam here hadn’t managed to lay a glove on him. Went on to win a few more fights and make a bit of money.’
‘With you as his manager?’ Rebus guessed.
The man shrugged and stuck out a hand. ‘Kenny Arnott.’
Rebus shook the hand. ‘My name’s Rebus. This is Detective Inspector Fox. Any chance of a word?’
‘I’ve already been questioned about Rab,’ Arnott said.
‘This is by way of a follow-up. Is there somewhere more private?’
‘My office,’ Arnott said. He led the way to the door and back out on to the street, where he lit a cigarette, blowing smoke into the sky.
‘This is your office?’ Fox asked.
Arnott nodded and waited, eyes twinkling.
‘You still in the game?’
Arnott looked at Rebus. ‘Depends which game you mean.’
‘Managing boxers.’
‘There’s a cage fighter I look after. You probably just saw him.’
‘Skinny, all muscle, busy on the skipping rope?’
‘That’s the one. Donny Applecross.’
‘Is he any good?’
‘He’s getting there.’ Arnott held up the cigarette. ‘When this is done, I’m going back in.’
‘We’re wondering,’ Rebus said, ‘about the call Mr Chatham made to you the night before he was killed. He was on duty outside a bar on Lothian Road. I spoke to him just before ten, and as soon as I was gone, he phoned you.’
‘I’ve explained this already,’ Arnott said, looking aggrieved. ‘It was shop talk — shifts for the following week.’
‘My name wasn’t mentioned?’
‘Remind me.’
‘John Rebus. I’d just been asking Mr Chatham about the Maria Turquand murder.’
‘News to me, bud.’
‘You know the case, though?’ Rebus watched as Arnott shook his head. ‘When you took on Rab Chatham, you knew he was ex-CID?’
‘Sure.’
‘He never talked about cases he’d worked?’
‘Nope.’
‘I find that hard to believe.’
‘Maybe he shared stories with the other doormen — you’d have to ask them. Only time I ever spent with him was at the initial interview. After that it was mostly phone calls and texts.’
‘How was he as a doorman?’ Fox asked.
‘He was diligent.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Always turned up to a job. Got stuck in when the need arose.’ Arnott held up the cigarette again. ‘Two more drags and we’re done.’
Rebus batted the cigarette away with the back of his hand. It flew to the ground unheeded. Arnott’s eyes had lost their sparkle, his whole face darkening.
‘This is a murder inquiry,’ Rebus told him. ‘We don’t measure it in fucking tabs.’
Arnott considered this and nodded slowly. ‘He was one of your own, I get that. He was one of mine, too, don’t forget, and if there was anything I knew that would help...’ He shrugged.
‘He spoke to you,’ Rebus said quietly, ‘and then he headed straight to a phone box and called three pubs — Templeton’s, the Wrigley, and the Pirate. What was that all about, Mr Arnott?’
‘I already explained to the other coppers — looking for a bit of extra work maybe.’
‘Those pubs don’t have security?’
‘Far as I know they do — courtesy of my competitor.’
‘Andrew Goodman, you mean? So your theory is that Rab Chatham was looking to work for Goodman? How likely does that sound? And wouldn’t he need to talk with Goodman rather than phone the pubs themselves? You can see how we might find this all fairly implausible.’
‘Then maybe he was looking to catch up with someone after his shift ended.’
In which case, thought Rebus, he must have hit pay dirt with the Pirate, his final call. Not the kind of bar he would have thought Chatham or any of his buddies would have frequented. Dregs and lowlifes comprised the more regular clientele. The great unwashed...