‘Bloody hell,’ Rebus muttered.
‘What is it?’ Fox asked. But Rebus was already stalking towards the Saab.
‘Any time, lads,’ Kenny Arnott called to their retreating backs. ‘Nice of you to drop by...’
‘What is it?’ Fox repeated as he climbed into the passenger seat.
‘Know who would drink at a hole like the Pirate?’
‘Who?’
‘Craw Shand.’
‘Meaning what?’
‘Meaning I need to do a bit of thinking, which necessitates muting you — sorry about that.’
‘Muting me?’
Rebus reached for the stereo, pushing a button. Music burst from the speakers, filling the car as Rebus pressed his foot against the accelerator. Had Fox been any kind of a music buff, he might have recognised the guitar sound.
Rory Gallagher, ‘Kickback City’.
From a corner of the street, Cafferty watched them leave, and kept staring as Kenny Arnott opened the door to his gym. The place looked busy, but that was okay. Arnott would still be there at closing time. Maybe he’d even be on his own...
‘Does anyone have a photo of Glushenko or Nazarchuk or whatever he’s called?’ Siobhan Clarke asked.
She was seated with Rebus and Fox at a corner table in the back room of the Oxford Bar. The downstairs area was post-work busy, but the rest of the pub was quiet as yet. Rebus was nursing a half of IPA. He’d just texted Deborah Quant to suggest dinner somewhere, but she’d pinged a message back immediately saying she was due at some official function and how was his COPD?
Both hunky and dory, he typed, pressing send.
His personal demon was outside again, tapping on the glass and holding up a packet of twenty. Rebus pulled back the net curtain long enough to flick the Vs by way of answer.
‘Not that I’ve seen,’ Fox was telling Clarke. ‘A few dodgy passport photos, but with different hairstyles, and wearing glasses in some but not others.’
‘I don’t get it,’ she said. ‘If this thug is coming for Darryl, why isn’t Darryl worried?’
‘Maybe he thinks we’re watching over him,’ Rebus commented. ‘Cheaper than hiring bodyguards.’
‘And another thing, shouldn’t we be putting Anthony Brough’s name out there? He’s done a runner with mob money — how long do you think he’s going to last?’
‘Alan McFarlane down in London is checking if his passport’s been used,’ Fox said. ‘Could be on a Caribbean beach by now.’
‘Somewhere with no extradition treaty,’ Rebus added, lifting his glass again. He’d had a coughing fit earlier, but had retired to the toilet with his inhaler. His shirt was damp, sticking to his back, but otherwise he was fine, so much so that he was beginning to think a second IPA wouldn’t hurt.
‘So he flees with all this money, leaving Darryl in the lurch,’ Clarke said, watching Fox’s nod of confirmation. ‘And there’s a big bad Ukrainian on his way here seeking some sort of vengeance... Cafferty would be lapping it up if he knew.’
‘He does know,’ Rebus corrected her. ‘He knows some of it, at least. Only he thinks the Ukrainian is a Russian.’
‘How does he know?’
‘That’s a very good question,’ Rebus allowed. ‘Maybe we should ask him.’
‘You think he’s involved in some way?’ Fox enquired, elbows on the table.
‘There’s always that possibility.’
‘He paid to have Darryl attacked?’
Rebus pondered this. ‘Do we have photos of Craw Shand and Rab Chatham?’
‘Back at the MIT room,’ Fox said.
‘Then we should go there.’ Rebus checked the time. ‘I’m guessing they’ll have knocked off for the evening. All the same, best if me and Siobhan wait outside.’
‘And after I’ve lifted the photos, what next?’
Rebus looked at him. ‘We pay our respects at a den of iniquity, of course.’
‘Of course,’ Fox said, watching as Rebus and Clarke drained their glasses.
The Pirate was called the Pirate because it had been taken over in the 1960s by a man called Johnny Kydd. That was one version, anyway. Rebus regaled his passengers with others as they headed to Cowgate.
‘You ever been to the Devil’s Dram?’ Clarke interrupted at one point.
‘Thumping music and mass snogging? Not really my scene.’ He glanced at her. ‘But I know Deb was there not too long ago, with the hangover next day to prove it.’
‘Darryl Christie runs it like something out of Goodfellas — has his own table upstairs, master of all he surveys.’
‘Maybe not for much longer,’ Fox said. ‘HMRC reckon it’s costing him more than it takes in. Same goes for his hotel.’
‘You might have said something,’ Clarke complained.
‘I only found out this morning.’
‘Even so.’
‘Well, I’m telling you now.’
‘When I went to his hotel, it was being renovated — that has to cost a few quid.’
‘Builders should maybe have asked for the money upfront,’ Fox commented.
‘So what’s the story?’ Rebus asked. ‘He must be making money somewhere.’
‘His betting shops and online gambling,’ Fox conceded. ‘But he’s using those to prop up everything else.’
‘Doesn’t he control most of the drugs in the city?’ Clarke enquired.
‘That doesn’t exactly come under HMRC’s remit.’
‘I’ve been reading in the paper recently,’ Rebus added, ‘that Border Force Scotland have had a few success stories — big shipments stopped before reaching their targets.’
‘Meaning supply could be limited?’
Rebus nodded. ‘No supply, no money.’
‘Might explain why he’d be keen to get into bed with Anthony Brough. Ten million split two ways...’
‘Would certainly tide Darryl over.’
‘He doesn’t still have it, does he?’ Clarke asked.
‘If he did, why not hand it back to Glushenko?’ Fox answered.
‘So Brough’s scarpered with the lot.’
‘Somebody knows,’ Rebus said quietly. ‘The PA, the sister, her carer...’
‘There is another alternative, of course,’ Clarke piped up. ‘Maybe Glushenko has Brough.’
The car fell silent as they considered this. Then Fox cleared his throat.
‘You remember the friend who drowned in Sir Magnus’s pool?’ he said, his eyes on Clarke. ‘I spoke to a journalist in Grand Cayman who said he wouldn’t rule out foul play.’
‘Is there no end to the stuff you’ve been holding back?’ Clarke retorted.
‘It’s not exactly relevant to Darryl Christie or Craw Shand, though, is it?’
Clarke stuck out her bottom lip. ‘And I thought we were pals.’
‘Remember, children,’ Rebus said from the driver’s seat. ‘Toys must remain in the pram at all times.’
‘Easy for an OAP to say.’
Clarke and Fox were sharing a smile as Rebus pushed out his own bottom lip.
The Pirate was near the foot of Blair Street, just before the Cowgate junction. Rebus parked on a double yellow line and they got out. The bar was down some steps, its interior smelling of the same mould that would have lingered on its walls a few centuries back. The main room had a vaulted ceiling, which, like the walls, consisted of exposed stonework. Most of the bars in the vicinity had been gentrified, but not the Pirate. The framed prints — sailing ships of the world — were askew and mildewed. The floor would forever remain sticky, due to the amount of drink spilled on it. The solitary barman was entertaining the only two drinkers in the place to a sullen silence, the new arrivals doing nothing except darken his mood.