‘Yes.’
‘Say my name, then.’
‘You’re Big Ger Cafferty.’
‘And what are these?’ Cafferty dug in his coat pocket and started scattering the contents across the floor in front of Arnott.
‘Nails,’ Arnott croaked.
‘Six-inch nails, to be precise.’
‘What do you want?’
‘I want you to tell me why one of your employees whispered sweet nothings into my friend’s ear.’
‘What are you talking about?’
Cafferty managed a disappointed look, towering over the crouched figure. Arnott couldn’t meet the man’s stare, so busied himself dabbing at the blood with his jacket sleeve.
‘You want it done the hard way, that’s fine by me. One way or another, you’ll be spilling your guts.’
‘I don’t know anything, gospel truth.’
‘I didn’t know you were religious, Kenny.’ Cafferty was slipping out of his coat. ‘But if you are, wee bit of advice for you — time to start praying...’
Day Eight
21
Having been wakened by Brillo wanting a walk as the sky was just starting to lighten, Rebus had decided to drive to Kenny’s Gym for want of anything else to keep him busy. He wasn’t sure how early the place would open, but he arrived to see two ambulances parked outside and the door to the boxing club standing wide open. Cursing under his breath, he stopped behind the rearmost ambulance and got out.
Inside the gym, two green-suited paramedics were kneeling either side of a prone figure, while a third stood next to an anxious-looking young man. Rebus sought his name — Donny Applecross, Arnott’s cage-fighting protégé. As he stepped forward, he recognised the figure on the floor as Kenny Arnott himself. His head partially encased in polystyrene to protect it, arms splayed. His palms were upwards, blood pooling between and beneath the fingers.
‘This what I think it is?’ Rebus asked.
The paramedic nearest him turned her head. ‘Sorry, who are you?’
‘I’m with Police Scotland. We were here yesterday to question Mr Arnott.’
Arnott had been given a painkilling injection. His eyes looked glazed as soft moans escaped from between his cracked lips.
‘So,’ Rebus went on, ‘are you waiting for medical advice or the local joiner?’
The unused nails were strewn around the floor. Rebus stooped and picked one up, showing it to Applecross.
‘What’s the story here, son?’
‘Like I was just saying, Kenny gave me a key. I often do an early workout. He was...’ He glanced down at Arnott’s figure. ‘He was lying there when I got here.’
‘Door locked?’
Applecross shook his head. ‘Shut but not locked.’
Rebus turned his attention to the paramedic. ‘Is he going to be okay?’
‘He’s been beaten around the head. You can see the marks on his temples.’
‘A hammer, yes?’ Rebus guessed.
‘Maybe,’ she allowed. ‘And to answer your other question, we’re waiting for advice on how best to move him.’
‘Anyone called the police?’
She stared at him. ‘Isn’t that why you’re here?’
Rebus took out his phone and texted Siobhan Clarke. ‘Wheels are in motion,’ he told the paramedic. Then, to Applecross: ‘What time would he have started locking up?’
‘Eight thirty, nine. I left around eight.’
‘Were you the last out?’
The young man nodded, tensing his fists. ‘Be a different story if I’d stuck around.’
‘You weren’t to know.’ Rebus paused. ‘That is, unless there’s something you want to tell me.’
‘Like what?’
‘For starters, who’d want to do something like this to a fine upstanding man such as Kenny?’
Arnott was mumbling something, one of the kneeling paramedics leaning forward so she could make it out.
‘He’s saying it was an accident,’ she announced.
‘Well of course it was,’ Rebus said, his eyes on the young cage fighter. ‘Because if it wasn’t, you might feel honour-bound to do something about it that could lead to you getting hurt — and Kenny doesn’t want you getting hurt.’ He turned away and leaned down so that his face was directly over Arnott’s. ‘Give me a name, Kenny — a name, a face, a description.’
Arnott squeezed his eyes shut and filled his lungs. ‘It was an accident!’ he roared, almost weeping from the effort.
Rebus straightened up. ‘Hard as nails, your boss,’ he said to the young man. ‘Which is just as well, really...’
He sat in his car, chewing gum and listening to the radio, until Clarke’s Astra arrived. She had been preceded by a fire engine and a van with the name of a joinery firm on its side. Rebus explained the situation as he walked with a bleary-eyed Clarke back into the gym. Applecross had changed into shorts and a vest and, barefoot and hands strapped, was pretending the punchbag in front of him was responsible for his manager’s anguish.
‘Dedication for you,’ Rebus commented to Clarke. She was focusing on the scene around Kenny Arnott.
‘He was here all night?’ she asked.
‘Looks like.’
‘Wouldn’t he have been screaming fit to burst?’
‘Not much foot traffic around here — and people might expect to hear noises from a boxing club.’
She seemed to accept this. The joiner, tools laid out in front of him, was deep in discussion with one of the firemen about how much of the floor was going to have to be sawn through.
‘Even then,’ he added, ‘if the nail’s gone into a joist, that might have to be cut away too.’
The man looked calm enough, though Rebus doubted he had been called to many similar jobs.
‘Let’s do it then,’ the paramedic said. One of the ambulances had already left on another job, just her and her colleague left with the patient.
‘Will he feel anything?’ the colleague asked the fireman.
‘We’ll find out soon enough.’
‘Maybe another dose of morphine first, then...’
Clarke turned away and, arms folded, walked towards the boxing ring, Rebus following.
‘Who did it?’ she asked in an undertone. ‘Darryl Christie?’
‘Not sure this is Darryl’s style. Cafferty, on the other hand...’
She stared at him. ‘What was he after?’
‘Same as us — information.’
‘How would he know, though? About Arnott and Chatham and the rest?’
‘He’s got Craw Shand,’ Rebus stated.
She thought this over, then nodded slowly. ‘Let’s go talk to him.’
‘We’ve been here before with Cafferty,’ Rebus cautioned. ‘You know the way he is...’
Her eyes met his. ‘You can’t go on your own, John. When all’s said and done, you’re a civilian.’
‘I’m really not. And he’ll open up to me.’
Her gaze intensified. ‘Why is that, I’ve always wondered?’
‘Because he likes to get my attention, knowing damned well that I almost certainly can’t touch him. He needs to keep reminding me he’s in charge, not you or me or anyone else.’
Clarke said nothing for a few moments, then nodded again. ‘Fine. But you bring everything back to me afterwards, agreed?’
‘Agreed,’ Rebus said, heading towards the doorway as an electric saw began competing in noise levels against the relentless thwock of Donny Applecross’s fists and feet hitting the punchbag.
Cafferty wasn’t answering. Rebus sent a text instead, then drove to the café on Forrest Road, but he wasn’t there either. He tried pressing the bell at Quartermile, but to no effect, so he returned to the café and ordered a mug of coffee, seating himself at the table Cafferty liked, waiting. Someone had left a newspaper on a nearby chair; he turned its pages, his mobile clutched in his free hand. It was twenty minutes before the text arrived.