Another time, it said.
Rebus hammered back a reply. Did Kenny Arnott keep you up late? Where have you stashed Craw?
Two minutes later: Craw’s on holiday, a B&B and plenty spending money in his pocket.
Rebus composed another text and pressed send. He gave you what you wanted then? And that took you to Rab Chatham’s boss.
He waited two minutes, then five, then eight. With the coffee gone, he stepped back outside, holding the screen to his face. Ten minutes, twelve... He unlocked the Saab and got in, noting that a warden had given him a ticket. He got out again and snatched it from beneath the wiper blade, tossing it on to the passenger seat.
Still nothing.
Where are you?
Nothing.
What are you up to?
No reply.
He’s Ukrainian, not Russian
Rebus’s phone told him a text was coming. He watched it arrive. What makes you think I wouldn’t know that? Didn’t want to make it TOO easy for you.
Rebus’s fingers got busy again: Meet me.
Send.
Wait.
Incoming.
He’s lucky I didn’t kill him.
Who? Arnott? Christie? Craw?
Everybody’s lucky, even you — it wasn’t really your birthday, was it?
But then you didn’t really give me a present.
Should have seen the hunger in your eyes, though. Nice to see passion stirring in such an old crock.
Fuck you too. Meet me. Let’s do this face to face.
Why?
My thumbs are getting sore. And I can’t believe you don’t want to gloat in person.
My gloating days are behind me.
I don’t believe that for a minute. Let’s do this.
I’ll think about it.
It has to be right now.
Another wait, but this time he knew it was fruitless. Cafferty was a busy man with a lot on his mind, Rebus only occupying a tiny part of the game he was playing.
Playing? No, he was controlling it, like the croupier with his hand on the fixed roulette wheel, knowing the house was going to win in the end.
Rebus drove across town to Great Junction Street and stopped outside Klondyke Alley. The café where he’d shared bacon rolls with Rab Chatham was a short walk away. Chatham had placed regular bets at Klondyke Alley. Had he been aware of what was happening one storey above? Rebus peered up at the grimy windows of the tenement flats. Decision made, he got out and locked the car. There were five separate buttons on the intercom and he pressed each of them in turn. As he’d expected, the buzzer sounded, letting him know the main door had unlocked itself. He pushed it open and stepped into a shadowy hallway leading to the winding stone staircase.
The flat he wanted was one floor up. There were two doors. One had a name on it — Haddon. The other was anonymous. Rebus pressed his ear to the door, then eased open the letter box for a look. The place felt empty. He rapped on the wood with his knuckles, wondering if the neighbour who had buzzed him in would start to show any interest. But there was no sound of any other doors opening. He tried the door handle. A single Yale lock seemed to be the flat’s only protection. Rebus put his shoulder to it without success. He tried again, then stepped back and lifted his right foot, slamming it into the wood. He felt a jab of pain in his hip, so swapped legs and planted the sole of his shoe hard against the door. There was a cracking sound. He had another go, and this time the door burst open a few inches. Rubbing his thigh, he shoved the door a little wider.
The problem was mail. It lay an inch or two deep on the carpet. Rebus squeezed through the gap and bent down to scoop some of it up. Holding it in his left hand, he checked the flat’s interior. There was no bed in the bedroom, no furniture in the living room, nothing in the drawers of the kitchen. From the look of the toilet, it had last been used weeks ago by someone who hadn’t bothered flushing. Back in the hall, he squatted down and sifted through the mail. There were the usual circulars, and a couple of cards to say the meter reader hadn’t been able to get in. Most of the envelopes were plain white or brown. Most had little cellophane windows. Business post, addressed to dozens of companies Rebus had never heard of. He opened one. It was offering ‘enhanced services at a special rate for your start-up company’. He doubted the others would be much different.
Moving into the living room, he stood in the middle of the floor. There were marks on the walls where pictures had been removed by a previous owner or tenant. A cable snaked in from a corner of the only window, waiting to be connected to a TV. There was a phone point on one of the chipped skirting boards, but no phone. Like the companies it served, the flat was nothing more than a shell. But then what had he expected — Anthony Brough, feet up on the sofa sipping Moët?
Well, it would have been nice.
‘I’ve called the police,’ Rebus heard a voice say from the landing outside. By the time he reached the doorway, the neighbour had retreated behind their own door. Rebus approached it and knocked. He heard a chain being slid into place, the door opening two inches. Above the chain he could make out a pair of bespectacled eyes. The man looked tired and unshaven, dressed in a string vest and jogging pants. Unemployed, probably.
‘No need for that, sir,’ Rebus said, trying to sound professional.
‘Well I’ve done it anyway.’
‘How long has the other flat been empty, do you know?’
‘Ever since I moved in.’
‘Anybody ever visit?’
The man shook his head. ‘The police are on their way,’ he felt the need to clarify.
‘I’m with the police, sir,’ Rebus explained.
‘Is that right?’ Clearly not believing a word of it.
‘You’ve never seen or heard anything from that flat? No comings and goings?’
‘Nothing.’ The man was starting to close the door.
‘I’ll be on my way, then. Thanks for your help. You can always cancel that call-out, if you want...’
But the door had shut with a click, plus a turn of the mortise key to be on the safe side.
Rebus didn’t know how long he had. Ten minutes minimum, forty-five max. But what was the point of lingering? He gave the envelopes another quick look in case anything anomalous stood out. After all, the last case he’d worked, a takeaway menu had been a crucial, missed clue. But there was nothing here for him. He traipsed back down to the ground floor, opening the door and exiting on to the pavement. A punter was coming out of Klondyke Alley, lifting a cigarette packet from their inside pocket.
‘Got a light, bud?’ the man asked.
Rebus patted his jacket, remembering he’d given his box of matches away. ‘Sorry,’ he said. But the smoker was already moving on to the next passer-by.
Rebus stepped into Klondyke Alley and took a look around. He rested on a stool at the machine nearest the door and stuck in a pound. Time was, he liked a bet — horses, even the odd night at the casino. Bandits not so much. But he won straight away, cashed out and decided to try again. The patrol car was pulling to a halt outside. No blues and twos — not taking the call-out too seriously. Rebus stayed where he was, even though he had now lost his pound and his three quid winnings. There was a woman at a machine nearby. He could see her back and half her face. He got up and stood next to her.