‘Which might prove Cafferty had visited the building, but not pinpoint his presence there at the time of the attack.’
‘And if we put him in a parade?’
MacBryer glanced up from her typing. ‘A positive identification would tell us nothing more than that he bought a hammer and some nails.’
‘Not more than a five- or ten-minute walk from the boxing club.’ James looked to Fox. ‘Where does Cafferty live?’
‘Used to be Merchiston...’ Fox sought out Clarke.
‘Quartermile,’ she obliged. ‘Quite the hike from Leith Walk.’
‘Does the shop have CCTV?’ MacBryer asked.
‘No,’ Glancey said.
‘Proprietor’s name?’
‘Joseph Beddoes.’
‘Did he seem lucid?’
‘I’d say he’s a reliable witness.’
MacBryer stared at him without blinking. ‘On the evidence of a single phone call?’
‘We’re sure it’s Cafferty,’ James interrupted. He had angled his chair so he was facing MacBryer. Her mug of coffee sat untouched, as did the biscuit she’d been given.
‘For a successful prosecution, we need a bit more than that, Detective Superintendent. Mr Cafferty is not unknown to the Fiscal’s office. We’ve had half a dozen previous cases fail. Recovery of the weapon would help.’
‘We’ve officers scouring the neighbourhood.’
‘Clothing could well be bloodstained,’ MacBryer went on.
‘In which case,’ Fox interrupted, ‘Cafferty will already have disposed of it. He’s not exactly an amateur.’
‘Even professionals have been known to slip up,’ MacBryer commented. She had paused in her note-taking. ‘Cafferty will be lawyered up — you can be sure of that. If your case rests on one witness and no forensic evidence...’ She didn’t need to complete the sentence. ‘I imagine you’ll be questioning Mr Cafferty?’
‘We will.’
‘And when he denies any involvement, as he surely will?’
‘We keep building the case.’
MacBryer nodded thoughtfully. ‘That’s all you can do, and I sincerely hope that at our next meeting you can bring me more than this. Because this, Detective Superintendent, isn’t nearly enough.’ She closed the iPad’s cover and got to her feet, looking for her shoulder bag. Fox handed it to her, and with a few nods and gestures of goodbye, she left the room, taking all the oxygen with her.
Fox reclaimed his chair and began to put the stuff on the desk back in order. Clarke stood just inside the doorway, watching James slump in his own chair.
‘You summoned her for that?’ Clarke asked.
James shook his head. ‘She was coming anyway — an initial catch-up on whether Arnott’s death changes things.’ He picked up a biscuit, then set it down again. ‘I just thought...’
‘MacBryer knows what she’s doing, and she’s crossed swords with Cafferty many a time. It’ll take more than the word of a single shopkeeper...’
‘I get that, okay?’ James glared at her. ‘Now if you’ll excuse us, DI Clarke, we’re kind of busy here.’
‘Malcolm has had dealings with Cafferty, too — if he has anything to say, you’d be wise to listen.’
James grunted, busy on his laptop. Fox gave a half-smile of thanks and tipped his head towards the hallway. Clarke turned to go, descending the stairs and pausing at the bottom, checking her phone for messages. She wanted to help James and the others, wanted them to pin the attack on Cafferty. For no other reason than that it would be a little gift to Rebus.
It was a couple of minutes before Fox appeared. He opened the front door and led her on to the pavement.
‘That was my fault,’ he said. ‘I pushed them hard on Cafferty. The description sold them and the notion of a quick result stopped them thinking straight for a bit.’
‘But they’re back on track now?’
‘Slow and methodical.’ Fox’s phone pinged. He checked the text message, his jaw tightening.
‘What’s up?’ Clarke asked.
‘Nothing.’
‘Is something wrong, Malcolm?’
‘No.’
‘Remind me to play you at poker sometime.’
‘Why?’
‘Because your ears have gone red and you can’t meet my eyes.’
‘Sheila Graham told me I had a good poker face.’
‘She was lying. So are you going to tell me what’s wrong?’
‘Nothing’s wrong.’
‘Whatever you say. But a trouble shared and all that...’
Fox nodded distractedly. ‘I’d better get back in.’
‘Wait a second — what about John? Is everything all right with him?’
‘Why shouldn’t it be?’
She tried staring him out, but gave up. ‘Will we catch up later?’
‘Sure.’ He was already pushing open the door.
‘Bye then,’ Clarke said, without receiving an answer.
Climbing the stairs, Fox looked at the text again.
Tick tock.
Sent by Darryl Christie, of course. Fox had contacted a property solicitor. The man was going to recce the outside of the bungalow at lunchtime, and provide an initial valuation by close of play. One way or another, Jude would be all right.
And he, too, would survive.
23
The naked man had been weaving his way in a dazed state around the streets of West Pilton for maybe fifteen or twenty minutes. Photos had been snapped on camera phones and sent to the internet, with one young person even managing a selfie. As he approached a primary school, however — break time; kids gambolling in the playground — the alarm was raised and the police summoned. The officers in the patrol car managed to head him off before he reached the school perimeter, and threw a blanket over him. His hair was matted, and he smelled of sweat and faeces. His ribs poked out and he seemed unable to form a coherent sentence. Not knowing what else to do, they deposited him at Drylaw police station, where he could become someone else’s problem. He would be charged with public indecency, just as soon as they got a name for him.
They had one soon enough. A dentist, checking his Twitter feed at lunchtime, saw a couple of the photos and recognised a man he’d played tennis with until they’d had a falling-out. He called the police and identified Anthony Brough. By this time, the detainee had been given a shower and some clothes. A doctor had been summoned and was of the opinion that the man shivering and babbling in front of him was a drug user of some kind.
‘Probably taken something he shouldn’t.’
An injection was prescribed and the man taken back to his cell and given a sandwich and a cup of tea, which he succeeded in keeping down for almost a minute.
It was Twitter again that led with Brough’s identity, the dentist having posted his thoughts. After all, Brough had lost him a chunk of his savings, and here was revenge of a sort.
All of which led Christine Esson to inform Siobhan Clarke and Clarke to call Malcolm Fox.
‘Where do you want him?’ she asked.
‘How about Gayfield Square?’ Fox asked.
‘Will do.’
Fox then called Drylaw and spoke to a sergeant, who told him Brough had been muttering something about being kidnapped.
‘Where was he first spotted?’ Fox enquired.
‘Social media would know better than me,’ the sergeant replied. So Fox tried Facebook and Twitter and the answer seemed to be Ferry Road Avenue. He called the sergeant back and requested that officers be sent to the street and surrounding area to see if any location could be found.
‘Isn’t it as likely he’s spinning us a line? Gets blitzed and when he comes to his senses he whips out the first excuse he can think of?’