‘Eh?’
‘I mean it’s no better than what was here before Tommy Telford torched the place.’
The eyes became little more than slits. ‘What do you want?’
‘I want to see the Weasel.’
‘Who?’
‘Look, if he’s not upstairs, just say so. But make sure you’re not lying, because I get the feeling I’ll be able to tell, and I won’t be very happy.’ He flipped open his warrant card, then stood up and held it towards the security camera in the far corner. A wall-mounted speaker crackled into life.
‘Henry, send Mr Rebus up.’
There were two doors at the top of the stairs, but only one was open. It led to a small, neat office. Fax machine and photocopier, one desk with a laptop and surveillance screen on it, and at the second desk the Weasel. He still looked insignificant, but he was the power in this part of Edinburgh until Big Ger came home. Thinning hair greased back from a protruding forehead; a jawline that was all bones; narrow mouth, so that his face seemed to come to a point.
‘Take a seat,’ the Weasel said.
‘I’ll stand,’ Rebus answered. He made to close the door.
‘Leave it open.’
Rebus took his hand off the door handle, thought for a moment — the room was stuffy, mixed body odours — then crossed the narrow landing to the other door. He knocked three times. ‘All right in there, lads?’ Pushed the door open. Three of the Weasel’s men were standing just inside. ‘This won’t take long,’ he told them, closing the door again. Then he closed the Weasel’s door, too, so that it was just the two of them.
Now he sat down. Spotted the carrier bags by one wall, whisky bottles peeping out.
‘Sorry to spoil the party,’ he said.
‘What can I do for you, Rebus?’ The Weasel’s hands were resting on the arms of his chair, as though he might be about to spring to his feet.
‘Were you here in the late seventies? I know your boss was. But he was small beer then: playing a few little games, bedding himself in. Were you with him that far back?’
‘What do you want to know?’
‘I thought I’d just told you. Bryce Callan was running things then. Don’t tell me you didn’t know Bryce?’
‘I know the name.’
‘Cafferty was his muscle for a while.’ Rebus cocked his head. ‘Any of this jarring your memory? See, I thought I could ask you, save a trip to the Bar-L and me wasting your boss’s time.’
‘Ask me what?’ The hands came off the chair arms. He was relaxing, now that he knew Rebus’s subject was ancient history rather than current affairs. But Rebus knew that one false move on his part and the Weasel would squeal, bringing his minders charging in and ensuring Rebus a visit to A&E at the very least.
‘I want to know about Bryce Callan. Did he have a spot of bother with a builder called Dean Coghill?’
‘Dean Coghill?’ The Weasel frowned. ‘Never heard of him.’
‘Sure?’
The Weasel nodded.
‘I heard Callan had been giving him grief.’
‘This was twenty years ago?’ The Weasel waited till Rebus nodded. ‘Then what the hell’s it got to do with me? Why should I tell you anything?’
‘Because you like me?’
The Weasel snorted. But now his face changed. Rebus turned to look at the monitor, but too late; he’d missed whatever the Weasel had seen. Heavy footsteps, taking the stairs with effort. The door swung open. The Weasel was on his feet, moving from behind the desk. And Rebus was on his feet, too.
‘Strawman!’ The voice booming. Big Ger Cafferty filled the doorway. He was wearing a blue silk suit, crisp white shirt open a couple of buttons at the neck. ‘Just to make my day complete.’
Rebus just stood there, speechless for maybe the second or third time in his life. Cafferty entered the room, so that it suddenly became crowded. He brushed past Rebus, moving with the slow agility of a predator. His skin was as pale and creased as a white rhino’s, his hair silver. His bullet-shaped head seemed to disappear into the neck of his shirt as he leaned down, his back to Rebus. When he straightened, he was holding one of the whisky bottles.
‘Come on,’ he told Rebus, ‘you and me are going for a wee ride.’ Then he gripped Rebus’s arm and steered him to the door.
And Rebus, still numb, did what he was told.
Strawman: Cafferty’s nickname for Rebus.
The car was a black 7-Series BMW. Driver in the front, and someone equally large in the passenger seat, which left Rebus and Cafferty in the back.
‘Where are we going?’
‘Don’t panic, Strawman.’ Cafferty took a slug of whisky, passed the bottle over, and exhaled noisily. The windows were down a fraction, and cold air slapped at Rebus’s ears. ‘Bit of a mystery tour, that’s all.’ Cafferty gazed from his window. ‘I’ve been away a while. I hear the place has changed. Morrison Street and the Western Approach Road,’ he told the driver, ‘then maybe Holyrood and down to Leith.’ He turned to his passenger. ‘Regeneration: music to my ears.’
‘Don’t forget the new museum.’
Cafferty stared at him. ‘Why would I be interested in that?’ He held out his hand for the bottle. Rebus took a swig and passed it across.
‘I get the horrible feeling your being here is legit,’ Rebus said at last.
Cafferty just winked.
‘How did you swing it?’
‘To be honest with you, Strawman, I think the governor didn’t like it that I was running the show. I mean, that’s what he’s paid to do, and his own officers were giving Big Ger more respect than they gave him.’ He laughed. ‘The governor decided I’d be less of a grievance out here.’
Rebus looked at him. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said.
‘Well, maybe you’re right. I dare say good behaviour and the inoperable cancer swung it for me.’ He looked at Rebus. ‘You still don’t believe me?’
‘I want to.’
Cafferty laughed again. ‘Knew I could depend on you for sympathy.’ He tapped the magazine pouch in front of him. ‘The big brown envelope,’ he said. ‘My X-rays from the hospital.’
Rebus reached across, pulled them out, held them up one at a time to his window.
‘The darkish area’s the one you’re looking for.’
But what he was looking for was Cafferty’s name. He found it at the bottom corner of each of the X-rays. Morris Gerald Cafferty. Rebus slid the sheets back into the envelope. It all looked official enough: hospital in Glasgow; radiology department. He handed the envelope to Cafferty.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
Cafferty chuckled quietly, then slapped the front-seat passenger on the shoulder. ‘It’s not often you’ll hear that, Rab: an apology from the Strawman!’
Rab half-turned. Curly black hair with long sideburns.
‘Rab got out the week before me,’ Cafferty said. ‘Best pals inside, we were.’ He grabbed Rab’s shoulder again. ‘One minute you’re in the Bar-L, the next you’re in a Beamer. Said I’d look after you, didn’t I?’ Cafferty winked at Rebus. ‘Saw me through a few scrapes did Rab.’ He rested against the back of his seat, took another gulp of whisky. ‘City’s certainly changed, Strawman.’ His eyes fixed on the passing scene. ‘Lots of things have changed.’
‘But not you?’
‘Prison changes a man, surely you’ve heard that? In my case, it brought on the big C.’ He snorted.
‘How long do they say...?’
‘Now don’t you go getting all maudlin on me. Here.’ He passed over the bottle, then pushed the X-rays back into the seat pocket. ‘We’re going to forget all about these. It’s good to be out, and I don’t care what got me here. I’m here, and that’s that.’ He went back to his window-gazing. ‘I hear tell there’s building work going on all over.’