‘See for yourself.’
‘I intend to.’ He paused. ‘You know, it’s very nice, just the two of us here, sharing a drink and catching up on old times... but what the hell were you doing in my office in the first place?’
‘I was asking the Weasel about Bryce Callan.’
‘Now there’s a name from the crypt.’
‘Not quite: he’s out in Spain, isn’t he?’
‘Is he?’
‘I must have misheard. I thought you still passed a little percentage on to him.’
‘And why would I do that? He’s got family, hasn’t he? Let them look after him.’ Cafferty shifted in his seat, as though made physically uncomfortable by the mere mention of Bryce Callan.
‘I don’t want to spoil the party,’ Rebus said.
‘Good.’
‘So if you’ll tell me what I want to know, we can drop the subject.’
‘Christ, man, were you always this irritating?’
‘I’ve been taking lessons while you were away.’
‘Your teacher deserves a fucking bonus. Well, if you’ve a bone stuck in your craw, spit it out.’
‘A builder called Dean Coghill.’
Cafferty nodded. ‘I knew the man.’
‘A body turned up in a fireplace at Queensberry House.’
‘The old hospital?’
‘They’re turning it into part of the parliament.’ Rebus was watching Cafferty carefully. His body felt tired, but his mind was fizzing, still getting over the shock. ‘This body had been there twenty-odd years. Turns out there was building work going on in ’78 and ’79.’
‘And Coghill’s firm was involved?’ Cafferty was nodding. ‘Fair play, I can see what you’re on about. But what’s it got to do with Bryce Callan?’
‘It’s just that I hear Callan and Coghill might have crossed swords.’
‘If they had, Coghill would have gone home minus a couple of hands. Why don’t you ask Coghill himself?’
‘He’s dead.’ Cafferty looked round. ‘Natural causes,’ Rebus assured him.
‘People come and go, Strawman. But you’re always trying to dig up the corpses. One foot in the past and one in the grave.’
‘I can promise you one thing, Cafferty.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘When they bury you, I won’t come round after with a shovel. Yours is one corpse I’ll be happy to leave rotting.’
Rab turned his head slowly, fixing soulless eyes on Rebus.
‘Now you’ve upset him, Strawman.’ Cafferty patted his henchman’s shoulder. ‘And I know I should take offence myself.’ His eyes bored into Rebus’s. ‘Maybe another time, eh?’ He leaned forward. ‘Pull over!’ he barked. The driver brought them to an immediate skidding halt.
Rebus didn’t need to be told. He opened his door, found himself on West Port. The car sped off again, acceleration pulling the door shut. Headed for the Grassmarket... and Holyrood after that. Cafferty had said he wanted to see Holyrood, centre of the changing city. Rebus rubbed at his eyes. Cafferty, re-entering his life now of all times. He reminded himself that he didn’t believe in coincidence. He lit a cigarette and started in the direction of Lauriston Place. He could cut through the Meadows and be home in fifteen minutes.
But his car was back in Gorgie. Hell, it could stay there till tomorrow; best of British to whoever wanted to steal it.
When he reached Arden Street, however, there it was, waiting for him, double parked and with a note asking him to shift it so the note’s author could move his own blocked car. Rebus tried the driver’s door. It wasn’t locked. No keys: they were in his coat pocket.
Cafferty’s men had done it.
They’d done it simply to show that they could.
He headed upstairs, poured himself a malt and sat on the edge of his bed. He’d checked his phone: no messages. Lorna hadn’t tried to get in touch. He felt relief, tinged with disappointment. He stared at the bedclothes. Bits and pieces kept coming back to him, making no particular order. And now his nemesis was back in town, ready to reclaim its streets as his own. Rebus went back to his door and put the chain on. He was halfway down the hall when he stopped.
‘What are you doing, man?’
He walked back, slid the chain off again. Cafferty would have no intention of going quietly. Doubtless there were scores to be settled. Rebus didn’t doubt that he was one of them, which was fine by him.
When Cafferty came, Rebus would be waiting...
21
‘It’d be easier with the door open,’ Ellen Wylie said. She meant that they’d have more room to move, and more light to work by.
‘We’d freeze,’ Grant Hood reminded her. ‘I’ve lost all feeling in my fingers as it is.’
They were inside the garage at the Coghill house. Another grey winter’s morning, bringing chill gusts which shook the metal up-and-over door. The ceiling light was dusty and dim, and only one small frosted window gave any natural light. Wylie held a pocket torch between her teeth as she searched. Hood had brought a plug-in lamp with him, the kind mechanics used in their work bays. But its light was too piercing, and it was awkward to manoeuvre. It sat clipped to a shelf, doing its best to throw shadows over most of the interior.
Wylie thought she’d come prepared: not just the torch, but flasks of hot soup and tea. She was wearing two pairs of wool socks under a pair of walking boots. Her chin was tucked into a scarf. The hood of her olive-green duffel coat was covering her head. Her ears were cold. Her knees were cold. The one-bar electric heater worked to a radius of about six inches.
‘We’d get done a lot quicker with the door open,’ she argued.
‘Can’t you hear the wind? Everything would be blown halfway to the Pentlands.’
Mrs Coghill had brought them out a pot of coffee and some biscuits. She seemed worried about them. Loo-breaks came as their only relief. Stepping into the centrally heated house, there was a strong temptation to stay put. Grant had commented on the length of Ellen’s last trip to the house. She’d snapped back that she didn’t know she was being timed.
Then they’d drifted into this argument about the garage door.
‘Anything?’ he said now, for about the twentieth time.
‘You’ll be the first to know,’ she replied through gritted teeth. It was no good just ignoring his question: he’d go on asking, same as last time.
‘This stuff’s all way too recent,’ he complained, slapping a pile of paperwork down on to one of the tea chests. Unbalanced, the papers cascaded to the floor.
‘Well, that’s one way to organise a search,’ Wylie muttered. If they put the stuff outside when they’d finished with it, they’d have room to work in, and they’d know which files had been checked... And it would all blow away.
‘I’m no expert,’ Wylie said at last, stopping to pour out some tea from the flask, ‘but Coghill’s business affairs look pretty disorganised, if this lot’s anything to go by.’
‘He got in trouble over his VAT returns,’ Hood commented.
‘And all the casual labour he employed.’
‘Doesn’t make our job any easier.’ Hood came over, accepted a cup from her with a nod of thanks. There was a knock, and someone came in.
‘Any left in that?’ Rebus asked, nodding towards the flask.
‘Half a cup,’ Wylie said. Rebus looked at the coffee cups, lifted the cleanest one and held it out while she poured.
‘How’s it going?’ he asked.
Hood made a point of closing the door. ‘You mean apart from the wind-chill factor?’
‘Cold’s healthy,’ Rebus said. ‘Good for you.’ He’d moved to within six inches of the heater.
‘It’s slow going,’ Wylie said. ‘Coghill’s biggest problem was he was a one-man band. Tried to run the whole business himself.’