‘I’m aware of that, Mr Callan.’
‘So what’s this about?’
‘It’s about a company called AD Holdings.’ Rebus glanced at the sheets of paper spread out on the desk. They’d done their work: could prove the company was part of Callan’s little empire.
There was a pause on the line.
‘Mr Callan? You still there?’ The Farmer was off his chair, drawing the waste bin over so Rebus could flick his ash into it. Then he went to open a window.
‘I’m here,’ Callan said. ‘Call me back in an hour.’
‘I’d really appreciate it if we could...’ Rebus realised he was talking to the dialling tone. He cut the call.
‘Bugger,’ he said. ‘Now he’s got time to fix a story.’
‘He doesn’t have to talk to us at all,’ Farmer Watson reminded him.
Rebus nodded.
‘And now he’s gone, you can put that bloody thing out,’ the Farmer added. Rebus stubbed his cigarette against the side of the bin.
They were waiting for him in the corridor, expectant faces collapsing as he shook his head.
‘He said to call back in an hour.’ He checked his watch.
‘He’ll have a story by then,’ Siobhan Clarke said.
‘What do you want me to do?’ Rebus snapped.
‘Sorry, sir.’
‘Ach, it’s not your fault.’
‘He’s given himself an hour,’ Wylie said, ‘but that means we’ve got an hour, too. Make a few more calls, keep going through Hastings’ paperwork...’ She shrugged. ‘Who knows?’
Rebus nodded his approval. She was right: anything was better than waiting. So they went back to work, fuelled by tins of soft drinks and background music courtesy of a cassette machine provided by Grant Hood. Instrumental stuff — jazz, classical. Rebus had been dubious at first, but it did help stave off the boredom. Farmer’s orders: keep the volume down.
Siobhan Clarke agreed: ‘If it got out that I listened to jazz, I’d never be able to show my face.’
An hour later, it was back upstairs to the Farmer’s office. Rebus left the door open this time; felt it was the least they deserved. Watson didn’t seem to notice. Called again, and this time it rang and rang. Callan wasn’t going to answer; of course he wasn’t.
But he did. No housekeeper this time, and straight to the point.
‘You got a conference facility?’
The Chief Super nodded. ‘Yes,’ Rebus said.
Callan gave him a number to ring: Glasgow code. The name was C. Arthur Milligan — Rebus knew him as ‘the Big C’, a nickname he shared, seemingly happily, with cancer. And Milligan was like cancer to police officers and the Procurator Fiscal’s office. He was one of the really big defence solicitors, worked a lot with the advocate Richie Cordover, Hugh’s brother. If you had Big C by your side, and Cordover defending you in court, you had the sharpest edge there was.
At a price.
The Farmer was showing Rebus how to work the conference call. Milligan’s voice: ‘Yes, Inspector Rebus, can you hear me?’
‘Loud and clear, sir.’
‘Hiya, Big C,’ Callan said. ‘I’m hearing you, too.’
‘Good afternoon, Bryce. How’s the weather out there?’
‘God knows. I’m stuck indoors because of this arsehole.’
Meaning Rebus. ‘Look, Mr Callan, I really do appreciate—’
Milligan interrupted. ‘I believe you wish to record your conversation with my client. Who else is present?’
Rebus identified the Chief Super, didn’t bother mentioning the others. Milligan and Callan had a discussion about the taping. At last, it was agreed the recording could begin. Rebus hit the button.
‘That’s us,’ he said. ‘Now if I could just—’
Milligan again: ‘If I could just say at the outset, Inspector, that my client is under no obligation of any kind to answer what questions you may have.’
‘I appreciate that, sir.’ Trying to keep his voice level.
‘And he’s only talking to you out of a sense of public duty, even though the United Kingdom is no longer his chosen country of residence.’
‘Yes, sir, and I’m very grateful.’
‘Are you charging him with anything?’
‘Absolutely not. This is for information only.’
‘And this tape wouldn’t be produced in a court of law?’
‘I shouldn’t think so, sir.’ Choosing his words carefully.
‘But you can’t be definite?’
‘I can only speak for myself, sir.’
There was a pause. ‘Bryce?’ Milligan asked.
‘Fire away,’ Bryce Callan said.
Milligan: ‘Fire away, Inspector.’
Rebus took a moment to compose himself, looking at the documents on the desk as he fished his cigarette out of the bin and relit it.
‘What are you smoking?’ Callan asked.
‘Embassy.’
‘Tuppence a bloody packet out here. I stick to cigars these days. Now get on with it.’
‘AD Holdings, Mr Callan.’
‘What about them?’
‘Your company, I believe.’
‘Nope. I had a few shares, but that’s as far as it went.’
Eyes were on Rebus from the doorway: we know that’s a lie. But Rebus didn’t want to catch Callan out, not this early on. ‘AD were buying up parcels of land around Calton Hill, using another business as a front. Two men: Freddy Hastings and Alasdair Grieve. Ever meet either of them?’
‘You’re going back how far?’
‘Late 1970s.’
‘Bloody hell, lot of water been passed since then.’
Rebus repeated the two names.
‘If you’d care to tell my client what this is about, Inspector,’ Milligan said, sounding curious himself.
‘Yes, sir. It’s a question of a sum of money.’
‘Money?’ Now Callan was hooked, too.
‘Yes, sir, quite a lot of money. We’re trying to find a home for it.’
Stares from the doorway: he hadn’t told them how he’d play it.
Callan was laughing. ‘Well, look no further, chum.’
‘How much money?’ the lawyer asked.
‘Even more than Mr Callan will be paying you for your services this afternoon,’ Rebus told him. More laughter from Callan, and a warning look from the Farmer: it didn’t do to wind up people like the Big C unnecessarily. Rebus concentrated on his cigarette. ‘Four hundred thousand pounds,’ he said at last.
‘A not inconsiderable sum,’ Milligan admitted.
‘We think Mr Callan might be able to claim it,’ Rebus told him.
‘How?’ Callan sounding cagey; wary of traps.
‘It belonged to a man called Freddy Hastings,’ Rebus explained. ‘Belonged in the sense that he carried it around with him in a briefcase. At one time, Mr Hastings was a property developer, working with AD Holdings to buy land near Calton Hill. This was in late ’78 and early ’79, prior to the referendum.’
Milligan: ‘And if there had been a Yes result, the land would have been worth a fortune?’
Rebus: ‘Possibly.’
‘What does this have to do with my client?’
‘In later years, Mr Hastings lived as a down and out.’
‘With all that money?’
‘We can only speculate why he didn’t spend it. Maybe he was holding it for someone. Maybe he was afraid.’
‘Or off his rocker,’ Callan added. But the remark was bravado; Rebus could tell he was thinking about things.
‘The point is, AD Holdings, of which we believe Mr Callan was prime mover, was using Hastings to make bids on all this land.’
‘And you think Hastings just pocketed the money?’
‘It’s one theory.’
‘So the money would belong to AD Holdings?’
‘It’s possible. Mr Hastings left no family, no will. The Treasury will claim it if no one else does.’