Exit Music (2007) (14 page)

“Bus stop’s across the road,” Rebus said.

18

S
omething happened in that bar,” Rebus repeated as he walked with Clarke back to the CID suite.

“So you said.”

“Cafferty was there for a reason. He’s never squandered so much as a quid in his life, so what’s he doing booked into one of the dearest hotels in town?”

“I doubt he’ll tell us.”

“But his stay happens to coincide with the oligarchs.” She looked at him, and he gave a shrug. “Looked it up in the dictionary. Thought maybe it had to do with oil.”

“It means a small group of powerful people, right?” Clarke checked.

“Right,” Rebus confirmed.

“Thing is, John, we’ve also got this woman at the car park . . .”

“Cafferty could have put her there. He’s owned a fair few brothels in his time.”

“Or she could be nothing to do with it. I’m going to have Hawes and Tibbet talk to the witnesses, see if the e-fit jogs any memories. But meantime, there’s a more pressing question—namely, what the hell are you doing running a one-man stakeout on Big Ger Cafferty?”

“I prefer ‘vendetta’ to ‘stakeout.’” She seemed ready to say something, but he held up his hand. “I was outside his place last night, as it happens, and he was at home.”

“So?”

“So he’s keeping a room at the Caledonian, but not spending much time there.” They had arrived at the door to CID. “And that means he’s up to something.” Rebus opened the door and went in.

Katie Glass had been given a mug of strong-looking tea and was studying it warily.

“DC Tibbet always does that,” Rebus warned her. “If you want tannin poisoning, feel free to drink up.”

“I might pass,” she said, placing the mug on the corner of a desk. Rebus introduced himself and shook her hand. Clarke thanked her for coming in and asked if she’d found something.

“Early days,” Glass hedged.

“But . . . ?” Rebus nudged, knowing there was more.

“We may have a source for the fire: small glass bottles filled with a chemical of some kind.”

“What kind of chemical?” Clarke asked, folding her arms. All three were standing, while Hawes and Tibbet listened in from behind their desks. Todd Goodyear was standing by one of the windows, staring out. Rebus wondered if he’d been tracking Cafferty’s departure.

“Gone for analysis,” the fire inspector was saying. “If I had to guess, I’d say maybe it was cleaning fluid of some kind.”

“Household cleaner?”

Glass shook her head. “Bottles were too small. But this was a man who had a lot of tapes in his house . . .”

“Cassette cleaner,” Rebus stated. “For wiping oxidation off the heads of the cassette decks.”

“Impressive,” Glass said.

“I used to have a thing about hi-fi.”

“Well, at least one of the bottles looks like someone had wadded some tissue into its neck. It was sitting in the midst of a pile of melted tape casings.”

“In the living room?”

Glass nodded.

“So you think it was deliberate?”

Now she shrugged. “Thing is, if you wanted to kill someone in a fire, usually you’d go to town—slosh petrol around the place, that sort of thing. This was a couple of sheets of loo roll and a small bottle of something flammable.”

“I think I see what you’re getting at,” Rebus told her. “Maybe Riordan wasn’t the target.” He paused to see if anyone would beat him to it. “The tapes were,” he eventually explained.

“The tapes?” Hawes asked, forehead creasing.

“Piled around the little homemade pyre.”

“Meaning what exactly?”

“That Riordan had something somebody wanted.”

“Or something they didn’t want anyone else to have,” Clarke added, running a finger beneath her chin. “Is there anything at all left of those tapes, Katie?”

Glass gave another shrug. “Most of the tape itself is done to a crisp. Some of the casings fared a little better.”

“So there could still be writing on them?”

“It’s possible,” Glass conceded. “We’ve got a slew of stuff that the fire didn’t quite get to—dunno how playable any of it will be. Heat, smoke, and water may have done their bit. We’ve also got some of the deceased’s recording equipment—again, the stuff on the hard disks might be salvageable.” She didn’t sound optimistic.

Rebus caught Siobhan Clarke’s eye. “Right up Ray Duff’s street,” he said.

Goodyear had turned away from the window and was trying to catch up. “Who’s Ray Duff?”

“Forensics,” Clarke explained. But she was focusing on Rebus. “How about the engineer at Riordan’s studio? He might be able to help.”

“Could have kept backups,” Tibbet piped up.

“So,” Glass said, folding her arms, “do I send the stuff here, or to Forensics, or the dead man’s studio? Whatever the answer, I’ll have to keep your D Division colleagues in the loop.”

Rebus thought for a moment, then puffed out his cheeks, exhaled noisily, and said: “DS Clarke’s in charge.”

Freddie the barman was on duty again. Rebus had spent a few minutes outside the Caledonian Hotel, smoking a cigarette and watching the choreography of passing traffic. Two taxis were parked in the cab rank, the drivers chatting to each other. The Caledonian’s liveried doorman was giving directions to a couple of tourists. The elaborate clock at the corner of Fraser’s department store was being photographed, presumably by another tourist. There never seemed to be enough rooms in Edinburgh for these visitors; new hotels were always being proposed, considered, and constructed. He could think of five or six off the top of his head, all opening within the past ten years, and with more to come. It gave the impression of Edinburgh as a boomtown. More people than ever seemed to want to work there, or visit, or do business. The Parliament had brought plenty of opportunities. Some argued that independence would spoil things, others that it would build on the success while dealing with devolution’s failings. It interested him that a hard-nosed executive like Stuart Janney would cozy up to a nationalist like Megan Macfarlane. But not as much as these Russian visitors interested him. Big place, Russia, and rich in all manner of resources. You could drop Scotland into it dozens of times over. So why were these men here? Rebus was more than curious.

He finished the cigarette and headed indoors, sliding onto one of the bar stools and offering Freddie a reasonably hearty “good afternoon.” For a couple of seconds, Freddie mistook him for a guest—he knew the face, after all. He placed a coaster in front of Rebus and asked what he was having.

“The usual,” Rebus teased, enjoying the barman’s confusion. Then he shook his head. “I’m the cop from Friday. But I’ll take a dram with a spot of water in it, so long as it’s on the house.”

The young man hesitated, but eventually turned to the array of spirits bottles.

“A malt, mind,” Rebus warned him. There was no one else in the bar, no one at all. “Bit of a graveyard, this time of day.”

“I’m on a double shift—the quiet suits me fine.”

“Me, too. Means we can talk that bit more freely.”

“Talk?”

“We’ve got the bar tabs from the night that Russian came in. Remember? He sat right here, and one of your guests bought him a cognac. Guest’s name is Morris Gerald Cafferty.”

Freddie placed the whisky in front of Rebus, and filled a small glass jug with tap water. Rebus dribbled some into the malt and thanked the barman.

“You’ll know Mr. Cafferty?” he persisted. “Last time we spoke, you pretended you didn’t. Might explain why you tried pulling a flanker, telling me Todorov could’ve been talking Russian to the man who bought him the drink. Can’t say I blame you, Freddie—Cafferty’s not a man you’d want to get on the wrong side of.” He paused. “Problem is, same goes for me.”

“I was confused, that’s all—it was a busy night. Joseph Bonner was in with a party of five . . . Lady Helen Wood at another table with half a dozen friends . . .”

“No problem remembering names now, eh, Freddie?” Rebus gave a smile. “But it’s Cafferty I’m interested in.”

“I know the gentleman,” the barman eventually conceded.

Rebus’s smile widened. “Maybe it’s because he gets called ‘gentleman’ that he stays here. Wouldn’t happen everywhere in the city, believe me.”

“I know he’s been in trouble down the years.”

“No secret,” Rebus agreed. “Maybe he mentioned it himself and told you to get a copy of that book about him, the one that came out last year?”

Freddie couldn’t help smiling back. “Gave me a copy, actually—signed and everything.”

“He’s generous that way. Comes in here most days, would you say?”

“He checked in a week ago; due to leave us in a couple of days.”

“Funny,” Rebus said, pretending to concentrate on the contents of his glass, “that just about coincides with all these Russians.”

“Does it?” The way Freddie said it, he knew damned well what Rebus was up to.

“Can I remind you,” Rebus said, voice hardening, “I’m looking into a murder . . . two murders actually. The night the poet came in here, he’d just had a meal and a drink with a man who’s now turned up dead. It’s getting serious, Freddie—something you need to bear in mind. You don’t want to say anything, fine by me, I’ll just arrange to have a patrol car come and pick you up. We’ll put you in cuffs and make you comfortable in one of our excellent cells while we get the interrogation room ready . . .” He paused, letting it sink in. “I’m trying to be nice here, Freddie, doing my best to be things like ‘understated’ and ‘people-centered.’ That can all change.” He tipped the last of the whisky down his throat.

“Get you another?” the barman asked, his way of saying he was going to cooperate. Rebus shook his head.

“Tell me about Cafferty,” he said instead.

“Comes in most evenings. You’re right about the Russians—if it looks like none of them are coming in, he doesn’t linger. I know he tries the restaurant, too—has a look around and if they’re not there, he won’t stay.”

“What about if they
are
there?”

“Takes a table nearby. Same thing in here. I get the feeling he didn’t know them before, but he knows some of them now.”

“So they’re all friendly and chatty?”

“Not exactly—they’ve not got much English. But each of them has a translator—usually some good-looking blonde . . .”

Rebus thought back to the day he’d seen Andropov outside the hotel and the City Chambers: no glamorous assistant. “They don’t all need a translator,” he said.

Freddie was nodding. “Mr. Andropov speaks English fairly fluently.”

“Which means he probably speaks it better than Cafferty.”

“I do sometimes get that impression. Other thing I felt was that maybe
they
weren’t strangers when they met . . .”

“What do you mean?”

“First time they ran into one another in here, it was like they didn’t need introductions. Mr. Andropov, when he shook hands with Mr. Cafferty, he sort of gripped his arm at the same time . . . I dunno.” Freddie shrugged. “Just seemed like they knew one another.”

“How much do you know about Andropov?” Rebus asked.

Freddie shrugged again. “He tips well, never seems to drink very much—usually bottles of water, he insists on Scottish.”

“I meant what do you know of his background?”

“Nothing at all.”

“Me neither,” Rebus admitted. “So how many times have Cafferty and Andropov met?”

“I’ve seen them in here a couple of times . . . the other barman, Jimmy, says he saw them having a chin-wag one time, too.”

“What do they talk about?”

“Not a clue.”

“You better not be holding back on me, Freddie.”

“I’m not.”

“You said Andropov’s English was better than Cafferty’s.”

“But not from hearing them in conversation.”

Rebus was gnawing away at his bottom lip. “So what does Cafferty talk to
you
about?”

“Edinburgh, mostly—the way it used to be . . . how things have changed . . .”

“Sounds riveting. Nothing about the Russians?”

Freddie shook his head. “Said the best moment of his life was the day he went ‘legit.’”

“He’s about as legit as a twenty-quid Rolex.”

“I’ve been offered a few of those in my time,” the barman mused.

“Something I noticed about all the Russian gentlemen—nice watches. Tailored suits, too. But their shoes look cheap; I can never understand that. People should take better care of their feet.” He decided Rebus merited an explanation. “My girlfriend’s a chiropodist.”

“The pillow talk must be scintillating,” Rebus muttered, staring at the empty room and imagining it full of Russian tycoons and their translators.

And Big Ger Cafferty.

“Night the poet was in here,” he said, “he just had the one drink with Cafferty and then left . . .”

“That’s right.”

“But what did Cafferty do?” Rebus was remembering that bar tab: eleven drinks in total.

Freddie thought for a moment. “I think he stayed for a bit . . . yes, he was here till I closed up, more or less.”

“More or less?”

“Well, he may have nipped to the toilet. Actually, he went over to Mr. Andropov’s booth. There was another gentleman there, a politician, I think.”

“You think?”

“Whenever they come on the telly, I turn the sound down.”

“But you recognized this man?”

“Like I say, I think he’s something to do with the Parliament.”

“Which booth was this?” The barman pointed, and Rebus slid from his stool and headed over to it. “And Andropov was where?” he called.

“Move in a bit further . . . yes, there.”

From where Rebus was now sitting, he could see only the nearest end of the bar. The stool he’d just risen from, the one Todorov had taken, was hidden from view. Rebus got to his feet again and walked back to Freddie.

“You sure you’ve not got cameras in here?”

“We don’t need them.”

Rebus thought for a moment. “Do me a favor, will you?” he said. “Next time you get a break, find a computer.”

“There’s one in the Business Center.”

“Log on to the Scottish Parliament Web site. There’ll be about a hundred and twenty-nine faces there . . . see if you can match one of them.”

“My breaks tend to be twenty minutes.”