Exit Music (2007) (27 page)

“No Leonard Cohen for you when we get home,” he chided himself. “You’re morbid enough as it is.”

Instead, he played Rory Gallagher: “Big Guns” and “Bad Penny,” “Kickback City” and “Sinnerboy.” The whisky slipped down, just the three large ones with about as much water again. And after Rory came Jackie Leven, and Page and Plant after that. He thought about calling Siobhan, then decided against it. Let her have a bit of a break from John Rebus’s worries. He hadn’t eaten anything but didn’t feel hungry.

When his phone rang, he’d probably been asleep for the best part of an hour. The whisky glass was still there on the arm of the chair, his hand gripped around it.

“Didn’t spill a drop, John,” he congratulated himself, hoisting his phone in his free hand.

“Hiya, Shiv,” he said, having recognized her number. “Checking up on me?”

“John . . .” Her tone of voice said it all: something had happened, something bad.

“Spit it out,” he told her, rising from the chair.

“Cafferty’s in intensive care.” She left it at that for a moment. Rebus clawed his free hand through his hair, then realized he shouldn’t
have
a free hand. The glass had dropped to the carpet, meaning he now had splashes of whisky on his shoes.

“What happened?” he asked.

“Precisely the question I was about to ask you,” she blurted out. “What the hell happened at the canal?”

“We just talked.”

“Talked?”

“Cross my heart.”

“Must’ve been a pretty robust exchange, then, seeing how he’s got a fractured skull. Plus broken bones, contusions . . .”

Rebus’s eyes narrowed. “He was found by the canal?”

“Too right he was.”

“Is that where you are now?”

“Shug Davidson took the trouble to call me.”

“I’ll be there in five minutes.”

“No, you won’t . . . you’ve been
drinking,
John. Your voice goes nasal after the first four or five.”

“So send a car for me.”

“John . . .”

“Just send a fucking car, Siobhan!”
He ran the hand through his hair again, pulling at it. I’m being set up here, he told himself.

“John, how can Shug let you near? Far as he’s concerned, you’re going to be a suspect. If he lets a suspect walk into a crime scene . . .”

“Yes, fine, absolutely.” Rebus was looking at his watch. “It’s about three hours since I left him. When was the body found?”

“Two and a half hours ago.”

“That’s not good.” His mind was whirling. He started towards the kitchen, thinking maybe a gallon of tap water would help. “Did you send Calum Stone on that wild goose chase?”

“Yes.”

“Shit.”

“He’s here right now, along with his partner.”

Rebus squeezed his eyes shut. “Don’t speak to them.”

“Bit late for that. I was talking to Shug when they arrived. Stone introduced himself, and guess what his first words to me were?”

“Something along the lines of ‘Gosh, you sound just like the woman who sent me on a wild goose chase to a petrol station in Granton’?”

“That’s about the size of it.”

“All you can do is tell the truth, Shiv—I ordered you to make that call.”

“And you were on suspension at the time—something
I
knew fine well.”

“Christ, I’m sorry, Siobhan . . .” The tap was still running, the sink almost full. Maybe eight inches deep. He’d known men to drown in far, far less.

34

W
hen the taxi dropped him at the Leamington Lift Bridge, she was waiting, arms folded, for all the world like the bouncer outside some exclusive club.

“You can’t
be
here,” she reiterated through gritted teeth.

“I know,” he said. Plenty of onlookers: people who’d been heading home from a night out; locals from the neighboring tenements; even a couple from one of the canal boats. They stood on deck, holding mugs of steaming liquid.

“Why’s your hair wet?” Clarke asked.

“Didn’t have time to dry it,” he answered. He could see everything; no need to get closer. SOCOs shining their torches against the surface of the opposite footpath. Arc lamps being plugged into some sort of mooring point—probably how the boats hooked up to electricity during their stay. Lots of quietly busy people. There was a huddle around one particular area of walkway.

“That where they found him?” he asked. Clarke nodded. “Pretty much where he was when I left him.”

“Couple on their way home stumbled across him. One of the medics recognized the face. West End came running, and Shug thought maybe I’d want to know.”

There were SOCOs up to their waists in the canal. They wore the same sort of protection as anglers, complete with braces holding up their oilskin trousers.

“They’ll find one of my cigarette butts,” Rebus told Clarke. “Unless it’s floated away or been eaten by a duck.”

“That’ll be nice when they trace the DNA.”

He turned towards her, gripping one of her arms. “I’m not saying I wasn’t here—I’m saying he was right as rain when I left him.”

She couldn’t meet his eyes, and he let her go. “Don’t think what you’re thinking,” he said quietly.

“You don’t
know
what I’m thinking!”

He turned away again and saw DI Shug Davidson giving orders to some of the uniforms from West End. Stone and Prosser were just behind him, deep in a discussion of their own.

“Any second now they’ll see you,” Clarke warned. Rebus nodded. He’d already taken a couple of steps back into the crowd of onlookers. She followed him until they were standing to the rear. This was where he’d parked his car the time he’d followed Cafferty. His head was thumping.

“Got any aspirin?” he asked.

“No.”

“Never mind, I know where I can find some.”

She caught his meaning. “You’ve got to be joking.”

“Never more serious in my life.”

She fixed her eyes on him, then glanced back towards the canal and made her mind up. “I’ll drive you,” she said. “My car’s on Gilmore Place.”

They didn’t say much on the way to the Western General. Cafferty had been taken there not only because it was closer than the Infirmary but also because it specialized in head injuries.

“Did you see him?” Rebus asked as they reached the hospital car park.

Clarke shook her head. “When Shug called me, he thought he was the bearer of glad tidings.”

“He knows there’s history between us and Cafferty,” Rebus agreed.

“But he could tell straightaway something was up.”

“You told him I’d gone to meet Cafferty?”

She shook her head again. “I haven’t told anyone.”

“Well, you better had—only way to keep your head above the shit. Stone’s going to work it out before long.”

“Wait till they find out I’ve done a runner . . .” She pulled into a parking bay and turned off the ignition, then slid around to face him. “Okay,” she said, “tell me.”

He met her eyes. “I didn’t touch him.”

“So what did you talk about?”

“Andropov and Bakewell . . . Sievewright and Sol Goodyear . . .” He shrugged, deciding to omit the abattoir bull. “Funny thing is, I almost offered him a lift home.”

“I wish you had.” She sounded slightly more mollified.

“Does that mean you believe me?”

“I’ve got to, haven’t I? All we’ve been through . . . if I can’t believe
you,
what the hell else is there?”

“Thanks,” he said quietly, squeezing her hand.

“You still owe me the story of your run-in with the SCDEA.” She removed her hand from beneath his.

“They’ve had Cafferty under surveillance. Heard I’d been watching him and warned me off.” He shrugged again. “That’s about the size of it.”

“And being bullheaded, you did exactly the opposite?”

Rebus had a sudden image: the bull with its legs buckling, a bullet between its eyes. . . . He shook himself free of it. “Let’s go see what the damage is,” he said.

Inside the hospital, the first question they were asked was: “Are you family?”

“He’s my brother,” Rebus stated. This seemed to oil the wheels, and they were shown to a waiting area, deserted this time of night. Rebus picked up a magazine. It was page after page of celebrity gossip, but as it was also six months out of date, chances were the celebrities had already been returned to obscurity. He offered it to Clarke, but she shook her head.

“Your brother?” she said.

Rebus just shrugged. His real brother had died a year and a half back. Over the past couple of decades, Rebus had paid him a lot less attention than Cafferty . . . probably spent less time with him, too.

You can’t choose your family, he thought to himself, but you can choose your enemies.

“What if he dies?” Clarke asked, folding her arms. She had her legs stretched out, crossed at the ankles, and was slumped low in the chair.

“I’m not that lucky,” Rebus told her. She glowered at him.

“So who do you reckon is behind it?”

“Can we make that a multiple-choice question?” he asked.

“How many names have you got?”

“Depends if he’s gone upsetting his Russian friends.”

“Andropov?”

“For starters. SCD reckoned they were close to having Cafferty in the bag. Might be a lot of people out there who couldn’t let that happen.” He broke off as an unfeasibly young doctor in the traditional white coat pushed through the swinging doors at the end of the corridor and, notes in one hand, pen between his teeth, marched up to them. He removed the pen and popped it into his top pocket.

“You’re the patient’s brother?” he asked. Rebus nodded. “Well, Mr. Cafferty, I don’t have to tell you that Morris seems blessed with an unusually resistant skull.”

“We call him Ger,” Rebus said. “Sometimes Big Ger.”

The young doctor nodded, consulting his notes.

“But is he okay?” Clarke asked.

“Far from it. We’ll do another scan in the morning. He’s still unconscious, but there’s enough brain activity to be going on with.” He paused, as if deciding how much more they needed to know. “When the skull is hit with tremendous force, the brain shuts down automatically so as to protect itself, or at least limit and assess the damage. The problem we sometimes have is getting it to restart.”

“Like rebooting a computer?” Clarke offered. The doctor seemed to agree.

“And it’s too early yet to say whether there’s any damage to your uncle,” he told her. “No blood clots that we could see, but we’ll know more tomorrow.”

“He’s not my uncle,” she said sternly. Rebus patted her arm.

“She’s upset,” he explained to the doctor. And then, as Clarke pulled her arm away: “So he was hit hard with something?”

“Two or three times probably,” the doctor agreed.

“Attacked from behind?” The doctor was growing less comfortable with each new question.

“The blows were to the back of the skull, yes.”

Rebus was looking at Siobhan Clarke. Alexander Todorov, too, had been hit hard from behind, hard enough to kill. “Can we see him, Doc?” Rebus asked.

“As I say, he’s not awake at present.”

“But all the same . . .” The doctor was looking worried now. “Is there a problem with that?” Rebus persisted.

“Look, I’ve been told who Mr. Cafferty is . . . I know he has a certain reputation in Edinburgh.”

“And?” Rebus asked.

The doctor moistened his dry lips. “Well, you’re his brother . . . asking all these questions. Please tell me you’re not going to go after whoever did this.” He decided some levity might help. “Wards are crowded enough as it is,” he said with a weak smile.

“We’d just like to see him, that’s all,” Rebus assured him, patting the youngster’s arm to reinforce the point.

“Then I’ll see what I can do. You can wait here if you like.”

Rebus answered by sitting down again. They watched the doctor depart through the swing doors. But as the doors came to rest, a face appeared at one of their porthole-shaped windows.

“Oh, Christ,” Rebus said, alerting Clarke to the new arrivals—DI Calum Stone and DS Andy Prosser. “This is where you tell them the whole story, Shiv. And if you don’t, I will.” She nodded her understanding.

“Well, well,” Stone said, sauntering forward, hands in pockets. “What brings you here, DI Rebus?”

“Same as you, I reckon,” Rebus replied, standing up again.

“So here we all are,” Stone continued, rocking back on his heels. “You to check if the victim still has a pulse, and us to start figuring out if we’ve just watched several thousand man-hours get flushed down the pan.”

“Shame you pulled the surveillance,” Rebus commented.

Stone’s face grew red with rage. “Because
you
wanted a meet!” He pointed towards Clarke. “Got your girlfriend here to send us down to Granton.”

“I’m not denying it,” Rebus said quietly. “I ordered DS Clarke to make that call.”

“And why would you do that?” Stone’s eyes were drilling into Rebus’s.

“Cafferty wanted to see me. Didn’t say why, but I wasn’t keen on having you lot in the vicinity.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’d have been on the lookout for you, wondering where you were hiding—Cafferty might have noticed; he’s got pretty good antennae.”

“Not good enough to stop him getting whacked,” Prosser added.

Rebus couldn’t disagree. “I’m going to tell you what I told DS Clarke here,” he continued. “If I was going to thump Cafferty, why would I tell anyone about the meeting? Either someone’s setting me up, or we’re talking about a coincidence.”

“A coincidence?”

Rebus shrugged. “Someone planned to hit him anyway, just happened to coincide . . .”

Stone had turned to his partner. “You buying any of this, Andy?” Prosser shook his head slowly, and Stone turned back to Rebus. “Andy doesn’t buy it, and neither do I. You wanted Cafferty for yourself, didn’t like the thought of
us
nabbing him. Your gold watch is on the horizon, so you’re pretty desperate. You go there to talk to him, and something happens . . . you lose it. Next thing he’s sparked out and you’re in trouble.”

“Except it didn’t happen like that.”

“So what
did
happen?”

“We talked and I left him, went home and stayed there.”

“What was so urgent that he needed to see you?”

“Not a lot really.”

Prosser gave a little snort of disbelief, while Stone had a chuckle to himself. “You know, Rebus, that canal’s not really a canal at all—not where you’re concerned.”

“So what is it?”

“Shit creek,” Stone said triumphantly. Rebus turned his head towards Clarke.

“And they say vaudeville is dead.”

“It’s not dead,” she replied, as he’d known she would. “Just smells funny.”

Stone stabbed a finger in her direction. “Don’t go thinking
you’re
not in the swill, too, DS Clarke!”

“I’ve already told you,” Rebus interrupted, “I take full responsibility —”

“Listen to yourself,” Stone hissed. “Bailing out your girlfriend here is the last thing you should be focusing on right now.”

“I’m not his girlfriend.” The blood had risen up Clarke’s neck.

“Then you’re his patsy, which is almost as bad.”

“Stone,” Rebus growled, “I swear to God I’m going to . . .” Instead of finishing the sentence, he started balling both hands into fists.

“The only thing you’re going to do, Rebus, is make a statement and pray there’s a lawyer out there desperate enough to want to represent you.”

“Calum,” Prosser offered as warning to his colleague, “the bastard’s going to have a pop at you . . .” Prosser edged forward, eager to get his retaliation in first. All four of them froze for a moment as they watched the doors swinging closed. A nurse was standing there, looking bemused. Rebus willed her not to say anything, but she said it anyway.

“Mr. Cafferty?” Aiming the words at Rebus and no one else. “If you’re quite finished here, we can let you see your brother now . . .”