The Naming Of The Dead (2006) (34 page)

He placed his hands on his hips. “Are we finished mixing our metaphors?”

“You know why I listened to Cafferty? Why I went to that pool hall knowing he’d be there?” Her voice was shaking with emotion. “He was offering me something I knew I wouldn’t get from the law. You’ve seen it here this week—how the rich and powerful operate, how they get away with anything they like. Keith Carberry went down to Princes Street that day because he thought it’s what his boss wanted. He thought he had Gareth Tench’s blessing to cause as much mayhem as he liked.”

Rebus waited to see if there would be more, then touched his hands to her shoulders. “Cafferty,” he said quietly, “wanted Gareth Tench put out to pasture, and he was happy to use you as a means to that end.”

“He told me he didn’t want him dead.”

“And he told
me
he did. I had quite a descriptive little rant from him on that subject.”

“We didn’t tell Keith Carberry to kill him,” she stated.

“Siobhan,” Rebus reminded her, “you said it yourself just a minute ago—Keith does pretty much what he thinks people want him to do—powerful people, people who’ve got some measure of control over him. People like Tench...and Cafferty...and you.” He pointed a finger at her.

“So I’m to blame?” she asked, eyes narrowing.

“We can all make a mistake, Siobhan.”

“Well, thanks for that.” She turned on her heels and started striding back across the playing field. Rebus looked down at his feet and gave a sigh, then reached into his pocket for cigarettes and lighter.

The lighter was empty. He shook it, tipped it up, blew on it, rubbed it for luck...not so much as a spark. He sauntered back toward the line of police vehicles, asked one of the uniforms if he had a light. His colleague was able to oblige, and Rebus decided he might as well beg another favor.

“I need a lift,” he said, watching Siobhan’s taillights receding into the night. Couldn’t believe Cafferty had gotten his claws into her. No...he could believe it all too readily. Siobhan had wanted to prove something to her parents—not just that she’d made a success of her job, but that it meant something in the greater scheme. She’d wanted them to know there were always answers, always solutions. Cafferty had promised her both.

But at a price—
his
price.

Siobhan had stopped thinking like a cop, turning back into a daughter again. Rebus thought of how he had let his own family drift away from him, first his wife and daughter, and then his brother. Pushing them away because the job seemed to demand it, demanded his unconditional attention. No room for anyone else...Too late now to do anything about it.

But not too late for Siobhan.

“You still want that lift?” one of the uniforms was asking. Rebus nodded and got in.

His first stop: Craigmillar police station. He got himself a cup of coffee and waited for the team to reconvene. Stood to reason they’d set up the murder room here. Sure enough, the cars started to arrive. Rebus didn’t know the faces, but introduced himself. The detective angled his head.

“It’s DS McManus you want.”

McManus was just coming through the door. He was younger even than Siobhan—maybe not yet thirty. Boyish features, tall and skinny. Looked to Rebus as though he might have grown up locally. Rebus offered a handshake and introduced himself again.

“I was beginning to think you were a myth,” McManus said with a smile. “I hear tell you were based here a while back.”

“True.”

“Worked with Bain and Maclay.”

“For my sins.”

“Well, they’re both long gone, so you needn’t worry.” They were walking down the long hallway behind the reception desk. “What can I do for you, Rebus?”

“Just something I thought you ought to know.”

“Oh aye?”

“I’d had a few run-ins recently with the deceased.”

McManus glanced at him. “That right?”

“I’ve been working the Cyril Colliar case.”

“Still just the two additional victims?”

Rebus nodded. “Tench had links to one of them—guy worked at an adult day-care center not far from here. Tench got him the position.”

“Fair enough.”

“You’ll be interviewing the widow...she’ll probably say CID paid a visit.”

“And that was you?”

“Myself and a colleague, yes.”

They’d taken a left turn into an adjoining corridor, Rebus following McManus into the CID office, where the team was gathering.

“Anything else you think I should know?”

Rebus tried to look as though he were racking his brain. Finally, he shook his head. “That’s about it,” he said.

“Was Tench a suspect?”

“Not really.” Rebus paused. “We were a bit concerned by his relationship with a young rebel called Keith Carberry.”

“I know Keith,” McManus said.

“He was in court, charged with fighting and disturbing the peace in Princes Street. When he came out, Councilmen Tench was waiting for him. They seemed pretty friendly. Then surveillance cameras showed Carberry whacking some innocent bystander. Looked like he might be in deeper trouble than first thought. I happened to be at the city chambers this lunchtime, talking with Councilman Tench. When I left, I saw Carberry watching from across the street—” Rebus ended the speech with a shrug, as if to indicate that he’d no idea what any of this might mean. McManus was studying him.

“Carberry saw the pair of you together?” Rebus nodded. “And that was lunchtime?”

“I got the feeling he was tailing the councilman.”

“You didn’t stop to ask?”

“I was in my car by then...only caught a glimpse of him in the rearview.”

McManus was gnawing on his bottom lip. “Need a quick result on this,” he said, almost to himself. “Tench was hellish popular, did this area a power of good. There are going to be some very angry people.”

“No doubt,” Rebus confirmed. “Did you know the councilman?”

“Friend of my uncle’s...they go back to school days.”

“You’re from round here,” Rebus stated.

“Grew up in the shadow of Craigmillar Castle.”

“So you’d known Councilman Tench for some time?”

“Years and years.”

Rebus tried to make his next question sound casual. “Ever hear rumors about him?”

“What sort of rumors?”

“I don’t know, the usual stuff, I suppose—extramarital flings, money going astray from the coffers...”

“Guy’s not even cold yet,” McManus complained.

“Just wondering,” Rebus apologized. “I’m not trying to imply anything.”

McManus was looking toward his team—seven of them, including two women. They were trying to look as though they weren’t eavesdropping. McManus stepped away from Rebus and stood in front of them.

“We go to his house, inform the family. Need someone to make the formal ID.” He half turned his head toward Rebus. “After that, we bring in Keith Carberry. Few questions we need to ask him.”

“Such as, Where’s the knife, Keith?” one of the team offered.

McManus allowed the joke. “I know we’ve had Bush and Blair and Bono up here this past week, but in Craigmillar, Gareth Tench counts as royalty. So we need to be proactive. More boxes we can check off tonight, happier I’ll be.”

There were a few groans, but they lacked force. Seemed to Rebus that McManus was well liked. His officers would go the extra hour for him.

“Any overtime?” one of them asked.

“G8 wasn’t enough for you, Ben?” McManus retorted. Rebus stayed put for a moment, ready to say something like “thanks” or “good luck,” but McManus’s attention was on this fresh new case. He’d already started doling out tasks.

“Ray, Barbara, see if there’s any security-camera footage from around the Jack Kane Center. Billy, Tom, you’re going to light some fires under our esteemed pathologists—ditto those lazy sods at Forensics. Jimmy, you and Kate go pick up Keith Carberry. Sweat him in the cells till I get back. Ben, you’re with me, little trip to the councilman’s house in Duddingston Park. Any questions?”

No questions.

Rebus headed back down the corridor, hoping Siobhan could be kept out of it. No way of telling. McManus owed Rebus no favors. Carberry might spill his guts, which would be awkward, but nothing they couldn’t handle. Rebus was already forming the story in his head.

DS Clarke had information that Keith played pool in Restalrig. When she got there, the owner, Morris Gerald Cafferty, also happened to be present
...

He doubted McManus would swallow it. They could always deny any meeting had taken place, but there’d been witnesses. Besides, the denial would only work if Cafferty played along, and the only reason he’d do that would be to tighten the noose around Siobhan. She would owe Cafferty her whole future, and so would Rebus. Which was why, out in reception, he asked for another lift, this time to Merchiston. The uniforms in the patrol car were chatty but didn’t question where he was headed. Maybe they thought CID could afford to own homes in this quiet, tree-lined enclave. The detached Victorian houses sat behind high walls and fences. The street lighting seemed subdued, so as not to keep the inhabitants awake. The wide streets were almost empty—no parking problems here: each house boasted a driveway for half a dozen cars. Rebus got the patrol car to stop on Ettrick Road—didn’t want to be too obvious. They seemed content to hang out and watch him enter whichever house was his final destination. But he waved them away, busying himself with lighting a cigarette. One of the uniforms had gifted him half a dozen matches. Rebus struck one against a wall and watched the patrol car signal right at the end of the street. At the foot of Ettrick Road he took a right—still no sign of the patrol car and no place they could be hiding. No sign of life anywhere: no traffic or pedestrians, no sounds from behind the thick stone walls. Huge windows muffled by wooden shutters. Bowling green and tennis courts deserted. He took another right and walked halfway up this new street. Holly hedge in front of one house. Its porch was lit, flanked by stone pillars. Rebus pushed open the gate. Yanked on the bellpull. Wondered if maybe he should go around to the back. Last time he was here, there was a hot tub there. But then the heavy wooden door gave a shudder as it was opened from within. A young man was standing there. His body had been sculpted in the gym, and he wore a tight black T-shirt to underline the fact.

“Need to go easy on those steroids,” Rebus warned him. “Is your lord and master home?”

“Does it look like he’d want whatever you’re selling?”

“I’m selling salvation, son—everybody needs a taste of that, even you.” Over the man’s shoulder, Rebus could see a pair of female legs descending the staircase. Bare feet, the legs slim and tanned and ending at a white terry-cloth robe. She stopped halfway and leaned down so she could see who was at the door. Rebus gave her a little wave. She’d been brought up well—waved back, even though she’d no idea who he was. Then she turned and started padding back upstairs.

“You got a warrant?” the bodyguard was saying.

“The penny drops,” Rebus exclaimed. “But me and your boss go back a ways.” He pointed a finger in the direction of one of the entrance hall’s many doors. “That’s the living room, and that’s where I’ll wait for him.” Rebus made to pass the man, but an open palm against his chest stopped him.

“He’s busy,” the bodyguard said.

“Shagging one of his employees,” Rebus agreed. “Which means I may have to hang around for all of two minutes—always supposing he doesn’t have a coronary halfway through.” He stared at the hand pressed like a lead weight against him. “You sure you want this?” Rebus met the bodyguard’s stare. “Every time we meet from now on,” he said quietly, “this is what I’ll be remembering...and believe me, son, whatever failings people may tell you I have, I’ve got a whole fistful of gold medals in carrying a grudge.”

“And the booby prize when it comes to timing,” a voice roared from the top of the stairs. Rebus watched Big Ger Cafferty descend, tying his own voluminous bathrobe around him. What hair he still possessed was rising in tufts from his head, and his cheeks were red from exertion. “What the bloody hell brings you here?” he growled.

“It’s a bit lame as an alibi,” Rebus commented. “Bodyguard, plus some girlfriend you probably pay by the hour—”

“What do I need an alibi for?”

“You know damned well. Clothes in the washing machine, are they? Blood can be hard to get out.”

“You’re making no sense.”

But Rebus could tell that Cafferty had bitten down on the hook; time to reel him in. “Gareth Tench is dead,” he stated. “Stabbed in the back—which is probably just your style. Want to discuss it in front of Arnie here, or should we step into the parlor?”

Cafferty’s face gave nothing away. The eyes were small dark voids, the mouth set in a thin, straight line. He placed his hands in the pockets of his robe and gave a little flick of the head, a signal the bodyguard seemed to read. The hand dropped, and Rebus followed Cafferty into the huge drawing room. There was a chandelier hanging from the ceiling, and a baby grand piano taking up space next to the bay window, huge loudspeakers on either side of it and a state-of-the-art stereo on a rack by the wall. The paintings were brash and modern, violent splashes of color. Above the fireplace hung a framed copy of the jacket from Cafferty’s book. He was busying himself at the drinks cabinet. It meant his back was kept turned to Rebus.

“Whiskey?” he asked.

“Why not?” Rebus replied.

“Stabbed, you say?”

“Three times. Outside the Jack Kane Center.”

“Home turf,” Cafferty commented. “A mugging gone wrong?”

“I think you know better.”

Cafferty turned round and handed Rebus a glass. It was quality stuff, dark and peaty. Rebus didn’t bother offering a toast, just washed it around his mouth before swallowing.

“You wanted him dead,” Rebus went on, watching Cafferty take the smallest sip of his own drink. “I listened to you rant and rave on the subject.”

“I was a bit emotional,” Cafferty conceded.

“In which state I’d put nothing whatsoever past you.”

Cafferty was staring at one of the paintings. Thick blotches of white oil, melting into oozing grays and reds. “I won’t lie to you, Rebus—I’m not sorry he’s dead. Makes my life that bit less complicated. But I didn’t have him killed.”