The Naming Of The Dead (2006) (35 page)

“I think you did.”

Cafferty gave the slightest twitch of one eyebrow. “And what does Siobhan say to all this?”

“She’s the reason I’m here.”

Now Cafferty smiled. “Thought as much,” he said. “She told you about our little chat with Keith Carberry?”

“After which, I happened to catch him stalking Tench.”

“That was his prerogative.”

“You didn’t make him?”

“Ask Siobhan—she was there.”

“Her name’s Detective Sergeant Clarke, Cafferty, and she doesn’t know you the way I do.”

“Have you arrested Carberry?” Cafferty turned his attention back from the painting.

Rebus gave a slow nod. “And my money says he’ll talk. So if you
did
have a little word in his ear...”

“I didn’t tell him to do anything. If he says I did, he’s lying—and I’ve got the detective sergeant as my witness.”

“She stays out of this, Cafferty,” Rebus warned.

“Or what?”

Rebus just shook his head. “She stays out,” he repeated.

“I like her, Rebus. When they finally drag you kicking and screaming to the Twilight Benevolent Home, I think you’ll be leaving her in good hands.”

“You don’t go near her. You never speak to her.” Rebus’s voice had dropped to a near whisper.

Cafferty gave a huge grin and emptied the crystal tumbler into his mouth. Smacked his lips and exhaled loudly. “It’s the boy you should be worried about. Your money says he’ll talk. If he does, he could well end up dropping DS Clarke right in it.” He made sure he had Rebus’s full attention. “We could, of course, make sure he doesn’t get a chance to talk...?”

“I wish Tench was still alive,” Rebus muttered. “Because now I
know
I’d help him take you down.”

“But you’re changeable, Rebus...like a summer’s day in Edinburgh. Next week you’ll be blowing me kisses.” Cafferty puckered his lips for effect. “You’re already suspended from duty. Are you sure you can afford any more enemies? How long is it now since they started to outnumber your friends?”

Rebus looked around the room. “I don’t see you hosting too many parties.”

“That’s because you’re never invited—the book launch excepted.” Cafferty nodded toward the fireplace. Rebus looked again at the framed artwork from Cafferty’s book.

Changeling: The Maverick Life of the Man They Call Mr. Big.

“I’ve never heard you called Mr. Big,” Rebus commented.

Cafferty shrugged. “Mairie’s idea, not mine. I must give her a call...I think she’s been avoiding me. That wouldn’t be anything to do with your good self, I suppose?”

Rebus ignored him. “With Tench out of the way, you’ll be moving into Niddrie and Craigmillar.”

“Will I?”

“With Carberry and his ilk as your foot soldiers.”

Cafferty gave a chuckle. “Mind if I make some notes? I wouldn’t want to forget any of this.”

“When you talked to Carberry this morning, you were letting him know the outcome you wanted—the only outcome that would save his neck.”

“You’re assuming young Keith was the only person I spoke to.” Cafferty was dribbling more whiskey into his glass.

“Who else?”

“Maybe Siobhan herself flew off the handle. I assume the murder team will want to talk to her?” Cafferty’s tongue was protruding slightly from his mouth.

“Who else have you talked to about Gareth Tench?”

Cafferty swilled the liquid around his glass. “You’re supposed to be the detective around here. I can’t go fighting
all
your battles for you.”

“Judgment day’s coming, Cafferty. For you and me both.” Rebus paused. “You know that, right?”

The gangster shook his head slowly. “I see us in a couple of deck chairs, somewhere hot but with ice-cold drinks. Reminiscing about the sparring we used to do, back in the days when the good guys thought they knew the bad guys. One thing this week should have shown all of us—only takes a few moments for everything to change. Protests crumble, poverty returns to the back burner...some alliances are strengthened, others weaken. All that effort sidelined, the voices silenced. In the time it takes to snap your fingers.” He did just this, as if to reinforce his point. “Makes all
your
hard work seem a little bit petty and unimportant, wouldn’t you say? And Gareth Tench—a year from now, think anyone’s going to remember him?” He drained his glass for the second time. “Now I really have to get back upstairs. Not that I don’t always enjoy our little get-togethers, you understand.” Cafferty placed his empty glass on the coffee table and gestured for Rebus to do the same. As they left the room, he switched off the lights, said something about doing his bit for the planet. The bodyguard was in the hall, hands clasped in front of him.

“Ever worked as a bouncer?” Rebus asked. “One of your colleagues—name of Colliar—he ended up on a stainless-steel slab. Just one of many perks associated with your dangerous employer.”

Cafferty was already climbing the staircase. It gratified Rebus that he had to use the banister to haul himself up each step. But then,
he
did much the same thing these days in his tenement. The bodyguard held the door open. Rebus brushed past him none too gently—not even a ripple of movement from the younger man. The door slammed after him. He stood on the path a moment, walked back to the gate, and let it clank shut. Scratched another match and lit a cigarette. Headed up the street, but paused beneath one of the underpowered lampposts. Took out his phone and tried Siobhan’s number, but she didn’t pick up. He walked to the top of the road and back down again. While he was standing there, an emaciated fox trotted out of a driveway and into the one next door. He’d started seeing them a lot in the city. They never seemed to panic or be shy. The look they gave their human neighbors was close to disdain or disappointment. Hunts had been banned from chasing them across country; people in the towns left scraps out for them. Hard to think of them as predators—but it was in their nature.

Predators being treated like pets.

Mavericks.

It was another thirty minutes before he began to hear the approaching taxi, its toiling diesel engine as distinctive as birdsong. Rebus climbed into the back and closed the door, but told the driver they were waiting for one more.

“Remind me,” he said, “is it cash or contract?”

“Contract.”

“MGC Holdings, right?”

“The Nook,” the driver corrected him.

“Dropping off at...?”

The driver now turned in his seat. “What’s the game, pal?”

“No game.”

“It’s a woman’s name on the pickup sheet—and if you’ve got a pussy, you should get on the phone to one of those
Extreme Makeover
programs.”

“Thanks for the advice.” Rebus tucked himself into the farthest corner of the cab as Cafferty’s door opened and closed. Heels clacking down the footpath, and then the cab’s door was opened, perfume wafting in.

“In you get,” Rebus said, before the woman could complain. “I just need a lift home.”

She hesitated, but climbed in eventually, and settled herself as far from Rebus as was possible. The red button was lit, meaning the driver would be able to listen in. Rebus found the right switch and turned it off.

“You work at the Nook?” he asked quietly. “Didn’t realize Cafferty’d got his mitts on it.”

“What’s it to you?” the woman snapped back.

“Just making conversation. Friend of Molly’s?”

“Never heard of her.”

“I was going to ask how she was. I’m the guy who dragged the diplomat off her the other night.”

The woman studied him. “Molly’s fine,” she said at last. Then: “How did you know you wouldn’t be waiting till dawn?”

“Human psychology,” he offered with a shrug. “Cafferty’s never struck me as the kind who’d let a woman stay the night.”

“Clever you.” There was just the hint of a smile. Hard to make out her features in the taxi’s shadowy interior. Clean hair, the sheen of lipstick, the smell of her perfume. Jewelry and high heels and a three-quarter-length coat, falling open to show a much shorter dress beneath. Plenty of mascara, the eyelashes exaggerated.

He decided on another nudge: “So Molly’s all right?”

“As far as I know.”

“What’s Cafferty like to work for?”

“He’s okay.” She turned to stare out at the passing scene, the street lighting showing him half her face. “He told me about you.”

“I’m CID.”

She nodded. “When he heard your voice downstairs, it was like someone had changed his batteries.”

“I do have that effect on people. Are we headed to the Nook?”

“I live in the Grassmarket.”

“Handy for work,” he commented.

“What is it you want?”

“You mean apart from a lift at Cafferty’s expense?” Rebus gave a shrug. “Maybe I just want to know why anyone would want to get close to him. See, I’m beginning to think he carries a virus—everyone he touches gets hurt in some way.”

“You’ve known him a lot longer than I have,” she replied.

“That’s true.”

“Meaning you must be immune?”

He shook his head. “Not immune, no.”

“He’s not hurt me yet.”

“That’s good...but the damage isn’t always immediate.” They were turning into Lady Lawson Street. The driver signaled to make a right. Another minute and they’d be in Grassmarket.

“Finished your Good Samaritan routine?” she asked, turning to face Rebus.

“It’s your life...”

“That’s right.” She leaned forward toward the driver’s panel. “Pull over next to the lights.”

He did as ordered. Started filling in the contract slip, but Rebus told him there was one last drop-off to make. She was climbing out of the cab. He waited for her to say something, but she slammed the door, crossed the road, and headed down a darkened alley. The driver kept the engine running until a beam of light showed him she’d opened her stairwell door.

“Always like to make sure,” he explained to Rebus. “Can’t be too careful these days. Where to, chief?”

“Quick U-turn,” Rebus answered. “Drop me at the Nook.” It was a two-minute ride, at the end of which Rebus told the driver to add twenty quid to the bill as a tip. Signed his name to it and handed it back.

“Sure about this, chief?” the driver asked.

“Easy when it’s someone else’s cash,” Rebus told him, getting out. The doormen at the Nook recognized him, which didn’t mean they were happy to renew the acquaintance.

“Busy night, lads?” Rebus asked.

“Paydays always are. Been a good week for overtime, too.”

Rebus got the bouncer’s meaning the moment he walked in. A large group of drunken cops seemed to have monopolized three of the lap dancers. Their table groaned with champagne flutes and beer glasses. Not that they looked out of place—a stag party on the far side of the room was enjoying the competition. Rebus didn’t know the cops, but their accents were Scottish—a last night on the town for this motley crew before they headed home to their wives and girlfriends in Glasgow, Inverness, Aberdeen...

Two women were gyrating on the small central stage. Another was parading along the top of the bar for the benefit of the lone drinkers seated there. She squatted to allow a five-pound note to be tucked into her G-string, earning the donor a peck on the pockmarked cheek. There was just the one stool left, and Rebus took it. Two dancers emerged from behind a curtain and started working the room. Hard to say if they’d been giving private dances or taking a cigarette break. One started to approach Rebus, her smile evaporating as he shook his head. The barman asked him what he was drinking.

“I’m not,” he said. “Just need to borrow your lighter.” A pair of high heels had stopped in front of him. Their owner wriggled her way down until she was at eye level with him. Rebus broke off lighting his cigarette long enough to tell her he needed a word.

“I’ve a break coming in five minutes,” Molly Clark said. She turned toward the barman. “Ronnie, give my friend here a drink.”

“Fine,” Ronnie answered, “but it’s coming out of your wages.”

She ignored him, stretching herself upright again and treading gingerly toward the other end of the bar.

“Whiskey, thanks, Ronnie,” Rebus said, pocketing the lighter unnoticed, “and I prefer to add my own water.”

Even so, Rebus could have sworn the stuff poured from the bottle had already seen its share of adulteration. He wagged a finger at the barman.

“You want to tell Trading Standards you’ve been here, that’s your business,” Ronnie shot back.

Rebus pushed the drink aside and turned on his stool as though interested in the dancers when actually he was watching the posse of cops. What was it, he wondered, that marked them out? A few had mustaches; all had neat haircuts. Most still wore ties, though their suit jackets were draped over their chairs. Various ages and builds, yet he couldn’t help feeling there was something
uniform
about them. They acted like a small, separate tribe, slightly at odds with the rest of the world. Moreover, all week they’d been in charge of the capital—saw themselves as conquerors, invincible, all-powerful.

Look on my works
...

Had Gareth Tench really seen himself that way too? Rebus thought it was more complex. Tench had known he would fail, but was determined to give it a try all the same. Rebus had considered the outside chance that the councilman had been their killer, his “works” the little gallery of horror in Auchterarder. Determined to rid the world of its monsters—Cafferty included. Killing Cyril Colliar had put Cafferty briefly in the frame. A lazy investigation might have ended there, with Cafferty the chief suspect. Tench had also known Trevor Guest...helps the guy out then is incensed to come across his details on a Web site. Decides he’s been betrayed.

Leaving only Fast Eddie Isley. Nothing to connect Tench to
him,
and Isley had been the first victim, the one who set the whole train in motion. And now Tench was dead, and they were going to blame it on Keith Carberry.

Who else have you talked to about Gareth Tench?

You’re supposed to be the detective around here.
...

Or a poor excuse for one. Rebus reached for his drink again, just to give himself something to do. The dancers on the stage looked bored. They wanted to be down on the floor, where this week’s pay was being emptied into peekaboo bras and minuscule thongs. Rebus didn’t doubt there’d be a rotation—they’d get their chance. More men were coming inside, executive types. One of them was grinding to the room’s pounding sound track. He was fifteen pounds overweight and the moves didn’t suit him. But no one was about to ridicule him: that was the whole point of somewhere like the Nook. It was all about the shedding of inhibitions. Rebus couldn’t help thinking back to the 1970s, when most Edinburgh bars had offered a lunchtime stripper. The drinkers would hide their faces behind their pint glasses whenever the dancer looked in their direction. All that reticence had melted away in the course of the intervening decades. The businessmen were yelping encouragement as one of the lap dancers at the police table started doing her stuff, while her victim sat with legs parted, hands on knees, grinning and sweaty-faced.