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Had to get her car to the garage, too, see about fixing the damage. Rebus knew Councilman Tench; knew of him, at least. Some sort of lay preacher, used to have a spot at the foot of the Mound, calling out for the weekend shoppers to repent. Rebus used to see him when he was on his way to the Ox for a lunchtime session. Had a good rep in Niddrie, harvesting development grants from local government, charities, even the EU. Rebus had told Siobhan as much, then given her a number for a mechanic off Buccleuch Street. Guy specialized in VWs but owed Rebus a favor.
His phone was ringing. He took the coffee through to the living room and picked up.
“You’re not at the station,” the same voice in Glenrothes said warily.
“I’m at home.” He could hear a helicopter somewhere overhead, outside his window. Maybe surveillance; maybe news. Or could it be Bono parachuting in with a sermon?
“Pe
“Then we don’t have a problem,” Rebus replied, trying to sound casual. “Time like this, the rumor mill’s on overtime, same as the rest of us.” He laughed and was about to add a fresh question, but the voice made it u
“They’re a defense contractor, so the rumors might still have force.”
“Defense?”
“Used to belong to the MoD; sold off a few years back.”
“I think I remember,” Rebus made a show of saying. “London-based, right?”
“Right. Thing is, though…their managing director is up here just now.”
Rebus whistled. “Potential target.”
“We had him red-flagged anyway. He’s secure.” The words didn’t sound right in the young officer’s mouth. Rebus figured he’d learned the phrases only recently.
Maybe from Steelforth.
“He’s not based at the Balmoral, is he?” Rebus asked.
“How do you know that?”
“Rumors again. But he’s got protection?”
“Yes.”
“His own or ours?”
The caller paused. “Why do you want to know?”
“Just looking out for the taxpayer.” Rebus laughed again. “Think we should talk to him?” Asking advice…as if the caller were the boss.
“I can pass the message along.”
“Longer he’s in town, tougher it is…” Rebus stopped. “I don’t even know his name,” he admitted.
Suddenly another voice broke into the call. “DI Starr? Is that Detective Inspector Starr speaking?”
Steelforth…
Rebus sucked in air.
“Hello?” Steelforth was saying. “Gone shy all of a sudden?”
Rebus cut off the call. Cursed under his breath. Punched in more numbers and was co
“Features, please,” he said.
“I’m not sure anyone’s in,” the operator told him.
“What about the news desk?”
“Bit of a ghost ship, for obvious reasons.” She sounded as if she, too, would rather be elsewhere, but put him through anyway. It took a while for someone to pick up.
“My name’s DI Rebus, Gayfield CID.”
“Always happy to talk to an officer of the law,” the reporter said brightly. “Both on and off the record…”
“I’m not giving you business, son. I just need to speak to Mairie Henderson.”
“She’s gone freelance. And she’s features, not news.”
“Didn’t stop you putting her and Big Ger Cafferty on the front page, did it?”
“I thought about it years back, you know…” The reporter sounded as if he was getting comfortable, ready for a chat. “Not just Cafferty though-interviews with all the gangsters, east coast and west. How they got started, codes they live by…”
“Well, thanks for that, but have I tuned in to a talk show here or what?”
The reporter snorted. “Just making conversation.”
“Don’t tell me: it’s a ghost ship there, am I right? They’re all out with their laptops, trying to transform the march into elegant prose? Here’s the thing, though…a guy fell from the castle ramparts last night, and I didn’t see anything about it in your paper this morning.”
“We didn’t get wind of it till too late.” The reporter paused. “Straight suicide though, right?”
“What do you think?”
“I asked you first.”
“Actually, it was me that asked first-for Mairie Henderson’s number.”
“Why?”
“Give me her number, and I’ll tell you something I’m not going to tell her.”
The reporter thought for a moment, then asked Rebus to hang on. He was back half a minute later. Meantime, the receiver had been making a noise, letting him know someone else was trying to reach him. He ignored it, jotted down the number the reporter gave him.
“Thanks,” he said.
“Now do I get my little treat?”
“Ask yourself this: straight suicide, why is a Special Branch slimeball called Steelforth clamping down on it?”
“Steelforth? How do you spell-”
But Rebus had cut off the co
Brreeep-brreeep-brreeeppp.
Rebus put the TV on again; pressed the mute button on the remote. No news, just kids’ programs and pop videos. The chopper was circling again. He made sure it wasn’t his tenement.
“Just because you’re paranoid, John…” he muttered to himself. His phone had stopped ringing; he made the call to Mairie Henderson. They’d been close friends a few years back; traded info for stories, stories for info. Then she’d gone and written a book about Cafferty-written it with the gangster’s full cooperation. Asked Rebus for an interview, but he’d refused. Asked again later.
“Way Big Ger talks about you,” she’d cajoled, “I really think you need to give your side.”
Rebus hadn’t felt that need at all.
Which hadn’t stopped the book being a roaring success, not just in Scotland but farther afield. U.S., Canada, Australia. Translations into sixteen languages. For a time, he couldn’t pick up the paper without reading about it. Couple of prizes, TV talk shows for journalist and subject. Wasn’t enough that Cafferty had spent his life ruining people and their communities, terrorizing them; now he was a full-scale celebrity.
She’d sent Rebus a copy of the book; he’d sent it back by return mail. Then he’d gone out two weeks later and bought himself a copy-half price on Princes Street. Flicked through it but hadn’t had the stomach for the whole thing. Nothing brought the bile up quicker than a penitent…
“Hello?”
“Mairie, it’s John Rebus.”
“Sorry, the only John Rebus I know is dead.”
“Now that’s hardly fair…”
“You sent my book back! After I’d signed it to you and everything!”
“Signed it?”
“You didn’t even read the inscription?”
“What did it say?”
“It said, ‘Whatever it is you’re wanting, get stuffed.’”
“Sorry about that, Mairie. Let me make it up to you.”
“By asking a favor?”
“How did you guess?” He smiled into the receiver. “You going to the march?”
“Thinking about it.”
“I could buy you a tofu burger.”
She gave a snort. “Long time since I was that cheap a date.”
“I’ll throw in a mug of decaf…”
“What the hell do you want, John?” The words cold, but the voice thawing a little.
“I want some info on an outfit called Pe
“And why am I interested?”
“You’re not, but I am.” He paused to light a cigarette, exhaled smoke as he spoke. “Did you hear about Cafferty’s chum?”
“Which one?” Trying not to sound interested.
“Cyril Colliar. That missing scrap from his jacket has turned up.”
“With Cafferty’s confession written on it? He told me you wouldn’t give up.”
“Just thought I’d let you know-it’s not exactly common knowledge.”
She was silent for a moment. “And Pe