‘You don’t touch me,’ Beth Hastie said, spitting on the ground in front of him. ‘Nobody touches me.’
Alec just did, Fox would have countered, had he been able to speak. Instead of which, eyes blurred by tears, he watched Bell lead her back to the car. Then, slowly, painfully, and still stooped, he turned towards his own door and tried to find the lock with the key.
Over the wall.
Into a courtyard of some kind. Empty aluminium kegs. A barrel turned into a makeshift table. A single rickety bar stool.
Two cheap overflowing ashtrays. Blocks of flats nearby. A dog barking. A starless sky.
The door was wooden and looked solid enough. He got to work on it with the crowbar. Locks top and bottom. Took a bit of effort. The alarm started blaring as he stepped into the narrow, low-ceilinged room. He held the first bottle in one hand, lighter in the other. Got the rag lit and tossed it high into the air. Glass shattering, the petrol spreading instantly across the linoleum floor. Second bottle for luck, aiming for the row of optics behind the bar this time. And then he was out of there, back over the wall to where his car was waiting. Two minutes since the alarm had started, neighbours probably still thinking it a mistake or malfunction, waiting for it to stop. He cruised past the front of the building, seemingly in no particular hurry as the windows of the Gimlet began to glow orange and then fiery red.
DAY SIX
Twenty One
‘It’s not every day someone offers to buy me breakfast,’ Doug Maxtone said, sliding into the booth. Fox was stirring a latte in a tall glass. ‘What happened to your face?’
‘I tried breaking up a fight. They ended up swinging at me instead.’
‘Did you report it?’
Fox shook his head and lifted the glass. Maxtone ordered a bacon roll and ‘some good strong tea’, then clasped his hands on the table in front of him.
‘What’s on your mind, Malcolm?’
The café was on Newington Road. It had been a bank or something. Fox had parked down a side street, across from a garage filled with hearses. He stared out through the window as he spoke.
‘I can’t do it any more, sir. Compston and his crew, I mean.’
‘Has there been a falling-out?’
‘They didn’t do this, if that’s what you mean.’ Fox pointed towards his fading bruises. ‘But there has been an incident – not with Compston himself, but a couple of his officers.’
‘Does he know?’ Fox shook his head. ‘Want me to speak to him?’
‘That’s the last thing I want, sir. Besides which, they’ll be on their way soon surely? With the son dead, some haulier and his ill-gotten gains will drop off Joe Stark’s radar.’
‘You might well be right. I’ve got a meeting with Ricky Compston this morning, as it happens. I’ll be sure to put it to him.’
‘You won’t say anything about me, though?’
‘Soul of discretion,’ Maxtone assured him. Then, as his tea arrived: ‘Did you hear about the pub getting torched?’
‘No.’
‘Some dive called the Gimlet, out Calder Road way.
Insurance job, I suppose.’
‘I wouldn’t be too sure.’ Maxtone looked up at him. ‘It was owned until recently by Darryl Christie. He sold it on to a friend.’
‘Well, somebody doused it in petrol last night and left not much more than a shell.’
‘Sounds like a message to me.’
‘From Joe Stark?’
‘The man’s spoiling for a fight.’
‘They need to be told they’re not welcome here. If you’re right, and they’ve lost interest in the missing trucker, we can kick them back to Glasgow without upsetting the Chief Constable too much.’
Fox nodded, but without real enthusiasm. ‘Joe Stark’s grieving, though. That gives him good reason to hang around the investigation. If we chase him out of town, we’re going to get called callous.’
‘By our friends in the media? I think our skins are thick enough, don’t you?’
‘Yes, sir.’
The bacon roll was arriving. ‘Looks good,’ Maxtone said, taking a bite. ‘You not eating, Malcolm?’
‘Coffee does me most mornings.’
‘So if you’re not babysitting Compston’s team, what am I going to do with you?’
‘The Minton investigation could probably use another body.’
‘Not the best turn of phrase,’ Maxtone chided him. ‘But you’re right, it does seem to be growing into a monster. Want me to have a word with James Page?’
‘I’d appreciate it.’
‘Leave it with me.’
‘And all for the price of a bacon roll,’ Fox commented.
‘We can always be bought, Malcolm,’ Maxtone said with a wink. ‘Some of us more cheaply than others . . .’
Fox sat in his car. A hearse was being valeted to within an inch of its life, two more having already left the premises at the start of another busy day. He pressed his phone to his ear and waited for an answer.
‘John Rebus, Consulting Detective,’ Rebus’s voice sang out.
‘What can I do for you this fine morning, Malcolm?’
‘You at the Big House?’
‘I’m in the flat, though I suppose technically that means I’m also in the office.’
‘Any clients?’
‘I’m a bit particular.’
‘Mind if I drop by?’
‘For a consultation? I don’t come cheap, you know.’
‘Need anything from the shops? Milk? Bread?’
‘You silver-tongued devil – all right then, bring me some milk and we’ll call it quits.’
‘There was a time,’ Fox said as they took their drinks through to the living room, ‘when you wouldn’t have let me past the front door.’
‘Wasn’t too long ago either,’ Rebus agreed, settling in his chair. Fox made for the sofa, but then took a detour to the hi-fi instead, crouching down to flick through the albums.
‘Getting pretty collectable, some of this stuff,’ he commented. ‘Or it would be if it was in better condition.’
‘You suddenly an expert?’
‘I’ve been known to browse eBay of an evening.’ He got back to his feet and headed to the sofa, placing the mug on the carpet.
‘Coffee not up to your usual high standards?’ Rebus enquired.
‘To be honest, I’m jangling enough as it is.’
‘And why’s that?’
‘Remember I told you about Beth Hastie? Not being at her post when Dennis Stark left the guest house?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well I happened to mention to your old pal Alec Bell that her story rang false. Guess what he did next.’
‘I’d imagine he told her.’ Rebus lit a cigarette and leaned back in his chair, blowing smoke towards the discoloured ceiling. He had a sudden thought. ‘If this is my office, am I even allowed to smoke? Government legislation and all that?’
‘So then Hastie paid me a visit,’ Fox ploughed on. ‘She was in a right strop, too. Ended up kneeing me in the balls.’
Rebus winced in sympathy.
‘Alec Bell practically had to drag her off me.’
‘Not having much luck, are you?’
‘No,’ Fox was forced to agree. Then, after a pause: ‘Can I try you with a wild theory?’
‘You think Compston’s team assassinated Dennis Stark?’
‘Is it beyond the realms of possibility?’
‘I’ve seen plenty in my time that would have seemed more outlandish.’
‘So what do I do about it?’
‘Find some cast-iron evidence. Failing which, get one of them to talk. Think you’re up to accomplishing either of those?’
Fox bristled. ‘You saying I’m not?’
‘I’m saying you’re all riled up. First Alec Bell watches you take a pasting and doesn’t wade in to help, then Beth Hastie gets torn in about your gonads. You said it yourself – you’re jangling. That’s fine, means your juices are flow
ing. But you’re supposed to be the rational one, the one who’s always Mr Calm.
Going into something because you’re emotional . . . well, it’s hardly playing to your strengths.’
‘Are you saying I should drop it?’
‘I’m saying take a step back. All you know right now is that Hastie lied to her boss, and that could be something or nothing.
She could have been off shagging Alec Bell or gone back to her scratcher for a kip.’
‘Funny she’s not around when Dennis gets whacked, though.’
‘I don’t disagree. But what you’re saying is – she was around, and maybe she even did it.’ Rebus paused. ‘Is that right? Is that the way you’re thinking? You’re saying she didn’t
lie to Compston, she only lied to you in front of him because the team had to have a story to feed you.’
‘Maybe.’ Fox lifted the mug for want of anything else to do.
‘Alec Bell and me, we’re not mates,’ Rebus said. ‘I knew him for a short time too many years back. He’s not going to confide in me.’
‘He did, though – he told you there was a mole.’
‘He was showing off, wanting you and me both to see how important he’s become. He’s not likely to do that again, not when there’s a murder case at the back of it.’
‘I suppose not.’ Fox took a sip of coffee, trying to hide his disappointment.
‘I’m not saying you shouldn’t follow this up, Malcolm.
Sometimes your first instinct is the right one. But you need to be careful. Ricky Compston has a mean streak – trust me, it takes one to know one. And he’s surrounded himself with people who share at least some of his traits. I said you’d need cast-iron evidence, but let me put it another way: make sure it’s bulletproof.’
Fox nodded slowly. ‘Well, thanks for seeing me. And for the coffee.’
‘The coffee you’ve barely touched.’
Fox got to his feet. ‘Do you need a lift to Fettes?’
‘Is that where you’re headed?’
‘Doug Maxtone’s going to get me attached to Siobhan’s team.’
‘Thanks for the offer, but I’ll go in later.’
Fox made to leave, but paused before reaching the hall. ‘You heard about the Gimlet?’
‘What about it?’
‘Someone torched it last night.’
‘Anybody hurt?’
‘I think it was after hours. A message from Joe Stark to Darryl Christie, maybe?’
‘In which case his hotel might be next.’
‘We always knew it would get messy. Maxtone reckons it’s high time we ordered Stark and his thugs back to Glasgow.’
‘He’s got a point. Say hello to Siobhan for me – and bear in mind what I said.’ Rebus was holding out a hand towards Fox.
The two men shook. Having seen him out, Rebus went into the kitchen. His phone was charging on the worktop. He’d set it to silent. Two missed calls, both from Cafferty. He tapped call back and Cafferty answered almost immediately.
‘Is this about the Gimlet?’ Rebus asked.
‘The Gimlet?’
‘It got torched last night.’
‘Nothing to do with that.’
‘What then?’
‘I need a favour. Can you meet me? Twenty minutes?’
‘Where?’
‘The G and V hotel.’
‘Used to be the Missoni? Twenty minutes it is. Want to give me a clue what this is about?’
But Cafferty had already rung off.
As Rebus walked into the hotel, Cafferty waved to catch his attention. He was seated in the bar area, nursing a tall glass of tomato juice.
‘This where you’re holing up?’ Rebus asked, sliding on to the banquette. Cafferty just tapped the side of his nose. ‘Credit
me with at least half a brain,’ Rebus went on. ‘The very fact that we’re meeting here rules it out as your cave.’
‘You know I’m not in the house, though?’
‘Happened to be passing. Tried phoning you a couple of times too. Have you been on to Joe Stark to offer condolences?’
‘He’d tell me where to stuff them.’
‘What about Darryl Christie – spoken to him at all?’
Cafferty made show of checking his surroundings. ‘Am I in an interview room here?’
‘Whoever set light to the Gimlet had Darryl in mind.’
‘Unless he did it himself for the insurance – you know he wants to sell the site?’
‘I’d heard a whisper. I dare say you have an alibi for last night, just in case?’
‘Why would I need one?’
‘Because if Darryl didn’t do it, he’s obviously going to read it as a message from Joe Stark, and a dogfight between the two of them would make your year.’
‘And I torched his place to ensure that came about?’
Cafferty shook his head. ‘Sorry to disappoint you.’ He tipped
the glass to his mouth.
‘Any vodka in that?’ Rebus asked.
‘Enough to take the edge off.’
‘It’s early in the day, even for you.’ A waiter was hovering, but Rebus waved him away. He noticed not just how tired Cafferty looked – there was something else there. The word ‘haunted’ sprang to mind. ‘So what’s this favour you need from me?’ he asked, his tone a little softer.
‘I don’t want to get you into trouble,’ Cafferty said. ‘Not this sort of trouble. But I need to find these men.’ He slid a paper
drinks coaster towards Rebus. Two names written there in blue ink.
Paul Jeffries.
Dave Ritter.
Neither, at first glance, meant anything to Rebus. ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘give me a clue.’
‘They did a bit of work for me back in the eighties.’
‘And they were last heard of when?’
‘I bumped into Jeffries maybe fifteen years ago at a casino here in town. Just a couple of words in passing. Asked him what he was up to and he said something about driving. I had a taxi firm at the time so I said as much.’ Cafferty paused. ‘That was the extent of our chat.’
‘Did he seem interested in the taxis?’ Cafferty shook his head. ‘Another kind of driving, then – lorries, deliveries . . .?’
‘He didn’t say.’
‘Was he a regular at this casino?’
‘He might have been – I wasn’t.’ Cafferty gestured towards the bar for another drink.
‘And which casino was it?’
‘Milligan’s.’
‘In Leith? Is that still there?’
‘It’s one of those super-pubs these days. Three floors of cheap booze.’
‘Milligan’s was run by Todd Dalrymple, wasn’t it?’
‘You’ve a good memory.’
‘Wonder if he’s still around.’ Rebus scratched at the underside of his jaw. ‘Right,’ he said, ‘description of Mr Jeffries . . .’
‘Five-ten, maybe, short fair hair going grey at the temples, a gold tooth right at the front of his mouth.’
‘Would he have a criminal record?’
‘It’s possible.’
‘But nothing from when you knew him?’
‘No.’
‘Age?’
‘By now he’d be in his mid fifties.’
‘Last known address?’
‘Thirty years ago he was with a bidie-in somewhere in Granton.’
‘Name of bidie-in?’
‘I’ve honestly been trying to remember.’
Rebus picked up the coaster and studied it. ‘Then let’s move on to Dave Ritter.’
‘The two of them were old pals. I think they were maybe at school together.’
‘Where?’
‘Somewhere in Fife.’ Cafferty paused. ‘They knew Fife pretty well.’
‘Description.’
‘Shorter than Paul. Maybe five-six or seven. Bit of a belly on him. Never far from a bag of chips. Longish straight hair, brown. Looked like a bad wig. He’d be the same sort of age,
meaning mid fifties now. Don’t remember anything about his love life. Didn’t live too far from Paul either.’
Rebus waited, but Cafferty could offer only a shrug.
‘That’s all you’ve got?’ he said as the fresh drink arrived and with it an unblemished coaster.
‘Haven’t seen Dave in nearly thirty years and didn’t get round to asking Paul about him. To be honest, I probably only remembered him afterwards – he was the quiet one. It was Paul who did the talking.’
‘How long did they work for you?’
‘Three, four years.’
‘In what capacity? Foot soldiers?’
‘It’s as good a phrase as any,’ Cafferty conceded. ‘I just thought – police computers, public registrar . . . maybe you could track them down.’
‘And why would I bother doing that?’
‘Because they might explain what’s going on here.’ Cafferty saw that Rebus didn’t quite get it. ‘The notes – me and Minton.
Plus that care worker in Linlithgow, the one Siobhan Clarke was talking about.’
‘You reckon he’s part of it? And Dennis Stark too?’
‘Stark?’ Cafferty seemed genuinely confused.
‘Dennis got a note. Add that to the nine-mil bullet hole . . .’
But Cafferty was shaking his head again. ‘Nothing to do with him,’ he muttered as if to himself. ‘Joe maybe? No, not Joe either.’ He regained focus, his eyes meeting Rebus’s.
‘That’s got to be a mistake,’ he said.
Rebus nodded. ‘My thinking exactly. So maybe tell me your theory and let me be the judge.’
Cafferty ignored this. ‘I had a quick look online but I didn’t spot either Jeffries or Ritter. Phoned a couple of old lags, but they weren’t any help.’
‘What makes you think I can do better?’
‘You’re the straw I’m clutching at.’ Cafferty managed a smile. ‘That was my nickname for you – Strawman. Do you remember?’
‘I remember.’
‘You were giving evidence against me that one time in Glasgow, and they got you mixed up with another witness called Stroman.’
Rebus nodded. ‘I really need to know what you want with those two men.’
‘And I’ve told you.’
‘Not enough for me to be convinced. Is there an angle here, something to do with Joe Stark?’