He finished the cigarette and headed indoors, sliding on to one of the bar stools and offering Freddie a reasonably hearty ‘good afternoon’. For a couple of seconds, Freddie mistook him for a guest - he knew the face, after all. He placed a coaster in front of Rebus and asked what he was having.
‘The usual,’ Rebus teased, enjoying the barman’s confusion. Then he shook his head. ‘I’m the cop from Friday. But I’ll take a dram with a spot of water in it, so long as it’s on the house.’
The young man hesitated, but eventually turned to the array of spirits bottles.
‘A malt, mind,’ Rebus warned him. There was no one else in the bar, no one at all. ‘Bit of a graveyard, this time of day.’
‘I’m on a double shift - the quiet suits me fine.’
‘Me, too. Means we can talk that bit more freely.’
‘Talk?’
‘We’ve got the bar tabs from the night that Russian came in. Remember? He sat right here, and one of your guests bought him a cognac. Guest’s name is Morris Gerald Cafferty.’
Freddie placed the whisky in front of Rebus, and filled a small glass jug with tap water. Rebus dribbled some into the malt and thanked the barman.
‘You’ll know Mr Cafferty?’ he persisted. ‘Last time we spoke, you pretended you didn’t. Might explain why you tried pulling a flanker, telling me Todorov could’ve been talking Russian to the man who bought him the drink. Can’t say I blame you, Freddie - Cafferty’s not a man you’d want to get on the wrong side of.’ He paused. ‘Problem is, same goes for me.’
‘I was confused, that’s all - it was a busy night. Joseph Bonner was in with a party of five . . . Lady Helen Wood at another table with half a dozen friends . . .’
‘No problem remembering names now, eh, Freddie?’ Rebus gave a smile. ‘But it’s Cafferty I’m interested in.’
‘I know the gentleman,’ the barman eventually conceded.
Rebus’s smile widened. ‘Maybe it’s because he gets called “gentleman” that he stays here. Wouldn’t happen everywhere in the city, believe me.’
‘I know he’s been in trouble down the years.’
‘No secret,’ Rebus agreed. ‘Maybe he mentioned it himself and told you to get a copy of that book about him, the one that came out last year?’
Freddie couldn’t help smiling back. ‘Gave me a copy, actually - signed and everything.’
‘He’s generous that way. Comes in here most days, would you say?’
‘He checked in a week ago; due to leave us in a couple of days.’
‘Funny,’ Rebus said, pretending to concentrate on the contents of his glass, ‘that just about coincides with all these Russians.’
‘Does it?’ The way Freddie said it, he knew damned well what Rebus was up to.
‘Can I remind you,’ Rebus said, voice hardening, ‘I’m looking into a murder . . . two murders actually. The night the poet came in here, he’d just had a meal and a drink with a man who’s now turned up dead. It’s getting serious, Freddie - something you need to bear in mind. You don’t want to say anything, fine by me, I’ll just arrange to have a patrol car come and pick you up. We’ll put you in cuffs and make you comfortable in one of our excellent cells while we get the interrogation room ready . . .’ He paused, letting it sink in. ‘I’m trying to be nice here, Freddie, doing my best to be things like “understated” and “people-centred”. That can all change.’ He tipped the last of the whisky down his throat.
‘Get you another?’ the barman asked, his way of saying he was going to cooperate. Rebus shook his head.
‘Tell me about Cafferty,’ he said instead.
‘Comes in most evenings. You’re right about the Russians - if it looks like none of them are coming in, he doesn’t linger. I know he tries the restaurant, too - has a look around and if they’re not there, he won’t stay.’
‘What about if they are there?’
‘Takes a table nearby. Same thing in here. I get the feeling he didn’t know them before, but he knows some of them now.’
‘So they’re all friendly and chatty?’
‘Not exactly - they’ve not got much English. But each of them has a translator - usually some good-looking blonde . . .’
Rebus thought back to the day he’d seen Andropov outside the hotel and the City Chambers: no glamorous assistant. ‘They don’t all need a translator,’ he said.
Freddie was nodding. ‘Mr Andropov speaks English fairly fluently.’
‘Which means he probably speaks it better than Cafferty.’
‘I do sometimes get that impression. Other thing I felt was that maybe they weren’t strangers when they met . . .’
‘What do you mean?’
‘First time they ran into one another in here, it was like they didn’t need introductions. Mr Andropov, when he shook hands with Mr Cafferty, he sort of gripped his arm at the same time . . . I dunno.’ Freddie shrugged. ‘Just seemed like they knew one another.’
‘How much do you know about Andropov?’ Rebus asked. Freddie shrugged again.
‘He tips well, never seems to drink very much - usually bottles of water, he insists on Scottish.’
‘I meant what do you know of his background?’
‘Nothing at all.’
‘Me neither,’ Rebus admitted. ‘So how many times have Cafferty and Andropov met?’
‘I’ve seen them in here a couple of times . . . the other barman, Jimmy, says he saw them having a chinwag one time, too.’
‘What do they talk about?’
‘Not a clue.’
‘You better not be holding back on me, Freddie.’
‘I’m not.’
‘You said Andropov’s English was better than Cafferty’s.’
‘But not from hearing them in conversation.’
Rebus was gnawing away at his bottom lip. ‘So what does Cafferty talk to you about?’
‘Edinburgh, mostly - the way it used to be ... how things have changed...’
‘Sounds riveting. Nothing about the Russians?’
Freddie shook his head. ‘Said the best moment of his life was the day he went “legit”.’
‘He’s about as legit as a twenty-quid Rolex.’
‘I’ve been offered a few of those in my time,’ the barman mused. ‘Something I noticed about all the Russian gentlemen - nice watches. Tailored suits, too. But their shoes look cheap; I can never understand that. People should take better care of their feet.’ He decided Rebus merited an explanation. ‘My girlfriend’s a chiropodist.’
‘The pillow talk must be scintillating,’ Rebus muttered, staring at the empty room and imagining it full of Russian tycoons and their translators.
And Big Ger Cafferty.
‘Night the poet was in here,’ he said, ‘he just had the one drink with Cafferty and then left . . .’
‘That’s right.’
‘But what did Cafferty do?’ Rebus was remembering that bar tab: eleven drinks in total.
Freddie thought for a moment. ‘I think he stayed for a bit . . . yes, he was here till I closed up, more or less.’
‘More or less?’
‘Well, he may have nipped to the toilet. Actually, he went over to Mr Andropov’s booth. There was another gentleman there, a politician, I think.’
‘You think?’
‘Whenever they come on the telly, I turn the sound down.’
‘But you recognised this man?’
‘Like I say, I think he’s something to do with the Parliament.’
‘Which booth was this?’ The barman pointed, and Rebus slid from his stool and headed over to it. ‘And Andropov was where?’ he called.
‘Move in a bit further . . . yes, there.’
From where Rebus was now sitting, he could only see the nearest end of the bar. The stool he’d just risen from, the one Todorov had taken, was hidden from view. Rebus got to his feet again and walked back to Freddie.
‘You sure you’ve not got cameras in here?’
‘W
e don’t need them.’
Rebus thought for a moment. ‘Do me a favour, will you?’ he said. ‘Next time you get a break, find a computer.’
‘There’s one in the Business Centre.’
‘Log on to the Scottish Parliament website. There’ll be about a hundred and twenty-nine faces there . . . see if you can match one of them.’
‘My breaks tend to be twenty minutes.’
Rebus ignored this. He gave Freddie his card. ‘Call me as soon as you’ve got a name.’ Perfect timing: the door was swinging open, a couple of suits coming in. They looked as though some deal had done them a few favours.
‘Bottle of Krug!’ one of them barked, ignoring the fact that Freddie was busy with another customer. The barman’s eyes met Rebus’s and the detective nodded to let him know he could go back to his job.
‘Bet they’re not even tippers,’ Rebus said under his breath.
‘Maybe not,’ Freddie acknowledged, ‘but at least they’ll pay for their drinks . . .’
19
Clarke decided to take the call outside, so Goodyear wouldn’t hear her asking Rebus if he was going senile.‘We’ve already been warned off,’ she said into the phone, her voice just above a whisper. ‘What grounds have we got for pulling him in?’
‘Anyone willing to drink with Cafferty has got to be dodgy,’ she heard Rebus explain.
She gave a sigh she hoped he’d hear. ‘I don’t want you going within a hundred yards of the Russian delegation until we have something a bit more concrete.’
‘You always spoil my fun.’
‘When you grow up, you’ll understand.’ She ended the call and went back into the CID suite, where Todd Goodyear had plugged in a tape deck borrowed from one of the interview rooms. Turned out Katie Glass had been toting a couple of evidence sacks’ worth of stuff from Riordan’s house. Goodyear had carried them up from the boot of her car.
‘Drives a Prius,’ he’d commented.
When the bags were opened, the smell of burnt plastic filled the room. But some of the tapes were intact, as were a couple of digital recorders. Goodyear had slotted a cassette tape home, and as Clarke walked in through the door he pressed the play button. The machine didn’t have much of a loudspeaker, and they leaned down either side of it, the better to listen. Clarke could hear chinks and clinks and distant, indistinguishable voices.
‘A pub or a café or something,’ Goodyear commented. The hubbub continued for a few more minutes, interrupted only by a cough much closer to the microphone.
‘Riordan, presumably,’ Clarke offered.
Getting bored, she told Goodyear to fast forward. Same location, same clutter of the overheard everyday.
‘You couldn’t dance to it,’ Goodyear admitted. Clarke got him to eject the tape and turn it over. They appeared to be in a railway station. There was the platform master’s loud whistle, followed by the sound of a train moving off. The microphone then headed back to the station concourse, where people mingled and waited, probably watching the arrivals or departures board. Someone sneezed and Riordan himself said, ‘Bless you.’ A couple of women were caught in the middle of a conversation about their partners, and the mic seemed to follow them as they headed for a food kiosk, discussing which filled baguettes took their fancy. Purchases made, it was back to gossiping about their partners again as they queued for coffee at a separate kiosk. Clarke heard the espresso machine at work, a sudden announcement over the station tannoy masking the dialogue. She heard the towns Inverkeithing and Dunfermline being mentioned.
‘Must be Waverley,’ she said.
‘Could be Haymarket,’ Goodyear hedged.
‘Haymarket doesn’t have a sandwich bar as such.’
‘I bow to your superior knowledge.’
‘Even when I’m wrong, you should bow anyway.’
He did so, giving a courtier-style flourish of the hand, and she smiled.
‘He was obsessive,’ Clarke stated, Goodyear nodding his agreement.
‘You really think his death is linked to Todorov?’ he asked.
‘As of this moment, it’s a coincidence ... but there are precious few murders in Edinburgh - now we get two in a matter of days, and the victims just happen to know one another.’
‘Meaning you don’t really think it’s coincidence at all.’
‘Thing is, Joppa is a D Division call, and we’re B Division. If we don’t argue our corner, Leith CID will take it.’
‘Then we should claim it.’
‘Which means persuading DCI Macrae that there’s a connection.’ She stopped the tape and ejected it. ‘Reckon they’re all going to be like that?’
‘Only one way to find out.’
‘There’ll be hundreds of hours of the stuff.’
‘We don’t know that; fire could have made a lot of it unlistenable. Best for one of us to check it first, then pass anything difficult on to Forensics or the engineer at Riordan’s studio.’
‘True.’ Clarke still didn’t share Goodyear’s enthusiasm. She was thinking back to her own days in uniform . . . not that long ago, really, in the span of things. She’d been every bit as keen as Goodyear, confident that she would make a difference to each and every case - and maybe, just now and then, a telling difference. It had happened sometimes, but the glory had been grabbed by someone more senior - not Rebus, she was thinking back to before their pairing. Her at St Leonard’s, being told that it was all about team-work, no room for egos and prima donnas. Then Rebus had arrived, his old station having burned to the ground - wiring gone bad. She had to have a little smile to herself at that.
Wiring gone bad: a fair description of Rebus himself at times. Bringing with him to St Leonard’s his mistrust of ‘teamwork’, his two-decades-plus of bets hedged, lines crossed and rules broken.
And at least one very personal vendetta.
Goodyear was suggesting they give one of the little digital recorders a listen. There was no external speaker, but the headphones from Goodyear’s iPod fitted one of the sockets. Clarke didn’t really fancy pushing the little buds into her own ears, so told him he could do the listening. But after about half a minute and the pressing of buttons in various configurations, he gave up.
‘That’s one for our friendly specialist,’ he said, moving to the next machine.
‘I meant to ask,’ Clarke said, ‘how you felt meeting Cafferty.’
Goodyear considered his answer. ‘Just looking at him,’ he said eventually, ‘you can see he’s full of sin. It’s in his eyes, the way he looks at you, the way he carries himself . . .’
‘You judge people by the way they look?’
‘Not all the time.’ He did a bit more button-pushing, earphones still in place, and then held up a finger to let her know he was getting something. After a moment’s listening he made eye contact. ‘You’re not going to believe this.’ He unplugged himself and offered her the earphones. Reluctantly, she held them either side of her head, close to her ears but not touching. He’d rewound a little, and now she heard voices. Tinny little voices, but words she recognised:
‘After you split up, Mr Todorov headed straight for the bar at the Caledonian. He got talking to someone there ...
‘That’s me,’ she said. ‘He told us he wasn’t recording!’
‘He lied. People do sometimes.’
Clarke gave him a scowl and listened to a bit more, then told Goodyear to fast forward. He did, but there was silence.
‘Go back again,’ she ordered.
What was she hoping for? Riordan’s last moments, captured for posterity? His attacker’s voice? Riordan gaining some measure of justice from beyond the grave?
Only silence.
‘Further back.’
Clarke and Goodyear himself, winding up their questioning of Riordan in his living room.
‘We’re the last thing on it,’ she stated.
‘Does that make us suspects?’
‘Any more wisecracks, you’re back in the woolly suit,’ she warned him.
/>
Goodyear looked contrite. ‘Woolly suit,’ he repeated. ‘I’ve not heard that one before.’
‘Picked it up from Rebus,’ Clarke admitted.
So many things he’d given her . . . not all of them useful.
‘I don’t think he likes me,’ Goodyear was telling her.
‘He doesn’t like anyone.’
‘He likes you,’ Goodyear argued.
‘He tolerates me,’ Clarke corrected him. ‘Different thing entirely.’ She was staring at the machine. ‘I can’t believe he recorded us.’
‘If you ask me, not being recorded by Mr Riordan would have put us in the minority.’
‘True enough.’
Goodyear picked up another of the clear plastic sacks and gave it a shake. ‘Plenty more for us to listen to.’
She nodded, then leaned across and patted his shoulder. ‘Plenty for you to listen to, Todd,’ she corrected him.
‘Learning curve?’ he guessed.
‘Learning curve,’ she agreed.
‘Want to do something tonight?’ Phyllida Hawes asked. She was driving, Colin Tibbet her passenger. It annoyed her that he would sit with one hand gripping the door handle, as if ready to eject should her skills suddenly desert her. Sometimes she would put the wind up him on purpose, accelerating towards the vehicle in front or taking a turn at the last possible and unsignalled second. Serve him right for doubting her. One time, he’d told her she drove as though they’d just nicked the car from a forecourt.‘Could go for a drink,’ he offered.
‘Now there’s a novelty.’
‘Or we could not go for a drink.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Chinese? Indian?’