‘Either that or I’ve just not got the herd mentality,’ he’d argued back. These days, she had an MP3 player and bought stuff online. He would tease her by asking if he could take a look at the album cover or lyric sheet.
‘You’re missing the big picture,’ he’d told her. ‘A good album should be more than the sum of its parts.’
‘Like police work?’ she’d guessed, smiling. He hadn’t bothered admitting that he was just coming to that . . .
He’d finished the crisps and folded the bag into a narrow strip so he could tie it into a knot. Didn’t know why he did that, just seemed neater somehow. A mate back in army days had done it, and Rebus had followed suit. It made a change from putting a match under the empty packet and watching it shrivel to a miniature version of itself, like something from a doll’s house. Simple pleasures, same as sitting in a car on a quiet nighttime street, music playing and belly full. He would give it another hour. He had The Who’s Endless Wire for when he got fed up with Gentry. Hadn’t yet worked out what the title meant, but because he’d bought the CD at least he had the lyrics.
A car was reversing out of some gates up the road. Looked to Rebus very much like Cafferty’s gates, Cafferty’s car. Being driven by the bodyguard, because there was a reading light on in the back seat, illuminating Cafferty’s dome of a head. He seemed to be peering at some papers. Rebus waited. The car was turning downhill, meaning it would drive straight past him. He ducked down, waiting until its lights had passed. It signalled right, and Rebus turned the ignition, doing a three-point turn and following. At the Granville Terrace junction, Cafferty’s car jumped out in front of a double-decker bus. Rebus had to wait for traffic to clear, but knew there was nothing Cafferty could do now until Leven Street. He stayed behind the bus until it signalled to pick up passengers, then moved out and past it. There was a gap of a hundred yards between him and the car in front. Eventually its brake lights glowed as it reached the traffic lights at the King’s Theatre. As Rebus crawled nearer, he saw that something was wrong.
It wasn’t Cafferty’s car.
He drew up behind it. The car in front of it, stopped on red, wasn’t Cafferty either. No way the bodyguard could have passed both cars and got through the lights while they were still on green. Rebus had been behind the bus for maybe a couple of minutes. There had been the Viewforth crossroads, but he’d looked both ways and seen no sign of Cafferty. Had to have turned sharpish down one of the narrow side streets, but which one? He did another three-point turn, a taxi sounding a complaint as it waited to follow him back along Gilmore Place. There were a few boarding houses whose front gardens had been paved and turned into car parking, but none of the vehicles matched Cafferty’s Bentley.
‘You wait two solid hours and then you lose him at the first hurdle,’ Rebus muttered to himself. There was a convent, its gates open, but Rebus doubted he’d find the gangster there. Roads off to left and right, but none looked promising. At the Viewforth traffic lights he turned the car again. This time he signalled left and headed down a narrow one-way street towards the canal. It wasn’t well lit and wouldn’t be used much this time of night, meaning he’d stick out like a sore thumb, so when a kerbside parking space appeared, he reversed into it. There was a bridge across the canal, but it was blocked to everything except bikes and pedestrians. As Rebus headed that way on foot, he finally saw the Bentley. It was parked up next to some wasteland. A couple of canal boats were moored for the night, smoke billowing from the chimney of one of them. Rebus hadn’t been down this way in ages. New blocks of flats had appeared from somewhere, but it didn’t look as though many of them were occupied. Then he saw a sign stating that they were ‘serviced apartments’. The Leamington Lift Bridge was a construction of wrought iron with a wooden roadway. It could be raised to let barges and pleasure boats through, but otherwise lay level with either bank of the canal. Two men were standing in the middle of it, their shadows thrown on to the water by a near-as-dammit full moon. Cafferty was doing the talking, throwing out his arms to illustrate each point. The focus of his interest seemed to be the canal’s far bank. There was a walkway stretching from Fountainbridge to the city limits and beyond. At one time it had been a treacherous spot, but a new footpath had been built and the canal seemed a lot cleaner than Rebus remembered it. Beyond the footpath stood a high wall, behind which, Rebus knew, was one of Edinburgh’s redundant industrial sites. Until about a year back, it had been a brewery, but now most of the buildings were in the process of being dismantled, the steel mash tuns removed. Time was, the city had boasted thirty or forty breweries. Now, Rebus seemed to think there was just the one, not too far away on Slateford Road.
When the other man half turned to concentrate on what Cafferty was saying, Rebus recognised the silhouette of Sergei Andropov’s distinctive face. The door to Cafferty’s car opened, but only so his driver could get out to light a cigarette. Rebus heard another door, almost like an echo of the first. He decided to pretend he was on his way home, tucked his hands into his jacket, hunched his shoulders and started walking. Risking just the one glance back over his shoulder, he saw that there was another car parked alongside Cafferty’s. Andropov’s driver had decided on a cigarette break, too. Cafferty and the Russian, meantime, had crossed the bridge and were still deep in conversation. Rebus wished he’d thought to bring a microphone of some kind - the engineer at Riordan’s studio would have obliged. As it was, he couldn’t make out anything. What was more, he was headed away from the scene, and it would raise suspicions were he suddenly to turn and retrace his steps. He passed a car workshop, locked up tight for the night. Past it were some tenement flats. He thought about going inside, climbing a flight and peering from the stairwell window. Instead, he stopped and lit a cigarette, then pretended to take a phone call, holding the mobile close to his face. He started walking again, but slowly, aware of the two men on the opposite bank. Andropov gave a whistle, and gestured to the drivers to stay put. Rebus saw that the canal was coming to an end at a recently completed basin, complete with a couple of more permanent-looking barges, one of which had a For Sale sign taped to its only window. New buildings had been thrown up here, too: office blocks, restaurants, and a bar with plenty of glass frontage and outside tables, which were being used tonight only by hardened smokers. One of the units was still to let, and Rebus couldn’t see much action in the restaurants. The bar had a cash machine to one side of it, and he paused to use it, risking another glance towards the approaching figures.
But they weren’t there any more.
He looked in through the windows of the bar and saw that they were removing their coats. Even from here, Rebus could hear pounding music. Several TV sets were also on the go, and the clientele was predominantly young and studenty. The only person who paid attention to the new arrivals was their waitress, who bounded over with a smile and took their order. No way Rebus could go in - the place wasn’t so busy that he’d be able to hide in the throng. And even supposing he did go in, he’d never get close enough to hear anything. Cafferty had chosen wisely: not even Riordan would have stood a chance. The two men could have a chat without fear of eavesdroppers. What to do next ...? Plenty of dark corners out here, meaning he could bide his time and freeze his backside. Or he could retreat to his car. The two men would have to return to their own cars eventually. With a hundred quid extracted from the machine, Rebus made his choice. He walked back along the other side of the canal, crossed at the Leamington Bridge, and hummed to himself as he passed the piece of wasteground. Not that the two drivers paid any attention, they were too busy talking to one another. Rebus doubted Cafferty’s man spoke any Russian, meaning Andropov’s driver must have a decent grasp of English.
Once installed in the Saab, Rebus considered switching the engine on, so he could have some heat. But an idling motor might make the guards curious, so he rubbed his hands together and drew his coat more tightly around him. It was a further twenty minutes before anything happened. He hadn’t caught sight of A
ndropov and Cafferty, but both cars were on the move. He followed them back to Gilmore Place. They signalled to turn right at the Viewforth junction, and then right again at Dundee Street. Two minutes later they were pulling to a halt outside the bar. While one of its sides faced the canal, the other fronted Fountainbridge. Traffic here was busier, with plenty of parked cars. Rebus found a space near the old Co-op Funeral Home. Major works were in progress, and one building had lost everything but its façade, while a new construction rose up to fill the space behind. It was all insurance companies and banks around here, Rebus seemed to think, which made him think also of Sir Michael Addison, Stuart Janney and Roger Anderson - First Albannach men all. In his wing mirror, he could see that the two cars were idling but hadn’t bothered to switch off their lights or engines. Give it a couple of years, he’d probably be empowered to arrest them under some CO2 injunction. Except that he wouldn’t be here in a couple of years . . .
‘Bingo,’ he said to himself as Andropov and Cafferty emerged. They got into their separate cars and headed off, passing Rebus and making towards Lothian Road. Again, Rebus followed: harder to lose them this time. As they passed the end of King’s Stables Road, Rebus felt his stomach tighten at the prospect that they might end up at the car park, but they stayed on the main drag and turned into Princes Street, Charlotte Square and Queen Street. When passing Young Street, Rebus glanced down it towards the Oxford Bar.
‘Not tonight, my love,’ he cooed, blowing it a kiss.
At the end of Queen Street, they forked left on to Leith Walk, passing Gayfield Square. Great Junction Street, North Junction Street and they were on the waterfront to the west of Leith itself. More redevelopment was happening here, blocks of apartments rising from what had been dockland and industrial estates.
‘Hardly the tourist trail, Sergei,’ Rebus muttered as the cars pulled over again. There was another car already sitting there, hazard lights on. Rebus drove past - no way he could park, the streets were deserted. Instead, he took the first turning he came to, did another of the three-pointers he was becoming so expert in, and crawled back to the junction. He signalled right and passed the three cars. Same deal: Cafferty and Andropov standing on the pavement, Cafferty with his arms stretched wide as if to encompass everything. But this time with two new attendants: Stuart Janney and Nikolai Stahov. The consular official stood with his gloved hands behind his back, a Cossack hat on his head. Janney looked thoughtful, arms folded, nodding to himself.
‘Gang’s all here,’ Rebus commented.
There was a petrol station with its lights still on, so he pulled into the forecourt and dribbled some unleaded into the tank. Bought chewing gum from the cashier when he paid, and stood beside the pump, unwrapping a piece slowly and making as if to check messages on his phone. The cashier kept staring out at him, and he knew this wasn’t an act he could keep up for long. He looked back along the street, but couldn’t make out much. Cafferty still seemed to be holding the floor. A car had pulled up at the pump behind him. Two men got out. One busied himself with the nozzle while the other gave a few stretches and started walking towards the kiosk, but then seemed to change his mind and headed towards Rebus instead.
‘Evening,’ he said. He was big, bigger than Rebus. His belt was on its last notch and looked ready to snap. His head was shaved, some grey showing through. Pudgy face like an overfed baby who still objected every time the breast was taken away. Rebus just nodded a reply, flicking the gum wrapper into a bin.
The new arrival was studying Rebus’s car. ‘Bit of a clunker, ’ he offered, ‘even as Saabs go.’
Rebus looked back at the man’s own car. Vauxhall Vectra with a black paint job.
‘Least I own mine,’ he said.
The man gave a smile and a nod, as if to admit that, yes indeed, his belonged to the company. ‘He wants a word,’ he said, giving a flick of the head in the Vectra’s direction.
‘Oh aye?’ Rebus seemed more interested in the packet of gum.
‘Maybe you should talk to him, DI Rebus,’ the man continued, a gleam in his eye as he clocked the effect: an emergency stop on the gum-chewing.
‘Who are you?’ Rebus asked.
‘He’ll tell you. I’ve got to pay for the petrol.’ The man moved off. Rebus stood his ground a moment. The cashier was looking interested. The man at the Vectra was concentrating on the pump’s meter. Rebus decided to go see him.
‘You wanted me,’ he said.
‘Believe me, Rebus, you’re the last thing I want.’ The man was neither tall nor short, fat nor thin. His hair was brown, eyes somewhere between brown and green and set in the blandest of faces. Always blending in, and instantly forgettable - perfect for surveillance work.
‘I’m assuming you’re CID,’ Rebus went on. ‘Don’t know you, though, which means you’re from out of town.’
The man released his grip on the pump as the meter hit thirty pounds dead. He seemed satisfied with this outcome and replaced the nozzle in its holster. Only then, as he replaced the cap and wiped his hands on his handkerchief, did he deign to focus his attention on the man standing before him.
‘You’re Detective Inspector John Rebus,’ he stated. ‘Based at Gayfield Square police station, B Division, Edinburgh.’
‘Let me write this down in case I forget.’ Rebus made show of reaching into a pocket for his notebook.
‘You have a problem with authority,’ the man went on, ‘which is why everyone’s so relieved you’re about to retire. They’ve only just stopped short of putting up bunting at Fettes HQ.’
‘Seems you know all there is to know about me,’ Rebus conceded. ‘And so far all I know about you is that you drive the sort of overpowered cock-mobile favoured by a certain type of cop ... usually the kind who’s happiest investigating other cops.’
‘You think we’re The Complaints?’
‘Maybe not, but you seem to know who they are.’
‘I’ve been on their receiving end a couple of times myself,’ the man confided. ‘You’re not a proper cop otherwise.’
‘Makes me a proper cop, then,’ Rebus added.
‘I know,’ the man said quietly. ‘Now get in and let’s do some proper talking.’
‘My car’s ...’ But as Rebus looked over his shoulder, he saw that the baby-faced giant had somehow squeezed in behind the Saab’s steering wheel and was turning the ignition.
‘Don’t worry,’ Rebus’s new friend assured him, ‘Andy knows a thing or two about cars.’ He was getting back into the Vectra’s driving seat. Rebus walked around to the passenger side and climbed in. The big man - Andy - had left a dent in the seat. Rebus looked around for clues as to the men’s identity.
‘I like your thinking,’ the driver admitted. ‘But when you’re undercover, you try not to give the game away.’
‘I can’t be much good, then, seeing how you had no trouble spotting me.’
‘Not much good, no.’
‘While your pal Andy couldn’t look more like a copper if he had the word tattooed on his forehead.’
‘Some people think he looks like a bouncer.’
‘Bouncers tend to have that bit more refinement.’
The man had lifted a mobile phone for Rebus to see. ‘Want me to relay that to him while he’s in charge of your vehicle?’
‘Maybe later,’ Rebus said. ‘So who are you then?’
‘We’re SCD,’ the stranger said. Short for SCDEA, the Scottish Crime and Drugs Enforcement Agency. ‘I’m DI Stone.’
‘And Andy?’
‘DS Prosser.’
‘What can I do to help you, DI Stone?’
‘You can start by calling me Calum, and I hope it’s all right to call you John?’
‘Nice and friendly, eh, Calum?’
‘Let’s just aim for civil and see how it goes.’
The Saab was already signalling to turn off the main road. They entered the car park of a casino, not far from Ocean Terminal, where the Saab pulled to a stop, Stone drawing up alongs
ide.
‘Andy seems to know his way around,’ Rebus commented.
‘Football routes only. Andy’s a Dunfermline fan, comes through here to watch his team play Hibs and Hearts.’
‘Not for much longer, the way the Pars are struggling.’
‘A sore point.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind . . .’
Stone had turned in his seat, the better to meet Rebus face to face. ‘I’m being straight with you, because I think any other approach might see your hackles rise. I hope you’ll offer me the same courtesy.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Why are you so interested in Cafferty and the Russian?’
‘A case I’m working.’
‘The Todorov killing?’
Rebus nodded. ‘Last drink he had before he died happened to be with Cafferty. Andropov was in the bar at the same time.’
‘You think the pair of them are in cahoots?’
‘I just wasn’t sure how.’
‘And now ...?’
‘Andropov’s looking to buy a huge swathe of Edinburgh,’ Rebus guessed. ‘With Cafferty as his middleman.’
‘Could be,’ Stone conceded. Rebus was looking out of the passenger-side window towards his own car. Prosser seemed to be thumping the dodgy speaker with his foot.
‘Not sure Andy shares my taste in music,’ Rebus commented.
‘Depends on whether you listen to nothing but Strathspey reels ...’
‘We may have a problem.’
Stone pretended to laugh. ‘Bit unusual, isn’t it?’ he asked. ‘A one-man stakeout? Is CID around these parts really that short of bodies?’
‘Not everyone wants to work nights.’
‘Tell me about it - wife’s sometimes so surprised to see me, I keep thinking she must have the milkman hidden in the wardrobe.’