Cafferty laughed. “He has a stake in the firm that published my book. Meant he was at the launch party. Sorry you couldn’t make it, by the way...”
“Invite came in handy when the toilet paper ran out.”
“Met him again over lunch when the book hit fifty thousand. Private room at the Ivy...” He glanced at Rebus again. “That’s in London. I thought of moving there, you know. Used to have a lot of friends down south. Business acquaintances.”
“Same ones Steelforth put away?” Rebus thought for a moment. “Why didn’t you tell me you knew Pennen too?”
“There have to be some secrets between us,” Cafferty said, smiling. “I ran a check on your pal Jacko by the way...didn’t get anywhere. You sure he’s a cop?”
Rebus answered with another question of his own. “What about Steelforth’s bill at the Balmoral?”
“Picked up by Lothian and Borders Police.”
“That’s generous of us.”
“You never let up, do you, Rebus?”
“Why should I?”
“Because sometimes you just have to let things go. What’s past is another country—Mairie told me that when we were doing the book.”
“I just had a drink with her.”
“And not grape juice by the smell of it.”
“She’s a good kid. Shame she’s got your claws in her back.”
The car was heading down Dalkeith Road, Cafferty signaling left toward Craigmillar and Niddrie. Either that or they were heading for the A1 south out of the city.
“Where are we going?” Rebus asked again.
“Not far now. And Mairie’s quite capable of looking after herself.”
“Does she pass everything along?”
“Probably not, but that doesn’t stop me asking her. See, what Mairie really needs is another bestseller. This time, she’d push for a percentage rather than a set fee. I keep tempting her with stories that didn’t make it into the book...The girl needs to keep me happy.”
“More fool her.”
“It’s funny,” Cafferty went on, “but talking about Richard Pennen reminds me of a few tales about him, too. Not that you’d want to hear them.” He started chuckling again, his face lit from below by the dashboard. He seemed all shadows and smudges, a preparatory sketch for some grinning gargoyle.
I’m in hell, Rebus thought. This is what happens when you die and go downstairs. You get your own personal devil...
“Salvation awaits!” Cafferty cried suddenly, turning the steering wheel hard so that the Bentley slalomed through a set of gates, sending gravel flying skyward. It was a hall, lights glowing within. A hall attached to a church.
“Time to renounce the demon drink,” Cafferty teased, shutting off the engine and pushing open his door. But a sign next to the open doorway told Rebus this was a public meeting, part of G8 Alternatives—Communities in Action: The Future Crisis Averted. Entry was free to students and the unwaged.
“Unwashed, more like,” Cafferty muttered, seeing the bearded figure holding a plastic bucket. The man had long, curly black hair and wore prescription glasses with thick black frames. He shook the bucket as the new arrivals approached. There were coins inside, but not many. Cafferty made a ritual of opening his wallet and extracting a fifty-pound note. “Better be going to a good cause,” he warned the collector. Rebus followed him indoors, pointing out to the bucket holder that his share could come out of Cafferty’s contribution.
There were three or four rows of empty chairs at the back, but Cafferty had made the decision to stand, arms folded and legs apart. The room was busy, but the audience looked bored, or maybe just lost in contemplation. Up on the stage, four men and two women were squeezed behind a trestle table, sharing a single distortion-prone microphone. There were banners behind them stating, CRAIG-MILLAR WELCOMES G8 PROTESTERS and OUR COMMUNITY IS STRONG WHEN WE SPEAK WITH ONE VOICE. The one voice speaking at that particular moment belonged to Councilman Gareth Tench.
“It’s all very well,” he boomed out, “saying give us the tools and we will do the job. But there need to be jobs there in the first place! We need concrete proposals for the betterment of our communities, and that’s what I’m striving for in my own small way.”
There was nothing small about the councilman’s delivery. A hall this size, someone like Tench barely needed a microphone in the first place.
“He’s in love with his own voice,” Cafferty commented. Rebus knew it was true. It had been the same when he’d stopped to watch Tench deliver his sermons on the Mound. He hadn’t shouted to be heard; he’d shouted because the noise confirmed for him his own importance in the world.
“But friends...comrades...” Tench continued without seeming to draw breath, “we’re all prone to see ourselves as cogs in the vast political machine. How can we be heard? How can we make a difference? Well, think about it for a moment. The cars and buses you used when you traveled here tonight...remove just one small cog from the engine and the machinery breaks down. Because every single moving part has equal worth—equal importance—and that’s as true in human life as it is with the infernal congestion engine.” He paused long enough to smile at his own pun.
“Preening little prick,” Cafferty muttered to Rebus. “He couldn’t love himself any better if he was double-jointed and giving himself a blow job.”
Rebus was powerless to prevent the sudden choking laugh that escaped him. He tried camouflaging it as a cough, but to little avail. Some in the audience had turned in their seats to seek out the commotion’s cause. Even Tench had been pulled up short. What he saw from the stage was Morris Gerald Cafferty patting the back of Detective Inspector John Rebus. Rebus knew he’d been recognized, despite the hand he was holding over his mouth and nose. Tench, put off his stride, worked hard to regain the momentum of his speech, but some of his previous forcefulness had evaporated into the night. He handed the microphone to the woman next to him, who emerged from her trancelike state and started reciting in a monotone from the copious notes in front of her.
Cafferty passed in front of Rebus and stepped outside. After a moment, Rebus followed. Cafferty was pacing the parking lot. Rebus lit a cigarette and bided his time till his nemesis was standing before him.
“I still don’t get it,” Rebus admitted, flicking ash from the cigarette.
Cafferty shrugged. “And you’re supposed to be the detective.”
“A clue or two would help.”
Cafferty stretched out his arms. “This is his territory, Rebus, his little fiefdom. But he’s getting itchy, planning to expand.”
“You mean Tench?” Rebus narrowed his eyes. “You’re saying he’s the one muscling in on your turf?”
“Mr. Fire and Brimstone himself.” Cafferty lowered his arms so that his hands slapped his thighs, as if placing a period on the proceedings.
“I still don’t get it.”
Cafferty glared at Rebus. “The thing is, he sees nothing wrong with shouldering me aside, because he’s got righteousness on his side. By controlling the illicit, he makes it a force for good.” Cafferty gave a sigh. “Sometimes I think that’s how half the globe operates. It’s not the underworld you should be watching—it’s the overworld. Men like Tench and his ilk.”
“He’s a councilman,” Rebus argued. “I mean, they may take the occasional bribe...”
Cafferty was shaking his head. “He wants power, Rebus. He wants control. See how much he loves being able to make his speeches? The stronger he is, the more talking he can do—and be listened to.”
“So set some of your thugs on him, make sure he gets the message.”
Cafferty’s eyes bored into him. “That’s your best shot, is it?”
Rebus shrugged. “This is between you and him.”
“I’m owed a favor...”
“You’re owed the square root of fuck-all. Good luck to him if he takes you out of the game.” Rebus flicked the remains of the cigarette to the ground and crushed it beneath his heel.
“
You sure about that?” Cafferty asked quietly. “You sure you’d rather have him running the show? Man of the people...man with political clout? Think he’ll be an easier target than me? But then, you’re just shy of retirement...so maybe it’s Siobhan we should be thinking of. What is it they say?” Cafferty angled his head upward, as if the words were somewhere up there. “Better the devil you know,” he declared.
Rebus folded his arms. “You didn’t bring me here to show me Gareth Tench,” he said. “You did it to show me to him—the two of us side by side, you patting me on the back...a nice little portrait we must have made. You want him to think I’m in your pocket, and the rest of CID with me.”
Cafferty tried to look hurt by the accusation. “You overestimate me, Rebus.”
“I doubt that. You could have told me all this back in Arden Street.”
“But then you’d have missed the show.”
“Aye, and so would Councilman Tench. Tell me, how’s he going to finance this takeover? And where are the soldiers to back him up?”
Cafferty stretched his arms out again, this time spinning 360 degrees. “He owns this whole district—the bad as well as the good.”
“And the money?”
“He’ll talk his way into the money, Rebus. It’s what he does best.”
“I do talk a good game, it’s true.” Both men turned to see Gareth Tench standing in the doorway, illuminated from behind. “And I’m not easily scared, Cafferty—not by you, not by your friends.” Rebus was about to protest, but Tench hadn’t finished. “I’m cleaning up this area, no reason I can’t do the same job elsewhere in the city. If your pals in the force won’t put you out of business, the community might have to.”
Rebus noted the two thickset men standing farther back in the doorway, on either side of Tench. “Let’s go,” he suggested to Cafferty. Last thing he wanted was to step in between Cafferty and a beating.
All the same, he knew he’d have to step in.
His hand was on Cafferty’s arm. The gangster shrugged him off. “I’ve never fought a battle and lost,” Cafferty warned Tench. “Think about that before you start.”
“I don’t need to do anything,” Tench shot back. “Your little empire’s turning to dust. Time you woke up to the fact. Having trouble recruiting bouncers for your pubs? Can’t find tenants for your death-trap apartments? Taxi firm short a few drivers?” A smile was spreading across Tench’s face. “You’re in the twilight zone, Cafferty. Wake up and smell the coffin...”
Cafferty started to spring forward. Rebus grabbed him, just as Tench’s men pushed past their boss. Rebus turned Cafferty, so his own back was facing the door. He gave the gangster a shove toward the Bentley.
“Get in and get going,” he ordered.
“Never lost a battle!” Cafferty was raging, face puce. But he yanked open the door and dumped himself into the driver’s seat. As Rebus walked around to the passenger side, he looked toward the doorway. Tench was waving a gloating good-bye. Rebus wanted to say something, if only to let Tench know he wasn’t Cafferty’s man...but the councilman was already turning away, leaving his minions to monitor proceedings.
“I’m going to rip his fucking eyeballs out and make him suck them like jawbreakers,” Cafferty was snarling, flecks of saliva pocking the inside of the windshield. “And if he wants concrete fucking proposals, I’ll mix the cement myself before I whack him with the shovel—now that’s betterment of the community!”
Cafferty stopped talking as he maneuvered out of the lot. But his breathing remained fast and noisy. Eventually, he turned toward his passenger. “I swear to God, when I get my hands on that prick...” His knuckles were white as they wrapped themselves around the steering wheel.
“But if you do say anything,” Rebus intoned, “which may be used against you as evidence in a court of law...”
“They’d never convict,” Cafferty roared with a wild laugh. “Forensics will have to scoop up what’s left of him with a teaspoon.”
“But if you do say anything...” Rebus repeated.
“It started three years back,” Cafferty said, making an effort to control his breathing. “Gaming licenses refused, bar applications refused...I was even going to open a cab office on his turf, take a few of the locals off the dole. He made sure the council bounced me out every time.”
“So it’s not just that you’ve finally met someone with the guts to stand up to you?”
Cafferty glanced at Rebus. “I thought that was your job.”
“Maybe it is.”
Eventually, Cafferty broke the resulting silence. “I need a drink,” he said, licking his lips. The corners of his mouth were coated with white flecks.
“Good idea,” Rebus told him. “Like me, maybe you’ll drink to forget...”
He kept watching Cafferty during the rest of the silent ride back into town. The man had killed and gotten away with it—probably more times than Rebus knew. He’d fed victims to the hungry pigs on a Borders farm. He’d ruined countless lives, served four jail terms. He’d been a savage since his teenage years, served an apprenticeship as enforcer to the London mob...
So why the hell was Rebus feeling sorry for him?
“I’ve got some thirty-year-old malt at the house,” Cafferty was saying. “Butterscotch and heather and melted butter...”
“Drop me in Marchmont,” Rebus insisted.
“What about that drink?”
But Rebus shook his head. “I’m supposed to be renouncing it, remember?”
Cafferty snorted, but said nothing. All the same, Rebus could tell the man wanted him to change his mind. Wanted them to have that drink together, sitting opposite each other as the night circled them on tiptoe.
Cafferty wouldn’t insist though. Insisting would sound like begging.
He wouldn’t beg.
Not just yet.
It struck Rebus that what Cafferty feared was a loss of power. Tyrants and politicians alike feared the selfsame thing, whether they belonged to the underworld or the overworld. The day would come when no one listened to them anymore, their orders ignored, reputation diminished. New challenges, new rivals and predators. Cafferty probably had millions stashed away, but a whole fleet of luxury cars was no substitute for status and respect.
Edinburgh was a small city; easy for one man to exert control over the greater part of it. Tench or Cafferty? Cafferty or Tench?
Rebus couldn’t help wondering if he would have to choose...
The overworld.
Everyone from G8 leaders to Pennen and Steelforth. All of them driven by the will to power. A chain of command affecting every person on the planet. Rebus was still thinking about it as he watched the Bentley drive away. But then he became aware of a shadowy figure standing next to his tenement door. He clenched his fists and looked around, in case Jacko had brought his buddies. But it wasn’t Jacko who stepped forward. It was Hackman.
“Evening all,” he said.
“I nearly took a swing at you then,” Rebus replied, relaxing his shoulders. “How the hell did you find me?”
“Couple of phone calls is all it took. Very helpful, the local cops. Must say, though, I wouldn’t have thought a street like this was your style.”
“So where am I supposed to live?”
“Dockside condo,” Hackman stated.
“Is that right?”
“Nice young blond thing to cook you breakfast on weekends.”
“I only see her on weekends, do I?” Rebus couldn’t help smiling.
“That’s all the time you can give her. Clean out the old pipes and then it’s back to the daily grind.”
“You’ve got it all worked out. Doesn’t explain what you’re doing here this time of night.”
“Couple of bits and pieces I’ve remembered about Trevor Guest.”
“And they’re mine for the price of a drink?” Rebus guessed.
Hackman nodded. “But there’s got to be a floor show, mind.”
“A floor show?”
<
br /> “Chicks!”
“You’ve got to be joking...” But Rebus could tell from Hackman’s face that he was quite, quite serious.
They hailed a cab on Marchmont Road and headed for Bread Street. The driver gave a little smile into his rearview: two middle-aged men with a few drinks under their belts heading for the fleshpots.
“So tell me,” Rebus said.
“What?” Hackman asked.
“The info on Trevor Guest.”
But Hackman wagged a finger. “If I tell you now, what’s to stop you jumping ship?”
“My word as a gentleman?” Rebus offered. He’d had enough for tonight; no way he was embarking on a lap-dance crawl of Lothian Road. He’d get the info, then leave Hackman curbside, point him in the right direction.
“All the hippies are shipping out tomorrow, you know,” the Englishman said. “Busloads heading for Gleneagles.”
“What about you?”
Hackman shrugged. “I do what I’m told.”
“Well, I’m telling you to cough up what you know about Guest.”
“Okay, okay...so long as you promise not to beat it as soon as the taxi stops.”
“Scout’s honor.”
Hackman leaned back in the seat. “Trevor Guest had a short fuse, made a lot of enemies. Headed south to London once, but it didn’t work out. Ripped off by some tart or other...seemed to take against the fairer sex after that. You said Trev ended up on some Web site...?”
“BeastWatch.”
“Any idea who posted his details?”
“They did it anonymously.”
“But Trev was predominantly a burglar...a burglar with a temper—that’s why he went into the clink.”
“So?”
“So who put him on the Web site—and why?”
“You tell me.”
Hackman gave another shrug, gripping on to the handrail as the taxi made a sharp turn. “One more story,” he said, checking he had Rebus’s attention. “When Trev went to London, rumor was that a consignment of tasty drugs went with him—could even have been smack.”
“He was an addict?”
“Occasional user. I don’t think he injected...until the night he died, that is.”