Authors: Ian Rankin
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 cockmobile favored 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 signaling 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 alongside.
“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.”
“You don’t wear a wedding ring.”
“No, I don’t. While you, John, are divorced with a grown-up daughter.”
“Anyone would think it was me you were interested in rather than Andropov.”
“I couldn’t care less about Andropov. Authorities in Moscow are a gnat’s bollock away from charging him with God-knows-what—fraud and deception and bribery . . .”
“He seems pretty relaxed about it. Is that because he’s thinking of relocating?”
“Wait and see. But for what it’s worth, whatever the reason for him being here, it seems legit.”
“Even with Cafferty in tow?”
“Thing about crooks, John, ninety percent of everything they do is completely kosher.”
Rebus considered for a moment, the word
overworld
reverberating in his head. “So if it’s not Andropov you’re after . . .”
“We’ve got your friend Cafferty in our sights, John, and this time he’s going down. Reason your name flashed on the radar—all those run-ins down the years. But he’s
ours,
John. Six of us have been slaving over him these past seven months. We’ve got phone taps and forensic accountants and a lot more besides, and we aim to have him in jail shortly with his ill-got gains reverting to the Exchequer.” Stone looked pleased with himself, but his eyes were cold, bright marbles. “Only thing that could mess it up is someone blundering in, hell-bent on their own half-baked theories and stoked by long-held prejudice.” Stone was shaking his head slowly. “Can’t let that happen, John.”
“Or in other words—butt out.”
“If I told you to do that,” Stone continued quietly, “I have the suspicion you’d do exactly the opposite, just for the hell of it.” In the Saab, Prosser’s head had disappeared from view as he wrestled with the door panel.
“What are you going to charge Cafferty with?”
“Maybe drugs, maybe money laundering . . . tax evasion’s always a good one. He doesn’t think we know about his various offshore accounts . . .”
“Those forensic accountants you were mentioning?”
“They’re so good, they have to stay anonymous—there’d be a price on their heads otherwise.”
“I can imagine.” Rebus was thoughtful for a moment. “Anything tying Cafferty and Andropov to Alexander Todorov?”
“Only that Andropov knew him in Moscow.”
“Knew Todorov?”
“From years back . . . same school or college or something.”
“So you know a bit about Andropov . . . tell me, what’s his connection to Cafferty? I mean, he’s a different league, isn’t he?”
“Listen to yourself, John . . . pushing sixty and frisky as a pup.” Stone laughed again, but this time it sounded genuine. “You want Cafferty put away—that much is clear. But the best chance we have of giving you that little retirement gift is if you leave
us
to get on with it. Cafferty’s not going to go to jail because you’ve been busy tailing him. He’s going to be brought down by a paper trail: shell companies, VAT dodges, banks in Bermuda and Lithuania, sweeteners and payoffs and doctored balance sheets.”
“That why you’re busy tailing him?”
“We heard Cafferty on the phone to his lawyer, saying you’d pulled him in. Lawyer wanted to make an official complaint—called it ‘harassment’; Cafferty wouldn’t have it, said it was actually ‘a bit flattering.’ That’s what got us worried, John—don’t want a loose cannon out there, not when we’re readying to attack. We know you’ve been watching Cafferty’s house—we’ve seen you do it. But I’m betting
you’ve
never seen
us
.”
“That’s because you’re so much better at it than I am,” Rebus said.
“You better believe it.” Stone leaned back in his seat, a gesture which seemed to have some significance for Prosser. The Saab’s door opened, and the fat man got out, tugging at the handle on the Vectra’s passenger side.
“How’s my hi-fi?” Rebus asked him.
“Good as new.”
Rebus turned his attention back to Stone. The detective handed him his business card.
“Be good,” Stone said. “Leave the stakeouts to the professionals.”
“I’ll sleep on it” was all Rebus said. He got into his Saab and tried the stereo. The wonky speaker was working again, no sign of damage to the grille or door panel. Had to admit, he was impressed with that, but he managed not to let it show. Reversed out of the car park and made his way back to the main road. His options: a left turn into the city, or a right towards where he’d last seen Cafferty and Andropov. He signaled left and waited for the traffic to clear.
Then took the right turn.
But all three cars had gone. Rebus cursed under his breath. He could keep cruising, or maybe try the Caledonian Hotel. He could head to Cafferty’s house and check if he was back.
“Just go home, John,” he told himself.
So that was what he did, working his way through Canonmills and the New Town and the Old Town, along the Meadows and then left into Marchmont itself and Arden Street. Where a parking space—the universe’s small reward for his labors—awaited him. As did two flights of stairs. He wasn’t breathing too hard at the top. Got a glass of water from the kitchen and gulped it, then poured in a fresh inch to carry through to the living room. Added the same amount of whisky and stuck Johnny Cash on the hi-fi before collapsing into his chair. But the Man in Black wasn’t right. Rebus felt a bit guilty, ejecting the CD. Cash had Fife roots, he seemed to recall. Photos of him in some old newspaper visiting his hereditary home in Falkland. Rebus stuck John Martyn on instead,
Grace and Danger,
one of the great breakup albums. Dark and brooding and feeling just about perfect.
“Fuck,” Rebus announced, the single word summing up the day’s adventures. He didn’t know how to feel about the SCD men. Yes, he wanted Cafferty taken out of the game. But suddenly it was important that it be
him
making the bone-crunching tackle. So it couldn’t
just
be about Cafferty; it was about the means and method, too. Years he’d been fighting the bastard, and now technology and some bespectacled pen pusher might end up finishing the job. No mess, no fuss, no blood.
There should be mess.
There should be fuss.
John Martyn was singing about some people being crazy. A little later, he would move on to “Grace and Danger” itself, followed by “Johnny Too Bad.”
“Singing my whole life story,” John Rebus told his whisky glass. What the hell was he going to do with himself if Cafferty was out of bounds? If Stone and his men did actually manage to put the gangster away, cleanly and coldly?
There should be mess.
There should be fuss.
There should be blood . . .
Thursday 23 November 2006
R
ebus was parked on the other side of Gayfield Square from the police station. He had a pretty good view of the news crews. TV cameras were being erected or dismantled, depending on how early the teams had arrived. Journalists paced the pavement, mobile phones pressed to their ears, keeping a respectful distance from one another so as not to be tempted into a bit of eavesdropping. Photographers were wondering how to get anything usable from the dismal cop-shop frontage. Rebus had watched a trickle of suits climb the steps and enter the building. He recognized some—Ray Reynolds, for example. Others were new to him, but they all looked like CID, meaning they’d been seconded to the team. Rebus bit into the remains of his breakfast roll and chewed slowly. When buying the roll, he’d added a coffee, newspaper, and orange juice to the order. Skimming through the paper, he’d found more news of the ailing Litvi-nenko—the poisoning still a mystery—but no mention of Todorov and only a paragraph on Charles Riordan, at the foot of which he was directed to the obituary columns farther back. He learned that Riordan had worked on various rock tours in the 1980s, including Big Country and Deacon Blue. One of the musicians was quoted as saying that “Charlie could mix a sweet sound in an aircraft hangar.” Further back in time, he’d been a session musician, appearing on albums by Nazareth, Frankie Miller, and the Sutherland Brothers, which meant Rebus probably owned stuff he’d played on.
“Wish I’d known,” he’d said to himself.
Staring out at the media scrum, he wondered who had leaked the information that the Todorov and Riordan deaths were being linked. Didn’t really matter; bound to come out sooner or later. But it did mean he’d lost an opportunity for leverage. There was a favor he was after, and it would have been nice to offer the tidbit in return . . .
Still no sign of his quarry, however. But an official-looking car had drawn up, Corbyn stepping out, pausing for photos in his smart uniform, shiny cap, and black leather gloves. A morale booster for the troops would be the excuse, but Rebus knew Corbyn would have been alerted to the media. Nothing warmed a chief constable more than a hungry news gathering. He’d have them eating out of his hand. Rebus punched Siobhan’s number into his phone.
“High Hiedyin alert,” he warned her.
“Who and where?”
“Corbyn himself, posing for the press. Give him two minutes, and he’ll be in your face.”
“Meaning you’re nearby . . .”
“Don’t worry, he can’t see me. How’s it all going?”
“We’re going to have to speak to Nancy Sievewright yet again.”
“Has she had any more grief from the banker?”
“Not that I know of.” Clarke paused. “So what else are you up to, apart from this morning’s stakeout?”
“To tell you the truth, I’m just relieved I don’t have to come in . . . not with officers of the caliber of Rat-Arse Reynolds to contend with.”
“Don’t.”
“Thought I saw young Todd heading inside, too, clean suit and everything . . .”
“Yes.”
“I was thinking you might’ve dropped him, now his brother’s part of the deal.”
“Phyl shares your interest, but Todd’s busy reviewing about two hundred hours of committee tapes made by Charles Riordan. Should keep him out of harm’s way.”
“And you’ve kept the Chief informed?”
“That’s my call, not yours.”
Rebus tutted, and watched as Corbyn gave a final wave to the reporters before entering the reception area. “He’s inside,” he said into the mouthpiece.
“Suppose I’d better get ready to look surprised.”
“
Pleasantly
surprised, Shiv. Might get you an extra brownie point.”
“I’m going to talk to him about your suspension.”
“You’ll be on a hiding to nothing.”
“Even so . . .” She drew in some breath. “And talk of the devil . . .” The phone went dead in Rebus’s hand. He flipped it shut and drummed his fingers against the steering wheel.
“Where are you, Mairie?” he muttered. But just as he uttered these words, Mairie Henderson appeared around the corner from East London Street, moving briskly uphill towards the police station. She had a notebook in one hand, pen and Dictaphone in the other, and a large black satchel slung over one shoulder. Rebus sounded his horn, but she paid no heed. He tried again with the same lack of effect, and didn’t want to attract any attention other than hers. So he gave up and got out of the car, taking up position next to it with hands in pockets. Henderson was in conversation with one of her colleagues. Then she collared a photographer and asked him what shots he’d been taking. Rebus recognized him, thought his name was Mungo or something, knew he’d worked with Mairie in the past. A text arrived on her phone and she checked it while still talking to the snapper, before punching some buttons and making a call. Phone to her ear, she moved away from the mêlée towards the patch of grass that sat in the middle of Gayfield Square. There was some litter there—empty wine bottles and fast-food wrappers—which she frowned at as she spoke. Then she lifted her eyes and saw Rebus. He was smiling. She kept her gaze on him as she spoke. Conversation over, she skirted the patch of grass. Rebus was back in the car; no point letting anyone else see him. Mairie Henderson climbed into the passenger seat, holding her satchel on her lap.
“What’s up?” she said.
“And hello to you, Mairie. How’s the newspaper business?”
“Crumbling at the seams,” she admitted. “Between the freesheets and the Internet, readers willing to pay for their news are rapidly disappearing.”
“And ad revenue with them?” Rebus guessed.
“Meaning cutbacks.” She sighed.
“Not so much work for a freelancer like yourself?”
“There are still plenty of stories, John, it’s just that the editors are loath to pay for them. Haven’t you noticed the tabloids—they advertise for
readers
to send in news and pics . . .” She rested her head against the back of the seat, closing her eyes for a moment. Rebus felt an unexpected jab of sympathy. He’d known Mairie for years, during which time they’d traded tips and information. He’d never before known her to sound so beaten.
“Maybe I can help,” he offered.
“Todorov and Riordan?” she guessed, opening her eyes and turning to face him.
“The very same.”
“How come you’re out here rather than in there?” She gestured towards the police station.
“Because I’m after a favor.”
“Meaning you want me to do some digging?”
“You know me too well, Mairie.”
“I know I’ve done you plenty of favors in the past, John, and the scales never seem to balance.”
“Might be different this time.”
She laughed tiredly. “Another line you always use.”
“All right then, call it your retirement gift to me.”
She studied him more closely. “I’d forgotten you were on your way out.”
“I’m
already
out. Corbyn’s suspended me.”
“Why did he do that?”
“I badmouthed a pal of his called Sir Michael Addison.”
“The banker?” Her intonation lifted along with her spirits.
“There’s a tie—a loose tie—between him and Todorov.”
“How loose?”
“The whole six degrees.”
“Intriguing nevertheless.”
“Knew you’d think so.”
“And you’ll tell me the story?”
“I’ll tell you what I can,” Rebus corrected her.
“In return for what exactly?”
“A man called Andropov.”
“He’s the Russian industrialist.”
“That’s right.”
“Recently in town as part of a trade delegation.”
“They all went home; Andropov stayed.”
“I didn’t know that.” She pursed her lips. “So what is it you want to know?”
“Who he is and how he got his money. Again, there’s a hookup to Todorov.”
“In that they’re both Russian?”
“I’ve heard they knew one another, back in the mists of time.”
“And?”
“And the night Todorov died, he was drinking in the same bar as his old classmate.”
Mairie Henderson let out a low, sustained whistle. “No one else has this?”
Rebus shook his head. “And there’s plenty more.”
“If I run a story, your bosses are bound to guess the source.”
“The source is back to being a civilian in a couple of days.”
“Meaning no comebacks?”
“No comebacks,” he agreed.
Her eyes narrowed. “I’m betting there’s plenty more dirt you could be dishing.”
“Saving it for my memoirs, Mairie.”
She studied him again. “You’ll be needing a ghostwriter,” she informed him. Didn’t sound like she was joking.
The
Scotsman
newspaper was based in an up-to-date facility at the bottom of Holyrood Road, opposite the BBC and the Parliament building. Although Mairie Henderson had left her full-time job there several years back, she was still a known face and carried her own security pass.
“How did you wangle that?” Rebus asked as he signed himself in at reception. Henderson tapped the side of her nose as Rebus pinned on his visitor badge. The office behind the reception desk was large and open-plan and seemed to be staffed by a skeleton crew of only nine or ten bodies. Rebus said as much, and Henderson told him that he was living in the past.
“Doesn’t take many hands to produce a paper these days.”
“You don’t sound too enthusiastic.”
“The old building had a bit of character to it. And so did the old newsroom, everyone scuttling around like mad trying to put a story together. Editor with his sleeves rolled up, effing and blinding. Subs smoking like chimneys and trying to sneak puns into the copy . . . cutting and pasting by hand. Everything’s just gotten so . . .” She sought the right word. “Efficient,” she eventually said.
“Being a cop was more fun in the old days, too,” Rebus assured her, “but we also made more mistakes.”
“At your age, you’re allowed to be nostalgic.”
“But you’re not?”
She just shrugged and sat herself at a vacant computer, gesturing for him to pull up a chair. A middle-aged man with a scraggy beard and wearing half-moon glasses walked past and said hello.
“Hiya, Gordon,” Henderson replied. “Remind me of the password, will you?”
“Connery,” he said.
She thanked him and then, watching him leave, gave a little smile. “Half the people in here,” she told Rebus, her voice lowered, “think I’m still on the payroll.”
“Handy to be able to waltz in.” He watched her tap in the password and start to search the computer for the name Andropov.
“First name?” she asked.
“Sergei.”
She searched again, halving the initial results.
“We could have logged onto the Internet anywhere,” Rebus told her.
“This isn’t the Internet as such; it’s a database of news stories.”
“From the
Scotsman
?”
“And every other paper you can think of.” She tapped the screen. “Just over five hundred hits,” she stated.
“Seems a lot.”
She gave him a look. “It’s minuscule. Want me to print the pages, or are you happy to scroll?”
“Let’s see how I get on.”
She rose from her chair and slid it aside so Rebus could roll his own chair closer to the screen. “I’m going to do the rounds, see what the gossip is.”
“What do I say if anyone asks me what I’m up to?”
She thought for a moment. “Tell them you’re the economics editor.”
“Fair enough.”
She left him to it, climbing the stairs to the next level. Rebus started clicking and reading. The first few stories concerned Andropov’s business dealings. With perestroika had come a loosening of state controls on industry, allowing men like Andropov to buy into base metals, mining and the rest. Andropov had specialized in zinc, copper, and aluminum, before branching out into coal and steel. Ventures into gas and oil had stalled, but in other areas he’d made a killing. Too big a killing, perhaps, leading the authorities to investigate him for corruption. Depending on which investigative journalist you turned to, Andropov was either a martyr or a crook. After twenty minutes, Rebus tried refining the search by adding “background” to the keywords. He was rewarded with a potted biography of Andropov. Born 1960, the same year as Alexander Todorov, in the Zhdanov suburb of Moscow, also the same as Todorov.
“Well, well,” Rebus muttered to himself. There was no information as to which schools or colleges Andropov had attended. His early life, it seemed, hadn’t been investigated at all. Rebus tried cross referencing Andropov’s name with Todorov but drew a blank. But while he was looking at the entries for Todorov—seventeen thousand of them worldwide; Mairie had been right about Andropov’s five hundred being small beer—he tried finding information on the poet’s university career. Some of his lectures could be downloaded, but there was no mention of improprieties with students. Maybe Andropov had been spinning him a line.
“Hello.” The bearded man was back.
“Morning,” Rebus said. He seemed to remember that the man’s name was Gordon, and Gordon was now peering over his shoulder at the screen.
“I thought Sandy was covering the Todorov story,” he commented.
“Yes,” Rebus said. “I’m just adding background.”
“Ah.” Gordon nodded slowly, as though this made sense. “So Sandy’s still stuck outside Gayfield Square?”
“Last I heard,” Rebus agreed.
“What’s the betting the cops screw it up, as per?”
“I wouldn’t risk my shirt on it,” Rebus said, voice hardening.
“Well, shoulder to the grindstone, nose to the mill . . .” Gordon was laughing as he moved away.
“Prick,” Rebus said, just loud enough to be overheard. Gordon stopped in his tracks, but didn’t turn round, and started walking again after a moment. Either thought he’d misheard or didn’t want to start something. Rebus got back to his reading, switching from Todorov to Andropov again, and almost immediately came across a name he recognized: Roddy Denholm. Seemed that Russia’s New Rich liked to buy art. The prices paid at auction were hitting record highs. A plutocrat wasn’t a plutocrat without the obligatory Picasso or Matisse. Rebus put some of the news stories onto the screen. They were accompanied by photos taken at sales in Moscow, New York, and London. Five million there, ten million here . . . Andropov was mentioned only tangentially, as someone with a taste for up-to-the-minute art, predominantly British. As such, he bought judiciously from galleries and shows rather than the likes of Sotheby’s or Christie’s. Recent purchases included two Alison Watts and work by Callum Innes, David Mach, Douglas Gordon, and Roddy Denholm. Siobhan had mentioned Denholm to Rebus—the guy doing the art show at the Parliament, Riordan working for him. The journalist writing the piece had added that “as all these artists are Scottish, Mr. Andropov may be starting to specialize.” Rebus jotted down the names and started some new searches. A further fifteen minutes passed before Mairie Henderson returned with two coffees.