Fleshmarket Alley (2004) (39 page)

“I need to see her,” Ray Mangold said, voice suddenly dry and brittle-sounding. “Just the two of us . . . five minutes is all I need.”

“Can’t do it, Ray,” Young said firmly.

“I’m giving you nothing till you let me see her.”

But Les Young was shaking his head. Mangold’s gaze shifted to Siobhan.

“DI Young’s in charge,” she told him. “He calls the shots.”

Mangold leaned forward, elbows on the table, head in hands. When he spoke, his words were muffled by his palms.

“We didn’t catch that, Ray,” Young said.

“No? Well, catch this!” And Mangold lunged across the table, swinging a fist. Young jerked back. Siobhan was on her feet, grabbed the arm and twisted. Young dropped his pen and was around the table, putting a headlock on Mangold.

“Bastards!” Mangold spat. “You’re
all
bastards, the whole bloody lot of you!”

And then, a minute or so later, and with backup arriving, restraints at the ready: “Okay, okay . . . I did it. Happy now, you shower of shite? I stuck a hammer in his head. So what? Doing the world a huge bloody favor, that’s what it was.”

“We need to hear it from you again,” Siobhan hissed in his ear.

“What?”

“When we let go of you, you’ll need to say it all again.” She released her grip as the officers moved in.

“Otherwise,” she explained, “people might think I’d twisted your arm.”

They took a coffee break eventually, Siobhan standing with eyes closed as she leaned against the drinks machine. Les Young had opted for the soup, despite her warnings. He now sniffed the contents of his cup and winced.

“What do you think?” he asked.

Siobhan opened her eyes. “I think you chose badly.”

“I meant Mangold.”

Siobhan shrugged. “He wants to go down for it.”

“Yes, but did he do it?”

“Either him or Ishbel.”

“He loves her, doesn’t he?”

“I get that impression.”

“So he could be covering for her?”

She shrugged again. “Wonder if he’ll end up on the same wing as Stuart Bullen. That would be a kind of justice, wouldn’t it?”

“I suppose so.” Young sounded skeptical.

“Cheer up, Les,” Siobhan told him. “We got a result.”

He made a show of studying the drinks machine’s front panel. “Something you don’t know, Siobhan . . .”

“What?”

“This is my first time leading a murder team. I want to get it
right.
”

“Doesn’t always happen in the real world, Les.” She patted his shoulder. “But at least now you can say you’ve dipped a toe in the water.”

He smiled. “While you headed for the deep.”

“Yes . . .” she said, voice trailing off, “and nearly didn’t come up again.”

32

E
dinburgh Royal Infirmary was situated just outside the city, in an area called Little France. At night, Rebus thought it resembled Whitemire, the car park lit but the world around it in darkness. There was a starkness to the design, and the compound seemed self-contained. The air as he stepped from his Saab felt different from the city center: fewer poisons, but colder, too. It didn’t take him long to find Alan Traynor’s room. Rebus himself had been a patient here not so long ago, but in an open ward. He wondered if someone was paying for Traynor’s privacy: his American employers maybe.

Or the UK’s own Immigration Service.

Felix Storey sat dozing by the bedside. He’d been reading a women’s magazine. From its frayed edges, Rebus guessed it had come from a pile in another part of the hospital. Storey had removed his suit jacket and placed it over the back of his chair. He still wore his tie, but with the top button of his shirt undone. For him it was a casual look. He was snoring quietly as Rebus entered. Traynor, on the other hand, was awake but looked dopey. His wrists were bandaged, and a tube led into one arm. His eyes barely focused on Rebus as he entered. Rebus gave a little wave anyway, and kicked one of the chair legs. Storey’s head jerked up with a snort.

“Wakey-wakey,” Rebus said.

“What time is it?” Storey ran a hand down his face.

“Quarter past nine. You make a lousy guard.”

“I just want to be here when he wakes up.”

“Looks to me like he’s been awake awhile.” Rebus nodded toward Traynor. “Is he on painkillers?”

“A hefty dose, so the doctor said. They want a shrink to look at him tomorrow.”

“Get anything out of him today?”

Storey shook his head. “Hey,” he said, “you let me down.”

“How’s that?” Rebus asked.

“You promised you’d go with me to Whitemire.”

“I break promises all the time,” Rebus said with a shrug. “Besides, I had some thinking to do.”

“About what?”

Rebus studied him. “Easier if I show you.”

“I don’t . . .” Storey looked towards Traynor.

“He’s not fit to answer any questions, Felix. Anything he gives you would be thrown out of court . . .”

“Yes, but I shouldn’t just . . .”

“I think you should.”

“Someone has to keep watch.”

“In case he tries topping himself again? Look at him, Felix, he’s in another place.”

Storey looked, and seemed to concede the point.

“Won’t take long,” Rebus assured him.

“What is it you want me to see?”

“That would spoil the surprise. Do you have a car?” Rebus watched Storey nod. “Then you can follow me.”

“Follow you where?”

“Got any trunks with you?”

“Trunks?” Storey’s eyebrows furrowed.

“Never mind,” Rebus said. “We’ll just have to improvise . . .”

Rebus drove carefully, keeping an eye on the headlights in his rearview. Improvisation, he couldn’t help thinking, was at the heart of everything he was about to do. Halfway, he called Storey on his mobile, told him they were nearly there.

“This better be worth it,” came the tetchy reply.

“I promise,” Rebus said. The city outskirts first: bungalows fronting the route, housing schemes hidden behind them. It was the bungalows visitors would see, Rebus realized, and they’d think what a nice, upright place Edinburgh was. The reality was waiting somewhere else, just out of their sight line.

Waiting to pounce.

There wasn’t much traffic about: they were skirting the southern edge of the city. Morningside was the first real clue that Edinburgh might have some nightlife: bars and take-aways, supermarket and students. Rebus signaled left, checking in his mirror that Storey did the same. When his mobile sounded, he knew it would be Storey: irritated further and wondering how much longer.

“We’re here,” Rebus muttered under his breath. He pulled into the curb, Storey following suit. The Immigration man was first out of his car.

“Time to stop with the games,” he said.

“I couldn’t agree more,” Rebus answered, turning away. They were on a leafy suburban street, large houses silhouetted against the sky. Rebus pushed open a gate, knowing Storey would follow. Instead of trying the bell, Rebus headed for the driveway, walking purposefully now.

The Jacuzzi was still there, its cover removed once more, steam billowing from it.

Big Ger Cafferty in the water, arms stretched out along its sides. Opera music on the sound system.

“You sit in that thing all day?” Rebus asked.

“Rebus,” Cafferty drawled. “And you’ve brought your boyfriend: how touching.” He ran a hand over his matted chest hair.

“I’m forgetting,” Rebus said, “the two of you have never actually met in person, have you? Felix Storey, meet Morris Gerald Cafferty.”

Rebus was studying Storey’s reaction. The Londoner slid his hands into his pockets. “Okay,” he said, “what’s going on here?”

“Nothing.” Rebus paused. “I just thought you might want to put a face to the voice.”

“What?”

Rebus didn’t bother answering straightaway. He was staring up at the room above the garage. “No Joe tonight, Cafferty?”

“He gets the odd night off, when I don’t think I’ll be needing him.”

“Number of enemies you’ve made, I wouldn’t have thought you ever felt safe.”

“We all need a bit of risk from time to time.” Cafferty had busied himself with the control panel, turning off jets and music both. But the light was still active, still changing color every ten or fifteen seconds.

“Look, am I being set up here?” Storey asked. Rebus ignored him. His eyes were on Cafferty.

“You bear a grudge a long time, I’ll give you that. When was it you fell out with Rab Bullen? Fifteen . . . twenty years ago? But that grudge gets passed down the generations, eh, Cafferty?”

“I’ve nothing against Stu,” Cafferty growled.

“Wouldn’t say no to a bit of his action, though, eh?” Rebus paused to light a cigarette. “Nicely played, too.” He blew smoke into the night sky, where it merged with the steam.

“I don’t want any of this,” Felix Storey said. He made as if to turn and leave. Rebus let him, betting he wouldn’t carry through. After a few paces, Storey stopped and turned, then retraced his steps.

“Say what you want to say,” he challenged.

Rebus examined the tip of his cigarette. “Cafferty here is your ‘Deep Throat,’ Felix. Cafferty knew what was going on because he had a man on the inside—Barney Grant, Bullen’s lieutenant. Barney feeding info to Cafferty, Cafferty passing it along to you. In return for which, Grant would get Bullen’s empire handed to him on a plate.”

“What does it matter?” Storey asked, brow furrowing. “Even if it
was
your friend Cafferty here . . .”

“Not
my
friend, Felix—
yours.
But the thing is, Cafferty wasn’t just passing you information . . .
He
came up with the passports . . . Barney Grant planted them in the safe, probably while we were chasing Bullen down that tunnel. Bullen would take the fall and all would be well. Thing was, how did Cafferty
get
the passports?” Rebus looked at both men and shrugged. “Easy enough if it’s Cafferty who’s smuggling the immigrants into the UK.” His gaze had rested on Cafferty, whose eyes seemed smaller, blacker than ever. Whose entire rounded face glistened with malice. Rebus gave another theatrical shrug. “Cafferty, not Bullen. Cafferty feeding Bullen to you, Felix, so he could bag all that business for himself . . .”

“And the beauty is,” Cafferty drawled, “there’s no proof, and absolutely nothing you can do about it.”

“I know,” Rebus said.

“Then what’s the point of saying it?” Storey snarled.

“Listen and you’ll learn,” Rebus told him.

Cafferty was smiling. “With Rebus, there’s always a point,” he conceded.

Rebus flicked ash into the tub, which put a sudden stop to the smile. “Cafferty is the one who knows London . . . he has contacts there. Not Stuart Bullen. Remember that photo of you, Cafferty? There you were, with your London ‘associates.’ Even Felix here let slip that there’s a London connection involved in all of this. Bullen didn’t have the muscle—or anything else—to put together something as meticulous as people-smuggling. He’s the fall guy, so things ease up for a while. Thing is, putting Bullen in the frame becomes a whole lot easier if someone else is on board—someone like you, Felix. An Immigration officer with an eye for an easy score. You crack the case, it means a big fillip. Bullen’s the only one who’s being shafted. Far as you’re concerned, he’s scum anyway. You’re not going to worry about who’s behind the shafting or what might be in it for them. But here’s the thing—all the glory you’re going to get, it adds up to the cube of bugger-all, because what you’ve done is smoothed Cafferty’s path. It’ll be
him
in charge from now on, not only bringing illegals into the country, but working them to death, too.” Rebus paused. “So thanks for that.”

“This is bullshit,” Storey spat.

“I don’t think so,” Rebus said. “To me, it makes perfect sense . . . it’s the only thing that does.”

“But like you said,” Cafferty interrupted, “you can’t make any of it stick.”

“That’s true,” Rebus admitted. “I just wanted to let Felix here know who he’d really been working for all this time.” He flicked the rest of his cigarette onto the lawn.

Storey lunged at him, teeth bared. Rebus dodged the move, grabbing him in a choke hold around the neck, forcing his head into the water. Storey was maybe an inch taller . . . younger and fitter. But he didn’t have Rebus’s heft, his arms flailing, uncertain whether to search for purchase on the side of the tub or try to unlock Rebus’s grip.

Cafferty sat in his corner of the pool, watching the action as if he were ringside.

“You haven’t won,” Rebus hissed.

“From where I’m sitting, I’d say you’re wrong.”

Rebus realized that Storey’s resistance was lessening. He released his grip and took a few steps back, out of range of the Londoner. Storey fell to his knees, spluttering. But he was soon up again, advancing on Rebus.

“Enough!” Cafferty barked. Storey turned towards him, ready to channel his anger elsewhere. But there was something about Cafferty . . . even at the age he was, overweight and naked in a tub . . .

It would take a braver—or more foolish—man than Storey to stand up to him.

Something Storey knew immediately. He made the right decision, shoulders untensing, fists unclenching, trying to control his coughs and splutters.

“Well, boys,” Cafferty went on, “I think it’s past both your bedtimes, isn’t it?”

“I’m not finished yet,” Rebus stated.

“I thought you were,” Cafferty said. It sounded like an order, but Rebus dismissed it with a twitch of the mouth.

“Here’s what I want.” His attention was on Storey now. “I said I can’t prove anything, but that might not stop me trying—and shit has a way of making a smell, even when you can’t see it.”

“I’ve told you, I didn’t know who ‘Deep Throat’ was.”

“And you weren’t just a tiny bit suspicious, even when he gave you a tip such as who owned the red BMW?” Rebus waited for an answer, but got none. “See, Felix, the way it’ll seem to most people, either you’re dirty or else incredibly stupid. Neither looks good on the old CV.”

“I didn’t know,” Storey persisted.

“But I’m betting you had an inkling. You just ignored it and concentrated on all those brownie points you’d be getting.”

“What do you want?” Storey croaked.

“I want the Yurgii family—the mother and kids—released from Whitemire. I want them housed somewhere you’d choose for yourself. By tomorrow.”

“You think I can do that?”

“You’ve blown an immigrant scam apart, Felix—they owe you.”

“And that’s it?”

Rebus shook his head. “Not quite. Chantal Rendille . . . I don’t want her deported.”

Storey seemed to be waiting for more, but Rebus was finished.

“I’m sure Mr. Storey will see what he can do,” Cafferty said levelly—as if his was always the voice of reason.

“Any of your illegals turn up in Edinburgh, Cafferty . . .” Rebus began, knowing the threat to be empty.

Cafferty knew it, too, but he smiled and bowed his head. Rebus turned to Storey. “For what it’s worth, I think you just got greedy. You saw a golden chance and you weren’t going to question it, far less turn it down. But there’s a chance to redeem yourself.” He jabbed a finger in Cafferty’s direction. “By pointing your guns at
him.
”

Storey nodded slowly, both men—locked in combat just moments before—now staring at the figure in the tub. Cafferty had half turned, as if he’d already dismissed them from his mind and his life. He was busy with the control panel, jets suddenly gushing into the tub again. “You’ll bring your trunks next time?” he called as Rebus started heading for the driveway.

“And an extension cable,” Rebus called back.

For the two-bar electric fire. Watch the lights change color when
that
hit the water . . .