Authors: Ian Rankin
He spent that evening on the trail of Deek Torrance, even driving out to South Queensferry – the most forlorn hope of a forlorn night. Deek would have been paid plenty to get well away from the city. By now, he might not even be in the western hemisphere. Then again, maybe they’d have silenced him in some other more permanent way.
‘Some pal you turned out to be,’ Rebus muttered to himself more than once. And to complete the circle, he headed out to his favourite massage parlour. He always seemed to be the only customer, and had wondered how the Organ Grinder made his money. But now of course he knew: the Organ Grinder would come to your home. Always supposing you were wealthy enough … or had reputation enough.
‘How long have you been going out there?’ Rebus asked. Prone on the table, he was aware that the Organ Grinder could break his neck or his back with consummate ease. But he didn’t think he would. He hoped his instincts weren’t wrong in this at least.
‘Just a couple of months. Someone at a health club told his wife about me.’
‘Know her, do you?’
‘Not really. She thinks I’m too rough.’
‘That’s droll, coming from the wife of Big Ger Cafferty.’
‘He’s a villain, then?’
‘Whatever gave you that idea?’
‘You forget, I’ve not been up here that long.’
True, Rebus had forgotten the Organ Grinder’s north London pedigree. When in the mood, he told wonderful stories of that city.
‘Anything about him you want to tell me?’ Rebus ventured, despite the thick hands on his neck.
‘Nothing to tell,’ said the Organ Grinder. ‘Silence is a virtue, Inspector.’
‘And there’s too much of it around. You ever seen anyone out at his house?’
‘Just his wife and the chauffeur.’
‘Chauffeur? You mean the man mountain with the knob of gristle for a left ear?’
‘That explains the haircut,’ mused the Organ Grinder.
‘Precious little else would,’ said Rebus.
After the Organ Grinder had finished with him, Rebus went back to the flat. Michael was watching a late film, the glow from the TV set flicking across his rapt face. Rebus went over to the TV and switched it off. Michael still stared at the screen, not blinking. There was a cup of cold tea in his hand. Gently, Rebus took it from him.
‘Mickey,’ he said. ‘I need someone to talk to.’
Michael blinked and looked up at him. ‘You can always talk to me,’ he said. ‘You know that.’
‘I know that,’ said Rebus. ‘We’ve got something else in common now.’
‘What’s that?’
Rebus sat down. ‘We’ve both been recently suspended.’
Chief Superintendent Watson dreaded these Saturday mornings, when his wife would try to entice him to go shopping with her. Dreary hours in department stores and clothes shops, not to mention the supermarket, where he’d be guinea-pig for the latest microwavable Malaysian meal or some rude looking unpronounceable fruit. Worst of all, of course, he saw other men in exactly the same predicament. It was a wonder one of them didn’t lose the rag and start screaming about how they used to be the hunters, fierce and proud.
But this morning he had the excuse of work. He always tried to have an excuse either for nipping into St Leonard’s or else bringing work home with him. He sat in his study, listening to Radio Scotland and reading the newspaper, the house quiet and still around him. Then the telephone rang, annoying him until he remembered he was waiting for just this call. It was Ballistics at Fettes. After he took the call, he looked up a number in his card index and made another.
‘I want you in my office Monday morning,’ he told Rebus, ‘for formal questioning.’
‘From which I take it,’ said Rebus, ‘that I bought a lulu of a gun.’
‘Lulu
and
her backing band.’
‘They were called the Luvvers, sir. The bullets matched up?’
‘Yes.’
‘You knew they would,’ said Rebus. ‘And so did I.’
‘It’s awkward, John.’
‘It’s supposed to be.’
‘For you as well as me.’
‘With all respect, sir, I wasn’t thinking of you …’
When Siobhan Clarke woke up that morning, she glanced at the clock then shot out of bed. Christ, it was nearly nine! She had just run water for a bath, and was looking for clean underwear in the bathroom, when it hit her. It was the weekend! Nothing to rush for. In fact, quite the opposite. The relief team had taken over Moneybags, just for this first weekend, to see if there was any sign of life at Dougary’s office. According to Trading Standards, Dougary’s weekends were sacrosanct. He wouldn’t go anywhere near Gorgie. But they had to be sure, so for this weekend only Operation Moneybags had a relief retinue, keeping an eye on the place. If nothing happened, next weekend they wouldn’t bother. Dougary was blessedly fixed in his ways. She hadn’t had to hang about too often on the surveillance past five-thirty, more often a bit earlier. Which suited Siobhan fine. It meant she’d managed a couple of useful trips to Dundee out of hours.
She’d arranged another trip for this morning, but didn’t need to leave Edinburgh for an hour or so yet. And she was sure to be home before the Hibees kicked off.
Time now for some coffee. The living room was messy, but she didn’t mind. She usually set aside Sunday morning for all the chores. That was the nice thing about living by yourself: your mess was your own. There was no one to comment on it or be disturbed by it. Crisp bags, pizza boxes, three-quarters-empty bottles of wine, old newspapers and magazines, CD cases, items of clothing, opened and unopened mail, plates and cutlery and every mug in the flat – these could all be found in her fourteen-by-twelve living room. Somewhere under the debris there was a futon and a cordless telephone.
The telephone was ringing. She reached under a pizza carton, picked up the receiver, and yanked up the aerial.
‘Is that you, Clarke?’
‘Yes, sir.’ The last person she’d been expecting: John Rebus. She wandered through to the bathroom.
‘Terrible interference,’ said Rebus.
‘I was just turning off the bath.’
‘Christ, you’re in the –’
‘No, sir, not yet. Cordless phone.’
‘I hate those things. You’re talking for five minutes, then you hear the toilet flushing. Well, sorry to … what time is it?’
‘Just turned nine.’
‘Really?’ He sounded dead beat.
‘Sir, I heard about your suspension.’
‘That figures.’
‘I know it’s none of my business, but what were you doing with a gun in the first place?’
‘Psychic protection.’
‘Sorry?’
‘That’s what my brother calls it. He should know, he used to be a hypnotist.’
‘Sir, are you all right?’
‘I’m fine. Are you going to the game?’
‘Not if you need me for anything else.’
‘Well, I was wondering … do you still have the Cafferty flies?’
She had walked back into the living room. Oh, she still had the flies, all right. Their contents were spread across her coffee table, her desk, and half the breakfast bar.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Any chance you could bring them over to my flat? Only I’ve got the Central Hotel files here. Somewhere in them there’s a clue I’m missing.’
‘You want to cross-reference with the Cafferty files? That’s a big job.’
‘Not if two people are working on it.’
‘What time do you want me there?’
Saturday at Brian Holmes’ aunt’s house in Barnton was a bit like Sunday, except that on Saturday he didn’t have to deny her his company at the local presbyterian kirk. Was it any wonder that, having found the Heartbreak Cafe such a welcoming spot, he should have spent so long there? But those days were over. He tried to accept the fact that ‘Elvis’ was dead, but it was difficult. No more King Shrimp Creole or Blue Suede Choux or In the Gateau, no more Blue Hawaii cocktails. No more late nights of tequila slammers (with Jose Cuervo Gold, naturally) or Jim Beam (Eddie’s preferred bourbon).
‘“Keep on the Beam,” he used to say.’
‘There there, pet.’ Oh great, now his aunt had caught him talking to himself. She’d brought him a cup of Ovaltine.
‘This stuff’s for bedtime,’ he told her. ‘It’s not even noon.’
‘It’ll calm you down, Brian.’
He took a sip. Ach, it didn’t taste bad anyway. Pat had dropped round to ask if he’d be a pall-bearer on Monday.
‘It’d be an honour,’ Holmes had told him, meaning it. Pat hadn’t wanted to meet his eyes. Maybe he too was thinking of the nights they’d all spent slurring after-hours gossip at the bar. On one of those nights, when they’d been talking about great Scottish disasters, Eddie had suddenly announced that he’d been there when the Central Hotel caught fire.
‘I was filling in for a guy, cash in the hand and no questions. Dead on my feet after the day-shift at the Eyrie.’
‘I didn’t know you’d worked at the Eyrie.’
‘Assistant to the head man himself. If he doesn’t get a Michelin recommendation this year, he’d be as well giving up.’
‘So what happened at the Central?’ Holmes’ head hadn’t been entirely befuddled by spirits.
‘Some poker game was going on, up in one of the rooms on the first floor.’ He seemed to be losing it, drifting towards sleep. ‘Tam and Eck were looking for players …’
‘Tam and Eck?’
‘Tam and Eck Robertson …’
‘But what happened?’
‘It’s no good, Brian,’ said Pat Calder, ‘look at him.’
Though Eddie’s eyes were open, head resting on his arms, arms spread across the bar, he was asleep.
‘A cousin of mine was at Ibrox the day of the big crush,’ Pat revealed, cleaning a pint glass.
‘But do you remember where you were the night Jock Stein died?’ Holmes asked. More stories had followed, Eddie sleeping through all of them.
Permanently asleep now. And Holmes was to be pall-bearer number four. He’d asked Pat a few questions.
‘Funny,’ Pat had said, ‘your man Rebus asked me just the same.’
So Brian knew the case was in good hands.
Rebus drove around the lunchtime streets. On a Saturday, providing you steered clear of Princes Street, the city had a more relaxed feel. At least until about two-thirty, when either the east end or the west of the city (depending who was playing home) would fill with football fans. And on derby match days, best stay away from the centre altogether. But today wasn’t a derby match, and Hibs were at home, so the town was quiet.
‘You asked about him just the other week,’ a barman told Rebus.
‘And I’m asking again.’
He was again on the lookout for Deek Torrance; a seek and destroy mission. He doubted Deek would be around, but sometimes money and alcohol did terrible things to a man, boosting his confidence, making him unwary of danger and vengeance. Rebus’s hope was that Deek was still mingin’ somewhere on the money he’d paid for the gun. As hopes went, it was more forlorn than most. But he did stumble upon Chick Muir in a Leith social club, and was able to tell him the news.
‘That’s just awfy,’ Chick consoled. ‘I’ll keep my nose to the ground.’
Rebus appreciated the muddled sentiment. In Chick’s case, it wouldn’t be hard anyway. Informers were sometimes called snitches, and Chick’s snitch was about as big as they came.
One-thirty found him leaving a dingy betting shop. He’d seen more hope and smiles in a hospice, and fewer tears too. Ten minutes later he was sitting down to micro-waved haggis, neeps and tatties in the Sutherland Bar. Someone had left a newspaper on his chair, and he started to read it. By luck, it was open at a piece by Mairie Henderson.
‘You’re late,’ he said as Mairie herself sat down. She nearly stood up again in anger.
‘I was in here half an hour ago! Quarter past one, we arranged. I stayed till half past.’
‘I thought half past was the agreement,’ he said blithely.
‘You weren’t
here
at half past. You’re lucky I came back.’
‘Why did you?’
She tore the newspaper from him. ‘I left my paper.’
‘Not much in it anyway.’ He scooped more haggis into his mouth.
‘I thought you were buying me lunch.’
Rebus nodded towards the food counter. ‘Help yourself. They’ll add it to my tab.’
It took her a moment to decide that she was hungrier than she was angry. She came back from the food counter with a plate of quiche and bean salad, and grabbed her purse. ‘They don’t
have
tabs here!’ she informed him. Rebus winked.
‘Just my little joke.’ He tried to hand her some money, but she turned on her heels. Low heels, funny little shoes like children’s Doc Marten’s. And black tights. Rebus rolled the food around with his tongue. She sat down at last and took off her coat. It took her a moment to get comfortable.
‘Anything to drink?’ asked Rebus.
‘I suppose it’s my round?’ she snapped.
He shook his head, so she asked for a gin and fresh orange. Rebus got the drinks, a half of Guinness for himself. There was probably more nutrition in the Guinness than in the meal he’d just consumed.
‘So,’ said Mairie, ‘what’s the big secret?’
Rebus used his little finger to draw his initials on the thick head of his drink, knowing they’d still be there when he reached the bottom. ‘I’ve been shown the red card.’
That made her look up. ‘What? Suspended?’ She wasn’t angry with him any more. She was a reporter, sniffing a story. He nodded. ‘What happened?’ Excitedly she forked up a mouthful of kidney bean and chickpea. Rebus had had a crash-course in pulses from his tenants. Never mind red kids and chicks, he could tell a borlotti from a pinto at fifty yards downwind.
‘I came into possession of a handgun, a Colt 45. May or may not have been a copy.’
‘And?’ She nearly spattered him with pastry in her haste.
‘And it was the gun used in the Central Hotel shooting.’
‘No!’ Her screech caused several drinkers to pause before their next swallow. The Sutherland was that kind of place. Riots in the streets would have merited a single measured comment. Rebus could see Mairie’s head fairly filling to the brim with questions.
‘Do you still write for the Sunday edition?’ he asked her. She nodded, still busy trying to find an order for all the questions she had. ‘What about doing me a favour, then? I’ve always wanted to be on the front page …’