1

The pubs were opening again, and this time without the need to sign in and
order from your table. Standing at a bar seemed a novelty, though you were
aware of the bottle of hand sanitiser on the corner or over by the door, and the
track-and-trace QR code or the old-fashioned clipboard on which you
scrawled a name – any name, and contact number – any number. Rebus still
hadn’t a clue how the QR code worked. Now and again a savvier customer or
one of the bar staff would try showing him, but the information was like a
stone skimming across the surface of his brain, soon sinking, never to be
retrieved.
The pub he was in today was on Brougham Place. He had walked Brillo
across Bruntsfield Links in low winter sun, dog and owner casting long
shadows. There was the usual traffic on Melville Drive and plenty of students
using the footpaths. He supposed the university was back in business. Things
had been very quiet for a while, Rebus confined to barracks with his COPD
until the vaccine programme kicked in. But now he was a free man, and
boosted to boot. No more distanced meetings with his daughter and
granddaughter, them one side of the garden gate and him the other, shopping
left outside the door for him to collect. People could go about their lives
again. He could give Samantha and Carrie a hug, though he sensed a
reticence still in his granddaughter, who was yet to be jabbed. Were things
really getting back to normal, or was there no longer any normal for them to
get back to? The drinkers in today’s pub still slipped their masks back on if
they wanted to move about the place. They still twitched if anyone had a
sudden coughing fit. Lockdown had offered Rebus the perfect excuse not to
try seeing his doctor about the dizzy spells and chest pain. Maybe he’d do
something about that now.
Aye, maybe.
For the present, he contented himself with the evening paper. There was a
story about local businesses on the Royal Mile that felt under siege,
shoplifters and addicts menacing them and taking from them with seeming
impunity. Meanwhile in West Lothian a car had been vandalised with acid
and a nearby house attacked with a petrol bomb. Rebus knew that probably
meant a gang feud. Not that it was any of his business, not any more. When
his phone pinged, a drinker at the next table visibly flinched. Rebus gave a
slow shake of the head to reassure the man that it was just a normal text
rather than a COVID alert. But when he checked his screen, he realised it was
anything but normal, insofar as it was from a man called Cafferty. Morris
Gerald Cafferty, known as Big Ger.
You not out with the dog?
Rebus thought about ignoring the question, but he doubted Cafferty would
give up.
Yes, was his one-word reply. Cafferty’s response was immediate.
How come I can’t see you?
Pub.
Which one?
Why?
Are you on some sort of miser’s contract that means you can only type
three-letter texts?
Apparently not.
Rebus waited, took a sip from his pint, and waited some more. Brillo was
curled at his feet, not asleep but doing a passable impression. Rebus rested
his phone on the table and swirled the contents of his glass, renewing its
foamy head. He’d been told once that he shouldn’t do that, but he couldn’t
remember why.
Ping. I need to see you.
Ping. Come to the flat.
Ping. No rush. The next hour will do. Finish your drink and take the dog
home.
He debated how to answer. Did he even need to? No, because he was
going to go, and Cafferty knew he would. He would go because he was
curious – curious about all sorts of things. He would go because they had
history.
On the other hand, he didn’t want to look too keen. So instead he slipped
his mask on, walked to the bar and ordered another pint.
Cafferty’s home was a three-storey penthouse in a glass tower on a
development known as Quartermile. It had been the site of Edinburgh’s old
infirmary, and the original renovated buildings nestled between steel-andglass newcomers. Rebus’s own home was a ground-floor tenement flat on a
quiet street in Marchmont, only a ten-minute walk away. The two were
separated by Melville Drive. On Rebus’s side sat Bruntsfield Links, where
pitch-and-putt was played in summer months. On Cafferty’s side sat a large
grassy area known as the Meadows. There were usually plenty of joggers,
cyclists and dog-walkers making use of the space. Rebus had to avoid a few
as he walked towards Quartermile. He wondered if Cafferty was watching his
approach. On the off chance, he offered a two-fingered salute in the
building’s general direction, earning him a quizzical look from a young
couple seated on a nearby bench.
He paused for a moment outside the door to Cafferty’s building, wishing
he still smoked. A cigarette would have given him a reasonable excuse to
delay entering. Instead of which, he pressed the buzzer. The door clicked
open, the lift taking him up eight storeys to the top. The landing here led to
just the one door. It had already been opened. A well-built young man was
scooping up the mail that had obviously been pushed through the letter box
earlier. He was fair-haired and had a build toned by regular visits to the gym.
He sported what looked like a Fitbit on his left wrist. No actual watch and no
rings.
‘Who are you then?’ Rebus enquired.
‘Mr Cafferty’s personal assistant.’
‘Must be some job that, wiping his arse as and when. I know the way.’
Rebus snatched the mail from the man’s hand. He’d taken no more than two
steps down the hall when a strong grip on his shoulder pulled him up.
‘Need to pat you down.’
‘You’re joking, aren’t you?’ But it was clear from the look on the young
man’s face that he wasn’t. Rebus managed a sigh as he unzipped his padded
jacket. ‘You know I was invited here, right? Making me a guest rather than a
really shite ninja?’
The hands went around Rebus’s ribs, up under his arms and down his
back. When the man crouched to check the legs of his trousers, Rebus had a
mind to plant a knee in his face, but he reckoned there might be
consequences.
‘I hope you enjoyed that as much as I did,’ he said as the man rose to his
full height again. Instead of replying, the assistant grabbed the letters Rebus
had taken from him, then led the way into the flat’s cavernous open-plan
living area.
Rebus noted that the staircase had had a stairlift fitted, but otherwise the
place was as he remembered it. Cafferty was in an electric wheelchair over by
the floor-to-ceiling windows. There was a telescope there on a lowered
tripod, just the right height for someone seated.
‘I suppose you have to get your kicks somehow,’ Rebus commented.
Cafferty half turned his head and offered a thin smile. He had lost some
weight and there was an unhealthy pallor to his face. The eyes were still the
same steely orbs, though, the large clenched fists a reminder of past, bruising
endeavours.
‘No flowers or chocolates?’ he asked, looking Rebus up and down.
‘I’ve a dozen white lilies ordered for when the time comes.’ Rebus
pretended to be interested in the view across The Meadows to the
chimneypots of Marchmont. ‘They still haven’t found him, have they?’ he
mused. ‘The guy who shot you? Thinking is, they never will.’
‘Andrew, get John here a drink, will you? Maybe some coffee to
counteract the alcohol?’
‘What’s the point of alcohol if you counteract it?’
‘A whisky, then? I don’t have any beer.’
‘I don’t need anything, other than to know what I’m doing here.’
Cafferty stared at him. ‘It’s good to see you too.’ He turned the wheelchair
and aimed it at the long glass coffee table across the room, at the same time
gesturing to Andrew that he should leave.
‘Which is he, carer or bodyguard?’ Rebus asked as he followed.
Cafferty gestured towards the cream leather sofa and Rebus lowered
himself onto it, moving a large cushion emblazoned with a saltire out of the
way. The only thing on the table was the mail Andrew had placed there.
Cafferty’s gaze settled on him.
‘How about you?’ he enquired. ‘Did you have a good pandemic?’
‘I appear to have survived.’
‘Sums up the pair of us, wouldn’t you say? On the other hand, you
probably feel it as much as I do.’
‘Feel what?’
‘Mortality, chapping at the door.’ To reinforce the point, Cafferty rapped
the knuckles of his left hand against the arm of his wheelchair.
‘Well, this is cheery.’ Rebus leaned back, getting as comfortable as the
sofa would allow.
‘Life isn’t cheery, though, is it? We both learned that lesson long ago. And
stuck here during COVID, there wasn’t a hell of a lot to do except …’
Cafferty tapped his forehead.
‘If you’d asked, I’d have let you borrow a jigsaw.’
Cafferty gave a slow shake of the head. ‘You forget that I know you.
You’re telling me you sat for weeks on end in that flat of yours, that living
room, that head of yours, and didn’t brood? What else would you do?’
‘I had a dog that needed walking.’
‘And you had your daughter and granddaughter take it for those walks – I
saw them.’ He jerked his head towards the telescope. ‘And Siobhan Clarke
too, sometimes. She could never get within a hundred yards of here without
staring up. Staring, mind, not …’ He raised two fingers towards Rebus.
‘If you could maybe get to the point while there’s still a bit of light in the
sky.’
‘The point is …’ Cafferty sucked in some air and expelled it noisily. ‘I’ve
had nothing to do but think back on things I’ve done, people I’ve done them
to. Not all of it strictly merited.’
Rebus held up a hand, palm towards Cafferty. ‘I no longer take
confession. Siobhan’s the one you need to talk to.’
‘Not for this,’ Cafferty said quietly. ‘Not for this.’ He leaned forward in
his chair. ‘You remember Jack Oram?’
It took Rebus a few moments, Cafferty staying silent, content to let the
synapses do their slow-grinding work.
‘Another of your legion of the disappeared,’ Rebus eventually stated.
‘What was the name of his place – the Potter’s Bar?’
‘I knew you’d remember.’
‘A pool hall where a cue could come in handy in more than one way.
Oram’s name above the door but profits accruing to the man I’m looking at
right now. Oram starts skimming and pretty soon he needs more than a pool
cue to save him.’
‘I didn’t touch him.’
‘Of course you didn’t.’
‘He ran before I could. Turned into a missing person case. I’ve half an
idea your old pal Siobhan worked on it.’
‘So?’
‘So I hear he’s back in town.’
‘And?’
‘I wouldn’t mind a word, always supposing he can be persuaded.’
Rebus gave a grunt. ‘What are you going to do, have Andrew pat him
down with a bit more malice?’
‘I want to say sorry to the guy,’ Cafferty stated solemnly.
Rebus made show of cupping a hand to one ear. ‘I must have misheard.’
‘I’m serious. Yes, he took what wasn’t his, and, yes, he ran. He’s been
laying low the past four years, doubtless scared shitless. Probably only came
back because he heard about this.’ Cafferty thumped the arm of his
wheelchair again.
‘I’m still not sure I get it.’
‘That’s because you don’t know what he needed the money for. His
brother, Paul, died of cancer. Left a wife, two kids and precious little in the
bank. Jack wanted to help, whatever it took.’
‘Are you asking me to believe you’ve suddenly grown a conscience?’
‘I just want to tell him to his face that I’m sorry for what happened.’
‘So have your gofer go fetch him.’
‘I could do that, but seeing how you’re to blame for what happened to him
…’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Four and a bit years back, you were drinking in some pub, got chatting to
a guy called Eric Linn. Ring a bell?’
‘I’ve met a lot of people in a lot of pubs.’
‘The two of you had a mutual acquaintance, Albert Cousins, snitch of
yours from back in the day. Linn asked if you still saw him. You said no, but
you’d heard he was losing a bit too much at after-hours poker games in the
Potter’s Bar.’ Cafferty broke off. ‘Anything?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Well, Eric knew I had a stake in the bar and he reckoned I might be
interested, which I was, because nobody had thought to tell me about these
wee sessions. Jack Oram had been holding back, not cutting me in. That got
me doing some digging, and it started to look a lot like he’d been skimming
from the pool hall, too. Lucky for him, he got wind I’d be wanting a word.’
Cafferty paused again. ‘All because your mouth got a bit slack in a bar one
night.’
Rebus was silent for a moment. It was true about Albert Cousins and his
gambling. Rebus couldn’t have known not to mention it in conversation. All
the same …
‘The streets have changed,’ Cafferty was saying. ‘I’ve not got the eyes and
ears I once had.’
‘Neither have I.’
‘But you still know your way around, and you’ve got time on your hands.’
‘I’m a bit long in the tooth to play Humphrey Bogart.’ Rebus got to his
feet and retraced his steps to the window. He heard the whirr of the
wheelchair’s motor as Cafferty followed him.
‘I’m on the way out,’ Cafferty said quietly. ‘You noticed as soon as you
walked in here. Those bullets did too much damage.’ He suddenly looked
tired. ‘I just feel bad about Oram. I can’t explain it exactly, why him and
none of the others. And there’s money in it, of course.’ He was gesturing
towards a wall unit. ‘Envelope there with some cash in it. You wouldn’t be
Humphrey Bogart if you didn’t take it.’
‘Any chance of a femme fatale on the side?’
‘No promises, but who knows what you’ll turn up. It’s got to be better
than festering in that flat of yours.’
‘I’m halfway through another jigsaw, though. Sergeant Pepper, a thousand
pieces.’
‘It’ll still be there.’
Rebus turned and leaned in towards the seated figure. ‘Whatever happened
to Oram, I’m not to blame – you are. You’d have found out eventually, one
way or another. Plenty chancers out there who’d be happy to track him down
for you.’
‘I don’t want just any chancer, though – I want the biggest.’
Rebus gave a thin smile, almost despite himself. ‘So what have you got,
apart from his name?’
‘Could be he’s using an alias – I would, in his shoes. Last sighting was
near Gracemount a few weeks back.’
‘A lovely spot for an ex-cop to go walkabout. Is this you trying to get me
bushwhacked?’
‘He was coming out of a lettings agency on Lasswade Road.’
‘Didn’t you used to own a lettings agency?’
Cafferty nodded. ‘It changed hands a few years back.’
‘And that’s his last sighting – a lettings office that used to be in your
name?’
Cafferty offered a slow shrug. ‘I know you’d rather it was a Hollywood
mogul’s house, but that’s all I can offer.’
Rebus leaned down further, his hands gripping the arms of the wheelchair.
The two men fixed eyes, the silence lengthening. Then he pushed himself
upright and shook his head slowly.
‘I’ll think about it,’ he said, walking towards the door.
Cafferty stayed facing the window. In around five minutes, he could place his
eye to the telescope and watch Rebus heading back across the Meadows. He
heard the front door close and sensed Andrew behind him, awaiting
instructions.
‘Tea, I think,’ he said. ‘Builder’s strength.’
‘I didn’t like him,’ Andrew commented.
‘You’re a good judge of character. But then you probably wouldn’t like
me either if I wasn’t paying for the privilege. Though with what you’re
learning, maybe I should be charging tuition fees.’
Cafferty manoeuvred his wheelchair towards the wall unit. Rebus had
taken the envelope, of course he had. Satisfied, he moved to the coffee table,
reaching forward to sift through the mail. There was an A4-sized envelope
with familiar lettering in the top left corner: MGC Lettings. The cheapskate
bastards were still using his personalised stationery.
‘Hell is this?’ he muttered, opening the flap. There was a single sheet of
paper inside, a printout of a grainy photograph. The profile of a man, taken
through the doorway of a living room. Cafferty checked. Nothing on the back
of the photo and nothing else in the envelope.
Andrew was standing behind him. ‘Who’s that?’ he enquired.
‘Not the faintest fucking idea,’ Cafferty said. And he meant it. He didn’t
recognise the man at all.
The living room, though … Well, that was another matter entirely.