Beggars Banquet (30 page)

He had the silencer out of his pocket, but was having trouble coordinating his hands. He’d practised a hundred times in the dark, and had never had this trouble before. He’d had victims like her, though: the ones who accepted, who were maybe even a little grateful.

‘You know who wants you dead?’ he asked.

She nodded. ‘I think so. I may have gotten the odd fortune wrong, but I’ve made precious few enemies in my life.’

‘He’s a rich man.’

‘Very rich,’ she conceded. ‘Not all of it honest money. And I’m sure he’s well used to getting what he wants.’ She slid the ball away, brought out the cards again and began shuffling them. ‘So ask me your question.’

He was screwing the silencer on to the end of the barrel. The pistol was loaded, he only had to slide the safety off. He licked his lips again. So hot in here, so dry . . .

‘Why?’ he asked. ‘Why does he want a fortune-teller dead?’

She got up, made to open the curtains.

‘No,’ he commanded, pointing the gun at her, sliding off the safety. ‘Keep them closed.’

‘Afraid to shoot me in daylight?’ When he didn’t answer, she pulled open one curtain, then blew out the candles. He kept the pistol trained on her: a head shot, quick and always fatal. ‘I’ll tell you,’ she said, sliding into her seat again. She motioned for him to sit. After a moment’s hesitation, he did so, the pistol steady in his right hand. Wisps of smoke from the extinguished candles rose either side of her.

‘We were young when we met,’ she began. ‘I was already working in a fairground - not this one. One night, he decided there had been enough of a courtship.’ She looked deep into his eyes, his own oak-coloured eyes. ‘Oh yes, he’s used to getting what he wants. You know what I’m saying?’ she went on quietly. ‘There was no question of consent. I tried to have the baby in secret, but it’s hard to keep secrets from a man like him, a man with money, someone people fear. My baby was stolen from me. I began travelling then, and I’ve been travelling ever since. But always with my ear to the ground, always hearing things.’ Her eyes were liquid now. ‘You see, I knew a time would come when my baby would grow old enough to begin asking questions. And I knew the baby’s father would not want the truth to come out.’ She reached out a shaking hand, reached past the gun to touch his cheek. ‘I just didn’t think he’d be so cruel.’

‘Cruel?’

‘So cruel as to send his own son - our son - to do his killing.’

He shot to his feet again, banged his fists against the wall of the caravan. Rested his head there and screwed shut his eyes, the oak-coloured eyes - mirrors of her own - which had told her all she’d needed to know. He’d left the pistol on the table. She lifted it, surprised by its weight, and turned it in her hand.

‘I’ll kill him,’ he groaned. ‘I swear, I’ll kill him for this.’

With a smile, she slid the safety catch on, placed the gun back on the table. When he turned back to her, blinking away tears, she looked quite calm, almost serene, as if her faith in him had been rewarded at last. In her hand, she was holding a Tarot card.

The hanged man.

‘It will need to look like an accident,’ she said. ‘Either that or suicide.’

Outside, the screams of frightened children: waltzers and big wheel and ghost train. One of his hands fell lightly on hers, the other reaching for his pistol.

‘Mother,’ he said, with all the tenderness his parched soul could muster.

And over the years he had honed his art. His escapes from prison, his shrugging off of guards and prison officers, his vanishing acts were the stuff of lights-out stories in jails the length and breadth of Scotland. He was called ‘The Grease-Man’, ‘The Blink’, and many other names, including the obvious ‘Houdini’ and the not-so-obvious ‘Claude’ (Claude Rains having starred as the original
Invisible Man
).

Bernie Few was beautiful. As a petty thief he was hopeless, but after capture he started to show his real prowess. He wasn’t made for being a housebreaker; but he surely did shine as a jailbreaker. He’d stuffed himself into rubbish bags and mail sacks, taken the place of a corpse from one prison hospital, squeezed his wiry frame out of impossibly small windows (sometimes buttering his naked torso in preparation), and crammed himself into ventilation shafts and heating ducts.

But Bernie Few had a problem. Once he’d scaled the high walls, waded through sewers, sprinted from the prison bus, or cracked his guard across the head, once he’d done all this and was outside again, breathing free air and melting into the crowd . . . his movements were like clockwork. All his ingenuity seemed to be exhausted. The prison psychologists put it differently. They said he wanted to be caught, really. It was a game to him.

But to Detective Inspector John Rebus, it was more than a game. It was a chance for a drink.

Bernie would do three things. One, he’d go throw a rock through his ex-wife’s living-room window. Two, he’d stand in the middle of Princes Street telling everyone to go to hell (and other places besides). And three, he’d get drunk in Scott’s Bar. These days, option one was difficult for Bernie, since his ex-wife had not only moved without leaving a forwarding address but had, at Rebus’s suggestion, gone to live on the eleventh floor of an Oxgangs tower block. No more rocks through the living-room window, unless Bernie was handy with ropes and crampons.

Rebus preferred to wait for Bernie in Scott’s Bar, where they refused to water down either the whisky or the language. Scott’s was a villain’s pub, one of the ropiest in Edinburgh. Rebus recognised half the faces in the place, even on a dull Wednesday afternoon. Bail faces, appeal faces. They recognised him, too, but there wasn’t going to be any trouble. Every one of them knew why he was here. He hoisted himself on to a barstool and lit a cigarette. The TV was on, showing a satellite sports channel. Cricket, some test between England and the West Indies. It is a popular fallacy that the Scots don’t watch cricket. Edinburgh pub drinkers will watch
anything
, especially if England are involved, more especially if England are odds on to get a drubbing. Scott’s, as depressing a watering hole as you could ever imagine, had transported itself to the Caribbean for the occasion.

Then the door to the toilets opened with a nerve-jarring squeal, and a man loped out. He was tall and skinny, looselimbed, hair falling over his eyes. He had a hand on his fly, just checking prior to departure, and his eyes were on the floor.

‘See youse then,’ he said to nobody, opening the front door to leave. Nobody responded. The door stayed open longer than it should. Someone else was coming in. Eyes flashed from the TV for a moment. Rebus finished his drink and rose from the stool. He knew the man who’d just left the bar. He knew him well. He knew, too, that what had just happened was impossible.

The new customer, a small man with a handful of coins, had a voice hoarse from shouting as he croakily ordered a pint. The barman didn’t move. Instead, he looked to Rebus, who was looking at Bernie Few.

Then Bernie Few looked at Rebus.

‘Been down to Princes Street, Bernie?’ Rebus asked.

Bernie Few sighed and rubbed his tired face. ‘Time for a short one, Mr Rebus?’

Rebus nodded. He could do with another himself anyway. He had a couple of things on his mind, neither of them Bernie Few.

The present surveillance was based in a second-floor tenement flat, the owners having been packed off to a seaside caravan for a fortnight. If the operation needed longer than a fortnight, they’d be sent to stay with relations.

The watchers worked in two-man teams and twelve-hour shifts. They were watching the second-floor flat of the tenement across the road. They were keeping tabs on a bandit called Ribs Mackay. He was called Ribs because he was so skinny. He had a heroin habit, and paid for it by pushing drugs. Only he’d never been caught at it, a state of affairs Edinburgh CID were keen to rectify.

The problem was, since the surveillance had begun, Ribs had been keeping his head down. He stayed in the flat, nipping out only on brief sorties to the corner shop. He’d buy beer, vodka, milk, cigarettes, sometimes breakfast cereal or a jar of peanut butter, and he’d always top off his purchases with half a dozen bars of chocolate. That was about it. There had to be more, but there wasn’t any more. Any day now, the operation would be declared dead in the water.

They tried to keep the flat clean, but you couldn’t help a bit of untidiness. You couldn’t help nosy neighbours either: everyone on the stairwell wondered who the strangers in the Tully residence were. Some asked questions. Some didn’t need to be told. Rebus met an old man on the stairs. He was hauling a bag of shopping up to the third floor, stopping for a breather at each step.

‘Help you with that?’ Rebus offered.

‘I can manage.’

‘It wouldn’t be any bother.’

‘I said I can manage.’

Rebus shrugged. ‘Suit yourself.’ Then he climbed to the landing and gave the recognised knock on the door of the Tullys’ flat.

DC Jamphlar opened the door a crack, saw Rebus, and pulled it all the way open. Rebus nipped inside.

‘Here,’ he said, handing over a paper bag, ‘doughrings.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Jamphlar.

In the cramped living-room, DC Connaught was sitting on a dining chair at the net curtain, peering through the net and out of the window. Rebus joined him for a moment. Ribs Mackay’s window was grimy, but you could see through the grime into an ordinary-looking living-room. Not that Ribs came to the window much. Connaught wasn’t concentrating on the window. He was ranging between the second-floor window and the ground-floor door. If Ribs left the flat, Jamphlar went haring after him, while Connaught followed Ribs’s progress from the window and reported via radio to his colleague.

Initially, there’d been one man in the flat and one in a car at street level. But the man at street level hadn’t been needed, and looked suspicious anyway. The street was no main thoroughfare, but a conduit between Clerk Street and Buccleuch Street. There were a few shops at road level, but they carried the look of permanent closure.

Connaught glanced up from the window. ‘Afternoon, sir. What brings you here?’

‘Any sign of him?’ Rebus said.

‘Not so much as a tweet.’

‘I reckon I know why that is. Your bird’s already flown.’

‘No chance,’ said Jamphlar, biting into a doughring.

‘I saw him half an hour ago in Scott’s Bar. That’s a fair hike from here.’

‘Must’ve been his double.’

But Rebus shook his head. ‘When was the last time you saw him?’

Jamphlar checked the notebook. ‘We haven’t seen him this shift. But this morning Cooper and Sneddon watched him go to the corner shop and come back. That was seven-fifteen. ’

‘And you come on at eight?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And you haven’t seen him since?’

‘There’s someone in there,’ Connaught persisted. ‘I’ve seen movement.’

Rebus spoke slowly. ‘But you haven’t seen Ribs Mackay, and I have. He’s out on the street, doing whatever he does.’ He leaned closer to Connaught. ‘Come on, son, what is it? Been skiving off? Half an hour down the pub, a bit of a thirst-quencher? Catching some kip on the sofa? Looks comfortable, that sofa.’

Jamphlar was trying to swallow a mouthful of dough which had become suddenly dry. ‘We’ve been doing our job!’ he said, spraying crumbs.

Connaught just stared at Rebus with burning eyes. Rebus believed those eyes.

‘All right,’ he conceded, ‘so there’s another explanation. A back exit, a convenient drainpipe.’

‘The back door’s been bricked up,’ Connaught said stiffly. ‘There’s a drainpipe, but Ribs couldn’t manage down it.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I know.’ Connaught stared out through the curtain.

‘Something else then. Maybe he’s using a disguise.’

Jamphlar, still chewing, flicked through the notebook. ‘Everyone who comes out and goes in is checked off.’

‘He’s a druggie,’ said Connaught. ‘He’s not bright enough to fool us.’

‘Well, son, that’s just what he’s doing. You’re watching an empty flat.’

‘TV’s just come on,’ said Connaught. Rebus looked out through the curtain. Sure enough, he could see the animated screen. ‘I hate this programme,’ Connaught muttered. ‘I wish he’d change the channel.’

‘Maybe he can’t,’ said Rebus, making for the door.

‘Damned right you will,’ said his boss, signing the form.

Jamphlar and Connaught were off, Cooper and Sneddon were on.

‘What’s this I hear?’ Cooper said, opening the door to Rebus and his companion.

‘About Ribs?’

‘No,’ said Cooper, ‘about you bringing the day shift a selection of patisseries.’

‘Come and take a look,’ Sneddon called. Rebus walked over to the window. The light was on in Ribs’s living-room, and the blinds weren’t shut. Ribs had opened the window and was looking down on to the night-time street, enjoying a cigarette. ‘See?’ Sneddon said.

‘I see,’ said Rebus. Then he turned to Bernie Few. ‘Come over here, Bernie.’ Few came shuffling over to the window, and Rebus explained the whole thing to him. Bernie thought about it, rasping a hand over his chin, then asked the same questions Rebus had earlier asked Jamphlar and Connaught. Then he thought about it some more, staring out through the curtain.

‘You keep an eye on the second-floor window?’ he asked Cooper.

‘That’s right.’

‘And the main door?’

‘Yes.’

‘You ever think of looking anywhere else?’

Cooper didn’t get it. Neither did Sneddon.

‘Go on, Bernie,’ said Rebus.

‘Look at the top floor,’ Bernie Few suggested. Rebus looked. He saw a cracked and begrimed window, covered with ragged bits of cardboard. ‘Think anyone lives there?’ Bernie asked.

‘What are you saying?’

‘I think he’s done a proper switch on you. Turned the tables, like.’ He smiled. ‘You’re not watching Ribs Mackay.
He’s
watching
you
.’

Rebus nodded, quick to get it. ‘The change of shifts.’ Bernie was nodding too. ‘There’s that minute or two when one shift’s going off and the other’s coming on.’

‘A window of opportunity,’ Bernie agreed. ‘He watches, sees the new shift arrive, and skips downstairs and out the door.’

‘And twelve hours later,’ said Rebus, ‘he waits in the street till he sees the next shift clocking on. Then he nips back in.’

Sneddon was shaking his head. ‘But the lights, the telly . . .’

‘Timer switches,’ Bernie Few answered casually. ‘You think you see people moving about in there. Maybe you do, but not Ribs. Could just be shadows, a breeze blowing the curtains.’

Sneddon frowned. ‘Who
are
you?’

‘An expert witness,’ Rebus said, patting Bernie Few’s shoulder. Then he turned to Sneddon. ‘I’m going over there. Keep an eye on Bernie here. And I
mean
keep an eye on him. As in, don’t let him out of your sight.’

Sneddon blinked, then stared at Bernie. ‘You’re Buttery Bernie.’

Bernie shrugged, accepting the nickname. Rebus was already leaving.