The Naming Of The Dead (2006) (22 page)

“They’d never convict,” Cafferty roared with a wild laugh. “Forensics will have to scoop up what’s left of him with a teaspoon.”

“But if you do say anything...” Rebus repeated.

“It started three years back,” Cafferty said, making an effort to control his breathing. “Gaming licenses refused, bar applications refused...I was even going to open a cab office on his turf, take a few of the locals off the dole. He made sure the council bounced me out every time.”

“So it’s not just that you’ve finally met someone with the guts to stand up to you?”

Cafferty glanced at Rebus. “I thought that was
your
job.”

“Maybe it is.”

Eventually, Cafferty broke the resulting silence. “I need a drink,” he said, licking his lips. The corners of his mouth were coated with white flecks.

“Good idea,” Rebus told him. “Like me, maybe you’ll drink to forget...”

He kept watching Cafferty during the rest of the silent ride back into town. The man had killed and gotten away with it—probably more times than Rebus knew. He’d fed victims to the hungry pigs on a Borders farm. He’d ruined countless lives, served four jail terms. He’d been a savage since his teenage years, served an apprenticeship as enforcer to the London mob...

So why the hell was Rebus feeling sorry for him?

“I’ve got some thirty-year-old malt at the house,” Cafferty was saying. “Butterscotch and heather and melted butter...”

“Drop me in Marchmont,” Rebus insisted.

“What about that drink?”

But Rebus shook his head. “I’m supposed to be renouncing it, remember?”

Cafferty snorted, but said nothing. All the same, Rebus could tell the man wanted him to change his mind. Wanted them to have that drink together, sitting opposite each other as the night circled them on tiptoe.

Cafferty wouldn’t insist though. Insisting would sound like begging.

He wouldn’t beg.

Not just yet.

It struck Rebus that what Cafferty feared was a loss of power. Tyrants and politicians alike feared the selfsame thing, whether they belonged to the underworld or the overworld. The day would come when no one listened to them anymore, their orders ignored, reputation diminished. New challenges, new rivals and predators. Cafferty probably had millions stashed away, but a whole fleet of luxury cars was no substitute for status and respect.

Edinburgh was a small city; easy for one man to exert control over the greater part of it. Tench or Cafferty? Cafferty or Tench?

Rebus couldn’t help wondering if he would have to choose...

The overworld.

Everyone from G8 leaders to Pennen and Steelforth. All of them driven by the will to power. A chain of command affecting every person on the planet. Rebus was still thinking about it as he watched the Bentley drive away. But then he became aware of a shadowy figure standing next to his tenement door. He clenched his fists and looked around, in case Jacko had brought his buddies. But it wasn’t Jacko who stepped forward. It was Hackman.

“Evening all,” he said.

“I nearly took a swing at you then,” Rebus replied, relaxing his shoulders. “How the hell did you find me?”

“Couple of phone calls is all it took. Very helpful, the local cops. Must say, though, I wouldn’t have thought a street like this was your style.”

“So where am I supposed to live?”

“Dockside condo,” Hackman stated.

“Is that right?”

“Nice young blond thing to cook you breakfast on weekends.”

“I only see her on weekends, do I?” Rebus couldn’t help smiling.

“That’s all the time you can give her. Clean out the old pipes and then it’s back to the daily grind.”

“You’ve got it all worked out. Doesn’t explain what you’re doing here this time of night.”

“Couple of bits and pieces I’ve remembered about Trevor Guest.”

“And they’re mine for the price of a drink?” Rebus guessed.

Hackman nodded. “But there’s got to be a floor show, mind.”

“A floor show?”

“Chicks!”

“You’ve got to be joking...” But Rebus could tell from Hackman’s face that he was quite, quite serious.

They hailed a cab on Marchmont Road and headed for Bread Street. The driver gave a little smile into his rearview: two middle-aged men with a few drinks under their belts heading for the fleshpots.

“So tell me,” Rebus said.

“What?” Hackman asked.

“The info on Trevor Guest.”

But Hackman wagged a finger. “If I tell you now, what’s to stop you jumping ship?”

“My word as a gentleman?” Rebus offered. He’d had enough for tonight; no way he was embarking on a lap-dance crawl of Lothian Road. He’d get the info, then leave Hackman curbside, point him in the right direction.

“All the hippies are shipping out tomorrow, you know,” the Englishman said. “Busloads heading for Gleneagles.”

“What about you?”

Hackman shrugged. “I do what I’m told.”

“Well, I’m telling you to cough up what you know about Guest.”

“Okay, okay...so long as you promise not to beat it as soon as the taxi stops.”

“Scout’s honor.”

Hackman leaned back in the seat. “Trevor Guest had a short fuse, made a lot of enemies. Headed south to London once, but it didn’t work out. Ripped off by some tart or other...seemed to take against the fairer sex after that. You said Trev ended up on some Web site...?”

“BeastWatch.”

“Any idea who posted his details?”

“They did it anonymously.”

“But Trev was predominantly a burglar...a burglar with a temper—that’s why he went into the clink.”

“So?”

“So who put him on the Web site—and why?”

“You tell me.”

Hackman gave another shrug, gripping on to the handrail as the taxi made a sharp turn. “One more story,” he said, checking he had Rebus’s attention. “When Trev went to London, rumor was that a consignment of tasty drugs went with him—could even have been smack.”

“He was an addict?”

“Occasional user. I don’t think he injected...until the night he died, that is.”

“Did he rip someone off?”

“Could be. See...I’m wondering if there’s a connection you’re not getting.”

“And what connection might that be?”

“Small-time villains, maybe getting too big for their boots or ripping off those they shouldn’t.”

Rebus was thoughtful. “The Edinburgh victim worked for our local mobster.”

Hackman clapped his hands together. “There you are then.”

“I suppose Eddie Isley might have had—” But he broke off, unconvinced. The taxi was pulling to a stop, the driver telling them it would be a fiver. Rebus realized that they were directly outside the Nook, one of the city’s more respectable lap-dance bars. Hackman had jumped out and was paying the cabbie through the passenger-side window—a sure sign he was a visitor; locals paid up from the backseat. Rebus considered his options: stay in the cab, or get out and tell Hackman he was calling it a night.

The door was still open, the Englishman gesturing impatiently.

Rebus got out—just as the door of the Nook burst open, a man staggering from its darkened interior. The two doormen were right behind him.

“I’m telling you, I didn’t touch her!” the man was protesting. He was tall, well dressed, and dark-skinned. Rebus seemed to know the blue suit from somewhere...

“Bloody liar!” one of the doormen yelled, stabbing a finger at the customer.

“She robbed me,” the suit was protesting. “Her hand was trying to extract my wallet from my jacket. It was only when I stopped her that she started to complain.”

“Another bloody lie!” the same doorman spat.

Hackman had given Rebus a dig in the ribs. “You don’t half know some classy joints, John.” But he seemed happy enough. The other doorman was talking into his wrist microphone.

“She was attempting to take my wallet,” the suit kept arguing.

“So she didn’t rob you then?”

“Given the chance, she most certainly—”

“Did she rob you? You swore blind a minute ago that she did. And I’ve got witnesses to prove it.” The doorman’s head twitched toward Rebus and Hackman. The customer turned toward them and recognized Rebus straight off.

“My friend, do you see the situation I am in?”

“Sort of,” Rebus was forced to admit. The suit was shaking his hand.

“We met at the hotel, yes? At that delicious lunch hosted by my good friend Richard Pennen.”

“I wasn’t at lunch,” Rebus reminded him. “We chatted in the hallway.”

“You do get around, John.” Hackman chuckled, giving Rebus’s ribs another dig.

“This is a most unfortunate and serious situation,” the suit was saying. “I felt myself to be thirsty, and entered what I assumed would be a tavern of some description...”

Both doormen gave a snort. “Yeah,” the angrier of the two said, “after we’d told you the admission charge.”

Even Hackman had to laugh at that. But he was cut off by the door swinging open again. This time, it was a woman who emerged. One of the dancers, obviously, dressed in bra, G-string, and high heels. Her hair was piled atop her head and she was wearing too much makeup.

“Says I mugged him, does he?” she roared. Hackman looked as though he’d found the best ever ringside seat.

“We’re handling it,” the angry doorman said, staring daggers at his partner, who’d obviously passed the accusation along.

“He owes me fifty for the dances!” the woman shouted. She had a hand stretched out, ready to collect payment. “Then he starts pawing me! Right out of order...”

A marked patrol car cruised past, faces inside staring out. Rebus saw its brake lights come on, and knew it would be doing a U-turn.

“I am a diplomat,” the suit was declaring. “I have a right to protection from false allegations.”

“Swallowed a dictionary and all,” Hackman commented, laughing to himself.

“Legal immunity,” the suit went on, “as a member of the Kenyan delegation...”

The patrol car had stopped, two officers climbing out, fixing their caps to their heads.

“Seems to be the trouble here?” the driver asked.

“Just escorting this gentleman from the premises,” the no-longer-angry doorman said.

“I was forcibly removed!” the Kenyan protested. “And almost robbed of my wallet also!”

“Calm down, sir. Let’s get this sorted out.” The uniform had turned toward Rebus, aware of movement from the corner of his eye.

Rebus’s badge, shoved into his face.

“I want these two taken to the nearest cop-shop,” Rebus stated.

“No need for that,” the doorman began to argue.

“You want to go with them, pal?” Rebus demanded, shutting him up.

“Which cop-shop’s that then?” the uniform asked. Rebus stared at him.

“Where you from?”

“Hull.”

Rebus made an exasperated sound. “West End,” he said. “It’s on Torphichen Place.”

The uniform nodded. “Near Haymarket, yeah?”

“That’s the one,” Rebus confirmed.

“Diplomatic immunity,” the Kenyan was stressing. Rebus turned to him.

“There’s a necessary procedure,” he explained, trying to find words long enough to satisfy the man.

“You don’t want me,” the woman was saying, pointing to her ample breasts. Rebus didn’t dare look at Hackman, fearing he’d be salivating.

“Afraid I do,” Rebus told her, gesturing to the uniforms. Client and dancer were ushered toward the patrol car.

“One in the front, one in the back,” the driver told his partner. The dancer looked at Rebus as she clacked past him on her heels.

“Hang on,” he said, removing his jacket and slipping it over her shoulders. Then he turned to Hackman. “I need to see to this,” he explained.

“Like your chances, eh?” The Englishman leered.

“Don’t want a diplomatic incident,” Rebus corrected him. “Will you be okay?”

“Never better,” Hackman confirmed, slapping Rebus on the back. “I’m sure my friends here”—making sure the doormen could hear him—“will waive their entry fee for an officer of the law...”

“Just one thing, Stan,” Rebus cautioned.

“What’s that then?”

“Don’t let your hands wander.”

The CID suite was deserted, no sign of Rat-Ass Reynolds or Shug Davidson. Easy enough to secure two interview rooms. Easy to get a couple of uniforms on overtime to act as babysitters.

“Glad of the business,” one of them said.

First, the dancer. Rebus took her a plastic cup of tea. “I even remember how you like it,” he told her. Molly Clark sat with arms folded, still wearing his jacket and not much else. She was shuffling her feet, face twitching.

“Might have let me get changed,” she complained, giving a loud sniff.

“Afraid you’ll catch a cold? Don’t worry, a car will run you back in five minutes.”

She looked at him, eyes rimmed with kohl, cheeks rouged. “You’re not charging me?”

“What with? Our friend’s not going to want to pursue it, trust me.”

“It’s
me
should be pursuing
him!
”

“Whatever you say, Molly.” Rebus offered her a cigarette.

“There’s a No Smoking sign,” she reminded him.

“So there is,” he agreed, lighting up.

She hesitated another moment. “Go on then...” Took the cigarette from him, leaned across the table so he could light it for her. He knew her perfume would be clinging to his jacket for weeks. She inhaled and held the smoke deep within her.

“When we came to see you on Sunday,” Rebus began, “Eric was a bit shaky when it came to explaining how you met. I think I can guess now.”

“Bully for you.” She was examining the cigarette’s glowing tip. Her body rocked a little, and Rebus realized she was pumping one knee up and down.

“So he knows what you do for a living?” Rebus asked.

“Is it any business of yours?”

“Not really.”

“Well, then...” Another drag on the cigarette, as if drawing nourishment from it. The smoke billowed into Rebus’s face. “No secrets between Eric and me.”

“Fair enough.”

She finally made eye contact. “He
was
touching me up. And as for that line about me grabbing his wallet...” She snorted. “Different culture, same shit.” She calmed a little. “That’s why Eric
means
something.”