Ian Rankin - Set in Darkness

If the interviewee agreed.

Rebus sent Siobhan Clarke and Ellen Wylie in to negotiate with the Farmer. His first two questions to them: ‘Where’s DI Linford? What’s his take on this?’

Rebus had briefed them; they’d talked their way around Linford, pressed their case again until the Farmer, worn down, nodded his agreement.

With everything set up, Rebus sat in the Chief Super’s chair and hit the buttons. The Chief Super himself was seated across the desk, in the chair Rebus usually occupied.

‘Try not to get used to it,’ had been the Farmer’s comment.

The phone was picked up at the other end; Rebus hit the record button. A woman’s voice: Spanish.

‘Could I speak to Mr Bryce Callan, please?’

More Spanish. Rebus repeated the name. Eventually the woman went away. ‘Housekeeper?’ Rebus guessed. The Farmer just shrugged. Now someone else was picking up the receiver.

‘Yes? Who’s this?’ Annoyed. Maybe a siesta interrupted.

‘Is that Bryce Callan?’

‘I asked first.’ The voice deep, guttural: no trace that he was losing his Scottish inflections.

‘I’m Detective Inspector John Rebus, Lothian and Borders Police. I’d like to speak to Mr Bryce Callan.’

‘Fucking good manners you lot have got these days.’

‘That’ll be the customer relations training.’

Callan let out a wheezy laugh, rolling it into a cough. Catarrh: smoker. Rebus made to light a cigarette of his own. The Farmer was frowning, but Rebus ignored him. Two smokers having a chat: instant rapport.

‘So what can you do me for?’ Callan asked.

Rebus kept his tone light. ‘Is it okay if I record this, Mr Callan? Just so I’ve got a record.’

‘You might have one, son, but my sheet’s clean. No criminal convictions.’

‘I’m aware of that, Mr Callan.’

‘So what’s this about?’

‘It’s about a company called AD Holdings.’ Rebus glanced at the sheets of paper spread out on the desk. They’d done their work: could prove the company was part of Callan’s little empire.

There was a pause on the line.

‘Mr Callan? You still there?’ The Farmer was off his chair, drawing the waste bin over so Rebus could flick his ash into it. Then he went to open a window.

‘I’m here,’ Callan said. ‘Call me back in an hour.’

‘I’d really appreciate it if we could...’ Rebus realised he was talking to the dialling tone. He cut the call.

‘Bugger,’ he said. ‘Now he’s got time to fix a story.’

‘He doesn’t have to talk to us at all,’ Farmer Watson reminded him.

Rebus nodded.

‘And now he’s gone, you can put that bloody thing out,’ the Farmer added. Rebus stubbed his cigarette against the side of the bin.

They were waiting for him in the corridor, expectant faces collapsing as he shook his head.

‘He said to call back in an hour.’ He checked his watch.

‘He’ll have a story by then,’ Siobhan Clarke said.

‘What do you want me to do?’ Rebus snapped.

‘Sorry, sir.’

‘Ach, it’s not your fault.’

‘He’s given himself an hour,’ Wylie said, ‘but that means we’ve got an hour, too. Make a few more calls, keep going through Hastings’ paperwork...’ She shrugged. ‘Who knows?’

Rebus nodded his approval. She was right: anything was better than waiting. So they went back to work, fuelled by tins of soft drinks and background music courtesy of a cassette machine provided by Grant Hood. Instrumental stuff — jazz, classical. Rebus had been dubious at first, but it did help stave off the boredom. Farmer’s orders: keep the volume down.

Siobhan Clarke agreed: ‘If it got out that I listened to jazz, I’d never be able to show my face.’

An hour later, it was back upstairs to the Farmer’s office. Rebus left the door open this time; felt it was the least they deserved. Watson didn’t seem to notice. Called again, and this time it rang and rang. Callan wasn’t going to answer; of course he wasn’t.

But he did. No housekeeper this time, and straight to the point.

‘You got a conference facility?’

The Chief Super nodded. ‘Yes,’ Rebus said.

Callan gave him a number to ring: Glasgow code. The name was C. Arthur Milligan — Rebus knew him as ‘the Big C’, a nickname he shared, seemingly happily, with cancer. And Milligan was like cancer to police officers and the Procurator Fiscal’s office. He was one of the really big defence solicitors, worked a lot with the advocate Richie Cordover, Hugh’s brother. If you had Big C by your side, and Cordover defending you in court, you had the sharpest edge there was.

At a price.

The Farmer was showing Rebus how to work the conference call. Milligan’s voice: ‘Yes, Inspector Rebus, can you hear me?’

‘Loud and clear, sir.’

‘Hiya, Big C,’ Callan said. ‘I’m hearing you, too.’

‘Good afternoon, Bryce. How’s the weather out there?’

‘God knows. I’m stuck indoors because of this arsehole.’

Meaning Rebus. ‘Look, Mr Callan, I really do appreciate—’

Milligan interrupted. ‘I believe you wish to record your conversation with my client. Who else is present?’

Rebus identified the Chief Super, didn’t bother mentioning the others. Milligan and Callan had a discussion about the taping. At last, it was agreed the recording could begin. Rebus hit the button.

‘That’s us,’ he said. ‘Now if I could just—’

Milligan again: ‘If I could just say at the outset, Inspector, that my client is under no obligation of any kind to answer what questions you may have.’

‘I appreciate that, sir.’ Trying to keep his voice level.

‘And he’s only talking to you out of a sense of public duty, even though the United Kingdom is no longer his chosen country of residence.’

‘Yes, sir, and I’m very grateful.’

‘Are you charging him with anything?’

‘Absolutely not. This is for information only.’

‘And this tape wouldn’t be produced in a court of law?’

‘I shouldn’t think so, sir.’ Choosing his words carefully.

‘But you can’t be definite?’

‘I can only speak for myself, sir.’

There was a pause. ‘Bryce?’ Milligan asked.

‘Fire away,’ Bryce Callan said.

Milligan: ‘Fire away, Inspector.’

Rebus took a moment to compose himself, looking at the documents on the desk as he fished his cigarette out of the bin and relit it.

‘What are you smoking?’ Callan asked.

‘Embassy.’

‘Tuppence a bloody packet out here. I stick to cigars these days. Now get on with it.’

‘AD Holdings, Mr Callan.’

‘What about them?’

‘Your company, I believe.’

‘Nope. I had a few shares, but that’s as far as it went.’

Eyes were on Rebus from the doorway: we know that’s a lie . But Rebus didn’t want to catch Callan out, not this early on. ‘AD were buying up parcels of land around Calton Hill, using another business as a front. Two men: Freddy Hastings and Alasdair Grieve. Ever meet either of them?’

‘You’re going back how far?’

‘Late 1970s.’

‘Bloody hell, lot of water been passed since then.’

Rebus repeated the two names.

‘If you’d care to tell my client what this is about, Inspector,’ Milligan said, sounding curious himself.

‘Yes, sir. It’s a question of a sum of money.’

‘Money?’ Now Callan was hooked, too.

‘Yes, sir, quite a lot of money. We’re trying to find a home for it.’

Stares from the doorway: he hadn’t told them how he’d play it.

Callan was laughing. ‘Well, look no further, chum.’

‘How much money?’ the lawyer asked.

‘Even more than Mr Callan will be paying you for your services this afternoon,’ Rebus told him. More laughter from Callan, and a warning look from the Farmer: it didn’t do to wind up people like the Big C unnecessarily. Rebus concentrated on his cigarette. ‘Four hundred thousand pounds,’ he said at last.