Ian Rankin - Set in Darkness

‘Sending someone like Rebus to interview a sick man is tantamount to unlawful killing.’

Rebus clenched his jaw, but it was Siobhan who spoke. ‘Sir, Inspector Rebus has been invaluable to this investigation throughout.’

‘Then how come one of our best officers ends up with his face wired together? How come a long-time Labour councillor is in one of the fridges at the Cowgate? How come we don’t have a single solitary conviction? And bloody unlikely to get one now.’ Carswell pointed to the tape machine. ‘Ure was as good a shout at it as we were going to get.’

‘There was nothing wrong with the line of questioning,’ the Farmer said quietly. He looked like he wanted to go sit hunched in a corner till gold-watch day.

‘Without Ure, there’s no case,’ Carswell persisted, his attention focused on Rebus. ‘Not unless you think Barry Hutton will crack under your rapier-like assault.’

‘Give me a rapier and let’s see.’

Carswell threw him a furious look. The Farmer started apologising.

‘Look, sir,’ Rebus interrupted, eyes fixed on the ACC, ‘I feel as badly about this as anyone. But we didn’t kill Archie Ure.’

‘Then what did?’

‘Maybe a guilty conscience?’ Siobhan offered.

Carswell leapt to his feet. ‘This whole investigation has been a farce from the start.’ He was pointing at Rebus. ‘I hold you responsible, and so help me I’ll make sure you pay for it.’ He turned to the Farmer. ‘And as for you, Chief Superintendent... well, it’s not a very pretty end to your career, is it?’

‘No, sir. But with respect, sir...’

Rebus could see a change in Watson’s demeanour.

‘What?’ Carswell asked.

‘Nobody asked your blue-eyed boy to keep tabs on Hutton. No one told him to head off into a Leith housing scheme in pursuit of a possible murder suspect. Those were his decisions and they got him where he is now.’ The Farmer paused. ‘I think you’re putting up a smokescreen so everyone will conveniently forget those facts. The officers here...’ the Farmer looked at them, ‘ my officers... also have your protégé pegged as a peeper. Something else you’ve conveniently ignored.’

‘Careful now...’ Carswell’s eyes were boring into the Farmer.

‘I think that time’s past, don’t you?’ The Farmer pointed to the tape machine. ‘Same as you, I’ve listened to that tape, and I can’t see a damned thing wrong with DI Rebus’s methods or his line of questioning.’ He stood up, face to face with Carswell. ‘You want to make something of it, fine. I’ll be waiting.’ He started heading for the door. ‘After all, what have I got to lose?’

Carswell told them to get the hell out, but it was too late: they were already gone.

Down in the canteen, they left the food on their plates, pushed it around, feeling numb, and didn’t talk very much. Rebus turned to the Farmer.

‘What happened there?’

The Chief Super shrugged, tried to smile. The fight had gone out of him again; he looked exhausted. ‘I just got fed up, simple as that. Thirty years I’ve been on the force...’ He shook his head. ‘Maybe I’ve just had a bellyful of the Carswells. Thirty years, and he thinks he can talk to me like that.’ He looked at the pair of them, tried out a smile.

‘I liked your parting shot,’ Rebus said: ‘“What have I got to lose?”’

‘Thought you might,’ the Farmer said. ‘You’ve used it on me often enough.’ Then he went to fetch three more coffees — not that they’d finished the first ones; he just needed to be moving — and Siobhan leaned back in her chair.

‘What do you think?’ she asked.

‘Golgotha via Calvary,’ he said. ‘And don’t bother looking for the return portion.’

‘Not that you like to exaggerate.’

‘Know what really sticks in my craw? We might be crucified for this, and that bastard Linford’s going to get a peg up.’

‘At least we can eat solids.’ She tossed the fork on to her plate.

‘Why here?’ Rebus said.

He was walking across a frozen lawn in Warriston Crematorium’s garden of remembrance. Big Ger Cafferty was wearing a black leather flying-jacket with fur collar, zipped to the chin.

‘Remember, you came on a run with me once, years back?’

‘Duddingston Loch.’ Rebus was nodding. ‘I remember.’

‘But do you remember what I told you?’

Rebus thought for a moment. ‘You said we’re a cruel race, and at the same time we like pain.’

‘We thrive on defeat, Strawman. And this parliament will put us in charge of our own destinies for the first time in three centuries.’

‘So?’

‘So it’s maybe a time for looking forward, not back.’ Cafferty stopped. His breath came out as a grey vapour. ‘But you... you just can’t leave the past alone, can you?’

‘You brought me to a garden of remembrance to tell me I’m living in the past?’

Cafferty shrugged. ‘We all have to live with the past; doesn’t mean we have to live in it.’

‘Is this a message from Bryce Callan?’

Cafferty looked at him. ‘I know you’re going after Barry Hutton. Think you’ll get a result?’

‘It’s been known to happen.’

Cafferty chuckled. ‘Something I know to my cost.’ He started walking again. The only things visible in the flower beds were roses, their branches clipped back, looking brittle and stunted but with the promise of renewal hibernating within. That’s us , Rebus thought, thorns and all . ‘Morag died a year back,’ Cafferty was saying. Morag: his wife.

‘Yes, I heard.’

‘They said I could go to the funeral.’ Cafferty kicked at a stone, sent it flying into a flower bed. ‘I didn’t go. The guys in the Bar-L, they thought that made me hard.’ A wry smile. ‘What do you think?’

‘You were scared.’

‘Maybe I was at that.’ He looked at Rebus again. ‘Bryce Callan isn’t as forgiving as I am, Strawman. You managed to put me away, and you’re still walking around. But now Bryce knows you’re after Barry, he’s got to have you put out of the game.’

‘Then he goes away, too.’

‘He’s not that stupid. Remember: where there’s no body, there’s no crime.’

‘I’ll just disappear?’

Cafferty was nodding. ‘Whether you get your precious result or not.’ He stopped walking. ‘Is that what you want?’

Rebus stopped, looked around as if enjoying the view for the last time. ‘What’s it to you?’

‘Maybe I like having you around.’

‘Why?’

‘Who else cares about me?’ Cafferty chuckled again. In the distance, Rebus could see Cafferty’s car — the grey Jag — the Weasel standing beside it, not quite daring to rest against its paintwork. Shuffling his feet in an effort to defrost them.

‘Speaking of no body, no crime... where’s Rab Hill?’

Cafferty looked at him. ‘Yes, I heard you’d been asking.’

‘It’s Rab that has cancer, not you. He went for tests, came back with the news and told his good friend.’ Rebus paused. ‘You switched X-rays somehow.’

‘NHS,’ Cafferty said. ‘Don’t pay those doctors half what they’re worth.’

‘I’m going to prove it, you know that.’

‘You’re a cop with a vendetta. Not much a poor citizen like me can do about that.’

‘Maybe I could ease up a little,’ Rebus said.

‘In return for...?’

‘Testify against Bryce Callan. You were there in ’79, you know what was going on.’

Cafferty shook his head. ‘That’s not the way to play it.’

Rebus stared at him. ‘Then what is?’

Cafferty ignored the question. ‘It’s a cold place this, isn’t it?’ he said instead. ‘When they bury me, I want it to be somewhere warm.’