Иэн Рэнкин - In a House of Lies

‘All right?’

She sought his name, pointed at him. ‘Robbie, right?’

He pointed back. ‘Siobhan.’

‘I had another call, Robbie, not more than five minutes ago.’

‘I’ve only just stepped out.’

‘I don’t suppose you passed anyone going in?’

‘Didn’t notice.’

‘Meaning they might have?’

He offered a shrug, and then a cigarette.

‘Don’t smoke,’ Clarke told him. ‘I’ll maybe see you inside.’ She yanked open the door.

The place was busy and noisy. Thumping music, Sky Sports on the various muted TVs. Mostly a young crowd, maybe students, voices raised in raucous competition with the bass line. A row of older regulars stood at the bar, inured to everything around them, a collie asleep on the floor next to a stool and a dish of drinking water. The bar itself was well-enough lit, but there were shadowy booths and alcoves, which Clarke explored as she pretended to weave her way to the toilets. The toilets themselves were down a flight of stairs, and she paused for a moment halfway, wondering if anyone might emerge. No one did, so she headed back up. Another sweep of the bar and its clients. She was about to leave when a head rose from behind the counter. The barman had obviously been into the cellar, emerging through a trapdoor. He was passing bottles of spirits to a colleague. Clarke knew she knew him from somewhere. Had she been in here before? She didn’t think so. Had he maybe worked one of the city’s many other bars? It was possible.

She was pushing open the door as Robbie the smoker made to come indoors again.

‘Not staying?’ he asked.

‘Maybe next time,’ she replied.

She got into her car and sat there, thinking hard. Late thirties, early forties, thick black hair and sideburns tapering to a point. Tattooed arms, hooded eyes, stubble. Romany? She had an image of him wandering through woodland, a guitar strapped across him. Hang on... Yes, because the last time she’d seen him he’d worn a black leather waistcoat over a white T-shirt and she’d thought the same. Where, though? In a courtroom. Not the accused. Not giving evidence. A tattooed arm draped around a woman’s shoulders.

And then she knew.

He was Ellis Meikle’s uncle, brother of Ellis’s father. Comforting Ellis’s mother at the end of the trial after her son was sentenced. Sentenced to life for murder.

‘Ellis Meikle,’ Clarke intoned, head turned to gaze at McKenzie’s. Then she started the car and headed home, on autopilot all the way.

Morris Gerald Cafferty lived in a penthouse duplex in the Quartermile development, just across the Meadows from Rebus’s tenement. Rebus tied Brillo up at the entrance and pressed the bell. A camera lens was above it. Rebus got in close, knowing his face would be filling a small monitor somewhere upstairs.

‘Yes?’ Cafferty’s voice enquired.

‘Got a minute?’

‘Just barely.’ But Rebus was buzzed in anyway. He took the lift. Last time he’d been there, Cafferty’s gangland rival Darryl Christie had been only a few minutes ahead of him, armed and looking to take Cafferty out. But Cafferty had prevailed and Christie was serving time, meaning Edinburgh belonged to Cafferty now, and this was his eyrie, protected by CCTV and concierges.

He’d left the apartment door open, so Rebus went in. The short corridor led to a large open-plan space. Cafferty was pouring coffee from a cafetière.

‘I forget how you take it.’

‘Just as it comes.’

‘No sugar?’

‘No sugar.’

‘Men our age, we have to look after ourselves.’ Cafferty handed over the plain white mug and gave Rebus an inspection. ‘Not too bad for a man with a debilitating condition.’

‘You look okay too, more’s the pity.’

Cafferty looked better than okay, actually. Winning back Edinburgh had taken years off him. He’d always had heft, but he seemed to have a renewed spring in his step.

‘There’s a gym practically opposite,’ he explained, patting his stomach. ‘I go when I can. You still got that bloody mutt?’

‘He’s parked outside. Stand on your terrace some nights and you’ll see us just by Jawbone Walk. I take it business is good?’

‘Nobody drinks the way they used to. Licensed trade is always a battle.’

‘And the minicabs? Car wash? Flat rentals?’

‘I see you’re still keeping au fait.’

‘I hear that place you took over from Darryl Christie is struggling, though.’

‘The Devil’s Dram?’ Cafferty shrugged. ‘Good times and bad, John. I’m thinking of changing the focus from whisky to gin.’

‘I’m guessing you’d never part with it — not after what you went through to win it.’

‘Ever been to see Darryl?’

Rebus shook his head. ‘How about you?’

‘I did try once but he knocked me back.’

‘Weren’t you afraid that once you walked into the Bar-L they’d lock the doors and not let you out again?’

‘Legitimate businessman, John. That’s what the judge said at the trial.’

‘Aye, and like you, I could hear the inverted commas.’

‘Tone of voice isn’t what gets written down, though.’ The two of them were standing a few feet apart. Time was, they’d already have been weighing up the trading of physical blows, but now that each was afraid of the cost of losing, words would have to suffice. Cafferty was gesturing to a corner of the room behind Rebus, where the TV was showing a morning news channel. He’d turned the sound down, so they could see Catherine Bloom but not hear her.

‘She’s enjoying it too much,’ Cafferty commented. ‘All this attention, she thinks it gives her life meaning.’

‘She’s fought for years.’

‘Years she could have been spending on herself. The woman’s hollowed out, John. Don’t tell me you can’t see it.’ Cafferty had pulled out one of the shiny steel chairs from beneath the glass-topped dining table. He perched there, waiting until Rebus took the seat opposite. ‘I’m assuming she’s why you’re here.’

‘Why else?’

Cafferty smiled, pleased to have been proved right. ‘Murder inquiry means looking at the old case. Old case was one of yours. But like I said to you at the time, I had nothing to do with any of it.’

‘I’m wondering what happened to Conor Maloney.’

Cafferty held out a hand. ‘Pass me your phone and I’ll show you how to use Google.’

‘I’ve looked at Google. He seems to have gone walkabout.’

‘Right enough, last I heard, he was taking a lot of cruises. Tax exile sort of thing.’

‘When was that?’

‘Four, five years ago. Conor might have overstepped the mark.’

‘How so?’

‘Trying to make friends in South America. Plenty drugs and money there, but they don’t play games. He wasn’t to their liking.’

‘So he’s on the run?’

‘Taxman might be after him, but I’ve not heard that the Colombians are — or the gardai, come to that. He’s just keeping his head down, enjoying a well-earned retirement.’

‘He severed his links to Adrian Brand?’

‘Conor liked the idea of a golf course, maybe a whole string of them, but it was only a passing notion.’

‘Would he have liked learning that a private investigator was sniffing around?’

‘You asked me that at the time, John.’

‘But now Bloom’s body has turned up...’

‘Not my concern.’

‘The thing I remember about our interview back then is how you tried to deflect attention on to an Aberdeen crime family — the Bartollis. If we’d gone after them, that would have suited you just fine.’

Cafferty smiled at the memory. ‘Can’t blame a man for trying. How’s the coffee?’