Ian Rankin - Resurrection Men

“The thing to do,” Tennant was saying, “is get back into those files, see what we can come up with.”

“We could maybe manage an hour or two,” Gray offered, looking at his watch.

“Plans for tonight, Francis?” Tennant asked.

“John’s shipping us through to Edinburgh for a night on the town.” Gray’s hand landed heavily on Rebus’s shoulder. “Make a change from the lounge, eh, John?”

Rebus didn’t say anything, didn’t hear the rest of the group saying things like “Nice one” and “Good idea.” He was concentrating too hard on Francis Gray, wondering what the hell he was up to.

“What the hell are you up to?”

It was a snarling question, and it came from behind the closed door. There was a muffled reply. The secretary smiled up at Siobhan and Hynds. She had the telephone receiver to her ear. Siobhan could hear the phone buzzing somewhere behind the door. Then it appeared to be snatched up.

“What?”

The secretary actually flinched. “Two police officers to see you, Mr. Cafferty. They did make an appointment . . .” Sounding apologetic, a slight tremble in her voice. She listened to whatever her employer was telling her, then put the receiver down. “He’ll be with you in a moment, if you’ll take a seat . . .”

“Must be a joy to work for.”

“Yes.” The secretary forced a smile. “Yes, he is.”

“Plenty secretarial jobs going. Friday’s Scotsman ’s the place I’d start looking.”

Siobhan retreated to the line of three chairs, taking Hynds with her. There wasn’t space in the outer office for a coffee table. Two desks: one currently occupied by the secretary, the other a shambles of paperwork. The place had probably been a shop until fairly recently. It was sandwiched between a baker’s and a stationer’s, its large window looking onto the nondescript street. They were west and south of the city center, not far from Tollcross. The area held no fond memories for Siobhan, who had crashed her car once, years back, while confused by the range of options at the Tollcross road junction. Five routes crisscrossing at the lights, and her having not long passed her test, the car a gift from her parents . . .

“I couldn’t work here,” Hynds was telling the secretary. He nodded in the direction of the street. “That smell from the baker’s.” Then he patted his stomach and smiled. The secretary smiled back, more from relief, Siobhan thought, than anything else — relief that Hynds wasn’t meaning her employer . . .

The onetime shop was now MGC Lettings. Across the window was printed the legend THE ANSWER TO YOUR PROPERTY NEEDS. When they’d arrived, Hynds had asked why a “criminal genius” would need such a boring front. Siobhan couldn’t answer that. She knew Cafferty had other interests in the city, predominantly a minicab firm out at Gorgie. The fresh paintwork and new carpet led her to believe that MGC Lettings was a recent venture.

“Hope that’s not one of his tenants he’s got in there,” Hynds said now. If the secretary heard him, she pretended otherwise. She’d slipped on a pair of headphones and looked to be typing out a letter from a dictation machine. Siobhan had picked up some of the sheets from the messy table. They were listings of properties to let. Most were tenement flats in the less salubrious parts of town. She handed one to Hynds.

“A lot of agencies, they’ll say things like ‘No DSS.’ No mention of that here.”

“So?”

“Ever heard of landlords cramming their flats with people from Social Security, then ripping them off?” Hynds looked blank. “The claimants have to hand over their benefit books. Landlord meantime gets the rent money from the DSS. He’s quids in.”

“But this is a lettings agency. Anyone can walk in wanting a flat . . .”

“Doesn’t mean everyone gets one.”

Hynds took time digesting this, then looked around the walls. Two calendars and a week planner. No original works of art.

The door to the inner office opened and a ratty-looking man shuffled quickly towards the exit. Then a figure filled the doorway. He was wearing a white shirt, near-luminous in its newness, and a silk tie the color of spilled blood. His sleeves were rolled up, the arms thick and hairy. The head was large and round, like a bowling ball, the wiry silver hair cropped short. The eyes sparkled darkly.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” the mouth said. “I’m Mr. Cafferty. How can I help you?”

As Siobhan and Hynds stood up, Cafferty asked if they wanted tea or coffee. They shook their heads.

“Donna can fetch it from the baker’s,” he assured them. “No trouble.”

Still no takers, so he led them into his office. There wasn’t much to it: a desk, with nothing but a telephone on it; a gray four-drawer filing cabinet; a small window of frosted glass. The lights were on, but the place felt like a clean, well-lit cave. A dog had risen to its feet. It was a brown and white spaniel, and it made straight for Siobhan, sniffing her feet, wiping its wet nose against her hand when she held it out.

“Sit, Claret!” Cafferty snapped. The dog retreated to its corner.

“Nice dog,” Siobhan commented. “Why Claret?”

“I’m a fiend for red wine,” Cafferty said with a smile.

Against one wall, still shrouded in bubble wrap, were what looked like three or four framed pictures or paintings, reminding Siobhan of the ones in Marber’s house. Hynds made straight for them, though Cafferty had directed him towards one of the chairs in front of the desk.

“Not got round to putting these up yet?” Hynds asked.

“Don’t know that I ever will,” Cafferty replied.

Siobhan had seated herself, and, as intended, Cafferty didn’t know whether to focus his attention on her or Hynds. He couldn’t keep an eye on both at once.

“DC Hynds is a bit of an aficionado,” Siobhan explained, as Hynds peered at each canvas in turn.

“Is he now?” Cafferty growled. His jacket was over the back of his chair, and he was sitting forward, as if fearful of crushing it in some way. His shoulders seemed massive. Siobhan thought he looked like a caged predator, not quite hiding its ability to pounce.

“Here’s a Hastie,” Hynds said, lifting the painting so Siobhan could see. Covered in polythene as it was, she could just make out swatches of color and a thick white frame. “Did you buy this at the preview, Mr. Cafferty?”

“No.”

Siobhan looked over to Hynds. “None of the paintings have been moved from the exhibition,” she said, as if reminding him.

“Oh, yes,” he said, nodding, then he shook his head almost imperceptibly, letting her know the Vettriano wasn’t there.

Siobhan turned her attention to Cafferty. “Did you happen to buy anything on the night?”

“I didn’t, as it happens.”

“Nothing there you fancied?”

Cafferty rested his forearms on the edge of the desk. “You’re Siobhan Clarke, aren’t you?” He smiled. “I’d forgotten, but now I remember.”

“And what exactly is it you remember, Mr. Cafferty?”

“You work with Rebus. Only I hear he’s been stuck back in training school.” He made a tutting sound. “And Detective Constable Hynds here . . . his first name is David, correct?”

Hynds straightened up. “That’s right, sir.”

Cafferty was nodding.

“I’m impressed,” Siobhan said, keeping her voice level. “You know who we are. So you should know why we’re here.”

“Same reason you visited Madame Cyn: you want to ask me about Eddie Marber.” Cafferty watched as Hynds walked around to the front of the desk and sat down next to Siobhan. “It was Cyn told me your name, DC Hynds,” he said with a wink.