Ian Rankin - Resurrection Men

“I got stuck in traffic,” he explained. “They’re digging up George IV Bridge.”

“I must remember that one for tomorrow.”

He saw that the directory was open at taxi companies. “Doing a bit of moonlighting?”

“MG Private Hire,” she said. “The driver who took Marber home after the show.”

Hynds nodded, looked over her shoulder as her finger ran down the page.

“MG Cabs,” she said, tapping the name. “Address in Lochend.”

“Owned by Cafferty?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “He’s got that one cab firm out in Gorgie. Exclusive Cars or something . . .” Her finger ran back up the page. “There they are.” Again her finger tapped the name. “What do you think the MG stands for?”

“Maybe the cabs are actually sports cars.”

“Wake up, Davie. Remember his lettings agency? MGC, it’s called. Look at the letters of MG Cabs.”

“MGC again,” Hynds acknowledged.

“I’m not just a pretty face, you know.”

“It doesn’t prove the firm’s owned by Cafferty, of course.”

“Maybe the quickest way is to ask Mr. Cafferty himself.” Siobhan walked back over to her desk and picked up the phone.

“Is that Donna?” she said when the call was answered. “Donna, it’s DS Clarke, we met yesterday. Any chance I could have a word with your boss?” She looked up at Hynds, who was eyeing her coffee greedily. “Oh, is he? Could you maybe ask him to give me a call?” Siobhan gave the secretary her number. “Meantime, I don’t suppose you know if Mr. Cafferty happens to own an outfit called MG Cabs?” Siobhan pushed her coffee towards Hynds, nodding when he looked at her. He smiled gratefully and took a couple of sips. “Thanks anyway,” Siobhan was saying, putting down the receiver.

“Don’t tell me he’s fled the country?” Hynds asked.

“She’s not sure where he is. She’s already had to cancel his morning appointments.”

“Should we be interested?”

Siobhan shrugged. “Let’s give him the benefit of the doubt. If he doesn’t call back, we’ll go looking.”

Derek Linford was marching towards the desk, a sheet of paper in his hand.

“Morning, Derek,” Hynds said. Linford ignored him.

“Here it is,” he said, handing the sheet to Siobhan. The company was called Superlative Property Management. She showed Hynds the name.

“Can you do anything with those letters?”

He shook his head, and she turned her attention to Linford. “So why was Mr. Marber paying these people two thousand pounds a quarter?”

“I don’t know that as yet,” Linford said. “I’m speaking to them today.”

“I’ll be interested to hear what they say.”

“Don’t worry, you’ll be the first to know.”

The way he said it, Siobhan felt the color rising to her cheeks. She tried hiding behind her cup of coffee.

“It would be useful to know who actually owns Superlative,” Hynds added.

Linford glared at him. “Thanks for the advice, Detective Constable Hynds.”

Hynds shrugged, rose up onto his toes and then down again.

“We need to liaise on this,” Siobhan stated. “It looks like Cafferty might own the cab company which took Marber home. He also owns a lettings agency . . . Might be coincidence, but all the same . . .”

Linford was nodding. “We’ll sit down together before the end of play today, see what we’ve got.”

Siobhan nodded back. It was enough for Linford, who turned away and strode back to his desk.

“I can’t believe how nice he is,” Hynds said in an undertone. “I really think he’s fallen head over heels for me.”

Siobhan tried stifling a grin, but it happened anyway. She looked across towards Linford, hoping he wouldn’t see it. He was staring straight at her. Seeing what looked like a radiant smile, he returned it.

Oh, Christ, Siobhan thought. How the hell did I get into this?

“Remember those flats we saw yesterday at MGC Lettings?” she asked Hynds. “They averaged four hundred a month, twelve hundred a quarter.”

“Marber’s rent cost a lot more,” Hynds agreed. “Wonder what the hell it is.”

“Not a storage unit, that’s for certain.” She paused. “I’m sure Derek will let us know.”

“He’ll let you know,” Hynds said, failing to hide an edge of bitterness . . . maybe even jealousy.

Oh, Christ, Siobhan thought again.

“How many times do you need to hear this?”

The cabdriver, Sammy Wallace, was in one of the interview rooms at St. Leonard’s. The sleeves of his check shirt were rolled up to show arms covered in tattoos, ranging from faded blue-ink jobs to professional renderings of eagles and thistles. His greasy black hair curled over his ears and hung down past his neck at the back. He was broad-shouldered and sported scar tissue on his face and the backs of his hands.

“How long since you did time, Mr. Wallace?” Hynds asked.

Wallace stood up abruptly. “Whoah! Just stop the horses fucking dead! I’m not having you lot dredge up shite on me just because you can’t find any other bastard to stick in the frame.”

“Eloquently put,” Siobhan said calmly. “Would you care to sit down again, Mr. Wallace?”

Wallace did so, with a show of reluctance. Siobhan was skimming his file, not really reading it.

“How long have you worked at MG Cabs?”

“Three years.”

“So you got the job pretty soon after your release?”

“Well, there was a dearth of vacancies for brain surgeons that week.”

Siobhan squeezed out a smile thinner than a prison cigarette. “Mr. Cafferty’s good that way, isn’t he? Likes to help ex-offenders.”

“Who?”

“I mean, he’s been in jail himself, so it’s natural he would . . .” Siobhan broke off, as though she’d only just digested Wallace’s question. “Your employer,” she said. “Mr. Cafferty. He’s the one gave you the job, right?”

Wallace looked from Siobhan to Hynds and back again. “I don’t know anyone called Cafferty.”

“Morris Gerald Cafferty,” Hynds said. “MG Cabs has his initials.”

“And I’ve got Stevie Wonder’s initials — doesn’t make me a blind piano player.”

Siobhan smiled again, with even less humor than before. “With respect, Mr. Wallace, you played it all wrong. Anyone who’s served time will have heard of Big Ger Cafferty. Pretending not to recognize his name, that’s where you got it wrong.”

“Big Ger? Of course I’ve heard of Big Ger . . . not someone called ‘Morris.’ Not even sure I ever knew his surname . . .”

“He never comes to the cab office?”

“Look, as far as I know, MG is run by my boss — Ellen Dempsey. She’s the one gives me my jobs.”

“Your boss is a woman?” Hynds asked. Wallace just looked at him, and Hynds cleared his throat, as if to acknowledge that it had been a stupid question.

Siobhan had her mobile out. “What’s the number?”

“Whose number?” Wallace asked.

“MG’s.” Wallace gave it to her and she pushed the buttons. Her call was answered immediately.

“MG Cabs, how may we help?”

“Is that Ms. Dempsey?” Siobhan asked.

There was a pause, and the voice became less welcoming. “Who is this?”

“Ms. Dempsey, my name is Detective Sergeant Clarke, St. Leonard’s CID. I’m currently interviewing one of your drivers, Samuel Wallace.”

“Christ, not again: how often do you need to hear the story?”

“Until we’re satisfied that we have all the information we need.”

“So how can I help?”

“You could tell me how MG Cabs got its name.”

“What?”

“The letters MG: what do they stand for?”