Ian Rankin - The Naming of the Dead

Cafferty laughed. “He has a stake in the firm that published my book. Meant he was at the launch party. Sorry you couldn’t make it, by the way…”

“Invite came in handy when the toilet paper ran out.”

“Met him again over lunch when the book hit fifty thousand. Private room at the Ivy…” He glanced at Rebus again. “That’s in London. I thought of moving there, you know. Used to have a lot of friends down south. Business acquaintances.”

“Same ones Steelforth put away?” Rebus thought for a moment. “Why didn’t you tell me you knew Pennen too?”

“There have to be some secrets between us,” Cafferty said, smiling. “I ran a check on your pal Jacko by the way…didn’t get anywhere. You sure he’s a cop?”

Rebus answered with another question of his own. “What about Steelforth’s bill at the Balmoral?”

“Picked up by Lothian and Borders Police.”

“That’s generous of us.”

“You never let up, do you, Rebus?”

“Why should I?”

“Because sometimes you just have to let things go. What’s past is another country-Mairie told me that when we were doing the book.”

“I just had a drink with her.”

“And not grape juice by the smell of it.”

“She’s a good kid. Shame she’s got your claws in her back.”

The car was heading down Dalkeith Road, Cafferty signaling left toward Craigmillar and Niddrie. Either that or they were heading for the A1 south out of the city.

“Where are we going?” Rebus asked again.

“Not far now. And Mairie’s quite capable of looking after herself.”

“Does she pass everything along?”

“Probably not, but that doesn’t stop me asking her. See, what Mairie really needs is another bestseller. This time, she’d push for a percentage rather than a set fee. I keep tempting her with stories that didn’t make it into the book…The girl needs to keep me happy.”

“More fool her.”

“It’s funny,” Cafferty went on, “but talking about Richard Pennen reminds me of a few tales about him, too. Not that you’d want to hear them.” He started chuckling again, his face lit from below by the dashboard. He seemed all shadows and smudges, a preparatory sketch for some grinning gargoyle.

I’m in hell, Rebus thought. This is what happens when you die and go downstairs. You get your own personal devil…

“Salvation awaits!” Cafferty cried suddenly, turning the steering wheel hard so that the Bentley slalomed through a set of gates, sending gravel flying skyward. It was a hall, lights glowing within. A hall attached to a church.

“Time to renounce the demon drink,” Cafferty teased, shutting off the engine and pushing open his door. But a sign next to the open doorway told Rebus this was a public meeting, part of G8 Alternatives-Communities in Action: The Future Crisis Averted. Entry was free to students and the unwaged.

“Unwashed, more like,” Cafferty muttered, seeing the bearded figure holding a plastic bucket. The man had long, curly black hair and wore prescription glasses with thick black frames. He shook the bucket as the new arrivals approached. There were coins inside, but not many. Cafferty made a ritual of opening his wallet and extracting a fifty-pound note. “Better be going to a good cause,” he warned the collector. Rebus followed him indoors, pointing out to the bucket holder that his share could come out of Cafferty’s contribution.

There were three or four rows of empty chairs at the back, but Cafferty had made the decision to stand, arms folded and legs apart. The room was busy, but the audience looked bored, or maybe just lost in contemplation. Up on the stage, four men and two women were squeezed behind a trestle table, sharing a single distortion-prone microphone. There were banners behind them stating, CRAIG-MILLAR WELCOMES G8 PROTESTERS and OUR COMMUNITY IS STRONG WHEN WE SPEAK WITH ONE VOICE. The one voice speaking at that particular moment belonged to Councilman Gareth Tench.

“It’s all very well,” he boomed out, “saying give us the tools and we will do the job. But there need to be jobs there in the first place! We need concrete proposals for the betterment of our communities, and that’s what I’m striving for in my own small way.”

There was nothing small about the councilman’s delivery. A hall this size, someone like Tench barely needed a microphone in the first place.

“He’s in love with his own voice,” Cafferty commented. Rebus knew it was true. It had been the same when he’d stopped to watch Tench deliver his sermons on the Mound. He hadn’t shouted to be heard; he’d shouted because the noise confirmed for him his own importance in the world.

“But friends…comrades…” Tench continued without seeming to draw breath, “we’re all prone to see ourselves as cogs in the vast political machine. How can we be heard? How can we make a difference? Well, think about it for a moment. The cars and buses you used when you traveled here tonight…remove just one small cog from the engine and the machinery breaks down. Because every single moving part has equal worth-equal importance-and that’s as true in human life as it is with the infernal congestion engine.” He paused long enough to smile at his own pun.

“Preening little prick,” Cafferty muttered to Rebus. “He couldn’t love himself any better if he was double-jointed and giving himself a blow job.”

Rebus was powerless to prevent the sudden choking laugh that escaped him. He tried camouflaging it as a cough, but to little avail. Some in the audience had turned in their seats to seek out the commotion’s cause. Even Tench had been pulled up short. What he saw from the stage was Morris Gerald Cafferty patting the back of Detective Inspector John Rebus. Rebus knew he’d been recognized, despite the hand he was holding over his mouth and nose. Tench, put off his stride, worked hard to regain the momentum of his speech, but some of his previous forcefulness had evaporated into the night. He handed the microphone to the woman next to him, who emerged from her trancelike state and started reciting in a monotone from the copious notes in front of her.

Cafferty passed in front of Rebus and stepped outside. After a moment, Rebus followed. Cafferty was pacing the parking lot. Rebus lit a cigarette and bided his time till his nemesis was standing before him.

“I still don’t get it,” Rebus admitted, flicking ash from the cigarette.

Cafferty shrugged. “And you’re supposed to be the detective.”

“A clue or two would help.”

Cafferty stretched out his arms. “This is his territory, Rebus, his little fiefdom. But he’s getting itchy, planning to expand.”

“You mean Tench?” Rebus narrowed his eyes. “You’re saying he’s the one muscling in on your turf?”

“Mr. Fire and Brimstone himself.” Cafferty lowered his arms so that his hands slapped his thighs, as if placing a period on the proceedings.

“I still don’t get it.”

Cafferty glared at Rebus. “The thing is, he sees nothing wrong with shouldering me aside, because he’s got righteousness on his side. By controlling the illicit, he makes it a force for good.” Cafferty gave a sigh. “Sometimes I think that’s how half the globe operates. It’s not the underworld you should be watching-it’s the overworld. Men like Tench and his ilk.”

“He’s a councilman,” Rebus argued. “I mean, they may take the occasional bribe…”

Cafferty was shaking his head. “He wants power, Rebus. He wants control. See how much he loves being able to make his speeches? The stronger he is, the more talking he can do-and be listened to.”

“So set some of your thugs on him, make sure he gets the message.”

Cafferty’s eyes bored into him. “That’s your best shot, is it?”