Ian Rankin - The Naming of the Dead

“Fuckin’ shut it, Jimmy,” the teenager said. But Jimmy was just getting into his stride.

“Hey, sweetheart, ever see that film The Accused? If you feel a Jodie Foster moment coming on, we can make sure the door’s bolted.”

“Try anything, you’ll be the one doing the bolting,” Siobhan snapped back.

“Just ignore him,” the teenager advised her. “I’ll give you a game if you want.”

“It’s me she wants to take on,” Keith Carberry called out, stifling a burp as he crushed the empty can in his fist.

“Maybe after,” Siobhan told the teenager, making her way to Carberry’s table. She crouched to slot home the coin. “Rack them up,” she said. Carberry got busy with the triangle while she chose a cue. The tips were ragged, and there was no sign of chalk. Carberry had opened his case, screwed his two-piece cue together. Drew a fresh cube of blue from his pocket and got to work. The chalk went back into his pocket and he winked at her.

“Want some, you’ll have to reach in and get it. Going to toss me for break?”

There were guffaws at this, but Siobhan was already leaning down over the cue ball. The rust-colored baize was snagged in places, despite which she made pretty good contact, splitting open the pack, a stripe finding the middle pocket. Potted two more before she missed an angle.

“She’s better than you are, Keith,” one of the other players chipped in.

Carberry ignored him and potted three in a row. Tried doubling the fourth the length of the table. Missed by half an inch. Siobhan played safe, and he decided to get out of the snooker by coming off three cushions. Fouled it.

“Two shots,” Siobhan reminded him. She needed both to pot her next ball, then succeeded with a double of her own, bringing a whoop from one of the other tables. The games had paused so they could watch. The last two pots were straightforward, leaving only the black. She ran it along the bottom cushion, but it stopped in the jaws of the pocket. Carberry cleaned up.

“Want another tanning?” he asked with a smirk.

“Think I’ll get a drink first.” She walked over to the machine and got a Fanta. Carberry followed her. The other games were back in play; seemed to Siobhan she’d won some level of acceptance.

“You’ve not told them who I am,” she stated quietly. “Thanks for that.”

“What is it you’re after?”

“I’m after you, Keith.” She handed him a folded piece of paper. It was a printout of the photo from Princes Street Gardens. He took it from her and studied it, then tried handing it back.

“So?” he said.

“The woman you hit…take another look at her.” She swigged from her can. “Notice any family resemblance?”

He stared at her. “You’re joking.”

She shook her head. “You put my mother in the hospital, Keith. Didn’t matter to you who it was, or how badly they were injured. You went down there for a fight, and you were going to get one.”

“And I’ve been to court for it.”

“I looked at the notes, Keith. Prosecutor doesn’t know about this.” Siobhan tapped the photo. “All he’s got on you is witness testimony from the cop who pulled you out of the crowd. Saw you tossing the stick away. What do you think you’ll get? Fifty-pound fine?”

“Payable at a pound a week directly out of my account.”

“But if I give them this photo-and all the others I’ve got-suddenly it’s looking more like jail, isn’t it?”

“Nothing I can’t handle,” he said with confidence.

She nodded. “Because you’ve been inside more than once. But there’s time,” she paused, “and then there’s time.”

“Eh?”

“A word from me, and suddenly the screws aren’t so friendly. There are wings they can put you on where only the bad men go: sex offenders, psychopaths, lifers with nothing to lose. Your record says you’ve done juvenile time, open prisons with day release. See, the reason you say you can handle it is that you haven’t had to try.”

“All this because your mum got in the way of a swing?”

“All this,” she corrected him, “because I can. Tell you something though-your pal Tench knew about this last night, funny he didn’t think to warn you.”

The teenager in charge of the hall was getting a text message. He called across to them: “Hey, lovebirds-boss wants a word.”

Carberry tore his eyes away from Siobhan. “What?”

“Boss.” The teenager was pointing to a door marked PRIVATE. Above it, screwed to the wall, sat a surveillance camera.

“I think we better oblige,” Siobhan said, “don’t you?” She led him toward the door and tugged it open. Hallway behind it, and stairs leading up. The roof space had become an office: desk, chairs, filing cabinet. Broken cues and an empty water cooler. Light coming in through two dusty skylights.

And Big Ger Cafferty waiting for them.

“You must be Keith,” he said, holding out a hand. Carberry shook it, his eyes flitting between the gangster and Siobhan. “Maybe you know who I am?” Carberry hesitated, then nodded. “Of course you do.” Cafferty gestured for the young man to sit. Siobhan stayed on her feet.

“You own this place?” Carberry asked with the slightest of tremors.

“Have done for years.”

“What about Lonnie?”

“Dead before you were born, son.” Cafferty brushed a hand over one of his trouser legs, as if he’d found some chalk dust there. “Now, Keith…I hear good things about you-but seems to me you’ve been led astray. Got to get back on the strait and narrow before it’s too late. Mum worries about you…dad’s lost the plot now he can’t hit you without getting hit twice as hard back. Older brother already in Shotts for thieving cars.” Cafferty gave a slow shake of his head. “It’s like your life’s mapped out, nothing you can do but go along with it.” He paused. “But we can change that, Keith, if you’re willing to let us help.”

Carberry looked confused. “Am I getting a whipping or what?”

Cafferty shrugged. “We can arrange that, too, of course-nothing DS Clarke here would like better than to see you cry like a baby. Only fair, when you think what you did to her mum.” Another pause. “But then there’s the alternative.”

Siobhan shifted a little, part of her wanting to haul Carberry out of there, getting both of them away from Cafferty’s hypnotic voice. The gangster seemed to sense this and shifted his gaze to her for a moment, awaiting her decision.

“What alternative?” Keith Carberry was asking. Cafferty didn’t answer. His eyes were still locked on Siobhan.

“Gareth Tench,” she explained to the young man. “We want him.”

“And you, Keith,” Cafferty added, “are going to deliver.”

“Deliver?”

Siobhan noticed that Carberry’s legs were all but refusing to hold him up. He was terrified of Cafferty; terrified of her, too, most probably.

You wanted this, she told herself.

“Tench is using you, Keith,” Cafferty was saying, his voice as soft as a bedtime lullaby. “He’s not your friend, never has been.”

“Never said he was,” the youth felt compelled to argue.

“Good lad.” Cafferty was rising slowly to his feet, almost as wide as the desk he now stood behind. “Just keep telling yourself that,” he advised. “It’ll make everything so much easier when the time comes.”

“Time?” Carberry echoed.

“To turn him over to us.”

“Sorry about earlier,” Rebus told Stan Hackman.

“What was I interrupting?”

“A whipping from my chief constable.”

Hackman laughed. “You’re a man after my own heart, Johnny boy. But why did I have to become your sweetheart?” He held up a hand. “No, let me guess. You didn’t want him to know it was business…meaning you’re not supposed to have any business-am I right?”