Set in Darkness (45 page)

All the same . . .

All the same, didn’t he deserve it? And if he went along,
might he be forgiven? Not that he was about to walk into the building, but surveillance . . . studying each employee as they left the building. It was worth an afternoon. And if Hutton himself should leave, he would follow, because if Grieve’s murderer didn’t work here, there was always the chance that he’d meet up with Hutton anyway.

A contract killing . . . revenge. No, he still didn’t see it. Roddy Grieve hadn’t been killed for anything in his personal or professional life – not that Linford could find. Admittedly, his family was barmy, but that in itself didn’t constitute a motive. So why had he died? Had he been in the wrong place at the wrong time, seen something he shouldn’t have? Or was it to do with the person he was about to become rather than the person he was? Someone hadn’t wanted him as an MSP. The wife came to mind again; again he dismissed her. You didn’t kill your spouse just so you could stand for parliament.

Linford rubbed his temples. The smokers on the steps were throwing him looks, wondering who he was. Eventually, they might tell Security, and that would be that. But now a car was approaching, stopping. Its driver sounded his horn, gesturing towards Linford. And now he was getting out, stomping towards the BMW. Linford slid his window down.

‘That’s my space you’re in, so if you wouldn’t mind . . . ?’

Linford looked around. ‘I don’t see any signs.’

‘This is staff parking.’ A glance at a wristwatch. ‘And I’m late for a meeting.’

Linford looked towards where another driver was getting into his car. ‘Space there for you.’

‘You deaf or what?’ Angry face, jaw jutting and tensed. A man looking for a fight.

Linford was just about ready. ‘So you’d rather argue with me than get to your meeting?’ He looked to where the other car was leaving. ‘Nice spot over there.’

‘That’s Harley. He takes his lunch hour at the gym. I’ll
be in the meeting when he gets back, and that’s
his
space. Which is why
you
move your junk heap.’

‘This from a man who drives a Sierra Cosworth.’

‘Wrong answer.’ The man yanked Linford’s door open.

‘The assault charge is going to look bloody good on your CV.’

‘You’ll have fun trying to make a complaint through broken teeth.’

‘And you’ll be in the cells for assaulting a police officer.’

The man stopped, his jaw retreating a fraction. His Adam’s apple was prominent when he swallowed. Linford took the opportunity to reach into his jacket, showing his warrant card.

‘So now you know who I am,’ Linford said. ‘But I didn’t catch your name . . . ?’

‘Look, I’m sorry.’ The man had turned from fire to sun, his grin trying for embarrassed apology. ‘I didn’t mean to . . .’

Linford was taking out his notebook, enjoying the sudden reversal. ‘I’ve heard of road rage, but parking rage is a new one on me. They might have to rewrite the rule book for you, pal.’ He peered out at the Sierra, took down its registration. ‘Don’t worry about your name.’ He tapped the notebook. ‘I can get it from this.’

‘My name’s Nic Hughes.’

‘Well, Mr Hughes, do you think you’re calm enough now to talk about this?’

‘No problem, it’s just that I was in a hurry.’ He nodded towards the building. ‘You’ve got some business with . . . ?’

‘That’s not something I can discuss, sir.’

‘Course not, no, it’s just that I was . . .’ The sentence trailed off.

‘You’d best get to your meeting.’ The revolving door was moving, Barry Hutton coming out, buttoning his suit. Linford knew him from newspaper photos. ‘I was just off anyway, as it happens.’ Linford beamed at Hughes, then
reached for the ignition. ‘Spot’s all yours.’ Hughes stepped back. Hutton, unlocking his own car – a red Ferrari – saw him.

‘Fuck’s sake, Nic, you’re supposed to be upstairs.’

‘Right away, Barry.’

‘Right away’s not good enough, arsehole!’

And now Hutton was looking at Linford, frowning. He tutted. ‘Letting someone use your space, Nic? You’re not the man I thought you were.’ Grinning, Hutton got into the Ferrari, but then got out again, came over to the BMW.

Linford thinking:
I’ve blown it; he knows my face now, knows my car. Following him is going to be a nightmare
. . . ‘
You don’t
not
raise hackles
. . .
Get in people’s faces
.’ Well, he’d got in the Cosworth driver’s face, and here was his reward, Barry Hutton standing in front of the BMW, pointing towards him.

‘You’re a cop, aren’t you? Don’t ask me how it is you lot stick out, even in a motor like that. Look, I told the other two, and that’s all I’m saying, right?’

Linford nodded slowly. The ‘other two’: Wylie and Hood. Linford had read their report.

‘Good,’ Hutton said, turning on his heels. Linford and Hughes watched as the Ferrari’s engine fired, that low rumble like money in the bank. Hutton kicked up dust as he raced out of the car park.

Hughes was staring at Linford. Linford stared back. ‘Do something for you?’ he said.

‘What’s going on?’ The man had trouble getting the words out.

Linford shook his head, smallest of victories, and put the Beamer into gear. Crawled out of the car park, wondering if it was worth trying to catch up with Hutton. Saw Hughes in his rearview. Something not right about the man. The warrant card hadn’t just pacified him, it had freaked him out.

Something to hide? It was funny how even church
ministers could break into a sweat when there was a copper in front of them. But this guy . . . No, he looked nothing like the description. All the same . . . all the same . . .

At the lights on Lothian Road, Barry Hutton was three cars in front. Linford decided he’d nothing to lose.

Big Ger Cafferty was on his own, parked outside Rebus’s flat in a metallic-grey Jaguar XK8. Rebus, locking his own car, pretended he hadn’t seen him. He walked towards the tenement door, hearing the electric hum of the Jag’s window sliding down.

‘Thought we might take another drive,’ Cafferty called.

Rebus ignored him, unlocked the door, and went into the stairwell. As the door closed behind him, he stood there, debating with himself. Then he opened the door again. Cafferty was out of the car, leaning against it.

‘Like the new motor?’

‘You bought it?’

‘You think I stole it?’ Cafferty laughed.

Rebus shook his head. ‘I just thought you might have been better off hiring, seeing how you’re on the way out.’

‘All the more reason for indulging myself while I’m here.’

Rebus looked around. ‘Where’s Rab?’

‘Didn’t think I’d need him.’

‘I don’t know whether to be flattered or insulted.’

Cafferty frowned. ‘By what?’

‘You coming here without a minder.’

‘You said it yourself the other night: that was the time to take a pop at me. Now how about that drive?’

‘How good a driver are you?’

Cafferty laughed again. ‘It’s true I’m a bit rusty. I just thought it might be more private.’

‘For what?’

‘Our little chat about Bryce Callan.’

They headed east, through the one-time slums of Craigmillar and Niddrie, now falling to the bulldozers.

‘I’ve always thought’, Cafferty said, ‘that this should be the ideal spot. Views to Arthur’s Seat, and Craigmillar Castle behind you. Yuppies would think they’d died and gone to heaven.’

‘I don’t think we say yuppies any more.’

Cafferty looked at him. ‘I’ve been away a while.’

‘True.’

‘I see the old cop shop’s gone.’

‘Just moved around the corner.’

‘And great God, all these new shopping centres.’

Rebus explained that it was called The Fort. Nothing to do with Craigmillar’s old police station, whose nickname had been Fort Apache. They were past Niddrie now, following signs to Musselburgh.

‘The place is changing so fast,’ Cafferty mused.

‘And I’m ageing fast just sitting here. Any chance of you getting to the point?’

Cafferty glanced in his direction. ‘I’ve been making the point all along, it’s just you’ve not been listening.’

‘What is it you want to tell me about Callan?’

‘Just that he called me.’

‘He knows you’re out, then?’

‘Mr Callan, like many a wealthy expat, likes to keep abreast of Scottish current affairs.’ Cafferty glanced at him again. ‘Nervous, are you?’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘Your hand’s on the door handle, like you’re ready to bale out.’

Rebus moved his hand. ‘You’re setting me up for something.’

‘Am I?’

‘And I’d bet three months’ salary there’s nothing wrong with you.’

Cafferty kept his eyes on the road. ‘So prove it.’

‘Don’t worry.’

‘Me? What have I got to worry about? It’s you that’s the nervous one, remember.’ They were silent for a moment. Cafferty slid his hands around the steering wheel. ‘Nice car, though, isn’t it?’

‘And doubtless purchased with the honest sweat of your brow.’

‘Others do my sweating for me. That’s what makes a successful businessman.’

‘Which brings us to Bryce Callan. You couldn’t even get to speak to his nephew, and suddenly he calls you out of the blue?’

‘He knows I know you.’

‘And?’

‘And he wanted to know what I knew. You haven’t made yourself a friend there, Strawman.’

‘Inside, I’m crying.’

‘You think he’s mixed up in these murders?’

‘Are you here to tell me he isn’t?’

Cafferty shook his head. ‘I’m here to tell you that his nephew’s the one you should be looking at.’

Rebus digested this.

‘Why?’ he asked at last.

Cafferty just shrugged.

‘Does this come from Callan?’

‘Indirectly.’

Rebus snorted. ‘I don’t get it. Why would Callan dump Barry Hutton in it?’ Cafferty shrugged again. ‘It’s a funny thing . . .’ Rebus went on.

‘What?’

Rebus stared out of his window. ‘Here we are coming into Musselburgh. Know what its nickname is?’

‘I forget.’

‘The Honest Toun.’

‘What’s funny about that?’

‘Just that you’ve brought me here to feed me a load of shite. It’s
you
that wants to see Hutton get burned.’ He stared at Cafferty. ‘I wonder why that should be?’

The sudden anger in Cafferty’s face seemed to give off a heat all of its own. ‘You’re mad, do you know that? You’d ignore any crime sitting in your path, sidestep it just so you could give
me
a bloody nose. That’s the truth, isn’t it, Strawman? You don’t want anyone else; you just want Morris Gerald Cafferty.’

‘Don’t flatter yourself.’

‘I’m trying to do you a favour here. Get you a bit of glory
and
maybe keep Bryce Callan from killing you.’

‘So when did you become the UN peacekeeper?’

‘Look . . .’ Cafferty sighed; some of the blood had left his cheeks. ‘Okay, maybe there
is
something in it for me.’

‘What?’

‘All you need to know is there’s more in it for John Rebus.’ Cafferty was indicating, bringing the car to a halt kerbside on the High Street. Rebus looked around; saw just the one landmark.

‘Luca’s?’ In summer, the café had queues out the door. But this was winter. Mid-afternoon and the lights were on inside.

‘Used to be the best ice cream around,’ Cafferty was saying, undoing his seat belt. ‘I want to see if it still is.’

He bought two vanilla cones, brought them outside. Rebus was pinching his nose, shaking his head incredulously.

‘One minute Callan’s putting a contract on me, the next we’re eating ice cream.’

‘It’s the small things you savour in this life, ever noticed that?’ Cafferty had already started on his cone. ‘Now if there was racing on, we could have had a flutter.’ Musselburgh Racecourse: the Honest Toun’s other attraction.

Rebus tasted the ice cream. ‘Give me something on Hutton,’ he said, ‘something I can use.’

Cafferty thought for a moment. ‘Council junkets,’ he said. ‘Everyone in Hutton’s line of work needs friends.’ He
paused. ‘The city might be changing, but it still works the same old way.’

Barry Hutton went shopping: parked his car in the St James Centre and hit a computer shop, John Lewis department store, and then out on to Princes Street and the short walk to Jenners. He bought clothes, while Derek Linford pretended to study a range of neckties. The shops were all busy enough; Linford knew he hadn’t been spotted. He’d never done surveillance before, but knew the theory. He bought one of the ties – pale orange and green stripes – and swapped it for his own plain maroon.

The man Hutton had seen in the company car park had worn the maroon tie: different tie, different man.

Across the road to the Balmoral Hotel, afternoon tea with a man and a woman: business, briefcases open. Then back to the car park and the crawl to Waverley Bridge, traffic building as the rush hour neared. Hutton parked on Market Street, made for the rear entrance to the Carlton Highland Hotel. He was carrying a sports holdall. Linford made the deduction: health club. He knew the hotel had one – he’d almost joined it, but the fees had put him off. His thinking at the time: way to meet people, the city’s movers and shakers. But at a price.

He bided his time. There was a bottle of water in the glove compartment, but he knew he daren’t drink anything – just his luck to be off having a pee when Hutton came out. Ditto eating. His stomach was growling; café just along the road . . . He searched the glove compartment again, came up with a stick of chewing gum.

‘
Bon appetit
,’ he said to himself, unwrapping it.

Hutton spent an hour in the club. Linford was keeping a record of his movements, and duly noted the time to the minute. He was alone when he came out, his hair damp from the shower, holdall swinging. He had that sheen, that scrubbed confidence which came with a workout.
Back into his car, and heading towards Abbeyhill. Linford checked his mobile phone. The battery was dead. He plugged it into the cigar lighter, got it charging. He wondered about calling Rebus, but to say what exactly? To ask his consent?
You’re doing the right thing; keep at it
. The action of a weak man.