10 Great Rebus Novels (John Rebus) (254 page)

‘Not nearly enough, Jack. Here, have a proper drink.’

‘This is a proper drink. That stuff you’re drinking, that’s not really a drink.’

‘What is it then?’

‘An escape clause.’

Jack said he’d drive Rebus to Barlinnie, didn’t ask why he wanted to go there. They took the M8 to Riddrie; Jack knew all the routes. They didn’t say much during the trip, until Jack asked the question which had been hanging between them.

‘How’s Sammy?’

Rebus’s daughter, now grown up. Jack hadn’t seen her in nearly ten years.

‘She’s fine.’ Rebus had a change of subject ready. ‘I’m not sure Chick Ancram likes me. He keeps . . .
studying
me.’

‘He’s a shrewd customer, be nice to him.’

‘Any particular reason?’

Jack Morton bit back an answer, shook his head. They turned off Cumbernauld Road, approached the jail.

‘Look,’ Jack said, ‘I can’t hang around. Tell me how long you’ll be and I’ll send a patrol car for you.’

‘An hour should do it.’

Jack Morton checked his watch. ‘An hour it is.’ He held out his hand. ‘Good to see you again, John.’

Rebus took the hand, squeezed.

‘Big Ger’ Cafferty was waiting when he reached the Interview Room.

‘Well, Strawman, this is an unexpected pleasure.’

Strawman: Cafferty’s name for Rebus. The prison guard who had brought Rebus seemed disinclined to leave, and there were already two guards in the room keeping an eye on Cafferty. He’d already escaped once from Barlinnie, and now that they had him back, they were intent on keeping him.

‘Hello, Cafferty.’ Rebus sat down across from him. Cafferty had aged in prison, losing his tan and some musculature, putting on weight in all the wrong places. His hair was thin and greying quickly, and there was stubble on chin and cheekbones. ‘I’ve brought you something.’ He looked at the guards, eased the half-bottle out of his pocket.

‘Not allowed,’ one guard snapped.

‘Don’t worry, Strawman,’ Cafferty said. ‘I’ve plenty of hooch, this place is practically swimming in the stuff. It’s the thought that counts, eh?’

Rebus dropped the bottle back into his pocket.

‘I take it you’ve a favour to ask?’

‘Yes.’

Cafferty crossed his legs, utterly at ease. ‘What is it?’

‘You know Joseph Toal?’

‘Everyone and their dog knows Uncle Joe.’

‘Yes, but you
know
him.’

‘So?’ There was an edge to Cafferty’s smile.

‘I want you to phone him, get him to speak to me.’

Cafferty considered the request. ‘Why?’

‘I want to ask him about Anthony Kane.’

‘Tony E1? I thought he was dead.’

‘He left his prints at a murder scene in Niddrie.’ Never mind what the boss said, Rebus was treating this as murder. And he knew the word would make more of an impression on Cafferty. It did. His lips rounded into an O, and he whistled.

‘That was stupid of him. Tony E1 didn’t used to be so stupid. And if he was still working for Uncle Joe . . . There could be fallout.’ Rebus knew that connections were being made in Cafferty’s mind, and they all led to Joseph Toal becoming his Barlinnie neighbour. There would be reasons for Cafferty to want Toal inside: old scores, debts unpaid, territory encroached. There were always old scores to be settled. Cafferty came to his decision.

‘You’ll need to get me a phone.’

Rebus got up, walked over to the guard who’d barked ‘Not allowed’, slipped the whisky into the man’s pocket.

‘We need to get him a phone,’ he said.

They marched Cafferty left and right through corridors until they reached a payphone. They’d had to pass through three sets of gates.

‘This is as near to the outside as I’ve been in a while,’ Cafferty joked.

The guards weren’t laughing. Rebus provided the money for the call.

‘Now,’ said Cafferty, ‘let’s see if I remember . . .’ He winked at Rebus, pressed seven digits, waited.

‘Hello?’ he said. ‘Who’s that?’ He listened to the name. ‘Never heard of you. Listen, tell Uncle Joe that Big Ger wants a word. Just tell him that.’ He waited, glanced at Rebus, licked his lips. ‘He says what? Tell him I’m phoning from the Bar-L and money’s short.’

Rebus pushed another coin home.

‘Well,’ Cafferty growing angry, ‘tell him he’s got a tattoo
on his back.’ He covered the mouthpiece. ‘Not something Uncle Joe goes blabbing about.’

Rebus got as close as he could to the earpiece, heard a dull rasp of a voice.

‘Morris Gerald Cafferty, is that you? I thought someone was winding me up.’

‘Hello, Uncle Joe. How’s business?’

‘Loupin’. Who’s listening in?’

‘At the last count, three monkeys and a dick.’

‘You always liked an audience, that was your problem.’

‘Sound advice, Uncle Joe, but years too late.’

‘So what do they want?’ They: Rebus the dick and the three monkey guards.

‘The dick’s from Edinburgh CID, he wants to come talk to you.’

‘What about?’

‘Tony El.’

‘What’s to tell? Tony hasn’t worked for me in a twelvemonth.’

‘Then tell the nice policeman that. Seems Tony’s been up to his old tricks. There’s a cold one in Edinburgh, and Tony’s prints on the scene.’

A low growl: human.

‘You got a dog there, Uncle Joe?’

‘Tell the cop I don’t have anything to do with Tony.’

‘I think he wants to hear it for himself.’

‘Then put him on.’

Cafferty looked to Rebus, who shook his head.

‘And he wants to look you in the eye while you’re telling him.’

‘Is he a poof or what?’

‘He’s old school, Uncle Joe. You’ll like him.’

‘Why did he come to you?’

‘I’m his Last Chance Saloon.’

‘And why the fuck did you agree?’

Cafferty didn’t miss a beat. ‘A half-bottle of
usquebaugh
.’

‘Jesus, the Bar-L must be drier than I thought.’ The voice not so rough.

‘Send a whole bottle over and I’ll tell him to go fuck himself.’

A croaky laugh. ‘Christ, Cafferty, I miss you. How long to go?’

‘Ask my lawyers.’

‘Are you still keeping your hand in?’

‘What do you think?’

‘It’s what I hear.’

‘Nothing wrong with your hearing.’

‘Send the bastard over, tell him he gets five minutes. Maybe I’ll come see you one of these days.’

‘Better not, Uncle Joe, when visiting time ends they might have misplaced the key.’

More laughter. The line went dead. Cafferty put down the receiver.

‘You owe me, Strawman,’ he growled, ‘so here’s my favour: put that old bastard away.’

But Rebus was already walking towards freedom.

The car was waiting for him, Morton keeping his word. Rebus gave the address he’d memorised from the Toal files. He was sitting in the back, two woolly suits in the front. The passenger turned in his seat.

‘Isn’t that where Uncle Joe lives?’

Rebus nodded. The woolly suits exchanged a look.

‘Just get me there,’ Rebus ordered.

The traffic was heavy, people heading home. Elastic Glasgow, stretching in four directions. The housing scheme, when they reached it, was much like any scheme its size in Edinburgh: grey pebbledash, barren play areas, tarmac and a smattering of fortified shops. Kids on bikes stopping to watch the car, eyes as keen as sentries’; brisk baby buggies, shapeless mothers with dyed blonde hair. Further into the estate, driving slowly: people watching from behind their windows,
men at pavement corners, muttered confabs. A city within a city, uniform and enervating, energy sapped, nothing left but obstinacy: the words NO SURRENDER on a gable-end, a message from Ulster just as relevant here.

‘Are you expected?’ the driver asked.

‘I’m expected.’

‘Thank Christ for that at least.’

‘Any other patrol cars around?’

The passenger laughed nervously. ‘This is the frontier, sir. The frontier has a way of keeping its own law and order.’

‘If you had his money,’ the driver said, ‘would you live here?’

‘He was born here,’ Rebus said. ‘And I believe his house is a bit special.’

‘Special?’ The driver snorted. ‘Well, judge for yourself.’

He brought the car to a stop at the entrance to a cul-de-sac. Rebus saw at the end of the cul-de-sac two houses which stood out from their neighbours for a single reason: they boasted stone cladding.

‘One of those?’ Rebus asked.

‘Pick either door.’

Rebus got out of the car, leaned back in. ‘Don’t you dare drive away.’ He slammed his door shut and walked up the cul-de-sac. He chose the left-hand of the two identical semi-detacheds. The door was opened from within, and an oversized man in a bulging T-shirt ushered him in.

‘You the rozzer?’ They were standing in a cramped hallway. Rebus nodded. ‘Through there.’

Rebus opened the door to the living room, and did a double-take. The connecting wall between the two semis had been knocked through, providing a double-sized living space, open plan. The room also went further back than should have been feasible. Rebus was reminded of Dr Who’s Tardis, and, alone in the room, walked towards the back of the house. A large extension had been added, including a sizeable conservatory. This should have minimised the space left for a garden,
but the lawn outside was plentiful. There were playing-fields backing on to the house, and Rebus saw that Uncle Joe had taken a chunk out of these fields for his garden.

Planning permission, of course, was out of the question.

But then who needed planning permission?

‘I hope your ears don’t need cleaning,’ a voice said. Rebus turned and saw that a small, stooped man had entered the room. He held a cigarette in one hand, while his other was busy with a walking-stick. He shuffled in carpet slippers towards a well-used armchair and fell into it, hands gripping the greasy anti-macassars, walking-stick lying across his lap.

Rebus had seen photographs of the man, but they hadn’t prepared him for the reality. Joseph Toal really
did
look like someone’s uncle. He was in his seventies, stocky, with the hands and face of a one-time coalminer. His forehead was all rippled flesh, and his thin grey hair was swept back and Brylcreemed. His jaw was square, eyes watery, and his glasses hung from a string around his neck. When he raised the cigarette to his lips, Rebus saw nicotine fingers, bruised ingrown nails. He was wearing a shapeless cardigan over an equally shapeless sports shirt. The cardigan was patched, loose threads hanging from it. His trousers were brown and baggy, stained at the knees.

‘Nothing wrong with my ears,’ Rebus said, coming forward.

‘Good, because I’ll say it only once.’ He sniffed, controlling his breathing. ‘Anthony Kane worked for me twelve, thirteen years, not all the time – short-term contracts. But then a year ago, maybe a little over, he told me he was walking, wanted to be his own boss. We parted on amicable terms, I haven’t seen him since.’

Rebus gestured to a chair. Toal nodded to let him know he could sit. Rebus took his time getting comfortable.

‘Mr Toal –’

‘Everybody calls me Uncle Joe.’

‘As in Stalin?’

‘You think that’s a new joke, son? Ask your question.’

Go: ‘What was Tony planning to do when he left your employ?’

‘He didn’t go into specifics. Our parting conversation was . . . curt.’

Rebus nodded. He was thinking: I had an uncle who looked very much like you; I can’t even remember his name.

‘Well, if that’s everything . . .’ Toal made a show of starting to rise.

‘Do you remember Bible John, Uncle Joe?’

Toal frowned, understanding the question but not its intent. He reached down to the floor for an ashtray, stubbed his cigarette into it. ‘I remember fine. Hundreds of coppers on the street, it was bad for business. We cooperated a hundred per cent, I had men out hunting the bugger for months.
Months!
And now this new bastard turns up.’

‘Johnny Bible?’

Pointing to himself: ‘I’m a businessman. The slaughter of innocents sickens me. I’ve had all my taxi drivers –’ he paused – ‘I have interests in a local taxi firm – and I’ve instructed every single driver: keep your eyes peeled and your ears open.’ He was breathing heavily. ‘If anything comes to me, it’ll go straight to the cops.’

‘Very public spirited.’

Toal shrugged. ‘The public is my business.’ Another pause, a frown. ‘What’s all this to do with Tony El?’

‘Nothing.’ Toal looked unconvinced. ‘Call it tangential. Is it OK to smoke?’

‘You’re not staying long enough to enjoy it.’

Rebus lit up anyway, staying put. ‘Where did Tony El go?’

‘He didn’t send a postcard.’

‘You must have some idea.’

Toal thought about it, when he shouldn’t have needed to. ‘Somewhere south, I think. Maybe London. He had friends down there.’

‘London?’

Toal wouldn’t look at Rebus. He shook his head. ‘I heard he headed south.’

Rebus stood up.

‘Is it that time already?’ Toal showed effort getting to his feet, steadying himself with the walking-stick. ‘And here we were just getting to know one another. How’s Edinburgh these days? Know what we used to say about it? Fur coat and nae knickers, that’s Edinburgh.’ A hacking laugh turned into a hacking cough. Toal gripped the walking-stick with both hands, knees almost buckling.

Rebus waited until he’d finished. The old man’s face was puce, sweat breaking out. ‘That may be true,’ he said, ‘but I don’t see too many fur coats around here, never mind the knickers.’

Toal’s face broke into a grin, showing yellow dentures. ‘Cafferty said I’d like you, and you know what?’

‘What?’

The grin turned to a scowl. ‘He was wrong. And now I’ve seen you, I’m wondering more than ever why he sent you here. Not just for the price of a half-bottle, not even Cafferty’s that cheap. You better get yourself back to Edinburgh, laddie. And take care of yourself, I hear it’s not as safe as it used to be.’

Rebus walked to the far end of the living room, deciding to leave by the other front door. There was a staircase next to it, and someone came bounding down, nearly colliding with him. A big man in bad clothes, a face that said he wasn’t too bright, arms tattooed with thistles and pipers. He’d be about twenty-five, and Rebus recognised him from the photos in the file: Mad Malky Toal, a.k.a. ‘Stanley’. Joseph Toal’s wife had died in childbirth, too old really to be having kids. But their first two had died, one in infancy, one in a car smash. So now there was only Stanley, heir apparent, and towards the back of the queue when the IQs were being divvied.