Set in Darkness (48 page)

Leith was quiet, the day keeping people indoors. He drove past carpet shops, tattoo parlours, pawnbrokers. Laundrettes and social security offices: the latter were locked for the weekend. Most days, they’d be doing more business than the local stores. Parked his car in an alley and made sure it was locked before leaving it. At twelve minutes past opening, he was in his first pub. They were serving coffee, so he had a mug, same as the barman was drinking. Two ancient regulars watched morning television and smoked diligently: this was their day job, and they approached it with the seriousness of ritual. Rebus didn’t get much out of the barman, not so much as a free refill. It was time to move on.

His mobile went off while he was walking. It was Bill Nairn.

‘Working weekends, Bill?’ Rebus said. ‘How’s the overtime?’

‘The Bar-L never closes, John. I did what you asked, checked out our friend Rab Hill.’

‘And?’ Rebus had stopped walking. A few shoppers moved around him. They were mostly elderly, feet hardly clearing the pavement. No cars to take them to the retail parks; no energy to take the bus uptown.

‘Not much really. Released on his due date. Said he was moving through to Edinburgh. He’s seen his parole officer there . . .’

‘Illnesses, Bill?’

‘Well, yes, he did complain of a dicky stomach. Didn’t seem to clear up, so he had some tests. They were all clear.’

‘Same hospital as Cafferty?’

‘Yes, but I really don’t see . . .’

‘What’s his Edinburgh address?’

Nairn repeated the details: it was a hotel on Princes Street. ‘Nice,’ Rebus said. Then he took down the parole officer’s details, too. ‘Cheers, Bill. I’ll talk to you later.’

The second bar was smoky, its carpet tacky with the previous night’s spillage. Three men stood drinking nips, sleeves rolled up to show off their tattoos. They examined him as he entered, seemed not to find his presence objectionable enough to arouse comment. Later in the day, with sobriety a dull memory, things would be different. Rebus knew the barman, sat down at a corner table with a half-pint of Eighty and smoked a cigarette. When the barman came to empty the ashtray of its single dowp, it gave time for a couple of muted questions. The barman replied with little twitches of the head: negative. He either didn’t know or wasn’t saying. Fair enough. Rebus knew when he could push a bit harder, and this was not one of those times.

He knew as he left that the drinkers would be talking about him. They’d smelt cop on him, and would want to know what he’d been after. The barman would tell them: no harm in that. By now it would be common knowledge – and when one of their own was attacked, the police always went in quickly and with prejudice. Leith would be expecting little else.

Outside, he got on the phone again, called the hotel and asked to be put through to Robert Hill’s room.

‘I’m sorry, sir. Mr Hill’s not answering.’

Rebus cut the call.

Pub three: a relief barman, and no faces Rebus recognised. He didn’t even stay for a drink. Two cafés after that, Formica tables pockmarked with cigarette burns, the vinegary haze of brown sauce and chip fat. And then a third café, a place the men from the docks came to for huge doses of reviving cholesterol, as if it were more doctor’s surgery than eating place.

And seated at one of the tables, scooping up runny egg with a fork, someone Rebus knew.

His name was Big Po. Sometime doorman for pubs and clubs of the parish, Po’s past included a long stint in the merchant navy. His fists were nicked and scarred, face weathered where it wasn’t hidden by a thick brown beard. He was massive, and watching him squashed in at the table was like watching a normal-sized adult seated in a primary-school classroom. Rebus had the impression that the whole world had been built on a scale out of kilter with Big Po’s needs.

‘Jesus,’ the man roared as Rebus approached, ‘it’s been a lifetime and a half!’ Flecks of saliva and egg peppered the air. Heads were turning, but didn’t stay turned long. No one wanted Big Po accusing them of nosing into his business. Rebus took the proffered hand and prepared for the worst. Sure enough, it was like a car going through a crusher. He flexed his fingers afterwards, checking for
fractures, and pulled out the chair opposite the man mountain.

‘What’ll you have?’ Po asked.

‘Just coffee.’

‘That counts as blasphemy in here. This is the blessed church of St Eck the Chef.’ Po nodded towards where a fat, elderly man was wiping his hands on a cook’s apron and nodding towards him. ‘Best fry-up in Edinburgh,’ Po roared, ‘is that right, Eck?’

Eck nodded again, then got back to his skillet. He looked the nervous sort, and with Big Po on the premises, who could blame him?

When a middle-aged waitress came out from behind the counter, Rebus ordered his coffee. Big Po was still busy with his fork and egg yolk.

‘Be easier with a spoon,’ Rebus suggested.

‘I like a challenge.’

‘Well, could be I’ve another for you.’ Rebus paused while the coffee arrived. It was in a see-through Pyrex cup with matching saucer. In some cafés, they were becoming trendy again, but Rebus had the feeling this was an original. He hadn’t asked for milk, but it was already added, with bubbles of white froth breaking on the surface. He took a sip. It was hot and didn’t taste of coffee.

‘So tell me what’s on your mind,’ Big Po said.

Rebus gave him the background. Po listened as he ate, finishing with a mopping-up operation involving the addition to the bare greasy plate of a liberal squirt of brown sauce, and two further slices of toast. Afterwards, Big Po tried sitting back, but there wasn’t really the room. He slurped at his mug of dark brown tea and tried to turn his bear growl into something mere mortals might recognise as an undertone.

‘Gordie’s the man to talk to about Bellman’s; used to drink there till they barred him.’

‘Barred from Bellman’s? What did he do, machine-gun the place or ask for a gin and tonic?’

Big Po snorted. ‘I think he was shagging Houton’s missus.’

‘Houton being the owner?’

Po nodded. ‘Big bad bastard.’ Which meant a lot, coming from him.

‘Is Gordie a first or last name?’

‘Gordie Burns, drinks in the Weir O’.’

Meaning the Weir O’ Hermiston, on the shore road out towards Portobello. ‘How will I know him?’ Rebus asked.

Po reached into his blue nylon windcheater, brought out a mobile phone. ‘I’ll give him a call, make sure he’s there.’

As he did so, knowing the number by heart, Rebus stared out of the steamed-up window. At call’s end, he thanked Po and stood up.

‘Not finishing your coffee?’

Rebus shook his head. ‘But this is on me.’ He walked up to the counter, handed over a fiver. Three fifty for the fry-up, cheapest coronary in town. On his way back past Big Po’s table, he patted the man’s shoulder, slid a twenty into the windcheater’s breast zip-up pocket.

‘God bless you, young sir,’ Big Po boomed. Rebus couldn’t have sworn to it, but as he closed the door behind him he got the feeling the big man was ordering another breakfast.

The Weir O’ was a civilised sort of pub: car park out front, and a chalkboard advertising a range of ‘home cooked fayre’. As Rebus stepped up to the bar and ordered a whisky, a drinker, two along, started finishing up. By the time Rebus’s drink arrived, the man was leaving, telling his companion that he’d be back in a wee while. Rebus took a minute or two to savour his own drink, then made for the door. The man was waiting for him around the corner, where the view was of disused warehouses and slag heaps.

‘Gordie?’ Rebus asked.

The man nodded. He was tall and gangly, late thirties with a long, sad face and thinning, ill-cut hair. Rebus made to hand him a twenty. Gordie paused just long enough to let Rebus know he had some pride, then pocketed the note.

‘Make it quick,’ he said, eyes darting from side to side. Traffic was thundering past, lorries mostly, travelling too quickly to take note of the two men.

Rebus kept it brief: description; pub; attack.

‘Sounds like Mick Lorimer,’ Gordie said, turning to walk away.

‘Whoah,’ Rebus said. ‘What about an address or something?’

‘Mick Lorimer,’ Gordie repeated, heading back into the pub.

John Michael Lorimer: known as Mick. Previouses for assault, entering lockfast premises, housebreaking. Bobby Hogan knew him, which was why they took Lorimer to Leith cop shop, let him sweat there for a little while before starting the questioning.

‘We’re not going to get much out of this one,’ Hogan warned. ‘Vocabulary of about a dozen words, half of which would make your granny shriek.’

And he’d been waiting for them, seated quietly in his two-storey house just off Easter Road. A ‘friend’ had let them in, and Lorimer had been in a chair in the living room, newspaper open on his lap. He’d said almost nothing, not even bothering to ask them why they were there, why they were asking him to go down to the station with them. Rebus had taken an address from the girlfriend. It was on the housing scheme where Linford had been attacked. Which was fair enough: even if they proved it was Lorimer Linford had been following, he now had an alibi – went to his girlfriend’s, didn’t leave the flat all night.

Convenient and cost-effective; no way she’d suddenly
change her story, not if she knew what was good for her. From her washed-out eyes and slow movements, Rebus would guess she’d had a pretty good education at the hands of Mick Lorimer.

‘Are we wasting our time, then?’ Rebus asked. Bobby Hogan just shrugged. He’d been on the force as long as Rebus; both men knew the score. Getting them into custody was just the opening bell of the bout, and most times the fight seemed fixed.

‘We’ve got the line-ups anyway,’ Hogan said, pushing open the door to the interview room.

Leith police station wasn’t modern, not like St Leonard’s. It was a solid late-Victorian design, reminding Rebus of his old school. Cold stone walls covered with maybe their twentieth layer of paint, and lots of exposed pipework. The interview rooms were like prison cells, sparse and dulling the senses. Seated at the table, Lorimer looked as much at home as he had in his own living room.

‘Solicitor,’ he said as the two detectives entered.

‘Think you need one?’ Hogan asked.

‘Solicitor,’ Lorimer repeated.

Hogan looked to Rebus. ‘Like a broken record, isn’t he?’

‘Stuck in the wrong groove.’

Hogan turned back to Lorimer. ‘We get you for six hours to ourselves without as much as a whiff of legal advice. That’s what the law says.’ He slipped his hands into his trouser pockets. All he was doing, the gesture said, was having a bit of a chat with a friend. ‘Mick here’, he told Rebus, ‘used to be one of Tommy Telford’s doormen, did you know that?’

‘I didn’t,’ Rebus lied.

‘Had to make himself scarce when Tommy’s little empire blew up.’

Rebus was nodding now. ‘Big Ger Cafferty,’ he said.

‘We all know Big Ger wasn’t happy about Tommy and his gang.’ A meaningful look towards Lorimer. ‘Or with anyone connected to them.’

Rebus was standing in front of the table now. He leaned down so that his hands rested on the back of the empty chair. ‘Big Ger’s out. Did you know that, Mick?’

Lorimer didn’t so much as blink.

‘Large as life and back in Edinburgh,’ Rebus went on. ‘Maybe I could put you in touch with him . . . ?’

‘Six hours,’ Lorimer said. ‘Nae bother.’

Rebus glanced towards Hogan: so much for that.

They took a break, stood outside smoking cigarettes.

Rebus was thinking aloud. ‘Say Lorimer killed Roddy Grieve. Putting aside the question of why, we think Barry Hutton was behind it.’ Hogan was nodding. ‘Two questions really: first, was Grieve meant to die?’

‘Wouldn’t put it past Lorimer to get a bit overzealous. He’s one of those guys, gets the red mist once he gets started.’

‘Second,’ Rebus went on, ‘was Grieve meant to be found? Wouldn’t they try hiding the body?’

Hogan shrugged. ‘That’s Lorimer again; hard as nails but not half as sharp.’

Rebus looked at him. ‘So say he cocked up: how come he’s not been punished?’

Now Hogan smiled. ‘Punish Mick Lorimer? You’d need a big army. Either that or you’d want to lull him, get him when his guard was down.’

Which reminded Rebus . . . He called the hotel again. There was still no sign of Rab Hill. Maybe face to face would be better. He needed Hill on his side. Hill was the proof, which was why Cafferty was keeping him close.

If Rebus could get to Rab Hill, he could put Cafferty away again. There was almost nothing he wanted more in the world.

‘It’d be like Christmas,’ he said aloud. Hogan asked him to explain, but Rebus just shook his head.

Mr Cowan, who’d given them the description of the man on Holyrood Road, took his time over the line-up, but
picked out Lorimer eventually. While the prisoner went back to his cell, the others were led away to be given tea and biscuits until their second appearance. They were students mostly.

‘I get them from the rugby team,’ Hogan explained. ‘When I need a few bruisers. Half of them are training to be doctors and lawyers.’

But Rebus wasn’t listening. The two men were standing outside the station’s front door, enjoying a cigarette. And now an ambulance had drawn up, and its back doors were being opened, a ramp lowered. Derek Linford, face heavily bruised, head bandaged and with a surgical collar around his neck. He was in a wheelchair, and as the orderly pushed him closer, Rebus could see wiring around his jaw. His pupils had a drugged blankness to them, but when he spotted Rebus his vision cleared a little, his eyes narrowing. Rebus shook his head slowly, a mixture of sympathy and denial. Linford looked away, trying for a measure of dignity as his wheelchair was turned, the better to get it up the steps.

Hogan flicked his cigarette on to the road, just in front of the ambulance. ‘You staying out of it?’ he asked. Rebus nodded.

‘Think I’d better, don’t you?’

He’d smoked two more cigarettes before Hogan reappeared.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘he gave us the nod: Mick Lorimer.’

‘Can he talk?’

Hogan shook his head. ‘Mouth’s full of metal. All he did was nod when I gave him the number.’