noticed Michael had gone vegetarian too, at least in public.
‘It’s healthier, John,’ he’d told his brother, slapping his stomach.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Rebus had snapped.
Michael had merely shaken his head sadly. ‘Too much caffeine.’
That was another thing, the kitchen cupboards were full of jars of what looked like coffee but turned out to be ‘infusions’ of crushed tree bark and chicory. At the bakery, Rebus bought a polystyrene beaker of coffee and two sausage rolls. The sausage rolls turned out to be a bad mistake, the flakes of pastry breaking off and covering the otherwise pristine car interior – despite Rebus’s best attempts with the paper bag.
‘Sorry about the mess,’ he offered to Siobhan, who was driving with her window conspicuously open. ‘You’re not vegetarian, are you?’
She laughed. ‘You mean you haven’t noticed?’
‘Can’t say I have.’
She nodded towards a sausage roll. ‘Well, have you heard of mechanically recovered meat?’
‘Don’t,’ warned Rebus. He finished the sausage rolls quickly, and cleared his throat.
‘Anything I should know about between you and Brian?’
The look on her face told him this was not the year’s most successful conversational gambit. ‘Not that I know of.’
‘It’s just that he and Nell were … well, there’s still a good chance –’
‘I’m not a monster, sir. And I know the score between Brian and Nell. Brian’s just a nice guy. We get along.’ She glanced away from the windscreen. ‘That’s all there is to it.’ Rebus was about to say something. ‘But if there was more to it than that,’ she went on, ‘I don’t see that it would be any of your business, with respect, sir. Not unless it was interfering with our work, which I wouldn’t let happen. I don’t suppose Brian would either.’
Rebus stayed silent.
‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.’
‘What you said was fair enough. The problem was the way you said it. A police officer’s never off duty, and I’m your boss – even on a jaunt like this. Don’t forget that.’
There was more silence in the car, until Siobhan broke it. ‘It’s a nice part of town, Marchmont.’
‘Almost as nice as the New Town.’
She glared at him, her grip on the steering-wheel as determined as any strangler’s.
‘I thought,’ she said slyly, ‘you lived in Oxford Terrace these days, sir.’
‘You thought wrong. Now, what about turning that bloody music off? After all, we’ve got a lot to talk about.’
The ‘lot’, of course, being Morris Gerald Cafferty.
Siobhan Clarke hadn’t brought her notes with her. She didn’t need them. She could recite the salient details from memory, along with a lot of detail that might not be salient but was certainly interesting. Certainly she’d done her homework. Rebus thought how frustrating the job could be. She’d swotted up on Big Ger as background to Operation Moneybags, but Operation Moneybags almost certainly wouldn’t trap Cafferty. And she’d spent a lot of hours on the Kintoul stabbing, which might also turn out to be nothing.
‘And another thing,’ she said. ‘Apparently Cafferty’s got a little diary of sorts, all of it in code. We’ve never been able to crack his code, which means it must be highly personal.’
Yes, Rebus remembered. Whenever they brought Big Ger into custody, the diary would be collected along with his other possessions. Then they’d photocopy the pages of the diary and try to decipher them. They’d never been successful.
‘Rumour has it,’ Siobhan was saying, ‘the diary’s a record of bad debts, debts Cafferty takes care of personally.’
‘A man like that garners a lot of rumours. They help make him larger than life. In life, he’s just another witless gangster.’
‘A code takes wits.’
‘Maybe.’
‘In the file, there’s a recent clipping from the Sun . It’s all about how bodies keep washing up on the coastline.’
Rebus nodded.
‘It’s healthier, John,’ he’d told his brother, slapping his stomach.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Rebus had snapped.
Michael had merely shaken his head sadly. ‘Too much caffeine.’
That was another thing, the kitchen cupboards were full of jars of what looked like coffee but turned out to be ‘infusions’ of crushed tree bark and chicory. At the bakery, Rebus bought a polystyrene beaker of coffee and two sausage rolls. The sausage rolls turned out to be a bad mistake, the flakes of pastry breaking off and covering the otherwise pristine car interior – despite Rebus’s best attempts with the paper bag.
‘Sorry about the mess,’ he offered to Siobhan, who was driving with her window conspicuously open. ‘You’re not vegetarian, are you?’
She laughed. ‘You mean you haven’t noticed?’
‘Can’t say I have.’
She nodded towards a sausage roll. ‘Well, have you heard of mechanically recovered meat?’
‘Don’t,’ warned Rebus. He finished the sausage rolls quickly, and cleared his throat.
‘Anything I should know about between you and Brian?’
The look on her face told him this was not the year’s most successful conversational gambit. ‘Not that I know of.’
‘It’s just that he and Nell were … well, there’s still a good chance –’
‘I’m not a monster, sir. And I know the score between Brian and Nell. Brian’s just a nice guy. We get along.’ She glanced away from the windscreen. ‘That’s all there is to it.’ Rebus was about to say something. ‘But if there was more to it than that,’ she went on, ‘I don’t see that it would be any of your business, with respect, sir. Not unless it was interfering with our work, which I wouldn’t let happen. I don’t suppose Brian would either.’
Rebus stayed silent.
‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.’
‘What you said was fair enough. The problem was the way you said it. A police officer’s never off duty, and I’m your boss – even on a jaunt like this. Don’t forget that.’
There was more silence in the car, until Siobhan broke it. ‘It’s a nice part of town, Marchmont.’
‘Almost as nice as the New Town.’
She glared at him, her grip on the steering-wheel as determined as any strangler’s.
‘I thought,’ she said slyly, ‘you lived in Oxford Terrace these days, sir.’
‘You thought wrong. Now, what about turning that bloody music off? After all, we’ve got a lot to talk about.’
The ‘lot’, of course, being Morris Gerald Cafferty.
Siobhan Clarke hadn’t brought her notes with her. She didn’t need them. She could recite the salient details from memory, along with a lot of detail that might not be salient but was certainly interesting. Certainly she’d done her homework. Rebus thought how frustrating the job could be. She’d swotted up on Big Ger as background to Operation Moneybags, but Operation Moneybags almost certainly wouldn’t trap Cafferty. And she’d spent a lot of hours on the Kintoul stabbing, which might also turn out to be nothing.
‘And another thing,’ she said. ‘Apparently Cafferty’s got a little diary of sorts, all of it in code. We’ve never been able to crack his code, which means it must be highly personal.’
Yes, Rebus remembered. Whenever they brought Big Ger into custody, the diary would be collected along with his other possessions. Then they’d photocopy the pages of the diary and try to decipher them. They’d never been successful.
‘Rumour has it,’ Siobhan was saying, ‘the diary’s a record of bad debts, debts Cafferty takes care of personally.’
‘A man like that garners a lot of rumours. They help make him larger than life. In life, he’s just another witless gangster.’
‘A code takes wits.’
‘Maybe.’
‘In the file, there’s a recent clipping from the Sun . It’s all about how bodies keep washing up on the coastline.’
Rebus nodded.
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