you—the girls from What Not to Wear ?”
Cafferty snorted. “I did meet them on breakfast TV, actually. See, isn’t this better? We’re having a nice wee chat.”
Rebus had stopped trying to close the door. “Hell are you doing here, Cafferty?”
Cafferty was examining his palms, brushing imaginary grime from them. “How long have you been living here, Rebus? Got to be thirty years.”
“So?”
“Ever hear of moving up in the world?”
“Christ, now it’s Location, Location, Location ...”
“You’ve never tried to improve your situation, that’s what I can’t understand.”
“Maybe I should write a book about it.”
Cafferty grinned. “I’m thinking of a follow-up, charting a few more of our little disagreements.”
“Is that why you’re here? Memory needs refreshing, does it?”
Cafferty’s face darkened. “I’m here about my boy Cyril.”
“What about him?”
“I hear there’s been some progress. I want to know how much.”
“Who told you?”
“It’s true then?”
“Think I’d tell you even if it was?”
Cafferty gave a snarl, hands shooting forward, propelling Rebus backward into the hall, where he collided with the wall. Cafferty grabbed at him again, teeth bared, but Rebus was ready, managed to get a handful of the T-shirt. The two men wrestled, twisting and turning, moving farther down the hall until they were in the doorway to the living room. Neither had said a word, eyes and limbs doing their talking. But Cafferty glanced into the room and seemed to freeze. Rebus was able to free himself from his grasp.
“Jesus Christ.” Cafferty was staring at the two boxes on the sofa—part of the Colliar case notes, brought home from Gayfield the previous night. Lying on the top was one of the autopsy photos, and, just visible beneath, an older photograph of Cafferty himself. “What’s all this stuff doing here?” Cafferty asked, breathing heavily.
“None of your damned business.”
“You’re still trying to pin this on me.”
“Not as much as I was,” Rebus admitted. He walked over to the mantelpiece and grabbed the whiskey. Lifted his glass from the floor and poured. “It’ll be public knowledge soon enough,” he said, pausing to drink. “We think Colliar’s not the only victim.”
Cafferty’s eyes narrowed as he tried to take this in. “Who else?”
Rebus shook his head slowly. “Now get the hell out.”
“I can help,” Cafferty said. “I know people.”
“Oh yeah? Trevor Guest ring a bell?”
Cafferty thought for a moment before conceding defeat.
“What about a garage called Keogh’s?”
Cafferty stiffened his shoulders. “I can find things out, Rebus. I’ve got contacts in places that would frighten you.”
“Everything about you frightens me, Cafferty; fear of contamination, I suppose. How come you’re so het up about Colliar?”
Cafferty’s eyes strayed to the whiskey bottle. “Got a spare glass?” he asked.
Rebus fetched one from the kitchen. When he returned, Cafferty was reading Mairie’s covering note.
“I see Ms. Henderson’s been lending a hand.” Cafferty gave a cold smile. “I recognize her handwriting.”
Rebus said nothing; poured a small measure into the glass.
“I prefer malt,” Cafferty complained, wafting the contents under his nose. “What’s your interest in Pennen Industries?”
Rebus ignored this. “You were going to tell me about Cyril Colliar.” Cafferty made to sit down. “Stay on your feet,” Rebus commanded. “You’re not going to be here that long.”
Cafferty knocked back the drink and placed the empty glass on the table. “It’s not Cyril I’m interested in as such,” he admitted. “But when something like that happens...well, rumors get started. Rumors that someone’s out there with a grudge. Never very good for business. As you well know, Rebus, I’ve had enemies in the past.”
“Funny how I never see them anymore.”
“Plenty of jackals out there who’d like a share of
Cafferty snorted. “I did meet them on breakfast TV, actually. See, isn’t this better? We’re having a nice wee chat.”
Rebus had stopped trying to close the door. “Hell are you doing here, Cafferty?”
Cafferty was examining his palms, brushing imaginary grime from them. “How long have you been living here, Rebus? Got to be thirty years.”
“So?”
“Ever hear of moving up in the world?”
“Christ, now it’s Location, Location, Location ...”
“You’ve never tried to improve your situation, that’s what I can’t understand.”
“Maybe I should write a book about it.”
Cafferty grinned. “I’m thinking of a follow-up, charting a few more of our little disagreements.”
“Is that why you’re here? Memory needs refreshing, does it?”
Cafferty’s face darkened. “I’m here about my boy Cyril.”
“What about him?”
“I hear there’s been some progress. I want to know how much.”
“Who told you?”
“It’s true then?”
“Think I’d tell you even if it was?”
Cafferty gave a snarl, hands shooting forward, propelling Rebus backward into the hall, where he collided with the wall. Cafferty grabbed at him again, teeth bared, but Rebus was ready, managed to get a handful of the T-shirt. The two men wrestled, twisting and turning, moving farther down the hall until they were in the doorway to the living room. Neither had said a word, eyes and limbs doing their talking. But Cafferty glanced into the room and seemed to freeze. Rebus was able to free himself from his grasp.
“Jesus Christ.” Cafferty was staring at the two boxes on the sofa—part of the Colliar case notes, brought home from Gayfield the previous night. Lying on the top was one of the autopsy photos, and, just visible beneath, an older photograph of Cafferty himself. “What’s all this stuff doing here?” Cafferty asked, breathing heavily.
“None of your damned business.”
“You’re still trying to pin this on me.”
“Not as much as I was,” Rebus admitted. He walked over to the mantelpiece and grabbed the whiskey. Lifted his glass from the floor and poured. “It’ll be public knowledge soon enough,” he said, pausing to drink. “We think Colliar’s not the only victim.”
Cafferty’s eyes narrowed as he tried to take this in. “Who else?”
Rebus shook his head slowly. “Now get the hell out.”
“I can help,” Cafferty said. “I know people.”
“Oh yeah? Trevor Guest ring a bell?”
Cafferty thought for a moment before conceding defeat.
“What about a garage called Keogh’s?”
Cafferty stiffened his shoulders. “I can find things out, Rebus. I’ve got contacts in places that would frighten you.”
“Everything about you frightens me, Cafferty; fear of contamination, I suppose. How come you’re so het up about Colliar?”
Cafferty’s eyes strayed to the whiskey bottle. “Got a spare glass?” he asked.
Rebus fetched one from the kitchen. When he returned, Cafferty was reading Mairie’s covering note.
“I see Ms. Henderson’s been lending a hand.” Cafferty gave a cold smile. “I recognize her handwriting.”
Rebus said nothing; poured a small measure into the glass.
“I prefer malt,” Cafferty complained, wafting the contents under his nose. “What’s your interest in Pennen Industries?”
Rebus ignored this. “You were going to tell me about Cyril Colliar.” Cafferty made to sit down. “Stay on your feet,” Rebus commanded. “You’re not going to be here that long.”
Cafferty knocked back the drink and placed the empty glass on the table. “It’s not Cyril I’m interested in as such,” he admitted. “But when something like that happens...well, rumors get started. Rumors that someone’s out there with a grudge. Never very good for business. As you well know, Rebus, I’ve had enemies in the past.”
“Funny how I never see them anymore.”
“Plenty of jackals out there who’d like a share of
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