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  officers were stationed there, but it did boast half a corridor of vacated offices, which James Page had been offered. Two detective constables, Christine Esson and Ronnie Ogilvie, were busy pinning photos and maps to one bare wall.

  ‘We thought you’d like the desk by the window,’ Esson said.

  ‘It’s got the view if nothing else.’

  Yes, a view of two very different schools: Fettes College and Broughton High. Clarke took it in for all of three seconds before draping her coat over the back of her chair and sitting down. She placed the newspapers on the desk and concentrated on the reporting of Lord Minton’s demise. There was background stuff, and a few photographs dusted off from the archives. Cases he had prosecuted; royal garden parties; his first appearance in ermine.

  ‘Confirmed bachelor,’ Esson called out as she pushed another drawing pin home.

  ‘From which we deduce nothing,’ Clarke warned her. ‘And that photo’s squint.’

  ‘Not if you do this.’ Esson angled her head twenty degrees, then adjusted the photo anyway. It showed the body in situ, crumpled on the carpet as if drunkenly asleep.

  ‘Where’s the boss?’ Clarke asked.

  ‘Howden Hall,’ Ogilvie answered.

  ‘Oh?’ Howden Hall was home to the city’s forensic lab.

  ‘He said if he wasn’t back in time, the press briefing’s all yours.’

  Clarke checked the time: she had another hour. ‘Typically generous of the man,’ she muttered, turning to the first of the obituaries.

  She had just finished them, and was offering them to Esson to be added to the wall, when Page arrived. He was with a detective sergeant called Charlie Sykes. Sykes was normally based at Leith CID. He was a year shy of his pension and about the same from a heart attack, the former rather than the latter informing practically every conversation Clarke had ever had with the man.

  ‘Quick update,’ Page began breathlessly, gathering his squad. ‘House-to-house is continuing and we’ve got a couple of officers checking any CCTV in the vicinity. Someone’s busy on a computer somewhere to see if there are any other cases, within the city and beyond, that match this one. We’ll need to keep interviewing the deceased’s network of friends and acquaintances, and someone is going to have to head to the vaults to look at Lord Minton’s professional life in detail . . .’

  Clarke glanced in Sykes’s direction. Sykes winked back, which meant something had happened at Howden Hall. Of course something had happened at Howden Hall.

  ‘We also need to put the house and its contents under a microscope,’ Page was continuing. Clarke cleared her throat loudly, bringing him to a stop.

  ‘Any time you want to share the news, sir,’ she nudged him.

  ‘Because I’m just about ready to assume you no longer think this was a panicked housebreaker.’

  He wagged a finger at her. ‘We can’t afford to rule that possibility out. But on the other hand, we also now have this.’

  He took a sheet of paper from the inside pocket of his suit. It was a photocopy of something. Clarke, Esson and Ogilvie converged on him the better to see it.

  ‘Folded up in the victim’s wallet, tucked behind a credit card. Shame it wasn’t noticed earlier, but all the same . . .’

  The photocopy showed a note written in capital letters on a piece of plain paper measuring about five inches by three.

  I’M GOING TO KILL YOU FOR WHAT YOU DID.

  There was an audible intake of breath, followed by a few beats of complete silence, broken by a belch from Charlie Sykes.

  ‘We’re keeping this to ourselves for now,’ Page warned the room. ‘Any journalist gets hold of it, I’ll be sharpening my axe.

  Is that understood?’

  ‘Game-changer, though,’ Ronnie Ogilvie offered.

  ‘Game-changer,’ Page acknowledged with a slow, steady nod.

  Two

  ‘Why Fettes?’ Fox asked that evening as he sat across from Clarke at a restaurant on Broughton Street. ‘No, let me guess – it’s to reflect Minton’s status?’

  Clarke chewed and nodded. ‘If you’ve got brass or politicians coming for a look-see, Fettes trumps Gayfield Square. No grubby little neds for the suits to bump into.’

  ‘And a more congenial setting for press conferences. I watched Page on the news channel. Didn’t manage to spot you, though.’

  ‘He did okay, I thought.’

  ‘Except in a case like this, no news isn’t exactly good news.

  First forty-eight hours being crucial, et cetera.’ Fox lifted his glass of water to his lips. ‘Whoever did it has to be on our books, right? Or is he a first-timer – might explain why he bolloxed it up.’

  Clarke nodded slowly, avoiding eye contact and saying nothing. Fox put his glass down.

  ‘There’s something you’re not telling me, Siobhan.’

  ‘We’re keeping it under wraps.’

  ‘Keeping what under wraps?’

  ‘The thing I’m not telling you.’ Fox waited, his stare fixed on her. Clarke put down her fork and looked left and right. The

  restaurant was two thirds empty, no one close enough to overhear. Nevertheless, she lowered her voice and leaned across her plate until only inches separated their faces.

  ‘There was a note.’

  ‘Left by the killer?’

  ‘It was in Lord Minton’s wallet, hidden away. Might have been there for days or weeks.’

  ‘So you can’t say for sure it was from the attacker?’ Fox mulled this over. ‘All the same . . .’

  Clarke nodded again. ‘If Page ever finds out I told you . . .’

  ‘Understood.’ Fox leaned back again and stabbed at a chunk of carrot with his fork. ‘Does complicate things, though.’

  ‘Tell me about it. Actually, don’t – tell me about your day instead.’

  ‘Crew from Gartcosh have arrived out of nowhere. Set up shop this afternoon and Doug Maxtone’s incandescent.’

  ‘Anyone we know?’

  ‘I’ve not been introduced yet. Boss hasn’t been told why they’re here, though apparently he’s going to be briefed in the morning.’

  ‘Could it be a terrorist thing?’ Fox shrugged. ‘How big a team?’

  ‘Six at the last count. They’re installed in the CID suite, meaning we’ve had to relocate to a shoebox along the corridor.

  How’s your hake?’

  ‘It’s fine.’ But she had barely touched it, concentrating instead on the carafe of house white. Fox poured himself more water from the jug. Clarke’s water glass, he noted, was still full.

  ‘What did the note say?’ he asked.

  ‘Whoever wrote it was promising to kill Lord Minton for something he’d done.’

  ‘And it wasn’t in Minton’s handwriting?’

  ‘Letters were all capitalised, but I don’t think so. Cheap black ballpoint rather than a fountain pen.’

  ‘All very mysterious. Just the one note, do you think?’

  ‘Search team will be in the house at first light. They’d already be there if Page could have organised it – budget’s in place for seven-day weeks and as much overtime as we need.’

  ‘Happy days.’ Fox toasted her with his water. Clarke’s phone started vibrating. She had placed it on the table next to her wine glass. She checked the screen and decided to answer.

  ‘It’s Christine Esson,’ she explained to Fox, lifting the phone to her ear. ‘Shouldn’t you be at home with your feet up, Christine?’ But as she listened, her eyes narrowed a little. Her free hand reached for the wine glass as if on instinct, but the glass was still empty, as was the carafe. ‘Okay,’ she announced eventually. ‘Thanks for letting me know.’ She ended the call and tapped the phone against her lips.

  ‘Well?’ Fox prompted.

  ‘Reports of a gunshot in Merchiston. Christine just heard from a pal of hers at the control room. Someone who lives on the street called it in. A patrol car’s on its way to the scene.’

  ‘Some old banger backfiring?’r />
  ‘Caller heard breaking glass – living room window, apparently.’ She paused. ‘The window of a house belonging to a Mr Cafferty.’

  ‘Big Ger Cafferty?’

  ‘The very same.’

  ‘Well that’s interesting, isn’t it?’

  ‘Thank God we’re off duty.’

  ‘Absolutely. Perish the thought we’d want to take a look.’

  ‘Quite right.’ Clarke cut off a chunk of hake with the side of her fork. Fox was studying her over the rim of his glass.

  ‘Whose turn to pay?’ he asked.

  ‘Mine,’ Clarke replied, dropping the fork on the plate and signalling for a waiter.

  The patrol car sat kerbside with its roof lights flashing. It was a wide street of detached late-Victorian houses. The gates to Cafferty’s driveway were open and a white van was parked there. A couple of neighbours had come out to spectate. They looked cold, and would probably head in again soon. The two uniformed officers – one male, one female – were known to Clarke. She introduced Fox, then asked what had happened.

  ‘Lady across the street heard a bang. There was a flash too, apparently, and the sound of glass shattering. She went to her window but couldn’t see any sign of life. The living room lights went off, but she could see the window was smashed. Curtains were open, she says.’

  ‘He’s been quick enough getting a glazier.’ Fox nodded towards Cafferty’s house, where a man was busy fitting a plywood covering over the window.

  ‘What does the occupant say?’ Clarke asked the uniforms.

  ‘He’s not opening his door. Tells us it was an accident.

  Denies there was anything like a shot.’

  ‘And he told you this by . . .?’

  ‘Shouting at us through his letter box when we were trying to get him to open up.’

  ‘You know who he is, right?’

  ‘He’s Big Ger Cafferty. Gangster sort of character, or at least used to be.’

  Clarke nodded slowly and noticed that a dog – some kind of terrier – was standing next to her and giving one of her legs an exploratory sniff. She shooed it, but it sat back on its haunches, staring up at her quizzically.

  ‘Must belong to a neighbour,’ one of the uniforms surmised.

  ‘It was padding up and down the pavement when we got here.’

  He bent down to scratch the dog behind one ear.

  ‘Check the rest of the street,’ Clarke said. ‘See if there are any more witnesses.’

  She headed up the path towards the front door, taking a detour to where the glazier was nailing the panelling into the window frame.

  ‘Everything okay here?’ she asked him. As far as she could tell, the living room curtains were now closed, the room behind them in darkness.

  ‘Just about finished.’

  ‘We’re police officers. Can you tell us what happened?’

  ‘Accidental breakage. I’ve measured up and it’ll be good as new tomorrow.’

  ‘You know neighbours are saying a bullet did this?’

  ‘In Edinburgh?’ The man shook his head.

  ‘You’ll need to give your details to my colleagues before you leave.’

  ‘Fine by me.’

  ‘Have you done work for Mr Cafferty before?’

  The man shook his head again.

  ‘But you know who he is? So it’s not beyond the realms of fantasy that there was a gunshot of some kind?’

  ‘Tells me he tripped and fell against the pane. I’ve seen it happen plenty times.’

  ‘I’m guessing,’ Fox interrupted, ‘he made it worth your while to come out straight away.’

  ‘It says “Emergency” on my van because that’s what I do – emergency repairs. Immediate response whenever possible.’

  The man hammered the final nail into place and checked his handiwork. There was a toolbox on the ground next to him, along with a portable workbench where he had sawn the plywood to size. The shards of glass had been swept up into a dustpan, larger pieces placed one on top of the other. Fox had crouched down to examine them, but when he stood up, the look he gave Clarke told her he hadn’t gleaned anything. She turned towards the solid-looking door, pressing the bell half a dozen times. When there was no response, she bent down and pushed open the letter box.

  ‘It’s DI Clarke,’ she called out. ‘Siobhan Clarke. Any chance of a word, Mr Cafferty?’

  ‘Come back with a warrant!’ a voice from within yelled. She put her eyes to the letter box and could see his shadowy bulk in the darkened hall.

  ‘It’s good you’ve turned the lights off,’ she said. ‘Makes you less of a target. Do you reckon they’ll come back?’

  ‘What are you on about? You been on the sauce again? I hear you’re getting too fond of it.’

  Clarke could feel the blood rising to her cheeks. She managed to stop herself checking Fox’s reaction. ‘You could be endangering your neighbours’ lives as well as your own – please think about that.’

  ‘You’re dreaming, woman. I knocked against the glass and it broke. End of story.’

  ‘If it’s a warrant you want, I can fetch one.’

  ‘Bugger off and do that then, and leave me in peace!’

  She let the flap of the letter box clack shut and straightened up, fixing her eyes on Fox.

  ‘You reckon you’ve got something better than a warrant, don’t you?’ he said. ‘Go on then.’ He motioned towards the phone she was clutching in her right hand. ‘Give him a bell . . .’

  Three

  The Oxford Bar was almost empty, and John Rebus had the back room to himself. He sat in the corner with a view of the doorway. It was something you learned to do as a cop – anyone coming in who might mean trouble, you wanted as much warning as you could get. Not that Rebus was expecting trouble, not here.

  And besides, he was no longer a cop.

  A month since his retirement. He had gone quietly in the end, demanding no fanfare, and turning down the offer of a drink with Clarke and Fox. Siobhan had phoned him a few times since, on various pretexts. He’d always managed to find some excuse not to meet up. Even Fox had got in touch – Fox!

  Ex-Professional Standards, a man who had tried snaring Rebus many a time – calling in an awkward attempt to share gossip before getting to the point.

  How was Rebus doing?

  Was he coping?

  Did he want to hook up some time?

  ‘Bugger that,’ Rebus muttered to himself, finishing the dregs of his fourth IPA. Time to call it a night. Four was plenty. His doctor had told him: best cut it out altogether. Rebus had asked for a second opinion.

  ‘Here it is then,’ the doctor had said: ‘You should stop smoking too.’

  Rebus smiled at the memory and rose from his pew, taking the empty glass with him to the bar.

  ‘One for the road?’ he was asked.

  ‘That’s me done.’ But as he stepped outside, he paused to get a cigarette lit. Maybe one more, eh? Freezing outside, and a wind that could slice bacon. Quick cigarette and back inside.

  There was a coal fire burning. He could see it through the window, sharing its warmth with no one now he was out here.

  He looked at his watch. What else was he going to do? Walk the streets? Take a taxi home and sit in his living room, failing to pick up any of the books he’d promised himself he would read? Bit of music and maybe a bath and then bed. His life was turning into a track on a CD with the repeat function engaged, each new day the same as the one before.

  He’d made a little list at the kitchen table: join the library, explore the city, take a holiday, see films, start going to concerts. There was a coffee ring on the list, and soon he would crumple it into the bin. One thing he had done was sort out his record collection, finding a few dozen albums he hadn’t played in years. But there was a problem with one of the speakers – the treble kept coming and going. So he’d have to add that to the list, or else start a new one.

  Redecorate.

  Replace rotting windows.
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  New bathroom suite.

  New bed.

  Hall carpet.

  ‘Easier just to move,’ he said to the empty street. No need to flick ash from his cigarette – the wind was doing that for him.

  Back indoors or taxi home? Toss a coin?

  Phone.

  He dug it out and peered at the screen. Caller: Shiv. Short for Siobhan. Not that she would countenance being called Shiv to her face. He considered not answering, but then tapped the screen and pressed the device to his ear.

  ‘You’re interrupting my training,’ he complained.

  ‘What training?’

  ‘I’m planning on doing the Edinburgh Marathon.’

  ‘Twenty-six pubs, is that? Sorry to break into your schedule.’

  ‘I’m going to have to stop you there, caller. There’s someone on line two with a less smart mouth.’

  ‘Fine then – I just thought you might like to know.’

  ‘Know what? That Police Scotland is falling to pieces without me?’

  ‘It’s your old friend Cafferty.’

  Rebus paused, his brain switching gears. ‘Keep talking.’

  ‘Someone might just have taken a potshot at him.’

  ‘Is he all right?’

  ‘Hard to say – he’s not letting us in.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘His house.’

  ‘Give me fifteen minutes.’

  ‘We can come fetch you . . .’

  A taxi had turned into Young Street, its orange light on.

  Rebus walked into the road and waved for it to stop.

  ‘Fifteen minutes tops,’ he told Clarke, before ending the call.

  *

  ‘Want me to try the bell for you?’ Fox asked. He was on the doorstep in front of Cafferty’s home, flanked by Rebus and Clarke. The glazier had gone, and the officers from the patrol car were still collecting information from neighbours. The blue flashing light had been turned off, replaced by the orange sodium glow of the nearby street lamps.

  ‘He seems to want to communicate by shouting through the letter box,’ Clarke added.

  ‘I think we can do better than that,’ Rebus said. He found Cafferty’s number on his phone and waited.

  ‘It’s me,’ he said when the call was picked up. ‘I’m standing right outside and I’m about to come in. So you can either open the door, or wait for me to put in another of your windows and climb in through the wreckage.’ He listened for a moment, eyes on Clarke. ‘Just me – understood.’ Clarke opened her mouth to protest, but Rebus shook his head. ‘It’s baltic out here, so quick as you can and we can all go home.’