Free Black And Blue by Ian Rankin

Anthony Ellis Kane, known as ‘Tony El’, had a record going back to his youth. He was now forty-four years old, well known to Strathclyde police. The bulk of his adult life had been spent in the employ of Joseph Toal, a.k.a. ‘Uncle Joe’, who practically ran Glasgow with muscle provided by his son and by men like Tony El. Bain put down the receiver.
    ‘Uncle Joe,’ he mused. ‘If Tony El is still working for him, we could have a very different case.’
    Rebus was remembering what the boss had said: it’s got a gang feel to it . Drugs or a default on a loan. Maybe MacAskill was right.
    ‘You know what this means?’ Bain said.
    Rebus nodded. ‘A trip to weegie-land.’ Scotland’s two main cities, separated by a fifty-minute motorway trip, were wary neighbours, as though years back one had accused the other of something and the accusation, unfounded or not, still rankled. Rebus had a couple of contacts in Glasgow CID, so went to his desk and made the calls.
    ‘If you want info on Uncle Joe,’ he was told during the second call, ‘best talk to Chick Ancram. Wait, I’ll give you his number.’
    Charles Ancram, it turned out, was a Chief Inspector based in Govan. Rebus spent a fruitless half hour trying to find him, then went for a walk. The shops in front of Fort Apache were the usual metal shutters and mesh grille affairs, Asian owners mostly, even if the shops were staffed with white faces. Men hung around on the street outside, T-shirted, sporting tattoos, smoking. Eyes as trustworthy as a weasel in a hen-house.
    Eggs? Not me, pal, can’t stand them.
    Rebus bought cigarettes and a newspaper. Walking out of the shop, a baby buggy caught his ankles, a woman told him to mind where he was fucking going. She bustled away, hauling a toddler behind her. Twenty, maybe twenty-one, hair dyed blonde, two front teeth missing. Her bared forearms showed tattoos, too. Across the road, an advertising hoarding told him to spend £20k on a new car. Behind it, the discount supermarket was doing no business, kids using its car park as a skateboard rink.
    Back in the Shed, Maclay was on the telephone. He held the receiver out to Rebus.
    ‘Chief Inspector Ancram, returning your call.’ Rebus rested against the desk.
    ‘Hello?’
    ‘Inspector Rebus? Ancram here, I believe you want a word.’
    ‘Thanks for getting back to me, sir. Two words really: Joseph Toal.’
    Ancram snorted. He had a west coast drawl, nasal, always managing to sound a little condescending. ‘Uncle Joe Corleone? Our own dear Godfather? Has he done something I don’t know about?’
    ‘Do you know one of his men, a guy called Anthony Kane?’
    ‘Tony El,’ Ancram confirmed. ‘Worked for Uncle Joe for years.’
    ‘Past tense?’
    ‘He hasn’t been heard of in a while. Story is he crossed Uncle Joe, and Uncle Joe got Stanley to see to things. Tony El was all cut up about it.’
    ‘Who’s Stanley?’
    ‘Uncle Joe’s son. It’s not his real name, but everyone calls him Stanley, on account of his hobby.’
    ‘Which is?’
    ‘Stanley knives, he collects them.’
    ‘You think Stanley topped Tony El?’
    ‘Well, the body hasn’t turned up, which is usually proof enough in a perverse way.’
    ‘Tony El’s very much alive. He was through here a few days ago.’
    ‘I see.’ Ancram was quiet for a moment. In the background Rebus could hear busy voices, radio transmissions, police station sounds. ‘Bag over the head?’
    ‘How did you know?’
    ‘Tony El’s trademark. So he’s back in circulation, eh? Inspector, I think you and me better have a talk. Monday morning, can you find Govan station? No, wait, make it Partick, 613 Dumbarton Road. I’ve a meeting there at nine. Can we say ten?’
    ‘Ten’s fine.’
    ‘See you then.’
    Rebus put down the telephone. ‘Monday morning at ten,’ he told Bain. ‘I’m off to Partick.’
    ‘You poor bastard,’ Bain replied, sounding like he meant it.
    ‘Want us to put out Tony El’s