Ian Rankin - Rather Be the Devil

Rebus’s tea had grown cold by the time he finished reading. He rubbed his hands down his face, blinking his eyes back into focus. Brillo was out in the hall, seated and expectant.

‘Really?’ Rebus asked. ‘Well, if you say so...’ He fetched the lead and grabbed jacket, keys and phone. Arden Street was only a couple of minutes from the Meadows and Bruntsfield Links. There were always dog walkers out and about. Sometimes they even stopped for a chat while the various mutts inspected each other. Rebus would be asked how old his dog was.

No idea.

The breed, then?

Mongrel.

And all the while, he would be thinking about cigarettes.

The sun was already sinking from the sky. He reckoned there would be frost later. While Brillo went for a run, Rebus reached into his pocket, producing his phone in place of a fresh pack of twenty. He was wondering if Fat Rab was still on the force, so he called the one person he thought might be able to help.

‘Well now,’ Christine Esson answered in his ear, ‘here’s my second ghost today.’

‘Siobhan told me about Fox.’

‘He brought flowers and chocolates.’

‘Just because I never call, it doesn’t mean I don’t miss your charm and wit, DC Esson.’

‘But it’s my other skills you’re calling about, right?’

‘On the button as usual, Christine.’

‘So what is it this time?’

‘An easy one, I hope. A DI called Robert Chatham. Based out at Livingston last I heard. I need to talk to him.’

‘Give me fifteen minutes.’

‘You’re a gem, lass.’ Rebus ended the call. Thirty feet away, nature was taking its course. Rebus put away his phone and brought out a small black polythene bag, then started walking towards Brillo.

‘Who was that?’ Fox asked from across the room.

‘Nobody.’

‘Funny, that’s exactly who it sounded like.’ Fox approached Esson’s desk. They were alone in the CID suite, Ronnie Ogilvie out fetching sandwiches. ‘What’s this errand Siobhan’s running?’

‘She told you — it’s nothing to do with Darryl Christie.’

‘Who’s Robert Chatham?’ Fox enquired, peering at the note Esson had just made to herself.

‘Malcolm, will you back the hell off?’

He held up his hands in surrender, but lingered close by her desk, too close for Esson’s liking.

‘Does Siobhan ever mention me?’

Esson shook her head.

‘Gartcosh wasn’t my idea, you know. But I’d have been daft to turn it down.’

‘No argument here.’

He was angling his head to look at her computer screen. She gave him the death stare again.

‘You must have some thing by now,’ he complained.

‘A whole string of Mr Christie’s business interests.’

‘Can I see?’

‘I’ll email them to you.’ She hit a few keys. ‘In fact, I just have. Now will you leave me in peace?’

Fox walked back to the opposite end of the office, studying his phone and finding her email. Nothing he didn’t already know, except that Esson had addresses for the two betting shops. What was it Sheila Graham had said? Christie laundering money through them — how did that work then? Fox hadn’t got round to asking. He glanced up at Esson, but couldn’t — wouldn’t — ask her. She might think him gormless for not knowing the ins and outs. Besides, he had a better idea.

‘I’ll be back in a bit,’ he announced.

‘What about your sandwich?’

‘It’ll keep.’

‘Foolish words, Malcolm — you’ve not seen Ronnie when he’s hungry.’

‘I’ll take my chances.’

‘What’ll I tell Siobhan when I see her?’

Fox thought for a moment. ‘Tell her I’m running an errand of my own.’

Down the stairs and out of the building, taking in a few gulps of the fresh air. He unlocked his car and got in, easing his way out of the parking space, heading for Leith Walk.

Seated in her own car, Clarke watched him go. A text arrived and she studied it with a smile.

Malc’s offski — safe to come in!

She wondered how Christine knew. Educated guess, probably. Then a second text: Might even be a sandwich for you!

Clarke opened the car door and got out.

Fox hadn’t been into a betting shop since his late teens. His father hadn’t been much of a gambler, but would study the racing form on a Saturday morning and place a bet on four different horses — he called it a ‘Yankee’. If Malcolm was at home and Mitch couldn’t be bothered with the walk, he would be dispatched to the bookmaker’s along the street, despite protestations that a phone call would be as easy, or that his sister Jude could do it for a change. But Mitch wanted the security of a paper receipt, so that he could be confident the bet really had been recorded. Not that Malcolm could ever recall any actual wins — nothing worth bragging about to a son. And Jude was always somewhere else.

He was surprised to walk into Diamond Joe’s and find no dishevelled old men nursing the stubs of both pencils and cigarettes. There was a cashier behind a glass screen — as in the past — but the place was filled with shiny machines and wall-mounted TVs. One channel was showing a golf tournament, another tennis, while a further couple showed horse racing. But the few punters in the place were focused on the machines. There was a stool in front of each. Plenty of jaunty blips and beeps and colourful lights. Not just high-tech one-armed bandits, but versions of blackjack and roulette, too. Spoilt for choice, Fox made for one of the most basic-looking models. It had four reels as its centrepiece. He slotted home a pound coin and touched the flashing button. Once the reels had stopped spinning, lights and jingle-jangle sounds told him he should be doing something. But what? He touched one button, then another. Nothing seemed to change, and he was left with one credit. He hit the start button, watched the reels as they clunked to their individual stops. Anything? Nothing. He tried the start button again, but it wasn’t being fooled.

A quid gone in fifteen seconds.

He stayed on the stool, pretending to be sending a text on his phone while getting a feel for the room. The cashier looked bored. She was chewing gum and studying her own phone. Fox walked over to her.

‘Can I bet on horses here?’ he asked.

She stared at him, then lifted her eyes to the bank of screens.

‘How do I do it, though?’ he persisted.

‘Slips are over there,’ she answered, gesturing. ‘Or you can do it online.’ She waggled her phone. ‘The app’s free. There’s even a tenner credit for newbies.’

He nodded his thanks and went over to the shelf with the betting slips, lifting one and studying it. It reminded him of maths homework, all grids, symbols and letters that were supposed to mean something to him. His dad used to write down the name of each horse, along with the race time and location, then tear off the scrap of paper and hand it over with his bet.

Next to the slips sat a display of pools coupons. Mitch had done those, too, each and every Saturday, never able — as a Hearts fan — to put his own team down for anything other than a win. Fox smiled at the memory, then heard a sound resembling air escaping a tyre. It was the word ‘Yes!’ stretched out almost to breaking point and uttered from one of the stools. The punter rubbed his hands together as a slip of paper appeared from a slot. He bounded up to the cashier with it.

‘That’ll do me for today, Lisa,’ he said.

The cashier studied the slip, then put it through a machine of her own before opening a drawer and counting out ten twenty-pound notes.

‘I’ll take a receipt, too,’ the man said. The cashier obliged and the customer stuffed everything in his jacket pocket. ‘Nice doing business with you.’ He made his way to the door, but paused with his fingers just brushing the handle. Then he turned back and handed the cashier one of the twenties, receiving pound coins in return. Scooping these up, he made for one of the other machines, settling himself down and feeding them in.