Ian Rankin - Rather Be the Devil

Fox realised he was being watched. He gestured to show the cashier he was taking a pools coupon with him, then made his own way towards the outside world, where he crumpled the coupon, tossing it in the nearest bin.

He wasn’t sure if he had learned anything useful, but with nothing better to do, he drove to the next address. With stunning originality, it was called Diamond Joe’s Too. He went in and marched up to the cashier — identical set-up to its sister operation, but with a wary-looking man in his forties behind the glass. He handed over a twenty and asked for pound coins.

‘Know about our new app?’ the cashier enquired.

‘Ten-pound credit,’ Fox said. ‘Use it all the time.’

‘Not quite the same, though, is it?’ The man was nodding towards the machines.

‘Nothing like,’ Fox agreed, heading for a stool.

He was eight quid down but starting to get the hang of things when the door opened and a woman walked in. She slung her bag on to the ground next to a blackjack machine, shrugged out of her leather jacket and got busy, for all the world like someone clocking in for a day on the production line. She hadn’t so much as glanced at anyone else in the place, though she gave the machine in front of her a long, slow stroke with one finger, as though she might coax generosity of spirit from it.

Fox bided his time, slowly feeding his own machine. He even notched up a couple of small wins, keeping them as credits. Fifteen minutes to lose twenty quid. He wasn’t sure of the etiquette of watching other players from over their shoulder. The glower from the young man next stool along soon put him right, so he wandered over to the woman playing blackjack. He paused next to her, but she kept her eyes on the machine.

‘Not interested,’ she said.

‘Hello, Jude.’

Fox’s sister turned her head towards him. As usual, her lank hair needed washing, and her eyeshadow was smudged. Her mouth formed a thin line.

‘You keeping tabs on me?’

‘Just coincidence,’ he shrugged.

‘Never took you for the gambling type — always Mister Play-Safe.’

‘How about you?’

Her smile showed teeth. ‘Chalk and cheese, brother. Chalk and cheese.’

‘This your usual spot?’

‘You always said I needed something to get me out of the house.’

‘Oh aye, it’s a good way to meet people, this.’

‘Hell’s the point of meeting people?’

‘It’s how life’s supposed to work, Jude.’

She concentrated on the game for a moment, then turned towards him again. ‘Wake the fuck up, Malcolm,’ she said, giving equal weight to each word.

‘Ever gamble online? Maybe use Diamond Joe’s handy little app?’

‘None of your business.’

‘Except I pay three figures into your bank each and every week.’

‘If it’s thanks you’re after, best find another charity case.’

‘I thought I was helping my sister get back on her feet.’

She swivelled on the stool so her whole body was towards him, a furious look on her face.

‘No, Malcolm, what you were doing was moving your guilt money around the family. Soon as Dad was dead, you only had me. And you had to give it to some one, didn’t you, so you could feel that nice warm self-satisfied glow?’

‘Christ’s sake, Jude...’

He saw her face soften a little. But instead of apologising, she turned back to her game.

‘Can you shut the yapping?’ the punter on the machine opposite demanded. ‘Trying to concentrate here.’

‘Sod you, Barry,’ Jude snarled back at him. ‘Five more minutes, you’ll be skint and on your smelly way.’

‘That really your sister?’ the man retorted, eyes on Fox. ‘Bet you wish you were a fucking only child.’

‘We both do,’ Jude stated, feeding more money into the never-satisfied slot.

Robert Chatham’s home address was a terraced house on the Newhaven waterfront. A woman answered and Rebus explained he was an old colleague looking to catch up.

‘He’s working tonight.’

‘Oh?’

‘Somewhere on Lothian Road. He’s a doorman.’

Rebus nodded his thanks and got back in his Saab, retracing his route into the city and parking at a bus stop halfway up Lothian Road. The wide street boasted half a dozen bars, most of which changed their names and decor so often Rebus couldn’t have kept track if he tried. The first place he came to, the black-clad doormen were too young, but he stopped anyway.

‘Looking for Robert Chatham,’ he explained, receiving sullen shakes of the head. ‘Thanks for the conversation, then.’

The next bar didn’t feel the need for security. It looked warm and inviting, laughter billowing out as the door was opened by a reveller readying to light a cigarette.

One beer won’t kill you, Rebus thought to himself. You could settle for a half. But he kept moving instead. At weekends, Lothian Road could be hairy — stag and hen parties colliding; young wage-earners high on drugs, alcohol and life itself. But tonight it was midweek quiet, or else too early and chilly for the pavements to be lively. As Rebus approached the third bar, he noted its solitary gatekeeper. Broad-shouldered in a dark three-quarter-length coat. Shaved head and no discernible neck. Early fifties but fighting fit, ID stuffed into a clear plastic armband around one bicep.

‘Seem to know the face,’ the man said as Rebus stopped in front of him.

‘I used to be a DI,’ Rebus explained.

‘We ever work together?’

Rebus shook his head, then held out a hand. ‘Name’s John Rebus.’ Chatham’s grip was solid, and Rebus returned it as best he could. ‘And you’re Robert Chatham.’

‘My other half phoned to let me know there was a visitor on his way. You’re out of the force now, though?’

‘I do a bit of work as a civilian. How long since you left?’

‘Three years.’ Chatham broke off to hold open the door for a pair of new arrivals, allowing Rebus a glimpse of the bar’s interior. Too dark for his liking, and a pounding soundtrack.

‘Is that called techno?’ he asked.

‘I call it noise,’ Chatham replied. ‘So what is it I can do for you?’

‘You had a spell at SCRU.’

‘A short spell — Eddie Tranter was off sick.’

‘I worked SCRU myself not long after.’

‘Oh aye?’

‘There’s a case I’ve been looking at — Maria Turquand.’ Chatham nodded slowly, saying nothing. ‘You dusted it off after Vince Brady offered new evidence.’

‘Evidence?’ Chatham snorted. ‘It was his word against Bruce Collier’s. Collier got his lawyers on it PDQ. Threatened to sue Brady, Lothian and Borders, and any newspaper we talked to.’

‘You reckon he had something to hide?’

Chatham considered this. ‘Not really,’ he eventually conceded.

‘You think it was her lover all along?’

‘I take it you’ve seen the files — what do you think?’

‘Any chance we can discuss this somewhere that isn’t a pavement on Lothian Road?’

‘I don’t knock off till midnight. Only place I’m going after that is my kip.’

‘Tomorrow morning?’

The doorman stared at Rebus. ‘I really don’t think I’m going to be any help.’

‘I’d appreciate it all the same.’

‘There’s a café on North Junction Street,’ Chatham eventually conceded. ‘Best bacon rolls in the city. Ten o’clock do you?’

‘Ten’s fine.’ They shook again, and Rebus headed for his car. He turned his head for a final look at Chatham, but the man was busy with his phone, holding it close to his face as he tapped the screen. Texting or calling? Rebus had his answer as Chatham lifted the phone to his ear. He was staring in Rebus’s direction as his mouth started to move.