Ian Rankin - Rather Be the Devil

‘Line of work you’re in, Darryl,’ Clarke said, getting to her feet, ‘if you don’t have enemies, you’re doing something wrong. I know you’re hurting right now and probably not taking the painkillers because you want your head clear — that way you can think hard about the list of candidates. So a word of advice: don’t start a war. You can bring us the names, let us check them out. It won’t be a sign of weakness, I promise. Quite the opposite.’ She was standing in front of him, hands clasped. ‘And maybe get those fake cameras switched for real ones, okay?’

‘Whatever you say, DI Clarke.’

Clarke made to leave the room, Fox a few steps behind. When he risked a glance in Christie’s direction, Christie gave the slyest of winks. Fox’s face remained impassive as he followed Clarke out of the house.

‘I thought I told you not to do any talking?’ she muttered.

‘Couldn’t help myself, sorry.’

Clarke unlocked her car but didn’t get in. She stood on the pavement instead, staring at the house she’d just left.

‘Did we learn anything useful?’ Fox asked.

‘I thought he was maybe trying to become Cafferty,’ Clarke obliged. ‘Turns out that’s not what this house is.’

‘What is it, then?’

‘Who do you think decorated that room and bought all the chintz?’

‘His mother?’

Clarke nodded. ‘That’s who it’s all for. He might have kept his dad’s surname, but Darryl’s heart belongs to Mummy...’

‘You weren’t kidding about the rolls,’ Rebus said, taking another bite.

‘Bacon just the right side of crispy,’ Robert Chatham agreed.

They were seated across from one another at a booth with padded seats and a Formica-topped table. Mugs of dark-brown tea and plates in front of them, Radio Forth belting out from the kitchen.

‘Sorry if I was a bit ragged last night,’ Chatham went on. ‘Wasn’t expecting to hear of Maria Turquand ever again. You’ve seen the photos of her? Wasn’t she a stunner?’

‘She was.’

‘Brainy, too — studied Latin and Greek.’

‘And Ancient History,’ Rebus added, to show that he too had done his homework.

‘Probably never should have got married — bit too much wildness about her.’

‘Likely frowned upon in John Turquand’s world.’

Chatham nodded as he chewed. ‘Problem we had was, a lot of the bit-part players had died. No way we could confirm anything by asking hotel staff or guests. And, thirty years having passed, the ones we did track down had forgotten anything they used to know. Place was a melee that day, too — comings and goings, reporters who’d booked interviews with Collier or were chancing to luck that they’d get near him. Then there were the fans, who were either standing outside chanting his name or else dodging into the foyer and making for the stairs.’ Chatham took a slurp of tea. ‘We had a computer guy try plotting a 3D plan of the foyer and all the people who might have seen the killer enter or leave, but there were too many variables. In the end, he gave up.’

‘What about the press photographers?’

Chatham nodded slowly. ‘We looked at everything we could find. Even got a couple of Collier’s diehard fans to hand over stuff they’d shot on the street outside.’ He made a zero with thumb and forefinger.

‘So if you couldn’t place either Maria’s lover or her husband at the scene, did you begin to give a bit more credence to Vince Brady’s version?’

‘All Brady said was that Collier had been chatting to the victim in the third-floor corridor. Collier denied it, and turned out there was some bad blood between him and Brady. He’s dead, you know.’

‘Vince Brady?’

‘Last year. Third or fourth heart attack, I think.’ Chatham put down the remains of his roll, wiped his fingers on a serviette and looked at Rebus. ‘Why the sudden interest? Has something happened?’

Instead of answering, Rebus had another question ready. ‘How about the husband and the lover — did you interview them?’

‘Turquand and Attwood? You’ve seen the files, you tell me.’

‘Not everything makes it into the official account.’

Chatham gave a thin smile. ‘I did have a word with both, as it happens — off the record.’

‘Why off the record?’

‘Because we were supposed to focus on Brady and Collier. Top brass didn’t think it worth looking much further. But you’ll remember that one of the room-service staff said he saw a man who looked a bit like Peter Attwood.’

‘He couldn’t be certain, though.’

Chatham nodded. ‘And Attwood’s story was that he had broken it off with Maria — not that he’d told her. Took the coward’s way out: left her waiting in her room for him to show up, while he was busy elsewhere with her replacement.’

‘He’s all class.’

‘When I saw him eight years ago, he was happily married with a first grandkid on the way. Said he was “another man” back in the seventies.’

‘He’s still in the land of the living?’

‘No idea. I don’t always pore over the obituaries.’

‘What about John Turquand?’

‘Retired and living in a castle in Perthshire. Likes his hunting, shooting and fishing. Always supposing he’s not kicked the bucket.’

‘Did he ever marry again?’

‘Threw himself into his work instead. Made his millions and started to spend them.’

‘Life turned out pretty well for the two main suspects.’

‘Didn’t it though? And Bruce Collier does a bit of touring still, too.’

‘I heard he was living back up here.’

‘Townhouse in Rutland Square, though you’re more likely to find him at one of his other homes — Barbados and Cape Town, I think I read.’

‘Rutland Square?’

‘I smiled at that, too. Practically next door to the Caley. Reckon it means anything?’

‘I don’t know. Probably not. Wonder if he still hangs out with his old pal Dougie Vaughan.’

‘Ah, there’s another thing — according to Vince Brady, Collier made him hand over one of his room keys to Dougie Vaughan.’

‘Yes, I read that. Any idea why?’

‘So Vaughan could take a nap if the need arose. Hanging out seemed to involve quite a lot of booze.’

Rebus’s eyes narrowed. ‘Brady had the room next to Maria Turquand,’ he stated.

‘Right.’

‘And Vaughan had a key.’

‘Sort of — he said he vaguely remembered a key but didn’t know which room it was for or what happened to it. He swears he never went anywhere other than Bruce Collier’s suite.’ Chatham pushed his plate to one side and leaned across the table. ‘You know there were connecting doors?’

‘What?’

‘Between Maria’s room and Vince Brady’s. Don’t bother checking — the hotel did away with them years back. Solid walls now, not so solid back then.’

‘And Vaughan and the victim had had a bit of a fling.’

‘He still swears he never saw her that day.’

‘How about Vince Brady’s alibi?’

‘He was running around like a mad thing, backwards and forwards to the Usher Hall to check on the crew and the programme stall. A dozen or more people confirmed talking to him in a dozen places.’

‘He must have been in his room some of the time, though.’

‘Agreed, but he didn’t hear or see anything.’

‘Apart from Maria Turquand in the hallway with Bruce Collier.’

‘Apart from that, yes.’

Rebus thought for a moment. ‘One last thing — did a Russian crop up at all?’

Chatham’s brow furrowed. ‘A Russian?’

‘Anywhere you can think of.’

Chatham shook his head and the two men drank their tea in silence for a moment.