Ian Rankin - Rather Be the Devil

‘Understood,’ Fox said. ‘And thanks. It means a lot that you would trust me.’

‘There’s more I could tell you, but it would probably go over your head — some of it goes above mine.’

‘Numbers were never my strong point.’

‘But you can balance a chequebook — that’s what you said at our first meeting.’

‘Maybe I exaggerated a little.’ He jabbed a finger towards his cheek. ‘Good poker face, remember?’

Graham smiled again. ‘You’re heading back to Edinburgh?’ She watched Fox nod. ‘Quid pro quo, then — don’t leave me out of the loop.’

‘I won’t,’ Fox said.

‘So where does the inquiry go next?’

‘That’s DI Clarke’s call.’ His phone was vibrating in his jacket. He dug it out and checked the screen. ‘Speak of the devil,’ he said, opening the text message. Graham saw his eyebrows arch in surprise.

‘Something?’ she asked.

‘Something,’ he acknowledged, turning the phone towards her so she could read what was there.

We’ve got a confession.

‘You better skedaddle, then,’ Graham said. ‘And be sure to phone me with the news.’

‘I’ll do that,’ Fox said, deserting the remains of his coffee as he headed for the door.

A solitary journalist stood guard on the pavement outside Gayfield Square police station. Her name was Laura Smith and she was the crime correspondent for the Scotsman .

‘I’m freezing half to death here, DI Fox,’ she complained as he made to pass her.

‘No comment, Ms Smith.’

‘It’s not like I haven’t done you favours in the past.’

‘It’s DI Clarke you should be pestering.’

‘She’s not answering her phone.’

‘Probably because she’s got nothing to say. And isn’t a mugging a bit pedestrian for a crime reporter?’

‘Not when you bear in mind who the victim is.’

‘Local entrepreneur Darryl Christie?’

She smiled. ‘Don’t worry, my paper’s lawyers will make sure I don’t say anything that could get us into trouble.’

‘That’s good, because I dare say Mr Christie has lawyers, too.’

‘Just give me a sentence — I can quote you as “police sources”.’

‘I’ve got nothing for you, Laura. But I’ll put in a word with DI Clarke.’

‘Cross your heart?’

‘I wouldn’t want you suing me for breach of promise.’

He opened the door and went in, past the reception desk, punching in the code for the inner door, then along the narrow corridor to the interview rooms. No doubting which one contained the confessor — a huddle of uniforms had gathered next to it, whispering and listening.

Fox hadn’t been lying to Laura Smith — he’d tried phoning Clarke for clarification, but without any luck. Now he asked the most senior of the constables for the story.

‘Walked up to one of the beat officers, said he needed to tell him something.’

‘Where was this?’

‘A Greggs on South Bridge. Carrying a shopping bag and looking like he needed hosing down. Officer played along, asked him what he’d done. He said he’d whacked Darryl Christie around the head, given his ribs a few kicks for good measure.’

‘Probably a nutter,’ another uniform offered.

‘Specific injuries haven’t been mentioned anywhere, though, have they?’ the older constable said.

‘Hospital would know. Family and neighbours, too. Word has a way of getting out.’

‘Is there a lawyer on the way?’ Fox queried.

‘Says he doesn’t want one. Not been charged yet anyway.’

‘So who’s in there with him? DI Clarke?’

‘And DC Esson.’

Fox stared hard at the door, with its signage switched from VACANT to IN USE. The surface of the door was heavily scored, its paintwork chipped away. Fox was wondering if he could just march in. He could , of course — it was his right. But if Siobhan was getting answers... and if the man inside clammed up, spell broken by the interruption...

‘Has he got a name?’ he asked instead.

‘Officer he spoke to must have got it, but he’s off writing up his report.’

‘Will he mention that he was queuing for doughnuts at Greggs at the time?’

‘Man’s got to eat,’ the older constable said, as if dispensing the wisdom of the ages. ‘And it was a steak bake, to be exact.’

There was a noise from inside and the door opened, catching them by surprise. Like all the doors, it opened outwards, so that no one left inside could attempt a barricade. The edge of the door caught one of the uniforms a glancing blow to his shoulder. He let out a yelp as Christine Esson emerged.

‘Serves you right,’ she said, in place of apologising. Siobhan Clarke was right behind her. She spotted Fox and gestured for him to follow as she made for the stairs to the CID suite. Esson meantime was telling the uniforms to make themselves useful — two to keep an eye on the man still seated in the interview room, another to fetch him something to drink and eat.

‘He pongs to high heaven,’ Clarke informed Fox, sucking in gulps of fresh air.

‘Vagrant?’

‘Not as such. Lives in Craigmillar. Unemployed. His name’s William Shand. William Crawford Shand.’

‘And he knows about the cracked ribs?’

Clarke glanced back at him. ‘News travels.’

‘Unless you happen to be Laura Smith.’

‘Laura can wait.’ Clarke walked into the office, met Ronnie Ogilvie’s eyes and stabbed a finger towards DCI Page’s door.

‘He’s not in,’ Ogilvie stated. He noticed Fox staring at his moustache.

‘Is that new?’ Fox asked. Ogilvie nodded. ‘Not sure it suits you, Ronnie.’

‘I hate to interrupt a burgeoning bromance,’ Clarke said, eyes fixed on Ogilvie, ‘but any idea where he’s gone?’

‘The DCI? Pen-pushers’ meeting at Fettes.’

Clarke sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. ‘I need to get his okay,’ she muttered.

‘Okay for what?’ Fox asked.

‘There’s a civilian Shand wants us to hook him up with. Says he’s the one he wants to confess to. Bit of history between them, it seems. Not sure I can let that happen without the DCI’s say-so.’

Fox was staring at her. ‘Your tone of voice makes me think I know who the civilian is.’

Clarke raised her eyes to the ceiling as the name burst from Malcolm Fox’s lips.

‘Rebus.’

‘Tell me Laura isn’t still outside,’ Clarke said as she led Rebus along the corridor.

‘Of course she is.’

Clarke cursed under her breath. ‘What did you tell her?’

‘Said I was meeting an old friend.’ Rebus turned towards her. ‘How are you, anyway?’

‘I’ve been better.’

‘Two things you need to know, Siobhan.’

‘I’m listening.’

‘One, everybody knows him as Craw. I doubt he’s been called William by anyone other than sheriffs and bailiffs.’

‘He’s got previous?’

‘See, that brings me to my second point — you’ve been sold a pup. A cursory examination of the records would have told you that Craw’s notorious for handing himself in whenever something big hits the news.’

‘We ran him through the system — clean as a whistle the past five years.’

‘Then he’s slid back into his old ways.’ They had reached the interview room, where Fox waited. Rebus shook his hand. ‘What brings you here, Malcolm?’

‘Curiosity.’

‘Well, you’re in the right place — the gent behind that door is a one-man freak show.’ Rebus reached for the handle, then paused. ‘Best if I do this on my own.’

‘Are you forgetting you’re not CID any more?’ Clarke said.

‘Even so...’

‘It’s a deal-breaker, John. There has to be someone in there representing Police Scotland.’