Ian Rankin - Rather Be the Devil

Rebus looked from Clarke to Fox and back again. ‘Then I’ll let the pair of you toss a coin.’ Having said which, he pulled open the door and strode in.

Craw Shand was seated at the narrow table, toying with a sandwich consisting of two thin slices of white bread and a thinner layer of orange processed cheese. There was an inch of tea left in the polystyrene cup, a scum beginning to form on it. Rebus wafted a hand in front of him.

‘Jeezo, Craw. When was the last time you saw soap?’ He gestured for the uniformed officers to leave. Without bothering to ask who Rebus was, they did as ordered.

Still got it, John.

‘All right, Mr Rebus?’ Craw said. His teeth were blackened, his hair — what was left of it — thin and greasy against his scalp. ‘Been a while, eh?’

‘Best part of twenty years, Craw.’

‘Not that long, surely?’

Rebus dragged the metal chair out from the table and sat down. ‘Didn’t they tell you? I’m retired these days.’

‘Is that right?’

‘Reckoned it was safe to retreat from the fray — thought the likes of you had got tired of playing games.’

‘No games today, Mr Rebus.’

‘Then there’s a first time for everything.’

Craw Shand’s eyes were milky as he stared at the man across from him. ‘Remember Johnny Bible, Mr Rebus?’

‘Sure.’

‘Craigmillar cop shop. You were the one who interrogated me.’

‘We don’t interrogate these days, Craw — it’s called an interview.’

‘You were tough but fair.’

‘I’d like to think so.’

‘Right up to the point where you pushed me to the floor and half strangled me.’

‘My memory’s not so good these days, Craw.’

Craw Shand offered a grin. ‘You remember, though.’

‘Maybe I do and maybe I don’t. What’s that got to do with Darryl Christie?’

Both men turned as the door was opened again and Clarke stalked in. Fox could be glimpsed in the corridor, wanting a view of Shand. Clarke pulled the door closed just as Rebus was offering a wave.

‘You’ve not told me,’ Rebus continued, ‘why it was me you needed to speak to. As I’ve been saying, DI Clarke here is perfectly competent.’

‘It was that memory of Craigmillar. I just thought I’d like to see you again.’

‘In case I dished out more of the same? Sorry to disappoint you, Craw, but we’re both in our sixties now and the world’s got a new set of rules.’ Rebus made show of studying his watch. ‘I’ve a dominoes tournament starting in an hour, so I’d be obliged if we could keep this businesslike.’

‘I hit him.’

‘Hit who?’

‘His name’s Darryl Christie. He lives in a big house by the Botanic Gardens.’

‘That’s good, Craw. Matches every online article about what happened.’

‘He was getting out of his car — a white Range Rover. I snuck up behind him and hit him.’

‘With what?’

‘A length of wood. It was lying to the side of the garage. That’s where I waited.’

‘In the dark, aye?’

‘Security lights came on as I walked up the driveway, but nobody came out of the house.’

‘You weren’t worried about the CCTV?’

‘We all know those things are next to useless.’

‘Why did you do it, Craw? Why pick that particular victim?’

‘I was just angry.’

‘About what, though?’

‘People with money. People with too much — the big houses and everything. I’m just sick of them.’

‘So you’d done this before?’

‘I’d thought about it many a time.’

‘But never carried it through?’ Rebus watched as Craw Shand shook his head. He leaned back on the hard metal seat.

‘You’re sure the car was white?’

‘Lights went on again as it came up the drive.’

‘Were the gates locked when you got there?’

‘Gate to the footpath wasn’t. Driveway gates started opening as the car came near.’

Rebus looked to Clarke, who raised one eyebrow. So far, the man could not be faulted.

‘What did you do with the piece of wood?’

‘Tossed it.’

‘Where?’

‘Inverleith Park somewhere.’

‘That’s a fair stretch of land, Craw. Might take us a lot of man hours to find it.’

Shand perked up at this thought.

‘That’s supposing we were to believe you, of course. And I think you’re the lying toerag you always were.’ Rebus got up from his chair and walked around the table until he was standing behind Shand. He could feel the man tense.

‘Same fucking games you’ve always played,’ he growled. ‘Just because it gets that chipolata in your manky Y-fronts hard. Playtime’s over, pal. Time you headed back to your hovel and your online porn.’

‘I’m telling you, I did it!’

‘And I’m telling you to get the hell out of this interview room before we have to phone Rentokil!’

‘John,’ Clarke cautioned. She had been resting against a wall, but took a few steps towards the table. Then, to Shand: ‘Can you add to your description, Craw? The house, the car, how events played out?’

‘I hit him over the head from behind,’ Shand recited. ‘Then I leaned over him and gave him a punch in the face. Stood back up and kicked him in the ribs a few times — I forget how many. A last kick to the nose and that was that.’

‘Just for being rich?’

‘Exactly.’

Rebus placed a hand on one of Shand’s shoulders, causing him to flinch. ‘We should give the news to Christie. Case closed. We can all go home, and Craw here can go to Saughton nick, where there’ll be a small but perfectly formed price on his head.’ He paused, leaning in closer to Shand’s left ear. ‘You know who Darryl Christie is, Craw?’

‘He owns a hotel.’

‘They said that in the papers too, but what they forgot to mention was that he’s taken over from Big Ger Cafferty. Maybe let that sink in, eh?’ He straightened up, glancing towards Siobhan Clarke, but she was focusing on the seated figure.

‘Anything else, Mr Shand? Anything you specifically remember?’

Shand’s eyes widened. ‘The bin by the back door — half of one of its sides was melted away!’ He looked from Clarke to Rebus and back again, almost in triumph at the memory. Clarke, however, had eyes only for Rebus.

‘Give me a reason not to charge him,’ she said.

Rebus pursed his lips. ‘Seems like my work here is done.’ He gripped Craw Shand’s shoulder again. ‘Good luck, Craw. I really mean that. It’s taken you half a lifetime, but you’ve done it at last. God help you...’

Rebus was seated in the back room of the Oxford Bar. Darkness had fallen and the early-evening crowd downstairs at the bar itself was in good humour. Rebus sipped his drink, turning his head to the window when he heard a tapping sound. It was one of the regulars, who had gone outside for a smoke. He was signalling for Rebus to join him, but Rebus shook his head. He’d had a coughing fit in the toilet five minutes back, hawking gobbets into the sink then running the tap, rinsing away the evidence before dabbing sweat from his brow while thinking that next time maybe he’d remember to bring his inhaler. His face in the mirror told its own story, with little to indicate that the ending would be happy.

Clarke had texted, interested in his whereabouts, so he wasn’t surprised when she climbed the steps from the bar area and peered around the doorway.

‘It’s Malcolm’s round,’ she informed him. Rebus shook his head, his hand resting on the glass in front of him.

Eventually Fox appeared, carrying Clarke’s gin and tonic and a tomato juice. They pulled out chairs and sat opposite Rebus.

‘What the hell’s that?’ Fox couldn’t help asking.

‘It’s called a half,’ Rebus said, hoisting the small glass and swirling it.