Ian Rankin - Rather Be the Devil

‘Denise behind the bar tried warning me, but I thought she was joking.’

‘John’s watching himself,’ Clarke explained.

‘Is this Deborah Quant’s doing?’

‘At least I still take a drink,’ Rebus said, receiving a mock toast from Fox in response. Rebus turned his attention to Clarke. ‘You really think Craw Shand’s suddenly become a ninja?’

‘How does he know about the bin?’

‘Maybe he heard something. Maybe he went over there and checked the place out.’

Clarke savoured the first taste of her drink, saying nothing.

‘You’re really going to charge him?’

‘The DCI can’t see good reason not to.’

‘Then you have to convince him he’s wrong. Does Christie know we’ve got Craw in custody?’

‘He’s been informed an arrest has been made.’

‘And?’

‘Mr Shand’s name was not unfamiliar to him.’

‘Craw always did like a dodgy pub, and Darryl owns a few of those.’

‘He says they’ve never spoken or had any business...’

Malcolm Fox cleared his throat, signalling an interruption. ‘Shand says he chose a victim at random, yes? So it’s neither here nor there if they know one another.’

Rebus glared at him. ‘Malcolm, Craw Shand could no more beat someone up than I could swim the Forth. He’s in his sixties, weighs about the same as a scarecrow, and moves like someone’s stuck a pole up his arse.’

‘Plus,’ Clarke added, ‘he didn’t know about the slashed tyres, added to which he swears he didn’t torch the bin. On the other hand, he knows too much for this to be one of his usual stories...’

‘Agreed,’ Rebus eventually conceded. ‘Which is why we’re back to the point I made earlier — he’s been hearing things, or he scoped the place out. He needs questioning about both of those. He also needs to be warned what this is going to mean for him now Darryl Christie’s got his name.’

‘Then he’s safer in custody, wouldn’t you agree?’

‘Only if he’s in solitary.’

They sat in silence for a few moments, concentrating on their drinks. There was another tap at the window, a further invitation for Rebus to step outside. He shook his head and mouthed, ‘No.’

‘Am I really seeing this?’ Fox said. ‘You’ve packed in the cigs?’

‘Call it a trial separation,’ Rebus replied.

‘Bloody hell. I need to sell my tobacco shares.’

‘I think it’s great,’ Clarke said.

‘Though it wipes out about the only hobby he had,’ Fox countered.

Clarke turned to Rebus. ‘Speaking of which...’

‘What?’

‘The files I gave you — any help?’

‘Some.’

‘What’s this?’ Fox enquired.

‘John’s looking at a society murder from the 1970s. Wish I’d been around at the time, actually.’

Rebus stared at her. ‘You studied the contents before handing it over?’

‘Just the summary. But then I went online. There’s not much, but a few writers have used it in books about famous crimes.’

‘So tell me,’ Fox said.

‘Woman by the name of Maria Turquand,’ Clarke recited. ‘Had a string of lovers behind her husband’s back. He was the wealthy banker type, worked for Sir Magnus Brough. Maria ended up strangled in a bedroom at the Caledonian Hotel. Her latest lover — one of hubby’s old pals — was chief suspect until another of his conquests provided an alibi. But the hotel was filled to bursting with musicians, hangers-on and the media. You’ve heard of Bruce Collier?’

‘I don’t think so,’ Fox confided.

‘That’s because you don’t like music. He was huge at the time. Local success story who’d come home to headline the Usher Hall. Story was, he’d been seen chatting up Maria. Pal of his was around, too — and Maria had bedded him in the past. Then there was the road manager...’ She looked to Rebus for the name.

‘Vince Brady,’ he obliged. ‘Whose room was next to Maria’s. And there were connecting doors.’

‘I didn’t know that,’ Clarke said.

‘I had a word with Robert Chatham.’

‘Who’s Robert Chatham?’ Fox asked.

‘Ex-CID,’ Rebus explained. ‘Now retired. He headed a cold-case review a few years back.’

‘And this has come on to your radar because...?’

‘As you rightly said, a man needs a hobby.’

Fox nodded his understanding. ‘Sir Magnus Brough was the power behind Brough’s, wasn’t he? The private bank?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Is he still around?’

‘Long dead.’

‘The bank got sold on, didn’t it? Any family members still involved?’

Rebus was staring at him. ‘I’ve never been a customer. What’s this about, Malcolm?’

Fox’s mouth twitched. ‘Nothing.’

‘Liar.’

‘You’re amongst friends here,’ Clarke added, leaning in towards him so their shoulders touched.

‘Really?’ he asked, his eyes fixing on her.

‘Really,’ she stated, while Rebus nodded his confirmation.

‘It’s just that his name came up,’ Fox eventually confided.

‘At Gartcosh?’

It was Fox’s turn to nod. ‘Not Sir Magnus, but his grandson.’

‘In connection with what?’

‘I can’t tell you that.’

‘Why?’

‘Operational reasons.’

Rebus and Clarke shared a look. ‘I keep forgetting,’ Rebus drawled, ‘that you move in higher circles than us these days, Malcolm. Got to keep all the good stuff locked away. Wouldn’t do for lesser mortals to get a taste — might go to our heads.’

‘It’s not that I don’t trust you — either of you. But I was sworn to secrecy. And by the way, the fact that you’ve not asked me why I’m back in the city tells me Siobhan’s already told you. I’m not sure I like being ganged up on.’

‘Aye, well. It’s nice to know where we all stand, eh, Siobhan?’

Fox’s shoulders had grown hunched as he gripped his near-empty glass, head angled over it.

‘I’m sure Malcolm knows what he’s doing,’ Clarke replied coldly.

‘First time for everything,’ Rebus agreed.

Clarke had finished her drink. She started to get to her feet. ‘You sticking around, John? I could give you a lift.’

‘A lift home would do the trick,’ Rebus said, lifting up the coat folded next to him.

‘What about me?’ Fox complained. ‘My car’s back at Gayfield Square.’

Clarke was already heading for the doorway. ‘You,’ she called back towards him, ‘can bloody well walk.’

‘It’ll do you good,’ Rebus added as he passed, patting the top of Fox’s head.

Every Edinburgh pothole was torture, even in a car with the suspension of Darryl Christie’s Range Rover. He sat in the passenger seat, trying not to flinch. Harry, his driver, had the knack of finding the road surface’s every bump and crater. But eventually they reached Merchiston — probably not by the fastest route, as Harry was relying on the sat nav.

‘Which house?’ he was asking Christie now.

‘Number twenty.’

‘This one then.’ Harry slammed on the brake, producing a gasp of pain from beside him.

‘Sorry, Darryl. You okay?’

But Christie was paying him no heed. Instead he was staring at the For Sale sign. Slowly he clambered from the car, straightening up with effort. Then he pushed open the gate and walked down the path. No lights on within. One set of curtains open, allowing him a view of a gutted drawing room.

‘You thinking of buying?’ Harry asked.

‘Go back to the car and wait there,’ Christie snapped.

He walked down the driveway — so like his own — towards the rear of the property. A sensor picked him up and a light came on, illuminating the garden with its separate coach house, where Cafferty’s one-time bodyguard had slept. Cafferty had paid the man off eventually, services no longer required. A red light blinked from the alarm box above the back door. Christie reckoned it would not be fake.