Ian Rankin - Rather Be the Devil

His phone buzzed in his pocket and he lifted it out. Joe Stark was calling him. He pressed the phone to his ear.

‘What can I do for you, Joe?’

‘I heard you got jumped.’

‘It’s no biggie.’

‘Trust me, it’s a biggie — means every fucker knows you can be jumped.’

‘I’m dealing with it.’

‘You better be.’

‘And I appreciate your concern.’

‘My concern ?’ Stark’s voice was rising as Christie retraced his steps down the driveway. ‘All I’m concerned about is my fucking money — when do I get it?’

‘Soon, Joe, soon.’

‘You better hope I believe you, son.’

‘Have I ever let you down?’

‘Saying that gets us nowhere, Darryl. I’ve already gone easy on you.’

‘Are you saying you ordered that thumping?’

‘You’d be talking through a wired jaw at the very least if I had. Money or your head, son. Money or your head.’

The phone went dead. Christie dropped it back into his pocket. Harry was holding the gate open for him.

‘Back to the ranch, boss? Or do you fancy a drink somewhere?’

‘I’m going home,’ Christie stated. But he paused before getting into the car, turning to cast his eye over Cafferty’s old house again.

You thinking of buying?

He wondered what his mother would say to that...

The previous night, Rebus had taken Brillo for a late walk on Bruntsfield Links before settling down at the dining table and opening his laptop, searching for the name Anthony Brough. All of this after Siobhan Clarke had dropped him off.

‘I mean it about Craw,’ Rebus had reminded her. ‘He’s a dead man walking unless you can convince Darryl he’s not the one.’

‘I’ll do what I can. But remand’s probably not going to be an option, not even if he’s charged.’

‘Then hold him for psychological assessment.’

‘It would be nice to have a more likely suspect in our sights.’

‘Has anyone spoken to Joe Stark?’

‘I thought Joe and Darryl were buddies?’

‘Which should have given Darryl an extra layer of protection. But since that’s not been the case...’

‘They’ve had a falling-out and this is by way of Joe’s punishment?’

Rebus had shrugged. ‘Got to be worth a look, no?’

Just as he’d thought Sir Magnus Brough’s grandson worth a look. In fact, he had dug out everything he could on the Brough family and its banking fiefdom. Established towards the end of the eighteenth century, a lot of its initial success coming from the financing of trade — slaves to America, cotton and tobacco back to the UK. From the Fife coalfields to tea plantations in India, via fine wines from Bordeaux, Brough’s had been there. It had fallen out of family control for a brief period immediately post-war, but Sir Magnus had come in as a junior partner and worked his way up until he owned the whole operation. Rebus had wondered: what sort of man did you have to be to do that? He had found his answer in a handful of online essays and chapters from economic histories — ruthless, rapacious, hands-on, determined and tireless.

Sir Magnus’s son had been none of these things, and had turned his back on banking, preferring to holiday the year round in far-flung destinations. Jimmy Brough had settled down eventually, marrying Lisanne Bentley. Two kids, Anthony and Francesca, both in their thirties now, orphaned in their teens when a car crash did for their parents, leaving Sir Magnus to look after them. Anthony had joined the bank, but hadn’t survived the takeover. Drugs had sent Francesca off her rocker and mentions of her dropped away to nothing. But Anthony had set up Anthony Brough Investment Group and Brough Consulting, both of which had their headquarters in Edinburgh.

Rutland Square in Edinburgh, to be exact.

‘Small world just got smaller,’ Rebus had muttered, heading for bed.

So it was that after an early walk to the corner shop, followed by breakfast for dog and owner both, Rebus watched Brillo settle in his basket in the kitchen then headed out. Traffic towards Tollcross and down Lothian Road was its usual rush-hour crawl, not helped by the equally ubiquitous roadworks. He was starting to think he’d have been quicker walking, but then snorted at the very notion. There was a free parking bay on Rutland Square, so he decided to play the part of dutiful citizen and use it, even feeding a couple of coins into the meter.

From where he stood, he had a good view of one side of the red-stone hotel — the Caley as was. Rutland Square itself comprised four-storey terraces that had probably been residential when built but now had become mainly offices, at least at ground level. He wondered which of them belonged to Bruce Collier, and whether the internet would provide an answer. The elegant stone-pillared façades gave little away, though the occasional worker could be seen through a window, rising from their desk, paperwork in one hand, coffee in the other.

Rebus walked around the square. At its centre, railings protected a patch of neat lawn and a wrought-iron bench, the gate locked, accessible only with a key. A road off to the right led to Shandwick Place, where the passing of a bright new tram was announced by the clanging of its bell. Torphichen Street cop shop was a stone’s throw away in the other direction. A couple of taxis sped by, having picked up fares at the hotel. One of the plaques Rebus passed announced that something called the Scottish Arts Club was based behind its door. But mostly he saw evidence that the square’s occupiers worked in staid and sensible areas of commerce — chartered surveyors and solicitors, accountants and asset management.

Brough Investment was almost directly opposite the Scottish Arts Club. Rebus climbed its steps. The main door — solid wood, boasting gloss-black paint, polished brass letter box and knocker — stood open. Behind it, a vestibule led to a second door, of opaque glass. There were half a dozen buttons on the intercom, different company names beside each. Rebus studied the one marked ABIG, his finger hovering above it. What would he say? I’m just wondering why DI Malcolm Fox is so interested in you ?

He smiled to himself. Instead, he stepped back on to the pavement and made a phone call.

‘This’ll be good,’ Fox answered.

‘Guess where I am,’ Rebus said.

‘Wild stab in the dark — Rutland Square.’

Brought up short, Rebus looked to left and right. No sign of Fox or his car. ‘Clever lad,’ he said, having given himself a moment to recover.

‘You seemed too interested last night. No way you were going to let it go.’

‘They’re teaching you well at Gartcosh.’

‘Not well enough, or I wouldn’t have brought the name up in the first place.’

‘Ready to tell me what this is all about, or should I just ring Brough’s bell and ask?’

‘Ringing won’t help.’

‘Why not?’

‘He’s not there. I phoned twenty minutes ago pretending to be a client. Secretary came in straight away with an apology. Said he’d been cancelling meetings due to being called away.’

‘Called away where?’ Rebus was studying the windows on each floor of the building.

‘Seemed to me she didn’t know. I think she’s floundering.’

‘Do you know why he’s away?’

‘Not really.’

‘Meaning you’ve got an inkling? Maybe we should meet and talk this through.’

‘John — no offence, but it’s none of your business.’

‘That’s true, of course.’

‘Most men your age would be content to put their feet up or go bet on the horses.’ He broke off suddenly and Rebus’s brow furrowed. Had Fox just let something slip?