Ian Rankin - Rather Be the Devil

‘What is it, Malcolm?’

‘Look, I need to call Gartcosh, let them know about Brough.’

‘Because he connects to Darryl Christie? That’s it, isn’t it?’

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘Of course not, Malcolm. Your secret’s safe with me.’

Rebus ended the call, and didn’t answer when Fox called straight back. He was tapping the corner of the phone against his teeth when a door opened further along the street. The figure who bounded out, unlocking a silver Porsche and manoeuvring himself in, was instantly recognisable, though Rebus had only seen him in photos and on a distant concert stage.

Hello, Bruce, he said to himself, walking towards the space the car had just vacated in a roar no doubt pleasing to its driver. He stopped outside Bruce Collier’s front door. More gloss-black paint. But no nameplate of any kind, nothing to indicate that a man with a string of transatlantic number ones called the place home. The ground-floor windows boasted wooden slatted blinds, open enough to allow Rebus a glimpse of the interior. Gaudy paintings on cream walls; white leather sofas and chairs. No gold or platinum discs, and no hi-fi or musical instruments. Flamboyant in his day, Collier had learned to embrace a seemingly quieter life.

Rebus turned to watch as the Porsche exited the square. Quieter, yes, but not quite ready for complete anonymity...

Craw Shand had been charged, despite the Fiscal Depute’s qualms.

‘It’s thin stuff, Siobhan,’ she had warned.

‘I know,’ Clarke had acknowledged.

Charged, and then freed on bail. Shand had seemed satisfied with this result, thanking Clarke for her concern when she reminded him to keep his head down and maybe think about not going home for a few days.

‘But wouldn’t that be breaking my bail conditions?’ he had asked.

‘Not if you keep checking in at your local police station — trust me.’

He’d even wanted to clasp her by the hand, but she’d drawn it away and shaken her head, watching him as he made his way out on to Gayfield Square, where, thankfully, Laura Smith failed to be lurking.

Clarke got on the phone to Christie’s house, where his mother picked up.

‘He’s not here,’ she said. ‘But that was quick work, catching the bastard. I’m sorry I doubted you.’

‘Well, here’s your chance to make amends,’ Clarke said. ‘I need a word with Darryl.’

‘He’s at work.’

‘Any of his many businesses in particular?’

‘The Devil’s Dram, I think.’

‘Thank you.’

Clarke knew the Devil’s Dram. Named for the amount of whisky lost to evaporation in each barrel, it was a nightclub on the Cowgate, just along from the city mortuary. She’d last been inside on a girls’ night out, organised by Deborah Quant. She was there within ten minutes, but couldn’t find anywhere to park. Eventually she settled on the mortuary itself, tucking her Astra in next to one of the anonymous black vans in the courtyard.

The Cowgate was a canyon of a place, two lanes wide and with narrow pavements, steep gradients leading off. Not too long back, Clarke had chased a murderer up one of those lanes, until the effort got the better of her — not a detail she’d bothered adding to her written report. The graffitied metal doors of the Devil’s Dram were locked tight. There were no windows, just stonework, similarly daubed — hard to tell if it was a design feature or the work of vandals. Clarke gave the doors a thump and a kick. Eventually she could hear them being unlocked. A young man was scowling at her, sleeves rolled up, arms colourfully tattooed. His immaculate hair had been swept back from his forehead, and he sported a luxuriant beard.

‘You look like you probably work behind the bar,’ Clarke commented.

‘I own the bar,’ he corrected her.

‘On paper, maybe.’ Clarke shoved her warrant card into his face. ‘But it’s the real boss I’m here to see.’

He managed a sneer but stepped aside eventually, just enough so she could squeeze past into a dimly lit vault that led to the main room. Plastic gargoyles leered from the ceiling, while bearded satyrs cavorted along the walls. Rock music was blaring from the speakers.

‘I like a bit of Burt Bacharach in the morning,’ Clarke said.

‘It’s Ninja Horse.’

‘Do me a favour then and put it back in the stable.’

With a final sneer, the young man moved off. There was a glass staircase leading to a VIP balcony area directly above the long mirrored bar. As Clarke started to climb, the music cut off abruptly. The place was being readied for the night to come, vacuum cleaners busy, bottles restocked, chairs and stools repositioned. Darryl Christie was watching from his upstairs table, nose still strapped but eyes a bit less swollen, if no less bruised. He had paperwork spread out in front of him, and made show of turning each sheet so it sat blank side up as Clarke approached.

‘I’m not Customs and Excise, Darryl,’ she pretended to complain.

‘Maybe it’s my trade secrets I’m hiding — how to build a successful club from nothing.’

There was a glass of sparkling water next to him. He lifted it to his mouth, sipping through a bright red straw, content to wait for what she had to say.

‘Craw Shand is back on the street,’ she obliged.

‘Is that right?’

‘If anything happens to him, you’ll have me to answer to.’

‘The big bad DI Clarke?’ Christie stifled a grin. ‘Thing I’ve learned about getting even with someone, it’s best to leave a bit of time. Could be weeks, could be months — there’s still the anticipation.’

‘Is that how it was with the man who killed your sister?’

Christie’s cheekbones tightened. ‘He killed more than one kid. He was never going to last long in jail.’

‘Barlinnie, wasn’t it? I’m guessing that means Joe Stark did the organising — his city, his sphere of influence. You and him still close, Darryl?’

‘What’s it to you, Officer?’

‘Just because we’ve charged Shand doesn’t mean we’ve stopped looking. That includes everyone you know, friend or foe.’

‘So you’ll have pulled Cafferty in, then?’

‘Maybe after we talk to Joe Stark.’

‘You can talk till you’re blue in the face, won’t make the slightest difference.’ He was rising to his feet with effort, gasping a little as the pain hit his ribs.

‘Your mum reckons you owe me for catching Shand so quickly.’

‘And not touching him would balance the books between us? Nice try, Siobhan.’ He was standing only a few inches from her. ‘It was good to see you in here a few weeks back. Did you enjoy your evening? From the CCTV, it looked like you did. Seven G and Ts I think I counted.’ He gave another grin, gesturing towards the staircase. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me...’

She stood her ground for a moment, and he gave a little bow of his head to tell her she’d made her point. So she went back down the steps, the smell of disinfectant heavy in the air. As she retraced her route across the floor of the main room, imps and demons staring down at her, the music started up again, setting her teeth on edge. Back out on the pavement, she paused to take a few deep breaths, then noticed her phone was buzzing. She checked the screen: her pal in the Police Scotland control room.

‘What is it, Tess?’

‘Body fished out of Leith Docks, not far from the Britannia .’

‘Suicide?’

‘Bit of a Houdini if it is. Houdini in reverse, I suppose I mean.’

‘Spit it out then.’

‘I’m hearing his hands were tied behind his back.’

‘That does make it suspicious.’

‘I thought so. But the reason I thought you’d be interested is one of our lot recognised the face.’