Ian Rankin - Rather Be the Devil

‘Got him excited, though, didn’t it? Maybe he remembered just how much he missed being the city’s Mr Big.’

‘And giving Darryl Christie a doing is supposed to achieve what exactly?’

‘Scare him off, maybe goad him into some rash action...’

‘You think so?’

‘I’m just... speculating,’ Clarke said.

‘Have you bothered asking Darryl?’

‘He’s doped to the eyeballs and being kept in overnight.’

‘No witnesses?’

‘We’ll know more in a few hours.’

Rebus pressed a finger to the window pane. ‘Want me to broach the subject with Big Ger?’

‘Best keep this a police matter, don’t you think?’

‘Ouch. Speaking of which — you still not talking to Malcolm?’

‘What’s he been saying?’

‘Not much, but I get the feeling his promotion to Gartcosh got you bristling.’

‘Then your amazing intuition has let you down for once.’

‘Fair enough. But if you do want me to talk to Cafferty, you just have to say.’

‘Thanks.’ He heard her give a sigh. ‘How’s everything else, by the way?’

‘Nose to the grindstone, as usual.’

‘Doing what exactly?’

‘All those hobbies people take up when they retire. Actually, you might be able to help me with that.’

‘Oh yes?’

He turned away from the window. Brillo was seated behind him, awaiting another rub. Rebus offered a smile and a wink instead. ‘You got any access to the cold-case files?’ he said into the phone.

Malcolm Fox hated the commute — forty miles each way, most of it spent on the M8. Some days it resembled Wacky Races , with cars weaving in and out of traffic, lorries wheezing into the outside lane to crawl past other lorries, roadworks and breakdowns and buffeting winds accompanied by lashing rain. Not that there was anyone he could complain to — his colleagues at Gartcosh, the Scottish Crime Campus, considered themselves the crème de la crème, and they had the state-of-the-art building to prove it. Once you’d found a parking space and proved your credentials at the gatehouse, you entered a closed compound that was trying its damnedest to resemble a new-build university, one aimed at the elite. Plenty of internal space, filled with light and heat. Breakout areas where specialists from different disciplines could meet and share intelligence. Not just the various branches of the Specialist Crime Division, but Forensic Science, the Procurator Fiscal’s office, and HMRC’s Criminal Investigation wing. All housed under the one happy roof. He hadn’t heard anyone moan about how long it took them to get to Gartcosh and then home again, and he knew he wasn’t the only one who lived in Edinburgh.

Edinburgh. He’d only been transferred a month, but he still missed his old CID office. Then again, nobody here minded that he was ex-Professional Standards, the kind of cop hated by other cops. But did any of them know the story behind his move? He’d been left for dead by a detective gone rogue, and that same detective had been dragged away by two career criminals — Darryl Christie and Joe Stark — never to be seen again. The upper echelons didn’t want the story made public. Added to which, the Procurator Fiscal hadn’t fancied taking either gangster to court when no actual body had ever turned up.

‘A good defence lawyer would rip us to pieces,’ Fox had been told at one of several hush-hush meetings.

Instead they had waved Gartcosh in front of him, and wouldn’t take no for an answer. So here he was, trying to find his niche in the Major Crime Division.

And failing.

He recalled an old office saying about promoting mediocrity. He did not regard himself as mediocre, but he knew he had never quite proved himself exceptional. Siobhan Clarke was exceptional, and would have fitted in at Gartcosh. He’d seen the look on her face when he’d broken the news — trying not to be dumbstruck or resentful. A brief hug while she fixed her face. But their friendship afterwards had faltered, excuses found not to watch a film or eat a meal. All so he could drive the forty miles here and the forty miles home, day after day.

Get a grip, Malcolm, he told himself as he entered the building. He rolled his shoulders, straightened his tie and did up both buttons on his suit jacket — the suit bought specially. New shoes, too, which had just about softened enough that he didn’t need daily plasters on his heels.

‘Detective Inspector Fox!’

Fox paused at the bottom of the stairs and turned towards the voice. Black polo shirt, short-sleeved with a zip at the neck; shoulder flashes; two sets of lanyards with photo ID. And above the whole ensemble the tanned face, bushy black eyebrows and salt-and-pepper hair. Assistant Chief Constable Ben McManus. Instinctively, Fox pulled himself to his full height. There were two ACCs at Gartcosh, and McManus was in charge of Organised Crime and Counter-Terrorism. Not the meat and potatoes stuff of Major Crime — murders and the like — but the cases spoken of in undertones and via gestures, the cases that were investigated behind a series of locked doors elsewhere in the building, doors opened with one of the magnetic cards swinging from around McManus’s neck.

‘Yes, sir?’ Fox said. The ACC was holding out his hand, gripping Fox’s when it was offered and slipping his free hand over the top of both.

‘We’ve not been properly introduced. I know Jen’s been keeping you busy...’

Jen being Fox’s own boss, ACC Jennifer Lyon.

‘Yes, sir,’ Fox repeated.

‘Settled in okay, I hear. I know it can be a bit disconcerting at first — very different set-up from what you’ve been used to. We’ve all been there, trust me.’ McManus had released his hold on Fox and was climbing the staircase at a sprightly pace, Fox just about keeping up. ‘It’s good to have you, though. They speak very highly of you in Division Six.’

Division Six: the City of Edinburgh.

‘And of course your record speaks for itself — even the bits we don’t want anyone outside Police Scotland to see.’ McManus offered a smile that was probably meant to be reassuring but told Fox only that this man wanted him for something and had had him checked out. At the top of the stairs they headed for one of the soundproofed glass boxes that were used for private meetings. Blinds could be drawn as required. Eight bodies could be accommodated around the rectangular table. There was only one there waiting.

She stood up as they entered, tucking a few stray blonde hairs back behind one ear. Fox reckoned the woman was in her early to mid thirties. Five and a half feet tall and dressed in dark skirt and pale blue blouse.

‘Ah, they’ve even brought us some coffee,’ McManus announced, spotting the pot and mugs. ‘Not that we’re going to be here long, but help yourselves if you like.’

Taking the hint, Fox and the woman shook their heads.

‘I’m Sheila Graham, by the way.’

‘Sorry,’ McManus interrupted, ‘my fault entirely. This is DI Fox, Sheila.’

‘Malcolm,’ Fox said.

‘Sheila here,’ McManus ran on, ‘is Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs. You won’t have been shown their part of the building yet.’

‘I’ve walked past a few times,’ Fox said. ‘Lots of people tapping away at computers.’

‘That’s the sort of thing,’ McManus agreed. He had seated himself and gestured for Fox to do the same.

‘We work the usual areas,’ Graham said, her eyes fixed on Fox. ‘Drink and tobacco, money laundering, e-crime and fraud. A lot of it comprises basic forensic accounting, not that there’s anything basic about it in the digital age. Dirty money can be transferred around the world in the blink of an eye, accounts opened and closed almost as quickly. And that’s before we get to Bitcoin and the Dark Web.’