Ian Rankin - Rather Be the Devil

‘She’s lost me already,’ McManus said with a grin, throwing open his arms in a show of defeat.

‘Am I being transferred?’ Fox asked. ‘I mean, I can balance a chequebook with the best of them, but...’

‘We’ve plenty of number-crunchers,’ Graham said with the thinnest of smiles. ‘And right now some of them are looking at a man you seem to know — Darryl Christie.’

‘I know him all right.’

‘Did you hear what happened last night?’

‘No.’

Graham seemed disappointed in his answer, as though he had already failed her in some way. ‘He was given a doing, ended up in hospital.’

‘Business he’s in, there’s always a price to be paid,’ McManus said. He had risen to his feet and was pouring himself coffee, without offering to Fox and Graham.

‘What’s HMRC’s interest?’ Fox asked.

‘You know Christie owns some betting shops?’ Fox decided not to let on that this, too, was news to him. ‘We think he’s been using them to clean up dirty money — his own and that of other criminals.’

‘Such as Joe Stark in Glasgow?’

‘Such as Joe Stark in Glasgow,’ Graham echoed, sounding as though he had partway redeemed himself.

‘Stark and his boys came barging into Edinburgh a few months back,’ Fox explained. ‘Joe and Darryl ended up friends.’

‘There are others besides Stark,’ McManus chipped in before slurping from his mug. ‘And not just in Scotland either.’

‘Quite an enterprise,’ Fox commented.

‘It’ll almost certainly run into the millions,’ Graham agreed.

‘We need someone on the ground, Malcolm.’ McManus leaned across the table towards Fox. ‘Someone who knows the territory, but reporting back to us.’

‘To what end?’

‘Could be the assault inquiry will throw up names or information. There are going to be a lot of headless chickens running around while Christie recuperates. Meantime he’s going to be wondering who he’s up against — associate or enemy.’

‘He might start to slip up.’

‘He might,’ Graham agreed with a slow nod.

‘So I’m going back to Edinburgh?’

‘As a tourist, Malcolm,’ McManus cautioned with a wag of the finger. ‘You need to make sure they know you’re our man, not theirs.’

‘Do I tell them HMRC have got their bloodhounds sniffing Christie’s trail?’

‘Better if you don’t,’ Graham stated.

‘You’ll be working for me, Malcolm.’ McManus had finished his coffee already and was getting back to his feet, meeting over. ‘And it’s only natural we at Organised Crime should want to know what’s going on.’

‘Yes, sir. You say he was attacked last night? So the investigation will just be getting started...’

‘The officer in charge is...’ Graham sought the name, closing her eyes for a moment. ‘Detective Inspector Clarke.’

‘Of course,’ Fox said, forcing a smile.

‘Excellent!’ McManus clapped his hands together, made the briskest of turns, and yanked open the door. Fox stood up, making sure he had Sheila Graham’s attention.

‘Anything else I need to know?’

‘I don’t think so, Malcolm.’ She handed him her business card. ‘Mobile’s the best way to get me.’

He handed her a card of his own.

‘You didn’t know about the betting shops, did you?’ she asked, eyes twinkling. ‘Pretty good poker face, though...’

The first thing Siobhan Clarke noticed as she parked outside Christie’s house was that it was almost identical in size and design to Cafferty’s home across town — a detached three-storey Victorian stone edifice with large bay windows either side of the front door and a long driveway to the side that led to a free-standing garage. The front gate wasn’t locked, so she walked up the path and rang the bell. She had already noted the CCTV cameras described by the constable last night, and there was another built into the stonework next to the door buzzer.

Gail McKie pulled open the door. She was standing in a vestibule, the glass-panelled door behind her leading into the main hallway. She didn’t look as if she’d slept — same clothes as at the hospital, and her hair drooping to her shoulders.

‘Wouldn’t have bothered if I’d known it was you,’ she offered by way of greeting. Clarke gestured towards the camera.

‘You don’t use that, then?’

‘It’s fake, same as all the others. They were there when we bought the place — Darryl keeps meaning to put in real ones.’

‘How is he?’

‘He’ll be home today.’

‘That’s good.’

‘There’ve been a couple of your lot round already, harassing the neighbours.’

‘You don’t want the police involved?’

‘What do you care?’

‘Some of us do, though.’

‘Then go talk to Cafferty.’

‘I’m not saying that won’t happen, but we need to piece together the events first, starting with where you found Darryl.’

‘Won’t do any good. I didn’t see anybody.’

‘Darryl was out cold?’

‘Thought he was dead for a minute.’ McKie suppressed a shiver.

‘Could your other sons have seen or heard anything?’

A shake of the head. ‘Asked them last night.’

‘Can I speak to them?’

‘They’re at college.’

Clarke thought for a moment. ‘Shall we go take a look at the driveway, then?’

McKie seemed reluctant, but then headed indoors, re-emerging with a cream Burberry raincoat wrapped around her shoulders. She led the way, pointing towards one of the security cameras.

‘Wee red light and everything. Look real enough, don’t they?’

‘Are there many break-ins?’

McKie shrugged. ‘When you’ve got what people want, you start to fret.’

‘Darryl maybe thought nobody was likely to target his house — him being who he is.’ Clarke waited, but McKie stayed silent. ‘It’s a nice part of town,’ she went on.

‘Bit different from where we started out.’

‘Did Darryl pick the house?’

McKie nodded. They had reached the white Range Rover Evoque. It had pulled to a halt next to the rear entrance to the house. There were security lights above both the garage and the back door itself. Clarke gestured towards them.

‘Whoever was waiting for him, they’d have tripped the lights, yes?’

‘Maybe. But if you’re indoors with the curtains closed, you wouldn’t notice.’

‘Would the neighbours?’

‘We get a lot of foxes around here, being next to the Botanics. That’s what I always blame if I see a light coming on anywhere.’

There were spots of dried blood on the driveway by the driver’s-side door. McKie turned her head away from them.

‘He won’t want me telling you this,’ she said quietly, ‘but I’m going to say it anyway.’

‘I’m listening.’

‘There’ve been warnings.’

‘Oh?’

‘One night, Darryl left the car kerbside. Next morning, the front tyres had been slashed. That was about two weeks ago. Then last week, the bin went up.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Put it out for collection, and somebody torched it. Take a look for yourself.’

The bin was to the right of the back door, its plastic lid warped and blackened, part of one side melted halfway down.

‘You didn’t report this?’

‘Darryl said it was most likely kids. I’m not sure he believed it himself. No one else in the street got the same treatment.’

‘You think he was being targeted?’

McKie gave a shrug, which sent her coat sliding to the ground. She stooped to pick it up, brushing it clean before wrapping herself in it again.

‘Have you spoken to him since last night?’

‘He didn’t see anything. They got him on the back of the head as he was locking the car. Says he dropped like a stone. Bastards must’ve kept hitting him once he was out cold.’