Ian Rankin - Rather Be the Devil

Moving into the living room, he stood in the middle of the floor. There were marks on the walls where pictures had been removed by a previous owner or tenant. A cable snaked in from a corner of the only window, waiting to be connected to a TV. There was a phone point on one of the chipped skirting boards, but no phone. Like the companies it served, the flat was nothing more than a shell. But then what had he expected — Anthony Brough, feet up on the sofa sipping Moët?

Well, it would have been nice.

‘I’ve called the police,’ Rebus heard a voice say from the landing outside. By the time he reached the doorway, the neighbour had retreated behind their own door. Rebus approached it and knocked. He heard a chain being slid into place, the door opening two inches. Above the chain he could make out a pair of bespectacled eyes. The man looked tired and unshaven, dressed in a string vest and jogging pants. Unemployed, probably.

‘No need for that, sir,’ Rebus said, trying to sound professional.

‘Well I’ve done it anyway.’

‘How long has the other flat been empty, do you know?’

‘Ever since I moved in.’

‘Anybody ever visit?’

The man shook his head. ‘The police are on their way,’ he felt the need to clarify.

‘I’m with the police, sir,’ Rebus explained.

‘Is that right?’ Clearly not believing a word of it.

‘You’ve never seen or heard anything from that flat? No comings and goings?’

‘Nothing.’ The man was starting to close the door.

‘I’ll be on my way, then. Thanks for your help. You can always cancel that call-out, if you want...’

But the door had shut with a click, plus a turn of the mortise key to be on the safe side.

Rebus didn’t know how long he had. Ten minutes minimum, forty-five max. But what was the point of lingering? He gave the envelopes another quick look in case anything anomalous stood out. After all, the last case he’d worked, a takeaway menu had been a crucial, missed clue. But there was nothing here for him. He traipsed back down to the ground floor, opening the door and exiting on to the pavement. A punter was coming out of Klondyke Alley, lifting a cigarette packet from their inside pocket.

‘Got a light, bud?’ the man asked.

Rebus patted his jacket, remembering he’d given his box of matches away. ‘Sorry,’ he said. But the smoker was already moving on to the next passer-by.

Rebus stepped into Klondyke Alley and took a look around. He rested on a stool at the machine nearest the door and stuck in a pound. Time was, he liked a bet — horses, even the odd night at the casino. Bandits not so much. But he won straight away, cashed out and decided to try again. The patrol car was pulling to a halt outside. No blues and twos — not taking the call-out too seriously. Rebus stayed where he was, even though he had now lost his pound and his three quid winnings. There was a woman at a machine nearby. He could see her back and half her face. He got up and stood next to her.

‘Hello,’ he said.

‘Get to fuck.’

‘You’re Jude?’

She turned to examine him. ‘Do I know you?’

‘I met you at your dad’s funeral. I’m a friend of Malcolm’s.’

Jude Fox rolled her eyes. ‘Malcolm sent you?’ Rebus said nothing. ‘He never ceases to amaze. You supposed to warn me off? Send me on my merry way back to my living room and the daytime talk shows? He knows I can have a flutter there too, right? I mean — he does know that?’

‘He only wants what’s best for you, Jude,’ Rebus said slowly, trying to piece together what she was telling him.

‘Everybody seems to want what’s best for me — Malcolm, Darryl Christie, everybody .’ She slammed more coins into the machine.

‘How much do you owe?’ Rebus asked as the truth dawned.

She scowled at him. ‘Malky didn’t tell you?’

‘He said it was a lot,’ Rebus bluffed.

‘Everything’s a lot when you’ve not got much, though, eh?’ She started the reels turning, taking a deep breath and exhaling, trying to calm herself. She was concentrating on the machine when she next spoke. ‘Don’t tell me my brother doesn’t have that kind of money salted away. But will he bail out his sister? Will he hell. Because what’s in it for him? That’s the trade-off — there always has to be some thing in it for Malcolm Fox.’ She paused and turned to study Rebus again. ‘I do remember you. You were at the church but not the meal. Malcolm and whassername were talking about you.’

‘Siobhan Clarke?’

‘That’s the one. Malcolm was saying he tried drumming you off the force. And now suddenly the two of you are buddies? I swear to God this world makes no sense to me, none at all...’

‘Does Darryl Christie know you’re related to Malcolm?’

Her mouth formed a thin tight line.

‘I’ll take that as a yes. Does Malcolm know he knows?’

Her hand had paused over the array of flashing buttons. She was staring at the machine but not seeing it. ‘Go tell him I’m here doing my duty — he’s the one who asked. He’s the whole bloody reason...’ Tears were forming in her eyes.

‘You need to sort yourself out, Jude.’

‘Pot, meet kettle,’ she sniffled, looking him up and down again, but Rebus was already heading for the door.

He had driven quarter of a mile before he made the call. Traffic was at a crawl towards a junction. Fox picked up almost immediately.

‘Siobhan told me,’ he began. ‘She’s at the hospital waiting for—’

‘I know about Jude,’ Rebus interrupted. ‘How much does she owe Christie?’

The silence on the line stretched. ‘Twenty-seven and rising.’

‘And what does he want from you?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Don’t shit a shitter, Malcolm. He’s got something he can use against you, no way he’s not going to use it.’

‘He wanted everything HMRC has on Glushenko. Don’t worry — I took it straight to Gartcosh. We’re trying to decide if we can finesse it somehow.’

Rebus thought for a moment. ‘There’s no way you told them your sister’s in hock to him — if you had, they’d have had to pull you off the case.’

‘That’s true,’ Fox eventually conceded.

‘So when you say we’re trying to decide if we can finesse it...’

‘Okay, I mean me. Me on my own — unless you’re about to grass me up.’

‘Once Christie has a hold on you, he’s not going to let go.’

‘I can get the money. I just need to sell the bungalow. Until then, I’m stringing him along.’

‘You sure he’s the one on the end of the string, Malcolm?’ Fox made no answer. ‘How long has he given you?’

‘A couple of days.’

‘As from...?’

‘A couple of days ago.’

‘To give him the gen on the Ukrainian or pay off the twenty-seven K? Good luck with that.’

‘What’s your daily limit?’

‘At a cash machine? Two hundred.’

‘Pity.’

Rebus smiled despite himself. ‘Jesus, Malcolm — for a really careful guy, you do seem to get into a few holes.’

‘I like to think I learned from the best. How did you find out, anyway?’

‘I was at the flat above Klondyke Alley. Nipped in for a look-see and Jude thought you’d sent me.’

‘She was at Klondyke Alley?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why would she do that?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Christie knows about her — he’s hardly likely to let anyone launder cash at the machines while she’s sitting there.’

‘Maybe it’s her way of trying to atone,’ Rebus speculated.

‘Aye, maybe.’ He heard Fox give a lengthy sigh. ‘So was there anything at the flat?’