Ian Rankin - Rather Be the Devil

‘Brough and Glushenko were drinking tea and playing cards.’

Fox gave a snort. ‘Siobhan says you were going to talk to Cafferty.’

‘Hasn’t happened yet.’

‘Losing your powers of persuasion?’

‘Maybe he just needed a rest after last night’s exertions.’

‘You don’t think Arnott will speak?’

‘Not a chance.’

‘What do you think he told Cafferty?’

‘Judging by the fact that he’s still alive, I’d lay odds he told him everything .’

‘Which would amount to what, exactly?’

‘Chatham got the job from Arnott. Got twitchy when he realised who it was he’d thumped. Put Craw in the frame as insurance...’

‘Arnott has to know who the original client was. And now Cafferty knows too. Which rules out Cafferty but nobody else.’ Fox paused. ‘Joe Stark?’

‘It had crossed my mind. But Joe has his own guys, why not use them?’

‘Because Darryl would know from the get-go who’d sent them,’ Fox speculated.

‘Maybe...’

‘I’m not convincing you, am I?’

‘Your persuasive powers seem to be matching my own today. Look, if Christie calls you or wants to meet...’

‘He’ll probably be taping it for future use. I’m not a complete thicko, John.’

‘That’s good to hear. We’ll maybe catch up later, aye?’

‘Say hello to Siobhan from me in the meantime.’

‘How did you know?’

‘You’re nothing if not predictable, John.’

‘I prefer “methodical”.’

‘Will you tell her about Jude and Christie?’

‘Not if you don’t want me to.’

‘Then I owe you one.’

The line went dead. Rebus placed the phone on the passenger seat and turned up the music. Three cars ahead of him, the lights were red again.

Siobhan Clarke was in a corridor of the Royal Infirmary, phone held up to her face, when she recognised Rebus making his way towards her.

‘You’re limping,’ she said.

‘Just to correct you, I’m actually walking like John Wayne.’

‘John Wayne had a limp?’

‘Technically it’s called “moseying”.’

‘So you didn’t hurt yourself kicking in a door?’ She waved her phone in front of him. ‘Patrol car dispatched to Great Junction Street. Someone broke into a certain flat of our acquaintance. Neighbour described the intruder as a heavy-built man in his sixties with a local accent.’ She paused. ‘So what did you find?’

‘Bugger all,’ Rebus admitted. ‘What about Kenny Arnott?’

‘He’s in the ward right behind me. They say he’ll be okay, though he may not get back the full use of either hand.’

‘Lucky he’s not a pianist, then.’

‘He’s still sedated and there’s talk of an operation if the surgeons think it would help.’

‘So he’s not been saying anything?’

‘A few words here and there.’

‘Did those words include “accident”?’

‘How did you guess?’

‘So what’s next?’

‘I’m meeting with Alvin James. He needs convincing that the two cases are actually one.’

‘It’s not like we have any hard evidence. Would it help if I was there?’

‘I was just debating that — would you play nice?’

‘I’ll be yours to command, Siobhan.’ Rebus watched as a bed was pushed past by two male orderlies, its occupier hooked to a saline drip. ‘Christ, I hate hospitals,’ he said.

‘Had much experience lately? As a patient, I mean.’ She waited for an answer she knew wouldn’t come, then glanced down at an incoming text. ‘James can see me in half an hour. Better skedaddle.’

‘Is there anyone at Arnott’s bedside?’

‘His young cage-fighting pal is visiting. And Christine Esson’s due to take over from me.’ She peered over his shoulder. ‘Talk of the devil.’

‘Sorry I’m late,’ Esson apologised. ‘Stopped off for a bottle of water and a magazine.’

‘He’s in there,’ Clarke said, gesturing. ‘Bed three. Visitor with him is Donny Applecross. He uses Arnott’s gym. Don’t expect much chat.’

Esson nodded and made her way into the ward. Rebus was looking at Clarke.

‘So am I invited or not?’

‘You really promise not to start winding James up?’

‘Cross my heart.’

Clarke exhaled noisily. ‘Okay then. Let’s go...’

‘Is your head full of fucking mince?’ Rebus asked Alvin James.

He was standing in front of the detective superintendent, Clarke alongside him. James was leaning back in his chair, one foot up on the edge of his desk. His team, Fox included, had been watching and listening. It had taken Clarke a full ten minutes to recount what they knew and what they suspected. At the end of which, after a few seconds’ thought, James had said he wasn’t sure, which was when Rebus had opened his mouth and asked the question.

‘John...’ Clarke cautioned.

‘I mean,’ Rebus ploughed on, ‘if you can’t see the connection, you’re up there with Tommy.’

James’s forehead creased. ‘Tommy?’

‘Deaf, dumb and blind.’

‘I wouldn’t say I’m any of those things,’ James continued calmly, ‘but as a police detective, I work on evidence, and that’s the one thing you’ve not given me.’

‘Then why not rally the troops and detect some?’

‘We’ll certainly interview Mr Arnott when he’s available.’ James looked down at the notes he’d made during Clarke’s presentation. ‘And Cafferty, too, though you don’t sound hopeful that either of them will give us anything. The fact remains that there’s nothing to prove Robert Chatham attacked Darryl Christie, or that this is why he was killed. We can ask Christie if he has an alibi for the night in question. From what you’ve told me, I’m guessing he will, and that it will be iron-clad.’ His eyes moved from Clarke to Rebus and back again. ‘You know yourself, Siobhan, what the Procurator Fiscal will say if I take this to her.’

Clarke was forced to nod in agreement.

‘Okay, it’s thin,’ Fox piped up, ‘but that doesn’t mean it’s not right. John has a point when he says we should dig further.’

‘Not so long ago,’ James said, ‘your friend John here was telling us it all had to do with a murder back in the 1970s. There’s a folder on your desk as proof, Malcolm. I dread to think of the hours you wasted going through it, plus reading the book that woman wrote, plus letting yourself be taken on a wild goose chase to St Andrews and Perthshire.’

‘I’m right this time,’ Rebus bristled. ‘Siobhan knows it, Malcolm knows it.’

‘Some of us haven’t fallen under your spell the way they have,’ James commented. He rubbed one cheek. ‘On the other hand, we’re not exactly making headway in any other direction...’

‘This could be the lease of life the inquiry needs,’ Fox stressed.

James looked at him. ‘Reversing away from the dead end, eh, Malcolm?’

Clarke’s shoulders straightened — she had won him over.

‘Okay,’ he went on. ‘Let’s arrange a new game plan, starting with the attack at the gym — neighbours, local CCTV, whatever we can get our hands on.’ James had risen from his desk and was making a circuit of the room, pausing for a moment at each desk. ‘Was the hammer new? Let’s talk to DIY stores and hardware shops. Where’s the weapon now? Did the assailant dispose of it nearby? Then there are the nails — if we get lucky, he bought everything at the same time. It wasn’t forced entry, so maybe someone saw a stranger loitering in the vicinity. He might have popped into a local shop, or been parked kerbside for long enough that passers-by took note.’ He paused and fixed his eyes on Clarke. ‘Anything I’ve forgotten?’