Ian Rankin - Rather Be the Devil

They had one soon enough. A dentist, checking his Twitter feed at lunchtime, saw a couple of the photos and recognised a man he’d played tennis with until they’d had a falling-out. He called the police and identified Anthony Brough. By this time, the detainee had been given a shower and some clothes. A doctor had been summoned and was of the opinion that the man shivering and babbling in front of him was a drug user of some kind.

‘Probably taken something he shouldn’t.’

An injection was prescribed and the man taken back to his cell and given a sandwich and a cup of tea, which he succeeded in keeping down for almost a minute.

It was Twitter again that led with Brough’s identity, the dentist having posted his thoughts. After all, Brough had lost him a chunk of his savings, and here was revenge of a sort.

All of which led Christine Esson to inform Siobhan Clarke and Clarke to call Malcolm Fox.

‘Where do you want him?’ she asked.

‘How about Gayfield Square?’ Fox asked.

‘Will do.’

Fox then called Drylaw and spoke to a sergeant, who told him Brough had been muttering something about being kidnapped.

‘Where was he first spotted?’ Fox enquired.

‘Social media would know better than me,’ the sergeant replied. So Fox tried Facebook and Twitter and the answer seemed to be Ferry Road Avenue. He called the sergeant back and requested that officers be sent to the street and surrounding area to see if any location could be found.

‘Isn’t it as likely he’s spinning us a line? Gets blitzed and when he comes to his senses he whips out the first excuse he can think of?’

‘That’s possible.’

‘Or else he was dumped here from a car or van?’

‘Please just go take a look.’

There was a loud sigh on the line, and the sergeant rang off without saying any more.

A second doctor had been summoned to Gayfield Square and was waiting when Brough arrived. Fox and Clarke watched him being led into a makeshift examination room. The prognosis eventually came: Anthony Brough needed to be taken to hospital. He was malnourished, and whatever cocktail of drugs he had been fed — intravenously and by mouth — might have side effects. Blood tests were needed. Psychological evaluation might be required at some point.

‘We need to talk to him,’ Fox insisted, but the doctor shook his head.

‘Not yet. Not for a while. I think I’ve found him a bed at the Western General.’

‘Oh good, another hospital,’ Clarke said, eyes on Fox.

They grabbed drinks and chocolate bars from the machine along the corridor, resting their backs against the wall.

‘Glushenko had him but let him go?’ Fox eventually offered.

‘If you were Ukrainian mob royalty, would you be putting your feet up in West Pilton?’

‘Maybe not. But one of his men might. On the other hand, the sergeant I spoke to reckoned it was more likely Brough had been dumped there.’

‘In which case the question is: why? If he was abducted, why bring it to an end?’

‘Maybe they got what they wanted from him.’

‘The missing money, you mean?’ Clarke nodded, allowing the possibility.

‘Or he really has just been on a bender. You ever hear about that Scottish explorer, Mungo Park? Walked into the jungle with dozens of bearers, carrying countless trunks and bags. Staggered out again months later dressed in nothing but his top hat.’

‘That can’t be true.’

‘I remember reading it somewhere.’ Fox checked his watch. ‘What do you want to do?’

‘No point hanging around here.’

‘We could get to the hospital early, beat the rush?’

‘Or?’ Clarke screwed up the chocolate wrapper and tossed it into a bin.

‘Or join the search party in West Pilton, which is practically on the way.’

‘Whose car?’

‘I don’t mind.’

‘Mine then.’

‘Go easy on me, Siobhan. My nerves aren’t what they were.’

‘Just for that, I’m playing Ninja Horse all the way.’

‘Is that a game?’

‘It’s a heavy metal band.’

‘One last thing — when do we tell John?’

Clarke considered this. ‘Maybe not just yet.’

‘Brough’s sister and his assistant?’

‘Ditto.’

‘Any particular reason?’

‘How crowded do you want it around his bedside?’

‘Good point.’

‘Besides which,’ Clarke added, readying to move off, ‘John seems to have a touch of the grim reaper about him today...’

Rebus just happened to have dropped in at Leith police station as Cafferty arrived for his interview accompanied by his solicitor, a skeletal man called Crawfurd Leach, who wore a three-piece pinstripe suit and black shoes polished to within an inch of their lives. He was in his forties and almost completely bald, what hair he had left slicked back from the forehead and ears. He wore John Lennon-style glasses and there were always a few stray tufts of stubble on his cheekbones, no matter how clean-shaven the rest of his face.

Rebus was in the gents’ toilet, washing his hands, when Cafferty pushed open the door and made for a urinal.

‘You got my text, then?’ Rebus asked.

‘What’s on your mind, John?’

‘That was stupid. Stupid and overdramatic.’

‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’

‘I thought you’d outgrown the hands-on stuff. Shows how much I know.’

Rebus was drying his palms on a paper towel as Cafferty joined him at the sink. They studied one another in the mirror.

‘You ever kill someone, John?’

‘Only when there was no alternative.’

‘Isn’t that a bit boring, though?’

‘Did you leave him to die or to live?’

‘You miked up or something?’ Cafferty had leaned in towards the mirror, studying his own face. ‘It’s pretty much done now anyway. You ever played bridge?’

‘No.’

‘Me neither, but I know the rules. There’s a point where the bidding’s finished and all that’s left to do is let the cards fall. There might be a surprise or two, but the hard work’s already been done.’ Cafferty smiled. ‘The shopkeeper, that’s all they have?’

‘I wouldn’t know.’

‘They’re like kids playing snap. You and me are used to proper grown-up games.’

Wondering what was taking his client so long, Leach pushed his head around the door and scowled when he saw Cafferty had company.

‘Don’t fret, Crawfurd,’ Cafferty said. ‘We were just comparing manhoods.’ And with a wink to Rebus, he followed his lawyer to the interview room.

Rebus made for the MIT office, where Briggs and Oldfield were pretending to be busy while actually sulking that they hadn’t been chosen to partner Alvin James.

‘He took Siobhan?’ Rebus commented, surprised.

‘She’s not around.’

‘Fox?’

‘Likewise. It’s Sean in there with him. Wallace is still running the search operation and door-to-door.’

‘I like the new set-up,’ Rebus stated, studying the cafetière and lifting the last Duchy Original from the packet.

‘Was there something you wanted?’ Briggs asked.

‘Just kicking my heels really.’ He beamed a smile towards her.

‘I thought Alvin was going to make sure you didn’t get past the front desk.’

‘Must have slipped his mind. Any updates from the boxing club?’

‘Forensics haven’t found anything worth shouting about,’ Oldfield admitted. ‘Without the weapon, we’re stuffed.’

‘I wouldn’t go that far,’ Rebus reassured him. ‘You’ve got the man who sold Cafferty the hammer. If Cafferty can’t produce said hammer, that’s going to look suspicious. And if he does...’

‘Which he won’t.’

‘Which he won’t,’ Rebus agreed.