Ian Rankin - Rather Be the Devil

Clarke peered down at it and nodded. Fox turned his attention to the brass padlock. It was unlocked, no sign of the key.

‘Think the abductor just got sloppy?’ Clarke mused.

‘Looks that way.’

They moved into the kitchen. An ashtray by the sink was full of spliff remains. Clarke slid out a couple of drawers without finding any bills or other mail. Fox, on the opposite side of the kitchen, had pulled open two adjoining cupboards above the worktop.

‘Hello,’ he said.

Clarke turned and saw bags of white powder; bags of green leaves and buds; bags of pills of varying size and colour; vials and bottles with rubber-sealant caps, filled with clear liquid, obviously intended for injections. Fox studied the writing on one of the bottles.

‘Might need a vet to tell us what this stuff does,’ he advised.

‘I don’t think we’re talking purely personal use here, Malcolm, do you?’

Fox had spotted something lying on the floor, in one dark corner. ‘What does that look like?’ he said.

‘A padlock key,’ Clarke said. ‘Dropped by the kidnapper.’

‘Unable to find it, he can’t risk locking the padlock, so he takes a chance.’ Fox nodded to himself.

The elder of the two uniforms was standing in the doorway. ‘The occupier is Eddie Bates. Never any trouble, but gets a lot of visitors at all hours.’

‘Anyone else live here?’

‘Just him.’

‘Run the name, see if he’s known to us. We also need a description — he might just have nipped out and already be on his way back.’

‘Do we send out search parties?’

Clarke considered for a moment. ‘We lie low,’ she decided. ‘Pull the front door to and see what happens.’ She led Fox and the constable down the hall towards the front door. ‘Uniforms and marked cars, I want them at a safe distance.’ She was already on her phone. ‘Haj,’ she said when the CSM picked up, ‘hold fire on that. I’ll tell you when it’s safe to head over here.’

‘So what’s the plan?’ Fox asked as they walked down the path towards the pavement.

‘You and me in a car, eyes on the front door.’

‘You really think this guy Bates has just “nipped out”? It’s been at least a couple of hours since Brough escaped. That’s a long time to leave an abductee...’

‘Bates maybe thought he’d doped him to the eyeballs. He’d taken a couple of hits for himself, maybe a spliff or two, gets the munchies...’ She saw Fox looking at her. ‘Go on then, what would you do?’

‘I’d be circulating a description of him — bus and train stations. If he did come home and find Brough had done a runner, he’d probably want to be gone from here.’

‘Without taking any of the stuff from the kitchen with him? There’s probably a couple of thousand quid’s worth in those cupboards.’

‘True,’ Fox conceded.

They moved their car to the end of the street. When the uniforms and patrol cars evaporated, so did the spectators. Within a few minutes, the area was quiet. Clarke called Christine Esson and gave her Bates’s name and address.

‘Get me anything you can. Including Facebook, Twitter, Instagram. A recent photo would be perfect.’

‘Will do.’

‘Would a drug dealer really post pictures on the internet?’ Fox asked after the call was finished.

‘Everybody else does.’

‘I don’t.’

‘That’s because you’re a freak, Malcolm.’

‘While the people sharing their privacy with complete strangers are perfectly normal?’

‘Weird, isn’t it?’

Fox shook his head. His phone buzzed and he checked the screen.

Tick tock.

‘Your mysterious admirer again?’ Clarke guessed.

‘It’s Darryl Christie,’ Fox admitted.

‘What’s he after?’

‘He wants me to use the resources of Police Scotland to track down Glushenko.’

‘And why would you do that for him?’

‘Because my sister owes him money.’

‘How come?’

‘Gambling debts.’

‘You’re not going to, though?’

‘I’m stringing him along.’

‘You can’t just pay him off?’

‘It’d mean selling my house. I’m looking into that, too.’

‘Bloody hell, Malcolm. If it helps, I can lend you...’

Fox was shaking his head. ‘I can do this, Siobhan.’

‘Does your boss know?’

‘Of course.’

‘And you’re only telling me this now because...?’

‘It passes the time.’

‘Well, seeing as you’re in a chatty mood — what do you know about John’s health?’

‘Why would he tell me?’

‘I just get the feeling I might be the only one who’s in the dark.’

‘I’m sure he’s fine.’

‘What about you, Malcolm — are you fine?’

‘I wish you’d got that Gartcosh promotion, Siobhan. I was content where I was.’ He paused. ‘And I miss the pair of us hanging out together.’

Clarke was silent for a moment, before reaching over and squeezing his hand. ‘Thanks,’ she said.

‘And you’re sorry about how you reacted when I got the posting?’

She pulled her hand back. ‘Let’s not spoil the moment, eh?’ They looked at one another and smiled.

Fox caught a glimpse of something in his wing mirror. ‘Heads up,’ he warned Clarke. A man was plodding along the pavement, a carrier bag full of shopping hanging from one arm. His steps had the careful precision of someone who was inebriated but trying not to look it.

‘Daytime drinking is a wonderful thing,’ Clarke commented as the man walked past their car without noticing. He had a roll-up in his mouth and was coughing. Thinning fair hair. Faded denims and matching jacket, scuffed brown work boots. He looked as though a sudden gust might blow him over. He paused at the right gate and opened it with one knee.

‘That’s him, then,’ Clarke said. ‘Let’s wait till he’s inside.’

The man was using a key to unlock the door. It took him a couple of goes. He disappeared inside, closing it after him.

‘Okay,’ Clarke said, getting out of the car.

They had just reached the doorstep when the door itself burst open. The man had ditched the carrier bag and looked suddenly sober as well as shocked. Seeing the two figures, he tried shutting the door again, but Fox shouldered it open, sending him flying.

‘I’ve done nothing!’ he spluttered as he started getting back to his feet.

‘We’ve got some lost property of yours, Mr Bates,’ Clarke stated. ‘Need to have a little word with you on the subject...’

The news from the Western General was that Anthony Brough was sleeping. Blood tests had been carried out and were being analysed. By evening, the patient might be awake and able to talk. With this in mind, Clarke and Fox were back at Gayfield Square. Christine Esson handed over a copy of Bates’s criminal record. His history of petty crime went back to schooldays and included four stretches in prison. But his last brush with the law had been almost three years ago, and there was nothing to suggest he had climbed a few rungs of the ladder to the position of quantity dealer. Clarke handed the sheets over to Fox and let him read them while she studied Ronnie Ogilvie. He was behind his desk and busy on his computer, but there was something...

‘You got rid of the moustache,’ she announced.

He stroked his upper lip. ‘Yeah,’ he said, as Esson stifled a smile.

‘In the two hours since I was last here,’ Clarke went on.

‘Took a sudden notion.’

Fox had finished reading. He placed the report on Clarke’s desk. ‘What do we do till the lawyer turns up?’ he asked.

Esson had picked up her ringing phone. She placed her hand across the mouthpiece. ‘Just arrived at the front desk,’ she informed them.