Ian Rankin - Rather Be the Devil

‘You ready?’ Clarke asked Fox.

‘Good and,’ he replied, buttoning his suit jacket.

The solicitor looked overworked, the top button of his shirt undone behind the pale blue tie. His black-rimmed glasses kept sliding down his nose. Clarke nodded a greeting and loaded the recording machine with two tapes, while Fox made sure the video was working.

‘My client—’

Clarke interrupted him, stating her name for the record and adding that of Detective Inspector Malcolm Fox. She paused and waited.

‘I’m Alan Tranter, representing Mr Edward Bates,’ the solicitor said, sifting what paperwork he had.

‘And you are?’ Clarke asked Bates, her eyes drilling into him.

‘Eddie Bates,’ he eventually muttered. ‘No one ever calls me Edward.’

‘I’ll make sure the turnkeys have a note of that,’ Clarke said. ‘That’s what we call them — the people who’ll be keeping an eye on you while you’re in the cells here.’

‘What’s the charge?’

‘Abduction. Not sure we can call it kidnapping yet, since nobody seems to have received a ransom note. But abduction will do. It means holding somebody against their will, and it’s quite serious. But when you add it to conspiracy to supply drugs...’

‘I don’t know anything about drugs.’

‘They’ve been taken from your kitchen to our lab at Howden Hall. They’ll be weighed, counted, identified. The packaging they came in will be fingerprinted — just like you, Mr Bates.’

‘I’m telling you, someone must have put them there.’

‘Right under your nose? Without you being any the wiser? Maybe they stuck Anthony Brough in that room, too, without you noticing the shiny padlock or the smell of shit and puke? Are you not the inquisitive sort, Mr Bates?’

‘Is this tone really necessary, DI Clarke?’ Tranter said.

‘Your client is in a spot of bother, Mr Tranter. You’d do well to make sure that sinks in. We’ll find his prints on the pail, the water bottle, the metal edges of the camp bed...’

‘Not forgetting the padlock itself,’ Fox added.

‘You don’t have those prints yet, though, do you?’ the solicitor queried.

‘Crime-scene team are there as we speak.’ Clarke turned her attention back to Bates. ‘I should warn you, they’re very good.’

Tranter checked his notes again. ‘Has this Anthony Brough said anything? Is it possible his stay in the house was voluntary? I learn from my client that Mr Brough is hardly of impeccable quality...’ He broke off, meeting Clarke’s stare.

‘Meaning what?’ she asked.

‘My client has, in the past, supplied Mr Brough with a small quantity of certain stimulants.’

‘How small?’

‘Were this to go to trial, an answer might be forthcoming. Mr Brough works in the banking and investment sector, yes? Are you sure charging Mr Bates is in the gentleman’s best interests? I mean, do you think he’ll see it that way?’

‘Doesn’t matter if he does or he doesn’t — we’ll be the ones bringing the prosecution.’

The room was quiet for a few moments, except for Bates’s chesty breathing.

Fox cleared his throat, unbuttoning his suit jacket. ‘If you really did sell stuff to Brough,’ he asked Bates, ‘he’ll be able to identify you if we show him a photo? He’ll know your name?’

Bates looked down towards where his hands were gripping the edge of the table.

‘I didn’t sell to him directly,’ he muttered.

‘Who then?’

‘Look,’ the lawyer interrupted, ‘I’m sure this can be fully explored when my client—’

‘His secretary,’ Eddie Bates blurted out.

Fox and Clarke shared a look. ‘Give me a name,’ Fox said, ‘and I might even start to believe you.’

‘Sewell,’ Bates said confidently. ‘Molly Sewell.’

‘Is there no front desk you can’t get past?’ Clarke said, watching Rebus stalk towards her along the corridor. She was drinking lukewarm tea and had managed half a BLT sandwich. The sliced bread was damply unappetising, and the tomato had a slight fizziness to it.

‘I’m like the cast of The Great Escape in reverse,’ Rebus said. ‘What’s this I hear about Anthony Brough?’ Clarke just stared at him. ‘I have my sources, Siobhan.’

‘Sources not too far from here, I imagine,’ Clarke retorted, casting a glance through the doorway towards the desk where Christine Esson sat, eyes averted. Hearing voices, Fox emerged from the office. He too had a sandwich he was failing to make much progress with.

‘Sorry to interrupt your lunchtime,’ Rebus said. ‘Or is it an early dinner?’ He pretended to check his watch.

‘Brough was doped to the eyeballs and being kept under lock and key,’ Clarke began. ‘His jailer is a dealer called Eddie Bates — know him?’

‘Name sounds familiar.’ Rebus furrowed his brow.

‘His story is that Brough was just visiting. Wouldn’t exactly be my destination of choice if I had plenty of cash and wanted to go on a bender, but that’s what he’s telling us.’

‘Who — Brough or Bates?’

‘Bates.’ Clarke tossed the remains of her sandwich into a bin and brushed crumbs from her hands. ‘Brough’s still groggy and being pumped full of vitamins. We’re going to talk to him soon.’

‘Has Francesca been notified?’

Clarke nodded. ‘And Molly Sewell.’

‘So what is it you’re not telling me?’

‘According to Bates, Sewell was the go-between. She ordered the goods for her boss and handed over the cash.’

‘Okay.’

‘It doesn’t stack up, though. Brough wasn’t in anything resembling a party house. He was locked away, naked, in a room with its window boarded up, a bucket to piss and crap in. He’d been starved half to death and injected with God knows what.’

‘People get their jollies in different ways,’ Rebus commented, while Clarke shook her head. ‘So you’re thinking Bates saw a way to make more money by ransoming the boss? Have we seen any sign of a demand?’

‘ We haven’t — how about you?’

‘It’s not the kind of thing I’d keep to myself.’

‘John, it’s exactly the kind of thing you’d keep to yourself.’

‘I’m telling the truth.’ Rebus paused. ‘This guy Bates, does he seem the kidnapping type?’

‘I wasn’t aware there was a specific type,’ Clarke bristled.

‘I wouldn’t say he was,’ Fox interceded. ‘He’s not smart enough, for one thing. A kidnap requires a calculating brain.’

‘Then why did he snatch Brough?’ Clarke demanded, folding her arms.

‘Maybe Brough will tell us,’ Rebus suggested. ‘When were you thinking of visiting?’

‘Very soon. I take it you’re angling for an invite?’

‘I wouldn’t be so presumptuous. But if you’re offering...’

Fox’s phone pinged to let him know he had a text.

‘Christie?’ Rebus and Clarke said in unison, staring at one another afterwards.

‘Just for a change, no,’ Fox answered. ‘Alvin James is wondering why I’m not at my desk.’

‘Tell him you’re on Gartcosh business,’ Rebus advised.

‘That’s exactly what I’m doing,’ Fox said as he tapped his screen.

‘Just one thing,’ Rebus added. ‘Whichever car we take, I can’t sit in the back. I get queasy.’

‘Always supposing we’re letting you come,’ Clarke retorted.

‘Better an invited guest than a gatecrasher, don’t you think?’

‘Are you forgetting your recent record in hospital wards?’

‘This time will be different, Siobhan, trust me...’

There was quite a gathering around Anthony Brough’s bed. When Francesca spotted Rebus entering the ward, she bounded up to him like an excited child, squeezing his hand and standing on tiptoe, her mouth to his ear.