Ian Rankin - Rather Be the Devil

‘My brother is the devil, did you know that?’

She had pulled her sleeves partway up her arms. Rebus could see old scar tissue.

Alison Warbody approached, tugging the sleeves back down again.

‘No misbehaving,’ she cooed. ‘Remember what I said.’

Francesca allowed herself to be led back to the bedside, where Molly Sewell was standing. Francesca pointed Rebus out to her brother, who was sitting up, three pillows supporting his head.

‘He’s a policeman,’ she intoned. ‘ Very interested in Maria Turquand.’

‘Can’t you give her a Valium or something?’ Anthony Brough was looking at Warbody as he spoke.

‘Oh yes,’ she responded. ‘Drugs are just what she needs.’

Clarke and Fox were bedside by now and introduced themselves.

‘Wait a second,’ Warbody said, pointing at Rebus. ‘He said he was Fox.’

Clarke gave Rebus a sour look. ‘His name’s John Rebus,’ she informed Warbody. Then, to Brough: ‘You look a lot better, sir.’

‘Still got a head full of cotton wool,’ Brough replied. ‘Albeit cotton wool armed with a pneumatic drill.’ He had the deep, sonorous voice of the Scottish gentry. His face had regained a bit of colour, the cheeks beginning to return to their natural ruddiness, and his wavy sandy-coloured hair had been combed, probably by a nurse. Brough ran a hesitant hand through it, as if trying to reshape it.

‘You must have lots of questions,’ he said, addressing the group. ‘I know I do. But right now, everything’s a muddle, so forgive me if I don’t have the answers.’

‘First thing we’re interested in, sir,’ Clarke ventured, ‘is whether you were there of your own volition?’

‘I don’t even know where I was. It was like a bad dream, all of it. Running naked through the streets — that’s what you have nightmares about, isn’t it?’

‘You were in a house in West Pilton, owned by a man by the name of Eddie Bates.’

‘Never heard of him.’

Clarke turned her head away from Brough. ‘How about you, Ms Sewell?’

‘What?’ Molly Sewell looked startled. ‘No idea.’

Francesca had started repeating Bates’s name under her breath, finding a rhythm to it.

‘What has this got to do with Maria Turquand, anyway?’ Brough was asking.

Clarke shook her head. ‘We’re not here about that, Mr Brough.’

But Brough was staring at Rebus as though his interest had been piqued. Then he screwed shut his eyes, gritting his teeth in pain. ‘Wish they’d bring me some more bloody pills.’ He plucked at his regulation-issue pyjama top. ‘I’ve got the sweats, too. This place is like a furnace.’

‘A fiery furnace,’ his sister blurted out, eyes widening. She began to giggle. Brough’s eyes were on Warbody again.

‘Alison,’ he said, ‘it’s not that I don’t appreciate the thought and all, but shouldn’t you take my sister home now?’

‘I don’t like hospitals,’ Francesca explained to anyone who would listen.

‘Nobody does,’ her brother answered.

‘She wanted to see you,’ Warbody said.

Francesca looked puzzled. ‘Did I?’

‘You know you did.’

‘I suppose so.’ Francesca gave a huge shrug of the shoulders.

‘Could we have a word, please?’ Clarke was asking Molly Sewell. ‘In private?’

‘Can’t it wait?’

‘We’ll only be five minutes. Mr Brough will still be here.’

Clarke led the way, with Fox to the rear and a reluctant Sewell in the middle.

‘What’s that about?’ Brough asked Rebus.

‘Do you mind if I sit? I’m not as young as some of you.’ Rebus settled into the only chair.

‘Yes, you’re old,’ Francesca stated. ‘You’re really really old. Are you going to die soon?’

‘Francesca!’ Warbody gripped her by one arm and gave it a shake.

‘Take her for a walk,’ Brough pleaded. ‘The shop or something — maybe outside for a breath of air.’

‘All right,’ Warbody said, clasping Francesca’s hand in her own. ‘We’ll come back in a while, though.’

‘Can’t wait,’ Brough said, blowing a kiss to his sister, who bobbed down as if to dodge it. She was singing as she was escorted from the ward.

‘She’s a lot of work,’ Rebus sympathised. ‘I’m assuming you pay for everything?’

‘Worth every penny.’

‘Funny, I heard your sister pays for her carer out of her own pocket. Sir Magnus left her plenty — good job she didn’t trust you to invest it for her, eh?’

Brough gave Rebus a hard stare. ‘I really can’t tell you anything.’

‘Can’t or won’t?’

‘Can’t.’

‘So what’s the last thing you remember before you woke up in that room?’

‘How many days was I there?’

‘A bit more than a week, probably.’

Brough rested his head on the pillows, staring towards the ceiling. ‘I was at home. Usual night-time routine.’

‘And what’s that?’

‘Couple of whiskies and a few lines of coke. Or maybe some downers if I’m feeling like a nice long doze.’ Brough thought for a moment. ‘Started to feel a bit woozy; next thing I know I’m shivering on somebody else’s fucking floor.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Why did your colleagues take Molly away?’

‘They want to know if there’s been a ransom demand.’

‘Is that what you think it was? A kidnapping?’

‘What do you think, Mr Brough?’

‘I’ve honestly no idea.’

‘Must have crossed your mind, though...’

‘What?’ Brough turned his head towards Rebus.

‘That it was Glushenko on the other side of the door, readying to slit your throat.’ Rebus waited for Brough to say something. The mouth was working but nothing came. ‘See, we know everything,’ Rebus continued, rising from the chair, leaning over the bed with his knuckles pressing into the mattress. ‘You’re not going to peg out on me, are you? I had that happen all too recently. Another would look bad...’

‘Who’s this Glushenko you mentioned?’

‘The man you stole millions from. The flat above Klondyke Alley? You and your pal Darryl Christie? All those SLPs bouncing money around the globe, well away from the eyes of the tax authorities. Suddenly all this cash from Ukraine arrives. Your investments have been tanking and your clients aren’t happy with you, so you skim some off before sending it on its way. But the deficit gets noticed and Glushenko is furious. He’s coming to pay you and Darryl a visit. Then you do your vanishing act, leaving Darryl in the frame.’ Rebus paused. ‘How am I doing so far?’ Brough remained silent. ‘Oh yes, and your poor investors didn’t get any of that skimmed cash in the end, did they? You kept it all to yourselves, you and Darryl.’

‘That’s not true.’ Brough was shaking his head slowly. ‘I wanted them to get their share, started arranging the necessary transfers. But the money wasn’t there.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘It wasn’t there .’

‘Christie?’ Rebus guessed.

‘Who else?’

‘You know someone attacked him outside his house?’

‘Good. I hope they did him some proper damage.’

‘I’m guessing it wasn’t on your orders, then?’

‘I wish I’d thought of it.’ There were flecks of saliva at the corners of Brough’s mouth.

‘Does Glushenko really exist?’

Brough’s eyes narrowed again. ‘Of course.’

‘You’ve met him? Spoken to him? He’s not just some bogeyman who’s been conjured up to get everybody antsy — Darryl Christie in particular?’

‘He’s real.’

‘Then it’s ironic, isn’t it? All the time you were locked away, you were safe. But now you’ve managed to escape...’ Rebus left the sentence unfinished. He could see that, headache or no headache, Brough’s mind was racing.