Ian Rankin - Rather Be the Devil

‘Can you help me?’ Brough eventually said, his voice just above a whisper.

‘Help you how?’

‘I need to be two things — free, and safe.’

‘Fine goals to aim for,’ Rebus agreed.

‘I have something to trade.’

‘Oh aye? Got a bit of that non-existent cash you want to see go to a deserving ex-cop’s pocket?’

‘Maybe you’re the sort of man who craves closure more than lucre.’

‘First time for everything, I suppose.’

Brough ran his tongue along his lips, moistening them. ‘I know who killed her,’ he said.

‘Killed who?’ Rebus asked, knowing as he did so the name he was about to hear.

‘Maria Turquand,’ Brough said.

They found three seats in the foyer. The place was busy with staff and visitors, most of them on phones, no one paying attention to Clarke, Fox and Molly Sewell. They probably looked like family fretting about a relative in one of the wards. Fox moved his chair to form a sort of circle. Sewell’s eyes were settling anywhere but on the two detectives.

‘We need to ask you something,’ Clarke said quietly. ‘And we need you to start being honest with us.’ She paused. ‘Look at me, Molly.’ The young woman complied. ‘I’m going to ask you again: does the name Eddie Bates mean anything to you?’

‘No.’

‘Lying to us can get you into serious trouble,’ Fox interrupted. ‘You do understand that?’

‘Eddie Bates seems to know you ,’ Clarke added. ‘He tells us he sold you drugs intended for Anthony Brough. Are you saying he’s lying?’

‘He must be.’ Sewell watched as, hand in hand, Francesca Brough and Alison Warbody strode past and exited the building.

‘They make quite a pair,’ Fox commented.

‘Alison’s absolutely heroic. Not everyone would have the patience she does.’

‘Francesca certainly looks like hard work.’

‘It’s not her fault, you know.’ Sewell’s voice had grown colder. ‘Too much tragedy and too many drugs—’

‘Which,’ Clarke interrupted, ‘brings us back to Eddie Bates. Say we were to take you to Gayfield Square police station and put you in a room with him...?’

Sewell gnawed on her bottom lip. Her eyes were darting around again. ‘Maybe I do know him,’ she conceded.

‘And you’re sure you’ve never received any sort of ransom demand? A note of any kind?’

Sewell met Clarke’s gaze. ‘Are you telling me Eddie kidnapped Anthony?’

‘I’m telling you your boss was kept locked away in Eddie Bates’s house. Do you know where that is?’ Sewell shook her head. ‘Would Anthony have known?’

‘The two of them never met.’

‘But Bates knew who the drugs were for?’

Sewell considered her answer, then nodded slowly. ‘Sometimes he came to the office.’

‘How about Anthony’s home address?’

Sewell shook her head again. ‘Usually we met on the street outside the office. Eddie said it was handy because he had another client across the road.’

‘Bruce Collier?’ Fox guessed. Sewell just shrugged.

‘Eddie could have found Anthony’s address,’ she speculated. ‘Nothing is impossible these days.’

‘Just to be clear, then — Anthony never knew the source of the drugs, nor where Bates lived?’

‘You’re thinking he could have run out, got desperate, and turned up there?’ Sewell pondered this. ‘Well, yes, maybe.’

‘Except,’ Fox said, ‘you just told us your boss had no idea who his supplier was.’

‘He might have found Eddie’s number on my desk,’ Sewell suggested.

‘So how did it work? Anthony asked you to find him a dealer and you went and did just that?’

Sewell shrugged. ‘That’s what a good PA does.’

‘What did you do — check Yellow Pages?’

‘I go out clubbing some weekends. I asked a friend, who asked someone else, who gave me a phone number.’

‘Any clubs in particular?’ Clarke asked.

‘Ringo’s.’ She paused to think. Maybe the Devil’s Dram — is it important?’

‘Probably not. So how long have you known Bates?’

‘A couple of years.’

‘Any idea where your boss got his stuff before that?’

‘Someone who ended up going to jail.’

Clarke looked to Fox to see if he had any other questions. He was rubbing his jaw thoughtfully.

‘Has Eddie actually said he was holding Anthony for money?’ Sewell asked.

‘We’re still piecing it together,’ Clarke admitted.

‘Am I in trouble?’

‘For scoring drugs for your boss?’ Clarke considered this. ‘Maybe.’

‘Am I going to go to prison?’

‘I wouldn’t think so, though it would certainly help your cause if you told us anything you think we need to know.’

Sewell shrugged. ‘There’s nothing I can think of. Is it okay if I head back upstairs?’

Clarke took a notepad from her pocket and handed it over. ‘Put down your home address and a couple of contact numbers. We’ll need to talk to you again so we have a proper record of your version of events.’

Sewell bent her head over the pad, resting it on her right knee. Clarke took the pad back when she’d finished and checked she could read the neat handwriting.

‘Can I go now?’

Clarke nodded, watching as Sewell sprang to her feet. Fox got up and moved his chair back to its original position.

‘What now?’ he asked.

‘Maybe another word with Eddie Bates.’ Clarke looked at him. ‘Do you need to let Gartcosh know about Brough?’

‘I suppose I should. Do we want to ask Brough a few questions?’

‘Once the dust has settled.’

‘I’ve just realised, we left John alone with the patient. I wonder if that was wise.’

‘Why not ask him?’ Clarke nodded towards the figure striding across the foyer. She waved, and Rebus noticed her. He offered a curt nod and signalled with his hand that there’d be a phone call later. Then he was out of the automatic doors and gone.

‘What was all that about?’ Fox asked.

‘I think it means trouble for someone,’ Clarke answered. ‘Been a while since I saw him with that look in his eyes...’

When no one answered, Rebus rang the bell again. The sun was setting and birdsong filled the air. Not that he could see any birds — they were just there , present but largely invisible. He reached for the large metal knocker and tried that.

‘Yes, yes, yes,’ a voice announced from behind the door. ‘It takes a while, you know, with this hip of mine.’ As the door swung open, John Turquand took a second to recognise the man in front of him.

‘You were here the other day,’ he said.

‘That’s right. Mind if I come in?’

‘It’s really not convenient.’

‘Now isn’t that a fucking shame?’ Rebus walked past Turquand into the hall, heading for the library. He poured himself a small whisky and had downed it by the time Turquand arrived. ‘Long drive from Edinburgh,’ he explained.

‘You seem to be agitated,’ Turquand stated. He was dressed in the same clothes as on Rebus’s previous visit, and had failed to shave between times.

‘Sit down,’ Rebus ordered, doing the same himself.

The bridge table was still waiting for a game to be played. Rebus snatched up the cards and shuffled them, watching Turquand’s performance as he edged towards the chair opposite and settled himself.

‘Peter Attwood was a friend of yours — a good friend. Must have infuriated you when he started sleeping with Maria.’

‘Well, yes, when I found out.’

‘And that happened some time before she died, didn’t it? Contrary to the story you told.’

‘Are you about to accuse me of something? Should I have a lawyer present?’