Ian Rankin - Rather Be the Devil

‘It was Sir Magnus’s idea,’ Rebus went on. ‘He was worried that Maria’s various flings were affecting your work. He needed you to be at your sharpest for the Royal Bank takeover. He told you to have it out with her. And you did try — you followed her, knew which room she stayed in at the Caley. You even tried phoning the room, but chickened out. Sir Magnus was adamant, though — something had to be done, and if you didn’t speak to her, he would. So you steeled yourself and went to the hotel, stood outside her room and knocked. When she opened the door, she was expecting Peter Attwood. She didn’t know he was breaking it off.’

‘Stop it, please.’ Turquand’s top lip was trembling.

‘The look on her face — radiant, ready to embrace her lover — it was a look she never gave you, and it sent you into a rage. You shoved her inside and put your hands around her neck.’

‘No...’

‘You throttled the life out of her.’

Turquand’s head was in his hands, elbows on the table. Rebus kept shuffling the pack as he spoke.

‘A crime of passion, they’d probably have called it — except that the passion was hers. And when it was done, you returned to your boss and confessed everything. He told you it would be all right, calmed you down, said he was ready to give you an alibi. You’d been in a meeting with him all afternoon. You became a suspect, of course, but so did a lot of other people. And eventually even the police lost interest. You were safe to make your millions and spend them.’

‘How do you know this? Who told you?’

Rebus placed the cards on the table. ‘On his deathbed, Sir Magnus confided in his grandchildren. He wanted them to know something.’

Turquand looked up from between his fingers. ‘What?’

‘That a certain kind of person can get away with anything — up to and including murder. He was moulding them in his own image, or thought he was. He wanted them tough, ruthless, venal — all the qualities to make a success of business and maybe even life itself.’

‘That’s horrible,’ Turquand said.

‘Your employer was a horrible man. It certainly rubbed off on Anthony. He’s always had this hold over you. It’s why you gave his investment company a glowing endorsement. It’s why he was able to make you plough in so much of your own money.’ Rebus paused. ‘And it’s why you’re powerless now that he’s lost all that cash. I look around me here and do you know what I see? A prison. A nice enough place to be incarcerated, but that’s where you’ve been ever since Maria died. It’s why you never remarried. You’re serving a life sentence, Mr Turquand, with the Brough family standing guard.’

Turquand lowered his arms and leaned back in the wooden chair, which creaked in protest.

‘There must be a reason why he told you.’

‘Anthony’s in hospital, recovering from an abduction. He’s got no proof you were behind it, seeking long-deferred revenge, but he knows that financially you’re an empty shell. Maybe you think you have nothing to lose by torturing him.’

‘Abducted? This is the first I’ve heard of it, believe me!’

‘I know it is,’ Rebus said quietly, rising to his feet.

‘So... what happens now?’

‘Well, you could walk into any police station and confess. You might even get a book deal out of it, courtesy of Maxine Dromgoole. You’d be famous, which is better than nothing, I suppose.’

‘And if I choose not to do that?’ Turquand was pressing his fingers against the green baize of the table.

‘If you were going to spill the beans, Mr Turquand, you’d have done it years back, just to be rid of Anthony’s attentions. Pointless now really, isn’t it, with the coffers more or less empty? The Broughs have already done their damage, one way and another.’

‘You’re not going to arrest me?’

‘I’m not a policeman. And after all, it would be your word against Anthony’s. Plus, deathbed confessions seldom hold much weight in court.’

‘Yes,’ Turquand agreed. ‘Sir Magnus could have made up the whole story, couldn’t he? One last little game with his grandchildren.’ He was trying to get to his feet, looking to Rebus for help that wasn’t about to be offered. The two men stood face to face.

‘But we know the truth, you and me,’ Rebus said.

‘We do.’ Turquand paused. ‘Is Anthony going to be all right after his ordeal?’

‘Already on his way to a full recovery.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Turquand said, shuffling along behind as Rebus headed for the hall. ‘I did love her, you know, in my way. But that was never enough for Maria.’

‘Is this where you tell me she was asking for it? Don’t waste your breath.’

‘I was just trying to...’ The sentence died away, unfinished.

Rebus paused on the doorstep, watching the door close slowly. He sniffed the chill air. Mulched leaves and dewy grass. Some of the birds were still singing, but fewer than before. Fox had been right, he mused — the whisky in the decanter had been cheap. Taking a couple of steps back, he unzipped his trousers and began to urinate. After ten seconds, the door opened a couple of inches. Turquand must have been waiting for the sound of the Saab leaving. He looked horrified as the spray bounced off the doorstep, spattering the door.

‘Long drive back to Edinburgh,’ Rebus explained, zipping himself back up.

Clarke and Fox had gone for an early dinner at Giuliano’s on Union Place. Across the road, the doors of the Playhouse Theatre had opened. A musical was playing, the keenest audience members readying to have their tickets checked. Others were enjoying a pre-theatre pizza at the tables around the two detectives, including one exuberant group of middle-aged women, each with a pink boa draped around her shoulders. More bottles of red were being ordered as Clarke and Fox waited for their food.

‘What did Gartcosh say?’ Clarke asked.

‘Like us, they’re keen to know two things — who ordered the abduction, and what happens now Brough is back on the street.’

‘They don’t think Bates could have acted alone?’

‘I persuaded them that was unlikely.’

‘Do they really know about the money Jude owes?’

‘Would I still be working the case if they did?’

Clarke sipped her tonic water. ‘Which raises another question — should you be working the case? Conflict of interest and all that?’

‘Have you seen me do anything that would throw a spanner in the works?’

Clarke shrugged. ‘Procurator Fiscal might think differently.’

‘Procurator Fiscal doesn’t view the world through our eyes.’

‘You sound like a certain retired cop we know.’ Clarke looked around, impatient for her food.

‘I was sent here because of the attack on Darryl Christie,’ Fox went on. ‘Gartcosh wanted to see if it connected to his dealings with Anthony Brough — Brough was always the main target. But then with the death of Robert Chatham, the focus had to switch. Now it turns out the two were connected all along.’

‘But Brough remains tantalisingly out of reach?’ Clarke speculated. She was nodding to herself as her phone rang. ‘It’s that ex-cop we were talking about,’ she told Fox, picking up and answering. Rebus sounded as if he were driving.

‘Have you been to see Brough again?’ he asked, not in the mood for small talk.

‘Not yet. We had another go at Bates and left him in his cell to stew.’

‘You should go to the hospital.’

‘Why?’

‘Because he’s scared. I think he might be ready to talk.’

‘About the SLPs?’ Clarke’s eyes met Fox’s.

‘About everything, as long as we promise to save his neck.’