Ian Rankin - Rather Be the Devil

‘Tell me you didn’t promise him anything?’

‘How could I?’

‘I doubt that would stop you.’ She leaned back as her bowl of gnocchi arrived.

‘He’s going to jail, Siobhan. For the wrong crime, maybe, but that’s where he’s headed and he knows it. It’s just a matter of what class of prison and for how long.’

‘Always supposing Glushenko doesn’t get him first.’

‘Always supposing.’

She listened to the silence. ‘What did you mean about “the wrong crime”?’

‘He’s a murderer, Siobhan. The second I’ve met in as many hours who’s got away with it.’

‘What?’

‘I’ll explain later.’

‘Where are you right now?’

‘I’m just driving.’

‘Driving where, though?’

‘Are you with Malcolm?’

‘Yes.’

‘Indian or Italian?’

‘Italian.’

‘I wish I was there with you.’

‘There’s a seat at the table.’

‘Maybe a drink later at the Ox — after you’ve been to see Brough.’

‘What are we supposed to be saying to him?’

‘Get Malcolm to check that with his friends at HMRC. The laundered cash that’s gone walkabout... the days in that room in West Pilton — Brough will bounce back, but right now he’s fragile and hasn’t a clue what his next move is. Your job is to show him the way.’

‘A map might help.’

‘You don’t need a map, Siobhan.’

‘What time at the Ox?’

‘Maybe ten?’

‘It’s past my bedtime, but I’ll try.’

‘See you then.’

The line went dead. Clarke relayed the gist of the conversation to Fox. Before she’d finished, Fox had taken out his own phone and was tapping in Sheila Graham’s number. While he was talking, Clarke’s phone sounded again. She put it to her ear.

‘Yes, Christine?’

‘I’m halfway home,’ Esson said, ‘but the station just called me. They’d tried your number but it was busy.’

‘What’s up?’

‘It’s your friend Eddie Bates. Apparently he wants to talk.’

‘We’ve not long finished with him.’

‘Well, you must have passed the audition — he wants you back.’

‘I was just about to go see Anthony Brough.’

‘Toss a coin then, maybe? But I’m guessing Malcolm’s treating you to Giuliano’s, and last time I looked, that was a two-minute walk from Gayfield Square...’

Clarke rang off and gestured towards Fox.

‘Hold on a sec,’ Fox duly said into his phone, before holding it away from him.

‘Need to drop in on Bates first,’ Clarke warned him. When Fox looked quizzical, she offered a shrug and pushed away her uneaten food.

‘Alan McFarlane’s coming up from London specially,’ Fox said as they entered the police station and headed for the interview room. Clarke had called ahead to make sure Bates was transferred from his cell.

‘When will he get here?’

‘Tomorrow morning, I’d think. Too late now for a flight.’

‘Let’s hope Brough is still feeling the jitters.’

‘Nothing to stop us paying a visit after this,’ Fox said.

‘You’re awfully keen — still trying to make a good impression?’

‘Who with?’

‘Anyone likely to notice.’ Clarke smiled to let him know she was teasing, then pulled open the door to the interview room. There were two officers waiting with Bates. She nodded to let them know they could leave. Bates was twitchy, rubbing and scratching at his arms.

‘Cold turkey?’ Fox guessed. ‘A good dealer never uses.’

‘It pays to be sociable sometimes,’ Bates said.

Clarke took the chair opposite him, leaving Fox to stand nearby. Next to the seated Bates he looked huge and threatening, which was the whole point.

‘So just to sum up,’ Clarke began, ‘when we last met — oh... seventy-five minutes ago or thereabouts — you were sticking to your story. And we were sticking to the truth of your situation, which is that you are going to be put away for a very long time for false imprisonment and peddling drugs.’ She broke off. ‘Is your lawyer on his way?’

‘I don’t need a lawyer. I want to cut a deal.’

‘Everybody wants something, Eddie,’ Fox stated, folding his arms.

‘Look, all that stuff I told you... I thought I was saying it for the right reasons. I do have a sense of honour, you know.’

‘You’re not a grass?’

‘That’s right! But a time comes when it’s every man for himself, aye?’

‘You’ll get no argument from me.’

Bates looked from Clarke to Fox and then back again as he debated with himself. He blew air from his cheeks and focused on the scarred tabletop.

‘It was Molly,’ he said eventually.

‘Molly Sewell?’

Bates nodded. ‘She arranged it, even told me which room to use and how to kit it out. Like she’d been planning it for a while.’

‘Molly wanted you to keep her boss prisoner? Did she tell you why?’ Clarke was trying not to sound disbelieving.

Bates shook his head. ‘She drugged his whisky. Went into his house and checked he was out for the count. Then we carried him out to her car, took him to my place.’

‘Without anybody seeing?’

‘We looked like we were helping a drunk mate.’

‘How did she get into his house?’ Fox asked.

‘What?’

‘Was the door unlocked?’

‘Must have been, I suppose. Or else she had a key.’

‘How long were you supposed to keep him?’

‘Not much longer, maybe only another day.’

‘And you don’t know why?’

‘She never said. I mean, yeah, I thought there’d be money at the back of it. Makes sense if you think about it — kidnap your own boss, pay the ransom, let him go.’

‘But there never was a demand for money.’

Bates looked at Clarke again. ‘Then I’ve no idea what it was about — you’ll have to ask her. Far as I was concerned, I was doing a favour.’

‘You realise this sounds like you’re piling one porky on top of another?’ Clarke said. ‘We dismiss a story, you come up with a more outlandish one?’

Bates just shrugged. ‘It’s the God’s honest truth — and I expect you to remember that.’

‘Oh, we’ll remember it — you aided and abetted a kidnapper and held the victim to non-existent ransom.’ Clarke turned to Fox. ‘What do you think?’

‘Probably much the same as you. You’ve got Sewell’s home address and phone number — let’s ask her.’

Clarke nodded, her eyes on Eddie Bates. ‘That’ll give you time to conjure up another storyline — maybe try aliens next, eh?’

She exited the room, followed by Fox, and indicated to the waiting officers that Bates could be taken back to his cell. As he was led away, both detectives watched. Then Clarke took the pad from her pocket, the one with Molly Sewell’s details. She tried her home number first. The receiver was picked up by someone with an American accent.

‘Is Molly there?’ Clarke asked.

‘Think you’ve got the wrong number.’

Clarke held up the pad, reeling the number off.

‘Okay, that’s the right number, but there’s no one here called Molly, unless one of my flatmates got lucky last night...’

Clarke apologised and rang off, then tried the mobile. An automated voice answered immediately.

‘ The number you have dialled has not been recognised. ’

She tried again, same result. Fox was nodding.

‘Let’s go,’ he said.

It took them only ten minutes to drive to the address. Duncan Street sat between Ratcliffe Terrace and Minto Street. One-way traffic, meaning Clarke had to make three right turns before beginning the slow crawl along it, looking for number 28. One side of the street comprised a terrace of Georgian houses with imposing porticoes. The other side included a dental practice and an MOT garage.