Ian Rankin - Rather Be the Devil

‘Only go up to twenty-four,’ Fox said as they reached the Minto Street junction. Rather than go all around the houses again, Clarke reversed and drew into a parking space. She handed the notepad to Fox.

‘Definitely says twenty-eight,’ he confirmed.

‘She’s sold us a pup.’

Fox nodded. ‘But not the whole pup. The tenement next to the pub is twenty-four, meaning the pub on the corner could be twenty-six. That’s just shy of the address written here.’

‘So?’

‘So if she’d just been making something up off the top off her head, what are the chances of getting it so close?’

‘She knows the street,’ Clarke said, nodding.

‘So maybe someone she knows lives here...’

‘Or she’s in one of these other houses.’ Clarke turned her head to Fox. ‘How does a bit of doorstepping sound to you?’

‘I’m game if you are.’

They started at the Minto Street end, giving Sewell’s name and description. A couple of householders said she sounded familiar but they didn’t know the names of most of their neighbours. The grand building just along from the dental practice had once housed a publishing company but now boasted half a dozen bells for the occupants of its apartments. The first one they tried got them an invitation inside. The man was in his mid-thirties, bespectacled and wearing a green sweater, its sleeves rolled up.

‘Yes, Molly,’ he said, after Clarke ended her routine. ‘She’s in Flat Six.’ He even showed them the way. Clarke tried the door, but there was no answer. There was no letter box — all the mail arrived at the main door and was picked up there. She tried knocking again.

‘When was the last time you saw her?’ Fox asked the neighbour.

‘Not for a few days. I did hear a door close earlier tonight — could have been hers. There was a taxi idling outside.’

‘A taxi?’

‘Well, a vehicle anyway, but you get to know the sound they make.’

Fox nodded his thanks. Clarke’s mouth was moving as she weighed up their options.

‘You’ve been a big help,’ Fox told the man, hinting that he could go. The man gave a little bow of his head and returned to his own flat.

‘She took the money, didn’t she?’ Clarke surmised. ‘And when Brough found out... No, that doesn’t work. Maybe he was starting to get an inkling, though.’

‘So why didn’t she run then ?’

‘She needed somebody to take the blame. Maybe Brough was readying to run.’

‘To get away from Glushenko?’ Fox nodded slowly.

‘When Glushenko hits town, that’s when Bates lets Brough go, so he can stumble right into him. Meantime, Sewell tiptoes away and no one’s any the wiser.’

‘No one who’s alive , that is.’

She studied him. ‘How does that sound to you?’

‘Feasible.’

‘Likely?’

‘It takes strong nerves, hanging around after the money’s done its vanishing trick, Brough trying to work out who’s got it and how they pulled it off.’

‘He’d suspect Christie first,’ Clarke said. ‘That buys her some time. Then there are all the other villains on Brough’s books.’

‘But she’d have been on his list.’

Clarke nodded. ‘But the very fact that she stuck around...’

‘Might put him off the scent.’

They fell silent, running through the theory again, trying to find other possibilities.

‘Another shout-out to airports, ferries and train stations?’ Fox suggested.

‘Where do you reckon she’ll go?’

‘With ten million tucked away in a bank somewhere?’ Fox considered the possibilities. ‘Center Parcs?’ he offered.

Despite herself, Siobhan Clarke gave a snort of laughter.

Christie’s white Range Rover was parked in the driveway, and there was a light on in the hall. Rebus rang the bell and waited, studying the fake cameras and burglar alarm. No answer. He tried again, then walked to the living-room window. It was curtained, but the curtains didn’t quite meet at the top and he could see there were lights on in there, too.

He walked around the side of the house. A security light was tripped, showing him the rear door to the house, to the right of which sat the partially melted bin. He turned the door handle and the door opened inwards.

‘Hello?’ he called.

He stepped inside and called Christie’s name.

Nothing.

He could see a modern kitchen off to his right, with a breakfast bar at its centre. Plates and pans were stacked next to the dishwasher.

‘Darryl? It’s Rebus!’

Into the main downstairs hall. He peered up the staircase and saw that the landing was in darkness. The door to the living room was ajar, so he gave it a push.

‘Join us,’ a guttural voice commanded.

The man was standing in the middle of the room, dressed in a three-quarter-length black leather coat, black denims, and what looked like cowboy boots. His head was shaved, but he sported a goatee beard. It, too, was black. The eyes were pinpricks, the nose hooked. Late twenties or early thirties? Not overly tall, but given added stature by dint of the curved sword held in one hand, revolver in the other.

Rebus looked towards Darryl Christie. He was seated on an armchair in front of Glushenko, hands wrapped around his chest in a hug, both knees twitching.

‘Nice room, Darryl,’ Rebus said, trying to calm his heart rate. ‘Can I assume your mum was responsible for the decor?’

‘Please,’ the Ukrainian said, ‘introduce yourself.’

‘I’m in insurance,’ Rebus said. ‘I’m here to give Mr Christie a quote.’ He turned again towards Christie. ‘Family not around?’ he checked.

‘My guest was good enough to wait until they’d gone to the flicks.’ Christie’s voice was calm despite the body language.

‘Are you a policeman?’ Glushenko enquired.

‘No.’

‘Liar.’ Glushenko showed gleaming teeth as he grinned. ‘Give me your wallet.’

Rebus started to reach into his jacket, the Ukrainian gesturing that he should do so with infinite slowness. Rebus held it out.

‘Put it on the mantelpiece.’

Rebus did so.

‘Now pull a chair over next to the bastard.’

Glushenko watched as Rebus complied. He stood the sword against the fireplace but kept the revolver aimed between the two seated figures as he opened the wallet. A few business cards spilled out.

‘Detective Inspector Malcolm Fox,’ Glushenko intoned. ‘Major Crime Division.’ He glanced at Rebus. ‘Impressive...’

‘So I’m told,’ Rebus acknowledged.

Glushenko nodded. ‘Your phone, too, please.’

Rebus took it out.

‘Slide it across the floor towards me.’

When it arrived, Glushenko stepped on it with the heel of one boot. Rebus heard the screen crack. The man’s hand reached for the sword again.

‘How did you get that past Customs?’ Rebus asked.

‘I bought it in your country. They are sold as ornaments, but I was able to sharpen it.’

‘I think he plans to behead me,’ Christie explained.

‘Exactly so.’

‘Leaving me for my mum and the boys to find.’

Glushenko nodded. ‘Or,’ he said, ‘you could hand me the money you stole.’

‘I don’t have it. I never did have it.’

‘For what it’s worth,’ Rebus added, ‘I think he’s telling the truth. It was stolen from the man who stole it from you.’

‘Brough?’ Glushenko looked like he might spit at mention of the name. ‘The Invisible Man?’

‘Actually, he’s back in the land of the living,’ Rebus said. ‘As of earlier today. He’d been kept doped to the eyeballs by whoever took your money.’

Glushenko stared at Rebus. ‘Who are you? How is it that you know so much?’