Ian Rankin - Rather Be the Devil

Rebus turned his head towards Christie. ‘I know you ordered that beating you took. Even made sure Chatham was told the cameras outside were dummies. The slashed car tyres and the bin — those were your doing too. You thought maybe it would buy you some time — Mr Glushenko here might not interfere if he thought someone like Brough was already out to get you. Plus you’d be assured a lot of police attention, which likely would keep him at bay. But when Chatham found out who the victim had been and started blabbing to the likes of Craw Shand... you got on to the person who arranged the beating and told him Chatham had to be got rid of.’

Christie shook his head slowly. ‘Kenny Arnott was only supposed to give Chatham a fright so he’d keep his mouth shut in future.’

‘What went wrong?’

‘They did too good a job. Chatham tried getting away, went into the water. They’d poured whisky into him because that was the way it would have gone down if he’d really been for the chop.’

‘I’m guessing none of Arnott’s guys could swim?’

‘What we in the trade call a total fuck-up.’

‘The condemned man’s confession?’ Glushenko seemed to approve. ‘So now you can die cleansed of sin, yes?’

‘Do you want me standing or kneeling?’ Christie asked.

‘This man has a certain dignity,’ Glushenko said to Rebus.

‘He also never had your money,’ Rebus reminded him.

‘But he was partner of man who did! And now you tell me Brough is in the city, he will be my next appointment...’

Christie had risen to his feet. He clasped his hands behind his back, looking suddenly calmer and more collected than any man Rebus had ever known.

‘Ten million from almost a billion,’ Christie said. ‘It really makes that much of a difference?’

‘If people learn that I can be cheated and do nothing? Yes, that makes a difference.’

Christie had angled his head towards the still-seated Rebus. ‘I don’t suppose he’s going to want any witnesses, either,’ he cautioned, sinking to one knee.

‘I was thinking the same thing, Darryl.’

Rebus watched as Glushenko slipped the revolver into the pocket of his leather coat so he could grip the sword with both hands. He was raising it in an arc as Darryl’s right hand whipped round from behind his back. The pistol must have been tucked in his waistband. He aimed it at Glushenko’s face and pulled the trigger.

The explosion filled the room. A spray of warm liquid hit Rebus. Behind the billowing smoke, there was more blood on the wall above the mantelpiece. Rebus tried not to look at the damage to the Ukrainian as the man’s knees buckled and he fell in a heap to the floor, the sword clattering next to him. Christie was back on his feet, the gun pointed at the prone figure. He stood like that as the smoke cleared. Rebus stayed where he was, attention focused on the pistol, unwilling to draw attention to himself until Christie had processed everything. The words that eventually escaped Christie’s lips weren’t the ones Rebus had expected.

‘Look at the mess — Mum’s going to kill me.’ He turned towards Rebus and tried out a thin, sickly smile, his face and clothes speckled with gore. ‘Bit of a stretch to make it look like suicide?’

‘Just a bit,’ Rebus conceded. ‘Explains why you stayed put, though — you really did have insurance.’

‘This?’ Christie held up the pistol. ‘I’ve got Cafferty to thank — he suggested getting tooled up.’

‘Did he now?’

Christie’s eyes narrowed. ‘You think he meant for something like this to happen?’

‘He must have known it was a possibility.’

‘Glushenko kills me or I kill him — either way Cafferty wins.’ Christie considered this. ‘The sly old bastard,’ he muttered.

‘Any chance of you putting that down, now you’re done with it?’ Rebus nodded towards the pistol. Christie placed it on the mantelpiece and picked up Rebus’s wallet, taking it over to him.

‘Might want to give it a wipe, DI Fox.’

‘And change my shirt,’ Rebus added, studying himself. ‘Why didn’t you shoot him straight off?’

‘He had a gun pointed at me. I knew my best chance was when he was focused on the sword, me kneeling, ready to meet my maker.’ Christie paused. ‘So what happens now?’

‘You call it in.’

‘Me?’

Rebus gestured towards the remains of his phone. ‘Mine’s out of action.’

‘Self-defence, though, eh?’

‘I can think of lawyers who’d have a good crack at that,’ Rebus agreed.

‘And you’ll stand in the witness box and help me?’

‘I’ll say what I saw.’

Christie took a moment to ponder this. ‘Three to five? Five to seven?’

‘Maybe eight to ten,’ Rebus said. ‘Judges tend to frown when shooters are involved.’

‘So out again in five years?’

Rebus nodded slowly as Christie settled back into the armchair. ‘I’ll miss the house,’ he said. ‘And Mum, of course.’

‘She’ll visit. Cal and Joseph, too.’

‘Of course they will,’ Christie said softly. ‘Maybe I’ll buy Cafferty’s old place after all, move them in there. They won’t want to live here...’ He paused again. ‘I did fuck up, though, didn’t I? Walked straight into Cafferty’s trap...’

‘Traps most often look like something you want or need,’ Rebus confirmed.

Christie was staring at the mantelpiece. ‘Maybe I could pay a little visit before they come for me.’

‘I don’t think that would be wise, Darryl. Two murders looks a lot less like self-defence.’

Christie nodded his eventual agreement. There was a phone sitting in its charging cradle on a small table by the window. Rebus walked over to it, lifted it up and held it out.

‘You do it,’ Christie told him, sounding suddenly exhausted.

Rebus punched in the number and waited. He walked back to the window and pulled open the curtains, wondering if the gunfire would have brought out any of the neighbours — maybe they had already called it in. Hearing movement behind him, he turned in time to see Christie stalking from the room.

‘Darryl!’ he called out. Glancing towards the mantelpiece, he saw the pistol was gone. The operator had come on the line to ask him which emergency service he required.

‘No time,’ he said, dropping the phone. He was halfway out of the room when he remembered something. Diving back in, he removed the revolver from Glushenko’s pocket, and reached the back door as the Range Rover was reversing out at speed, scraping one of the gateposts on its way.

Rebus ran to his car and got in, placing the gun on the passenger seat, butt towards him, muzzle facing the door. He was intending to phone while he drove, until he remembered he had no phone. The first pub he passed, he hit the brakes, squealing to a stop. The smokers gathered on the pavement looked bemused as he demanded a phone. A woman handed hers over.

‘Where’s the fire?’ she said.

Rebus knew Cafferty’s number by heart. An automated voice told him to leave a message after the tone. ‘Get out now!’ he yelled. ‘Christie’s on his way to blow your brains out!’

Next call: Siobhan.

‘I’ve got news—’ she began.

‘Christie’s just killed Glushenko,’ Rebus interrupted. ‘Now he’s on his way to do the same to Cafferty!’ He paused to let this sink in. ‘Can your news wait?’

‘Yes,’ Clarke said.

Rebus tossed the phone back to the woman. ‘Does that count as a fire?’ he asked her, not waiting for her reply.

He ran every red light, stopping only when he encountered the immovable obstacle of a tram as it progressed at the usual stately pace along Princes Street. He took the opportunity to examine the revolver. It looked practically antique, but the bullets sitting snugly in their chambers were shiny and new. He snapped it shut and measured its weight in his hand. Slow and cumbersome — no match for Christie’s pistol.