Ian Rankin - Rather Be the Devil

The road ahead had cleared. Rebus hit the accelerator and his horn and sped up the Mound.

George IV Bridge... around the one-way and into Lauriston Place... then left into the Quartermile development. The white Range Rover was parked on a double yellow line, lights on, driver’s door gaping, engine idling. Rebus pulled up alongside and got out. The metal gate to Cafferty’s block was open, and the main door had been hit by gunshots, the wood next to the lock splintered. Rebus toed it open and walked in. A uniformed guard stood in the hall, clutching a two-way radio. He froze at the sight of the revolver.

‘I’m with the police,’ Rebus tried to reassure him. ‘Have you called it in?’

The guard nodded, eyes on Rebus’s bloodstained shirt.

‘I really am with the police. The guy upstairs is armed, too — best if you stay here.’

According to the illuminated panel, the lift had gone to the top floor. Rebus took the stairs rather than wait. He had to haul himself up the final few, heart thumping, breath coming in gasps. He choked back a cough and pulled open the door, entering the communal hallway. At the far end, the pistol had been used in place of a key again. Rebus breathed in the now familiar smell of cordite, pushed open the door and stepped inside.

‘He’s not here!’ Christie spat. He was circuiting the large open-plan living space, the pistol hanging by his side. Rebus held the revolver behind him as he made his approach.

‘Lights are on, but no one’s home,’ Christie continued to complain. There was a mug of tea on the kitchen worktop. Rebus touched it: still warm.

‘You told him, didn’t you?’ Christie raged.

‘My phone’s in smithereens, remember?’

‘You fucking did, though — I can see it in your eyes!’ Christie pointed the pistol at Rebus’s head.

‘It’s not me you want, Darryl,’ Rebus reminded him. ‘I’m not the one who got you into this mess, remember?’

‘Maybe I should go see Brough, then — save Big Ger for later.’

‘That’s certainly a plan.’ Rebus could hear a siren approaching. ‘Best be quick, though — sounds like someone heard the shots.’

The pistol was still pointed at Rebus’s head. The fiery look in Christie’s eyes began to die back a little.

‘You’re a lucky man, Rebus — did anyone ever tell you that?’

‘Brough’s a different proposition, remember — cold-blooded murder isn’t as easy to defend in court.’

‘Fucker deserves to die.’

‘We seldom get what we really deserve, Darryl.’

‘Maybe I can change that for once — Brough first, then Cafferty.’ Christie was backing his way down the hall towards the door. He didn’t see one of the doors off to the right open slowly on its silent hinges. A hammer swung down, catching him on the top of his skull. As he flinched, he let off a shot. Rebus could feel it as it passed by him before smashing through the glass door to the balcony. Christie’s whole body skewed, coming to rest against the wall before crumpling. Rebus walked towards him.

‘Hiding in the toilet?’

‘Didn’t have time to do much else,’ Cafferty said.

‘The second hammer?’

Cafferty held it up for inspection, nodding.

‘I meant to ask why you bought two.’

‘They were on special offer,’ Cafferty said. ‘I’m not one to turn down a bargain.’ He was studying the unconscious figure. ‘You sure Glushenko’s dead?’

‘Shot in the face at more or less point-blank range.’ Rebus gestured towards his spattered shirt.

‘Did that belong to your grandad?’ Cafferty meant the revolver.

‘It was the Ukrainian’s. He had a nice sharp sword, too. Lucky you offered Darryl that bit of advice.’

The two men stared at one another.

‘I’ve always been generous that way,’ Cafferty said eventually.

Rebus’s flat.

Midnight had come and gone. Having given his statement at Gayfield Square, been swabbed for DNA and fingerprinted, and had his clothes bagged, Rebus was lingering in the shower while Clarke and Fox sat at the table in the living room, shovelling down food rescued from a chip shop just before it closed. Clarke’s phone sat next to her, just in case there was news of Molly Sewell. Rebus finally entered, freshly dressed and rubbing a towel through his hair. He plucked a chip from Fox’s carton.

‘Thought you said you weren’t hungry.’

‘I’m not,’ Rebus told him, drawing out a chair and sitting down. The Turquand paperwork had been pushed to one side of the table. He stared at it.

‘Cafferty has a lot to answer for,’ Clarke said, ‘putting that idea in Christie’s head.’

‘On the other hand, if he hadn’t, it would be Darryl on Deb’s slab in the morning rather than Comrade Glushenko.’

‘From what you say, facial ID is probably out.’

‘It’ll be DNA or distinguishing features,’ Rebus agreed. ‘Any news of Ms Sewell?’

‘Nothing,’ Clarke said, peering at her screen.

Rebus was thoughtful for a moment. ‘Cafferty let me in on a secret, while we were waiting for the blues and twos.’

‘What?’

‘Eddie Bates was dealing with Cafferty’s blessing — his blessing and his backing.’ Rebus saw that he had two very willing listeners. ‘Bates knew that Molly Sewell worked for someone with money. He told Cafferty, thinking Cafferty could maybe do something with it. So Cafferty met with Molly.’

‘When?’

‘A few months back. His idea was that she’d be good for information.’

‘He already knew Brough and Christie were partners?’

Rebus nodded. ‘But Molly explained the why and the how. Then, when she’d got to know Cafferty a bit better, she told him her plan. She’d met Francesca many a time and had got friendly with Alison Warbody. Alison told her how much she despised Brough. It was his fault Francesca was the way she was. It gnawed away at Molly until she decided to do something about it.’

‘Namely, rip him off.’

‘But handing half to Warbody. Francesca was down to her last half-million, thanks to low interest rates and expensive help. Relatively speaking, she was a pauper.’

‘What did Brough do?’ Fox asked. ‘To Francesca, I mean.’

‘On his deathbed, old Sir Magnus told them both that they could break any rule, get away with anything. The lesson was fresh in Anthony’s mind when he stuck Julian Greene’s head under the surface of that swimming pool and held it there.’

‘With Francesca watching?’ Clarke asked.

Rebus nodded. ‘Anthony obviously didn’t approve of Francesca’s suitor. All of which sent her looking for oblivion.’

‘At one point,’ Fox said, ‘she wanted an exorcism.’

‘For her brother rather than her.’

‘You got this from Cafferty?’ Clarke asked Rebus.

‘I sort of pieced it together,’ he answered with a shrug. ‘But I don’t doubt it’s the truth.’

‘So did Warbody get her share?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘Shouldn’t we be asking?’

‘Sure.’

‘But she’s not likely to tell us, is she?’

The room fell silent again until Rebus spoke.

‘Darryl even approached Cafferty to help search for Brough.’

‘So he could offer Brough to Glushenko?’

‘No — so Glushenko might get wind that Cafferty was on the lookout, and maybe start to think there was a link between the two.’

‘So he’d target Big Ger rather than Darryl?’

‘Not that Cafferty did help look, of course. But he strung Darryl along.’

‘He’s been stringing all of us along,’ Clarke commented.

Silence again until Rebus leaned forward across the table. ‘Say you do catch Molly and bring her in — what exactly have you got? Is Brough going to testify that his abduction revolved around money skimmed from an account filled to the brim with stolen cash, laundered by gangsters?’