Ian Rankin - Rather Be the Devil

‘In a manner of speaking. Though after pulling a stunt like that with Big Ger, maybe I should reconsider.’

He took the box from her and carried it into the living room. Clarke cast an eye over the place.

‘Deborah Quant has been good for you. Tidier than I remember. Not even an ashtray — don’t tell me she’s got you packing it in?’

Rebus placed the box on the dining table so that it covered the letter from his hospital consultant. ‘Deb doesn’t like mess — you’ve seen the way she runs the mortuary. You could eat your dinner off one of her slabs.’

‘So long as it wasn’t occupied,’ Clarke countered. Brillo had emerged from his basket in the kitchen, and she crouched down to give him some attention, scratching at the tight wiry curls that had given the dog its name.

‘Is he still getting walked twice a day?’

‘Supermarket and Bruntsfield Links.’

‘He looks great.’ She got back to her feet. ‘So you’re doing okay?’

‘Hale and hearty.’

‘Deborah mentioned something about bronchitis...’

‘Did she now?’

‘Last time I was in the mortuary.’

‘And you didn’t rush straight over here?’

‘Reckoned you’d tell me when you were ready.’ She paused. ‘But knowing you, that’s never going to happen.’

‘Well, I’m fine. Potions and inhalers and all that jazz.’

‘And you’ve given up smoking?’

‘The proverbial piece of cake. So what’s in the box?’ He was already prising off the lid.

‘Fresh out of cold storage.’

Rebus was studying the name on the topmost brown manila file: Maria Turquand. ‘This can’t be the whole case?’

‘God, no, there’s about three shelves’ worth. But you’ve got all the summaries, plus a little bonus.’

Rebus had opened the first file, and he saw what she meant. ‘The case was reviewed.’

‘By your old friends at SCRU.’

‘Not long before my stint there.’

‘Eight years ago, in point of fact.’

Rebus was studying the file’s covering sheet. ‘I thought Eddie Tranter was in charge of SCRU back then. But it’s not his name here.’ He dug down a little further.

‘Enough to keep you going?’ Clarke was making a circuit of the room, much as she would a crime scene.

‘Stop snooping,’ Rebus told her, ‘and tell me instead if there’s any news.’

‘Christie, you mean? Not much. Door-to-door has given us precisely zilch. Interesting, though...’

‘What?’

‘His house is the spitting image of Cafferty’s — from the outside, at least.’

‘Emulating him, maybe?’

‘Or sending a message of some sort.’

‘Wonder if Darryl knows Cafferty’s changed addresses.’

‘Oh?’

‘Nice modern flat in Quartermile.’

‘Think it means anything?’

‘Maybe Big Ger wasn’t flattered by the young prince’s gesture.’

‘Moving into an almost identical house, you mean?’

Rebus nodded slowly and placed the lid back on the box. ‘You won’t get into trouble for bringing me this?’

‘Not unless anyone else goes looking for it in the warehouse.’

‘It’s really appreciated, Siobhan. I mean it. I’d just sit and stare at the walls otherwise.’

‘The dog was supposed to help with that.’

‘Brillo seems as keen on exercise as I am.’ He watched as Clarke checked her phone. ‘Somewhere else you need to be?’

‘I’m hoping to speak with Darryl this evening.’ She paused. ‘And I won’t be alone — Malcolm’s back in town.’

‘Didn’t take long for Gartcosh to kick him into touch.’

‘He’s here as their man on the ground, making sure we don’t screw up the case.’

‘Seriously?’ Rebus shook his head slowly. ‘Does every villain who gets a pummelling earn the same level of service?’

Clarke forced a smile. ‘Maybe Darryl’s gone private.’ She watched as what started as a chuckle from Rebus became a cough. With his hand over his mouth he exited the room, and she could hear the fit continuing. When he returned, he was wiping at eyes and mouth both. Clarke held up a small jar filled with clear liquid in which something was suspended.

‘Is this what I think it is?’ she asked.

‘You’re not the only one who brings me presents,’ Rebus managed to reply.

After she’d gone, Rebus emptied the box, spreading its contents across the dining table. The officer in charge of the cold-case review was a detective inspector called Robert Chatham.

‘Fat Rab,’ Rebus said aloud as he read. He’d known him by reputation but never worked with him. Chatham had been F Troop, meaning West Lothian’s F Division, based in Livingston. Lothian and Borders Police had consisted of six divisions, seven if you included the HQ at Fettes. The coming of Police Scotland had changed all that. There wasn’t a Lothian and Borders any more, and the City of Edinburgh was to be known as Division Six, which made it sound like a floundering football team. Rebus no longer attended the get-togethers of cops who had shared various L&B beats, but he heard the mutterings. Early retirements; younger officers giving up after a few short years.

‘Well out of it, John.’ He got up to make a mug of tea and scoop some food into Brillo’s bowl. ‘Fancy a walk?’ he asked, shaking the dog’s lead. Brillo ignored him, too busy eating. ‘Thought not.’

Back at the dining table, he got to work. The cold-case review had come about because of a newspaper story, one Rebus had obviously missed. The journalist had interviewed Bruce Collier’s road manager, a man called Vince Brady. The piece was about the touring life of the 1970s, a mix of rueful sexism and drug binges. Brady stated that he’d seen Maria Turquand in conversation with Collier in the hotel’s third-floor corridor. Brady’s room had been right next to Turquand’s, while Collier — being ‘the talent’ — had the suite at the end of the hall.

There was due to be a bit of a party in the suite after the show, and I think Bruce was inviting her. But before the gig even started we found out she was brown bread [dead] so the celebrations were a bit subdued.

The journalist had tried contacting Collier for his reaction, but had received a two-word message that meant pretty much the same as ‘no comment’. Chatham and his team had listened to the recording of the interview with Brady, then questioned Brady himself and Collier. Collier had told them his road manager must be mistaken. He had no recollection of any meeting, however brief.

I had to give Vince the heave after that tour. He was taking the piss over the merch, pocketing more money than I ever saw. This is just him trying a bit of payback, if you take my meaning.

A little later in the interview, Collier stated that he had spent most of his time in the hotel catching up with ‘a mate from the good old days’. This mate was a local musician called Dougie Vaughan. The two had played together in a band in high school. Vaughan was still a jobbing guitarist, popping up at folk clubs and open-mic nights around Edinburgh.

He was also one of Maria Turquand’s ex-lovers — Rebus had come across him in his own box of clippings about the case. Vaughan had given his story to the Evening News a few months after the murder. A one-night fling after Turquand had spotted him playing at a party. He had tried contacting her afterwards but had been rebuffed.

Smashing girl, she was. Terrible what happened.

And yes, Vaughan had been in the hotel that afternoon to see his old school pal. And yes, he’d been questioned by the police, but hadn’t been able to help. He’d had no idea Maria Turquand was just a few doors along from Collier’s suite. No one had mentioned her.