Rather Be the Devil

2

Malcolm Fox hated the commute — forty miles each way, most of it spent on the M8. Some days it resembled Wacky Races, with cars weaving in and out of traffic, lorries wheezing into the outside lane to crawl past other lorries, roadworks and breakdowns and buffeting winds accompanied by lashing rain. Not that there was anyone he could complain to — his colleagues at Gartcosh, the Scottish Crime Campus, considered themselves the crème de la crème, and they had the state-of-the-art building to prove it. Once you’d found a parking space and proved your credentials at the gatehouse, you entered a closed compound that was trying its damnedest to resemble a new-build university, one aimed at the elite. Plenty of internal space, filled with light and heat. Breakout areas where specialists from different disciplines could meet and share intelligence. Not just the various branches of the Specialist Crime Division, but Forensic Science, the Procurator Fiscal’s office, and HMRC’s Criminal Investigation wing. All housed under the one happy roof. He hadn’t heard anyone moan about how long it took them to get to Gartcosh and then home again, and he knew he wasn’t the only one who lived in Edinburgh.

Edinburgh. He’d only been transferred a month, but he still missed his old CID office. Then again, nobody here minded that he was ex-Professional Standards, the kind of cop hated by other cops. But did any of them know the story behind his move? He’d been left for dead by a detective gone rogue, and that same detective had been dragged away by two career criminals — Darryl Christie and Joe Stark — never to be seen again. The upper echelons didn’t want the story made public. Added to which, the Procurator Fiscal hadn’t fancied taking either gangster to court when no actual body had ever turned up.

‘A good defence lawyer would rip us to pieces,’ Fox had been told at one of several hush-hush meetings.

Instead they had waved Gartcosh in front of him, and wouldn’t take no for an answer. So here he was, trying to find his niche in the Major Crime Division.

And failing.

He recalled an old office saying about promoting mediocrity. He did not regard himself as mediocre, but he knew he had never quite proved himself exceptional. Siobhan Clarke was exceptional, and would have fitted in at Gartcosh. He’d seen the look on her face when he’d broken the news — trying not to be dumbstruck or resentful. A brief hug while she fixed her face. But their friendship afterwards had faltered, excuses found not to watch a film or eat a meal. All so he could drive the forty miles here and the forty miles home, day after day.

Get a grip, Malcolm, he told himself as he entered the building. He rolled his shoulders, straightened his tie and did up both buttons on his suit jacket — the suit bought specially. New shoes, too, which had just about softened enough that he didn’t need daily plasters on his heels.

‘Detective Inspector Fox!’

Fox paused at the bottom of the stairs and turned towards the voice. Black polo shirt, short-sleeved with a zip at the neck; shoulder flashes; two sets of lanyards with photo ID. And above the whole ensemble the tanned face, bushy black eyebrows and salt-and-pepper hair. Assistant Chief Constable Ben McManus. Instinctively, Fox pulled himself to his full height. There were two ACCs at Gartcosh, and McManus was in charge of Organised Crime and Counter-Terrorism. Not the meat and potatoes stuff of Major Crime — murders and the like — but the cases spoken of in undertones and via gestures, the cases that were investigated behind a series of locked doors elsewhere in the building, doors opened with one of the magnetic cards swinging from around McManus’s neck.

‘Yes, sir?’ Fox said. The ACC was holding out his hand, gripping Fox’s when it was offered and slipping his free hand over the top of both.

‘We’ve not been properly introduced. I know Jen’s been keeping you busy...’

Jen being Fox’s own boss, ACC Jennifer Lyon.

‘Yes, sir,’ Fox repeated.

‘Settled in okay, I hear. I know it can be a bit disconcerting at first — very different set-up from what you’ve been used to. We’ve all been there, trust me.’ McManus had released his hold on Fox and was climbing the staircase at a sprightly pace, Fox just about keeping up. ‘It’s good to have you, though. They speak very highly of you in Division Six.’

Division Six: the City of Edinburgh.

‘And of course your record speaks for itself — even the bits we don’t want anyone outside Police Scotland to see.’ McManus offered a smile that was probably meant to be reassuring but told Fox only that this man wanted him for something and had had him checked out. At the top of the stairs they headed for one of the soundproofed glass boxes that were used for private meetings. Blinds could be drawn as required. Eight bodies could be accommodated around the rectangular table. There was only one there waiting.

She stood up as they entered, tucking a few stray blonde hairs back behind one ear. Fox reckoned the woman was in her early to mid thirties. Five and a half feet tall and dressed in dark skirt and pale blue blouse.

‘Ah, they’ve even brought us some coffee,’ McManus announced, spotting the pot and mugs. ‘Not that we’re going to be here long, but help yourselves if you like.’

Taking the hint, Fox and the woman shook their heads.

‘I’m Sheila Graham, by the way.’

‘Sorry,’ McManus interrupted, ‘my fault entirely. This is DI Fox, Sheila.’

‘Malcolm,’ Fox said.

‘Sheila here,’ McManus ran on, ‘is Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs. You won’t have been shown their part of the building yet.’

‘I’ve walked past a few times,’ Fox said. ‘Lots of people tapping away at computers.’

‘That’s the sort of thing,’ McManus agreed. He had seated himself and gestured for Fox to do the same.

‘We work the usual areas,’ Graham said, her eyes fixed on Fox. ‘Drink and tobacco, money laundering, e-crime and fraud. A lot of it comprises basic forensic accounting, not that there’s anything basic about it in the digital age. Dirty money can be transferred around the world in the blink of an eye, accounts opened and closed almost as quickly. And that’s before we get to Bitcoin and the Dark Web.’

‘She’s lost me already,’ McManus said with a grin, throwing open his arms in a show of defeat.

‘Am I being transferred?’ Fox asked. ‘I mean, I can balance a chequebook with the best of them, but...’

‘We’ve plenty of number-crunchers,’ Graham said with the thinnest of smiles. ‘And right now some of them are looking at a man you seem to know — Darryl Christie.’

‘I know him all right.’

‘Did you hear what happened last night?’

‘No.’

Graham seemed disappointed in his answer, as though he had already failed her in some way. ‘He was given a doing, ended up in hospital.’

‘Business he’s in, there’s always a price to be paid,’ McManus said. He had risen to his feet and was pouring himself coffee, without offering to Fox and Graham.

‘What’s HMRC’s interest?’ Fox asked.

‘You know Christie owns some betting shops?’ Fox decided not to let on that this, too, was news to him. ‘We think he’s been using them to clean up dirty money — his own and that of other criminals.’

‘Such as Joe Stark in Glasgow?’

‘Such as Joe Stark in Glasgow,’ Graham echoed, sounding as though he had partway redeemed himself.

‘Stark and his boys came barging into Edinburgh a few months back,’ Fox explained. ‘Joe and Darryl ended up friends.’

‘There are others besides Stark,’ McManus chipped in before slurping from his mug. ‘And not just in Scotland either.’

‘Quite an enterprise,’ Fox commented.

‘It’ll almost certainly run into the millions,’ Graham agreed.

‘We need someone on the ground, Malcolm.’ McManus leaned across the table towards Fox. ‘Someone who knows the territory, but reporting back to us.’

‘To what end?’

‘Could be the assault inquiry will throw up names or information. There are going to be a lot of headless chickens running around while Christie recuperates. Meantime he’s going to be wondering who he’s up against — associate or enemy.’

‘He might start to slip up.’

‘He might,’ Graham agreed with a slow nod.

‘So I’m going back to Edinburgh?’

‘As a tourist, Malcolm,’ McManus cautioned with a wag of the finger. ‘You need to make sure they know you’re our man, not theirs.’

‘Do I tell them HMRC have got their bloodhounds sniffing Christie’s trail?’

‘Better if you don’t,’ Graham stated.

‘You’ll be working for me, Malcolm.’ McManus had finished his coffee already and was getting back to his feet, meeting over. ‘And it’s only natural we at Organised Crime should want to know what’s going on.’

‘Yes, sir. You say he was attacked last night? So the investigation will just be getting started...’

‘The officer in charge is...’ Graham sought the name, closing her eyes for a moment. ‘Detective Inspector Clarke.’

‘Of course,’ Fox said, forcing a smile.

‘Excellent!’ McManus clapped his hands together, made the briskest of turns, and yanked open the door. Fox stood up, making sure he had Sheila Graham’s attention.

‘Anything else I need to know?’

‘I don’t think so, Malcolm.’ She handed him her business card. ‘Mobile’s the best way to get me.’

He handed her a card of his own.

‘You didn’t know about the betting shops, did you?’ she asked, eyes twinkling. ‘Pretty good poker face, though...’

The first thing Siobhan Clarke noticed as she parked outside Christie’s house was that it was almost identical in size and design to Cafferty’s home across town — a detached three-storey Victorian stone edifice with large bay windows either side of the front door and a long driveway to the side that led to a free-standing garage. The front gate wasn’t locked, so she walked up the path and rang the bell. She had already noted the CCTV cameras described by the constable last night, and there was another built into the stonework next to the door buzzer.

Gail McKie pulled open the door. She was standing in a vestibule, the glass-panelled door behind her leading into the main hallway. She didn’t look as if she’d slept — same clothes as at the hospital, and her hair drooping to her shoulders.

‘Wouldn’t have bothered if I’d known it was you,’ she offered by way of greeting. Clarke gestured towards the camera.

‘You don’t use that, then?’

‘It’s fake, same as all the others. They were there when we bought the place — Darryl keeps meaning to put in real ones.’

‘How is he?’

‘He’ll be home today.’

‘That’s good.’

‘There’ve been a couple of your lot round already, harassing the neighbours.’

‘You don’t want the police involved?’

‘What do you care?’

‘Some of us do, though.’

‘Then go talk to Cafferty.’

‘I’m not saying that won’t happen, but we need to piece together the events first, starting with where you found Darryl.’

‘Won’t do any good. I didn’t see anybody.’

‘Darryl was out cold?’

‘Thought he was dead for a minute.’ McKie suppressed a shiver.

‘Could your other sons have seen or heard anything?’

A shake of the head. ‘Asked them last night.’

‘Can I speak to them?’

‘They’re at college.’

Clarke thought for a moment. ‘Shall we go take a look at the driveway, then?’

McKie seemed reluctant, but then headed indoors, re-emerging with a cream Burberry raincoat wrapped around her shoulders. She led the way, pointing towards one of the security cameras.

‘Wee red light and everything. Look real enough, don’t they?’

‘Are there many break-ins?’

McKie shrugged. ‘When you’ve got what people want, you start to fret.’

‘Darryl maybe thought nobody was likely to target his house — him being who he is.’ Clarke waited, but McKie stayed silent. ‘It’s a nice part of town,’ she went on.

‘Bit different from where we started out.’

‘Did Darryl pick the house?’

McKie nodded. They had reached the white Range Rover Evoque. It had pulled to a halt next to the rear entrance to the house. There were security lights above both the garage and the back door itself. Clarke gestured towards them.

‘Whoever was waiting for him, they’d have tripped the lights, yes?’

‘Maybe. But if you’re indoors with the curtains closed, you wouldn’t notice.’

‘Would the neighbours?’

‘We get a lot of foxes around here, being next to the Botanics. That’s what I always blame if I see a light coming on anywhere.’

There were spots of dried blood on the driveway by the driver’s-side door. McKie turned her head away from them.

‘He won’t want me telling you this,’ she said quietly, ‘but I’m going to say it anyway.’

‘I’m listening.’

‘There’ve been warnings.’

‘Oh?’

‘One night, Darryl left the car kerbside. Next morning, the front tyres had been slashed. That was about two weeks ago. Then last week, the bin went up.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Put it out for collection, and somebody torched it. Take a look for yourself.’

The bin was to the right of the back door, its plastic lid warped and blackened, part of one side melted halfway down.

‘You didn’t report this?’

‘Darryl said it was most likely kids. I’m not sure he believed it himself. No one else in the street got the same treatment.’

‘You think he was being targeted?’

McKie gave a shrug, which sent her coat sliding to the ground. She stooped to pick it up, brushing it clean before wrapping herself in it again.

‘Have you spoken to him since last night?’

‘He didn’t see anything. They got him on the back of the head as he was locking the car. Says he dropped like a stone. Bastards must’ve kept hitting him once he was out cold.’

‘He reckons there was more than one assailant?’

‘He’s no idea — this is me talking.’

‘Are you aware of any other incidents or threats? Maybe a note?’

McKie shook her head. ‘Whatever’s going on, Darryl will find out.’ She glared at Clarke. ‘Maybe that’s what you’re afraid of, eh?’

‘Your son would be unwise to take matters into his own hands, Ms McKie.’

‘He’s always been his own man, though, even when he was a kid — insisted on keeping his dad’s name for the school register, after the bastard running out on us and everything. Then when Annette died...’ She paused and took a deep breath, as if controlling some strong emotion. ‘Darryl grew up fast. Fast and strong and smart. A lot smarter than you lot.’

Clarke’s phone was buzzing. She dug it out of her pocket and studied the screen.

‘Answer it if you like.’

But Clarke shook her head. ‘It can wait. Could you have a word with Darryl for me?’

‘And tell him what?’

‘That I’d like to speak to him. That he should agree to see me.’

‘You know he’s not going to tell you anything.’

‘I’d still like to try.’

McKie considered this, then gave a slow nod.

‘Thank you,’ Clarke said. ‘I could come back this evening, maybe see your other sons at the same time.’

‘You get extra money for working late?’

‘I wish.’

Eventually, Gail McKie smiled. It took years from her, and Clarke was reminded of the woman she’d been when posing for cameras and questions at press conferences back when Annette was still missing. A lot of changes had taken place since, and Darryl had changed most of all.

‘Around seven?’ Clarke suggested.

‘We’ll see,’ McKie said.

Heading for the gate, Clarke looked at her phone again. One missed call. No message. A number she recognised.

‘What the hell do you want, Malcolm?’ she sighed, slipping the phone back into her pocket.

3

Rebus stood outside Cafferty’s house on a wide, leafy street in Merchiston, staring at the For Sale sign. He’d already made a circuit of the garden, peering through any windows that weren’t curtained or shuttered, satisfying himself that the house had been emptied. He took out his phone and called Cafferty’s mobile, but it just rang and rang. A neighbour across the way was watching from a downstairs window. Rebus waved and then crossed the road, meeting the woman as she opened her door.

‘When did he move out?’ Rebus asked.

‘About ten days ago.’

‘Any idea why?’

‘Why?’ she echoed. It was obviously not the question she’d expected.

‘Or his new address,’ Rebus added.

‘Somebody did say they’d seen him at Quartermile.’

Quartermile: the site of the old Edinburgh Royal Infirmary, now redeveloped.

‘Would he have left his new address with anyone?’

‘Mr Cafferty kept himself pretty much to himself.’

‘Probably didn’t go down well, though, when that bullet went through his window a while back.’

‘The story I heard was, he fell against the pane and broke it.’

‘Trust me, he didn’t. How much is he asking?’ Rebus angled his head towards the house opposite.

‘That’s not the sort of thing we bandy about.’

‘Maybe I’ll phone the agent, then.’

‘You do that.’ The door was being closed again, not hurriedly but with polite Edinburgh finality, so Rebus walked back to his Saab and got in, tapping the solicitor’s number into his phone.

‘Price on application,’ he was eventually told.

‘Is this not me applying?’

‘If you’d care to make an appointment to view...’

He ended the call instead and drove into town. There was an underground car park at the heart of Quartermile, but Rebus stopped on a yellow line instead. The site now boasted amenities such as shops, a gym and a hotel. The old red- and grey-stone buildings of the original hospital had been joined by towers of glass and steel, with the best addresses looking south across the Meadows towards the Pentland Hills. In the sales office Rebus admired a scale model of the site, and even picked up a brochure. The woman on duty offered him a chocolate from an open tin, and he took it with a smile, before asking Cafferty’s whereabouts.

‘Oh, we don’t share that kind of information.’

‘I’m a friend of his.’

‘Then I’m sure you can track him down.’

Rebus gave a twist of the mouth and took out his phone again, this time composing a text.

I’m outside your new place. Come say hello.

Back at his car, he thought about how he used to fill gaps like this in his life with a cigarette, instead of which he walked to the Sainsbury’s on Middle Meadow Walk and queued for a box of chewing gum. He was almost at the Saab again when his phone buzzed: incoming message.

You’re bluffing.

Rebus typed a reply: Nice Sainsbury’s, if you can put up with the students.

And waited.

It was a further four or five minutes before Cafferty emerged from a gate at the side of one of the older blocks. His head was huge, shaped like a cannonball, the silver hair shaved close to the skull. He wore a long black woollen coat and red scarf, an open-necked white shirt visible beneath, exposing tufts of chest hair. His eyes, which always seemed smaller than they should be, had the same piercing quality as ever. Rebus reckoned they had served Cafferty well over the years, as sharp and fearful a weapon as any in his armoury.

‘What the hell do you want?’ Cafferty growled.

‘An invite to the house-warming, maybe.’

Cafferty stuffed his hands into his pockets. ‘Doesn’t feel like a social call, but last time I looked you were still retired, so what’s on your mind?’

‘Just our old friend Darryl Christie. I’m remembering the last time we talked about him. You as good as said you had a bit of fight left in you.’

‘So?’

‘So he’s been put in hospital.’

Cafferty’s mouth formed an O. He lifted a hand from one pocket and rubbed at his nose.

‘Been taking acting lessons?’ Rebus asked.

‘This is the first I’m hearing of it.’

‘And you’ll have a cast-iron alibi for last night, I’m guessing?’

‘Isn’t that the sort of thing a detective should be asking?’

‘I’m pretty sure they will. Your name’s being mentioned in dispatches.’

‘Darryl trying to stir things up?’ Cafferty nodded to himself. ‘And why shouldn’t he? It’s an open goal and I’d probably do the same myself.’

‘Actually, you did — when that bullet hit your living-room window.’

‘Fair point.’ Cafferty looked around him, sniffing the air. ‘I was just about to have my mid-morning coffee. I don’t suppose it would hurt if you sat in the vicinity.’

‘Aren’t the cafés rammed with people bunking off their lectures?’

‘I’m sure we can find a quiet corner,’ Cafferty said.

Not the first two places they tried, but the third, a Starbucks on Forrest Road. A double espresso for Cafferty and an Americano for Rebus. He’d made the mistake of asking for a large, which seemed to mean a mug almost the size of his head.

Cafferty stirred sugar into his own tiny cup. They hadn’t quite found a corner, but apart from a few students poring over textbooks and laptops, the place was quiet and their table private enough.

‘Always music in these places,’ Cafferty commented, eyes on the ceiling-mounted speakers. ‘Same in restaurants and half the shops. Drives me demented...’

‘And it’s not even real music,’ Rebus added. ‘Not like we had in our day.’

The two men shared a look and then a wry smile, concentrating on their drinks for a moment.

‘I’ve been wondering when you would show up,’ Cafferty eventually said. ‘Not about Darryl Christie, but just generally. I had this image of you driving past my house at regular intervals, wondering if you’d catch me in the middle of something, something you could take to court.’

‘Except I’m not a detective any more.’

‘Citizen’s arrest then, maybe.’

‘Why’s your old place on the market?’

‘I was rattling around in it. Time to downsize.’

‘And then there was that bullet.’

Cafferty shook his head. ‘Nothing to do with that.’ He took another sip of the thick black liquid. ‘So Darryl’s got on the wrong side of somebody, eh? Occupational hazard — we both know that.’

‘He’s a big player in the city, though, probably the biggest unless you know otherwise.’

‘Doesn’t make him immune.’

‘Especially not if the man he shunted aside decides on a comeback.’

‘Nobody shunted me,’ Cafferty bristled, squaring his shoulders.

‘You went quietly then, and you’re thrilled to leave the city in his hands.’

‘I might not go that far.’

‘Any names for me?’

‘Names?’

‘You said it yourself — he got on somebody’s wrong side.’

‘It’s not your job any more, Rebus. Did they forget to tell you that?’

‘Doesn’t stop me being nosy.’

‘Obviously not.’

‘And a man needs a hobby. I can’t begin to guess what yours might be.’ Cafferty glared at him, and the two men lapsed into silence, focusing on their drinks again until Rebus held up a finger. ‘I recognise that tune,’ he said.

‘It’s Bruce Collier, isn’t it?’

Rebus nodded. ‘Did you ever see him live?’

‘The Usher Hall.’

‘In ’78?’

‘Around then.’

‘You remember the Maria Turquand murder, then?’

‘At the Caley Hotel?’ Cafferty was nodding. ‘It was the lover, wasn’t it? Got his new squeeze to lie through her teeth and dodged a life sentence.’

‘You reckon?’

‘It’s what everyone thought, your lot included. He moved back up this way, you know.’

‘The lover?’

‘No, Bruce Collier. Think I read that somewhere.’

‘Is he still playing?’

‘Christ knows.’ Cafferty drained the dregs of his coffee. ‘We about done here, or are you still waiting for me to confess to thumping Darryl?’

‘I’m not in any hurry.’ Rebus gestured towards his mug. ‘I’ve got about half a vat left here.’

‘Then I’ll leave you to finish it. You’re a man of leisure after all, about time you faced up to the fact.’

‘And what about you? How do you keep busy?’

‘I’m a businessman. I do business.’

‘Every last bit of it above board?’

‘Unless your successors prove otherwise. How is Siobhan, by the way?’

‘Haven’t seen her in a while.’

‘She still stepping out with DI Fox?’

‘Is this you trying to impress me? Showing you still have your ear to the ground? If so, you’d best get your hearing checked.’

Cafferty was on his feet, adjusting his scarf, tightening it around his throat. ‘Okay, Mr Amateur Detective. Here’s something for you.’ He leaned over the seated Rebus, so that their foreheads almost touched. ‘Look for a Russian. You can thank me later.’

And with a smile and a wink he was gone.

‘Hell’s that supposed to mean?’ Rebus muttered to himself, brow furrowed. Then he realised that the song Bruce Collier had just finished singing was a version of the Beatles’ ‘Back in the USSR’.

‘Look for a Russian,’ he repeated, staring into his coffee and feeling a sudden need to pee.

Time was, Siobhan Clarke got a frisson just walking through the door of Gayfield Square police station. Each day brought new cases and different challenges, and there might even be something big about to break — a murder or serious assault. Now, though, Police Scotland parachuted in their own squad for high-profile inquiries, meaning the local CID was reduced to a support role — and where was the fun in that? Every day now it seemed there were grumblings and mutterings; fellow officers ticking off the days till retirement or pulling sickies. Tess in the control room was a good source of general gossip, even if the gossip itself was grim.

Clarke had had to park in a pay bay, too, having failed to find a space at the station. So, having put in the maximum amount, she was tapping an alarm reminder into her phone as she climbed the stairs to the CID suite. In four hours she’d have to move the car or face a fine. There was a sign she could use for her windscreen — OFFICIAL POLICE VEHICLE. But she’d tried that once and returned to find someone had scored the car all down one side.

Nice.

The CID suite wasn’t big, but then it wasn’t busy. Her two DCs, Christine Esson and Ronnie Ogilvie, were seated at their computers, tapping away. With her head angled downwards, only Esson’s short dark hair was visible.

‘Good of you to drop in,’ Clarke heard her comment.

‘I was out at Darryl Christie’s house.’

‘Word is he’s had a bit of an accident.’ Esson had stopped typing and was studying her boss.

‘We all know he’s a respectable entrepreneur and everything,’ Clarke said, slipping out of her jacket and draping it over the back of her chair, ‘but could you find me anything we’ve got on his activities and associates?’

‘No problem.’

Clarke turned to Ogilvie. ‘Uniforms are talking to the neighbours. I need to know what they find. And make sure they look at any and all CCTV recordings from dusk till the paramedics arrived.’

Esson looked up from her screen. ‘Does Morris Gerald Cafferty count as an associate?’

‘Quite the opposite, I’d think, unless we learn anything to the contrary.’

‘We’re taking this seriously then?’ Ogilvie asked. He had started growing a moustache and was running a finger and thumb down either side of it. Pale and gangly, he always reminded Clarke of a long-stemmed plant starved of sunlight.

‘According to Christie’s mother,’ she told him, ‘their car and rubbish bin were attacked recently. Looks like a classic escalation.’

‘So was last night an attempt on his life?’

Clarke considered for a moment, then shrugged. ‘Is the boss in his broom cupboard?’

Esson shook her head. ‘But I think I hear his dainty tread.’

Yes, Clarke could hear it, too. DCI James Page’s distinctive leather soles, climbing the last few stairs and clacking along the uncarpeted corridor towards the open door.

‘Good, you’re here,’ he said, spotting Clarke. ‘Look who I ran into.’ He leaned to one side, so that Malcolm Fox was visible. Clarke could feel her spine stiffening.

‘And what brings you down from the mountain?’ she asked.

Page was squeezing Fox’s shoulder. ‘We’re always delighted, of course, to see our brethren from Gartcosh. Isn’t that right?’

Esson and Ogilvie stared at one another, unable to form an answer. Clarke had folded her arms.

‘DI Fox needs our help, Siobhan,’ Page said. Then, turning towards Fox: ‘Or is that putting it too strongly, Malcolm?’

‘Darryl Christie,’ Fox stated for the benefit of the room.

Page was wagging a finger at Clarke. ‘You can imagine how happy I was to be told by Malcolm that the attack on Mr Christie was being investigated by my own officers — news to me, Siobhan.’ All the fake warmth left his voice as he glared at her. ‘Something you and I will be discussing as soon as we have a minute.’

Fox was trying not to look embarrassed at having dropped Clarke in it. She hoped the look she was giving him wasn’t doing anything to ease his discomfort.

‘So let’s go into my office and have a little chat, eh?’ Page said, giving Fox a final pat on the shoulder and leading the way.

Page’s inner sanctum was a converted storeroom with no natural light and just about enough space for his desk, a filing cabinet and a couple of chairs for visitors.

‘Sit,’ he commanded, having got himself comfortable.

The problem was, Clarke and Fox were so close together when seated that their feet, knees and elbows almost touched. Clarke could feel Fox squirming as he tried to put some distance between them.

‘Why are Gartcosh interested in a mugging?’ she asked into the silence.

Fox kept his eyes on the desk. ‘Darryl Christie is a known player. He has direct ties to Joe Stark’s gang in Glasgow. Obviously he’s on our radar.’

‘So you’re here to make sure we do our job?’

‘I’m an observer, Siobhan. All I’ll be doing is reporting back.’

‘And why can’t we do that ourselves?’

He turned his head towards her. She noticed that his cheeks had coloured slightly. ‘Because this is the way it is. If everything’s thorough — and knowing you, I doubt it’ll be anything but — there’s not going to be an issue.’

‘You have to understand, Malcolm,’ Page interrupted, ‘that it can rankle somewhat when overseers suddenly arrive without warning.’

‘I’m only doing my job, DCI Page. There’ll be an email somewhere or a phone message from ACC McManus, advising you of my role.’ Fox glanced at Page’s laptop, which lay closed on the desk.

‘McManus runs Organised Crime,’ Clarke commented. ‘I thought you were Major Crime.’

‘They’ve borrowed me.’

‘Why?’

He held her gaze. ‘Until recently, this was my patch. Maybe they thought I’d be welcomed back with open arms.’

Clarke gave a twitch of the mouth.

‘And of course you are welcome, Malcolm,’ Page announced, ‘and we’ll do our best to accommodate your needs, so you can make your report and we can all get our proficiency badges.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘But tell me, Siobhan, is this really anything that should set Gartcosh’s antennae twitching?’

Clarke considered her response. ‘His injuries aren’t life-threatening, but his mother says his car was attacked previously and their bin was set ablaze.’

‘Classic escalation,’ Fox commented, earning a look from her that he couldn’t quite read.

‘Reckon he knows who’s responsible?’ Page asked.

‘I’ve not interviewed him yet. He’s being released today; I was going to drop in on him this evening.’

Page nodded. ‘No witnesses? Nobody spotted fleeing the scene?’

‘We’re knocking on doors right now, though a few more bodies would be useful.’

‘I’ll see what I can do.’

‘I’m wondering if we need to offer Christie something,’ Clarke went on. ‘Maybe a marked car outside his house for a night or two.’

‘I doubt he’d thank us for it.’

‘An unmarked car then — and he doesn’t need to know.’

‘He doesn’t have bodyguards?’

‘Seems to have dispensed with them.’

‘Meaning what exactly?’

She shrugged. ‘Could be he’s trying to save on outgoings. The house he’s in won’t have come cheap.’

‘You think he might be strapped for cash?’ Fox’s eyes narrowed as he weighed this up.

‘How does he make his money anyway?’ Page was looking at Fox. ‘Your lot should know better than anyone.’

‘He has his hotel,’ Fox obliged, ‘and some bars and nightclubs, plus a couple of betting shops.’

‘There’s other stuff, too,’ Clarke added. ‘A car wash, I think. Plus a door-to-door operation providing the same sort of thing.’

‘Okay,’ Page said, his eyes still on Fox. ‘And if we scratch the surface?’

‘I’m not privy to everything Gartcosh has,’ Fox admitted, shifting in his seat again. ‘Drugs... money laundering... who knows?’

‘I’ve got Christine looking into it,’ Clarke said. ‘So we might have something a bit more substantial by end of play.’

‘It’s thin stuff for CID,’ Page advised. ‘People get duffed up all the time.’ He paused. ‘But as this is Darryl Christie we’re talking about, and because our colleagues in Organised Crime are taking an interest... fine, let’s throw what resources we can at it.’

‘Including the watch on his home?’ Clarke asked.

‘Maybe for a night or two. Better still would be a list of anyone who bears a grudge — you can ask Mr Christie about that when you see him.’

‘I’m sure he’ll give us a full and frank account.’

Page’s mouth twitched. ‘Use what charm you can muster, Siobhan. And keep Malcolm fully apprised.’

‘Due respect, sir,’ Fox interrupted, ‘I think I need a bit more than that.’ Page looked at him for elucidation. ‘I need to be with DI Clarke each step of the way,’ Fox obliged. ‘I doubt ACC McManus would brook anything less.’

Clarke’s eyes were pleading with her boss, but Page just sighed and nodded.

‘Off you go then, the pair of you.’

‘Sir...’ Clarke started to complain.

‘It’s the price you pay, Siobhan, when you don’t tell me what’s going on under my own nose.’

Having said which, Page opened the screen of his laptop and began hitting keys.

Fox led the way back into the CID suite, but Clarke signalled towards the corridor, and he followed her, stopping as she turned to face him.

‘Ask me how happy I am about all of this,’ she hissed.

‘I did try phoning...’

‘You could have left a message.’

‘So you do know I tried?’

‘I was a bit busy, Malcolm.’

‘You’ve not driven the length of the M8 twice already today — I’m the one who should be cranky.’

‘Who says I’m cranky?’

‘You sound cranky.’

‘Livid is what I am.’

‘All because the chiefs chose me over you for the Gartcosh posting?’

‘What?’ She pretended amazement. ‘That’s got nothing to do with it.’

‘Good, because it looks like we’re stuck together for the next wee while. And I’m fine, by the way, settling into the new job nicely, thanks for asking.’

‘I sent you a text on your first day!’

‘I don’t think so.’

Clarke thought for a moment. ‘Well, I meant to.’

‘Cheers.’

The silence lingered until Clarke gave a sigh. ‘Okay, how do we work this?’

‘You treat me like part of the team, because that’s what I’ll be.’

‘Right up to the point where you scurry off westward to make your report. And by the way, this needs to be a two-way street — anything in the files at Gartcosh, I need to see it.’

‘That would need to be approved.’

‘But you can ask — and you will ask.’

‘And if I do that, you and me declare a truce?’ He was holding out his hand. Eventually she took it.

‘Truce,’ she said.

Clarke stood outside the tenement on Arden Street and pressed the intercom, then took a few steps back so she could be seen from the second-floor window. When Rebus’s face appeared, she waved. He seemed to hesitate before shrinking back into his living room. Seconds later, the buzzer told her the door was unlocked. She pushed it open, holding it with her shoulder as she lifted a box from the ground.

‘Am I in for a telling-off?’ Rebus barked from above, his voice echoing off the tiled walls of the stairwell.

‘Why would...?’ She broke off, realising. ‘You went to see Cafferty. Of course you did.’

‘Got a confession in full, too.’

‘Aye, right. Did he tell you anything useful?’

‘What do you think?’ She had reached his landing and he saw the box. ‘Did I forget Christmas or something?’

‘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.

Rebus’s tea had grown cold by the time he finished reading. He rubbed his hands down his face, blinking his eyes back into focus. Brillo was out in the hall, seated and expectant.

‘Really?’ Rebus asked. ‘Well, if you say so...’ He fetched the lead and grabbed jacket, keys and phone. Arden Street was only a couple of minutes from the Meadows and Bruntsfield Links. There were always dog walkers out and about. Sometimes they even stopped for a chat while the various mutts inspected each other. Rebus would be asked how old his dog was.

No idea.

The breed, then?

Mongrel.

And all the while, he would be thinking about cigarettes.

The sun was already sinking from the sky. He reckoned there would be frost later. While Brillo went for a run, Rebus reached into his pocket, producing his phone in place of a fresh pack of twenty. He was wondering if Fat Rab was still on the force, so he called the one person he thought might be able to help.

‘Well now,’ Christine Esson answered in his ear, ‘here’s my second ghost today.’

‘Siobhan told me about Fox.’

‘He brought flowers and chocolates.’

‘Just because I never call, it doesn’t mean I don’t miss your charm and wit, DC Esson.’

‘But it’s my other skills you’re calling about, right?’

‘On the button as usual, Christine.’

‘So what is it this time?’

‘An easy one, I hope. A DI called Robert Chatham. Based out at Livingston last I heard. I need to talk to him.’

‘Give me fifteen minutes.’

‘You’re a gem, lass.’ Rebus ended the call. Thirty feet away, nature was taking its course. Rebus put away his phone and brought out a small black polythene bag, then started walking towards Brillo.

‘Who was that?’ Fox asked from across the room.

‘Nobody.’

‘Funny, that’s exactly who it sounded like.’ Fox approached Esson’s desk. They were alone in the CID suite, Ronnie Ogilvie out fetching sandwiches. ‘What’s this errand Siobhan’s running?’

‘She told you — it’s nothing to do with Darryl Christie.’

‘Who’s Robert Chatham?’ Fox enquired, peering at the note Esson had just made to herself.

‘Malcolm, will you back the hell off?’

He held up his hands in surrender, but lingered close by her desk, too close for Esson’s liking.

‘Does Siobhan ever mention me?’

Esson shook her head.

‘Gartcosh wasn’t my idea, you know. But I’d have been daft to turn it down.’

‘No argument here.’

He was angling his head to look at her computer screen. She gave him the death stare again.

‘You must have something by now,’ he complained.

‘A whole string of Mr Christie’s business interests.’

‘Can I see?’

‘I’ll email them to you.’ She hit a few keys. ‘In fact, I just have. Now will you leave me in peace?’

Fox walked back to the opposite end of the office, studying his phone and finding her email. Nothing he didn’t already know, except that Esson had addresses for the two betting shops. What was it Sheila Graham had said? Christie laundering money through them — how did that work then? Fox hadn’t got round to asking. He glanced up at Esson, but couldn’t — wouldn’t — ask her. She might think him gormless for not knowing the ins and outs. Besides, he had a better idea.

‘I’ll be back in a bit,’ he announced.

‘What about your sandwich?’

‘It’ll keep.’

‘Foolish words, Malcolm — you’ve not seen Ronnie when he’s hungry.’

‘I’ll take my chances.’

‘What’ll I tell Siobhan when I see her?’

Fox thought for a moment. ‘Tell her I’m running an errand of my own.’

Down the stairs and out of the building, taking in a few gulps of the fresh air. He unlocked his car and got in, easing his way out of the parking space, heading for Leith Walk.

Seated in her own car, Clarke watched him go. A text arrived and she studied it with a smile.

Malc’s offski — safe to come in!

She wondered how Christine knew. Educated guess, probably. Then a second text: Might even be a sandwich for you!

Clarke opened the car door and got out.

4

Fox hadn’t been into a betting shop since his late teens. His father hadn’t been much of a gambler, but would study the racing form on a Saturday morning and place a bet on four different horses — he called it a ‘Yankee’. If Malcolm was at home and Mitch couldn’t be bothered with the walk, he would be dispatched to the bookmaker’s along the street, despite protestations that a phone call would be as easy, or that his sister Jude could do it for a change. But Mitch wanted the security of a paper receipt, so that he could be confident the bet really had been recorded. Not that Malcolm could ever recall any actual wins — nothing worth bragging about to a son. And Jude was always somewhere else.

He was surprised to walk into Diamond Joe’s and find no dishevelled old men nursing the stubs of both pencils and cigarettes. There was a cashier behind a glass screen — as in the past — but the place was filled with shiny machines and wall-mounted TVs. One channel was showing a golf tournament, another tennis, while a further couple showed horse racing. But the few punters in the place were focused on the machines. There was a stool in front of each. Plenty of jaunty blips and beeps and colourful lights. Not just high-tech one-armed bandits, but versions of blackjack and roulette, too. Spoilt for choice, Fox made for one of the most basic-looking models. It had four reels as its centrepiece. He slotted home a pound coin and touched the flashing button. Once the reels had stopped spinning, lights and jingle-jangle sounds told him he should be doing something. But what? He touched one button, then another. Nothing seemed to change, and he was left with one credit. He hit the start button, watched the reels as they clunked to their individual stops. Anything? Nothing. He tried the start button again, but it wasn’t being fooled.

A quid gone in fifteen seconds.

He stayed on the stool, pretending to be sending a text on his phone while getting a feel for the room. The cashier looked bored. She was chewing gum and studying her own phone. Fox walked over to her.

‘Can I bet on horses here?’ he asked.

She stared at him, then lifted her eyes to the bank of screens.

‘How do I do it, though?’ he persisted.

‘Slips are over there,’ she answered, gesturing. ‘Or you can do it online.’ She waggled her phone. ‘The app’s free. There’s even a tenner credit for newbies.’

He nodded his thanks and went over to the shelf with the betting slips, lifting one and studying it. It reminded him of maths homework, all grids, symbols and letters that were supposed to mean something to him. His dad used to write down the name of each horse, along with the race time and location, then tear off the scrap of paper and hand it over with his bet.

Next to the slips sat a display of pools coupons. Mitch had done those, too, each and every Saturday, never able — as a Hearts fan — to put his own team down for anything other than a win. Fox smiled at the memory, then heard a sound resembling air escaping a tyre. It was the word ‘Yes!’ stretched out almost to breaking point and uttered from one of the stools. The punter rubbed his hands together as a slip of paper appeared from a slot. He bounded up to the cashier with it.

‘That’ll do me for today, Lisa,’ he said.

The cashier studied the slip, then put it through a machine of her own before opening a drawer and counting out ten twenty-pound notes.

‘I’ll take a receipt, too,’ the man said. The cashier obliged and the customer stuffed everything in his jacket pocket. ‘Nice doing business with you.’ He made his way to the door, but paused with his fingers just brushing the handle. Then he turned back and handed the cashier one of the twenties, receiving pound coins in return. Scooping these up, he made for one of the other machines, settling himself down and feeding them in.

Fox realised he was being watched. He gestured to show the cashier he was taking a pools coupon with him, then made his own way towards the outside world, where he crumpled the coupon, tossing it in the nearest bin.

He wasn’t sure if he had learned anything useful, but with nothing better to do, he drove to the next address. With stunning originality, it was called Diamond Joe’s Too. He went in and marched up to the cashier — identical set-up to its sister operation, but with a wary-looking man in his forties behind the glass. He handed over a twenty and asked for pound coins.

‘Know about our new app?’ the cashier enquired.

‘Ten-pound credit,’ Fox said. ‘Use it all the time.’

‘Not quite the same, though, is it?’ The man was nodding towards the machines.

‘Nothing like,’ Fox agreed, heading for a stool.

He was eight quid down but starting to get the hang of things when the door opened and a woman walked in. She slung her bag on to the ground next to a blackjack machine, shrugged out of her leather jacket and got busy, for all the world like someone clocking in for a day on the production line. She hadn’t so much as glanced at anyone else in the place, though she gave the machine in front of her a long, slow stroke with one finger, as though she might coax generosity of spirit from it.

Fox bided his time, slowly feeding his own machine. He even notched up a couple of small wins, keeping them as credits. Fifteen minutes to lose twenty quid. He wasn’t sure of the etiquette of watching other players from over their shoulder. The glower from the young man next stool along soon put him right, so he wandered over to the woman playing blackjack. He paused next to her, but she kept her eyes on the machine.

‘Not interested,’ she said.

‘Hello, Jude.’

Fox’s sister turned her head towards him. As usual, her lank hair needed washing, and her eyeshadow was smudged. Her mouth formed a thin line.

‘You keeping tabs on me?’

‘Just coincidence,’ he shrugged.

‘Never took you for the gambling type — always Mister Play-Safe.’

‘How about you?’

Her smile showed teeth. ‘Chalk and cheese, brother. Chalk and cheese.’

‘This your usual spot?’

‘You always said I needed something to get me out of the house.’

‘Oh aye, it’s a good way to meet people, this.’

‘Hell’s the point of meeting people?’

‘It’s how life’s supposed to work, Jude.’

She concentrated on the game for a moment, then turned towards him again. ‘Wake the fuck up, Malcolm,’ she said, giving equal weight to each word.

‘Ever gamble online? Maybe use Diamond Joe’s handy little app?’

‘None of your business.’

‘Except I pay three figures into your bank each and every week.’

‘If it’s thanks you’re after, best find another charity case.’

‘I thought I was helping my sister get back on her feet.’

She swivelled on the stool so her whole body was towards him, a furious look on her face.

‘No, Malcolm, what you were doing was moving your guilt money around the family. Soon as Dad was dead, you only had me. And you had to give it to someone, didn’t you, so you could feel that nice warm self-satisfied glow?’

‘Christ’s sake, Jude...’

He saw her face soften a little. But instead of apologising, she turned back to her game.

‘Can you shut the yapping?’ the punter on the machine opposite demanded. ‘Trying to concentrate here.’

‘Sod you, Barry,’ Jude snarled back at him. ‘Five more minutes, you’ll be skint and on your smelly way.’

‘That really your sister?’ the man retorted, eyes on Fox. ‘Bet you wish you were a fucking only child.’

‘We both do,’ Jude stated, feeding more money into the never-satisfied slot.

Robert Chatham’s home address was a terraced house on the Newhaven waterfront. A woman answered and Rebus explained he was an old colleague looking to catch up.

‘He’s working tonight.’

‘Oh?’

‘Somewhere on Lothian Road. He’s a doorman.’

Rebus nodded his thanks and got back in his Saab, retracing his route into the city and parking at a bus stop halfway up Lothian Road. The wide street boasted half a dozen bars, most of which changed their names and decor so often Rebus couldn’t have kept track if he tried. The first place he came to, the black-clad doormen were too young, but he stopped anyway.

‘Looking for Robert Chatham,’ he explained, receiving sullen shakes of the head. ‘Thanks for the conversation, then.’

The next bar didn’t feel the need for security. It looked warm and inviting, laughter billowing out as the door was opened by a reveller readying to light a cigarette.

One beer won’t kill you, Rebus thought to himself. You could settle for a half. But he kept moving instead. At weekends, Lothian Road could be hairy — stag and hen parties colliding; young wage-earners high on drugs, alcohol and life itself. But tonight it was midweek quiet, or else too early and chilly for the pavements to be lively. As Rebus approached the third bar, he noted its solitary gatekeeper. Broad-shouldered in a dark three-quarter-length coat. Shaved head and no discernible neck. Early fifties but fighting fit, ID stuffed into a clear plastic armband around one bicep.

‘Seem to know the face,’ the man said as Rebus stopped in front of him.

‘I used to be a DI,’ Rebus explained.

‘We ever work together?’

Rebus shook his head, then held out a hand. ‘Name’s John Rebus.’ Chatham’s grip was solid, and Rebus returned it as best he could. ‘And you’re Robert Chatham.’

‘My other half phoned to let me know there was a visitor on his way. You’re out of the force now, though?’

‘I do a bit of work as a civilian. How long since you left?’

‘Three years.’ Chatham broke off to hold open the door for a pair of new arrivals, allowing Rebus a glimpse of the bar’s interior. Too dark for his liking, and a pounding soundtrack.

‘Is that called techno?’ he asked.

‘I call it noise,’ Chatham replied. ‘So what is it I can do for you?’

‘You had a spell at SCRU.’

‘A short spell — Eddie Tranter was off sick.’

‘I worked SCRU myself not long after.’

‘Oh aye?’

‘There’s a case I’ve been looking at — Maria Turquand.’ Chatham nodded slowly, saying nothing. ‘You dusted it off after Vince Brady offered new evidence.’

‘Evidence?’ Chatham snorted. ‘It was his word against Bruce Collier’s. Collier got his lawyers on it PDQ. Threatened to sue Brady, Lothian and Borders, and any newspaper we talked to.’

‘You reckon he had something to hide?’

Chatham considered this. ‘Not really,’ he eventually conceded.

‘You think it was her lover all along?’

‘I take it you’ve seen the files — what do you think?’

‘Any chance we can discuss this somewhere that isn’t a pavement on Lothian Road?’

‘I don’t knock off till midnight. Only place I’m going after that is my kip.’

‘Tomorrow morning?’

The doorman stared at Rebus. ‘I really don’t think I’m going to be any help.’

‘I’d appreciate it all the same.’

‘There’s a café on North Junction Street,’ Chatham eventually conceded. ‘Best bacon rolls in the city. Ten o’clock do you?’

‘Ten’s fine.’ They shook again, and Rebus headed for his car. He turned his head for a final look at Chatham, but the man was busy with his phone, holding it close to his face as he tapped the screen. Texting or calling? Rebus had his answer as Chatham lifted the phone to his ear. He was staring in Rebus’s direction as his mouth started to move.

‘Lip-reading, John,’ Rebus muttered. ‘There’s a hobby you could take up.’ He unlocked the Saab and got in, turning up the heat. His Marchmont flat was only five minutes away. Brillo would be needing a walk.

Their meeting with Darryl Christie had been arranged for seven, but then changed by Christie to eight. When they’d arrived at his door, however, his mother was ready with an apology that Darryl was ‘a bit busy’ and could they come back in another hour?

They returned to their two cars, parked kerbside. Fox waited a minute or two before opening the passenger-side door of Clarke’s Astra.

‘Does it really make sense for us to sit in separate cars?’

‘Up to you,’ Clarke said. But she didn’t look exactly welcoming as he climbed in. She busied herself with her phone while Fox stared through the windscreen at his surroundings.

‘Thought I just saw my namesake,’ he eventually offered.

Clarke glanced up. ‘They do get foxes here.’ As if on cue, the security lights came on outside Christie’s neighbour’s house. A lean shape could be seen stalking past.

‘Why do you think they chose this spot? Whoever thumped Darryl, I mean — why outside his actual house?’

‘Doesn’t need to be any real reason.’

‘Is his address public knowledge?’

‘I wouldn’t have thought so.’

‘Which might narrow things down a bit.’

‘It might,’ Clarke conceded. After a further fifteen seconds, she gave up the pretence of being busy on her phone, and half turned towards him instead. ‘But I’m more interested in why he was singled out in the first place.’

‘I went to his betting shops this afternoon.’

‘Oh?’

‘Just for a look-see.’

‘Christine told me she’d copied you in on his various businesses. Mind if I ask why you zeroed in on them rather than any of his other interests?’

‘Maybe they were at the top of the list.’

‘They weren’t, though, were they?’

Fox considered for a moment. ‘HMRC are interested in him. They think he’s laundering money.’

‘You mentioned that in Page’s office.’

‘If he’s cleaning up cash for various gangs from all over the country, any one of them could have taken against him.’

‘For short-changing them?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘What if I throw Cafferty’s name into the ring?’

‘Wouldn’t put anything past him. But he’d probably only make a move if he thought Darryl was weakened by something.’

‘Such as?’

Fox shrugged. ‘Maybe we’ll get an inkling when we talk to Darryl.’

‘I’ll be doing the talking, Malcolm. You’re there to listen.’

‘Understood.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Is this us thawing out here?’

‘Maybe a little. Have you asked Gartcosh about intelligence sharing?’

‘They’re mulling it over.’

‘Nice to feel we’re all part of the same big happy family...’ Clarke broke off and watched as Gail McKie padded down the path, opening the gate and making for the Astra. Clarke slid her window down, and McKie’s face appeared in the gap.

‘He’s ready for you,’ she said, turning back towards the house.

‘Right then,’ Clarke said to Fox, sliding the window closed and pulling the key from the ignition.

McKie was waiting for them inside the front door. ‘He’s in the living room,’ she said. ‘Told me not to bother offering a drink — you won’t be staying long.’

‘Are your other two sons around for a quick chat after?’ Clarke enquired. McKie shook her head.

‘Out with mates.’

‘That’s a pity.’

‘They’ve really nothing to say.’

‘They need to tell me that for themselves.’

Clarke pushed open the door and stepped into the living room. Flower-patterned sofa, almost the entire floor covered with a huge colourful rug, something Persian or Indian. Flowers in vases on occasional tables, and seated in the very centre of the room on a dining chair fetched from elsewhere, Darryl Christie. He was dressed in a shell suit and gleaming trainers, but looked stiff and pained. His nose had been strapped, the eyes still puffy and bruised.

‘How are you?’ Clarke asked.

‘I’ve felt better.’ He spoke quietly, as if each word hurt.

‘Cracked ribs, I hear.’

‘They’ve got me in some sort of corset thing.’ His eyes had settled on Fox, who stood hands in pockets at Clarke’s shoulder.

‘You’re looking a lot better than last time we met,’ Christie commented. Fox’s face remained stony. ‘If you’re wondering about the dining chair, it’s better for me than an armchair. But go ahead and make yourselves comfortable.’

They settled side by side on the sofa. Christie lifted a hand slowly, rubbing it across his hair, hair that needed a wash. There was stubble on his chin and cheeks, and the knuckles of his left hand were grazed.

‘Lost a tooth, too,’ he told them. ‘Hence the whistling.’ He tried for a grin, so they could see the gap.

‘We’ve asked up and down the street,’ Clarke said. ‘Nobody saw or heard anything, and the few bits of CCTV we’ve collected don’t seem to have caught whoever did it. That’s why we’re hoping you can help.’

‘Sorry to disappoint. Whoever it was, they were lying in wait, maybe round the back of the house or the side of the garage. Security light was triggered when I drove in, so that didn’t alert me. They came up behind me and hit me across the head. I went down and was in the Land of Nod before they got to work.’

‘You think it was a pro?’

‘Don’t you?’

‘Leads me to my next question — any idea who might have it in for you?’

‘I’ve not a single enemy in the world, DI Clarke.’

‘Not even Big Ger Cafferty?’ Fox broke in, earning a stern sideways glance from Clarke.

‘It wasn’t Cafferty — not in the flesh. I’d have heard him wheezing with the effort.’

‘You reckon one assailant or two?’ Clarke asked.

‘One would have done the job. I’m not the brawniest. Last time I saw a gym was high school.’

‘Fallen out with any associates recently?’

The question had come from Fox. Christie looked at him. ‘Know why I stopped travelling with a posse? It was because I didn’t need them. Like I say, no enemies.’

‘Plus everyone knows that if they touch you, they’re also messing with Joe Stark and his outfit. I’m surprised he’s not hopped over from Glasgow with grapes and Lucozade.’

‘Joe had nothing to do with this.’ Christie shifted in his chair, his mouth twisting at a sudden stab of pain.

‘We know about your car tyres and the bin being set on fire,’ Clarke stated. ‘If this is an individual who’s out to get you, they’re probably not going to stop. Best-case scenario: they’re just trying to put a scare on you for some reason.’

‘That’s a real comfort, DI Clarke.’

‘You need to think about your family as well as yourself, Darryl.’

‘I never stop thinking about my family!’

‘Then you might want to move them out for the duration.’

Christie nodded slowly. ‘I might just do that, thanks.’

‘And you may not think you need a posse, but one or two bodies wouldn’t go amiss — close by you through the day and sentry duty here at night. We’ll have patrol cars tour the neighbourhood at regular intervals, at least for a day or two.’

Christie kept nodding. ‘It’s almost as if you care,’ he said eventually, eyes flitting from Clarke to Fox.

‘Just doing our job,’ Clarke stated. ‘Though without your cooperation, that may not be quite enough to stop another attack.’

‘Or even an escalation,’ Fox added.

‘I thought I was cooperating?’ Christie pretended to complain.

‘Line of work you’re in, Darryl,’ Clarke said, getting to her feet, ‘if you don’t have enemies, you’re doing something wrong. I know you’re hurting right now and probably not taking the painkillers because you want your head clear — that way you can think hard about the list of candidates. So a word of advice: don’t start a war. You can bring us the names, let us check them out. It won’t be a sign of weakness, I promise. Quite the opposite.’ She was standing in front of him, hands clasped. ‘And maybe get those fake cameras switched for real ones, okay?’

‘Whatever you say, DI Clarke.’

Clarke made to leave the room, Fox a few steps behind. When he risked a glance in Christie’s direction, Christie gave the slyest of winks. Fox’s face remained impassive as he followed Clarke out of the house.

‘I thought I told you not to do any talking?’ she muttered.

‘Couldn’t help myself, sorry.’

Clarke unlocked her car but didn’t get in. She stood on the pavement instead, staring at the house she’d just left.

‘Did we learn anything useful?’ Fox asked.

‘I thought he was maybe trying to become Cafferty,’ Clarke obliged. ‘Turns out that’s not what this house is.’

‘What is it, then?’

‘Who do you think decorated that room and bought all the chintz?’

‘His mother?’

Clarke nodded. ‘That’s who it’s all for. He might have kept his dad’s surname, but Darryl’s heart belongs to Mummy...’