Rather Be the Devil

5

‘You weren’t kidding about the rolls,’ Rebus said, taking another bite.

‘Bacon just the right side of crispy,’ Robert Chatham agreed.

They were seated across from one another at a booth with padded seats and a Formica-topped table. Mugs of dark-brown tea and plates in front of them, Radio Forth belting out from the kitchen.

‘Sorry if I was a bit ragged last night,’ Chatham went on. ‘Wasn’t expecting to hear of Maria Turquand ever again. You’ve seen the photos of her? Wasn’t she a stunner?’

‘She was.’

‘Brainy, too — studied Latin and Greek.’

‘And Ancient History,’ Rebus added, to show that he too had done his homework.

‘Probably never should have got married — bit too much wildness about her.’

‘Likely frowned upon in John Turquand’s world.’

Chatham nodded as he chewed. ‘Problem we had was, a lot of the bit-part players had died. No way we could confirm anything by asking hotel staff or guests. And, thirty years having passed, the ones we did track down had forgotten anything they used to know. Place was a melee that day, too — comings and goings, reporters who’d booked interviews with Collier or were chancing to luck that they’d get near him. Then there were the fans, who were either standing outside chanting his name or else dodging into the foyer and making for the stairs.’ Chatham took a slurp of tea. ‘We had a computer guy try plotting a 3D plan of the foyer and all the people who might have seen the killer enter or leave, but there were too many variables. In the end, he gave up.’

‘What about the press photographers?’

Chatham nodded slowly. ‘We looked at everything we could find. Even got a couple of Collier’s diehard fans to hand over stuff they’d shot on the street outside.’ He made a zero with thumb and forefinger.

‘So if you couldn’t place either Maria’s lover or her husband at the scene, did you begin to give a bit more credence to Vince Brady’s version?’

‘All Brady said was that Collier had been chatting to the victim in the third-floor corridor. Collier denied it, and turned out there was some bad blood between him and Brady. He’s dead, you know.’

‘Vince Brady?’

‘Last year. Third or fourth heart attack, I think.’ Chatham put down the remains of his roll, wiped his fingers on a serviette and looked at Rebus. ‘Why the sudden interest? Has something happened?’

Instead of answering, Rebus had another question ready. ‘How about the husband and the lover — did you interview them?’

‘Turquand and Attwood? You’ve seen the files, you tell me.’

‘Not everything makes it into the official account.’

Chatham gave a thin smile. ‘I did have a word with both, as it happens — off the record.’

‘Why off the record?’

‘Because we were supposed to focus on Brady and Collier. Top brass didn’t think it worth looking much further. But you’ll remember that one of the room-service staff said he saw a man who looked a bit like Peter Attwood.’

‘He couldn’t be certain, though.’

Chatham nodded. ‘And Attwood’s story was that he had broken it off with Maria — not that he’d told her. Took the coward’s way out: left her waiting in her room for him to show up, while he was busy elsewhere with her replacement.’

‘He’s all class.’

‘When I saw him eight years ago, he was happily married with a first grandkid on the way. Said he was “another man” back in the seventies.’

‘He’s still in the land of the living?’

‘No idea. I don’t always pore over the obituaries.’

‘What about John Turquand?’

‘Retired and living in a castle in Perthshire. Likes his hunting, shooting and fishing. Always supposing he’s not kicked the bucket.’

‘Did he ever marry again?’

‘Threw himself into his work instead. Made his millions and started to spend them.’

‘Life turned out pretty well for the two main suspects.’

‘Didn’t it though? And Bruce Collier does a bit of touring still, too.’

‘I heard he was living back up here.’

‘Townhouse in Rutland Square, though you’re more likely to find him at one of his other homes — Barbados and Cape Town, I think I read.’

‘Rutland Square?’

‘I smiled at that, too. Practically next door to the Caley. Reckon it means anything?’

‘I don’t know. Probably not. Wonder if he still hangs out with his old pal Dougie Vaughan.’

‘Ah, there’s another thing — according to Vince Brady, Collier made him hand over one of his room keys to Dougie Vaughan.’

‘Yes, I read that. Any idea why?’

‘So Vaughan could take a nap if the need arose. Hanging out seemed to involve quite a lot of booze.’

Rebus’s eyes narrowed. ‘Brady had the room next to Maria Turquand,’ he stated.

‘Right.’

‘And Vaughan had a key.’

‘Sort of — he said he vaguely remembered a key but didn’t know which room it was for or what happened to it. He swears he never went anywhere other than Bruce Collier’s suite.’ Chatham pushed his plate to one side and leaned across the table. ‘You know there were connecting doors?’

‘What?’

‘Between Maria’s room and Vince Brady’s. Don’t bother checking — the hotel did away with them years back. Solid walls now, not so solid back then.’

‘And Vaughan and the victim had had a bit of a fling.’

‘He still swears he never saw her that day.’

‘How about Vince Brady’s alibi?’

‘He was running around like a mad thing, backwards and forwards to the Usher Hall to check on the crew and the programme stall. A dozen or more people confirmed talking to him in a dozen places.’

‘He must have been in his room some of the time, though.’

‘Agreed, but he didn’t hear or see anything.’

‘Apart from Maria Turquand in the hallway with Bruce Collier.’

‘Apart from that, yes.’

Rebus thought for a moment. ‘One last thing — did a Russian crop up at all?’

Chatham’s brow furrowed. ‘A Russian?’

‘Anywhere you can think of.’

Chatham shook his head and the two men drank their tea in silence for a moment.

‘So what’s this all about?’ Chatham enquired.

‘It’s just a feeling I got, right back at the start of the original investigation. The feeling we were missing something, not seeing something.’

‘And it’s taken you until now to revisit that?’

‘I’ve been a bit busy. I’m not so busy these days.’

Chatham nodded his understanding. ‘When I retired, it took a while to change gears.’

‘How did you do it?’

‘The love of a good woman. Plus I got the doorman job, and I go to the gym.’ He gestured towards his plate. ‘That’s an occasional treat, and I can work it off this afternoon.’

‘I’ve got a dog I can walk.’ Rebus paused. ‘And a good woman.’

‘Spend more time with both of them then. Learn to let go.’

Rebus nodded his agreement. ‘This is going to take me a while to digest,’ he said.

‘Same here.’ Chatham thumped his chest with one hand.

‘I didn’t mean the bacon. Though now that I think of it, that too. Thanks for seeing me.’

The two men shook hands across the table.

‘Back so soon?’

Unsure of the protocol, Fox had been loitering in the doorway of the HMRC section, waiting to catch Sheila Graham’s eye. It had worked eventually and she was now standing in front of him.

‘So you’ve either brought news,’ she began, folding her arms, ‘or else decided it’s a waste of time.’

‘I just think I need a bit more of a briefing. In fact, ideally I’d like to see what you’ve already got on Christie.’

‘Why?’

‘So I don’t end up telling you what you already know.’

She studied him, her face impassive. Eventually she managed a smile. ‘Let me buy you a coffee,’ she said.

There was a stall in a corner of the ground-floor atrium, so they queued there, taking their drinks to one of the breakout areas — basically comfy seating separated by a small circular table.

‘So what have you learned so far?’ Graham asked.

‘Christie’s been targeted before — car and rubbish bin. There’s no CCTV of the attack and none of the neighbours could help. So we’re looking for possible enemies, without getting much help from the victim.’

‘Is he recovering?’

‘At home,’ Fox acknowledged. ‘I saw him last night.’

‘You saw him?’

‘DI Clarke went to question him and I tagged along.’

‘But he knows you, yes?’

‘I didn’t say I was working at Gartcosh these days.’

‘He couldn’t already know?’

‘I think he would have said something, just so I’d know he knew.’

‘We don’t want him to twig that we’re digging into his affairs,’ Graham cautioned.

‘He must have an inkling, though.’

Graham considered this. ‘Maybe,’ she conceded.

‘I also took a look at both his betting shops. Nothing struck me as out of the ordinary.’

‘Which two?’

‘They’re both called Diamond Joe’s.’ Fox paused. ‘Why?’

‘There’s a third, though you won’t find Christie’s name on any paperwork. And to be honest, I doubt you’d notice anything unusual, even if money was being laundered under your nose.’

‘How’s that then?’

‘Fixed-odds machines — usually roulette. Losses can be minimised to around four per cent. When you finish playing, you print out a ticket and exchange it for cash at the counter. They give you a receipt, so if you’re ever found with a suspiciously large pile of notes, you’ve got evidence it’s legit.’

‘So basically the bookie is charging a four per cent fee?’

‘A cheap way of cleaning up dirty money. You can send thousands an hour through each and every machine. They’re busy trying to change the law in Brussels — any winnings over two thousand euros will need to include the recipient’s details. The industry over here is fighting against it.’

‘If someone’s hogging a machine hour after hour, feeding in thousands, surely the cashier notices?’

‘Often they don’t, or aren’t particularly bothered. Then again, if the person who owns the shop is in on the scam...’

‘Like Darryl Christie, you mean?’

She nodded slowly. ‘But there’s a lot more to Mr Christie than that.’

‘Oh?’

Her face hardened. ‘This goes no further, Malcolm.’ She edged forward on her seat, and he did the same. There was no one within twenty feet of them, but Graham dropped her voice anyway.

‘The betting shop I’m talking about is called Klondyke Alley. There happens to be a one-bedroom flat above it that is probably also owned by Christie.’

‘I’m listening.’

‘Do you know what SLPs are?’

‘No.’

‘Maybe I should show you, then.’ She seemed to have made her mind up. Springing to her feet, she grabbed her coffee and told him to do the same. He followed her back to the HMRC section, where they found a spare chair and pulled it over to her desk. There were a few questioning looks from Graham’s colleagues, so she introduced Fox.

‘Relax,’ she said. ‘He’s almost one of us.’

She got busy on her keyboard until a page-long list appeared onscreen.

‘Scottish limited partnerships. Guess how many of them are registered at the flat above Klondyke Alley?’

Fox’s eyes narrowed. ‘All of these?’

Graham had clicked her mouse several times, and the list kept growing. ‘Over five hundred,’ she stated. ‘Five hundred companies that give their business address as a one-bedroom flat in Leith.’

‘I’m hoping you’re going to tell me why.’

‘They’re shell companies, Malcolm. A way of hiding assets and moving them around the globe. Try tracking the actual owners and you usually end up in some offshore tax haven like the British Virgin Islands or the Caymans, jurisdictions that aren’t exactly forthcoming when the UK tax authorities start asking questions. There’s a new law coming in. UK owners will have to reveal who the real beneficiaries are, though whether we’ll be able to trust that information is a moot point. For now though, SLPs are a great way of hiding who you are and what the hell you’re doing.’

‘And Darryl Christie runs this whole thing?’

Graham shook her head. ‘The flat is rented from Christie by a corporate services provider called Brough Consulting.’

‘No relation to the private bank?’

‘Not quite. Brough Consulting is one man, Anthony Brough, grandson of Sir Magnus, who ran Brough’s until it was bought by one of the Big Five.’

‘How close is he to Darryl?’

‘Quite close.’

‘So these shell companies... they’re like an extension of the money laundering?’

‘That’s what we’re trying to find out. It’s a hideous paper trail that happens to be mostly electronic. So we sit here all day, working our way from one company to the next, one beneficial owner to the next, trying to find real flesh-and-blood people hiding in the margins of a hundred thousand transactions.’ She looked at him. ‘It is proper detective work, you see. Except we tend to call it forensic accounting.’

‘Have you made anything stick yet?’

‘Against Brough Consulting? We’d be popping the champagne if we had.’

‘Getting close, though?’

‘We thought maybe Darryl Christie would lead us somewhere.’

‘But that hasn’t happened.’ Fox thought for a moment. ‘Could any of these shell companies have some beef with Darryl?’

‘We’ve no way of knowing.’

‘You can’t intercept his emails and phone calls?’

‘Not without the say-so from upstairs. And probably a doubling of resources — has news reached you that we’re supposed to be tightening our belts? This is Austerity Britain we’re living in.’ She swivelled in her chair so her knees brushed his. ‘You need to keep this to yourself, Malcolm, remember that. Even if it starts to have some bearing on the assault case, you talk to me before you start sharing with your pals back in Edinburgh.’

‘Understood,’ Fox said. ‘And thanks. It means a lot that you would trust me.’

‘There’s more I could tell you, but it would probably go over your head — some of it goes above mine.’

‘Numbers were never my strong point.’

‘But you can balance a chequebook — that’s what you said at our first meeting.’

‘Maybe I exaggerated a little.’ He jabbed a finger towards his cheek. ‘Good poker face, remember?’

Graham smiled again. ‘You’re heading back to Edinburgh?’ She watched Fox nod. ‘Quid pro quo, then — don’t leave me out of the loop.’

‘I won’t,’ Fox said.

‘So where does the inquiry go next?’

‘That’s DI Clarke’s call.’ His phone was vibrating in his jacket. He dug it out and checked the screen. ‘Speak of the devil,’ he said, opening the text message. Graham saw his eyebrows arch in surprise.

‘Something?’ she asked.

‘Something,’ he acknowledged, turning the phone towards her so she could read what was there.

We’ve got a confession.

‘You better skedaddle, then,’ Graham said. ‘And be sure to phone me with the news.’

‘I’ll do that,’ Fox said, deserting the remains of his coffee as he headed for the door.

6

A solitary journalist stood guard on the pavement outside Gayfield Square police station. Her name was Laura Smith and she was the crime correspondent for the Scotsman.

‘I’m freezing half to death here, DI Fox,’ she complained as he made to pass her.

‘No comment, Ms Smith.’

‘It’s not like I haven’t done you favours in the past.’

‘It’s DI Clarke you should be pestering.’

‘She’s not answering her phone.’

‘Probably because she’s got nothing to say. And isn’t a mugging a bit pedestrian for a crime reporter?’

‘Not when you bear in mind who the victim is.’

‘Local entrepreneur Darryl Christie?’

She smiled. ‘Don’t worry, my paper’s lawyers will make sure I don’t say anything that could get us into trouble.’

‘That’s good, because I dare say Mr Christie has lawyers, too.’

‘Just give me a sentence — I can quote you as “police sources”.’

‘I’ve got nothing for you, Laura. But I’ll put in a word with DI Clarke.’

‘Cross your heart?’

‘I wouldn’t want you suing me for breach of promise.’

He opened the door and went in, past the reception desk, punching in the code for the inner door, then along the narrow corridor to the interview rooms. No doubting which one contained the confessor — a huddle of uniforms had gathered next to it, whispering and listening.

Fox hadn’t been lying to Laura Smith — he’d tried phoning Clarke for clarification, but without any luck. Now he asked the most senior of the constables for the story.

‘Walked up to one of the beat officers, said he needed to tell him something.’

‘Where was this?’

‘A Greggs on South Bridge. Carrying a shopping bag and looking like he needed hosing down. Officer played along, asked him what he’d done. He said he’d whacked Darryl Christie around the head, given his ribs a few kicks for good measure.’

‘Probably a nutter,’ another uniform offered.

‘Specific injuries haven’t been mentioned anywhere, though, have they?’ the older constable said.

‘Hospital would know. Family and neighbours, too. Word has a way of getting out.’

‘Is there a lawyer on the way?’ Fox queried.

‘Says he doesn’t want one. Not been charged yet anyway.’

‘So who’s in there with him? DI Clarke?’

‘And DC Esson.’

Fox stared hard at the door, with its signage switched from VACANT to IN USE. The surface of the door was heavily scored, its paintwork chipped away. Fox was wondering if he could just march in. He could, of course — it was his right. But if Siobhan was getting answers... and if the man inside clammed up, spell broken by the interruption...

‘Has he got a name?’ he asked instead.

‘Officer he spoke to must have got it, but he’s off writing up his report.’

‘Will he mention that he was queuing for doughnuts at Greggs at the time?’

‘Man’s got to eat,’ the older constable said, as if dispensing the wisdom of the ages. ‘And it was a steak bake, to be exact.’

There was a noise from inside and the door opened, catching them by surprise. Like all the doors, it opened outwards, so that no one left inside could attempt a barricade. The edge of the door caught one of the uniforms a glancing blow to his shoulder. He let out a yelp as Christine Esson emerged.

‘Serves you right,’ she said, in place of apologising. Siobhan Clarke was right behind her. She spotted Fox and gestured for him to follow as she made for the stairs to the CID suite. Esson meantime was telling the uniforms to make themselves useful — two to keep an eye on the man still seated in the interview room, another to fetch him something to drink and eat.

‘He pongs to high heaven,’ Clarke informed Fox, sucking in gulps of fresh air.

‘Vagrant?’

‘Not as such. Lives in Craigmillar. Unemployed. His name’s William Shand. William Crawford Shand.’

‘And he knows about the cracked ribs?’

Clarke glanced back at him. ‘News travels.’

‘Unless you happen to be Laura Smith.’

‘Laura can wait.’ Clarke walked into the office, met Ronnie Ogilvie’s eyes and stabbed a finger towards DCI Page’s door.

‘He’s not in,’ Ogilvie stated. He noticed Fox staring at his moustache.

‘Is that new?’ Fox asked. Ogilvie nodded. ‘Not sure it suits you, Ronnie.’

‘I hate to interrupt a burgeoning bromance,’ Clarke said, eyes fixed on Ogilvie, ‘but any idea where he’s gone?’

‘The DCI? Pen-pushers’ meeting at Fettes.’

Clarke sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. ‘I need to get his okay,’ she muttered.

‘Okay for what?’ Fox asked.

‘There’s a civilian Shand wants us to hook him up with. Says he’s the one he wants to confess to. Bit of history between them, it seems. Not sure I can let that happen without the DCI’s say-so.’

Fox was staring at her. ‘Your tone of voice makes me think I know who the civilian is.’

Clarke raised her eyes to the ceiling as the name burst from Malcolm Fox’s lips.

‘Rebus.’

‘Tell me Laura isn’t still outside,’ Clarke said as she led Rebus along the corridor.

‘Of course she is.’

Clarke cursed under her breath. ‘What did you tell her?’

‘Said I was meeting an old friend.’ Rebus turned towards her. ‘How are you, anyway?’

‘I’ve been better.’

‘Two things you need to know, Siobhan.’

‘I’m listening.’

‘One, everybody knows him as Craw. I doubt he’s been called William by anyone other than sheriffs and bailiffs.’

‘He’s got previous?’

‘See, that brings me to my second point — you’ve been sold a pup. A cursory examination of the records would have told you that Craw’s notorious for handing himself in whenever something big hits the news.’

‘We ran him through the system — clean as a whistle the past five years.’

‘Then he’s slid back into his old ways.’ They had reached the interview room, where Fox waited. Rebus shook his hand. ‘What brings you here, Malcolm?’

‘Curiosity.’

‘Well, you’re in the right place — the gent behind that door is a one-man freak show.’ Rebus reached for the handle, then paused. ‘Best if I do this on my own.’

‘Are you forgetting you’re not CID any more?’ Clarke said.

‘Even so...’

‘It’s a deal-breaker, John. There has to be someone in there representing Police Scotland.’

Rebus looked from Clarke to Fox and back again. ‘Then I’ll let the pair of you toss a coin.’ Having said which, he pulled open the door and strode in.

Craw Shand was seated at the narrow table, toying with a sandwich consisting of two thin slices of white bread and a thinner layer of orange processed cheese. There was an inch of tea left in the polystyrene cup, a scum beginning to form on it. Rebus wafted a hand in front of him.

‘Jeezo, Craw. When was the last time you saw soap?’ He gestured for the uniformed officers to leave. Without bothering to ask who Rebus was, they did as ordered.

Still got it, John.

‘All right, Mr Rebus?’ Craw said. His teeth were blackened, his hair — what was left of it — thin and greasy against his scalp. ‘Been a while, eh?’

‘Best part of twenty years, Craw.’

‘Not that long, surely?’

Rebus dragged the metal chair out from the table and sat down. ‘Didn’t they tell you? I’m retired these days.’

‘Is that right?’

‘Reckoned it was safe to retreat from the fray — thought the likes of you had got tired of playing games.’

‘No games today, Mr Rebus.’

‘Then there’s a first time for everything.’

Craw Shand’s eyes were milky as he stared at the man across from him. ‘Remember Johnny Bible, Mr Rebus?’

‘Sure.’

‘Craigmillar cop shop. You were the one who interrogated me.’

‘We don’t interrogate these days, Craw — it’s called an interview.’

‘You were tough but fair.’

‘I’d like to think so.’

‘Right up to the point where you pushed me to the floor and half strangled me.’

‘My memory’s not so good these days, Craw.’

Craw Shand offered a grin. ‘You remember, though.’

‘Maybe I do and maybe I don’t. What’s that got to do with Darryl Christie?’

Both men turned as the door was opened again and Clarke stalked in. Fox could be glimpsed in the corridor, wanting a view of Shand. Clarke pulled the door closed just as Rebus was offering a wave.

‘You’ve not told me,’ Rebus continued, ‘why it was me you needed to speak to. As I’ve been saying, DI Clarke here is perfectly competent.’

‘It was that memory of Craigmillar. I just thought I’d like to see you again.’

‘In case I dished out more of the same? Sorry to disappoint you, Craw, but we’re both in our sixties now and the world’s got a new set of rules.’ Rebus made show of studying his watch. ‘I’ve a dominoes tournament starting in an hour, so I’d be obliged if we could keep this businesslike.’

‘I hit him.’

‘Hit who?’

‘His name’s Darryl Christie. He lives in a big house by the Botanic Gardens.’

‘That’s good, Craw. Matches every online article about what happened.’

‘He was getting out of his car — a white Range Rover. I snuck up behind him and hit him.’

‘With what?’

‘A length of wood. It was lying to the side of the garage. That’s where I waited.’

‘In the dark, aye?’

‘Security lights came on as I walked up the driveway, but nobody came out of the house.’

‘You weren’t worried about the CCTV?’

‘We all know those things are next to useless.’

‘Why did you do it, Craw? Why pick that particular victim?’

‘I was just angry.’

‘About what, though?’

‘People with money. People with too much — the big houses and everything. I’m just sick of them.’

‘So you’d done this before?’

‘I’d thought about it many a time.’

‘But never carried it through?’ Rebus watched as Craw Shand shook his head. He leaned back on the hard metal seat.

‘You’re sure the car was white?’

‘Lights went on again as it came up the drive.’

‘Were the gates locked when you got there?’

‘Gate to the footpath wasn’t. Driveway gates started opening as the car came near.’

Rebus looked to Clarke, who raised one eyebrow. So far, the man could not be faulted.

‘What did you do with the piece of wood?’

‘Tossed it.’

‘Where?’

‘Inverleith Park somewhere.’

‘That’s a fair stretch of land, Craw. Might take us a lot of man hours to find it.’

Shand perked up at this thought.

‘That’s supposing we were to believe you, of course. And I think you’re the lying toerag you always were.’ Rebus got up from his chair and walked around the table until he was standing behind Shand. He could feel the man tense.

‘Same fucking games you’ve always played,’ he growled. ‘Just because it gets that chipolata in your manky Y-fronts hard. Playtime’s over, pal. Time you headed back to your hovel and your online porn.’

‘I’m telling you, I did it!’

‘And I’m telling you to get the hell out of this interview room before we have to phone Rentokil!’

‘John,’ Clarke cautioned. She had been resting against a wall, but took a few steps towards the table. Then, to Shand: ‘Can you add to your description, Craw? The house, the car, how events played out?’

‘I hit him over the head from behind,’ Shand recited. ‘Then I leaned over him and gave him a punch in the face. Stood back up and kicked him in the ribs a few times — I forget how many. A last kick to the nose and that was that.’

‘Just for being rich?’

‘Exactly.’

Rebus placed a hand on one of Shand’s shoulders, causing him to flinch. ‘We should give the news to Christie. Case closed. We can all go home, and Craw here can go to Saughton nick, where there’ll be a small but perfectly formed price on his head.’ He paused, leaning in closer to Shand’s left ear. ‘You know who Darryl Christie is, Craw?’

‘He owns a hotel.’

‘They said that in the papers too, but what they forgot to mention was that he’s taken over from Big Ger Cafferty. Maybe let that sink in, eh?’ He straightened up, glancing towards Siobhan Clarke, but she was focusing on the seated figure.

‘Anything else, Mr Shand? Anything you specifically remember?’

Shand’s eyes widened. ‘The bin by the back door — half of one of its sides was melted away!’ He looked from Clarke to Rebus and back again, almost in triumph at the memory. Clarke, however, had eyes only for Rebus.

‘Give me a reason not to charge him,’ she said.

Rebus pursed his lips. ‘Seems like my work here is done.’ He gripped Craw Shand’s shoulder again. ‘Good luck, Craw. I really mean that. It’s taken you half a lifetime, but you’ve done it at last. God help you...’

Rebus was seated in the back room of the Oxford Bar. Darkness had fallen and the early-evening crowd downstairs at the bar itself was in good humour. Rebus sipped his drink, turning his head to the window when he heard a tapping sound. It was one of the regulars, who had gone outside for a smoke. He was signalling for Rebus to join him, but Rebus shook his head. He’d had a coughing fit in the toilet five minutes back, hawking gobbets into the sink then running the tap, rinsing away the evidence before dabbing sweat from his brow while thinking that next time maybe he’d remember to bring his inhaler. His face in the mirror told its own story, with little to indicate that the ending would be happy.

Clarke had texted, interested in his whereabouts, so he wasn’t surprised when she climbed the steps from the bar area and peered around the doorway.

‘It’s Malcolm’s round,’ she informed him. Rebus shook his head, his hand resting on the glass in front of him.

Eventually Fox appeared, carrying Clarke’s gin and tonic and a tomato juice. They pulled out chairs and sat opposite Rebus.

‘What the hell’s that?’ Fox couldn’t help asking.

‘It’s called a half,’ Rebus said, hoisting the small glass and swirling it.

‘Denise behind the bar tried warning me, but I thought she was joking.’

‘John’s watching himself,’ Clarke explained.

‘Is this Deborah Quant’s doing?’

‘At least I still take a drink,’ Rebus said, receiving a mock toast from Fox in response. Rebus turned his attention to Clarke. ‘You really think Craw Shand’s suddenly become a ninja?’

‘How does he know about the bin?’

‘Maybe he heard something. Maybe he went over there and checked the place out.’

Clarke savoured the first taste of her drink, saying nothing.

‘You’re really going to charge him?’

‘The DCI can’t see good reason not to.’

‘Then you have to convince him he’s wrong. Does Christie know we’ve got Craw in custody?’

‘He’s been informed an arrest has been made.’

‘And?’

‘Mr Shand’s name was not unfamiliar to him.’

‘Craw always did like a dodgy pub, and Darryl owns a few of those.’

‘He says they’ve never spoken or had any business...’

Malcolm Fox cleared his throat, signalling an interruption. ‘Shand says he chose a victim at random, yes? So it’s neither here nor there if they know one another.’

Rebus glared at him. ‘Malcolm, Craw Shand could no more beat someone up than I could swim the Forth. He’s in his sixties, weighs about the same as a scarecrow, and moves like someone’s stuck a pole up his arse.’

‘Plus,’ Clarke added, ‘he didn’t know about the slashed tyres, added to which he swears he didn’t torch the bin. On the other hand, he knows too much for this to be one of his usual stories...’

‘Agreed,’ Rebus eventually conceded. ‘Which is why we’re back to the point I made earlier — he’s been hearing things, or he scoped the place out. He needs questioning about both of those. He also needs to be warned what this is going to mean for him now Darryl Christie’s got his name.’

‘Then he’s safer in custody, wouldn’t you agree?’

‘Only if he’s in solitary.’

They sat in silence for a few moments, concentrating on their drinks. There was another tap at the window, a further invitation for Rebus to step outside. He shook his head and mouthed, ‘No.’

‘Am I really seeing this?’ Fox said. ‘You’ve packed in the cigs?’

‘Call it a trial separation,’ Rebus replied.

‘Bloody hell. I need to sell my tobacco shares.’

‘I think it’s great,’ Clarke said.

‘Though it wipes out about the only hobby he had,’ Fox countered.

Clarke turned to Rebus. ‘Speaking of which...’

‘What?’

‘The files I gave you — any help?’

‘Some.’

‘What’s this?’ Fox enquired.

‘John’s looking at a society murder from the 1970s. Wish I’d been around at the time, actually.’

Rebus stared at her. ‘You studied the contents before handing it over?’

‘Just the summary. But then I went online. There’s not much, but a few writers have used it in books about famous crimes.’

‘So tell me,’ Fox said.

‘Woman by the name of Maria Turquand,’ Clarke recited. ‘Had a string of lovers behind her husband’s back. He was the wealthy banker type, worked for Sir Magnus Brough. Maria ended up strangled in a bedroom at the Caledonian Hotel. Her latest lover — one of hubby’s old pals — was chief suspect until another of his conquests provided an alibi. But the hotel was filled to bursting with musicians, hangers-on and the media. You’ve heard of Bruce Collier?’

‘I don’t think so,’ Fox confided.

‘That’s because you don’t like music. He was huge at the time. Local success story who’d come home to headline the Usher Hall. Story was, he’d been seen chatting up Maria. Pal of his was around, too — and Maria had bedded him in the past. Then there was the road manager...’ She looked to Rebus for the name.

‘Vince Brady,’ he obliged. ‘Whose room was next to Maria’s. And there were connecting doors.’

‘I didn’t know that,’ Clarke said.

‘I had a word with Robert Chatham.’

‘Who’s Robert Chatham?’ Fox asked.

‘Ex-CID,’ Rebus explained. ‘Now retired. He headed a cold-case review a few years back.’

‘And this has come on to your radar because...?’

‘As you rightly said, a man needs a hobby.’

Fox nodded his understanding. ‘Sir Magnus Brough was the power behind Brough’s, wasn’t he? The private bank?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Is he still around?’

‘Long dead.’

‘The bank got sold on, didn’t it? Any family members still involved?’

Rebus was staring at him. ‘I’ve never been a customer. What’s this about, Malcolm?’

Fox’s mouth twitched. ‘Nothing.’

‘Liar.’

‘You’re amongst friends here,’ Clarke added, leaning in towards him so their shoulders touched.

‘Really?’ he asked, his eyes fixing on her.

‘Really,’ she stated, while Rebus nodded his confirmation.

‘It’s just that his name came up,’ Fox eventually confided.

‘At Gartcosh?’

It was Fox’s turn to nod. ‘Not Sir Magnus, but his grandson.’

‘In connection with what?’

‘I can’t tell you that.’

‘Why?’

‘Operational reasons.’

Rebus and Clarke shared a look. ‘I keep forgetting,’ Rebus drawled, ‘that you move in higher circles than us these days, Malcolm. Got to keep all the good stuff locked away. Wouldn’t do for lesser mortals to get a taste — might go to our heads.’

‘It’s not that I don’t trust you — either of you. But I was sworn to secrecy. And by the way, the fact that you’ve not asked me why I’m back in the city tells me Siobhan’s already told you. I’m not sure I like being ganged up on.’

‘Aye, well. It’s nice to know where we all stand, eh, Siobhan?’

Fox’s shoulders had grown hunched as he gripped his near-empty glass, head angled over it.

‘I’m sure Malcolm knows what he’s doing,’ Clarke replied coldly.

‘First time for everything,’ Rebus agreed.

Clarke had finished her drink. She started to get to her feet. ‘You sticking around, John? I could give you a lift.’

‘A lift home would do the trick,’ Rebus said, lifting up the coat folded next to him.

‘What about me?’ Fox complained. ‘My car’s back at Gayfield Square.’

Clarke was already heading for the doorway. ‘You,’ she called back towards him, ‘can bloody well walk.’

‘It’ll do you good,’ Rebus added as he passed, patting the top of Fox’s head.

Every Edinburgh pothole was torture, even in a car with the suspension of Darryl Christie’s Range Rover. He sat in the passenger seat, trying not to flinch. Harry, his driver, had the knack of finding the road surface’s every bump and crater. But eventually they reached Merchiston — probably not by the fastest route, as Harry was relying on the sat nav.

‘Which house?’ he was asking Christie now.

‘Number twenty.’

‘This one then.’ Harry slammed on the brake, producing a gasp of pain from beside him.

‘Sorry, Darryl. You okay?’

But Christie was paying him no heed. Instead he was staring at the For Sale sign. Slowly he clambered from the car, straightening up with effort. Then he pushed open the gate and walked down the path. No lights on within. One set of curtains open, allowing him a view of a gutted drawing room.

‘You thinking of buying?’ Harry asked.

‘Go back to the car and wait there,’ Christie snapped.

He walked down the driveway — so like his own — towards the rear of the property. A sensor picked him up and a light came on, illuminating the garden with its separate coach house, where Cafferty’s one-time bodyguard had slept. Cafferty had paid the man off eventually, services no longer required. A red light blinked from the alarm box above the back door. Christie reckoned it would not be fake.

His phone buzzed in his pocket and he lifted it out. Joe Stark was calling him. He pressed the phone to his ear.

‘What can I do for you, Joe?’

‘I heard you got jumped.’

‘It’s no biggie.’

‘Trust me, it’s a biggie — means every fucker knows you can be jumped.’

‘I’m dealing with it.’

‘You better be.’

‘And I appreciate your concern.’

‘My concern?’ Stark’s voice was rising as Christie retraced his steps down the driveway. ‘All I’m concerned about is my fucking money — when do I get it?’

‘Soon, Joe, soon.’

‘You better hope I believe you, son.’

‘Have I ever let you down?’

‘Saying that gets us nowhere, Darryl. I’ve already gone easy on you.’

‘Are you saying you ordered that thumping?’

‘You’d be talking through a wired jaw at the very least if I had. Money or your head, son. Money or your head.’

The phone went dead. Christie dropped it back into his pocket. Harry was holding the gate open for him.

‘Back to the ranch, boss? Or do you fancy a drink somewhere?’

‘I’m going home,’ Christie stated. But he paused before getting into the car, turning to cast his eye over Cafferty’s old house again.

You thinking of buying?

He wondered what his mother would say to that...