The previous night, Rebus had taken Brillo for a late walk on Bruntsfield Links before settling down at the dining table and opening his laptop, searching for the name Anthony Brough. All of this after Siobhan Clarke had dropped him off.
‘I mean it about Craw,’ Rebus had reminded her. ‘He’s a dead man walking unless you can convince Darryl he’s not the one.’
‘I’ll do what I can. But remand’s probably not going to be an option, not even if he’s charged.’
‘Then hold him for psychological assessment.’
‘It would be nice to have a more likely suspect in our sights.’
‘Has anyone spoken to Joe Stark?’
‘I thought Joe and Darryl were buddies?’
‘Which should have given Darryl an extra layer of protection. But since that’s not been the case...’
‘They’ve had a falling-out and this is by way of Joe’s punishment?’
Rebus had shrugged. ‘Got to be worth a look, no?’
Just as he’d thought Sir Magnus Brough’s grandson worth a look. In fact, he had dug out everything he could on the Brough family and its banking fiefdom. Established towards the end of the eighteenth century, a lot of its initial success coming from the financing of trade — slaves to America, cotton and tobacco back to the UK. From the Fife coalfields to tea plantations in India, via fine wines from Bordeaux, Brough’s had been there. It had fallen out of family control for a brief period immediately post-war, but Sir Magnus had come in as a junior partner and worked his way up until he owned the whole operation. Rebus had wondered: what sort of man did you have to be to do that? He had found his answer in a handful of online essays and chapters from economic histories — ruthless, rapacious, hands-on, determined and tireless.
Sir Magnus’s son had been none of these things, and had turned his back on banking, preferring to holiday the year round in far-flung destinations. Jimmy Brough had settled down eventually, marrying Lisanne Bentley. Two kids, Anthony and Francesca, both in their thirties now, orphaned in their teens when a car crash did for their parents, leaving Sir Magnus to look after them. Anthony had joined the bank, but hadn’t survived the takeover. Drugs had sent Francesca off her rocker and mentions of her dropped away to nothing. But Anthony had set up Anthony Brough Investment Group and Brough Consulting, both of which had their headquarters in Edinburgh.
Rutland Square in Edinburgh, to be exact.
‘Small world just got smaller,’ Rebus had muttered, heading for bed.
So it was that after an early walk to the corner shop, followed by breakfast for dog and owner both, Rebus watched Brillo settle in his basket in the kitchen then headed out. Traffic towards Tollcross and down Lothian Road was its usual rush-hour crawl, not helped by the equally ubiquitous roadworks. He was starting to think he’d have been quicker walking, but then snorted at the very notion. There was a free parking bay on Rutland Square, so he decided to play the part of dutiful citizen and use it, even feeding a couple of coins into the meter.
From where he stood, he had a good view of one side of the red-stone hotel — the Caley as was. Rutland Square itself comprised four-storey terraces that had probably been residential when built but now had become mainly offices, at least at ground level. He wondered which of them belonged to Bruce Collier, and whether the internet would provide an answer. The elegant stone-pillared façades gave little away, though the occasional worker could be seen through a window, rising from their desk, paperwork in one hand, coffee in the other.
Rebus walked around the square. At its centre, railings protected a patch of neat lawn and a wrought-iron bench, the gate locked, accessible only with a key. A road off to the right led to Shandwick Place, where the passing of a bright new tram was announced by the clanging of its bell. Torphichen Street cop shop was a stone’s throw away in the other direction. A couple of taxis sped by, having picked up fares at the hotel. One of the plaques Rebus passed announced that something called the Scottish Arts Club was based behind its door. But mostly he saw evidence that the square’s occupiers worked in staid and sensible areas of commerce — chartered surveyors and solicitors, accountants and asset management.
Brough Investment was almost directly opposite the Scottish Arts Club. Rebus climbed its steps. The main door — solid wood, boasting gloss-black paint, polished brass letter box and knocker — stood open. Behind it, a vestibule led to a second door, of opaque glass. There were half a dozen buttons on the intercom, different company names beside each. Rebus studied the one marked ABIG, his finger hovering above it. What would he say? I’m just wondering why DI Malcolm Fox is so interested in you?
He smiled to himself. Instead, he stepped back on to the pavement and made a phone call.
‘This’ll be good,’ Fox answered.
‘Guess where I am,’ Rebus said.
‘Wild stab in the dark — Rutland Square.’
Brought up short, Rebus looked to left and right. No sign of Fox or his car. ‘Clever lad,’ he said, having given himself a moment to recover.
‘You seemed too interested last night. No way you were going to let it go.’
‘They’re teaching you well at Gartcosh.’
‘Not well enough, or I wouldn’t have brought the name up in the first place.’
‘Ready to tell me what this is all about, or should I just ring Brough’s bell and ask?’
‘Ringing won’t help.’
‘Why not?’
‘He’s not there. I phoned twenty minutes ago pretending to be a client. Secretary came in straight away with an apology. Said he’d been cancelling meetings due to being called away.’
‘Called away where?’ Rebus was studying the windows on each floor of the building.
‘Seemed to me she didn’t know. I think she’s floundering.’
‘Do you know why he’s away?’
‘Not really.’
‘Meaning you’ve got an inkling? Maybe we should meet and talk this through.’
‘John — no offence, but it’s none of your business.’
‘That’s true, of course.’
‘Most men your age would be content to put their feet up or go bet on the horses.’ He broke off suddenly and Rebus’s brow furrowed. Had Fox just let something slip?
‘What is it, Malcolm?’
‘Look, I need to call Gartcosh, let them know about Brough.’
‘Because he connects to Darryl Christie? That’s it, isn’t it?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘Of course not, Malcolm. Your secret’s safe with me.’
Rebus ended the call, and didn’t answer when Fox called straight back. He was tapping the corner of the phone against his teeth when a door opened further along the street. The figure who bounded out, unlocking a silver Porsche and manoeuvring himself in, was instantly recognisable, though Rebus had only seen him in photos and on a distant concert stage.
Hello, Bruce, he said to himself, walking towards the space the car had just vacated in a roar no doubt pleasing to its driver. He stopped outside Bruce Collier’s front door. More gloss-black paint. But no nameplate of any kind, nothing to indicate that a man with a string of transatlantic number ones called the place home. The ground-floor windows boasted wooden slatted blinds, open enough to allow Rebus a glimpse of the interior. Gaudy paintings on cream walls; white leather sofas and chairs. No gold or platinum discs, and no hi-fi or musical instruments. Flamboyant in his day, Collier had learned to embrace a seemingly quieter life.
Rebus turned to watch as the Porsche exited the square. Quieter, yes, but not quite ready for complete anonymity...
Craw Shand had been charged, despite the Fiscal Depute’s qualms.
‘It’s thin stuff, Siobhan,’ she had warned.
‘I know,’ Clarke had acknowledged.
Charged, and then freed on bail. Shand had seemed satisfied with this result, thanking Clarke for her concern when she reminded him to keep his head down and maybe think about not going home for a few days.
‘But wouldn’t that be breaking my bail conditions?’ he had asked.
‘Not if you keep checking in at your local police station — trust me.’
He’d even wanted to clasp her by the hand, but she’d drawn it away and shaken her head, watching him as he made his way out on to Gayfield Square, where, thankfully, Laura Smith failed to be lurking.
Clarke got on the phone to Christie’s house, where his mother picked up.
‘He’s not here,’ she said. ‘But that was quick work, catching the bastard. I’m sorry I doubted you.’
‘Well, here’s your chance to make amends,’ Clarke said. ‘I need a word with Darryl.’
‘He’s at work.’
‘Any of his many businesses in particular?’
‘The Devil’s Dram, I think.’
‘Thank you.’
Clarke knew the Devil’s Dram. Named for the amount of whisky lost to evaporation in each barrel, it was a nightclub on the Cowgate, just along from the city mortuary. She’d last been inside on a girls’ night out, organised by Deborah Quant. She was there within ten minutes, but couldn’t find anywhere to park. Eventually she settled on the mortuary itself, tucking her Astra in next to one of the anonymous black vans in the courtyard.
The Cowgate was a canyon of a place, two lanes wide and with narrow pavements, steep gradients leading off. Not too long back, Clarke had chased a murderer up one of those lanes, until the effort got the better of her — not a detail she’d bothered adding to her written report. The graffitied metal doors of the Devil’s Dram were locked tight. There were no windows, just stonework, similarly daubed — hard to tell if it was a design feature or the work of vandals. Clarke gave the doors a thump and a kick. Eventually she could hear them being unlocked. A young man was scowling at her, sleeves rolled up, arms colourfully tattooed. His immaculate hair had been swept back from his forehead, and he sported a luxuriant beard.
‘You look like you probably work behind the bar,’ Clarke commented.
‘I own the bar,’ he corrected her.
‘On paper, maybe.’ Clarke shoved her warrant card into his face. ‘But it’s the real boss I’m here to see.’
He managed a sneer but stepped aside eventually, just enough so she could squeeze past into a dimly lit vault that led to the main room. Plastic gargoyles leered from the ceiling, while bearded satyrs cavorted along the walls. Rock music was blaring from the speakers.
‘I like a bit of Burt Bacharach in the morning,’ Clarke said.
‘It’s Ninja Horse.’
‘Do me a favour then and put it back in the stable.’
With a final sneer, the young man moved off. There was a glass staircase leading to a VIP balcony area directly above the long mirrored bar. As Clarke started to climb, the music cut off abruptly. The place was being readied for the night to come, vacuum cleaners busy, bottles restocked, chairs and stools repositioned. Darryl Christie was watching from his upstairs table, nose still strapped but eyes a bit less swollen, if no less bruised. He had paperwork spread out in front of him, and made show of turning each sheet so it sat blank side up as Clarke approached.
‘I’m not Customs and Excise, Darryl,’ she pretended to complain.
‘Maybe it’s my trade secrets I’m hiding — how to build a successful club from nothing.’
There was a glass of sparkling water next to him. He lifted it to his mouth, sipping through a bright red straw, content to wait for what she had to say.
‘Craw Shand is back on the street,’ she obliged.
‘Is that right?’
‘If anything happens to him, you’ll have me to answer to.’
‘The big bad DI Clarke?’ Christie stifled a grin. ‘Thing I’ve learned about getting even with someone, it’s best to leave a bit of time. Could be weeks, could be months — there’s still the anticipation.’
‘Is that how it was with the man who killed your sister?’
Christie’s cheekbones tightened. ‘He killed more than one kid. He was never going to last long in jail.’
‘Barlinnie, wasn’t it? I’m guessing that means Joe Stark did the organising — his city, his sphere of influence. You and him still close, Darryl?’
‘What’s it to you, Officer?’
‘Just because we’ve charged Shand doesn’t mean we’ve stopped looking. That includes everyone you know, friend or foe.’
‘So you’ll have pulled Cafferty in, then?’
‘Maybe after we talk to Joe Stark.’
‘You can talk till you’re blue in the face, won’t make the slightest difference.’ He was rising to his feet with effort, gasping a little as the pain hit his ribs.
‘Your mum reckons you owe me for catching Shand so quickly.’
‘And not touching him would balance the books between us? Nice try, Siobhan.’ He was standing only a few inches from her. ‘It was good to see you in here a few weeks back. Did you enjoy your evening? From the CCTV, it looked like you did. Seven G and Ts I think I counted.’ He gave another grin, gesturing towards the staircase. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me...’
She stood her ground for a moment, and he gave a little bow of his head to tell her she’d made her point. So she went back down the steps, the smell of disinfectant heavy in the air. As she retraced her route across the floor of the main room, imps and demons staring down at her, the music started up again, setting her teeth on edge. Back out on the pavement, she paused to take a few deep breaths, then noticed her phone was buzzing. She checked the screen: her pal in the Police Scotland control room.
‘What is it, Tess?’
‘Body fished out of Leith Docks, not far from the Britannia.’
‘Suicide?’
‘Bit of a Houdini if it is. Houdini in reverse, I suppose I mean.’
‘Spit it out then.’
‘I’m hearing his hands were tied behind his back.’
‘That does make it suspicious.’
‘I thought so. But the reason I thought you’d be interested is one of our lot recognised the face.’
Clarke froze, eyes on the doors of the Devil’s Dram.
Please God, she said to herself. But surely not so soon...
She realised Tess was spelling out a name, a name that meant something to her.
‘Give me that again,’ she demanded, then ended the call and found Rebus’s number.
‘Yes, Siobhan?’ he answered.
‘They’ve just fished Robert Chatham out of the docks,’ she said.
‘Fuck,’ retorted Rebus.
She was thinking what else to tell him when she realised he’d hung up.
The Royal Yacht Britannia had a permanent berth to the rear of the Ocean Terminal shopping centre and the adjoining multistorey car park. At right angles to this berth stood a reception building used for passengers embarking and disembarking the smaller classes of cruise ship. With no such ships in the vicinity, the building was kept locked, but it had been opened now and was a hive of activity as police, forensic specialists, photographers and an assortment of ancillary staff buzzed around, under the supervision of the crime scene manager. The corpse itself lay dockside, a makeshift tent erected to protect it from general view.
Rebus caught sight of Deborah Quant and one of her colleagues, both in protective overalls, headgear and elasticated overshoes. She had eased up her face mask so it sat against her forehead, her hand cupped to her mouth to keep the conversation private. Nearby, a small white van had parked. Its rear doors were open to reveal rubber diving suits and oxygen tanks, two men waiting, arms folded, to be told what to do.
The crime scene manager’s name was Haj Atwal. He carried a clipboard with him and used it to gesture towards Siobhan Clarke.
‘Signed in?’
‘At the cordon,’ she confirmed. ‘You know John Rebus?’
The two men shook hands. Rebus asked how long the victim had been in the water.
‘Exactly what our medical friends are discussing. From what I’ve heard so far, the autopsy will answer a few questions.’ Atwal paused, staring at Rebus. ‘Thought you’d been put out to pasture?’
‘I’m here for a bit of a graze,’ Rebus replied.
‘John spoke with the victim only yesterday morning,’ Clarke explained. ‘Always supposing he is who we think he is.’
‘Facial recognition by the first uniform on the scene,’ Atwal stated. ‘Plus his wallet was in his pocket — credit cards and driving licence. We got his phone, too.’
‘Anything strike you as missing?’
‘Not a thing.’
‘So not mugged for his belongings, then?’
Atwal’s look said he wasn’t about to start a guessing game. His strengths were the procedural and the verifiable. Clarke watched as another van trundled into view. Bigger than the one belonging to the dive team, with a black paint job. It might even have been the same one she’d parked next to at the mortuary.
‘Everybody’s itching to get on with it,’ Atwal commented.
‘Only natural,’ Rebus said, nodding in the direction of the victim. ‘That’s one of our own lying there.’
‘He was retired, though, same as you — so the two of you weren’t meeting to talk business?’
‘Problem is, that’s exactly what we were doing — a case everyone else thought was extinct.’
‘Seems to me it might just have become active,’ Atwal concluded, moving away to answer a question from one of his team.
Rebus and Clarke kept their distance from the body, watching everyone work. Eventually Deborah Quant spotted them and, after a word to her colleague, headed in their direction. She lifted her mask again. No smiles or greetings; all business.
‘Suspicious death,’ she stated. ‘More than that, I can’t say right now.’
‘Any cuts and bumps?’ Rebus enquired.
‘None that couldn’t have been sustained from an amount of time in the water.’
Rebus studied their surroundings. ‘High fences and security cameras. Not the easiest place to dump a body.’
‘Someone will have to check tidal currents. He could have gone in the water anywhere between Cramond and Portobello.’
‘He lived across from Newhaven harbour.’
Quant stared at him. ‘Why am I not surprised you knew him?’
‘Spoke with him only yesterday, Deborah.’
Her eyes softened. ‘He was a friend?’
‘Only our second meeting,’ Rebus corrected her. ‘You’ve no idea if he drowned?’
‘I’d say it’s likely. No obvious wounds, and he wasn’t strangled or anything.’
‘So he’d probably have been yelling for dear life?’
‘That’s feasible.’
‘Meaning someone could have heard,’ Clarke stated.
Quant studied her. ‘Are you in charge, Siobhan?’
‘Not until someone tells me so.’
‘Bloody hell,’ Rebus interrupted, peering past Clarke’s shoulder. ‘Looks like word really has got around.’
Malcolm Fox was striding towards the group, trying to arrange his face so it was friendly but respectful.
‘Detective Inspector Fox,’ Quant said. ‘Thought we’d lost you to Gartcosh.’
‘I managed to get a tourist visa.’ Fox checked something on his phone. ‘Is the CSM here?’
‘The Italian-looking guy,’ Rebus said, gesturing towards Atwal. Fox nodded his thanks and moved off again.
‘Haj’s parents are Indian,’ Deborah Quant said.
‘I know that.’ Rebus offered a thin smile.
‘What does Malcolm want with him anyway?’ Clarke enquired, frowning.
‘I think Malcolm’s tourist visa has just been revised. Like I say, Robert Chatham was one of our own...’ Rebus stared at Clarke until the truth dawned on her.
‘Gartcosh are claiming it,’ she announced.
Rebus was nodding slowly. ‘With Malcolm in the vanguard.’
Quant was studying Fox’s retreating figure. ‘You mean he’s in charge?’
‘Looks like, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Thanks for the spadework, Malcolm. But I’m in charge now.’
Fox stood in front of Detective Superintendent Alvin James. He was a few years younger than Fox, wiry, with jutting cheekbones and a freckled face, his reddish-blonde hair neatly trimmed and parted. Fox reckoned he probably ran long-distance; it was that sort of physique. Maybe played competitive five-a-side, too. Sporty and clean-living and always amenable to promotion.
‘Yes, sir,’ Fox said, hands clasped behind his back.
James gave the thinnest of smiles. ‘Call me Alvin — and I mean it about the spadework.’
They were standing in an unaired office on the first floor of Leith police station, at the corner of Constitution Street and Queen Charlotte Street. The building, which had once been Leith’s town hall, was solid but shabby, its operating hours restricted. The office they were in had been set aside for this use and this use only — unlocked only when the Major Investigation Team came to town. Alvin James was the senior investigating officer, hand-picked for the role by ACC Lyon at Gartcosh. His team comprised CID officers and admin staff. They were already busy, plugging in laptops, sorting out the Wi-Fi, and trying to open the windows so the place was a bit less stuffy.
Fox recognised none of the detectives, which meant they were almost certainly not local. James seemed to read his mind.
‘I know a lot of our colleagues this side of the country think Police Scotland is just Strathclyde with an aka, but it’s not like that. Okay, so I’ve spent most of my professional life in Glasgow, but there are people here from Aberdeen and Dundee, too. On the other hand, none of us know this place the way you do — that’s why you’ll be my go-to guy. Does that sound reasonable to you?’
‘Thing is, I’m working another case right now.’
‘ACC Lyon said as much, but she’s checked with Ben McManus and he seems to reckon you’re a dab hand at multi-tasking. You’re here when I need you, but otherwise you can be beavering away on your other inquiry. How does that sound?’
‘It sounds... workable.’
‘Terrific. So what do I need to know?’ James watched as Fox wrestled with the question, then broke into a toothy smile and wagged a finger. ‘Just kidding. But one thing I would like you to do is think about local bodies — warm ones, I mean. Preferably CID. We may need to co-opt a few if things get busy.’
‘The best DI in the city is Siobhan Clarke. She has two first-rate DCs under her.’
‘See? You’re already more than pulling your weight — thanks for that.’
James turned on his heel and, rubbing his hands together, began dishing out orders to the rest of his squad. Having no role to play, Fox stood there shuffling his feet. His ringing phone came as a relief. Without checking who was calling, he pressed it to his ear.
‘It’s me,’ Rebus said.
‘Thanks a bunch for that joke you played earlier,’ Fox said, keeping his voice down.
‘Which one?’
‘Telling me the CSM was Italian.’
‘I only said he looked Italian. Have you got a minute for a chat?’
‘I suppose I might have.’
‘Last night in the pub, remember me mentioning Robert Chatham?’
‘Not really.’
‘No, because you were too busy thinking about Sir Magnus Brough and his grandson.’
Fox strode from the office into the empty corridor. ‘Chatham’s who we’ve just pulled from the water.’
‘Exactly so.’
‘He was killed the same day he talked to you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Christ, John...’
‘Are they setting up the MIT room at Leith?’
‘Pretty much ready to go. A detective superintendent called Alvin James is SIO.’
‘Can’t place the name. I’m guessing he’s Glasgow, though.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Gartcosh chose him — stands to reason.’
‘I’ve put in a good word for Siobhan.’
‘She might not thank you for it. Now off you go and tell Alvin and his Chipmunks that a retired east-coast cop knows more than they do, and he’ll be there to tell his story in about twenty minutes.’
‘So this is the brave new world I keep hearing of?’ Rebus sauntered into the room, hands in pockets.
‘You’ll be John Rebus?’ Alvin James said, rising from his desk to shake hands.
‘And you’ll be Superintendent James.’
‘Detective Superintendent James.’
Rebus acknowledged the correction with a movement of his mouth. He nodded towards Fox, who had the desk next to James. There were four other faces in the room. They had obviously worked together before and gave him a collective stare of professional scepticism. James gestured towards each in turn.
‘DS Glancey and DS Sharpe; DCs Briggs and Oldfield.’
Just the one woman, DC Briggs, trim and businesslike. Glancey overflowed from his chair. He had dispensed with his jacket and was dabbing sweat from his face with a pristine handkerchief. Sharpe had a wise but wary look, an owl to Glancey’s bull. Oldfield was younger, cocksure and primed for action. Rebus turned from them towards Fox.
‘All feels very familiar, eh, Malcolm?’ Then, for James’s benefit: ‘We had a crew in from Glasgow not too long back. It got a bit messy.’
‘We’re not all from Glasgow, though,’ James felt the need to point out. ‘What we are, Mr Rebus, is a unit whose focus will be to find whoever did for Robert Chatham.’ He folded his arms and rested his backside against the corner of a desk. ‘Malcolm says you might have some information that would help. So we can keep this at the playground level or rise above that and get some actual business done.’ He paused, angling his head slightly. ‘What do you say?’
‘I say a spot of milk and no sugar, Detective Superintendent James.’
‘Please, call me Alvin.’ Then, turning to Fox: ‘One thing we forgot about, Malcolm. Can you rustle up the necessary?’
‘Me?’
‘You’re the one person here who’s already heard John’s story,’ James reasoned.
Grins were being hidden behind hands around the room as Fox stalked out, heading next door to where the support staff were gathering.
‘Is there a kettle anywhere?’
‘You’ll probably find one in Argos,’ he was told.
Muttering under his breath, he left the building and made for Leith Walk. An electric kettle and half a dozen mugs in one shop, supplies of coffee, tea, sugar, milk and plastic spoons in another. The whole sortie took no more than twenty-five minutes, just long enough for Rebus to get to the end of his tale. Thing was, Fox had no way of knowing what — if anything — he had held back. Rebus being Rebus, the truth would not have been the whole truth; the man always liked to know just a wee bit more than anyone else sharing the stage with him.
Fox dumped both bags on DC Oldfield’s desk.
‘You can be mother,’ he stated. Oldfield looked to James for advice, but James just nodded. With a scowl directed at Fox, Oldfield got up, lifting the kettle from its packaging and leaving to find running water.
‘So everyone’s in the loop now, yes?’ Fox enquired, slumping into his chair.
‘And highly intrigued,’ James said. He was seated behind his desk, tapping a biro against one cheek. He had jotted down notes on an A4 pad of lined paper in front of him and was studying them as he spoke.
‘Without discounting anything you’ve just told us, John,’ he said, ‘there are certain protocols that we’d be unwise to ignore. That means getting the results of the post-mortem examination, interviewing Mr Chatham’s partner, and doing a bit of digging at his place of work.’
‘Bouncers probably make more enemies than most,’ Glancey commented, refolding his handkerchief and beginning to dab again.
‘And he’ll have upset a few undesirables during his CID days,’ Briggs added, drumming a biro against her own notes.
‘So we’ll need to look at his record as a DI in Livingston,’ James agreed. ‘When you spoke with him, John, he seemed okay?’
‘He was fine.’
‘Didn’t say what else he was up to after your meeting?’
‘No.’
‘No phone calls or messages while you were in the café?’
‘I appreciate you have all these hoops you feel the need to jump through, but it can’t be coincidence, surely? The same day I get him talking about Maria Turquand’s murder, he ends up in the drink.’
James was nodding, but Fox could tell the man wasn’t completely sold — and that was starting to grate with Rebus.
‘You need to bring us all those files,’ Sharpe said quietly. ‘Files you shouldn’t have taken from SCRU in the first place.’
Rebus made brief eye contact with Fox, letting him know the score. He had fudged the truth to keep Siobhan Clarke’s name out of it. As far as James and his team were aware, Rebus had swiped Chatham’s review notes from SCRU during his tenure there.
Over in a corner of the room, Oldfield was making as much noise as possible while plugging in the kettle and sorting out the mugs.
‘Remember what I said about the playground, Mark?’ James scolded him.
There was a knock on the open door. Haj Atwal was standing there.
‘Finished dockside?’ James asked.
‘Done and dusted, as it were.’ Atwal ran a hand over his shaved head. ‘Everything I’ve got so far will be in your email folder by end of play.’
‘Thank you. And the divers?’
‘Had a quick look, but as there was no weapon as such...’
‘And he’d probably drifted along the coast anyway,’ Rebus couldn’t help adding.
‘You’re saying we shouldn’t have bothered?’ James seemed to require an answer, but all Rebus could do was shrug. ‘And what makes you so sure he didn’t enter the water where we found him?’
‘Big tall fences and surveillance.’
‘But then we’ve not checked the surveillance yet, have we?’
Fox saw where this was headed — James was wondering how far to trust Rebus: was he trying to misdirect them? He could see Rebus coming to the same conclusion, shoulders tensing, jaw clenching.
‘You about ready to interview me as a suspect, Alvin?’ Rebus asked.
James tried to look disbelieving. ‘Not at all,’ he offered.
‘Then we’re done here? I’m free to leave?’
‘Of course.’
Rebus headed for the door, managing a final glance towards Fox before brushing past Haj Atwal.
‘Victim’s clothing will be sent for analysis,’ Atwal was telling the room at large. ‘Autopsy’s the next step.’
‘Thank you,’ James said, busying himself until the crime scene manager had retreated into the corridor.
‘Should have asked who’s doing the autopsy,’ Sharpe commented. His voice still hadn’t risen much above a whisper — Fox wondered if it was a ploy; the man spoke so quietly, you had to give him your full attention.
‘Professor Quant,’ Fox answered. ‘Deborah Quant.’
Alvin James was giving him an appraising look. ‘And is there anything we should know about Professor Quant, Malcolm?’ he asked.
‘She’s highly qualified, personable, unshowy.’ Fox pretended to think for a moment. ‘Oh, and she and Rebus are an item.’
James raised an eyebrow. ‘Are they now?’
‘So if John Rebus is your killer, maybe she’s the one who’ll make sure he gets away with it.’
Alvin James threw back his head and laughed. ‘A bit of humour always helps defuse the tension, eh?’
Fox pretended to return the half-sincere smiles being directed at him.
‘I’ve got a question for you all,’ Oldfield interrupted.
‘What is it, Mark?’
‘Tea or coffee?’ Then, to Fox specifically: ‘And how do you take it?’
‘Without saliva, preferably,’ Fox said. ‘Though as I’m about to go for a slash, you might find yourself tempted beyond reason...’
Rebus was tugging the parking ticket from beneath one of the Saab’s wiper blades and looking up and down the street for the culprit.
‘Bad luck,’ Fox offered.
‘And me on a pension.’ Rebus stuffed the slip into his pocket. ‘You think this guy James is up to the task?’
‘Too early to say.’
Rebus had started chomping on a piece of chewing gum.
‘Does that help?’
‘Barely,’ Rebus stated. ‘Remember: you don’t let on Siobhan got me that file.’
‘Message received. Anything else you brushed under the carpet?’
‘I don’t remember.’
‘Then how will I know not to blurt it out?’
‘Maybe if you try keeping your trap shut for once.’ Rebus glowered at him. ‘Can’t say young Alvin fills me with confidence. Too shiny by half.’
‘His suit or his face?’
‘Everything about him, Malcolm. Only thing he’s got his sights on is the next rung of the ladder.’
Fox couldn’t disagree. ‘I don’t think he’s dismissing the Turquand connection out of hand.’
‘It’s the only connection there is.’
‘Then he’ll get round to probing it.’
‘Aye, once he’s been through his bloody “protocols”. Keep at him, Malcolm. You’ve got to make him see what’s going on.’
Fox nodded slowly. ‘Who else knew you’d started looking?’
Rebus considered this. ‘Deborah got a sneak preview. And Siobhan, of course.’
‘Plus whoever gave Siobhan the file.’
‘True.’
‘And anyone Robert Chatham might have gone running to.’
It was Rebus’s turn to nod, albeit distractedly. ‘We’ve got to get his phone records — see who he spoke to after I left him.’
‘Where did you meet him?’
‘A greasy spoon not too far from Ocean Terminal. He liked the bacon rolls there.’
‘The condemned man ate a hearty meal then, as Professor Quant will soon discover.’
‘Do you think I’d be allowed in to watch?’ Rebus asked, brow furrowing.
‘Might not be wise.’
‘True enough — the James Gang are already trying to put a nice big frame around me.’
‘I think you may be exaggerating ever so slightly.’
‘You have to be my eyes and ears, Malcolm. Promise me that.’
‘I’d better go back in. They’ll be phoning Guinness World of Records to measure my bladder.’
Fox turned and pushed open the door, letting it creak shut behind him. Suddenly he was everyone’s eyes and ears... which reminded him. He found Sheila Graham’s number and hit the call button as he began to climb the imposing staircase.
‘Thought it would be you,’ Graham said.
‘News travels.’
‘ACC Lyon told ACC McManus and ACC McManus was good enough to pass it along.’
‘I can still keep tabs on the Christie case.’
‘You sure?’
‘In fact, I’ve got something for you. According to Anthony Brough’s secretary, he’s AWOL — meetings cancelled, et cetera. Seemed to me she was in the dark about where he’s gone or why.’
‘Chickens may be coming home to roost.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I need to give this some thought, Malcolm. Anything else to report?’
‘I’ve been a bit busy since lunchtime.’
‘Your first Major Investigation Team?’
‘I used to head the Professional Standards Unit, Sheila. I’ve played with the big boys before.’
He could sense her smile at the other end of the line. ‘We’ll talk later,’ she said, ending the call as he reached the door to the MIT room.
Alvin James gestured towards the mug on Fox’s desk.
‘I’ve kept watch, so fear not.’
‘Thanks,’ Fox said.
‘Though we’re all a bit disappointed in you, Malcolm.’
‘Oh?’
‘No biscuits,’ Briggs said.
‘No biscuits,’ Alvin James agreed.
‘Plus the longest piss in recorded history,’ Mark Oldfield added.
‘Not that we think that’s what you were doing,’ James added slyly.
‘Well, you’re right — I was on the phone to Gartcosh. I can give you a name if you want to check.’
‘We’re all friends here, Malcolm. Nothing more to be said.’
‘Except for this,’ Briggs interrupted. ‘Next time — biscuits. Digestives, for preference.’
‘Chocolate digestives,’ Sharpe corrected her in a whisper.
The autopsy was booked for 4.30, soon after Chatham’s partner Liz Dolan had identified the body. Fox had been tasked with accompanying her. Her legs had gone from beneath her, and he’d struggled to get her back to her feet.
‘Oh God,’ she kept saying. ‘Oh God, oh God, oh God.’
Fox had been there before and he offered the usual crumbs of sympathy, none of which she seemed willing to hear. She was shaking, clutching at him, holding him in a tearful embrace.
It’s not easy, Liz.
It’s a hellish thing.
Is there a friend I can contact? Family?
Somebody, in other words, to pass the responsibility to.
But they’d never had children, and none of their parents were alive. She had a sister in Canada; Chatham’s brother had predeceased him.
‘What am I going to do?’ she said, voice quivering, strings of bleached saliva at the corners of her mouth. ‘Such a good man. Such a good man.’
‘I know,’ Fox agreed, steering her to the waiting room and a chair. ‘I’ll get us some tea — how do you take it?’
But she was staring at the wall opposite, eyes fixed on a poster showing Edinburgh from the air. Fox leaned out into the hallway, checking to left and right, eventually catching the eye of a passing attendant.
‘Got a family member here who could do with something,’ he pleaded.
‘Valium maybe?’ the man offered.
‘I think she’d settle for tea.’
‘Milk and two?’
‘I’m not sure she takes sugar.’
‘Trust me, they all take sugar...’ The man moved off again in his calf-high rubberised boots.
Liz Dolan was leaning forward in her seat, looking as if she might be about to throw up. She wore black leggings under a knee-length patterned skirt. Her fingers were worrying away at the skirt’s hem as she took in erratic gulps of air.
‘You going to be okay, Liz?’ he asked.
‘Not for a long time.’
‘Tea’s on its way.’
‘That’s all right then, eh?’ For the first time, she met his eyes, so he’d know she was being sarcastic. He sat down slowly, leaving one chair vacant between them. ‘So what happens now?’ she asked eventually, wiping her nose with her sleeve.
‘You’ll want to arrange things — the funeral and such like.’
‘I was meaning you — Rab was murdered, so what do you do next?’
‘Well, when you feel up to it, we’d like to maybe ask you a few things, find out his movements.’
‘He had breakfast with someone — an ex-cop.’
‘Yes, we know about that.’
‘He was in a right flap after.’
‘Oh?’
‘Snapped at me when I asked him what was wrong.’
‘Did he give you an answer?’
She shook her head. ‘But he was upset right up until the minute he went out.’
‘When was that?’
‘Early afternoon. I told him he hadn’t had enough sleep.’
‘He worked evenings, didn’t he?’
‘Five till midnight, sometimes a bit later if it was the weekend.’
‘Had the pair of you known one another long?’
‘Six and a half years.’
‘Since before he retired, then?’
She nodded again. ‘He’d been married twice before. Woe betide those witches if they try to gatecrash the funeral.’
‘No love lost?’
‘You’re a cop, you know what it’s like — long hours, cases that get under your skin but you don’t want to talk about them...’ She looked at him until he nodded. ‘Both his wives ended up going off with some other poor sod.’
‘Did he ever talk to you about the job?’
‘A little bit, after he’d retired. There’d be reunions, and sometimes he’d invite me along.’
‘You’ll have heard a few stories, then.’
‘A few, aye.’
Their teas arrived and Fox offered a nod of thanks to the attendant. The man paused for a moment.
‘Sorry for your loss,’ he said to Dolan.
‘Thanks.’ She seemed mesmerised by the boots as the attendant trudged back to work. ‘Christ,’ she said, softly.
‘Deborah Quant’s the one looking after Rab,’ Fox said. ‘She’s very good, very respectful.’
Dolan nodded and fixed her eyes on the poster again, the mug held in both hands. ‘Being a doorman... well, there were a few stories there, too.’
‘I don’t imagine it’s an easy job.’
‘It’s fine when they’re all behaving themselves, but Rab found that boring.’
‘He liked a bit of a ruck?’
‘Came home with a few cuts and bruises. The girls were the worst, he said. They’d use nails and teeth.’
‘The weaker sex, eh?’
She managed something that was almost a smile. ‘They chatted him up too, though — he liked that bit quite a lot.’
‘Just a normal guy, then.’
‘A normal guy,’ she echoed. But then she remembered there was nothing in the least normal about the way her day was unfolding, and tears started to trickle down her cheeks again.
‘Oh God.’
And although she’d already waved the offer away once, Fox reached into his pocket for a handkerchief.
It was almost seven by the time Deborah Quant emerged from the mortuary’s staff door. She had showered and changed and was searching in her bag for her car keys when the figure emerged from behind one of the parked vans.
‘Jesus, John!’ she gasped. ‘I was about to karate-chop you there.’
‘You do karate?’ Rebus said. ‘I didn’t know that.’
She stomped over to her car and unlocked it. Getting in, she waited for Rebus to pull open the passenger door and join her.
‘So?’ he asked.
‘He was alive when he went in the water. Stomach contents: bacon and bread dough. DC Briggs said you’d had breakfast with the deceased.’
‘MIT sent their only woman to the autopsy?’
Quant glowered at him. ‘We manage childbirth fine; a dead body’s neither here nor there. Anyway, turns out that roll was the last thing Mr Chatham ate.’
‘No lunch or dinner?’
‘Not so much as a packet of crisps. Whisky, though — a fair whiff of the distillery as we opened him up.’
‘Enough to incapacitate him?’
‘Blood tests will give us the answer.’
‘So when can we expect those?’
‘Your guess is as good as mine.’
‘Anything else?’
She half turned towards him. ‘Is this becoming personal, John?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘You saw the man the day he was killed. Maybe you think you’re somehow responsible.’
‘Could be I touched a nerve.’
‘With the victim?’
‘Or someone he met later in the day.’
‘It’s not your problem, though. DC Briggs was clear on that.’
He stared at her. ‘What did she tell you?’
‘She knows we’re... friendly.’
‘Friendly?’
‘That’s the word she used. And I happen to think that you should be concentrating on yourself right now instead of old cases and new.’
‘I’m fine, Deb.’
‘I don’t think you are.’
‘Who have you been talking to?’
She shook her head. ‘I’ve not gone behind your back, John — and no doctor or consultant would dream of discussing a patient with a third party.’
Rebus stared out of the side window: nothing to see except one of the vans, maybe the one that had transported Robert Chatham from the quayside. ‘I can handle this,’ he said softly.
She reached for his hand and gripped it. ‘You’re a stubborn old bastard and you’d rather go to your grave than let anyone see a weak spot in that armour you think you put on every morning.’
He turned towards her. Her eyes were moist. Leaning in towards her, he kissed her cheek. She pressed her forehead against his and they sat like that for almost half a minute, no words needed. Then she straightened up and took a deep breath.
‘Okay?’ Rebus asked.
‘You know I’m here for you? Any time you need me?’
He nodded. ‘And I need you right now, Professor Quant.’ He watched as her eyes narrowed, knowing what he was about to say. ‘Tell me about the way Robert Chatham’s hands were tied.’ He paused for a moment. ‘You’d be making a stubborn old bastard very happy...’
Craigmillar was cleaning up its act, at least on the surface.
A lot of the damp, unlovely housing had been bulldozed, replaced by shiny new apartment buildings. The shops still rolled down their metal security grilles of an evening, but a Lidl and a Tesco Metro had arrived. Clarke wouldn’t quite call it gentrified — Craigmillar still seemed to exist in most minds as a conduit between the city and routes to the south. She knew traffic was busiest at the weekend as shoppers headed for Fort Kinnaird with its Next, Boots and Gap. But Fort Kinnaird was also home to garages selling Bentleys and Porsches, something she knew only because she had for a short time considered getting a Porsche of her own. Why not? She made good money and had few outgoings. Her mortgage rate was low and likely to stay that way. She had given the Cayman a test drive and had loved it, before deciding against. No way she’d feel safe parking it kerbside. There were gangs in the city who preyed on cars like that. Plus she’d be the talk of Gayfield Square, and the comments would all revolve around her being on the take or in someone’s pocket — someone like Darryl Christie.
Stopping on a Craigmillar side street, she got out and patted the roof of her Astra.
‘You’ll do,’ she told it, before heading to Craw Shand’s door.
It was a 1970s terrace, paint flaking from its window frames. There was neither a bell nor a knocker, so she thumped with her fist, then stood back to watch for movement behind the curtains. Nothing, but she could see that the lights were on. A dog was barking nearby, someone screeching at it to shut up. Kids passed on pedal bikes, hoods up, faces muffled. Clarke knocked again, then bent down and pushed open the letter box.
‘It’s me, Craw. DI Clarke.’
‘What do you want?’ his voice called from within.
‘Just checking you’re all right. I see you didn’t take my advice.’
‘What advice?’ Shand’s speech was slurred. With her nose to the letter box, Clarke could smell neither drink nor dope.
‘To keep your head down, somewhere other than your home address.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Let’s hope it stays that way.’ She pushed one of her business cards through the slit. ‘You’ve got my mobile number if you need it.’
‘I won’t.’
She studied the door frame. ‘One good kick and they’d be inside before you knew it.’
‘Then maybe I should be in protective custody.’
‘I’ve thought about it, Craw, but my boss says no.’
‘Then you’ll both have to live with the consequences if anything happens.’
‘At least we’ll still be living, Craw. Tell me how you really know so much about Christie’s house — did you go there when you heard the news, is that it?’
‘Off you go now, little piggy.’
‘That’s not very nice, Craw. I’m about the only person in the world who’s on your side right now.’
‘Off you go,’ Shand repeated, turning off the light in the living room as if to signal the end of the conversation.
Clarke lingered, even tapping softly on the curtained window. The curtains looked thin and cheap. It was a life, she supposed. Who was to say he was less contented with his lot than anyone else she knew? Anyone else in the city, come to that? Half his life he’d been seeking a crime he could take credit for, and he’d finally struck gold.
Clarke hoped he’d live to enjoy the victory.
Back in the Astra, she watched in her rear-view mirror as a car crawled towards her. As it passed, she caught the licence plate. Darryl Christie’s Range Rover. She started her car and followed. Rather than make for the main road, it seemed to be doing a circuit, heading further into the estate before turning at a few junctions, a route that would lead it past Shand’s house again. Clarke flashed her lights, but the driver ignored her, so she waited until the road was wide enough and put the foot down, passing him and slamming on the brakes. She got out, making sure the driver could get a good look at her. As she approached, the driver’s-side window slid down halfway.
‘Best-looking carjacker I’ve seen in a while.’
Tattooed arms, groomed hair, beard. The ‘owner’ of the Devil’s Dram.
‘What are you doing in this car?’ Clarke demanded.
‘It’s Darryl’s.’
‘I know that.’
‘He’s not up to driving it, so he said I could.’
‘Wouldn’t have thought Craigmillar is its natural habitat.’
‘I’ve a mate lives round here somewhere. I was planning to show it off.’
‘The mate wouldn’t be called Craw Shand?’
A shake of the head.
‘So what’s your mate’s address?’ Clarke persisted.
‘That’s the trouble — I can’t quite remember. Thought I’d know it when I saw it.’
‘Got your story all worked out, eh?’
His face hardened. ‘Fuck’s it got to do with you anyway? Did I wander into a police state when I wasn’t looking?’
‘I want you out of Craigmillar and I don’t want you coming back. Tell your boss that Craw’s being watched night and day.’
‘I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.’
‘Then I’ll tell him myself, while you drive this crate away from Craigmillar.’
‘There seems to be a heap of junk blocking the route, Officer.’
Clarke already had her phone out and was finding Christie’s number as she got into her car and pulled it over to the side of the road. The Range Rover growled past with a parp of its horn. At Christie’s house, her call was answered by a male voice she didn’t recognise.
‘Is that Joseph or Cal?’ she asked.
‘Cal,’ she was told.
‘Hi there, I’m looking for Darryl.’
‘Hang on then.’
She watched as the Range Rover’s tail lights receded, and listened to Cal walk into a room filled with music. She half recognised the tune, some current R&B hit.
‘For you,’ Cal was saying.
‘Who is it?’
‘Dunno.’
‘What did I tell you, Cal? You always ask.’ The phone was handed over and the sound system’s volume faded away.
‘Yes?’ Christie enquired.
‘It’s DI Clarke.’
‘I’m off duty.’
‘You seem to be forgetting — you’re the victim this time, Mr Christie. We’re supposed to be on the same side, though that may just have come to an abrupt halt.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘I’ve been talking to your pal from the Devil’s Dram.’
‘Harry?’
‘He’s quite distinctive-looking, with the beard and everything. Not exactly stealth-bomber material.’
‘What are you on about?’
‘He was scoping out Craw Shand’s house.’
‘Is that right?’
‘Drove past it twice in that car of yours — which, incidentally, likewise lacks camouflage.’
‘I loaned him it.’
‘That’s certainly the story he gave me.’
‘It’s also the end of the story.’
‘I don’t think so.’
But as if to prove her wrong, Christie had already hung up. She stared at her screen, knowing there’d be no answer if she called back. Instead, she tossed the phone on to the passenger seat and drove off in the same direction as the Range Rover. What harm could it do to tail it for a while, just so that bearded Harry got the message?
She was two cars behind him at the Cameron Toll roundabout when her phone’s screen lit up. It was Malcolm Fox. She pressed the Bluetooth button on her steering wheel.
‘Thought you’d be spending the evening with your new best buddies,’ she said. After a moment’s silence, she heard his voice over the car speakers.
‘What do you want me to say?’
I want you to say you’re sorry the new regime takes all the best, most interesting cases!
‘Is there something I can do for you, Malcolm?’
‘Are you in your car?’
‘Brilliantly deduced.’
‘On your way home?’
‘Slowly but surely.’
‘I just thought, after the day we’ve both had, maybe I could buy you a drink.’
‘Is that because you want to hear all my news, or so you can tell me yours?’
‘It’s just a drink, Siobhan. We don’t even have to talk shop.’
‘But we will.’
‘I suppose that’s true.’
She thought for a moment. The Range Rover was definitely heading back into town. Job done. ‘How about food instead? Curry at Pataka?’
‘Fine by me.’
‘I’m less than ten minutes away.’
‘I’m more like fifteen.’
‘Last one in pays,’ Clarke said, smiling for the first time in hours.
intercom crackled.
‘Yes?’
‘Good evening, I’m wondering if you’ve seen your neighbour across the way recently.’
‘Which one?’
‘Anthony Brough.’
‘Never heard of him — you sure he lives here?’
‘His office is the other side of the square. We’ve some concerns about his welfare.’
The person on the other end of the intercom weighed up Rebus’s phrasing. ‘You the police? Hang on a sec...’
Rebus made sure that when the door swung open, his gaze was everywhere but on the person who’d just unlocked it.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘As I say, it’s just that he’s not been seen for some time and there’s growing...’ He broke off as his eyes met those of the man standing one step above him. He pretended surprise. ‘Sorry, but you look a lot like Bruce Collier.’
‘That’s probably because I am Bruce Collier.’
Open-necked denim shirt, suntanned face. A bit of a paunch, the leather belt tied perhaps a notch too tight. Shiny brown leather shoes, and gold chains on both wrists as well as around his heavily creased neck.
‘I’m a big fan,’ Rebus said. ‘Right back to Blacksmith days.’
‘You must be a palaeontologist then.’ Collier’s face was all crinkles when he smiled.
‘Mind if I...’ Rebus stretched out a hand, which Collier grasped.
‘Come on in, Officer,’ he said, leading the way. Inside, the place was a mix of the traditional and the modern — stone floor, wooden coat stand, recessed ceiling lights. Rebus nodded towards a Warhol print on one wall.
‘Is that an original?’
‘Oil sheikh gave it to me after I’d performed at his birthday party. I won’t tell you who the headliner was, but they got a Rembrandt. What did you say your name was?’
‘Rebus. John Rebus.’
‘Well, my name’s Bruce and it’s nice to meet a fan who’s still got all their faculties. Fancy a beer?’
‘Maybe a coffee?’
Collier studied him. ‘I always thought that was a cliché — no drinking on duty.’
‘I could do with the caffeine.’
‘This way then.’
They headed down a curving staircase into the basement. The kitchen was long and narrow, fitted with the latest gadgets and boasting a glass extension to the rear with views over a neat walled garden lit by halogen.
‘Supposed to deter burglars,’ Collier said, gesturing to the lights. ‘Instant okay for you?’
‘Fine.’
Rebus watched as the man tipped a spoonful of coffee into a mug, then held the mug under a tap at the sink.
‘Instant boiling water,’ Collier explained. ‘So who’s this fellow who’s gone walkabout?’
‘His name’s Anthony Brough. He runs an investment firm.’
‘Any connection to the bank?’
‘He’s Sir Magnus Brough’s grandson.’
‘I had a run-in with that old bugger once,’ Collier said with a snort. ‘Used to have an account with them — they charged an arm and a leg for the privilege. Thing was, you were supposed to keep a hundred K in your account and I fell short for a month or three. Next thing I know, the phone rings and it’s the old boy himself. Can’t imagine that these days, can you? In fact, I think I’d had to present myself in person at their HQ just to open the account.’ Collier pulled himself up short. ‘Sorry, I’m burbling on. Been too long in my own company.’
‘Are you married, Bruce?’
Collier fetched milk from the fridge and handed it to Rebus, along with the mug. ‘She’s in India, travelling with a pal of hers. That’s why the place is so clean — no cooking here since she left.’
‘I’m just remembering something,’ Rebus said, while Collier returned the milk to the fridge. ‘Wasn’t there some scandal about Brough’s back in the seventies?’
‘Scandal?’ Collier had swapped the milk for white wine. He unscrewed the bottle and poured a slug into a waiting glass.
‘A murder at some hotel.’
‘That was right around the corner!’ Collier exclaimed. ‘The dear old Caley. I was staying there at the time.’
‘Usher Hall, 1978? I think I saw you there.’
‘Supposed to be the ticker-tape-parade homecoming celebration. Local lad made good and all that.’
‘But there was a murder instead?’
Collier studied him above the rim of his almost-full glass. ‘You must remember it. When did you join the police?’
‘I’m not as old as I look. So are you still recording, Bruce?’
Collier’s face creased. His hair was unnaturally brown and unnaturally thick. A weave, a wig, or good genes and a dye job? Rebus couldn’t decide. ‘Bits and pieces,’ he said eventually.
‘Do you have a studio?’
‘I’ll show you.’
Rebus followed him out of the kitchen and across the hall. It was a small room with no natural light. Behind a window was a smaller room again. Rebus could make out the mixing desk.
‘If I need a grand piano or drums, we do those elsewhere, but this is fine otherwise. Some bands these days record straight to a laptop and sort it all out with apps and the internet.’
‘You’ve not quite gone that route yet,’ Rebus commented, studying the dozen or so platinum and gold discs framed along three walls. A selection of electric and acoustic guitars sat on stands. Collier grabbed one and settled on a stool. He played a few chords, eyes on Rebus.
‘That’s “A Monument in Time”,’ Rebus said.
‘How about this?’ More chords, Collier making a mistake and starting again.
‘ “Woncha Fool Around With Me”,’ Rebus stated.
‘You know your stuff,’ Collier said. He made to replace the guitar on its stand, then held it out towards Rebus instead.
‘I don’t play,’ Rebus informed him.
‘Everybody should learn an instrument.’
‘Did you start at school?’
‘Our music teacher played in a jazz band. I used to rib him about it, so he got me to go along one night — I was underage but he sneaked me in.’
‘You loved it?’
‘I hated it. Took up guitar the very next day, determined to learn stuff he would loathe.’
The two men shared a smile. Collier was still smiling as he took a step towards Rebus. ‘You’re not really here about this investment guy, are you?’
‘Actually, I am. But it’s a bit of a coincidence...’
‘What?’
‘You and the Broughs and the Caley.’
‘And why’s that?’
‘A man called Robert Chatham was pulled from Leith Docks this morning.’
‘I heard about it on the news. Suicide, was it?’
‘The name doesn’t mean anything to you? Robert Chatham? Detective Inspector Robert Chatham?’
Collier thought for a moment, then began to nod. ‘Shit, yes, he grilled me a few years back! Your lot had reopened that bloody case because my road manager wanted to make as much trouble as he could before he pegged it — bugger had just had the first of his heart attacks. So now this Chatham guy has gone and topped himself? I suppose that is a coincidence.’
‘It wasn’t suicide, sir. His hands had been tied behind his back.’
Collier’s eyes widened as he puckered his mouth.
‘I don’t suppose you’ve had anything to do with him recently?’ Rebus asked, placing the half-empty mug on the stool.
‘Not in however many years it is.’
‘Eight,’ Rebus reminded him.
‘Eight years, then.’
‘Your friend Dougie Vaughan — do you still see him around?’
All previous traces of humour had left Collier’s face. ‘I’m going to ask you to leave. And if you don’t, I’ll be straight on the phone to my lawyer.’
‘You invited me in, Mr Collier.’
‘Because you lied and said you were interested in one of my neighbours — something I doubt your bosses will be happy about.’
‘I’m what you might call self-employed.’
‘You told me you were with the police.’
‘I really didn’t.’
‘Well, cop or no cop, I want you out.’
‘But I can still bring a few LPs round for an autograph?’
‘You can fucking whistle, Mr Whoever-you-are.’
‘I’m really not very good at whistling.’
‘And I’m not very patient when it comes to people who’ve conned their way into my house.’ Collier had taken hold of Rebus’s forearm. Rebus just stared at him until he released it.
‘Good boy,’ Rebus said, exiting the studio and making for the stairs. ‘Thanks for the coffee and the tour. Maybe I’ll see you at a concert one of these days.’
‘I’ll make sure your name’s on the door — to be admitted under no circumstances.’
Rebus paused on the staircase. ‘That’s interesting,’ he said, without turning back towards Collier.
‘What is?’
‘Robert Chatham worked as a doorman all over the city — maybe you did happen across him without knowing it.’
‘I don’t drink in places that need doormen.’
Rebus had started climbing the stairs again. ‘Nice talking to you, Bruce,’ he said.
Rebus had texted Siobhan Clarke from his flat, suggesting a catch-up. Her reply — Bringing doggy bag — had puzzled him until he opened his door and saw her holding up the carrier from Pataka.
‘And soft drinks all round,’ Fox added, hoisting another carrier filled with cans.
‘It’s like New Year came early — go on through, then.’
Brillo was waiting in the living room. Clarke and Fox gave him plenty of attention while Rebus filled a plate. Fox was browsing the Maria Turquand file when Rebus returned from the kitchen.
‘This has to go to Alvin James,’ Fox reminded him.
‘First thing tomorrow,’ Rebus promised.
‘Malcolm tells me you kept my name out of it,’ Clarke added. ‘Thanks for that.’
‘I’m a lot of things, but a grass isn’t one of them.’ Rebus settled in his chair and started scooping up curry with a spoon. Fox eventually joined Clarke on the sofa and she offered him an Irn-Bru.
‘Actually, I got the San Pellegrino for me,’ he complained.
‘Tough,’ she informed him, having nabbed it for herself.
‘So how are things in the big school?’ Rebus asked, eyes on Fox.
‘I’ve not had to report any bullying yet,’ Fox replied.
‘Team seem decent enough. Talk me through them.’
‘The two DS’s are pretty hard-nosed. Sean Glancey’s from Aberdeen originally.’
‘He’s the one who keeps sweating?’
Fox nodded. ‘Cut his teeth on hairy-arsed oilmen fighting their way through Friday and Saturday night. Wallace Sharpe is a Dundonian. Parents worked for Timex and wanted him to go into electronics. He reckons that if he had, he’d have designed a million-selling game by now and be living on a yacht. When he speaks you can hardly hear him, but he’s sharp as they come.’
‘What about the DCs?’
‘Mark Oldfield’s the one who seems intent on getting me wound up.’
‘Maybe because the first thing you did,’ Rebus reminded him, ‘was turn him into the tea boy.’
Clarke swivelled to face Fox. ‘Did you?’ He shrugged a response, attention still on Rebus.
‘Which leaves Anne Briggs. Like Oldfield, she’s west coast through and through. The pair of them talk in a code only they can decipher. Why the wry smile?’
‘There’s a folk singer called Anne Briggs.’ Rebus gestured towards the rack of LPs beneath his hi-fi. ‘One or two of her albums in there if I looked hard enough.’
‘Probably not the same person,’ Fox commented.
‘Probably not,’ Rebus agreed. ‘But it’s been my night for musicians.’
‘You went to see Bruce Collier?’ Clarke guessed.
‘He happens to live across the street from Anthony Brough’s office,’ Rebus said for Fox’s benefit, watching as Brillo curled up on the sofa in the gap between Fox and Clarke.
‘And?’
‘And he didn’t have much to add, though he did recall being interviewed by Chatham.’ Rebus paused. ‘So Malcolm and I have both been busy — how about you, Siobhan? Feeling a bit left out?’
‘This is the thanks I get for bringing you curry?’ She watched him hold up a hand in apology.
‘Malcolm says he’s put a good word in for you, though.’
She tried out a scowl, but Rebus only grinned and tipped another spoonful of rogan josh into his mouth. ‘I’ve been busy too,’ she eventually stated. ‘Went to check on Craw Shand, and he’s not budging from his house.’
‘That’s the last place he should be.’
‘I did try telling him that. And I was proved right when I saw Darryl Christie’s car cruising past.’ She saw she had both men’s full attention. ‘Darryl wasn’t driving, though; it was a guy called Harry, who supposedly manages the Devil’s Dram.’
‘Checking out the lie of the land?’
‘Looked like. I pulled him over for a word.’
‘No weapons on view? No smell of petrol?’
Clarke shook her head.
‘Why would there be...’ Fox broke off as comprehension dawned. ‘To pour through the letter box.’
‘With any luck, Darryl will surmise we’re watching Craw round the clock.’
‘We’re not, though, are we?’ Rebus said.
‘I’ve flagged the address up to the patrols — they might manage one pass every hour or so, unless something kicks off elsewhere. Pretty much the same coverage Darryl Christie himself is getting.’
‘Not much more we can do, then,’ Rebus commented. He caught the look from the sofa. ‘And by “we”, of course I mean “you”.’ Having finished the food, he placed the plate on the floor. Brillo had one eye open, watching. Rebus stifled a belch.
‘They say it’s toughest after a meal,’ Fox said. ‘Is that true?’
‘Depends what you mean.’
‘Nicotine craving.’
Rebus gave him a hard stare. ‘You’d make a good torturer, Malcolm, has anyone ever told you that?’
‘Someone I know,’ Clarke added, ‘says acupuncture can help. They just press their ear lobe whenever they feel the need.’
‘Well the pair of you are starting to give me the needle, which means it’s almost chucking-out time.’
Fox and Clarke finished their drinks and got to their feet.
‘Know what doesn’t quite compute?’ Clarke asked. ‘Darryl Christie’s reaction. I mean, if Craw turns out to be in the clear, then his attacker is still out there. Shouldn’t he be at least a little bit spooked?’
‘What makes you think he isn’t?’
She thought for a moment. ‘When I phoned him, he was at home listening to music. At least one of his brothers was there with him. It all sounds too normal, don’t you think?’
‘Maybe he’s got guards surrounding the place,’ Fox suggested.
‘Oh now you’ve done it,’ Rebus said. ‘You’ve planted a seed, which means Siobhan’s going to have to drive over there and take a look for herself. Am I right?’
Clarke considered this. ‘It’s practically on my way home,’ she eventually conceded.
The Christie house was in darkness by the time she reached it. No Range Rover visible in the driveway and no muscle securing the perimeter or parked kerbside, ready to spring into action. A typical suburban street in one of the wealthier enclaves of the city, places where crime remained rare. Clarke stopped her car across the road, the engine idling while she watched and waited. A single-word text arrived from Rebus.
Anything?
She typed in her own single-word reply — Nada — and, yawning, headed for home.