Rather Be the Devil

10

Craw Shand wasn’t a complete idiot, despite what everybody seemed to think.

He checked the outside world from his upstairs bedroom, even opening the window so he could peer to left and right. Then another check from behind the downstairs curtains, just in case anyone was stationed on his doorstep. Having assured himself that the coast was clear, he shrugged into his coat, stuffed a shopping bag into one pocket and headed out.

He kept his collar up and his head down, offering little more than grunts to the few neighbours who greeted him. He was off to the Lidl, where his mission was to stock up for the next few days. He had twenty-six pounds in cash, which would be more than enough. Tinned soup and ravioli, bread, a few beers. Salted peanuts as a treat maybe. Not the big packets — he always seemed to finish those at one sitting and felt queasy after. And no wine — these days it furred his brain as well as his tongue. He had to stay sharp. So just the beers to complement the tablets stashed away at home. The tablets had come from a pal. Happy pills, doled out for depression. They got him nicely buzzing, washed down with a couple of beers.

Buzz, buzz, he said to himself as he entered the store. He’d be in and out in five minutes — knew the layout like the back of his hand. Unless they’d moved stuff around. They did that sometimes. He’d complained once at the checkout.

‘We call it a “refresh”,’ he’d been told.

‘I call it messing with my head,’ he’d retorted. But then the manager had come over and asked if there was a problem. So that had been that.

This morning was fine, though, everything in its right place. Five minutes in and out, like a pro. Craw was turning from a shelf when he bumped into the man.

‘Didn’t see you there,’ he apologised.

‘Problem with getting to my age,’ the man replied genially, ‘you mostly become invisible.’ He was smiling, his hands empty — no basket, no shopping. ‘How you doing, Craw?’

‘Do I know you?’ Shand looked around, but security was nowhere.

‘You might know the name — it’s Cafferty.’

Shand’s face couldn’t help registering surprise. ‘Mr Cafferty,’ he stuttered.

‘So you do know me then?’ The smile broadened.

‘I’ve heard plenty about you.’

‘And I’ve been hearing about you, Craw.’

‘Oh?’

‘Darryl Christie used to be someone I considered a friend. Well, maybe not a friend exactly, but someone I could do business with. That all changed, of course. Darryl started stepping on a lot of people’s toes, mine more energetically than most, if you take my meaning.’ Cafferty waited, but Shand had nothing to say. He gestured towards Shand’s basket. ‘Nearly done?’

‘Nearly.’

‘Maybe we could go back to yours and talk a bit.’

‘Talk?’

‘There’s nothing to worry about, Craw. Whoever thumped Darryl maybe thought they were doing me a favour. I have to admit, I almost wish I’d had a ringside seat. If it was you, well, I just want to shake your hand.’

Shand looked down. Cafferty had extended a hand wrapped in a black leather glove. When he reached out his own, Cafferty clamped it so hard, Shand couldn’t help but wince. The pressure stayed on as Cafferty spoke.

‘But if it wasn’t you, Craw, then I need to know the who and the why, because secret benefactors make me almost as nervous as out-and-out scumbags. So we’ll go back to yours, have a cup of tea and a chat.’ Cafferty reached past Shand with his free hand and grabbed a packet of biscuits. ‘My treat,’ he said.

‘It was me that hit him,’ Shand blurted out. ‘I’ve been charged and everything.’

Cafferty released his grip. ‘Maybe you did and maybe you didn’t. Could be you’re covering for somebody or you heard something you shouldn’t. I watched you on your way here, Craw. You’re almost as invisible as me. Means people don’t even notice you when you’re practically under their nose.’ He wrinkled his face. ‘Though the whiff coming off you might offer them a clue.’

‘There’s no hot water.’

‘Not been paying your gas bill, Craw?’ Cafferty dug in his pocket and lifted out a roll of banknotes. ‘I might be able to help you there. Let’s go have that chat, eh? Somewhere a bit more private than here...’

Forty minutes later, Cafferty closed the door of Craw Shand’s house and walked down the overgrown path. He had called for a taxi, but preferred to wait for it outside in the cold. He had kept his gloves on throughout, mostly to avoid skin contact with any of the greasy furniture. He hadn’t bothered with tea, either, reckoning the mugs would be less than pristine. Shand had broken open the pack of biscuits and he’d eaten one of those, while watching the damaged cogs of Shand’s brain try to find some purchase. Stories had come — version upon version of something probably not even close to the truth. But Cafferty had probed, and Cafferty had been patient, and Shand had played a final hand.

A bar in the Cowgate... Craw couldn’t be sure which one. The man had turned a corner into an alley to keep the call more private. Gone midnight and students were on the prowl, chanting and singing. Shand was just walking. He’d scored a cigarette and paused to smoke it. And had heard snatches of the phone call. A few details that stuck. About a man given a pasting in his own driveway. Next morning he had headed to Inverleith and found a street that seemed about right, a house that seemed about right. And he’d made up his mind to say he’d done it.

No, he hadn’t caught sight of whoever was on the phone. Male. Probably a local accent.

It wasn’t much and Cafferty doubted it was the whole story, but it was something.

‘You’re sure it was a local accent?’ he had asked.

‘It was noisy and late, I’d had a few beers...’

Cafferty rubbed at the underside of his jaw as he stood on the pavement. He knew this part of town, had spent some of his early years here. It had been feral then, a place where you learned quickly or perished. These streets had been his teacher, and the education gained here had sustained him. But there were probably plenty more like Craw Shand, victims of circumstance, floating on the surface and buffeted by every passing wave. Cafferty had encountered enough of them in his time.

He had thought those days were over. Maybe he would have been content to drift into retirement if anyone but Darryl Christie had come along. He had thought of himself as Christie’s mentor, and the lad had played along for a while, all the time planning to barge Cafferty aside. His business had grown quickly and he had grown with it. No please or thank you — just alliances with each and every one of Cafferty’s adversaries in the other cities, until Cafferty’s own territory had withered.

Could he just sit on his hands and allow them to get away with that? So far they’d let him be, but history suggested this was a state of affairs that wouldn’t last. Cafferty thought of it as a reckoning. And it was coming.

When the black cab arrived, he climbed into the back, his face almost as dark as the sky overhead.

‘Snow later maybe,’ the driver informed him.

‘I didn’t know I was getting a weather forecast,’ Cafferty growled. ‘Just fucking drive.’

There was a white Range Rover parked further along the street, most of it hidden behind a rusting transit van. Its driver was using the hands-free option as he watched the taxi head for Peffermill Road.

‘That’s him leaving now,’ he said. ‘Do I stay here or what?’

‘He didn’t take Shand with him?’

‘No.’

‘Maybe follow him then. I wouldn’t mind knowing where he calls home these days...’

When Siobhan Clarke arrived at Gayfield Square, she was told that her visitor had already gone up.

‘Thanks,’ she said.

She climbed the stairs to CID, but the only people in the room were Christine Esson and Ronnie Ogilvie.

‘Two doors along,’ Esson stated.

Clarke headed along the corridor and into another of the offices, where John Rebus was busy at the photocopier.

‘I might have guessed,’ she said.

Rebus half turned towards her and spotted the beaker of coffee. ‘I hope that’s for me.’

‘Not a chance.’ Clarke watched him tidy up the sheets he’d just printed. More were churning from the machine. ‘The file I brought you,’ she commented.

‘Of course.’

‘You’re giving James’s team the originals but keeping copies for yourself?’

‘Yup.’

Clarke rested against the nearest desk. ‘I shouldn’t really be surprised.’

‘It was always going to happen, Siobhan, and I reckoned I could do it here for free.’

‘Knowing I would know.’

‘I’m always going to assume you’re on my side.’

‘Plus I was bound to find out one way or another.’ She took a slurp of the coffee.

‘Been back to Darryl’s house this morning?’

‘I’m not that much of a masochist.’

‘So what’s on the cards for today?’

‘We’re supposed to show Darryl some photos and voice recordings.’

‘To see if he can pick out Craw as his attacker?’

‘Waste of time, right?’

‘Right.’

‘What about you — I’m guessing you’ve got something planned?’

‘Dropping this lot round to Leith.’

‘And after that?’

‘Irons in fires, Siobhan.’

‘Make sure you pick up the end that won’t burn you.’

‘I’m always careful.’

‘Robert Chatham probably thought he was careful, too.’

Rebus paused, then nodded. ‘You’ll be checking on Craw later, I dare say.’

‘If I get time.’

‘No trouble last night?’

‘Patrol cars managed three passes in his neighbourhood. Believe it or not, they even got out and did a bit of walking.’

‘You reckon they really did?’

‘They wouldn’t lie to CID, would they?’

‘Perish the thought,’ Rebus said, before cursing under his breath. ‘Another paper jam,’ he muttered. ‘What is it with these things?’ He looked to her for guidance.

‘All right, let me look at it.’ Clarke placed her coffee on the desk and walked over to the machine, sliding out the paper tray and easing the stuck sheet from between the rollers. When she glanced over her shoulder, Rebus was stealing a slug of coffee.

‘Don’t worry,’ he assured her. ‘I’m not infectious...’

One thing he hadn’t considered was that an eleven o’clock consultation might not get under way until at least quarter to twelve. The hospital waiting room wasn’t the most inspiring of spots. He hadn’t bothered to bring a paper, and the day-old one he found on a chair kept him occupied for not much more than ten minutes. He was just about to tell the receptionist that he was a busy man and would need to make another appointment, but his name was called before the words came out.

And afterwards...

After the local anaesthetic, the CT scan, the needle biopsy...

Probably nothing to worry about, but better to be safe than sorry...

A shadow on the lung sometimes means little or nothing...

We do have some reading matter for you, and there are websites we can suggest, just to put your mind at ease...

Words that rolled from the consultant’s mouth like a script she’d learned by heart long ago. How many patients had sat where Rebus sat, hearing but not really listening? Then released to the fresh air and a world that couldn’t comprehend how they were feeling, accompanied by a dull pain and some medication to see them through.

Buck up, John, he told himself as he reached the car park. You’re not for the crow road just yet.

Fox had been given the task of going through the cold-case notes. He would bet a pound to a penny that Rebus had kept copies, but he wasn’t about to tell Alvin James that. Half the stuff he already knew from Siobhan’s summary in the Oxford Bar two nights back. James wanted Rebus to come in and be interviewed formally, with the session taped, so they could have a record of his conversation with Chatham. Mark Oldfield had been dispatched to the café to make sure Rebus’s story about breakfast checked out. Sean Glancey and Anne Briggs were interviewing Liz Dolan at her home. Wallace Sharpe was at his desk, studying the autopsy report with furious intensity while Alvin James took a phone call. The milk from the previous day had gone sour and not been replaced, meaning black tea or black coffee. Fox was the only one of the three who seemed not to mind.

He had done an internet search on Bruce Collier, even watched a few clips of the man in his prime. There was plenty of archive material about his 1978 homecoming concert. The show had gone on, of course, but Maria Turquand’s murder had been mentioned in a couple of the reviews. There was much less online information concerning Collier’s musician friend Dougie Vaughan, or the other players in the drama, most having lived out the bulk of their lives in the pre-internet age. A few photos of Maria and John Turquand on their wedding day and at subsequent society balls. Sir Magnus Brough, of course, captured in tweeds as he prepared to blast grouse or pheasant from the Perthshire skies; bowler-hatted in pinstripes on the steps of his bank’s Charlotte Square premises; at the well-attended funeral of his son and daughter-in-law, a hand on the shoulder of each of his teenage grandchildren.

Which, of course, led Fox to search for Anthony Brough himself. Not for the first time, but you never could tell what detail you might have missed — and Fox was nothing if not diligent. It was all flotsam, though, no real depth or insight. The drowning of his friend on Grand Cayman. The aftershock felt most keenly by Anthony’s ‘sensitive’ sister Francesca. A couple of business puffs regarding the setting-up of his investment company, but nothing, naturally, about shell companies or Darryl Christie.

Nothing to suggest why he hadn’t been seen of late.

Fox watched Alvin James end his call. He seemed to have been given a small but effective jolt of electricity. Wallace Sharpe had noticed, too, and was waiting for his boss to share the news.

‘Toxicology report,’ James obliged. ‘Our victim had imbibed the best part of a bottle of whisky.’ He started composing a text as he spoke. ‘I’m asking Sean to check with the widow how much he regularly took of an afternoon or evening.’

‘Wasn’t he supposed to be working the night he died?’ Fox enquired. ‘Would he have downed that much prior to starting a shift?’

‘Good point, Malcolm. There was some on his clothing, too — lab seems to think so anyway.’

‘Like it was forced down his throat?’

‘Or else something had scared him witless, giving him the shakes.’

‘Any news of the ligature?’ Sharpe enquired in a whisper.

‘Blue polyurethane,’ James said, reading from the sheet in front of him. ‘Cheap guy ropes use it — meaning tents and stuff. I’m not sure that gets us much further. Basic double knot, but tied tight enough to cut the circulation.’

‘He was alive when he went in the water, but do we know if he was conscious?’ Fox asked

‘After a bottle of hooch?’ James rubbed a hand across his forehead. ‘I’d have been KO’d. How about you?’

‘I don’t drink,’ Fox admitted, ‘so I doubt I’d be exactly chipper.’ He watched as James studied his phone, a text having newly arrived.

‘Well guess what, Malcolm — our chap was off the sauce, too. For the best part of a year, according to Ms Dolan.’

‘So person or persons unknown,’ Sharpe mused, ‘got him incapable, then tied him up and chucked him in the Forth.’

‘Or tied him up first,’ Fox countered. ‘Easier that way to force the whisky down him.’

Sharpe signalled his grudging acceptance of this. James was studying the chart they’d fixed to one wall — a timeline of Chatham’s final day, as yet hopelessly incomplete.

‘We need those phone records pronto — home and mobile. Plus CCTV from around the city. Everywhere he worked, we need to see their footage for the past few days. I want to know everyone he spoke with, every place he frequented. Co-workers, buddies, anyone who came on his radar. All we seem to know right now is that he had breakfast with John Rebus, headed home afterwards for a few hours, seemed anxious, then sloped out without a word of goodbye. After which, it’s like he doesn’t exist. It’s down to us to find out where he went. Twelve noon till whenever he died — all those gaps need to be filled.’ James was looking at Fox. ‘So where would you start, Malcolm?’

Fox thought for a moment. ‘I’d start with a map,’ he said.

‘This better be me having a bad dream,’ Cafferty said, staring at the figure on his doorstep.

‘You never sent a change of address card,’ Darryl Christie said with a shrug.

‘So how did you find me?’

‘Tried a couple of buzzers until someone answered. Told them I’d a delivery for Mr Cafferty. Nice place...’ He made to enter, but Cafferty blocked him. They stayed that way as the seconds passed, but then Cafferty stepped aside. ‘In you come, then.’

The hallway led to a large open-plan room, all pale wood and unadorned white walls. A glass door led to the balcony. Christie opened it without bothering to ask permission and stepped outside.

‘Quite a view,’ he said, peering down at the usual array of students, cyclists and joggers criss-crossing the Meadows. Raising his head, he took in Marchmont, with the Pentland Hills behind. ‘Can’t quite see Rebus’s flat, though — bet you wish you could.’

‘I thought you were laid low, Darryl,’ Cafferty said.

‘My body’s not quite as bruised as my ego.’ Christie dabbed the tips of his fingers against the skin around his nose. The strapping was gone, but there was still discolouring and slight swelling. ‘Hurts to take a deep breath, if that’s any consolation.’ He paused. ‘Someone takes you down, you start to wonder why they’re not as afraid of you as they ought to be.’ He kept his eyes on the vista. ‘You’ve had a bit of experience in that direction yourself, so I’m not telling you anything you don’t know.’

‘You think it’s something to do with me, is that it?’

‘You personally? No.’

‘Me paying someone, though?’

‘Yes, well, that had crossed my mind.’

‘And what does your friend Joe say?’

Christie seemed to consider this. ‘Mr Stark has been a bit quiet.’

‘That’s not like him.’

‘He did phone to commiserate, of course.’

‘But no bedside visit? Looks like things might be cooling between you, Darryl...’

‘The beating made me look weak. Joe Stark can’t abide weakness.’ The two men were leaning against the balcony rail, hands clasping it. ‘If you really wanted rid of me,’ Christie went on, ‘this is as good a chance as any — one shove and I’m a goner.’

‘Think of the witnesses, though.’

‘It would be your word against theirs.’

‘There isn’t a hit out on you, Darryl — not one that came from me. Not this week, at least.’

The two men shared a wary smile.

‘You know they’ve charged someone?’ Christie said, turning at last towards Cafferty. ‘He’s called Craw Shand.’

‘Oh aye?’

‘You’ve not come across him?’

‘Name doesn’t—’

‘This morning, for example. At his house.’

Cafferty’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’re having him watched?’

‘Of course I am.’

‘But you don’t think he’s your attacker?’

‘He tells lies for the fun of it. But he knows stuff he shouldn’t, which means that whoever hit me, Shand knows them.’

‘Not me, son.’

‘No?’

Cafferty shook his head slowly, maintaining eye contact throughout.

‘Then why pay him a visit?’

‘Same reason you just gave — he knows something.’

‘And?’

‘And he stuck to his story,’ Cafferty said, making sure not to blink, not to give any tells.

‘Why’s it so important to you?’

‘Because my name’s on two lists — yours and CID’s. I’m as interested in finding out as you are.’

‘So you can give them a hug of thanks?’

‘So I can know.’

Christie considered this. ‘I think I remember you saying as much once — back in the days when you thought you could mould me. Something clichéd about knowledge being power.’

‘It’s a cliché because it happens to be true.’

Christie nodded, pretending to be interested in the view again as he spoke. ‘It might be all to do with a guy called Anthony Brough.’

‘I’m listening.’

‘We had a business arrangement that didn’t work out. Now he’s nowhere to be found.’

‘Local, is he? Scottish, I mean?’

‘Yes.’

‘So what does he do?’

‘He’s an investment broker, offices in Rutland Square.’

‘Does he owe you money, or is it the other way round?’

‘I’d just like to know his whereabouts.’

‘And you think I can help?’

Christie offered a shrug. ‘I’m not having much luck on my own.’

‘Did you think to ask Joe Stark or any of your other old pals?’

‘Like I say, I seem to be on my own.’

‘So I get to be your best friend now, is that it?’

Christie met Cafferty’s eyes. ‘Joe Stark is an old man. One day soon he’s going to topple.’

‘And you step into the vacuum?’

‘I wouldn’t mind taking over his show, leaving Edinburgh to someone else. It’s a beautiful city, but it’s starting to bore me.’ He paused. ‘At least say you’ll think about it — for old times.’

‘Of course I’ll think about it.’

The two men shook hands and began to move indoors.

‘Have you seen my house?’ Christie asked.

‘No.’

‘It’s a bit like your old place. This is very different — what changed?’

‘Eighteen rooms and I used about four of them. At least you’ve got a family to fill yours.’

Christie nodded. ‘You’ll put the word out?’ he asked, watching Cafferty close the balcony door.

‘About Anthony Brough? I don’t see why not.’

‘I knew you’d still have ears on the street.’

‘The fruits of a lifetime spent doling out drinks and the odd banknote.’ Cafferty paused. ‘You should get a bit of personal protection — seriously.’

‘You mean a bodyguard?’

‘Either that or a weapon — I’m assuming you’ll know someone who could help.’

‘Never really been my style, but thanks for the advice.’ Christie was making for the hallway and the front door. Cafferty leaned past him to open it.

‘By the way,’ Cafferty asked. ‘Seen the Russian lately?’

Christie stopped on the welcome mat outside the door. ‘What Russian?’

Cafferty held up a hand, palm out. ‘Have it your way, Darryl.’

‘No, I’m serious — what Russian?’

‘Just something I heard.’

Christie gave a shrug and a shake of the head.

‘Must have misunderstood,’ Cafferty said, beginning to close the door.

Christie walked to the lift, jabbed the button and waited, hands clenched at his sides, eyes staring at his blurry reflection in the brushed aluminium doors.

‘He’s Ukrainian, you prick,’ he said under his breath.

11

Fox had to admit it — he was impressed.

The MIT room was all focused activity, with Alvin James at its centre, keeping it that way. A map had been found and pinned to the wall. On it, coloured pins showed the spot where the body had been found, the victim’s home, and other locations associated with him, from the café where he’d met Rebus to the bars and clubs he worked and the gym where he spent much of his free time. James had already said it: the man would have been no pushover, meaning they were probably looking for two or more assailants. The currents of the Firth of Forth had been scrutinised. Western Harbour, where the body had ended up, was hemmed in by two breakwaters, leaving a narrow access channel. According to the expert they’d consulted, the body had most likely either been thrown into the harbour itself or put in the water somewhere in the vicinity. That still left them a lot of coastline, and aerial photographs had been sourced and pinned up next to the map. The highlights of the autopsy report were there, too, as were lists of the deceased’s friends and associates. But the timeline of Chatham’s final day was still far from complete.

Anne Briggs was transcribing the interview with Liz Dolan, while the others were on their phones, arranging to talk with the names on the lists. Fox had a list of his own to work through. It had just arrived from Chatham’s mobile phone provider, and sat on his desk next to a similar sheet detailing the past month’s landline activity. Internet browsing and downloads were only given as totals, but numbers called and texts sent were laid out in more comprehensive terms. The phone Chatham called most often was his home landline, usually in the evening — probably bored and cold as he waited to see some action at work. One number interested Fox — a mobile number. No calls to it, but over a hundred texts in a single month. Fox had tapped it into his own phone, but it went to an automated answering service. He hung up, and asked Briggs for Liz Dolan’s mobile number. Briggs told him. Not a match. And he could see Dolan’s mobile now — Chatham had texted it a couple of dozen times during the month. Fox put a question mark beside the mystery number and kept working.

Less than five minutes later, he had something. James could see it in his face, and strode over to the desk.

‘Gimme,’ he said.

‘Each and every Saturday, around twelve noon,’ Fox obliged, tapping his finger against the number called. ‘A two- to three-minute call to the same landline.’

‘Yes?’

‘I just phoned it myself. It’s a betting shop called Klondyke Alley.’

‘So?’

Fox kept his eyes on the list. ‘It’s just... we didn’t know he was the betting type, did we?’

James got Anne Briggs’s attention. She slipped off her headphones as he asked her the question.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Partner told us that — he’d have a regular bet on the horses.’

‘Enough to get into trouble?’ Fox enquired.

‘I didn’t get the feeling they had money worries.’

‘Malcolm has a point, though — we need to look at Mr Chatham’s bank accounts.’

‘I don’t recall bookmakers being quite so fierce,’ Briggs said sceptically, ‘even with punters who owe them big.’

‘No stone unturned, Anne,’ James warned her. He had turned his attention to the cold-case file, the one Rebus had delivered. Fox had given him a two-minute briefing on it, and James hadn’t seen any cause to prioritise it at this stage.

‘I could go take a look at Klondyke Alley,’ Fox offered. ‘I checked and it’s on Great Junction Street, not a ten-minute walk from here.’

James studied him. ‘What’s your thinking?’

‘Could be Chatham placed bets in person as well as by phone.’

James considered this. ‘Ten minutes, you say?’

‘Each way,’ Fox corrected him. ‘I can bring back milk.’

‘And biscuits,’ Briggs called from her desk.

‘And biscuits,’ Fox agreed.

Klondyke Alley sat between a café and a charity shop, with a bus stop directly outside. Its brightly lit window showed an oversized one-armed bandit, its reels turning slowly and constantly. Fox stepped inside. It was almost identical to Diamond Joe’s and Diamond Joe’s Too — one bored-looking cashier; a few glazed-eyed punters seated in front of their favoured machines; TV screens fixed to the walls. Fox stood in front of the cash desk, waiting for the bulky man behind the glass to finish the text he was composing on his phone. It took a while. The cashier gave Fox an unwelcoming look.

‘Help ye?’ he barked.

‘I don’t meet many novelists,’ Fox said, gesturing towards the man’s phone. ‘I assume that was a chapter you were finishing.’

‘I’m going to guess you’re not here to place any bets.’

‘You’d be right.’ Fox held out his warrant card in one hand and a recent photo of Robert Chatham in the other. ‘Know this guy?’ he asked.

‘Nope.’

‘He was a customer here.’

‘Doubt it.’

‘He phoned in a bet every Saturday lunchtime.’

‘Then show me a picture of his voice.’

Fox gave a humourless smile. ‘He never came in?’

‘Not on my watch.’

‘His name was Robert Chatham.’

‘Oh aye?’

‘You won’t be taking any more bets from him.’

The cashier sighed and typed Chatham’s name into his computer. ‘He had an account,’ he confirmed.

‘How was he doing?’

The man studied the screen. ‘Breaking even, more or less.’

‘So does he owe you or do you owe him.’

‘Nineteen quid in credit. You should let his next of kin know.’

‘I’ll do that,’ Fox said. ‘But he never placed bets in person?’

‘Always by phone.’

‘How about online?’

The man scanned the screen again. ‘No sign of that.’

Fox turned the photograph over. On the back he had scribbled the mobile number, the one Chatham had texted all those times. ‘How about this?’

‘Is it supposed to mean something?’

‘It’s not a number you recognise?’

The man shook his head. ‘We done here?’ he asked. Fox realised there was a punter behind him, needing change. He nodded his agreement, pausing by one of the machines and sliding home a pound coin before realising it only gave him a single credit. He pushed the button and waited. When the reels stopped, he had done something right, because a light was flashing to ask him if he wanted to gamble or collect. He pressed gamble and the reels spun at a slower rate than previously. The machine wanted him to decide when to stop each one, so that was what he did. The light was flashing again. He decided to collect and was surprised when coins started coughing out into the metal tray beneath. Pound coins. Twenty of them.

‘Fuck’s sake,’ the punter at the cash desk complained, as Fox scooped up his winnings and left.

He bought multi-packs of Kit Kats from the supermarket, as well as a litre of semi-skimmed, even splashing out fivepence on a carrier bag. Outside again, he paused and crossed to the opposite pavement, heading back in the direction of Klondyke Alley. He focused his attention on the unwashed windows of the flat above. The flat was accessed from a scuffed door between Klondyke Alley and the charity shop. How many companies had Sheila Graham told him were registered there? Fox crossed the road again and tried the door. It was locked. There was a bashed-looking intercom, but it boasted only flat numbers rather than the residents’ names. With the remaining coins weighing heavily in one pocket, he started back in the direction of Leith police station.

He took the stairs two at a time. A discussion was happening among the Major Investigation Team. Oldfield was on kettle duty again.

‘You spoil us, ambassador,’ he said, as Fox produced the Kit Kats.

‘What have I missed?’ Fox asked, directing the question at James.

‘Fitness trainer at Mr Chatham’s health club. He’s not a great one for gossip, but he felt we should know.’

‘Know what?’

‘That the deceased was quite friendly with a female client.’

‘How friendly?’

‘Cosy drinks together in the café after they’d finished their workouts. Trainer thought it quite a coincidence how often their visits to the club coincided.’

‘We have her name and address?’

‘We do now.’

‘And phone number?’ Fox watched James nod. ‘Can I see it?’ he asked.

James had it written on a pad of paper. Fox studied it, then brought out the photo of Robert Chatham, turning it over.

‘Are you some sort of magician, Malcolm?’ James said.

‘Chatham texted her four times as often as his partner.’

‘So why didn’t you tell me?’

‘I got distracted by Klondyke Alley.’

‘Speaking of which...’

Fox shook his head. ‘Phone bets only. They actually owed him a few quid at time of death. What’s her name?’ He was studying the phone number.

‘Maxine Dromgoole. Heard of her?’

‘Should I have?’

James turned towards Sean Glancey. ‘Tell the man, Sean.’

‘Quick internet search only throws up one Maxine Dromgoole.’ Glancey paused, bunching his handkerchief in a meaty paw. ‘With a link to the Amazon website.’

Fox couldn’t help but look quizzical.

‘She’s a writer, Malcolm,’ James explained. ‘Non-fiction, mostly crime.’

‘Including unsolveds,’ Anne Briggs chimed in.

‘The Maria Turquand case?’ Fox understood now. ‘She’s the reporter who got Bruce Collier’s road manager talking?’

‘The very same, it would seem.’

‘Which means she was responsible for the cold-case review — the one headed by Chatham.’

‘And that’s why I’ve taken Rebus’s folder from your desk and given it to Wallace.’

Wallace Sharpe tapped the folder to underline the point.

‘Did you try calling her?’ Fox asked.

‘Did you, Malcolm?’

‘Automated answering service.’

‘Well, we could ring again and leave a message,’ James said. ‘But we do have her address. And seeing how you’ve just generously donated all those lovely Kit Kats... how do you fancy a wee trip?’

‘Sure.’

‘Good, because I could do with a translator — none of us seem able to pronounce the name of her street.’

Fox studied James’s pad of paper.

‘It’s Sciennes,’ he said.

Sciennes Road was in Marchmont, not too far from Rebus’s flat. Fox was beginning to feel as if the city had become a labyrinth, its denizens and neighbourhoods all connected by knotted threads.

‘The red building on the left is the Sick Kids hospital,’ he told James, trying not to sound too much like a tour guide. ‘Sciennes Primary School next along.’ Then a run of shops with three storeys of flats above. A very different feel to Great Junction Street; a different part of the puzzle. Fox signalled and pulled into a parking space.

‘You always do that?’ Alvin James asked.

‘What?’

‘Signal.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Even when there’s no other traffic?’

‘It’s the way I learned.’

‘You’re a creature of habit, Malcolm. And you stick to the rules.’

‘Got a problem with that, Alvin?’

‘Not that I can think of.’

They got out and found the bell with ‘Dromgoole’ next to it. There was no answer from within. Both men stepped back as the door to the common stairwell swung inwards. One of the residents was emerging, hampered by a bicycle. James held the door open for him.

‘Ta.’

‘We’re here to see Maxine Dromgoole.’

‘Second floor left,’ the man said.

Alvin James nodded his thanks and waved Fox inside with a sweep of his free arm.

They climbed the stairs and stopped at Dromgoole’s door. Fox rapped with his knuckles. Nothing. James bent over and prised open the letter box.

‘Anyone home?’ he called.

Fox was just taking out one of his business cards and a pen when there was a sudden croaky voice from within.

‘Please, whoever you are, come back later.’

‘Can’t do that, Ms Dromgoole,’ James stated through the letter box. ‘We’re police officers.’

‘I can’t handle this right now.’

James made eye contact with Fox. ‘I can appreciate you’re upset, Maxine. Of course you are. But Robert would want you to help us, don’t you think?’

The silence lasted almost half a minute. Then the door was pulled open with infinite slowness, revealing a woman in what looked like pyjamas, the top baggy and grey, the trousers identical in colour and tied at the waist with a drawstring. Maxine Dromgoole had almost cried herself out. She looked ready to drop, face blotchy, hair unbrushed, eyes bloodshot. She held a wad of paper tissues in one hand. The area around her nose looked sore from rubbing.

‘Does Liz know?’ she asked.

‘About you and her partner? Not as far as I’m aware.’

‘But she’ll find out now, won’t she?’

‘Might not have to come to that,’ James said, looking to Fox to back him up.

‘We just need a few minutes of your time,’ Fox added as solicitously as he could.

‘It was revenge, wasn’t it?’

‘Was it?’

‘Rab had to chuck some guys out of a club a week or two back. He told me about it after. Said they’d promised payback.’

‘Tell you what, Maxine,’ James said. ‘Let’s go take the weight off while my colleague makes us all a cuppa. Does that sound okay?’

She nodded distractedly and turned towards the living room. Fox got busy in the kitchen. Once the kettle was on, he stood in the living room doorway, making sure he caught the conversation.

‘So how long had you known Rab?’ James was asking, notebook out.

‘Eight years or so.’

‘This would have been around the time you published your book?’

‘That’s right. He wanted to ask me about it.’

‘Because the case was being reviewed?’

She was nodding, her eyes fixed on the window and the sky beyond. ‘I’d reworked my interview with Vince Brady and sold it to a newspaper. This was in the days when newspapers still paid their contributors. Anyway, because it was back in the public eye, there had to be a review.’

‘And that was how you two met.’

‘We got on well. I didn’t really think about it afterwards, but he called me a couple of weeks later. I knew he was married but was on the verge of splitting up. He was already seeing Liz... Christ, that makes me sound like the scarlet woman, doesn’t it? It was actually a few years until we became serious — not that I ever wanted...’ She broke off, gulping and getting her breathing back under control. ‘I met Liz a few times. They have parties at the gym once or twice a year, partners welcome.’ She paused again, lowering her eyes. ‘She seemed very nice. You think it’s possible she won’t find out?’

Fox sped back to the kitchen and returned with a tray — three mugs, milk, sugar. He placed it on the coffee table and let them help themselves.

‘Did you see anything of him that last day?’ James asked when they had settled again.

‘He sent a couple of texts.’

Yes, Fox thought, at 10.45 and 11.10. Sent from home, with his partner either in the room or else not far away.

‘How did he seem?’

‘He was just letting me know he might not make it to the gym later.’

‘Did he say why?’

‘He’d been talking to someone about Maria Turquand.’

‘And that’s why he couldn’t come to the gym as usual?’ Fox probed.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Can we see the texts?’ James asked.

‘They’re... some of them are personal.’

‘I think I understand. Maybe just those two from the day itself?’

She lifted her phone from the coffee table and opened it up, eventually turning it round so they could see the screen, but not about to let them take the phone itself from her.

Don’t be cross, Hot Buns — can’t watch you sweat today. 

She had sent a reply a few minutes later:

Tomoz? Everything okay?

And then his response:

In other news, Maria T is back! Ex-cop on the prowl. Maybe I should be insulted my brilliant investigation wasn’t the end of it...

The last text ever sent by Robert Chatham.

‘Would he be at the gym most afternoons?’ James asked, sitting back down.

‘He had a good body. He liked to keep it that way.’ Dromgoole had turned the phone back towards her so she could stare at the texts. ‘He told me they used to tease him in CID, call him “Fat Rab”. He decided to do something about that.’

‘It was the Turquand case that threw you together,’ Fox interrupted. He was perched on the arm of the sofa, not quite ready to get comfortable. ‘Did he ever share the findings of the review with you?’

‘Would that have been against procedure?’ She placed her phone on the arm of her chair.

‘I’ll take that as a yes. What did you think when he sent you that text?’

She puffed out her cheeks and exhaled. ‘I was a bit cranky that I wasn’t going to be seeing him. I don’t think I gave it much thought.’

‘No?’

‘Should I have?’

‘It was a story that interested you at one time. I notice your book’s still in Amazon’s top thousand.’

She gave a snort. ‘Top thousand True Crime. I doubt it sells fifty copies a year.’

‘Are you working on anything just now?’ Fox asked.

The question seemed to throw her. She studied his face, more or less for the first time. ‘Very early stages,’ she eventually admitted.

‘Mind if I ask the subject?’

‘Morris Gerald Cafferty,’ she said. ‘You’ll know the name, I dare say.’

‘How far have you got?’

‘There are plenty of books out there about London gangsters, Manchester, Glasgow — I thought maybe it was Edinburgh’s turn. There’s a lot in the newspaper archives. Court reports, that sort of thing.’

‘Have you mentioned any of this to Cafferty?’

‘I’ve written requesting an interview. No news back as yet.’

Unhappy at this diversion, James leaned forward in his chair. ‘Apart from that disturbance you mentioned, the one outside the club, did Rab seem worried about anything?’

‘He’d been a bit on edge, but lovely, too. One night when Liz thought he was at work, the pair of us went to dinner at Mark Greenaway’s. Wasn’t cheap, but we loved it. At the end of the meal, he gave me a rose.’ She nodded towards a bookcase next to the fireplace. On one of the deep shelves sat a slender glass vase with a rose protruding from it, long dead, its petals never having opened.

As she gazed at it, the tears started trickling again down Maxine Dromgoole’s cheeks.

After a further ten minutes, they were done, Dromgoole promising to drop by the station and make a formal statement the following day. The two detectives descended the stone stairs in silence, footsteps echoing. They were back in the car before James asked Fox what he thought.

‘I don’t sense she’s hiding anything.’

‘I wouldn’t be so sure. For nearly eight years she managed to hide the fact she was shagging a man who had another partner.’

‘Which might say more about him than it does about her.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Chatham was leading two lives and managing to keep the one hidden from the other.’

James nodded slowly. ‘So who knows what other secrets he had?’

‘Added to which, it’s funny how Turquand keeps cropping up — and now suddenly Cafferty’s in the mix.’

‘I only really know him by name.’

‘He’s like a cannier version of Joe Stark. Hasn’t managed to grace the front pages quite as often because he is canny.’

‘I’m more interested in this group who threatened Chatham. They’ve not appeared on any of the CCTV yet, have they?’

‘Only a matter of time, I’d think.’

James looked thoughtful. ‘Did we miss anything in there, Malcolm? Anything we should have spotted or asked?’

‘The only books on her shelves are ones she wrote herself,’ Fox replied. ‘Not sure what that says about her.’

‘Would Chatham have kept feeding stories to her, do you think? They met eight years back and he’s only been retired three...’ James was staring at Fox.

‘Are you telling me I have to buy her books?’

‘Only if you want to maintain your reputation for absolute thoroughness.’

‘When you put it like that,’ Fox said, starting the engine, ‘how can I resist?’

12

Joe Stark always dressed as if the clock had stopped in the 1950s — camel-hair coat, polished black shoes, suit with wide lapels and a mauve shirt with a tie of the same colour. He wasn’t tall, but he had heft. As usual, he was flanked by his two oldest friends, Walter Grieve and Len Parker, the three having been in a gang since primary school. Cafferty had his back to them, studying the grandeur of Glasgow City Chambers, but he sensed Stark’s approach and half turned, managing the briefest of nods before turning his attention back to the edifice in front of him.

‘Got to be honest, Joe, it’s a damn sight more impressive than its Edinburgh equivalent.’

‘Bigger and better, that’s the Glasgow way.’

‘Well,’ Cafferty said after a moment’s consideration, ‘showier anyway.’

‘If it’s sightseeing you’re after, I’m happy to oblige.’

Cafferty faced the man for the first time. ‘You’re looking well.’

‘I’m breathing.’

‘That makes two of us — against all the odds.’

‘That sounds like the Glasgow way, too.’ Stark saw that Cafferty was studying the statue next to them.

‘“Thomas Graham,”’ Cafferty read from the plaque below the statue, ‘“brilliant experimental chemist.” We’ve known a few of those in our time, eh, Joe?’ He began to chuckle, but Stark was staring hard at him.

‘Why are you here?’ he hissed.

‘I’m a pensioner like you. The buses are free, so why not use them?’

‘You came on the bus?’

Cafferty shook his head and Stark stifled a snort.

‘Someone lamped Darryl Christie,’ Cafferty stated.

‘The lad got careless.’

‘Maybe he thought he was untouchable.’

‘Nobody’s untouchable.’

‘You might have been wondering if it was my doing.’

‘While you’ve been thinking it was me, eh?’

‘But let’s suppose it was neither of us...’ Cafferty paused as a fire engine roared past, siren howling. ‘You’ve not exactly leapt to the lad’s defence.’

‘He hasn’t asked.’

‘Might make him seem weak if he did, but that wouldn’t stop you offering.’

‘Who’s saying I didn’t?’

‘It’s just a feeling I get.’ Cafferty waited for a response, but Stark remained silent. ‘Now if I was a betting man, Joe, I’d say you’re maybe being a bit cautious. And the reason for that could be you think Darryl’s about to be toppled. Nobody wants to be on the losing side when that happens. No point making unnecessary enemies, eh?’

‘Darryl’s a good kid.’

‘I won’t deny it. But even good kids make mistakes.’

‘What have you heard?’

‘Just whispers. I didn’t give them much credence until the attack.’

‘Not much of an attack, was it? Amateur hour, more like.’

‘Which is why we can rule one another out, but who does that leave? Reason I had Edinburgh to myself for so long is it’s more like a village than a city — better money to be made elsewhere.’

‘Lean times, Cafferty.’ Stark sniffed and shoved his hands deep into his coat pockets. ‘Plenty of jackals watching the watering holes.’

‘Care to name names?’

‘Usual suspects — you know them as well as I do.’

Cafferty nodded slowly. He placed a hand on Joe Stark’s shoulder, fixing him with a look. ‘You really don’t have a clue, do you?’

Stark was still considering his response when Cafferty turned and walked away. There was a shiny silver Merc parked outside the City Chambers, and at his approach its liveried driver leapt out, holding open the rear door and closing it again after him. Stark’s trusted lieutenants, who had moved to a discreet distance during the dialogue, appeared at either of the boss’s shoulders.

‘What was that all about?’ Grieve asked.

‘A little fishing trip,’ Stark muttered, watching the car drive off.

‘And?’

‘And I need a drink.’

‘So which were you — the bait or the catch?’

Stark glowered at Grieve until the message got through. Then the three men, marching almost in line, Joe Stark half a pace ahead, started in the direction of Ingram Street.

‘This is nice,’ Clarke said uneasily, and not for the first time. She was seated at a banquette table in the Voodoo Rooms, just upstairs from the Café Royal, where she’d made the rendezvous with Rebus. It was eight in the evening and a blues band were due to play in the ballroom.

‘The devil’s own music,’ Rebus had said.

The bar area was busy and noisy — not the sort of place she would usually associate with her dinner companion.

‘My treat,’ Rebus said as their food arrived.

‘So why do I feel like the sacrificial offering?’

He gawped at her. ‘I’m trying to be nice here, Siobhan.’

‘That’s what’s making me nervous.’

‘Maybe a bit of a boogie later.’

‘I’m deleting “nervous” and adding “terrified”.’

‘Oh ye of little faith.’ Rebus picked up his lamb chop and bit into it. ‘So how pissed off with Malcolm are you right now — say on a scale of nine to ten?’

‘Maybe a three.’ She plucked a chip from her plate and bit it in half.

‘That’s pretty generous. Any progress with Craw?’

‘He’s still in one piece, as far as I can tell.’

‘When was the last time you checked?’

She made show of studying her phone’s screen. ‘I’m checking right now.’

‘Squad cars, though — someone could be bludgeoning him to death and they’d struggle to notice.’

‘I’m sure the lower ranks love you too.’

‘First time for everything,’ he said with a wink, tossing the bone on to his plate and sucking clean his fingers. ‘Another drink?’

‘Aren’t you supposed to be going easy?’

He tapped his beer glass. ‘Low-alcohol.’

‘Are you serious?’

‘Tastes like hell, but it’s got to be doing me good. Gin and tonic, yes?’

‘Just a tonic.’

‘Sure?’

She nodded, then watched him approach the bar. He held up a ten-pound note and soon had the attention of the staff. Clarke tapped her phone again: no new messages. She had driven down Craw Shand’s street herself just after 5.30. No sign of either Devil’s Dram Harry or Darryl Christie’s car. Curtains closed, house apparently unlit. She jabbed at a morsel of fish and popped it into her mouth. Rebus was in conversation with a man at the bar. He appeared to be offering to buy the stranger a drink, but was shown a nearly full pint of lager. The man was bald and overweight, dressed in faded denims, an unbuttoned leather waistcoat, and a black T-shirt featuring a band logo. Rebus nodded towards the table and gave a wave. Clarke nodded back, wondering what was going on. Eventually both men approached, one far less reluctantly than the other.

‘Dougie here,’ Rebus said, altogether too jovially, ‘won’t take my word for it that we’re CID. He wants to see some ID — would you credit that?’

Clarke was still chewing as she fished out her warrant card. Having placed their drinks on the table, Rebus clamped a hand around the man’s forearm.

‘Happy now?’ he enquired. Then: ‘Sit down, why don’t you?’

Clarke’s eyes were demanding answers as the two men slid on to the banquette, the visitor effectively trapped.

‘I’m on stage in quarter of an hour,’ he complained, a sheen of sweat on his forehead.

‘This is Dougie Vaughan,’ Rebus announced by way of introduction.

‘What’s this all about?’ Vaughan asked. A tic had formed in one eyelid. He tried rubbing it away.

‘It’s just that there’s some renewed interest in the Maria Turquand murder,’ Rebus explained.

‘And what’s that got to do with me?’

‘You were there when she died, Dougie,’ Rebus stated.

‘Where?’

‘In the next room along.’

Vaughan shook his head. ‘Says who?’

‘You had a key to Vince Brady’s room, didn’t you?’

‘No.’

‘I heard differently.’

‘I crashed on Bruce’s bed. This was all in my original statement.’

‘But then Vince started letting a few things slip out...’

‘Because that writer paid him to. After he ripped Bruce off, nobody would work with him. He was skint, his health was ropey, and he had a wife and kids at home.’ Vaughan paused. ‘That’s the most generous interpretation, mind. Bruce would have another view.’

‘We know there was no love lost latterly.’

‘He ripped Bruce off, pure and simple.’

‘Money’s often at the root of it,’ Rebus seemed to concur. ‘But then there’s lust, too. And envy.’ He looked to Clarke. ‘Help me out here.’

‘Pride,’ she offered. ‘Sloth...’

‘Money isn’t one of the sins,’ Vaughan said. Rebus stared at him, then at Clarke.

‘Is that right?’

‘Could be,’ she shrugged.

‘Don’t suppose it matters,’ Rebus conceded. ‘Maria Turquand wasn’t killed for the contents of her purse.’ He had fixed his eyes on Vaughan. ‘Ever wondered why she was murdered that day, Dougie?’

Vaughan shrugged. ‘Crime of passion?’ he eventually offered.

‘Does look that way, doesn’t it? And one person we know she shared a bit of passion with was you.’

‘Hang on a second. That was strictly one night only. I was stoned and she was blootered — I’m amazed we managed to do anything. And I volunteered as much as I could remember to the original inquiry.’

‘That’s not quite true, is it, Dougie? You only went to the papers later with your wee kiss-and-tell — looks to me like Vince wasn’t the only one making money out of the poor woman’s demise...’

A man with a thinning silver ponytail stopped in front of the table.

‘You about ready, man?’ he asked Vaughan.

‘He’ll be there,’ Rebus said, his tone sending the ponytail on a hasty retreat to the ballroom. Then, to Vaughan: ‘You didn’t bump into her at the hotel that day?’

‘No.’

‘But your pal Bruce did.’

Vaughan was shaking his head. ‘Vince Brady’s lies again,’ he stated. ‘Unless there’s new evidence? Is that what this is all about?’ He tried hoisting his glass, but the tremble in his hand defeated him.

‘Bloody hell,’ Rebus said, ‘better get a steadier nerve before you have to pick up your axe. But now you’ve asked, I might as well tell you.’ He slid so close to Vaughan the two men looked joined at the hip. ‘Here’s the thing — a detective called Robert Chatham was in charge of the last review.’

‘I remember talking to him,’ Vaughan admitted.

‘Well, now he’s been done away with, and that’s put a whammy bar up all our jacksies. So let me ask you this — when did you last clap eyes on him?’

Vaughan’s shoulders twitched. ‘Must have been a couple of months back.’

Rebus managed to look as though he’d been expecting no less. ‘And where was that?’

‘Right here, I think. He was with Maxine.’

‘Maxine Dromgoole?’

Vaughan was nodding. Rebus looked to Clarke. ‘She’s the writer who got the whole case reopened.’

‘Right,’ Clarke said, clearly not having studied the file as closely as Rebus had.

‘Maxine knows her blues,’ Vaughan was saying. ‘After she’d talked to me for her book, we kept in touch. I mean, she’s on the mailing list for gigs.’

‘And she was here with Robert Chatham?’

‘Just that one time. They were at the back of the room, next to the door. I knew I knew him from somewhere, but it took me a day or two to remember.’

‘You didn’t talk to them that night?’ Clarke asked.

‘They were gone by the time we finished the first set.’

‘Did you think that was odd?’

‘What?’

‘The two of them being together.’

‘What’s odd about it?’

‘Did you ever see them together again?’

‘No.’

‘You never happened to mention to Maxine that you’d clocked who she was with?’ Rebus watched Vaughan nod slowly. ‘And what did she say?’

‘I don’t really remember. Maybe something about bumping into him on the street. Edinburgh’s that sort of place, isn’t it?’ Vaughan broke off. ‘I really need to go. Is that okay?’

Rebus made a gesture and slid from the booth, allowing the man to get out. Vaughan paused in front of the table. ‘I crashed out on the bed in Bruce’s suite,’ he repeated. ‘When I woke up, someone had taken all my cash.’

‘Just the cash?’

‘Well, the key wasn’t there, but the state I was in, if I ever did have it, I could have left it anywhere.’ He offered a shrug and moved off. Rebus watched him go.

‘Why would she do that?’ he asked Clarke.

‘Sex with Mr Vaughan, you mean?’

‘Well, that too. But I’m talking about Dromgoole. She’s having a huge secret affair with Rab Chatham, and she brings him face to face with Dougie Vaughan.’

‘They were having an affair?’

Rebus nodded distractedly. ‘Malcolm phoned me with the news.’

‘That was nice of him — so what’s your thinking?’

‘Maybe she was shaking the tree. That’s feasible, isn’t it? But it would mean she hadn’t quite let the Turquand story lie, in which case it’s also possible she had nudged Chatham into getting back into it too.’ He began to scratch his throat with a fingernail, only eventually noting the look Clarke was giving him.

‘What?’ he asked.

‘You needed me here in case he asked to see a warrant card,’ she stated.

‘Busted,’ Rebus admitted, helping himself to one of her chips.

Fox’s sister lived on a terraced street in Saughtonhall. A lamp was on in her living room and the curtains were open, so he watched her for a moment through the window. She was curled up in an armchair, an ashtray on her thigh, cigarette in one hand and phone in the other. Just as he was about to tap a greeting on the glass, she caught a glimpse of him and, startled, leapt to her feet, sending ashtray, phone and cigarette flying.

‘Just me!’ he called as she approached the window. Next thing, she was at the door.

‘What are you up to?’ she complained.

‘I saw your light was on. I was about to knock.’

‘Instead of which you stood out there in the dark like any other bloody pervert.’

She had headed indoors again and was picking up her phone and ashtray. Fox located the smouldering cigarette. It had left a burn in the oatmeal carpet — by no means the first. She plucked it from him and held it between her lips as she tidied up butts.

‘I’ll help you vacuum,’ Fox offered.

‘It needs repairing.’

‘What’s wrong with it?’

‘It doesn’t work,’ she stated, settling into her chair again, eyes on the screen.

‘Must be an important text,’ he mused.

‘It’s a game.’ She turned the phone towards him for a moment. All he could make out were coloured balls arranged in rows. ‘And before you ask, I got it for free.’

‘I wasn’t going to ask,’ he lied, looking for somewhere to sit that wasn’t covered in sandwich wrappers, crisp packets or women’s magazines. Instead, he opened the window an inch.

‘Just letting some air in,’ he said when Jude gave him another of her looks. ‘So how have you been?’

‘You mean since you found me in that gambling den? And come to think of it, what were you doing there?’

‘A routine inquiry.’

‘I bet you say that to all the women you stalk.’ She exhaled smoke towards the ceiling.

‘I really wasn’t stalking you. I didn’t even know you liked a flutter.’

‘A girl needs something to occupy her time.’

‘Yes, so you said.’

She glanced up from her phone. ‘Did I? Sorry if I found our little chat instantly forgettable.’

‘Do you ever use other betting shops?’

‘You know me, Malcolm — a complete tart. One of anything is never enough.’

He chose to ignore her tone. ‘How about on Great Junction Street?’

‘I’m not often in Leith.’

‘But if you were...?’

She either paused or finished her game, placing the phone face down next to the ashtray and studying her brother.

‘Is this your latest crusade? People gambling their lives away? Last time I looked, it wasn’t a crime.’

‘Those fixed-odds machines, they’re sometimes used to launder money.’

‘You looking to recruit your own sister as a spy? Is that what this is all about?’

‘No.’ He paused. ‘But if you did happen to see or hear anything...’

‘Like any other upright citizen I’d come straight to you, Officer.’ She paused. ‘But how will I tell which are the bad guys?’ She tapped her cigarette against the rim of the ashtray.

‘Maybe the amount of money they’re feeding into the machines, and the fact they don’t look too bothered about risking it.’

‘And say I go along with this — do I get something in return?’

‘You mean apart from the gratitude of the law-abiding public?’

‘Yes.’

‘Was there anything in particular?’

‘Maybe a moratorium on you nagging me.’

‘Define “nagging”.’

‘Getting at me about my lifestyle, my laziness, my not having a job.’ She stubbed out her cigarette. ‘Oh, and all that holier-than-thou guff about the money you dole out.’

‘It’s to pay your rent and bills.’

‘And because you needed a new charity case after Dad died.’

‘Yes, you said that the other day, too.’ Fox’s own phone was buzzing. Caller ID: Sheila Graham. ‘I need to take this,’ he muttered, heading for the hallway, answering only after he’d closed the living-room door.

‘Good evening, Sheila.’

‘Is this a bad time?’

‘Not at all. You’re working late.’

‘I was in Edinburgh for a meeting. I got to Waverley just in time to see my train pull away, so I just wondered if you were at a loose end.’

‘I can be there in fifteen minutes. There’s a bar called the Doric across the street from the back entrance.’

‘I think I saw it when the cab dropped me off. I’ll have a beer waiting for you.’

‘I usually drink Appletiser.’

‘Then you’re a cheap date.’

‘Fifteen minutes.’

He ended the call and went back into the living room.

‘I’ve got to go,’ he announced. Jude had lit a fresh cigarette and was busy on her phone again. She held up her hand and gave him the briefest of waves.

‘The place I’m interested in is called Klondyke Alley,’ he added.

‘Klondyke Alley,’ she echoed, eyes fixed on the screen. ‘Always supposing I happen to find myself on Great Junction Street.’

‘Always supposing,’ Fox agreed, turning to leave. ‘And thanks.’

After he had gone, Jude went over to the window just to make sure. Then she took a small piece of paper from the back pocket of her jeans and unfolded it, tapping the number into her phone.

‘Hello?’ she said when her call was answered. ‘I need to talk to Mr Christie. Is there any way you can get a message to him?’

Sheila Graham was dressed for business — charcoal two-piece trouser suit with plain white blouse beneath. Earlier, the blouse might have been buttoned to the neck, but now it was open, as if to signal that she was off duty. She was at a table by the window and smiled as Fox walked in. Most of the other drinkers looked like people waiting for trains, wheelie cases and backpacks parked next to their seats. Graham had a laptop case and a shoulder bag and was drinking white wine. Fox’s Appletiser was waiting. He perched on a stool across from her, lifted his glass and offered a toast.

‘Rough day?’ he enquired.

‘Scottish Government stuff. I won’t bore you with the details. How are things with you, Malcolm?’

‘Slow but steady progress.’

‘The guy arrested for the attack?’

‘Is probably not who we’re looking for. But I’m starting to wonder about Anthony Brough.’

‘You doubt it’s a coincidence that he’s suddenly not around?’

‘What do you think?’

‘I think a number of Mr Brough’s recent schemes have yielded big losses. A lot of his clients are out of pocket.’

‘And baying for his blood?’

‘I’m not sure about that. But these are people who can’t always go chat to a bank manager about a loan to tide them over. Cash is their currency. They might need a lender who isn’t going to ask too many questions...’

‘Someone like Darryl Christie, you mean?’

She nodded slowly. ‘But let’s not make this about business, Malcolm. I appreciate you taking the trouble to keep me company.’

A slow smile spread across Fox’s face. ‘Oh I think this is all business, Sheila. There was a titbit you wanted to throw me and you’ve just accomplished that.’

‘Am I so transparent? Well, maybe you’re right. But that’s done now, so we really can just have a drink and a chat.’ She nodded towards his glass. ‘Have you never been a drinker?’

‘I was a drinker right up until the day I stopped.’

‘What happened?’

‘You know Jekyll and Hyde? That was me with alcohol.’

Graham tipped her head back, stretching her neck muscles. ‘It just makes me nicely mellow,’ she said. ‘And some days I need that feeling.’ She lifted her glass and clinked it against his. ‘What about this other case you’re working?’

‘Oddly, it’s beginning to connect to yours.’

‘Oh?’

‘The ex-cop who was killed, he ran a review of the Maria Turquand murder.’

‘I don’t think I know her.’

‘She was found dead in her hotel room in 1978.’

‘Here in the city?’

‘Right here.’

‘And they told me Edinburgh was safe for women. So where’s the connection?’

‘Maria’s husband was Sir Magnus Brough’s right-hand man. Fast forward to the present, and grandson Anthony has an office that pretty much looks on to the hotel where Maria was murdered.’

Graham puzzled over this as she sipped her drink.

‘I’m not saying there’s any real connection, of course,’ Fox felt it necessary to qualify. ‘It’s interesting, that’s all. But when Anthony’s parents died, he and his sister were basically raised by Sir Magnus.’

‘There may be something else,’ Graham said quietly, resting her elbows on the table. ‘One of Anthony’s early clients was John Turquand. It was in the papers at the time. Brough used it as a sort of calling card to other would-be investors. Turquand’s long retired, but his was a respected name in financial circles.’ She broke off. ‘We seem to be talking shop again, don’t we?’

‘Well, you did ask.’

‘I suppose I did.’ She glanced at her phone. ‘Just checking the time.’

‘How long before the next train?’

‘Seventeen minutes.’

‘Another white wine, then?’

‘Why not?’

He went to the bar, wondering about Anthony Brough and John Turquand, and about Darryl Christie and Maria Turquand’s murder. Placing the fresh drink in front of Graham, he asked what she thought of Brough’s disappearance.

‘Nobody’s reported him missing,’ she confided. ‘Not much to be done until they do.’

‘Is he married?’

‘Still very much the playboy about town. He could be lying low in a hotel suite anywhere between here and Sydney.’

‘The question is why.’

‘Agreed.’

‘Do you think Darryl Christie would shed any light?’

‘I think he’d deny even knowing Brough’s name.’

‘There’s no record of them working together or meeting up?’

‘It’s all an electronic and paper trail, Malcolm. And you’d have the devil’s job finding Christie’s name anywhere. Companies he’s associated with, yes, but the man himself is bloody elusive.’

‘Is there anything you can pull him in for?’

‘You mean so we can fish without seeming to?’ She considered this. ‘Far as we know, his tax affairs are in order. There was a full audit two years back, and he ended up paying a few hundred quid.’ She shrugged.

‘But if he’s lending money illegally...’

‘It’s not necessarily illegal to lend money. Besides which, we’ve no proof other than hearsay and guesswork. Our best bet is still this physical attack on him. It has to mean something and it must have shaken him up, made him wonder who his friends are and who might have it in for him.’

‘Then you should talk to your boss, demand phone taps and twenty-four/seven surveillance.’

‘The sort of thing that was meat and drink to you when you worked Professional Standards?’

‘Damned right.’

‘I suppose I could ask, though I’m in danger of sounding like a broken record.’ She placed a hand on her stomach to stifle a sudden gurgling. ‘Should have grabbed something to eat,’ she apologised.

‘It’s not too late,’ Fox said. ‘There are places on Cockburn Street.’ He paused. ‘Always supposing there’s a later train you can catch.’

She met his eyes. ‘There’s a later train,’ she said. ‘But on one condition.’

He held up a hand. ‘I’ve got to insist on paying — my town, my rules.’

‘How very gallant of you. But my condition is no shop talk. For real this time.’

‘Pretend we’re normal people, you mean?’

‘Normal people eating a normal dinner on a normal night out.’

‘It’s not going to be easy,’ Fox warned her. ‘But let’s give it a go...’