Rather Be the Devil

13

The call had come at 6.30 a.m., hauling Siobhan Clarke from her bed. She pulled on some clothes, dragged a wet brush through her hair and headed for her Astra. The patrol car was parked outside Craw Shand’s house, two uniforms waiting for her. It was just starting to get light and the street lamps were still on, bathing both men in a faint orange glow.

‘Round the back,’ one of them said.

She followed them around the side of the house into the handkerchief-sized garden. The door to the kitchen stood open, splinters of wood showing where it had been forced.

‘You’ve been in?’ Clarke asked.

‘Only to ascertain there’s no one home.’

‘Have you called it in as a crime scene?’

‘Can’t really say that it is, unless you know different.’

‘If it’s not a crime scene, what is it?’

‘Maybe he locked himself out,’ the officer said with a shrug.

Clarke stepped inside, keeping her hands in her pockets so there’d be no temptation to touch anything.

‘One thing the CSM hates,’ she advised, ‘is contamination.’ She turned towards the two constables. ‘Stay here while I take a look.’

She hadn’t been in the house before, but it didn’t look as though it had been trashed, and there was still a TV in the living room. Bottles of booze untouched, too. Upstairs: Shand’s bedroom, plus a spare that was being used for storage. No sign of any violence; no ransacking. So what the hell had happened?

She padded back down the stairs to the kitchen.

‘What do you think?’ she was asked.

‘I think a man charged with assault has just gone missing.’

‘Somebody took him?’

‘Or he left before they got here.’

‘Could be they came looking,’ the second officer proposed, ‘but there was no one home. Shand returns later, sees the state of his door, and makes himself scarce.’

‘Possible,’ Clarke said, looking at the dishes piled up in the sink.

‘So is it a crime scene or not?’

‘Won’t do any harm to dust for prints. Everybody leaves something behind — a hair, a bit of saliva, maybe a footprint...’

‘You don’t sound hopeful.’

‘Lack of enthusiasm due to too little sleep,’ Clarke commented, taking out her phone, scrolling to ‘CSM’ in her address book and making the call. While she waited for it to be picked up, she made sure she had both officers’ full attention. ‘We have photos and physical description on file — I want them circulated PDQ. Shand is a creature of habit. If he’s out there, he’s going to become visible.’

‘And if he’s running, we just have to find him before anyone else.’

‘That, too,’ Clarke said, as Haj Atwal answered her call and asked why whatever she wanted couldn’t wait another hour.

Fox was seated at his desk, reading the copy of Maxine Dromgoole’s book that had arrived from the library service. He had already noted that it had been last borrowed just under a year back. Judging from the date stamps in the front, it had been popular when first published. Its title was The Ends of Justice: Scotland’s Greatest Unsolved Crimes. Bible John was in there, of course, as were the World’s End murders and Renee MacRae, but by far the longest chapter was dedicated to Maria Turquand. Nothing more recent, though; nothing to suggest that Robert Chatham had been feeding other titbits to his lover.

Hearing his name called, Fox looked up from his work. Alvin James was the only other person in the room. He was gesturing towards him, so Fox crossed to his desk. James was watching something on his laptop.

‘CCTV from outside a place called the Tomahawk Club, two Saturdays back. These must be the blokes Dromgoole was talking about.’

‘No sound?’

‘Just pictures, more’s the pity, and grainier than I’d like.’

Fox watched as three figures confronted Chatham. There was a good deal of finger-pointing and what looked like shouting. The leader of the group rose up on his toes to make himself appear taller. Chatham stood his ground, though, and seemed implacable. He was not about to be goaded into a fight, even after another doorman arrived as back-up. Then a fourth figure appeared and seemed to calm things down further, slinging an arm around the most hot-tempered of the group.

‘Looks like smoke rather than fire,’ Fox commented.

‘I still want to talk to them.’ James shut down the file and opened another. ‘And I’ve invited this ne’er-do-well in for a chat, too.’

Another grainy night-time video. Fox knew who he was watching, though he doubted anyone who didn’t know him would have been able to identify John Rebus.

‘They’re just talking,’ he said.

‘That they are. But as soon as Rebus leaves, Chatham gets out his phone and makes a call.’

‘Yes, it’s on his billing statement. He was speaking to his boss.’

‘But watch this.’ Chatham forwarded the recording. ‘See? Chatham asks his colleague to take over. Then he walks out of shot.’

‘Headed where?’

James gave a little smile. He clicked on a third file. ‘CCTV from outside a pub further down the street. See that phone box? Does that look like Robert Chatham opening its door?’

‘I suppose it does,’ Fox conceded.

‘Man carries a mobile with him, why use a public telephone?’

‘He didn’t want the call to be traceable?’ Fox offered. James nodded his agreement.

‘I’d love to know who he was calling.’

‘I doubt an interview with Rebus will give you any answers.’

‘You rang, m’lord?’

The two men looked up as Rebus walked in.

‘How did you get past the front desk?’ James demanded to know.

‘The front desk of a police station in my home city? As an ex-cop, I really haven’t a clue.’

‘I’m going to be having words with them,’ James stated.

‘So how goes it at the beating heart of the investigation?’ Rebus asked as he made a circuit of the room, pausing at Fox’s desk to pick up the copy of the Dromgoole book. ‘Any good?’ he asked Fox, waving it at him.

‘When I left my message,’ James interrupted, ‘I specified that you should phone and make an appointment for the interview.’

‘Well, I was in the area,’ Rebus responded. ‘But it looks like most of your crew sleep late, so unless one of you two wants the job, maybe I’ll come back another time...’

‘Now you’re here, maybe you should take a look at this,’ James said. Rebus walked around the desk, watching the film over James’s shoulder and nodding afterwards.

‘I’ve been wondering about that call.’

‘Chatham’s boss is called Kenny Arnott,’ Fox explained. ‘He runs a company supplying doormen to pubs and clubs.’

James was staring at Rebus. ‘What about the phone box?’

Rebus shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t mind knowing who he was calling.’

‘I’ll be requesting that information, don’t you worry.’ James closed the file and leaned back in his chair. ‘And while I’m doing that, Malcolm will be taking your statement.’

There was a momentary silence as Fox and Rebus made eye contact.

‘Fine,’ Malcolm Fox said.

He led the way to the interview room. There was a tape machine fixed to its table, plus a camera pointing down from one corner of the ceiling. Fox took a seat and motioned for Rebus to sit opposite.

‘No notes?’ Rebus asked.

‘Not needed.’

‘Recording?’

Fox shook his head. ‘Let’s make this quick. You’re here because you twice spoke to Chatham in the days before he died. Once in the café, and prior to that outside a bar he was working.’

‘I can’t deny it. I also had nothing to do with his death.’

‘We both know this is a waste of time, but one thing stands out — he was spooked by something you said.’

Rebus processed the information. ‘Agreed,’ he said.

‘So who did he call, and why?’

‘He used a public phone to keep things nice and private.’

‘That’s how it looks.’

‘I wish I could help, Malcolm,’ Rebus said with a shrug.

‘The only thing the pair of you talked about was the Turquand case?’

‘Correct.’

‘It was a brief chat that first night?’

‘You saw it yourself on the tape — I wanted it to be longer but he said he was knackered. You’ve got the CCTV — does anyone rock up after I left, someone he might have arranged to meet?’

‘Detective Superintendent James has been the one watching the footage.’

‘Maybe I should take a look, too.’

‘Feel free to ask him.’

‘I’m asking you.’

Fox shook his head slowly. He was still shaking it as the door opened. James himself was standing there.

‘Slight problem,’ he said. ‘I’ve been called to Gartcosh — got to brief the chiefs.’

‘I think I can hold the fort till the others get back,’ Fox said.

‘Thing is, Maxine Dromgoole’s just turned up at the front desk. You okay to do her interview, too?’

‘Of course,’ Fox stated.

James was looking at Rebus. ‘Sorry we’re kicking you out.’

‘I’m devastated.’

James decided to ignore this, leaving the door ajar as he made his exit.

‘He doesn’t like to keep his masters waiting, does he?’ Rebus commented.

‘It’s true what he says, though — we only have the one interview room, so...’

‘Let me sit in.’

Fox stared at him. ‘Why?’

‘Because there’s something I know that you don’t.’

‘It wouldn’t exactly be following procedure.’

‘Nobody’ll know if you don’t tape it.’

Fox leaned back a little and folded his arms, waiting for more, so Rebus obliged.

‘One question — I just have to ask her one question.’

‘And then I’ll know what you know?’

‘Yes. Though there is an alternative.’

‘And what’s that?’

‘While you’re stuck in here, I’m on James’s laptop playing the CCTV.’

‘He really wouldn’t like that.’

‘Hard to disagree.’

‘What do you know about Dromgoole?’

‘Apart from her being Chatham’s lover? Well, she wrote that book on your desk. Her piece about Collier’s road manager kicked off Chatham’s review of the Turquand case. It was all in the file Siobhan gave me.’ Rebus paused. ‘And one more thing...’ His voice tailed off.

‘Which I’ll only find out if I let you sit in on the interview?’

‘Yes.’

‘This is the thanks I get for calling you to tell you about the affair in the first place?’

‘I’m a bad bugger, Malcolm, there’s no denying it.’

Fox gave a sigh. ‘One question?’

Rebus held up his forefinger. ‘Scout’s honour.’

‘You stay here then,’ Fox eventually said, knowing he was probably going to regret it, ‘and I’ll go fetch her.’

Two minutes later he was back. Rebus had vacated his seat and offered it to Dromgoole as she entered. She sat down and Rebus took up position by the door. Fox had started unwrapping a tape, but then remembered Rebus’s words and left it next to the machine.

‘My colleague here,’ he said as carefully as he could, ‘goes by the name of John Rebus.’

She raised both eyebrows, studying Rebus as though he were some new and interesting species. ‘I know who you are,’ she said. ‘You’ve got history with Morris Gerald Cafferty.’

Rebus tried to think of a response, but Dromgoole wasn’t about to wait. ‘Could you get me a meeting with him?’

‘A meeting with Cafferty?’

‘I’m hoping to write a book — did Inspector Fox not say?’

Rebus gave Fox a hard stare, but she was talking again.

‘I’ve tried writing to him, but he never replies. It’s a book about Scotland in the seventies and eighties, about the criminals of the day and what they got up to. From my research, Mr Cafferty would seem the best candidate — most of the others of his ilk are no longer around to tell their stories.’

‘Cafferty may even have hastened their demise,’ Rebus said.

‘Are you still in touch with him?’

‘Not really,’ he lied.

‘But you could get a message to him?’

‘I wouldn’t like to promise anything.’

Fox shifted in his chair. ‘To bring us back to the reason you’re here, Ms Dromgoole...’

Chastened by his tone, she calmed, and even managed to look solemn. But she couldn’t help glancing towards Rebus as she answered Fox’s questions about her relationship with Robert Chatham. After quarter of an hour, Fox was winding down. Rebus decided this was his cue.

‘You met Mr Chatham because of the Maria Turquand case,’ he said. She half turned in her chair so she was facing him.

‘Yes,’ she agreed.

‘Did you retain an interest in it? After you’d published your book, I mean.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Occasional chats about it with Mr Chatham? And maybe with others, too? People like Dougie Vaughan?’

‘Have you been speaking to Dougie?’

‘I was at his concert last night.’

‘It was in my diary,’ Dromgoole said. ‘But I didn’t feel up to it, of course.’

‘You’re a fan, though? You go watch him perform, probably buy him a drink after?’

‘Or during,’ she corrected him.

‘And one night, you took Mr Chatham along too. I think you did that knowing Dougie would eventually place him. Were you hoping for something? Maybe a guilty look or a sudden bum note that would give the game away?’

‘I suppose I was,’ she eventually conceded. ‘Rab was angry with me afterwards. If Dougie recognised him, then he might also work out we were lovers. Rab was scared Liz would find out.’

‘But you considered it a risk worth taking?’

‘Yes.’

‘Because above all else, you can’t let Maria Turquand go?’

She considered how to answer. ‘Maria was an extraordinary woman. A free spirit in a world that demanded the opposite. All those boring money men and their dinners and clubs. She should never have allowed herself to be trapped. They couldn’t deal with her, you see.’ She stared at Rebus. ‘You’re interested too, aren’t you?’

‘A few questions had cropped up,’ Rebus answered her. ‘I spoke to Rab about them, and soon after that...’

‘You’re the ex-cop — he texted me about you.’

‘Do you think he might have been doing some archaeology himself? Maybe so he could surprise you if and when he found anything?’

‘I suppose it’s possible.’ She was still staring at Rebus. ‘Is there something new?’ But Rebus wasn’t about to answer that. ‘Have you spoken to Maria’s husband and her lover?’ Dromgoole continued. ‘They’re both still alive, you know. When I asked for interviews, they resisted. I ended up posing written questions, but their answers were vague. I’m not sure either of them really loved her...’ After a moment lost in thought, she became animated again. ‘You really should question them! They can hardly refuse to answer a detective!’

‘That’s certainly true,’ Rebus said, glancing in Fox’s direction.

After a further five minutes, Fox accompanied Dromgoole to the station’s front door, shaking her hand and asking if she didn’t want a taxi. But she preferred to walk — she needed a walk. He climbed the stairs again to find Rebus at Alvin James’s computer.

‘Christ’s sake, John,’ he complained.

‘I can’t unlock it,’ Rebus said. ‘I don’t suppose you know his password?’

‘I wouldn’t tell you if I did.’

Rebus slammed the screen shut and leaned back in James’s chair. ‘What do we do now, then? And where are the rest of the goon squad anyway?’

‘Tracking down Chatham’s friends and colleagues... talking to his employer...’

‘Remind me of the name.’

‘Kenny Arnott.’ Fox sifted through the notes on his desk. ‘There are two outfits in the city providing similar services — one run by Andrew Goodman, one by Arnott.’

‘Either of them ever been in trouble?’

‘Not that I know of.’

‘Doesn’t sound like it’ll keep James’s crew busy for long, then.’

‘They’re also going through Chatham’s house, seeing if there’s anything on his computer or tucked away in a drawer somewhere...’

‘While you’re left here to read a library book?’

‘Playing to one of my many strengths.’

‘What? Basic literacy?’

Fox managed a smile, and Rebus joined him. ‘So how will you be spending your day?’ Fox asked.

‘If I had a warrant card on me, I’d probably be heading off to talk to a couple of antiquated rich white men.’

‘Turquand and Attwood?’

‘One in St Andrews and one in Perthshire — not a bad afternoon out of the office.’

‘But you’ve not got a warrant card, have you?’

‘The only flaw in my plan.’

‘I could come with you.’

‘And why would you do that?’

‘Because there’s something I know that you don’t.’

‘And I’ll only find out what that is if I take you?’

‘One question, John. For Turquand specifically.’ Fox was holding up his forefinger. Rebus mirrored the action as both men’s smiles broadened.

Harry’s full name was Hugh Harold Hodges. He’d had his first spot of bother with the police at the age of eleven: shoplifting from a supermarket. A dare, apparently. His parents were professionals — one a doctor, one a teacher — and they were paying for him to attend a good school. But he started truanting, and the shoplifting continued. Harry liked hanging around older, less privileged kids. He stole for them, fought alongside them and smoked dope with them. So his parents kicked him out. Slept rough for a while, then seemed to step off the grid completely until he cropped up in France, where the Parisian police took an interest. So it was back to Edinburgh and eventually work for Darryl Christie.

All of this Clarke had learned in the space of just over thirty minutes, thanks to the Police Scotland database. It had been two years since Hodges’ last run-in with the law — stopped with a car full of untaxed cigarettes. He’d kept his mouth shut and paid the fine. But that should have prevented him owning or running a venue like the Devil’s Dram, and a bit more digging had revealed that he neither owned nor ran it — not according to the paperwork. So what did he do?

Clarke was about to ask.

She thumped on the doors of the club and waited. Nobody answered so she tried again. There was a locked gate to the right of the building, leading to a narrow alley two inches deep in rubbish. To the left, a wider lane, paved with wonky-looking setts, led uphill and around to the back, where there was a door for deliveries. The door was open and cases of wine and beer were being unloaded from a white van with no discernible markings. The driver handed her a crate of twenty-four bottles, so she carried them inside. A young man she didn’t recognise took them off her, eyes narrowing only slightly at the stranger’s appearance.

‘Harry around?’ Clarke asked.

‘Usual spot.’

Clarke nodded as if fully understanding, and walked through the storage area into a corridor, at the end of which was a door. Opening it, she stepped into the club proper. Harry’s usual spot was the same one where she had found Darryl Christie on her previous visit. She was two thirds of the way up the staircase before he realised she wasn’t staff.

‘Who let you in?’

‘A face friendlier than yours, Mr Hodges.’

‘Oh, it knows my name.’

‘And your record.’

‘Rehabilitation is a great thing.’

‘Is that what Darryl does — takes bad lads and turns them into paragons of virtue?’

‘I’m a bit busy here, Officer.’

‘Been out to see Craw Shand again? I’ll be taking a look at the footage. Lot of traffic cameras along Peffermill Road.’

‘Oh aye?’

‘And that Range Rover does stand out.’

‘You’ve still not said why you’re here.’

‘Mr Shand seems to have been abducted. That really wasn’t a very good move on somebody’s part.’

‘I’ve already told you I don’t know the fucker.’

‘No need for bad language, Mr Hodges.’ She paused for a second. ‘Hugh Harold Hodges — your parents had a sense of humour, then?’

‘Fuck you.’

‘I want Craw Shand returned to me unharmed.’

‘Good for you. Put it on your Christmas list.’

Clarke placed both hands on the table and leaned in towards him. ‘It won’t be a list I’ll be carrying next time you see me. It’ll be a warrant.’

Hodges looked her up and down. ‘Your patter’s as pish as your dress sense. The spinster look is so last year.’

‘That hurts,’ Clarke said, staring at his feet. ‘What size shoes do you take? Looks like a nine. It’s amazing what our lab can do with the impression of a sole — and one was left on Craw Shand’s back door.’ She paused to let this sink in. ‘Tell your boss: Craw Shand belongs to me.’

‘Tell him yourself. But do it somewhere else. And check out the gents’ bogs on your way out — wee treat for you there.’

He got busy on his phone, checking messages and answering them with rapid movements of his thumb. Clarke held her ground for a few seconds longer, then walked down the stairs with as much dignity as she could muster. As she made for the entrance, she paused and stared at the door to the gents. It was marked ‘Warlocks’ and wasn’t giving anything away, so she pushed it open. There didn’t seem to be anyone inside. She could see cubicles, sinks and a single trough-style urinal. And then something caught her eye. A large framed photograph, blown up from a video still. It was grainy, but she knew when it had been taken and who it showed. Deborah Quant’s party. And there was Siobhan herself, in her short black dress, cut slightly too low at the neck. She had an arm around Quant’s back and was leaning down to yell something in her ear, mouth and eyes open wide.

From the club’s security cameras. Blown up and framed. Directly above the trough where the men stood in droves each evening.

She tried to shift it, but it had been screwed into the wall.

‘Fuck,’ she said under her breath.

‘No need for bad language,’ Hodges chided her, standing by the door, holding it a few inches open with one hand, a grin on his face.

‘If you don’t want us back here night after night, checking for drugs and underage drinkers, that’ll be gone by the time I’ve reached my car.’

‘Cops are always welcome here,’ he said as she stormed past him. ‘This’ll be the highlight of their trip, wouldn’t you say, Detective Inspector? And you should feel flattered — turns out even spinsters have a bit of life left in them when enough Happy Hour cocktails are poured down their throats...’

Forensics had finished at Craw Shand’s. They had been satisfied with photos of the shoe print, so the door was still in place, a padlock added so the house could be secured before the team left. Although he had already been interviewed, the next-door neighbour came out to share his thoughts with Clarke.

‘Never any trouble... didn’t hear a peep in the night...’

The neighbour across the back from Shand had said the same. No shouts or yelps, nobody wrestling Craw Shand out from his kitchen. Nothing. Maybe the uniform had been right — the caved-in door had been waiting for Shand, and he’d taken fright and fled. Clarke had asked Laura Smith if she could place a story on the Scotsman’s website.

‘Am I allowed to flag up the Darryl Christie connection?’

‘Wiser not to.’

A patrol had last checked the rear of the property at 11 p.m., meaning the door had been forced sometime between then and six in the morning. Only one of the neighbours had seen Craw leave the house that day — a routine morning trip to the local shop. His TV had been heard through the wall in the afternoon — horse-racing commentary. As Clarke took a final tour of the rooms, she found little in the way of clues. A bag of groceries sat on the kitchen worktop — tinned soup, ravioli, peanuts. An open packet of biscuits on a chair in the living room. There was a large empty backpack on top of the wardrobe in Shand’s bedroom. His drawers were half filled with clothes. Didn’t mean he hadn’t taken a smaller bag, maybe enough shirts and pants for a couple of days. The mail on the kitchen table didn’t add much — a couple of overdue bills for his phone and his TV package, and one advising him that his gas supply was being disconnected. She had contacted his mobile provider. If he made any calls, she wanted to know about it pronto. The neighbours had been given her business card — they were to get in touch should Shand return home at any point, or anyone else pay a visit.

And that was that. Apart from one thing.

Christie picked up after three rings.

‘I’m assuming you’ve heard from Harry?’ Clarke asked.

‘I only wish I’d been there when you saw that lovely photo. Now you know how it feels to be framed.’

‘Is that what you think’s happening to you?’

‘Harry told you the God’s own truth.’

‘We’re putting Craw’s description out.’

‘You know everyone will think I had something to do with it.’

‘I don’t suppose that’ll do your reputation much harm.’

‘If anything, it’ll add to it, but that doesn’t mean I snatched him. And by the way, I took your advice.’

‘Oh?’

‘Moved my mum and the boys into a hotel for a few days.’

‘Has something else happened?’

‘Cars rumbling past the house at odd hours... stopping outside, engines revving.’

‘Recognise any of them?’

‘No.’

‘Maybe you got the licence numbers?’

‘Sorry.’

‘How about cameras? Have you got round to swapping your fakes for real ones?’

‘I’m on it.’

‘So with your mum and brothers gone, you’ve got the place to yourself?’

‘You offering to babysit?’

‘I’m just thinking how handy an empty house would be if you wanted to stash someone there.’

‘Come take a look sometime.’

‘Maybe I’ll do that.’

‘From what I hear of the man, you’d smell him long before you saw him. Bye bye, Inspector...’

Standing in his living room, staring out towards the park opposite, Christie realised that Cafferty now had a better view than him. Another black mark against the sod. Having ended the call with Clarke, he tapped in Hodges’ number.

‘Yes, boss?’ Hodges asked.

‘I just want to make sure we’re clear on this — you didn’t decide to use your initiative or anything? Maybe you’ve hidden Shand away and were planning to surprise me?’

‘Absolutely not. Who’s to say he’s not just done a runner?’

‘Did he maybe clock my car one of those times you did a drive-past?’

‘That was the whole point, wasn’t it?’

‘I suppose so.’ Christie ended the call and rubbed his free hand softly across his eyes. He was tired and knew he should switch off, if only for ten minutes. But how could he?

He was Darryl Christie.

People were out to get him.

He tried Anthony Brough’s number again. The automated service picked up. It was sorry he could not leave a number but ‘memory is full’.

‘I swear I’m going to kill you,’ Christie said into his phone. Then he heard a noise out in the hall.

Heavy footsteps descending the staircase in a rush.

Christie shook his head and smiled...

14

Maxine Dromgoole had sent Fox a text with addresses and phone numbers for Peter Attwood and John Turquand. Fox sat in the passenger seat of Rebus’s Saab, checking maps on his phone while Rebus drove. A few miles south of St Andrews, however, Rebus started coughing and had to stop by the side of the road while the fit continued. His face had gone puce-coloured behind the handkerchief he was holding to his mouth.

‘Christ, John.’ Fox tried patting Rebus’s back. ‘You sure you’re okay?’

Instead of answering, Rebus got out of the car, fumbling in his jacket for his inhaler. They were on a straight stretch of road, fields either side. He stood on the overgrown verge, bent over with hands on knees, until the coughing eventually subsided. He wiped tears from the corners of his eyes. Fox had emerged from the car and was standing a few feet away. A tractor chugged past, its driver watching them, trying to decide what they were up to.

‘Sorry about that,’ Rebus said, gasping for breath.

‘No need to apologise. What’s in the inhaler?’

‘Some kind of steroids. They’ve promised me I’ll be on the weightlifting team come the next Commonwealth Games.’ Rebus patted his chest. ‘Thought I was maybe getting over it — not that you do get over it.’

‘This isn’t just bronchitis, is it?’

‘What else would it be?’

‘Something that’s got you fretting. I notice things like that.’

Rebus stuffed the inhaler back in his pocket. ‘It’s probably nothing,’ he said.

‘Okay.’

He met Fox’s eyes and made his mind up. ‘A shadow on one lung,’ he confessed. ‘They’ve done a biopsy. No results as yet. You’re the only one I’ve told, and if it goes any further you’ll be the second detective to be fished out of the Forth — understood?’

‘Of course.’

‘Last thing I need is anyone treating me as a charity case.’

‘You mean Deborah Quant?’

‘Deb... Siobhan...’

‘But you don’t think I’d do that?’

‘You don’t like me well enough.’

‘I like you fine.’

‘You’re a terrible liar, Malcolm. When you were Complaints, you tried your damnedest to nail me.’

‘You weren’t exactly a model police officer.’

‘Granted.’

‘But that’s history.’

‘Besides which, you got your wish — I’m not a cop these days.’

‘You still do a pretty good impression.’ Fox paused, watching a car speed past on its way to St Andrews. ‘So when will you have news?’

‘About Hank Marvin? Any day — might even be an envelope or a phone message waiting for me at home right now.’

‘Hank Marvin played guitar in the Shadows,’ Fox said.

‘You catch on fast, Malcolm.’

‘I have my moments. Do you want me to drive? We’re nearly there.’

Rebus shook his head. ‘I need you to navigate, remember? Those bloody phone apps make no sense to me whatsoever...’

Both men had seen photos of Peter Attwood, but none of them recent. He lived with his wife in a modern detached house on the outskirts of the town. As the Saab crunched over the gravel driveway, Attwood appeared at the door. He wore a baggy brown cardigan and brown cord trousers, and his thinning silver hair looked brilliantined. A pipe was clamped between his teeth. He shook hands with both visitors as they made their introductions.

‘Jessica’s visiting a friend,’ he said, leading them indoors, ‘but I’m just about capable of making a cup of tea.’

While he was in the kitchen, Rebus and Fox explored the living room. Bookshelves, a rack filled with classical CDs, a TV that wouldn’t have looked out of place on Antiques Roadshow. There were a couple of squishy armchairs and matching sofa, plus an array of family photographs on the mantelpiece.

‘Seems to come round regular as clockwork,’ Attwood said, carrying in a tray and placing it on the small table between the armchairs.

‘What does, sir?’ Fox asked.

‘Reopening the file on poor Maria’s death. Help yourselves, chaps.’ Attwood added a splash of milk to his own mug and sat down. Rebus and Fox did the same, settling side by side on the sofa.

‘Eight years ago,’ Rebus said, ‘you would have been interviewed by an officer called Chatham.’

‘That sounds about right. Then there was the ghastly journalist woman...’

‘Maxine Dromgoole,’ Fox clarified.

‘The very same.’

‘The thing is, sir,’ Rebus said, ‘Robert Chatham has been murdered.’

‘Bloody hell.’

‘And we just wondered if you’d had any contact with him.’

‘Why should I?’

‘Because he might not have been able to let the case go.’

Attwood considered this. ‘Maria had that effect on men, but I haven’t heard anything of the fellow in the eight years since he questioned me.’

‘How about Ms Dromgoole?’

‘She sent me a lengthy email, like something out of Mastermind. Did I know that musician fellow? Was I sure I hadn’t visited the hotel earlier in the day?’

‘Which musician did she mean?’ Rebus asked. ‘Bruce Collier?’

‘Is he the one Maria had the knee-trembler with?’

‘That’ll be Dougie Vaughan.’

Attwood clicked his fingers. ‘Exactly so. But you see, I definitely wasn’t anywhere near the bloody hotel — that was the whole point.’

‘You wanted Maria to get the hint? That you were breaking off the affair?’

Attwood screwed up his face. ‘I’d tried telling her a couple of times, but then she would say something or do something and suddenly I’d change my mind. But Joyce had come along, you see...’

‘The lover you left her for?’

‘I really thought Joyce was the one.’

‘Things didn’t work out that way, though.’

‘And then I met dear Jessica...’

Rebus knew from the photos on file that Attwood had possessed Hollywood good looks and a dress style to match. With the passing years he had lost both, and now he looked like any other pensioner. Which was to say: harmless. Forty years back, he would have been a very different proposition, something Rebus had to keep reminding himself.

‘The staff member who said he saw you...’ Fox prompted.

‘Yes, that little bugger tried to dip me in shit all right. Know why? I’d never bothered to tip him. The mark-up on room service, why should I? He was sly with it, too — he only ever said he saw someone who looked “a bit” like me.’

‘What did you think about Vince Brady’s story?’ Rebus asked.

‘Is he the one who said Maria had been snogging the musician? Not the knee-trembler, but the other one?’

‘Not snogging exactly, but she’d been talking to Bruce Collier in the corridor.’

‘I think that’s balls, if you’ll allow a measure of frankness. Maria was expecting me to turn up at her door. She would have gone straight to her room, same as always — the first tap you gave, the door flew open and she was standing there, ready to pounce.’ He smiled wistfully. ‘She was some woman, I don’t know if you can appreciate that.’

‘She hadn’t made a good marriage, though.’

‘John was all right, I suppose. A decent type — too strait-laced, maybe, and not a huge fan of the physical stuff... intimacy, you know. They implied at the time that Maria was a nympho or off her head, but that was just to sell their papers.’

‘You were friends with John Turquand, weren’t you?’ Rebus asked.

Attwood squirmed a little. ‘Not so much that I wouldn’t sleep with his wife.’

‘You don’t think he knew the two of you were lovers?’

‘Not until the police told him.’

‘Did you ever see him afterwards?’

‘Once, some years later. We happened to be lunching in the same restaurant. He punched me square on the nose, and who’s to say I didn’t deserve it?’

‘Did it ever cross your mind he might have killed her?’

‘He wasn’t that sort. Plus he was in meetings and such like.’

‘Then who did?’

‘If I had a fiver for every time I’ve been asked that... I think it featured more than once on Miss Dromgoole’s questionnaire.’

‘You don’t have an answer?’

‘Some psycho on the hotel staff? One of those musicians who were swarming through the place that day, high on drugs? Take your pick.’ Attwood offered a shrug and slurped some of the weak tea. ‘Whoever it was,’ he eventually offered, ‘they stole a beautiful spirit from the world. I’d never met anyone like her, and never would again.’ He looked from one visitor to the other. ‘But please don’t tell Jessica I said that. She’d run me through with one of her knitting needles...’

John Turquand’s country pile was reached by way of a half-mile private road bordered by rhododendron bushes. The house itself was probably Edwardian, with apparently endless crow-stepped gables and mullioned windows. The huge reception hall smelled of damp, however, and there was no sign of the army of servants such a place demanded, just the stooped, balding figure of Turquand himself. Fishing rods stood in an untidy line against one wall, while a stag’s dusty head graced another.

‘Whisky?’ Turquand asked, his voice reedy.

‘Maybe just a soft drink,’ Fox responded.

‘I think there might be something in the library.’

And that was where Turquand took them. He wore carpet slippers that, like their owner, had seen better days.

‘Broke my hip last year,’ he said, explaining his gait.

‘Quite some place you have here,’ Fox said. ‘Takes a lot of upkeep, though.’

‘You’ve hit the nail on the head,’ Turquand agreed.

‘You live here by yourself?’

‘Yes.’

They were in the library now. Its floor-to-ceiling fitted shelves were mostly devoid of books, other than a few true stories of adventure. Turquand sported a tweed waistcoat and collarless white shirt. Two of the fly buttons on his trousers hadn’t been done up. He had made for a drinks trolley. Next to decanters of whisky and gin sat a plastic one-litre cola bottle, a few inches missing from it.

‘Might be a bit flat, I’m afraid,’ he said as he poured, handing both men a glass covered in enough fingerprints to keep any crime scene manager happy. He poured an inch of whisky for himself, adding a splash of water from a jug.

‘Down the hatch,’ he said. The first gulp brought some colour to his gaunt cheeks and seemed to perk him up. Four chairs sat around a green baize card table. A deck of cards lay untouched in the middle. Turquand motioned to Rebus and Fox, and the three men sat down, the unpadded wooden chairs creaking in protest.

‘We’ve just been to see Peter Attwood,’ Fox said. ‘He mentioned the punch you gave him.’

‘I’d have done worse, too, but he’s a bit bigger than me.’

‘You know why we’re here?’

‘I saw it in the paper — Robert Chatham, it said. Retired detective. Dreadful thing to happen.’ He shook his head. ‘The only mystery is why you think I might be able to help.’

‘Mr Chatham interviewed you eight years ago,’ Fox recited. ‘Had you heard from him in the intervening period?’

‘Not a peep. Are you suggesting his death had something to do with Maria’s story?’

‘We’re just trying to put together the complete picture.’

‘I always thought Attwood must have killed her, you know.’

‘He had an alibi, though.’

‘Yes, the altogether convenient new lover,’ Turquand said dismissively.

‘While you yourself were locked away with Sir Magnus Brough,’ Rebus commented.

Turquand smiled at the memory. ‘Plotting the takeover of the Royal Bank of Scotland, no less.’

‘Might have dodged a bullet there, if you’ll pardon the phrase.’

‘We would never have made the mistakes RBS did. What happened to that bank was a tragedy.’

‘From everything we’ve discovered about your wife, Mr Turquand,’ Rebus went on, ‘she seems a remarkable woman.’

‘She really was.’

‘Were the two of you well matched, do you think?’

‘I was making a lot of money, and a successful man needs to show it.’

‘By investing in a glamorous partner?’

Turquand’s mouth twitched at Rebus’s use of ‘investing’, but he didn’t deny the truth of the comment.

‘I provided stability in her life, I suppose — that was the trade-off, or so I thought.’ He stared at Rebus. ‘Surely none of this can have any bearing on that poor man’s demise.’

Rebus just shrugged. ‘We have to keep an open mind, sir. Do you remember a woman called Maxine Dromgoole?’

‘She wrote a book, didn’t she? I remember giving it a quick squint — not very pleasant. She did want to interview me, but I think I told her to bugger off.’

‘And she’s not been in touch since?’

‘No.’

‘I’m sure you must have a few theories yourself...’

‘About who killed Maria? The guitarist, I thought for a long time.’

‘Dougie Vaughan?’

‘I think he was infatuated with her, but she’d moved on and cast him adrift. When he saw her in the hotel that day...’

‘He says he didn’t see her, though.’

‘And what else would you expect him to say? Why didn’t he tell the inquiry he’d had a fling with her? Why wait until the trail had gone cold?’

‘Have you ever confronted him about this?’

Turquand shook his head. ‘I tried not to think about it at all, once the dust had settled — threw myself into my work instead. Some nights I’d dream about Maria, dream she was still alive. But every hour I was awake, I focused on money, how to make more and more of it for the bank and myself.’

‘Where did it all go wrong, eh?’ Rebus said, stretching out both arms.

‘Mr Turquand,’ Fox interrupted, glancing towards Rebus to let him know his ‘one question’ was coming, ‘you were an early champion of Anthony Brough, weren’t you?’

‘For my sins.’

‘Meaning what?’

‘He was Sir Magnus’s grandson. I felt I owed him a certain fealty.’

‘You don’t sound too enthusiastic.’

‘Anthony lost me quite a lot of money. He talks a good game, but really that’s all he does.’

‘Are you in touch with him at all?’

‘A six-monthly statement, if I’m lucky.’

‘You don’t visit his office or speak on the phone?’

‘Not for quite some time.’

‘You still have money invested with him, though?’

‘The losses were such, it was pointless withdrawing what little was left.’

‘That must grate,’ Rebus said. ‘You having been a hotshot money man yourself back in the day.’

‘Don’t I bloody know it.’ Turquand got to his feet and poured another drink. He appeared not to mind that neither man had taken more than a sip of the stale cola. Once he had returned to the table, Fox started speaking again.

‘Anthony seems to have gone missing. Could all those bad investments have caught up with him?’

‘You’d need to study his books to answer that — even then, he’s probably not above having two sets of accounts.’

‘Do people still do that?’ Rebus asked.

‘They probably employ even more circuitous ruses, thanks to the wonders of the online world.’

‘Do you know what SLPs are, Mr Turquand.’

Turquand turned his gaze from Rebus to Fox. ‘Scottish limited partnerships?’

‘Would it surprise you to learn that Anthony is involved with quite a number of them?’

‘Involved in what way?’

‘Setting them up.’

‘In order to salt away money in them?’ Turquand guessed. ‘Well, I don’t suppose it’s illegal. If it were, HMRC would be on the hunt...’ He broke off. ‘Ah, now I see — that’s why he’s on the run?’

‘I really can’t say.’

Turquand tapped the side of his nose. ‘Understood. Maybe I should try to repatriate the rest of my investment — always supposing he’s not ditched Molly yet...’

‘Molly being?’

‘Secretary, receptionist, switchboard, personal assistant.’

Fox nodded, remembering the voice on the phone. ‘She was in situ last time I rang.’

‘Molly will know the score. I’ll call her this afternoon. And thanks for the tip.’

‘Doesn’t count as insider trading, does it?’ Rebus enquired.

‘Not at all,’ Turquand said.

‘Pity...’

‘Now we have a nice long drive back to Edinburgh,’ Rebus announced as they got into the Saab and started fastening their seat belts. ‘Which gives you plenty of time to talk me through Anthony Brough and these SLPs of his.’

‘I’ve got a question for you first — what did you think of him?’

‘Turquand? A bit eccentric, maybe.’

‘I’d say he hasn’t got two pennies to rub together. I’m betting he got rid of the staff. The grounds have seen better days. And the whisky smelled cheap.’

‘All because he trusted his capital to Sir Magnus Brough’s grandson?’ Rebus mused. ‘I wonder how many other clients are feeling short-changed as Molly fobs them off about her boss’s comings and goings?’

‘Darryl Christie could well be one,’ Fox admitted.

Rebus’s hands tightened around the steering wheel. ‘You have my full attention, Malcolm. Make sure you don’t waste it.’

‘Darryl owns a betting shop and flat on Great Junction Street. Brough rents the flat and uses it as the address for hundreds of SLPs.’ Fox saw Rebus looking at him. ‘What is it?’

‘When I called you from Rutland Square, you started to say something about betting, but then choked off the rest — now I know why.’ He nodded to himself. ‘Keep going,’ he said eventually. ‘And if you’re talking company law and malfeasance, pretend you’re explaining it to a complete idiot...’

Clarke tapped on the open door of the MIT room. Anne Briggs glanced up from her desk.

‘I was looking for DI Fox.’

‘He’s not here.’

‘So I see. My name’s Clarke.’

‘DI Clarke?’

‘Siobhan will probably do.’

‘I’m DC Briggs — Anne. Malcolm’s mentioned you.’

‘You holding the fort?’

‘The super’s at Gartcosh. Couple of the others are interviewing the deceased’s boss. And one’s gone to the shop for milk and biscuits.’

‘Leaving DI Fox unaccounted for?’

‘He was supposed to be in the interview room, but he isn’t.’

‘I’m guessing the tidy desk is his?’ Clarke stood next to it.

‘That’s why you earn the big bucks.’

Clarke picked up The Ends of Justice and began flipping pages.

‘That’s who he was supposed to be questioning,’ Briggs offered.

‘Maybe I should phone him,’ Clarke was saying as Mark Oldfield walked in, waving a carrier bag at Briggs. Briggs made the introductions as Oldfield switched the kettle on.

‘I’m sure he won’t be long,’ Briggs said. ‘Have a coffee first.’

‘I might do that.’ Clarke had moved from Fox’s desk to the next one along. A pile of A4 sheets was lying on top of a closed laptop. The sheets were photocopies of stills from CCTV footage.

‘What’s this?’ she asked.

‘I’ve just finished printing those out,’ Briggs said. ‘Deceased had been threatened by the guys you see there.’

‘The really blurry guys,’ Oldfield added.

Clarke moved from group shots to close-ups of individual faces. She held one up towards Briggs.

‘I think I know him,’ she announced. ‘I was talking to him only a couple of hours back. Name’s Hugh Harold Hodges, but he prefers Harry. Works at a place called the Devil’s Dram.’

Oldfield had come over to study the picture. ‘You sure?’ he asked.

‘Fairly positive. It’s the haircut and beard.’

‘Every second guy I see these days has that beard.’

‘Well, I reckon it’s him.’

Oldfield turned towards Briggs. ‘Do we call the boss man?’ he asked.

‘We call the boss man,’ she said. ‘After we’ve had what turns out to be a well-earned cuppa.’

‘Plus caramel wafers.’

‘I love it when you talk dirty, Mark,’ Briggs said with a grin.

Hodges was parked in the interview room when Alvin James got back. Clarke had gone with Briggs to pick him up.

‘I’m glad you came,’ Briggs had said at one point. ‘These streets are a bloody maze.’

‘Local knowledge is a wonderful thing, Anne.’

A sentiment Alvin James repeated almost word for word after Clarke had explained how she’d recognised Hodges. He even clasped her hand and gave it a shake.

‘Malcolm was right to sing your praises,’ he said. Then, looking around: ‘Where is he anyway?’

‘Nobody knows,’ Briggs piped up.

James fastened his eyes on Clarke again. ‘Well, since you’re here and acquainted with the gentleman...’

‘Happy to oblige,’ Clarke said, following him to the interview room.

Hodges didn’t look happy. He’d been stewing for the best part of an hour, and the club would be opening for evening business soon. Nobody had thought to tell him why he had been picked up. James dragged out the chair opposite and sat down, holding the photo so Hodges could see it.

‘And?’ Hodges said.

‘It’s you,’ James stated.

‘What if it is?’

‘Outside the Tomahawk Club, just off Lothian Road. Two Saturdays back.’

‘Maybe.’

‘Oh, it’s you all right, you and your mates having words with the doorman because he refused you entry.’

‘Is that what he says?’

‘It’s what one of his colleagues says. The man in the photo isn’t saying anything, Mr Hodges. Someone went after him and killed him. Big fit man he was, too, so we’re thinking maybe more than one assailant.’ James tapped the photo. ‘There are four of you here. Care to name the others, or do we find out the hard way?’

‘Did I hear you right? He’s dead? Rab’s dead?’ Hodges’ eyes had widened. ‘We used him at the club a few times ourselves. Just once or twice.’

‘You knew him?’

‘Hardly.’

‘But he was a bouncer at the Devil’s Dram?’ Clarke asked.

‘Just when we were short of a body. On the really busy nights — like the night you were there.’ Hodges fixed Clarke with a look.

‘If you knew him,’ James asked quietly, ‘what was the argument for?’

‘I’d stopped a bit further back along the pavement — had to make a call. The others are that bit younger, but they all had ID. Rab wasn’t convinced, said two could go in but not Cal. Words were being exchanged when I arrived, but it all calmed down.’

‘One of you — at least one of you — threatened to kill him.’

‘I don’t remember that,’ Hodges said with a shake of the head.

‘Quite an unusual name, Cal,’ Clarke interrupted. ‘Bit of a coincidence that your employer has a brother called that. And I’m thinking Cal Christie wouldn’t quite be eighteen yet.’ She pretended to study the photos. ‘Darryl had sent you out to babysit him, is that it? Him and a couple of pals and their fake IDs?’

Hodges glared at her. ‘You’ve lost me again.’

‘Let’s go talk to Darryl then.’ Clarke checked the time on her phone. ‘Cal’s probably home from college by now, too. We’ll take the security footage to show them. I’ll tell you something, though, Harry — Darryl’s not going to be happy with you. He’s not going to be happy at all.’

She knew she had got through to him when his shoulders sagged. He spoke with his chin tucked in against his chest. ‘Is there another option?’

‘You give us the other names so we can talk to all of them. Then, when we go to Darryl’s house, we keep your name out of it — we tell him it was Cal we recognised.’

‘He’ll still know I was there.’

‘You asked for options,’ James stressed. ‘That’s what’s on the table.’

Hodges thought for a few more seconds, then nodded.

‘Let me fetch my pad for those names,’ James said, exiting the room.

‘One more thing, Harry,’ Clarke said, once the coast was clear. ‘That photo really does come out of the gents’ toilet tonight. If it doesn’t, I tell Darryl how wonderfully cooperative you were when you grassed up his little brother. You got that?’

‘Got it, bitch.’

‘Good,’ said Clarke, as James walked back through the open door.

15

She was locking up for the evening when they arrived.

‘Molly?’ Fox asked, holding out his warrant card. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know your surname.’

‘Sewell,’ she told him. ‘Do you want to come in?’

‘Thank you.’

She unlocked the door again and they followed her inside. She cancelled the alarm and switched on the lights. A small, tasteful waiting room led to a smaller office with no natural light.

‘This is where you work?’ Fox enquired.

‘That’s right.’

‘And Mr Brough?’

‘To the left as you come in the main door.’

‘Mind if we take a look?’

‘Whatever for?’

‘Just want to be sure he’s not hiding in one of the filing cabinets.’ Fox tried to make it sound like a joke, but her oval face had grown stony. Rebus reckoned she was in her early thirties. Cropped black hair and bright red lipstick. Elfin was the word that came to his mind, but there was a toughness to her, too.

‘You better tell me what this is about,’ she said coolly, sitting down behind her desk. There was one chair for visitors, but Rebus and Fox stayed on their feet.

‘Do you know the whereabouts of Anthony Brough, Ms Sewell?’

‘No.’

‘When was the last time you spoke?’

She had begun to tidy the surface of her already tidied desk, moving a stapler, a box of paper clips and a pen. ‘About a week ago.’

‘In person or by phone?’

‘It was a text actually. He wasn’t feeling great and wanted to cancel his morning meetings.’

‘And since then?’

‘I’ve texted and phoned, left messages...’

‘Where does he live?’

‘Ann Street.’

‘Very nice, too. Does he have a partner?’

‘Here, you mean?’

‘In his personal life.’

‘Not that I know of.’

‘Big houses on that street — he must rattle around a bit.’

‘If you say so.’

‘You’re not worried about him?’

‘It’s only been a few days.’

‘All the same...’

She sighed and looked up from her desk, blinking back tears. ‘Of course I’m worried. I went to the house, but there was no one home.’

‘If he wasn’t well, he probably wouldn’t have gone far,’ Rebus commented.

‘I put a note through his door, but he still didn’t call.’

‘How well can you manage without him?’ Fox asked.

‘The paperwork is fine. I’ve rescheduled his meetings.’ She looked around her. ‘He’s not here to sign cheques, but other than that...’

‘How is business anyway?’

‘Thriving.’

‘That’s not quite what we hear, Ms Sewell.’

‘Then you’re talking to the wrong people.’

‘Do you know a gentleman called Darryl Christie?’

‘Should I?’

‘He’s either a client or an associate of Mr Brough’s — so yes, I’d say you should know him.’

‘Well, I don’t.’

‘How about a flat on Great Junction Street, above a betting shop called Klondyke Alley?’

She shook her head. ‘You’ve still not told me why you’re here.’

‘A few days after your boss went missing, someone attacked Darryl Christie.’

She gave a snort. ‘Anthony would never do anything like that.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘It’s preposterous. I doubt Anthony’s been in a fight since he left school.’

‘How long have you known him?’

She glowered at Rebus. ‘Long enough.’

‘You must be about the same age as him — you didn’t go to school together or anything?’

‘Anthony was educated privately. I went to Boroughmuir.’ She paused. ‘And he’s six years older than me.’

Rebus smiled an apology.

‘It seems to me,’ Fox said, ‘that you know him and care about him. We think he’s in some kind of trouble, Ms Sewell, and we want to help. So if you do know anything, this is your chance.’ He paused to let his words sink in, handing her his business card.

She glanced at it. ‘I don’t think I saw your ID,’ she said to Rebus.

‘I don’t have any on me.’

‘Not a police officer then? HMRC? FCA?’

‘Expecting a visit, are you?’

She ignored him and opened a drawer instead, dropping the card into it. ‘I’d like to go home now, if that’s all right with you.’

‘Have you considered reporting him as a missing person?’ Fox asked, as she started getting to her feet and buttoning her short woollen coat.

‘If I don’t hear from him in the next few days.’

‘I’m assuming this is out of character for Mr Brough?’

‘He has been known to take a notion — London for the night, a horse race in France...’

‘He’s a betting man, then?’

‘That’s something you’d have to ask him.’

‘We will — if and when he turns up.’

‘You really can’t think anything’s happened to him? Anything serious, I mean?’

‘If he’s had a falling-out with Darryl Christie,’ Rebus said, ‘it’s entirely possible. Something you’d do well to bear in mind.’

They waited while she turned off the lights again and set the alarm. Rebus reckoned he knew which door must be Brough’s office, so he tried it, but it was locked.

‘Maybe bring a warrant next time,’ Sewell told him.

‘I’ll be sure to,’ he said.

Clarke had guessed that Darryl would have moved his mother and brothers into the boutique hotel he owned on one of the New Town’s steep north — south streets. She explained as much to Alvin James, but when they got there the front desk denied any knowledge.

‘We’re police, remember,’ Clarke told the fashion model who seemed to have ended up working as a receptionist. ‘I know Darryl has to be cagey, but not with us.’

‘They’re really not here — both floors are closed for renovations.’

And sure enough, the carpet leading to the staircase had been covered with clear polythene, as had the staircase itself.

‘Sorry about that,’ Clarke apologised as she marched back out to her car.

‘Not your fault, Siobhan,’ James said. ‘If you’d phoned and been given that story, you’d still have felt the need to come see for yourself.’

She glanced at him. ‘How do you know that?’

‘Any good detective would do the same. Where to now?’

‘Darryl’s house, maybe. It’s five minutes away.’

‘Lead on, then.’

She took him the long way round, so he could take in the Botanic Gardens and Inverleith Park. He gazed at the imposing detached stone houses.

‘Could I get one of these on a CID wage?’ he asked.

‘Not even if you were Chief Constable.’

They parked on the street and got out. There were no cars in the driveway. ‘I don’t see his Range Rover,’ Clarke said, preparing James for another dead end. But when she rang the doorbell, she could hear a noise from inside. The door opened and Gail McKie stood there. While Clarke was trying to hide her surprise, James asked if Cal was home.

‘What’s the story now?’ McKie demanded.

‘Just a couple of questions.’

‘I’ve already told you he didn’t see anything.’

James looked puzzled. ‘She means the attack on Darryl,’ Clarke explained.

‘We’d still like to talk with him,’ James nudged.

‘With me in the room?’ McKie paused. ‘Or our solicitor?’

‘You’re free to sit in, Ms McKie,’ James decided. ‘Though Cal might not be too thrilled...’

They waited in the chintzy living room while she went upstairs to fetch Cal. He walked in looking sulky, shoulders hunched, avoiding eye contact. His black spiky hair looked dyed, and there were acne scars on his cheeks.

‘Didn’t see nothing,’ he stated without preamble. ‘Got nothing to say.’ He dumped himself on one of the chairs, fingers gripping the armrests.

‘That’s not why we’re here,’ James said. Like Clarke, he had remained on his feet. McKie had lowered herself on to the sofa, curling her legs under her, staring hard at the two detectives. ‘We’re here about the Tomahawk Club. The night you and your pals were refused entry.’

Cal was trying to stop his face from reddening as his mother turned her gaze on him.

‘What’s this?’ she asked.

‘They’re lying,’ he spluttered.

James eased the CCTV prints from his pocket. ‘We have evidence to the contrary. We already know one name — a Mr Hodges — but we need the other two.’

‘Why?’

‘Because a threat was made to the doorman, Ms McKie. Rather a serious threat.’

‘By you?’ Her eyes were drilling into her son. He shook his head.

‘It was Dandy,’ he said.

‘I thought I’d told you to stop hanging around with that toerag!’

Cal squirmed.

‘He’s nothing but trouble — always has been!’

‘Can I assume Dandy is a nickname of some kind?’ Clarke interrupted.

‘His name’s Daniel Reynolds. Lives in Lochend. He used to go to school with Cal.’

‘Dandy’s all right,’ Cal added.

‘He threatened to kill the doorman?’ James asked.

Cal squirmed some more. ‘He might’ve said he’d be back to cut him. He was just acting up — putting on a show.’

‘There was one other young male with you?’

‘Roddy Cape. He’s a year above me at college.’

‘Are you the only one who’s underage, Cal?’ Clarke checked.

Cal nodded. ‘He was going to let the rest of them in — just not me. I think he wanted to see what we’d do. Like he was trying to get us worked up. Harry stepped in to keep the peace, and that was that.’

‘Who’s Harry?’ Gail McKie demanded. Cal pursed his lips.

‘He works for Darryl,’ Clarke answered her. ‘He was on babysitting duty — is that right, Cal? Making sure the evening went smoothly?’

‘I suppose,’ Cal admitted.

‘There we are then,’ McKie said. ‘A doorman was given some verbals, but not by my son. So you can go take your witch hunt elsewhere.’

‘The doorman ended up dead, Ms McKie,’ James informed her. For the first time, Cal looked up, his mouth opening soundlessly. ‘So you can see that we have to look at anyone who might have held a grudge. Right now, I’d say that includes Daniel Reynolds.’

‘Cal,’ Clarke asked softly, ‘does Dandy carry a blade?’

‘How would I know?’

‘Because he’s probably the sort who’d want his mates to know.’

‘He’s mouthy, but that’s as far as it goes. Besides, he knows when he’s out with me he’s got all the protection he needs.’

‘Because your brother is Darryl Christie?’ Clarke nodded slowly. ‘But someone got to Darryl, didn’t they? Someone proved he’s human.’

‘And what are the police doing about that?’ Gail McKie snarled, folding her arms. ‘They arrest the guy but then let him go and focus instead on this, because an assault on one of their own always takes precedence.’

‘Murder rather than assault,’ Clarke corrected her.

‘You know what I mean, though — one law for us, one law for you. Always has been and always will.’ She swung her legs off the sofa. ‘Are we done here?’

‘We need addresses for Dandy and Roddy,’ James said, his eyes on Cal.

‘We don’t know their addresses,’ McKie snapped.

‘Cal’s never been round to their house?’ James sounded disbelieving. ‘He’ll have their phone numbers, though, won’t he? He can let us have those at least.’

McKie’s face darkened. She was on her feet now. She made a noise that was almost feral as she kicked her son on one ankle.

‘Go on,’ she said. ‘And then you and me are going to have words.’

Cal was already sliding his phone from his back pocket, switching it on, readying to search his address book.

‘Darryl’s not home?’ Clarke asked McKie, trying to make it sound like the most casual of enquiries.

‘Back at work, despite his injuries — never relaxes for a minute, that one.’ She seemed to be aiming this remark at Cal.

‘Do you want the numbers or don’t you?’ he asked, holding the phone towards his mother.

‘Not me, them,’ she snapped back. As Cal began to recite, Clarke copied the details into her own phone.

‘One more thing, Ms McKie,’ she said when she was done. ‘The suspect you mentioned — he seems to have gone missing.’

‘Oh aye?’

‘You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?’

McKie rolled her eyes, but said nothing.

James seemed pleased with the result as they headed to the car. Clarke wasn’t so sure. Darryl had told her he was moving his family to a place of safety. Why had he changed his mind? Or had he lied in the first place?

‘Back to Leith?’ James suggested, opening the passenger door.

‘Back to Leith,’ Clarke agreed.

16

Fox stared from the doorway of the MIT room towards his desk. Siobhan Clarke was seated there, one leg crossed over the other, with a mug of tea in front of her and a chocolate biscuit protruding from her mouth. She had just said something that had the whole team chuckling — until they saw Fox.

‘The prodigal returns,’ Alvin James said, stretching out an arm in mock welcome. ‘What happened? Did the interview with Maxine Dromgoole tire you out?’

Fox walked into the centre of the room. Rebus passed him on his way to the kettle.

‘I had to check up on a couple of names she gave me — one in Fife, the other in Perthshire. Just in case you thought I was slacking...’

James held up both hands in a show of surrender. ‘And you took a wingman, by the look of it. A member of the public, no less. That’s bound to look good if these “names” are called at the trial.’

‘The man has a point,’ Rebus teased, filling his mug. ‘No biscuits left?’

‘Sorry,’ Clarke replied, biting down on the last sliver of hers.

‘Time to share,’ James announced, slapping a hand down on his desk. ‘You tell us yours and we’ll tell you ours.’

‘All right,’ Fox said, his eyes on Clarke. She took the hint and eased herself from the chair — his chair. He squeezed past her and sat down. Mark Oldfield offered her his seat, but she shook her head and slid on to a corner of his desk instead, legs dangling.

‘Let’s begin,’ Alvin James said...

Rebus had offered to buy the drinks, but Clarke had cried off, having already promised to share her favourite restaurant with Alvin James.

‘Doesn’t take her long to get her feet under the table,’ Fox complained as Rebus returned from the bar to their corner table.

‘Relax,’ Rebus chided him. ‘Shiv’s not the one who got promoted to Gartcosh, remember?’

‘She’d fit in there a lot better than I do, though — we both know it, so don’t bother denying it.’

‘How’s your tomato juice?’

‘A shot of vodka wouldn’t harm it. How’s your low-alcohol beer?’

Rebus screwed up his face.

‘The state of the pair of us,’ Fox muttered, causing Rebus to chuckle. They sipped in silence for a few seconds. Rebus rubbed foam from his lips with the back of his hand.

‘It was interesting what Siobhan said, though,’ he eventually offered.

‘I was trying not to listen.’

‘About Darryl Christie telling her he’d moved everyone out of the house when he hadn’t.’

‘Why tell the truth when a lie will suffice?’

‘It’s a funny lie to tell, though.’

‘He may have his reasons.’

‘Such as?’

‘He’s hiding behind his mum and brothers, betting that whoever wants him hurt won’t want civilians involved.’

‘Maybe.’

‘Or else he just likes lying to the police — I get the feeling everyone I’ve spoken to recently has lied to me at least once: Dromgoole, Peter Attwood, John Turquand, Molly Sewell...’

‘Me?’ Rebus asked.

‘Probably. Almost definitely, in fact. My dad used to drum it into Jude and me that we’d go to hell if we ever told a lie.’

‘And did you stick by that?’

‘I did my best.’

‘Then maybe you won’t be joining the rest of us in the fiery depths.’ Rebus toasted him with his glass before taking another sip.

‘Are you putting off going home?’ Fox asked. ‘In case there really is a phone message?’

‘Nothing scares me, Malcolm.’

‘Is that right? I’m the exact opposite.’

‘That’s good, though, means you err on the side of caution. Look at your relationship with booze — you saw it was becoming a problem and you stopped. Me, I should have stopped years back. Instead of which, I challenged the demon drink to a wrestling match, just the two of us sweating it out.’

‘Only ever one winner in those contests.’

‘Aye — mortality. Same thing that’s waiting for me back at the flat, message or no message.’

‘That’s what I like about spending time with you, John — you never fail to light up a room with that positive attitude.’

‘I’m smiling now, though.’

Fox looked at him. ‘So you are. Why’s that, I wonder?’

Rebus leaned forward and patted him softly on the shoulder. ‘It’s your round, lad,’ he said.

Denise the barmaid had arrived, scouting for empty glasses. She glowered at Rebus.

‘If this place goes broke, it’ll be your fault.’

Rebus looked at Fox. ‘You see where I get that positive attitude from,’ he said.

Fox had turned down Rebus’s offer of a bite to eat. He was wondering which restaurant Siobhan would have taken Alvin James to. There were three possibles, and he drove past each, slowing and peering through their windows as best he could. Then he stopped at a Sainsbury’s and bought a ready meal, some bananas and the evening paper.

You’ll survive, he told himself as he pulled into the driveway of his Oxgangs bungalow. As he lifted his shopping from the passenger seat, he heard a car door open and close nearby. Looking up, he saw it was Darryl Christie. Christie just stood there next to the white Range Rover, waiting for Fox to walk up to him. Instead, Fox unlocked his front door and went inside, placing the bag on the kitchen counter and pausing there until the bell rang. He opened the door.

‘Was that you calling for back-up?’ Christie asked. ‘Because if it was, you better phone them with an excuse. Trust me, this chat has to be private.’

‘I don’t remember making an appointment, Mr Christie.’

‘What I’ve got to say is important.’

‘Then maybe you should drop by Leith tomorrow.’

Christie was peering over Fox’s shoulder. ‘We should step inside,’ he said.

‘I don’t think so.’

‘My car, then. This really does need to be kept between us.’

‘You shouldn’t be here.’

‘Are you even listening to me?’ Christie’s face had hardened.

‘Frankly, I’ve got better things to do with my evening.’

The two men studied one another. Eventually, Christie sniffed and ran a finger across the base of his nose. ‘Okay then,’ he said, half turning as if to depart. But then he paused. ‘It’s Jude’s head on the block, though, just remember that...’

He walked down the path, hands in pockets, not looking back.

‘Bluff,’ muttered Fox, heading back inside. He took the ready meal from its cardboard sleeve and stabbed the film lid with the tip of a knife. Three minutes in the microwave, then leave for one more minute. Eat while piping hot. He opened the microwave door, then stopped. The newspaper was on the counter and he stared at its front page without really seeing it.

‘Fine then,’ he said, striding to the front door.

The Range Rover was still there, Christie drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. Fox climbed into the passenger seat and slammed shut the door.

‘So tell me,’ he said.

Christie took a deep breath and released it slowly, as if debating whether to comply. The movement of Fox’s hand towards the door handle made his mind up.

‘I didn’t know she was your sister — not at first. I mean, I only ever knew her by her first name. Her first name and her address. Her address and her financial details.’ He paused to let this sink in.

‘She owes you money?’ Fox guessed.

‘She really does.’

‘How much?’

‘Before we get to that, let’s talk about you. Let’s talk about you being here on secondment from Gartcosh, asking questions about various betting shops, trying to pressure your own sister into spying for you...’ Christie tutted. ‘Cleaning up dirty money by putting it into fixed-odds machines? Do you really think you’re ever going to pin that on me?’

‘Are you saying it isn’t happening?’

‘I’m saying you’d have the devil’s job proving it in court. And recruiting your own sister to the cause... a woman with a gambling problem — not quite the most reliable of witnesses, DI Fox.’

Fox could feel his jaw clenching, mostly because Christie was right.

‘Sanctioned by Gartcosh, was it?’ Christie went on. ‘Or is this you using your initiative? In which case, I doubt your bosses are going to be too thrilled.’

‘I’m going to ask again — how much does she owe?’

Christie turned towards the passenger seat for the first time, caressing the steering wheel with his fingers as he spoke. ‘Twenty-seven grand — give or take.’

Fox tried swallowing, his mouth suddenly dry. ‘I think you’re lying,’ he said.

‘Then come to Diamond Joe’s and I’ll show you the figures. It’s mostly from her online activities, of course. I’m almost as stunned by it as you are — I mean, the interest rate isn’t even forty per cent...’

‘I can get you the money.’

‘You sure about that?’

‘Given enough time.’

‘But time’s the one thing you don’t have, DI Fox, because I want something from you right now.’

‘The cashpoint will give me a couple of hundred.’

‘It’s not about money!’ Christie snarled.

‘What then?’

‘Knowledge, of course. The knowledge stored at Gartcosh.’

‘You want to know what they have on you?’

‘Especially as it relates to this man.’ Christie had lifted a slip of paper from the dashboard. Fox unfolded it.

‘Aleksander Glushenko,’ he read. ‘Sounds Russian.’

‘He’s Ukrainian.’

Fox stared at the name again, then held the note towards Christie. ‘I can’t do this,’ he said.

‘That’s a pity — Jude made destitute, your name dragged into it, the papers tipped off that you were using her as bait... and your bosses notified about all your various shenanigans.’ Christie gestured towards the slip of paper. ‘Am I really asking so much, Malcolm?’

‘I can get you the money.’

‘Hang on to the name anyway. That way, I may hold fire a few days before taking you and your sister to the cleaners.’ Christie paused for a moment. ‘Now get out of my fucking car.’

Fox knew how good it would feel to rip the piece of paper into tiny shreds and throw them into Christie’s face. Instead, he opened the door and got out, the note pressed into his palm. The car was heading off before he’d even reached his front door.

Inside, he unpeeled the film lid from the ready meal before remembering that he hadn’t yet cooked it. He swore under his breath and took out his phone.

‘Oh Christ,’ said Jude when she picked up. ‘Look, Malcolm...’

‘You’re an unbelievable fucking idiot, Jude! Not just to get into debt like that — with a wolf like him — but then to toss me in his direction as a bone!’

‘I know, I know, I know. I wasn’t thinking straight. I wasn’t thinking at all.’

‘You were thinking about you, dear sister, same as always. Everybody around you can be hung out to dry, just so long as Jude survives...’ He sighed and lowered his voice. ‘Promise me you’ll get help — Gamblers Anonymous, whatever it takes. Twenty-seven grand, Jude...’

He listened to her sobs, closing his eyes and resting his forehead against one of the cupboard doors. She was trying to talk, but he couldn’t make out any of the words. It didn’t matter anyway.

He ended the call and perched on a stool at the counter. Using a ballpoint pen on the blank side of the ready meal’s cardboard sleeve, he began to work out how much he had, how much he could raise. The slip of paper was lying on the counter a little further along, crumpled but readable. An easy enough name to remember: Aleksander Glushenko.

Who the hell was Aleksander Glushenko?

If Fox found out, and discovered the connection between the two men, could he use that against Christie in some way rather than aiding and abetting him?

Maybe. Just maybe.

But to be on the safe side, he kept totting up numbers...

Three phone messages were waiting for Rebus at his flat on Arden Street.

‘Press one or say one to listen to your messages...’

Instead of which, he had gone to the window, staring out at the night. Then he had walked to the record deck. Solid Air was still there from the evening Deborah Quant had stayed over. It was an album that had always been there for him, no matter the troubles in his life. And hadn’t John Martyn been troubled, too? Johnny Too Bad — hitting the booze, falling out and brawling with friends and lovers. One leg hacked off in the operating theatre. But barrelling on through life, singing and playing until the end.

Nice thing about an album — when it was over, you could lift the needle and start from the beginning again.

With the title track playing softly, Rebus finally picked up the phone.

‘Press one...’

He pressed.

And heard a pre-recorded message telling him he didn’t have long to claim for his mis-sold payment protection insurance.

Delete.

‘Message two...’

The same automated caller. From further on in their spiel.

Delete.

‘Message three...’

‘Did you know that a government-backed scheme can give you a new boiler at no charge...?’

Delete.

‘You have no more messages...’

Rebus stared at the phone for fully fifteen seconds before placing it back on its charger. He peered down at his chest.

‘At this rate, my heart will give out before Hank Marvin gets me,’ he muttered, turning the amplifier’s volume control all the way up.