Rather Be the Devil

17

Next morning, Fox drove to Gartcosh. His night had been restless and he had nicked his chin while shaving. He’d woken up to four texts from Jude, three of them apologetic, one baleful and accusatory. Entering the main building, he climbed the stairs and walked past the HMRC office. Through the window, he could see Sheila Graham seated at her desk, so he headed back to the ground floor, got himself a coffee, and found a perch in the atrium where the upstairs floor was visible.

Nobody paid him any heed. He remembered that he was good at this — blending in, becoming invisible. He’d always enjoyed stakeouts and tailing suspects. With his suit, tie and lanyard, he looked just like everyone else. Only the most senior staff wore anything resembling a uniform. Remove them from the picture and he could have been in any corporate building in the country.

Graham had left her office and was walking towards the other end of the building, where the Organised Crime team were tucked away behind a locked door, one requiring a special keycard. It didn’t really surprise Fox that Graham carried just such a card around her neck. She pulled open the door and passed through it, by which time Fox was halfway up the staircase. He walked into the HMRC office and looked around. Graham’s neighbour was seated at his own computer, facing Graham’s desk. Recognising him from his previous visit, Fox gave a nod of greeting.

‘You just missed her,’ the man said.

‘Will she be long?’

‘Bit of housekeeping to discuss with ACC McManus.’

Fox made show of checking the time on his wristwatch. ‘I’ll maybe wait for a bit, if that’s okay.’

The man gave a shrug of assent and got busy on his screen again. Fox sat down in front of Graham’s monitor. It was in screen-saver mode, and when he nudged the mouse, he saw that a password was required for access.

‘Think she’d mind if I checked my emails?’

‘You can’t do it on your phone?’

‘I can’t always get a signal.’

‘Try “GcoshG69”.’

Fox typed it in. ‘Thanks,’ he said.

‘I should have asked — making any progress in Edinburgh?’

‘Slowly,’ Fox said. He was studying a list of files. He couldn’t see the name Glushenko, so entered it as a search.

No results.

Having stared at the screen for a few moments, he turned his attention to the desk itself. A three-inch-high pile of manila folders sat to the right of the console. He opened the cover of the first one, but the details meant nothing to him. Same for the one immediately beneath. To the other side of the console sat a tray containing A4 sheets of paper, some stapled or held together with paper clips, Post-it notes attached at various points. But again, no Glushenko.

The desk boasted two deep drawers. Fox slid the nearest one open a few inches. More paperwork, neatly filed.

‘You okay there?’ the HMRC officer asked, growing suspicious.

‘Just wondering if she got the report I sent.’

‘Easier to ask her, no?’

‘Ask me what?’

Fox turned his head and saw that Sheila Graham had stopped just inside the doorway.

‘Short meeting,’ he said.

‘McManus got called away.’ She took a few more steps towards her desk. Fox rose to his feet, ceding the chair to her. But her eyes were on the screen. He looked too, and saw that the Glushenko search was still displayed. When he turned back towards her, she was staring at him.

‘You and me,’ she said quietly, ‘need to have a little chat...’

He followed her out of the office and along the walkway towards one of the glass meeting boxes. She slid the sign on the door to IN USE and marched in, seating herself at the large rectangular table and taking out her phone.

‘Sit,’ she commanded Fox.

‘I can explain.’

‘That’s exactly what you’re going to do, but someone else needs to hear it too.’ She waited for her call to be answered. When it was, she announced to the person on the other end that she was putting the speakerphone on. As she placed the phone flat on the table, a male voice said, ‘What’s up, Sheila?’

‘There’s someone here with me. Detective Inspector Malcolm Fox. I mentioned him to you.’

‘You did.’

‘We’re in a private room and can’t be overheard. Can you say the same?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then maybe you can start by identifying yourself to DI Fox.’

‘My name is Alan McFarlane. I’m in charge of the Economic Crime Command at the National Crime Agency, based in London.’

‘DI Fox has just come to me with a name — a name I didn’t give him,’ Graham said.

‘Does it begin with a G?’

‘It does.’

‘Aleksander Glushenko,’ Fox added, feeling the need to say something.

‘How did you come across him, DI Fox?’

Fox leaned towards the phone. ‘You can hear me okay?’

‘Loud and clear.’

‘You sound Scottish, Mr McFarlane.’

‘Well spotted. Now, to answer my question...’

‘I was asked to look into the affairs of an Edinburgh criminal called Darryl Christie and his connections with an investment broker called Anthony Brough. Brough’s gone missing, by the way — his PA hasn’t heard from him in over a week.’

‘I wasn’t aware of that,’ McFarlane said. Fox watched as a little bit of colour appeared on Graham’s cheeks.

‘Brough rents a flat above a betting shop — both are owned by Christie. So I placed someone in the vicinity.’

‘Someone you trust?’

‘Of course. It was this person who heard the name Glushenko mentioned.’

‘In connection with what?’

‘The name was as much as they caught.’

‘One more thing to add,’ Graham said, her eyes on Fox. ‘I found DI Fox on my computer five minutes ago. He was attempting to access information on Glushenko.’

There was silence on the line for ten long seconds, during which time Fox held Graham’s gaze.

‘Why was that?’ McFarlane eventually asked.

‘Because,’ Fox explained, ‘I’d started to suspect Ms Graham wasn’t giving me the whole story. Without being fully briefed, I could be putting people at risk — not least myself and my contact. And now that I know you’re in charge, I’d say my hunch was spot on.’

‘Can I assume you did an internet search for Glushenko?’

‘Yes.’

‘And found nothing?’

‘Correct.’

‘That’s because he only became Aleksander Glushenko a year or so back. He had a number of other aliases before that, but his real name is Anton Nazarchuk.’

‘Okay.’

‘Sounds Russian, but he’s actually Ukrainian.’

‘And he’s something to do with a flat in Edinburgh that’s become a one-man dodgy Companies House?’

‘Yes.’

Graham cleared her throat. ‘I can give DI Fox the relevant details, if I have your permission.’

‘It’s a pity we’re not face to face — I like to think I’m good at reading people.’

‘If anyone should be having trust issues here, it’s me,’ Fox complained.

‘You were told exactly as much as was deemed necessary.’

There was another lengthy pause on the line, then an exhalation.

‘Brief him,’ McFarlane said, ending the call.

Graham lifted her phone from the table and started passing it slowly from one hand to the other.

‘I hope to Christ you’re up to this, Malcolm,’ she stated.

‘Do we call him Glushenko or Nazarchuk?’

‘Glushenko.’

‘And what has Mr Glushenko done?’

‘He went to Anthony Brough for a shell company.’

‘And?’

‘And fed a chunk of money into it, some of which seems to have gone missing.’

‘Might explain why Brough made himself scarce.’

‘But if Brough has gone to ground...’

Fox nodded as the picture became clear. ‘This Glushenko character will be chasing his associates — including Darryl Christie.’ He grew thoughtful. ‘But the thing is, the way my source tells it, it’s actually Christie who’s looking for Glushenko.’

‘Maybe he has something to tell him.’

‘Such as Anthony Brough’s whereabouts?’

It was Graham’s turn to nod.

‘So where did this money come from?’

‘I’ll get to that in a minute. Two things first. Aleksander Glushenko is connected to the Russian mafia, and that means he’s somewhat dangerous.’ She waited for this to sink in.

‘And?’ Fox nudged her.

‘And the sum involved isn’t far short of a billion pounds.’

‘Did you just say billion?’

Graham slipped her phone into one of the pockets of her jacket. ‘Which reminds me — I forgot my purse today, so when we break for coffee, you’ll be the one buying.’

‘A billion pounds passed through that little flat above Klondyke Alley?’

‘Not in the form of notes and coins, but yes, that’s pretty much what happened. And somewhere along the line, someone decided that skimming a few million here or there wouldn’t be noticed.’ She rose to her feet. ‘Maybe we should get those drinks before I start. This story takes a while to tell...’

Cafferty was in the same Starbucks on Forrest Road. He signalled that he didn’t want a refill, so Rebus queued behind half a dozen students.

‘What’s quickest?’ he asked when his turn came.

‘Filter,’ the server announced.

‘Medium one of those, then.’

He added a splash of milk to the mug and joined Cafferty at a table just about big enough for the purpose. The newspaper Cafferty had been reading was lying there, folded in half so only the masthead and main story were visible.

‘You look like hell,’ Cafferty stated without preamble. Rebus took a sip of coffee in lieu of responding. ‘I know, I know — we all look like hell.’ Cafferty chuckled to himself.

Rebus tapped the newspaper just where the date was displayed beneath its masthead. ‘Is this today’s?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s good, otherwise I’d have missed my birthday.’

Cafferty chuckled again. ‘If I’d known, I’d have bought you something. How’s tricks anyway?’

‘Mustn’t grumble.’

‘You’d really forgotten your own birthday? No card from that daughter of yours?’

‘I’m not a great one for opening letters.’ Rebus took another slurp of coffee and lowered the mug to the table. ‘Reason I wanted to see you is I promised someone I’d do them a favour.’

‘Oh aye?’

‘Her name’s Maxine Dromgoole.’

‘If you say so.’

‘She’s tried contacting you about a book she wants to write. The subject of the book would be you.’

‘Me?’

‘I’m thinking the same as you — nobody in their right mind would want to read it. But anyway, I said I’d pass the message on.’

‘And what did she give you in return?’

‘Contact details for a couple of people even older than us.’

‘To do with the Turquand case?’

‘Yup.’

‘You’ve not given up on it, then?’ Cafferty watched Rebus shake his head. ‘Made any progress?’

‘Bits and pieces, maybe.’

Cafferty stared at him thoughtfully. ‘Today’s really your birthday? Maybe I will give you a present, gift-wrapped and everything...’

‘The Russian?’ Rebus guessed. Cafferty smiled and shook his head. ‘Craw Shand, then?’

‘Craw?’

‘I’m thinking maybe you’ve got him tucked away somewhere.’

‘Why would I do that?’

‘Because he can probably point you in the direction of whoever attacked Darryl Christie. This is always supposing it wasn’t you. I reckon you’d want to know the who and the why. That way, you might have something you can use against Christie.’ Rebus paused, eyes locked on to Cafferty’s. ‘It’s only a guess, mind.’

‘Do you do palm-reading, too?’

Rebus shrugged. ‘So if not Craw or the mystery Russian, what am I getting?’

‘That day at the Caledonian Hotel, the day Maria Turquand was killed — not every visitor was accounted for.’

‘How do you mean?’

Cafferty leaned forward, elbows on knees. ‘I don’t suppose it can do any harm to tell you. In fact, maybe it’ll tickle you...’

‘You? You were there?’

‘A touring band needs stimulants — too risky to travel with them, so there’s usually a contact in each city they stop at.’

‘You were the delivery boy?’

‘Not quite a boy by that stage, but yet to scale the giddy heights. Actually, I’d probably have had someone else do it, but I wanted to meet him.’

‘Bruce Collier?’

‘Remember I told you I was at the Usher Hall show — Bruce himself put me on the guest list. Here’s the thing, though. I was supposed to hand the stuff over to the road manager in his room. So I knock on the door, but no one’s answering.’

‘Vince Brady’s room?’

‘Right next to Maria Turquand’s, though I didn’t know that at the time.’

‘Did you see her?’

Cafferty shook his head. ‘The door at the end of the hall was open and there was music coming from it, so I went along there and found Bruce Collier and a couple of his band-mates. There were a few young women dotted about — girlfriends, groupies, who knows? I told Bruce why I was there, but he didn’t know where Brady had gone — maybe to the venue or something. Bruce didn’t have enough cash on him to pay for the delivery — offered me a signed album instead, but I wasn’t having that. So he took me into the bedroom and there was a mate of his crashed out on the bed, reeking of booze. Bruce had a bit of a rummage and came up with all the money this guy had on him. It was just about enough, so that was that.’

‘The guy would have been Dougie Vaughan.’

‘Would it?’

‘Tallies with his version. So what happened next?’

‘I walked out of there with my money and the promise of a free ticket.’

‘Nothing else?’

‘Such as?’

‘The key to Vince Brady’s bedroom — Vaughan says he lost it. Did you see it in his pocket?’

‘No.’

Rebus thought for a moment. ‘What about when the story broke?’

Cafferty held up his hands. ‘I was gobsmacked.’

‘You didn’t think about coming forward?’

‘To tell your lot I was selling drugs in the vicinity? Oddly enough, it never crossed my mind.’

‘And you could be pretty sure Collier and his entourage wouldn’t bring you into the story.’

Cafferty nodded slowly.

‘The photos in the papers at the time — her husband and lover — you must have seen them?’

‘I didn’t recognise anyone, John. Are they the OAPs you’ve just been speaking to?’

‘Yes. I’ve talked to Bruce Collier, too.’

‘And the mate with the emptied trouser pockets. You’ve been busy.’

‘What is it they say about the devil and idle hands?’

‘True enough.’ Cafferty smiled. ‘You don’t really think nobody would read my life story, do you?’

‘Want me to put you in touch with Ms Dromgoole?’

‘I’ll give it some thought. Might be nice to leave something behind.’

‘Other than court reports and photos of you in handcuffs.’

‘It’s not much of a legacy, is it?’ Cafferty appeared to concur. ‘So did my trip to the confessional help you at all?’

‘It might have — if Brady really wasn’t in the hotel and Dougie Vaughan was unconscious.’

‘Happy birthday then.’ Cafferty held out a hand and the two men shook.

Outside, Rebus paused at the traffic lights. A birthday present? He didn’t think so. Cafferty had given him the information for one reason only: to focus Rebus’s efforts on the past rather than the present. Something was up. Something was brewing — and not just coffee...

After Rebus had departed, Cafferty tried to finish his paper but found he couldn’t concentrate. That was the effect the man had on him. Instead he took out his phone and tapped in a number.

‘Hello?’ a voice answered warily.

‘It’s me, Craw, who else would it be? I’m the only one with your number, remember?’

‘I liked my old phone.’

‘Cops will be tracking your old phone, Craw. Best it stays in cold storage.’

‘Can I come home yet? It’s like I’m in a prison here.’

‘You’ve got a sea view, haven’t you? And it won’t be long now. You’ve got to trust me, that’s all...’

‘I do trust you, Mr Cafferty. Really I do.’

‘Well then, a few more days. Watch the telly, read a book — they’re bringing you your newspaper every day? And feeding and watering you?’

‘I could do with a bit of fresh air.’

‘Then open a window. Because if I hear you’ve so much as tramped to the end of the street, I’ll take a brick to your skull — understood?’

‘I would never do that, Mr Cafferty.’

‘Bear in mind, Craw, this is for your safety.’

‘And only for a few more days, you say?’

‘A few more days. It’s all going to be sorted by then, one way or another.’

Cafferty ended the call and stared towards the café window as if everything on the other side of the glass made perfect sense to him. Then he picked up his paper again and began to read. Two minutes later, his phone buzzed.

‘Yes, Darryl?’ he answered.

‘Just wondering if you’ve any news.’

‘Anthony Brough, you mean? He’s a money man, yes? I looked him up. Office in Rutland Square, home on Ann Street. How much has he cost you?’

‘That’s not why I need to find him.’

‘No? Well, if you say so.’ Cafferty paused. ‘I may have a couple of sightings, but I don’t want to get your hopes up.’

‘Tell me anyway.’

‘I’d rather wait for confirmation.’

‘Sightings in Edinburgh?’

‘Edinburgh and just outside — a fair few days back, mind...’

‘How soon till you know for sure?’

‘I’ll be straight on the phone to you.’

‘And this wouldn’t just be you stringing me along?’

‘I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.’

Cafferty listened to the silence.

‘Sorry,’ Christie said eventually.

‘This guy’s obviously important to you, Darryl. I appreciate that, and I’m doing my level best to help.’

‘Thank you.’

‘I’ll be straight on the phone,’ Cafferty repeated, ending the call as Christie was on the verge of thanking him again.

He shook his head slowly and went back to his paper.

18

Fox sat at his desk in the MIT room, staring into space. He had looked up Ukraine online to get a sense of the chaos it had been through and the chaos that still existed there, adding to the sum of everything Graham had told him. Glushenko’s mafia friends had taught the man well, having previously laundered twenty billion dollars’ worth of dirty money — money spirited out of Russia, moved via Moldova around Europe, and now sitting somewhere out of reach of the authorities, even supposing the authorities knew its exact whereabouts. Firms registered in tax havens such as the Seychelles became partners in SLPs, then once the money was in place those companies and partnerships were dissolved, making the trail more complex and much, much colder. Although there were plans to tighten the regulations, the UK was still a cheap and easy place in which to register a company — an agent could do it in an hour and charge around twenty-five pounds. These same agents were supposedly required to satisfy themselves that they weren’t dealing with anyone shady, and they also had to know the identity of the true owner of the assets.

Fox couldn’t be sure how Anthony Brough had come on to Glushenko’s radar, except that Edinburgh retained an international reputation for probity and discretion, being home to institutions that looked after billions in pensions and investments. Glushenko brought with him just under a billion dollars stolen from a bank in Ukraine by way of loans arranged for non-existent companies, the paperwork signed off by executives who had been threatened or coerced. By the time the theft was noticed, the money was already a long way through its circuitous journey via the Edinburgh flat and beyond.

Sheila Graham had given Fox a short history of shady money in the UK. London’s army of highly paid lawyers, bankers and accountants were, according to her, experts in dealing with it — using offshore accounts, trusts and shell companies to disguise the identity of any beneficial owner. There was plenty of regulation in place to attempt to stop money laundering, but banks often turned a blind eye when the price was right. The cash ended up transformed into pristine multimillion-pound apartments and even more expensive commercial assets. Tens of thousands of properties in London alone were owned by offshore companies, registered in the likes of Jersey, Guernsey and the British Virgin Islands — this last a favourite, as owners’ identities did not need to be registered with the appropriate authorities. Offshore havens had their own distinct personalities: Liberia specialised in bearer shares, which provided absolute anonymity; setting up a company in the British Virgin Islands was cheap and quick, which explained why an island with a population of 25,000 was home to around 800,000 registered businesses.

‘The sums we’re talking about would give you vertigo,’ Graham had said in conclusion, and after his own trawl of the internet Fox couldn’t disagree. The thing was, gangsters such as Darryl Christie and Joe Stark were amateurs by comparison. Anthony Brough had climbed into bed with the worst of the worst. And something had spooked him.

Something almost certainly linked to the disappearance of around ten million pounds from the original chunk of money.

‘So Brough’s skimmed ten mil and done a runner?’ Fox had asked Graham. ‘Leaving his good pal Darryl Christie in the firing line?’

‘It’s one possibility,’ she had replied.

‘What do we know about Glushenko? Is he in this country?’

‘He probably has aliases and passports we don’t know about. Immigration have been warned to keep a watch at airports.’ Graham had shrugged.

Now, seated at his desk, Fox was thinking through his options. Christie wanted information on Glushenko, and Fox could give him everything he knew. Or he could bide his time and wait for Glushenko to deal with Christie, after which Jude’s debts might be history. He had considered telling Graham about Jude, about Christie’s threat, but had decided against it. Not yet. Not unless it proved absolutely necessary.

‘Penny for them,’ Alvin James said, walking into the room.

‘You wouldn’t be getting your money’s worth,’ Fox assured him, fixing a smile on to his face. ‘Anything happening that I need to know about?’

James shrugged off his coat and hung it up. ‘Interviews with Roddy Cape and Dandy Reynolds,’ he said, before noticing Fox’s blank look. ‘The two nyaffs who were with Cal Christie that night.’

‘Right.’

‘One thing we can’t let happen is for this inquiry to stall. Got to keep up the momentum.’ He clapped his hands together and rubbed them. To Fox’s ears, it sounded as if he was trying to motivate himself.

‘Will DI Clarke be joining us today?’ Fox asked casually.

‘She might. She’s tip-top, Malcolm, you were right about that.’

‘Did she take you somewhere nice last night?’

‘Curry house — don’t ask which street; this town still mystifies me.’ James paused. ‘You got enough to do?’

‘I’m fine.’

James nodded distractedly and settled at his desk, booting up his laptop. Fox pretended to get busy on his own, doing a check of recent house sales in his neighbourhood. Following his divorce, he had bought his ex-wife out of her half of the mortgage. If he had to sell, he could clear what Jude owed. Downside was, he’d then be looking at renting, or else starting a fresh mortgage on somewhere a lot smaller, and perhaps in a less salubrious part of town.

Not yet, he repeated to himself. Not unless absolutely necessary...

He closed the property website and started a search for Anthony Brough instead. Although he knew about the man’s recent exploits, he wanted to dig back a little further. It didn’t take long to reach the tragic holiday in Grand Cayman, the one where Brough’s best friend, Julian Greene, had drowned in the pool after consuming a cocktail of alcohol and drugs. The death had had a lasting effect on Brough’s sister Francesca. She’d been hospitalised shortly afterwards, having gone from self-harming to a suicide attempt. The local newspaper in Grand Cayman had done its best to be diplomatic about the whole string of events, but the Daily Mail in London had been far less circumspect, going so far as to hint at a cover-up. Had Greene been alone, or were others poolside at the time? Had they failed to notice, failed to act? Had evidence of drug use been cleared away and the scene rearranged before an ambulance was called? The Brough family’s solicitor had turned spokesperson, able to claim that ‘these innocent young people’ were in shock, and accusing the media of ‘tasteless and tawdry tactics that do nothing but interfere with the grieving process’.

Fox sent a speculative email to the Grand Cayman newspaper asking if anyone working there might recall the drowning. He got an almost immediate reply giving the name of a retired journalist called Wilbur Bennett, along with a phone number. Excusing himself to James, he exited the room and headed out to the car park, where he made the call.

‘I’m having breakfast,’ a male voice snapped by way of answer.

‘Wilbur Bennett? My name’s Malcolm Fox. I’m a police detective in Scotland. Sorry to disturb you at such an early hour...’

‘Are you really a cop?’

‘Last time I looked.’

‘Only when I worked Fleet Street, we often pretended to be. It was as good a way as any of opening a door.’

‘I know someone a bit like that,’ Fox admitted. ‘But it’s your time in Grand Cayman I’m interested in.’

‘The drowning, then?’

‘That’s very perceptive.’

‘I didn’t do too many stories with a Scottish angle.’

‘It happened at a house owned by Sir Magnus Brough, is that right?’

‘Got it in one, though it was about to go on the market.’

‘Oh?’

‘The old boy had just popped his clogs. Always seemed rum to me that his two wards were cavorting on holiday so soon after the funeral. That’s the way I always thought of them — “wards”, like something out of Dickens. Best explanation I got was that the trip was already planned and it was what Sir Magnus would have wanted.’

‘Odd to have two deaths in such a short space of time.’

‘Isn’t it, though?’ Wilbur Bennett paused and took a slurp of something — coffee maybe, or something a bit stronger. From his voice — as rich and cloying as teacake — Fox got the impression of someone who might welcome the first drink of the day at an early hour. ‘So why the sudden interest, Officer?’

‘No real reason. Something’s come up and it may involve Anthony Brough in a peripheral capacity.’

‘You’ve been tasked with digging into his past? Well, what I saw of him I didn’t like. He was too cocky by half — all that privilege and sense of entitlement. Probably why the Mail did a number on him — or would have if the lawyers hadn’t started growling.’

‘Did you feed them any titbits, Mr Bennett?’

‘The Mail, you mean?’

‘You worked Fleet Street before moving to Grand Cayman — I’m guessing you still had contacts there.’

‘Well, you might be right. Here, tell you what — shall I pretend I’ve something juicy to tell you but I’ll only do so face to face? You can fly out here for a few days...’

‘I’m sorely tempted, but we have to think of the hard-pressed taxpayer.’

Bennett snorted. ‘Not out here we don’t!’

‘Point taken. You’re a tax haven like the Virgin Islands, aren’t you?’

‘That we are.’

‘Which probably means dirty money has washed ashore at some time or other.’

‘Caribbean’s always been full of pirates,’ Bennett’s voice boomed. ‘But to get back to that swimming pool...’

‘Yes?’

‘The inquiry — such as it was — never did get to the heart of it. Servants had heard raised voices. Then, questioned again later, they changed their story. The poor sod who died, he had plenty of booze and cocaine coursing through him, but not enough to knock him out. In fact, taking a dip should have revived him. Then there were the marks on his shoulders — nobody bothered trying to explain them. From what little I could glean, he’d had a major crush on the sister for a few months. And after he died, she went to pieces.’

‘Who found the body?’

‘Her and her brother. They were indoors allegedly, watching a film with the rest of the party. Took some time to realise Greene hadn’t joined them. Found him floating in the pool. No drugs lying around by the time the medics and cops arrived. When the autopsy found cocaine in his system, they said they were unaware he’d taken any — usual story. And surprise surprise, the only place in the house where any was found was Greene’s bedroom, a bag of white powder in a bedside drawer, never checked for fingerprints.’

‘You’ve got a good memory, Mr Bennett.’

‘Only because the whole investigation was a farce. You live as long as I have in a place like this, you see who gets away with things and who doesn’t, and it can make you sick sometimes.’

‘Are you telling me you think Julian Greene was killed?’

‘I’m telling you it doesn’t matter a tuppenny damn one way or the other — nobody paid for it then and nobody’s going to pay now. But ask yourself why Francesca went off her rocker straight after. Some of us thought she deserved an Oscar, way she threw herself into it. I’m willing to bet she’s still alive — thriving, even.’

‘Alive, yes,’ Fox conceded. ‘But that’s about as much as I know.’

‘She wanted to see an exorcist — did you hear about that?’

‘No.’

‘That’s what she told them after they’d pumped her stomach. Money can buy you a lot of things, but not always the one thing you really need — reckon I could get a self-help book out of that?’

‘Mindfulness for Millionaires?’ Fox suggested.

‘You might be on to something, chum! I’m away to dust off the old typewriter, unless there’s anything else I can help you with...?’

‘Say Julian Greene’s death wasn’t an accident — who would your money be on?’

‘Their parents died in a car crash, and from that moment on they were stuck together like glue with only their greedy old shit of a grandpa for moral guidance.’ Bennett paused for a moment’s thought. ‘One or the other, or maybe even both. As I say, it hardly matters. Hardly matters at all...’

Ann Street was reckoned by many to be the most beautiful terrace in the city. Tucked away between Queensferry Road and Stockbridge, its two elegant facing rows of Georgian homes were separated by a narrow roadway constructed of traditional setts. The front gardens were immaculate, the black metal railings glossy, the lamp posts harking back to a more elegant age. Anthony Brough’s house was towards one end of the street and not quite as imposing as those in the centre of the terrace. Rebus pushed open the gate, stood on the doorstep and pressed the bell. When there was no answer, he peered through the letter box. He could see an entrance hall and a stone staircase. Straightening up, he took a few steps to the window and peered into a modern living room boasting a TV and sofa but not much else. Back on the pavement, he was considering his options when he caught something from the corner of his eye — a net curtain twitching in the house opposite. Ah, Edinburgh. Of course a net curtain would twitch. Neighbours liked to know what was going on; for some, it was an all-embracing passion.

Rebus crossed the street, and was halfway up the path when the door opened slowly. The woman was in her seventies, stooped but immaculately dressed.

‘Is he not at home?’ she enquired in a lilting voice.

‘Doesn’t look like.’

‘I’ve not seen him for quite some time.’

‘That’s why we’re a bit worried,’ Rebus informed her. ‘His secretary says it’s been over a week...’

The neighbour considered this. ‘Yes, I suppose it must be.’

‘Any other visitors?’

‘I’ve not seen any.’

‘Do you know Mr Brough well, would you say?’

‘We stop and chat...’

‘And you last saw him over a week ago?’

‘I suppose,’ she echoed, frowning as she tried to count the days.

‘Had he seemed anxious at all?’

‘Isn’t everyone? I mean, you only have to switch on the news...’ She gave a perfectly formed shudder. Rebus was holding out a card. It was one of Malcolm Fox’s, lifted from the MIT office. He had crossed out Fox’s phone number and email address and added his own mobile number in black ballpoint.

‘Detective Inspector,’ the woman said as she peered at the card. ‘He’s not dead, is he?’

‘I’m sure he’s not.’

‘Francesca and Alison must be up to high doh.’

‘Alison?’

‘Francesca’s carer.’ The neighbour immediately corrected herself. ‘No, her assistant. That’s what she likes to be called.’

‘You know Mr Brough’s sister, then?’

The neighbour arched her back in surprise that he even needed to ask. ‘Well of course,’ she said. She nodded past Rebus towards the house. ‘She lives there, doesn’t she?’

Rebus turned his head to look. ‘There?’ he asked, just to be sure.

‘In the garden flat, directly below the main house. You just go down the steps and...’

But Rebus was already on his way. Yes, there was another gate, smaller, to the right of the one leading to the main house, with winding stone steps down to a well-tended patio. Rebus had been aware of it on arrival, but had thought it a separate property. The windows either side of the green wooden door had bars on — nothing unusual about that; many of the city’s garden flats boasted the same.

‘Garden’ — when Rebus had first gone flat-hunting in the city, so many decades back, he had wondered at that word. Why not just ‘basement’? That was what it meant, after all. Except that ‘garden’ implied you were getting a garden, too, and these flats did often lead directly into the rear garden of the property. He had looked at several before plumping for the second floor of a Marchmont tenement. His reasoning? No need to do any gardening.

The door was opened by a tall, well-built woman in her early thirties, her fair hair pulled back into a bun, one stray tress curling down past her left ear.

‘Yes?’ she asked.

Rebus held out another filched business card. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Fox,’ he announced as she took the card and studied it.

‘Is it about the break-ins?’

‘Break-ins?’

‘There’s been a spate recently.’ She studied him closely. ‘Surely you must know.’

‘I’m here about Anthony Brough. Would you be Alison?’

‘How do you know that?’

‘One of the neighbours,’ Rebus admitted with a smile.

‘Oh.’ She tried out a smile of her own.

‘You’ll be aware that Mr Brough hasn’t been seen in quite some time. His secretary is becoming concerned for his safety.’

The woman called Alison considered this. ‘I see,’ she eventually said.

‘She’s been to the house to look for him — I dare say she spoke to you too?’

‘Molly, you mean? Yes, she did. But it’s not so unusual for Anthony to take off on some jaunt or other.’

Rebus was looking past her shoulder at the long, unlit hallway. There was a thick velvet curtain at the far end, which he guessed would lead to stairs, stairs connecting to the main house.

‘Is Francesca at home? Could I maybe speak to her, Miss...?’

‘Warbody. And yes, she’s home.’

‘You’re her assistant?’

‘That’s right.’

‘I’d imagine she must be fretting about her brother?’

‘Francesca takes medication. Time doesn’t mean as much to her as to some of us.’

Rebus tried his smile again. ‘Would it be possible to talk to her?’

‘She hasn’t seen him.’

‘Since when?’

‘Eight, ten days back.’

‘No phone calls or texts?’

‘I think I would know.’

‘And you’re saying that’s not out of character?’

‘That’s exactly what I’m saying.’

‘Who are you speaking to?’ The voice — thin, almost ethereal — had come from one of the doorways. Rebus could just make out the shape of a head.

‘Nobody,’ Warbody called back.

‘I’m with the police,’ Rebus announced. ‘I was just asking about your brother.’

Warbody was glowering, but Rebus ignored her. Francesca Brough was walking towards the daylight, almost on tiptoe, like a ballerina. She had a ballerina’s frame, too, albeit one wrapped in thick black tights and a baggy oatmeal sweater, its sleeves stretched so that her hands were hidden within. One of the sleeves was in her mouth as she reached the doorstep. Her hair was clumsily cut, the scalp showing beneath. Her skin was almost ghostly and her lips bloodless as she sucked at the wool. The material seemed matted, as though this was not an unusual ritual.

‘Hello,’ she said, voice muffled.

‘Hello,’ Rebus echoed.

‘The inspector,’ Warbody explained, ‘is here because Anthony’s gone off on one of his walkabouts.’

‘He does that,’ Francesca said, as Warbody gently pulled her hand away from her mouth.

‘That’s what I’ve just been explaining.’

‘And you last saw him...?’

The question seemed to perturb Francesca. She looked to Warbody for guidance.

‘Eight or ten days back,’ Warbody obliged.

‘Eight or ten days,’ Francesca repeated.

‘I assume you’ve been upstairs to check?’ The two women looked at Rebus. ‘You can get into the house?’ he persisted.

‘Yes, we can,’ Francesca said softly.

‘Could we maybe go take a look, then?’ Rebus requested.

‘He’s not there,’ Warbody stated. ‘We would have heard him.’

Francesca was reaching towards a hook on the wall. She lifted down two keys, mortise and Yale. ‘Here we are,’ she said.

Rebus’s eyes were on Warbody. ‘There isn’t a door behind that curtain?’ he asked, gesturing.

‘It’s locked from the other side.’

‘Why?’

She offered a shrug. ‘Anthony likes his privacy.’ Then: ‘He really won’t like it that we’ve taken a stranger inside.’

‘I won’t tell him if you don’t.’ Rebus’s wink was aimed at Francesca. She giggled, holding her hands over her mouth.

‘Let’s get on with it then,’ Warbody said with a sigh of defeat.

They climbed back up to street level and through the main gate. Both keys needed to be used. There was an alarm pad on the wall inside the front door, but Warbody knew the code.

Rebus had bent to pick up some mail from the floor.

‘Put it with the rest,’ Warbody said. There was an inch-high pile on an occasional table. Rebus sifted through it. ‘Enjoying yourself?’ she asked coldly. Francesca had padded into the room with the TV, but emerged again seconds later and headed down the hall. Warbody followed, Rebus bringing up the rear. They entered an extension to the original house. It was a bright kitchen, with sliding glass doors leading to a patio and steps down into the garden. An ashtray and wine glass sat on a small outdoors table. The kitchen itself was immaculate.

‘Does Mr Brough have a cleaner?’

‘Wednesday mornings,’ Warbody confirmed.

‘So the wine glass means...?’

‘It means someone needs to have a word with her about standards.’

They paused and watched as Francesca opened the sink’s mixer faucet and then shut it off again, only to repeat the process. Warbody approached and placed the palm of her hand against the small of Francesca’s back. It was enough. Francesca’s arms fell to her sides and her face took on a look of contrition.

‘Can we go upstairs?’ Rebus asked.

‘Yes, let’s!’ And Francesca bounded out of the room, taking the stairs two at a time.

Two bedrooms and a large study. The bedrooms looking out over Ann Street, the study tucked away at the rear of the property. In the upstairs hall, Rebus looked for evidence of further floors, but he’d seen everything.

‘He was meaning to renovate the attic,’ Warbody offered, as if reading his mind. ‘But it’s not happened yet.’

‘We loved attics when we were young,’ Francesca blurted out.

‘I’m not seeing an answering machine,’ Rebus said, looking around.

‘There isn’t even a telephone — Anthony didn’t feel the need.’

‘You’ve called his mobile? Sent him texts?’

‘A couple of times,’ Warbody admitted. ‘Not because we’re worried, just to see if he wanted to join us for a meal or a trip into town.’

‘You still don’t think it’s unusual not to get a reply?’

‘He could be breaking the bank at Monte Carlo.’ Warbody gave a shrug.

‘Or pigging out at the Caledonian,’ Francesca added. ‘He likes to eat and drink there.’

‘Any special reason?’ Rebus asked her.

‘It’s handy for his office,’ Warbody interrupted.

‘Plus,’ Francesca went on, ‘it’s where she was killed.’

‘You mean Maria Turquand?’

The young woman’s eyes widened. ‘You know about her?’

‘I take an interest in old cases. Your brother’s interested too?’

‘Look, Inspector,’ Warbody said, manoeuvring herself between Rebus and Francesca, ‘we’d help you if we could, but there’s really nothing we can do.’ She noticed that Francesca was dancing back down the stairs again, so made to follow. The two women were waiting by the front door as Rebus reached the hall.

‘I appreciate your assistance,’ he told Warbody. He took out his phone. ‘I’ve given you my contact number — do you mind if I take yours?’

‘Why?’

‘In case I need to get in touch — saves me having to come back in the flesh.’

She saw the sense of this, so reeled off the number while Rebus entered it into his phone.

‘Thanks again,’ he said.

The net curtain across the way was twitching again as the two women headed for their own bolthole. Rebus called out to Warbody, who, after a moment’s reluctance, joined him.

‘I take it Mr Brough pays your salary?’ he asked.

She shook her head. ‘I work for Francesca. Sir Magnus made sure she was comfortable.’

‘She got half the estate?’

‘Not quite, but she got as much as her brother. And unlike Anthony, she’s not a gambler.’

‘He gambles?’

‘Isn’t that what all investment comes down to? No gain without risk.’

‘I suppose so.’ He thanked her with a nod and watched her march down the steps and close the door after her. As he walked towards his parked car, he saw another directly behind it. Malcolm Fox emerged.

‘Fancy meeting you here,’ Fox drawled.

‘Great minds, Malcolm.’

‘He’s not at home, then?’

‘His sister is, though.’

‘Oh?’

‘She lives in the downstairs flat, looked after by a woman called Warbody.’

‘How did she seem?’

‘The sister? Away with the bloody fairies.’

‘I’ve just been discussing her with a—’

But Rebus interrupted him with a gesture. ‘Let’s continue this in my office.’ He nodded towards the Saab. ‘I just want to make a quick call first.’

When they were seated with the doors closed, Rebus phoned Molly Sewell, identifying himself and saying he had a quick question for her. He had put the phone’s speaker on so that Fox could listen.

‘Go ahead then,’ she said.

‘You told us you’d been to your employer’s home and put a note through his door. I’ve just been in there, and I didn’t see any note.’

‘Maybe you didn’t look hard enough.’

‘I looked,’ Rebus stated.

‘Then someone must have moved it — maybe the cleaner.’

‘Or Alison Warbody,’ Rebus commented, listening to the ensuing silence on the line. ‘Why didn’t you mention that Francesca Brough lives directly beneath her brother?’

‘I didn’t want you bothering her. You’ve seen her?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then it can’t have escaped your notice that she’s incredibly fragile.’

‘I managed to spend ten minutes with her without snapping a piece off.’

‘What an unfeeling thing to say.’

‘I did score pretty low on sensitivity at the police college. But it’s not up to you to decide what we’re allowed to—’

‘John,’ Fox interrupted.

Rebus broke off and stared at him.

‘She’s rung off,’ Fox explained. Rebus studied his phone’s screen and cursed under his breath.

‘Your turn then,’ he said, leaning back in the driver’s seat.

Fox filled him in on the chat with Wilbur Bennett. Rebus took a few moments to digest everything he’d heard, then shook his head slowly.

‘The whole family’s something else,’ he concluded.

‘You think they’re protecting Anthony,’ Fox stated.

‘Don’t you?’

Fox nodded. ‘What’s more, I know why.’

Rebus half turned towards him. ‘Go on.’ But then he had another thought, and tapped at the screen of his phone once more, with the speaker still active.

‘Hello?’

‘Ms Warbody,’ he said, ‘it’s DI Fox again.’ He had turned his head so he wouldn’t have to deal with the look he knew Fox would be giving him. ‘Something I forgot to ask — Ms Sewell says she put a note through Mr Brough’s—’

‘I picked it up.’

‘You did?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s okay then. Thank you, Ms Warbody.’

The phone went dead and Rebus turned his head to meet Fox’s stare.

‘You snatched some of my business cards,’ Fox said eventually.

‘Of course I did — sometimes people need to think they’re talking to a cop.’

‘But they’re not, John, and impersonating a police officer is an offence.’

‘I know guys who spent their whole lives on the force doing not much more than impersonating cops.’

‘That’s beside the point.’

‘The point is... what did you make of that?’ Rebus was waving his phone in Fox’s face.

‘What was I supposed to make of it?’

‘You don’t think she sounded like she’d just been told what to say by someone who knew I’d be asking the question?’

‘Maybe. But to get back to what I was trying to tell you earlier...’

‘What?’

‘I know what’s going on here. Not all of it, but a lot of it.’

Rebus stared at him. ‘You do?’

‘Want me to share?’

‘I’m all ears...’

Fifteen minutes later, hands gripping the steering wheel, Rebus shook his head and gave a noisy exhalation.

‘That’s what he meant by the Russian,’ he muttered.

‘Who?’

‘Cafferty. He told me to look for the Russian. I thought it was to do with the Turquand case, but all the time...’

‘Glushenko’s Ukrainian, though.’

‘But the name sounds Russian — you said so yourself. Cafferty’s information was just slightly less than a hundred per cent accurate. Thing is — how did he even come to know that much? He’d hardly have heard from Christie or Brough, would he?’

‘Maybe this is still a town that talks to him,’ Fox offered.

‘You could be right.’ Rebus nodded slowly. ‘Or there could be something here we’re not seeing. Did Darryl Christie look to you like he’s sitting on a chunk of ten million pounds?’

‘I’m not sure how someone like that would look.’

‘Something we’re not seeing,’ Rebus repeated. Then he smiled for Fox’s benefit. ‘But thanks to you, Malcolm, we’re closer than we were.’

Fox’s own phone was letting him know he had a text.

‘My absence has been noted,’ he announced.

‘The James Gang?’

‘The very same.’

‘How’s the investigation going?’

‘We seem to be making heavy weather. You really think it’s all about Maria Turquand?’

‘Odds-on favourite, I’d say.’

‘Pity you’ve yet to convince Detective Superintendent James.’

‘I lack your people skills.’

‘You want me to keep nudging him?’

‘With any blunt object lurking in the vicinity.’

‘Thing is, I’m not sure you’re right — not this time.’

‘That hurts, Malcolm. You know you’ve got a very sick man right here in front of you? Added to which, it’s my birthday...’

‘It was your birthday three months back. Siobhan and me took you out, remember?’

‘I forgot that,’ Rebus said with a pained expression. ‘Okay, off you go to dole out biscuits to your MIT chums — some of us have real work to do.’

‘Such as?’

‘Probably best you don’t know.’

‘Probably best you don’t go pretending to be me any more.’ Fox held out a hand. ‘I want those business cards back.’

‘I’ve used them all up.’

‘Liar.’

‘Cross my shadowed lung and hope to die.’

‘Christ, John, don’t joke about that. Any news yet?’

Rebus’s face softened a little. ‘No,’ he admitted.

‘You’ve still not shared it with anyone?’

‘Just you.’

Fox nodded and started opening his door.

‘Hey,’ Rebus said, causing him to pause. ‘Have you told me everything?’

‘Everything?’

‘About Christie and Brough.’

‘Not everything, no.’

‘Good lad,’ Rebus said with a spreading smile. ‘You’re finally learning.’

Malcolm Fox couldn’t help but smile back.

19

Siobhan Clarke hated herself for waiting on the phone call. Over dinner the previous night, Alvin James had said that he wanted her on the Major Investigation Team. It was just a matter of letting people know, including her boss. She had already found three excuses to visit DCI Page’s cubbyhole office that morning, thinking he’d maybe just not got round to passing the news along.

But there had been no news.

Should she remind Alvin? A friendly text, perhaps, in the guise of wondering how the inquiry was shaping up?

You’re not that needy, girl, she told herself, but she worried that she was.

The search for Craw Shand was ongoing, but with enthusiasm waning. Laura Smith had run the story online, repeating it several times to no avail. Clarke had texted to thank her. Christine Esson had commented that if someone had meant him harm, surely a body would have turned up by now. Clarke wasn’t so sure — plenty of spots where a cadaver could be stored; lots of wild places within an hour’s drive of the city. Craw hadn’t used his mobile phone and hadn’t been near a bank machine. The CCTV cameras across the city centre had failed to pick him up. Friends had been located and questioned, again without success. Meantime, Esson and Ogilvie had shown photos of Shand to Darryl Christie, who had shaken his head, making the same gesture when he was played a recording of Shand’s voice. Nor had the photos meant anything to Christie’s neighbours — no one had seen Craw Shand in the vicinity of Christie’s home.

Clarke’s phone sat on her desk, tormenting her with its stubborn silence. Esson was busy at her computer, while Ronnie Ogilvie took a call, using his free hand to stroke what there was of his moustache. Clarke pulled some paperwork towards her, but couldn’t concentrate. Instead, she got up and put her coat on. Christine Esson gave her a quizzical look. Ignoring her, Clarke headed for the door.

Traffic was sluggish towards the city centre and she drummed her fingers to the music on her radio. Two songs and a news report later, she turned into Cowgate and parked at the goods entrance to the Devil’s Dram. A delivery van was dropping off catering supplies, so she squeezed past the boxes and went inside. Darryl Christie was downstairs for a change, discussing something with Hodges. They stood behind the illuminated bar. The subject seemed to be flavoured gins.

‘And here comes an expert,’ Christie announced at her approach.

‘Do you never give up?’ Hodges added, eyes narrowing.

Christie ignored him. ‘Pull up a stool — you can be our guinea pig. The rhubarb and ginger is a bit tasty, apparently.’

‘I never accept free drinks.’

‘Just Happy Hour ones, eh?’ Christie said. ‘We took your lovely portrait down, by the way. Harry reckoned it would be a bit too much for the clientele.’ He paused, leaning across the bar, palms pressed down against it. ‘That wasn’t very nice, by the way, barging into my home when I was elsewhere.’

‘You told me you’d moved your family out — I’m interested in why you changed your mind.’

‘Is this about Craw Shand? You still think I’ve taken him out of the game?’ Christie managed a thin smile. ‘How often do I have to tell you?’

‘If whoever attacked you isn’t in custody, why are you acting like it’s all gone away?’

‘What makes you think I’ve not taken precautions?’

‘And what precautions might those be, Mr Christie?’

He tutted. ‘As if I’d tell you. My mum was livid, you know — she thinks I was condoning Cal’s behaviour. Well, I was doing a lot worse at his age, and at least I sent a chaperone.’ Christie focused his attention on Hodges, who began to look uncomfortable. ‘For all the fucking good that did. Thing about a chaperone is, they’re supposed to be there.’

‘I was hanging back to take a call, Darryl. You know that. They were never out of my sight, swear to God.’

Christie squeezed Hodges’ shoulder, but his eyes were back on Clarke. ‘I’d imagine you’re winding things down, no? Other fish to fry and so forth?’

‘Not until Craw turns up. He’s been charged with assault, remember — your assault. Procurator Fiscal tends to take a dim view when the main suspect vanishes.’

‘Well, good luck finding him. Now, about these gins...’ The uplighters below the bar cast half Christie’s face in shadow, exaggerating the other half so that he seemed to be wearing a Halloween mask. ‘Are you quite sure I can’t tempt you?’

‘I’m sure,’ Clarke said, turning and walking away.

The interviews with Cal Christie’s friends had gone nowhere and the mood in the MIT room was grim.

‘Maybe it’s time to take Rebus’s theory a bit more seriously,’ Fox suggested.

‘Give me a suspect, then,’ Alvin James demanded, not bothering to hide his exasperation. ‘Tell me which of these pensioners was able to overpower a bodybuilder and tip him into the Forth.’

‘We’re talking about people with a bit of spare cash,’ Fox continued calmly. ‘Bruce Collier, John Turquand, Peter Attwood — any one of them could probably dig deep enough to pay someone.’

‘And who would they pay, Malcolm? Give me a list of the city’s hit men.’

Fox held up his hands. ‘I’m just saying.’

‘Saying what, though?’

‘We’ve maybe not explored the possibility as thoroughly as we could. You come up against a wall, the best thing you can do is find reverse and try another route.’

James glared at him. The others in the room were looking away, pretending to be indifferent — Glancey dabbing at the nape of his neck, while Sharpe studied some of the dust he’d just gathered from his desk with a forefinger. ‘What we’re going to do,’ James eventually said, ‘is go back to the very start. Crime scene, autopsy, victim’s associates. We’re going to fill in the gaps in his timeline and we’re going to check the logs and records again. And just to remind you all — the man was a cop most of his life; we owe it to him to pull out all the stops. Got that?’

There were murmurs of acceptance from behind the desks. James flew to his feet and walked into the centre of the room, readying to dish out tasks. Five minutes later, Fox found himself with Chatham’s phone bills — landline and mobile — and the printout of calls made from the phone box he had used after speaking to Rebus. As Rebus had left him, having arranged to meet for breakfast the next morning, Chatham had used his mobile to call his employer, Kenny Arnott. When questioned, Arnott had stated that Chatham had wanted to discuss the following week’s working hours. No, he hadn’t sounded upset or flustered. He had sounded the same as always. And no, it wasn’t so unusual to be called by an employee at 10 p.m. Those were the hours doormen worked, so they tended to be the hours Arnott kept too.

Their conversation had lasted just over three minutes.

As soon as it was over, Chatham had asked a colleague to cover for him and headed to the phone box, this time to call three different bars in the city: Templeton’s, the Wrigley and the Pirate. None of them used doormen provided by Arnott, but as Arnott himself had said when asked, Chatham could have been touting for a bit of freelance work. When questioned, none of the staff at any of the three could remember anything. Hardly surprising: they weren’t the most salubrious establishments, and all had suffered at the hands of the Licensing Board at some point in the past, meaning they had no love for the local police. As to why he had used a phone box rather than his mobile... Well, nobody had a ready answer. The colleague who had taken over for the duration didn’t know. Kenny Arnott didn’t know. Anne Briggs had offered a guess to Fox: battery died. Yes, perhaps. But scouting out new jobs at ten at night, when the pubs would be at their busiest and no manager available to chat for more than a minute or so?

Templeton’s: ninety-five seconds.

The Wrigley: two minutes and five seconds.

The Pirate: forty-seven seconds.

Then back to his post until his shift ended at midnight. No more calls or texts that evening, nothing until the following morning, when, after the meeting with Rebus in the café, he sent the messages to Maxine Dromgoole. And after that... nothing at all.

‘How’s it going, Malcolm?’ Alvin James was standing in front of Fox’s desk, looking as if he’d had one espresso too many.

‘Nothing new,’ Fox conceded.

James spun back into the centre of the room. ‘Give me something, people! We’re supposed to be good at this — that’s the only reason we’re here. If I have to report back to the ACC that we’re achieved the square root of hee-haw, it’ll be the end of us. Somebody threw him in the water! Somebody saw! The whisky — was it bought locally? Check shops and supermarkets. Get the CCTV from the roads along that part of the Forth — they had to have used transport.’ He clapped his hands together like the boss of a football team at half-time in a relegation play-off.

Fox watched as Glancey and Briggs pulled their shoulders back in a show of enthusiasm. Wallace Sharpe wasn’t looking quite so keen. But then, as the surveillance expert, he’d be the one saddled with the hours of camera footage. Mark Oldfield was by the kettle, waiting for it to boil. James spotted him and shook his head.

‘No, no, no, Mark — you get a tea break when I say so and not before. Time you all earned it for a change. Back to your desk, son. Give me names, give me ideas, give me something I can use.’

Fox had the timeline up on his screen. Chatham had headed out of the house without a word to his partner, having told Dromgoole he wouldn’t be seeing her that day. So what did he do instead? He left his car in its usual spot. Liz Dolan had told police he often took the bus, but there was no sign of him taking one that afternoon. If he had been snatched off the street, surely there would have been a witness or two. So maybe he had gone somewhere willingly, in one of the thousands upon thousands of cars visible on the citywide CCTV cameras.

Bloody hell — ‘needle in a haystack’ hardly covered it. No wonder Wallace Sharpe looked so despondent.

Fox picked up his phone, which had started to vibrate. Caller ID: Rebus. He pressed the phone to his ear.

‘Hang on a sec,’ he told Rebus, getting up and moving into the hallway. Alvin James gave him a hopeful look, which Fox crushed with a shake of the head.

‘What can I do for you, John?’ he asked, leaning against one of the olive-coloured walls.

‘The smallest of favours.’

‘I’m not giving you any more business cards.’

‘Business cards won’t help — this bugger already knows I’m not a cop.’

‘That’s why you need me along?’

‘In a nutshell.’

‘Who is he? What do we want from him?’

‘I like that “we”, Malcolm. And to answer your question: he’s a legend. I really think you’ll get a buzz from meeting him.’

Fox checked his watch. ‘When and where?’

‘Right now would suit me.’

‘There’s a surprise.’

‘Unless I’m tearing you away from anything urgent...’

Fox sighed. ‘Not really. Okay, give me the address.’

‘I’m waiting outside.’

‘Of course you are,’ Fox said, ending the call.

He didn’t bother going back to explain or grab his coat. Rebus was double-parked across from the police station. Fox climbed in and Rebus put his foot down.

‘So where are we going?’

‘Rutland Square.’

‘Bruce Collier?’

‘Only fair I introduce you,’ Rebus said. ‘After all, you’ve met most of the other main players.’

‘I pitched an idea to Alvin James — one of them paying to have Rab Chatham done away with.’

‘What did he say?’

‘He didn’t seem keen.’

‘The man lacks vision.’

‘And yours is twenty-twenty?’

‘With hindsight sometimes,’ Rebus said with a smile.

‘James has got us retreading old ground, starting from the beginning.’

‘The mark of an inquiry that’s going nowhere.’

‘Exactly. So what’s Collier going to tell us?’

‘Wait and see.’ Rebus watched as Fox slid down his window, breathing deeply. ‘Too long behind a desk, Malcolm — it makes a man stale.’

‘We finally tracked down the calls he made from the phone box. Three pubs. His employer reckons he was touting for business — but at that time of night? I’m not so sure. And the calls were short — not one of them over three minutes.’

‘Telling you what exactly?’

‘He used the phone box because he didn’t want anyone to be able to check.’

Rebus nodded slowly. ‘Makes sense.’

‘And this was straight after you spoke to him, bringing up the Turquand case.’

‘Right.’

‘He told you he was going home straight after his shift, yes?’

‘Said our little chat would have to wait till morning.’

‘But according to his partner, there’s a gap of almost two hours between him finishing work and her hearing the front door close.’

‘Which pubs did he phone?’

‘Templeton’s, the Wrigley and the Pirate.’

‘Well, there’s not one of them couldn’t use a doorman.’

‘I felt sure you’d know them.’

‘Templeton’s is Gilmerton Road way, the Wrigley is in Northfield, and the Pirate is just off Cowgate.’

‘Anything you can tell me about them?’

‘Probably good places to do your Christmas shopping — hand any of the regulars a list of what you want, they’ll be back an hour later quoting a very reasonable price.’

‘Having just broken into someone’s house?’

‘Putting the “nick” into St Nick. Not too many places like that left in the city.’ Rebus was thoughtful. ‘So he talks to his boss, and then he starts phoning around.’

‘Hardly the sorts of place that would cater to the likes of Turquand, Attwood and Collier.’

‘True enough. And I don’t think any of them has live music, so we can probably rule out Dougie Vaughan.’ Rebus paused. ‘Cafferty was there that day, though.’

‘Where? In the hotel?’

Rebus nodded. ‘And that sort of bar might just appeal to him. He used to own a few that were of similar calibre. Come to think of it, Darryl Christie owned some too, before he moved on to better things...’

Fox’s phone buzzed and he looked at the screen. Speak of the bloody devil — a text from Christie. The clock’s ticking, don’t forget. He sent a three-word text in reply — I’m on it — and switched off the phone.

Rebus had pointed the Saab at Princes Street, then ignored the No Entry sign and kept on it where only buses, trams and taxis were allowed. ‘Pain in the arse having to go via George Street,’ he explained.

‘How many tickets do you average a month?’

‘Police business, Malcolm — you’ll back me up on that.’

They took a sharp left on to Lothian Road, then turned right almost immediately and passed the Waldorf Caledonian before stopping outside Collier’s house.

‘That’s his Porsche over there,’ Rebus announced, gesturing towards the line of cars parked across the street.

‘Very nice, too,’ Fox said. He watched as Rebus reached into the back seat of the Saab, bringing out a red polythene bag, then followed as Rebus rang the doorbell and waited.

Bruce Collier opened the door, squinting into the daylight. He hadn’t shaved, and looked as though he had slept in the black T-shirt and grey joggers.

‘Not you again,’ he barked.

‘Show him the card, DI Fox,’ Rebus said. Fox took out his warrant card, but Collier ignored it.

‘Ought to be a law against this,’ he complained instead.

‘A law against the law?’ Rebus pretended to muse. ‘Interesting thought. Mind if we come in? The hallway will do, we’re not staying.’

‘Make it quick, then.’ Collier ushered them in and closed the door, rubbing his hand through his hair. Rebus made show of sniffing the air.

‘Nice sweet aroma, isn’t it? Dope, I mean.’

Collier folded his arms and waited.

‘Bruce?’ A woman’s voice, wafting from somewhere upstairs.

‘Two minutes,’ Collier called back.

‘I thought your wife was in India, Mr Collier?’

‘Just get on with it,’ Collier snapped.

‘There used to be a sort of religious police force in Edinburgh, you know. Back in stricter times. They were called the Night Police. There to uphold the morals when the lights went out across the city.’

‘Fascinating.’

Rebus stared at him. ‘The day Maria Turquand was murdered, a delivery was made to your suite. Probably not dissimilar to what I’m smelling now, plus some cocaine and who knows what else.’

‘Oh aye?’

‘The man who delivered it was called Morris Gerald Cafferty. He became a big player — the biggest in these parts by a long shot. Do you remember him?’

‘Nope.’

‘Name doesn’t mean anything to you? You put him on the guest list for that evening’s concert.’

‘I’m not sure what you’re getting at, or why you’re doing all the talking when you’re not even a bloody cop!’

‘Mr Rebus,’ Fox drawled, ‘is working with Police Scotland at this point in time, sir. You’d be advised to answer any questions he puts to you.’

Collier puffed out his cheeks and exhaled. He looked weary, clinging on by his fingernails to a lifestyle that should have said goodbye to him a decade or more back.

‘Anyway,’ Rebus continued, ‘the thing is this. You didn’t have enough cash on you to pay Cafferty, and your road manager was nowhere to be found, so you rifled Dougie Vaughan’s pockets while he was crashed out.’

‘So what?’

‘I’m just wondering if you happened to see the key to Vince Brady’s room. Mr Vaughan says he lost it at some point.’

‘You’re asking me if I took it — well, I didn’t.’

‘Could Cafferty have lifted it?’

‘He wasn’t anywhere near the bed.’

‘You do remember him, then?’

‘Maybe.’

‘When you handed the cash over, the key couldn’t have been tucked in between the notes?’

‘You’re trying to set up this gangster Cafferty? That’s what this is about? The key got mislaid, end of story. Now if you don’t mind...’ He had already opened the door and was gesturing towards the world outside.

‘Thought you’d like this,’ Rebus said, holding up the bag. The words ‘I Found It At Bruce’s’ were printed on it in black lettering.

‘I remember that place,’ Collier said. ‘Did signings there a few times. Rose Street, wasn’t it?’

Rebus opened the bag and lifted out Blacksmith’s first album. Collier stared at it for a moment.

‘You really think I’m going to give you an autograph?’

Rebus shook his head. ‘I just wanted you to know I was a genuine fan, back in the mists of time.’ He pretended to study the LP sleeve. Its edges were frayed and there was a cigarette burn in one corner. ‘Bit like yourself, Mr Collier — it’s seen better days...’

Fox followed Rebus outside as the door slammed behind them.

‘Good line,’ he said admiringly.

‘Better still if nobody could say the same about me.’ Rebus stifled a cough and popped a piece of gum into his mouth.

‘So what now? Back to Leith?’

‘If you like.’

‘What’s the alternative?’

‘You’ve got me thinking about all those phone calls Chatham made...’

‘And?’

‘And I have half a mind to go talk to Kenny Arnott.’

‘Will he speak to you without a warrant card?’

‘I don’t know.’

Fox pretended to consider for a moment. ‘Maybe best if I come with you, then.’

‘Well, if you insist...’

As they got into the Saab, Rebus tossed the carrier bag on to the back seat.

‘They any good?’ Fox asked.

‘Dogshit,’ Rebus replied, starting the engine.

20

‘Do we know if this guy Arnott connects to either Cafferty or Christie?’ Rebus asked as he drove.

‘Rab Chatham worked a few nights at the Devil’s Dram,’ Fox said. ‘How come Christie doesn’t use his own security? Wouldn’t that make more sense?’

Rebus mulled this over. ‘Darryl’s a new breed of gangster. He buys in what he needs for as long as he needs it. An army of full-time heavies doesn’t come cheap. Added to which, you’re never sure when one of them’s going to learn too much about you and sell you out to the competition.’

‘Or else maybe start plotting a coup against you?’

‘That too,’ Rebus acknowledged. ‘Back in the day, Cafferty was surrounded by henchmen. One of them — name of Weasel — turned out to be a major liability. Over in the west, people like Joe Stark want to be seen flanked by muscle — reminds them how big and important they are. Our Darryl isn’t that way inclined. I doubt he sees himself as anything other than a businessman, providing services people require.’

‘Drugs, gambling, dodgy loans...’

‘And more besides.’ Rebus was bringing the Saab to a stop outside an unloved brick of a building near Pilrig Park.

‘It’s a boxing club,’ Fox commented.

‘Brought your gloves with you?’ Rebus enquired as he undid his seat belt and got out.

The door to Kenny’s Gym was unlocked, so they walked into a busy room filled with male perspiration. Two heavyweights sparred in the ring, their arms, chests and backs heavily tattooed. Punchbags were getting good use elsewhere, and a wiry young lad was dripping sweat as he used a skipping rope in front of a full-length mirror. There were weights and a couple of rowing machines on the far side of the room. Three men who were watching the action in the ring seemed to be having a conversation comprised almost entirely of profanities.

‘I’m sure your mothers are very proud,’ Rebus announced, drawing their attention to him. He had stuffed his hands into his pockets and spread his feet.

‘Anyone smell a big fat side of bacon?’ one of the three said, scowling.

‘Can’t fault your nose,’ Rebus answered. ‘Which is pretty impressive, judging by its shape. How did the other guy look afterwards?’

The man had started to move forwards, but a hand on his shoulder stopped him. It was the man next to him who took a few steps towards Rebus. He had curly brown hair and a round freckled face, the eyes not unwelcoming.

‘The other guy,’ he answered, ‘looked like Tam here hadn’t managed to lay a glove on him. Went on to win a few more fights and make a bit of money.’

‘With you as his manager?’ Rebus guessed.

The man shrugged and stuck out a hand. ‘Kenny Arnott.’

Rebus shook the hand. ‘My name’s Rebus. This is Detective Inspector Fox. Any chance of a word?’

‘I’ve already been questioned about Rab,’ Arnott said.

‘This is by way of a follow-up. Is there somewhere more private?’

‘My office,’ Arnott said. He led the way to the door and back out on to the street, where he lit a cigarette, blowing smoke into the sky.

‘This is your office?’ Fox asked.

Arnott nodded and waited, eyes twinkling.

‘You still in the game?’

Arnott looked at Rebus. ‘Depends which game you mean.’

‘Managing boxers.’

‘There’s a cage fighter I look after. You probably just saw him.’

‘Skinny, all muscle, busy on the skipping rope?’

‘That’s the one. Donny Applecross.’

‘Is he any good?’

‘He’s getting there.’ Arnott held up the cigarette. ‘When this is done, I’m going back in.’

‘We’re wondering,’ Rebus said, ‘about the call Mr Chatham made to you the night before he was killed. He was on duty outside a bar on Lothian Road. I spoke to him just before ten, and as soon as I was gone, he phoned you.’

‘I’ve explained this already,’ Arnott said, looking aggrieved. ‘It was shop talk — shifts for the following week.’

‘My name wasn’t mentioned?’

‘Remind me.’

‘John Rebus. I’d just been asking Mr Chatham about the Maria Turquand murder.’

‘News to me, bud.’

‘You know the case, though?’ Rebus watched as Arnott shook his head. ‘When you took on Rab Chatham, you knew he was ex-CID?’

‘Sure.’

‘He never talked about cases he’d worked?’

‘Nope.’

‘I find that hard to believe.’

‘Maybe he shared stories with the other doormen — you’d have to ask them. Only time I ever spent with him was at the initial interview. After that it was mostly phone calls and texts.’

‘How was he as a doorman?’ Fox asked.

‘He was diligent.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Always turned up to a job. Got stuck in when the need arose.’ Arnott held up the cigarette again. ‘Two more drags and we’re done.’

Rebus batted the cigarette away with the back of his hand. It flew to the ground unheeded. Arnott’s eyes had lost their sparkle, his whole face darkening.

‘This is a murder inquiry,’ Rebus told him. ‘We don’t measure it in fucking tabs.’

Arnott considered this and nodded slowly. ‘He was one of your own, I get that. He was one of mine, too, don’t forget, and if there was anything I knew that would help...’ He shrugged.

‘He spoke to you,’ Rebus said quietly, ‘and then he headed straight to a phone box and called three pubs — Templeton’s, the Wrigley, and the Pirate. What was that all about, Mr Arnott?’

‘I already explained to the other coppers — looking for a bit of extra work maybe.’

‘Those pubs don’t have security?’

‘Far as I know they do — courtesy of my competitor.’

‘Andrew Goodman, you mean? So your theory is that Rab Chatham was looking to work for Goodman? How likely does that sound? And wouldn’t he need to talk with Goodman rather than phone the pubs themselves? You can see how we might find this all fairly implausible.’

‘Then maybe he was looking to catch up with someone after his shift ended.’

In which case, thought Rebus, he must have hit pay dirt with the Pirate, his final call. Not the kind of bar he would have thought Chatham or any of his buddies would have frequented. Dregs and lowlifes comprised the more regular clientele. The great unwashed...

‘Bloody hell,’ Rebus muttered.

‘What is it?’ Fox asked. But Rebus was already stalking towards the Saab.

‘Any time, lads,’ Kenny Arnott called to their retreating backs. ‘Nice of you to drop by...’

‘What is it?’ Fox repeated as he climbed into the passenger seat.

‘Know who would drink at a hole like the Pirate?’

‘Who?’

‘Craw Shand.’

‘Meaning what?’

‘Meaning I need to do a bit of thinking, which necessitates muting you — sorry about that.’

‘Muting me?’

Rebus reached for the stereo, pushing a button. Music burst from the speakers, filling the car as Rebus pressed his foot against the accelerator. Had Fox been any kind of a music buff, he might have recognised the guitar sound.

Rory Gallagher, ‘Kickback City’.

From a corner of the street, Cafferty watched them leave, and kept staring as Kenny Arnott opened the door to his gym. The place looked busy, but that was okay. Arnott would still be there at closing time. Maybe he’d even be on his own...

‘Does anyone have a photo of Glushenko or Nazarchuk or whatever he’s called?’ Siobhan Clarke asked.

She was seated with Rebus and Fox at a corner table in the back room of the Oxford Bar. The downstairs area was post-work busy, but the rest of the pub was quiet as yet. Rebus was nursing a half of IPA. He’d just texted Deborah Quant to suggest dinner somewhere, but she’d pinged a message back immediately saying she was due at some official function and how was his COPD?

Both hunky and dory, he typed, pressing send.

His personal demon was outside again, tapping on the glass and holding up a packet of twenty. Rebus pulled back the net curtain long enough to flick the Vs by way of answer.

‘Not that I’ve seen,’ Fox was telling Clarke. ‘A few dodgy passport photos, but with different hairstyles, and wearing glasses in some but not others.’

‘I don’t get it,’ she said. ‘If this thug is coming for Darryl, why isn’t Darryl worried?’

‘Maybe he thinks we’re watching over him,’ Rebus commented. ‘Cheaper than hiring bodyguards.’

‘And another thing, shouldn’t we be putting Anthony Brough’s name out there? He’s done a runner with mob money — how long do you think he’s going to last?’

‘Alan McFarlane down in London is checking if his passport’s been used,’ Fox said. ‘Could be on a Caribbean beach by now.’

‘Somewhere with no extradition treaty,’ Rebus added, lifting his glass again. He’d had a coughing fit earlier, but had retired to the toilet with his inhaler. His shirt was damp, sticking to his back, but otherwise he was fine, so much so that he was beginning to think a second IPA wouldn’t hurt.

‘So he flees with all this money, leaving Darryl in the lurch,’ Clarke said, watching Fox’s nod of confirmation. ‘And there’s a big bad Ukrainian on his way here seeking some sort of vengeance... Cafferty would be lapping it up if he knew.’

‘He does know,’ Rebus corrected her. ‘He knows some of it, at least. Only he thinks the Ukrainian is a Russian.’

‘How does he know?’

‘That’s a very good question,’ Rebus allowed. ‘Maybe we should ask him.’

‘You think he’s involved in some way?’ Fox enquired, elbows on the table.

‘There’s always that possibility.’

‘He paid to have Darryl attacked?’

Rebus pondered this. ‘Do we have photos of Craw Shand and Rab Chatham?’

‘Back at the MIT room,’ Fox said.

‘Then we should go there.’ Rebus checked the time. ‘I’m guessing they’ll have knocked off for the evening. All the same, best if me and Siobhan wait outside.’

‘And after I’ve lifted the photos, what next?’

Rebus looked at him. ‘We pay our respects at a den of iniquity, of course.’

‘Of course,’ Fox said, watching as Rebus and Clarke drained their glasses.

The Pirate was called the Pirate because it had been taken over in the 1960s by a man called Johnny Kydd. That was one version, anyway. Rebus regaled his passengers with others as they headed to Cowgate.

‘You ever been to the Devil’s Dram?’ Clarke interrupted at one point.

‘Thumping music and mass snogging? Not really my scene.’ He glanced at her. ‘But I know Deb was there not too long ago, with the hangover next day to prove it.’

‘Darryl Christie runs it like something out of Goodfellas — has his own table upstairs, master of all he surveys.’

‘Maybe not for much longer,’ Fox said. ‘HMRC reckon it’s costing him more than it takes in. Same goes for his hotel.’

‘You might have said something,’ Clarke complained.

‘I only found out this morning.’

‘Even so.’

‘Well, I’m telling you now.’

‘When I went to his hotel, it was being renovated — that has to cost a few quid.’

‘Builders should maybe have asked for the money upfront,’ Fox commented.

‘So what’s the story?’ Rebus asked. ‘He must be making money somewhere.’

‘His betting shops and online gambling,’ Fox conceded. ‘But he’s using those to prop up everything else.’

‘Doesn’t he control most of the drugs in the city?’ Clarke enquired.

‘That doesn’t exactly come under HMRC’s remit.’

‘I’ve been reading in the paper recently,’ Rebus added, ‘that Border Force Scotland have had a few success stories — big shipments stopped before reaching their targets.’

‘Meaning supply could be limited?’

Rebus nodded. ‘No supply, no money.’

‘Might explain why he’d be keen to get into bed with Anthony Brough. Ten million split two ways...’

‘Would certainly tide Darryl over.’

‘He doesn’t still have it, does he?’ Clarke asked.

‘If he did, why not hand it back to Glushenko?’ Fox answered.

‘So Brough’s scarpered with the lot.’

‘Somebody knows,’ Rebus said quietly. ‘The PA, the sister, her carer...’

‘There is another alternative, of course,’ Clarke piped up. ‘Maybe Glushenko has Brough.’

The car fell silent as they considered this. Then Fox cleared his throat.

‘You remember the friend who drowned in Sir Magnus’s pool?’ he said, his eyes on Clarke. ‘I spoke to a journalist in Grand Cayman who said he wouldn’t rule out foul play.’

‘Is there no end to the stuff you’ve been holding back?’ Clarke retorted.

‘It’s not exactly relevant to Darryl Christie or Craw Shand, though, is it?’

Clarke stuck out her bottom lip. ‘And I thought we were pals.’

‘Remember, children,’ Rebus said from the driver’s seat. ‘Toys must remain in the pram at all times.’

‘Easy for an OAP to say.’

Clarke and Fox were sharing a smile as Rebus pushed out his own bottom lip.

The Pirate was near the foot of Blair Street, just before the Cowgate junction. Rebus parked on a double yellow line and they got out. The bar was down some steps, its interior smelling of the same mould that would have lingered on its walls a few centuries back. The main room had a vaulted ceiling, which, like the walls, consisted of exposed stonework. Most of the bars in the vicinity had been gentrified, but not the Pirate. The framed prints — sailing ships of the world — were askew and mildewed. The floor would forever remain sticky, due to the amount of drink spilled on it. The solitary barman was entertaining the only two drinkers in the place to a sullen silence, the new arrivals doing nothing except darken his mood.

‘Help ye?’ he snapped.

‘Bottle of your best champagne, please,’ Rebus said.

‘If ye want fizz, we’ve got cider and lager.’

‘Both of them fine substitutes.’ Rebus held out the two photos. ‘Care to take a look?’

‘What for?’

‘Because I’m asking nicely — for the moment.’

The barman glared at him, but then decided to at least glance at the head shots. ‘Don’t know them.’

‘Now there’s a surprise.’

‘You buying a drink or leaving me in peace?’

‘I didn’t know I’d walked into a quiz show.’ Rebus turned the photos towards the two pint-drinkers. ‘Help me out here,’ he said, watching as they shook their heads.

‘Craw Shand,’ he persisted. ‘He drinks in here sometimes, when he’s not at Templeton’s or the Wrigley. Places like this make him feel right at home.’ He focused his attention back on the barman. ‘His home’s a shithole, by the way.’

‘I want the three of you out.’

‘Maybe you should call the police.’

‘Come to think of it, where’s your ID?’

Fox had started reaching into his pocket, but Rebus stopped him. ‘We don’t humour wankers like him,’ he explained. Then, to the two drinkers: ‘You’ll want to see the rating we give this place on TripAdvisor. Thanks for your help, gentlemen...’

He led Fox and Clarke back to the door, opening it and ushering them through. ‘The famous John Rebus charm,’ Clarke said. ‘It never ever fails.’

‘Just you wait,’ Rebus said, slipping his hands into his pockets and looking content to stand his ground.

‘What is it we’re waiting for?’

‘My instincts to be proved right.’

Ten seconds later, the door behind them reopened, one of the pair of customers stepping outside. Rebus gave him a nod and the man held up a cigarette, asking if he had a light. Rebus took a box of matches from his pocket.

‘Keep them,’ he said.

‘That’s very kind.’

Rebus turned to Fox. ‘You got a twenty on you?’

Fox frowned, then dug into his right-hand trouser pocket. Rebus plucked the note from his hand and gave it to the man, who offered a grin, showing yellow teeth. With cigarette lit, he commenced to suck the life from it.

‘Craw hasn’t been around for a few days,’ he said as he exhaled smoke. ‘Bugger owes me, too.’

‘Why’s that?’ Rebus asked.

‘The phone rang and Alfie was busy changing barrels, so I picked up. Man on the other end was looking for Craw.’ He cast a glance back at the door, checking it was tightly closed. ‘Said it would be worth his while to still be here around midnight.’

‘And you passed on the message?’

The smoker nodded. ‘Craw said he’d stand me a drink just as soon as he had some spare cash.’

‘I don’t suppose you stuck around?’

‘Ah, no. I turn into a pumpkin at midnight.’

‘Did the caller give his name?’

‘Not that I remember.’ Having pocketed the matches, the man had brought out his pack of cigarettes, making the offer to Rebus.

‘I won’t,’ Rebus said.

‘You’re not a smoker?’

‘I’m trying to quit. Relieving me of those matches has been a big help.’ He patted the man’s shoulder and turned to leave. The offer of a smoke was still there, but Clarke and Fox shook their heads and made to follow.

Back in the Saab, Rebus studied both photographs as he thought things through.

‘Fine,’ Fox said. ‘Your hunch was right and Rab Chatham met with Craw Shand.’

‘So Chatham attacked Christie?’ Clarke added. ‘And Christie retaliated by having him killed?’

‘Doesn’t quite add up, does it?’ Rebus conceded.

‘Someone must have arranged it and paid Chatham to do it,’ Fox went on. ‘When you walked up to him that night, you spooked him. He wanted someone else to take the fall, and he knew Craw’s reputation.’

‘But Chatham wouldn’t be enough to satisfy Darryl,’ Clarke added. ‘He’d want to know who was really behind it. Did Chatham die before he could talk?’

‘No sign he was tortured,’ Fox said. ‘Just the whisky and then drowned.’

‘I thought it had something to do with the Turquand case,’ Rebus said quietly. ‘I was walking the wrong bloody trail all the time — so much for a copper’s nose.’

‘Do we talk to Arnott again?’ Fox asked. ‘He has to be part of it. Chatham spoke to him only minutes before he headed to the call box.’

‘Maybe in the morning,’ Rebus agreed. ‘Right now, I think we all need a bit of a break. Well, I know I do — I’m not like you young things.’

‘Some food would hit the spot,’ Fox said.

‘I’d be up for that,’ Clarke added.

‘Better be your shout, Siobhan,’ Rebus said. ‘Malcolm’s already down twenty quid.’

‘Aye, thanks for that,’ Fox muttered.

‘Fair’s fair,’ Rebus told him. ‘Name your restaurant and I’ll drop you off — cheaper than a taxi.’

‘You’re not joining us?’

‘Watching my weight, remember?’ Rebus patted his stomach.

‘I’m starting to worry now,’ Clarke said, turning towards Fox to see if he agreed. But he was staring out of the window, avoiding eye contact.

‘John,’ she said quietly. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘Not tonight, Siobhan,’ Rebus said, lowering his own voice to match hers. ‘Not tonight.’

Kenny Arnott started switching off the lights. Donny Applecross had been the last to leave. Arnott liked that. The kid had attitude — attitude, focus and stamina. If he didn’t get hurt, he would manage a few years in the cage-fight game. He wasn’t as wily as some, and he needed to bulk up a bit, but that was something they could work on.

It was dark outside now, Arnott’s favourite time of the day, as he switched from gym owner to security fixer. He had fourteen guys on duty tonight. It would have been fifteen if Rab hadn’t got stupid. Still, best not to dwell — that was what Arnott’s mum had always said when there was bad news, didn’t matter if it was close to home or half a world away. Best not to dwell. He had a mind to take a drive, stop off and chew the fat with a few of his guys, just to remind them he was looking out for them. Then again, his girlfriend was waiting for him in the flat. The flat was new, and so was Anna. He’d already bought her too many clothes and too much perfume. What the hell else was he going to do? She deserved it, and she was always grateful. He wasn’t so sure about her mates. They were loud and always talking about stuff he didn’t understand — singers and actors, TV shows and celebrities. But then Anna was almost half his age. Stood to reason he’d be out of the loop some of the time. And one or two of her besties... well, he wouldn’t say no.

With only one of the overhead strip lights still on, he readied to set the alarm. Not that there was much worth nicking, but the insurance had insisted. But someone was knocking on the door. Had Donny or one of the others forgotten something? They wouldn’t knock, though. Those cops again? One way to find out...

The figure filled the doorway, silhouetted against the sodium street lighting. The arm swung down and Arnott staggered back at the impact of hammer against skull. His vision blurred and his knees went from under him. He was pushing himself to his feet when the hammer connected again. Gloved hands. Three-quarter-length black coat. A domed head above it all, the lips parted, showing teeth. Arnott held up his hands in a show of surrender. The door had been kicked closed. He could feel blood trickling down his forehead. He blinked it out of his eyes.

‘Know who I am?’ the giant said, his voice like earth filling a pit.

‘Yes.’

‘Say my name, then.’

‘You’re Big Ger Cafferty.’

‘And what are these?’ Cafferty dug in his coat pocket and started scattering the contents across the floor in front of Arnott.

‘Nails,’ Arnott croaked.

‘Six-inch nails, to be precise.’

‘What do you want?’

‘I want you to tell me why one of your employees whispered sweet nothings into my friend’s ear.’

‘What are you talking about?’

Cafferty managed a disappointed look, towering over the crouched figure. Arnott couldn’t meet the man’s stare, so busied himself dabbing at the blood with his jacket sleeve.

‘You want it done the hard way, that’s fine by me. One way or another, you’ll be spilling your guts.’

‘I don’t know anything, gospel truth.’

‘I didn’t know you were religious, Kenny.’ Cafferty was slipping out of his coat. ‘But if you are, wee bit of advice for you — time to start praying...’