Rather Be the Devil

21

Having been wakened by Brillo wanting a walk as the sky was just starting to lighten, Rebus had decided to drive to Kenny’s Gym for want of anything else to keep him busy. He wasn’t sure how early the place would open, but he arrived to see two ambulances parked outside and the door to the boxing club standing wide open. Cursing under his breath, he stopped behind the rearmost ambulance and got out.

Inside the gym, two green-suited paramedics were kneeling either side of a prone figure, while a third stood next to an anxious-looking young man. Rebus sought his name — Donny Applecross, Arnott’s cage-fighting protégé. As he stepped forward, he recognised the figure on the floor as Kenny Arnott himself. His head partially encased in polystyrene to protect it, arms splayed. His palms were upwards, blood pooling between and beneath the fingers.

‘This what I think it is?’ Rebus asked.

The paramedic nearest him turned her head. ‘Sorry, who are you?’

‘I’m with Police Scotland. We were here yesterday to question Mr Arnott.’

Arnott had been given a painkilling injection. His eyes looked glazed as soft moans escaped from between his cracked lips.

‘So,’ Rebus went on, ‘are you waiting for medical advice or the local joiner?’

The unused nails were strewn around the floor. Rebus stooped and picked one up, showing it to Applecross.

‘What’s the story here, son?’

‘Like I was just saying, Kenny gave me a key. I often do an early workout. He was...’ He glanced down at Arnott’s figure. ‘He was lying there when I got here.’

‘Door locked?’

Applecross shook his head. ‘Shut but not locked.’

Rebus turned his attention to the paramedic. ‘Is he going to be okay?’

‘He’s been beaten around the head. You can see the marks on his temples.’

‘A hammer, yes?’ Rebus guessed.

‘Maybe,’ she allowed. ‘And to answer your other question, we’re waiting for advice on how best to move him.’

‘Anyone called the police?’

She stared at him. ‘Isn’t that why you’re here?’

Rebus took out his phone and texted Siobhan Clarke. ‘Wheels are in motion,’ he told the paramedic. Then, to Applecross: ‘What time would he have started locking up?’

‘Eight thirty, nine. I left around eight.’

‘Were you the last out?’

The young man nodded, tensing his fists. ‘Be a different story if I’d stuck around.’

‘You weren’t to know.’ Rebus paused. ‘That is, unless there’s something you want to tell me.’

‘Like what?’

‘For starters, who’d want to do something like this to a fine upstanding man such as Kenny?’

Arnott was mumbling something, one of the kneeling paramedics leaning forward so she could make it out.

‘He’s saying it was an accident,’ she announced.

‘Well of course it was,’ Rebus said, his eyes on the young cage fighter. ‘Because if it wasn’t, you might feel honour-bound to do something about it that could lead to you getting hurt — and Kenny doesn’t want you getting hurt.’ He turned away and leaned down so that his face was directly over Arnott’s. ‘Give me a name, Kenny — a name, a face, a description.’

Arnott squeezed his eyes shut and filled his lungs. ‘It was an accident!’ he roared, almost weeping from the effort.

Rebus straightened up. ‘Hard as nails, your boss,’ he said to the young man. ‘Which is just as well, really...’

He sat in his car, chewing gum and listening to the radio, until Clarke’s Astra arrived. She had been preceded by a fire engine and a van with the name of a joinery firm on its side. Rebus explained the situation as he walked with a bleary-eyed Clarke back into the gym. Applecross had changed into shorts and a vest and, barefoot and hands strapped, was pretending the punchbag in front of him was responsible for his manager’s anguish.

‘Dedication for you,’ Rebus commented to Clarke. She was focusing on the scene around Kenny Arnott.

‘He was here all night?’ she asked.

‘Looks like.’

‘Wouldn’t he have been screaming fit to burst?’

‘Not much foot traffic around here — and people might expect to hear noises from a boxing club.’

She seemed to accept this. The joiner, tools laid out in front of him, was deep in discussion with one of the firemen about how much of the floor was going to have to be sawn through.

‘Even then,’ he added, ‘if the nail’s gone into a joist, that might have to be cut away too.’

The man looked calm enough, though Rebus doubted he had been called to many similar jobs.

‘Let’s do it then,’ the paramedic said. One of the ambulances had already left on another job, just her and her colleague left with the patient.

‘Will he feel anything?’ the colleague asked the fireman.

‘We’ll find out soon enough.’

‘Maybe another dose of morphine first, then...’

Clarke turned away and, arms folded, walked towards the boxing ring, Rebus following.

‘Who did it?’ she asked in an undertone. ‘Darryl Christie?’

‘Not sure this is Darryl’s style. Cafferty, on the other hand...’

She stared at him. ‘What was he after?’

‘Same as us — information.’

‘How would he know, though? About Arnott and Chatham and the rest?’

‘He’s got Craw Shand,’ Rebus stated.

She thought this over, then nodded slowly. ‘Let’s go talk to him.’

‘We’ve been here before with Cafferty,’ Rebus cautioned. ‘You know the way he is...’

Her eyes met his. ‘You can’t go on your own, John. When all’s said and done, you’re a civilian.’

‘I’m really not. And he’ll open up to me.’

Her gaze intensified. ‘Why is that, I’ve always wondered?’

‘Because he likes to get my attention, knowing damned well that I almost certainly can’t touch him. He needs to keep reminding me he’s in charge, not you or me or anyone else.’

Clarke said nothing for a few moments, then nodded again. ‘Fine. But you bring everything back to me afterwards, agreed?’

‘Agreed,’ Rebus said, heading towards the doorway as an electric saw began competing in noise levels against the relentless thwock of Donny Applecross’s fists and feet hitting the punchbag.

Cafferty wasn’t answering. Rebus sent a text instead, then drove to the café on Forrest Road, but he wasn’t there either. He tried pressing the bell at Quartermile, but to no effect, so he returned to the café and ordered a mug of coffee, seating himself at the table Cafferty liked, waiting. Someone had left a newspaper on a nearby chair; he turned its pages, his mobile clutched in his free hand. It was twenty minutes before the text arrived.

Another time, it said.

Rebus hammered back a reply. Did Kenny Arnott keep you up late? Where have you stashed Craw?

Two minutes later: Craw’s on holiday, a B&B and plenty spending money in his pocket.

Rebus composed another text and pressed send. He gave you what you wanted then? And that took you to Rab Chatham’s boss.

He waited two minutes, then five, then eight. With the coffee gone, he stepped back outside, holding the screen to his face. Ten minutes, twelve... He unlocked the Saab and got in, noting that a warden had given him a ticket. He got out again and snatched it from beneath the wiper blade, tossing it on to the passenger seat.

Still nothing.

Where are you?

Nothing.

What are you up to?

No reply.

He’s Ukrainian, not Russian

Rebus’s phone told him a text was coming. He watched it arrive. What makes you think I wouldn’t know that? Didn’t want to make it TOO easy for you.

Rebus’s fingers got busy again: Meet me.

Send.

Wait.

Incoming.

He’s lucky I didn’t kill him.

Who? Arnott? Christie? Craw?

Everybody’s lucky, even you — it wasn’t really your birthday, was it?

But then you didn’t really give me a present.

Should have seen the hunger in your eyes, though. Nice to see passion stirring in such an old crock.

Fuck you too. Meet me. Let’s do this face to face.

Why?

My thumbs are getting sore. And I can’t believe you don’t want to gloat in person.

My gloating days are behind me.

I don’t believe that for a minute. Let’s do this.

I’ll think about it.

It has to be right now.

Another wait, but this time he knew it was fruitless. Cafferty was a busy man with a lot on his mind, Rebus only occupying a tiny part of the game he was playing.

Playing? No, he was controlling it, like the croupier with his hand on the fixed roulette wheel, knowing the house was going to win in the end.

Rebus drove across town to Great Junction Street and stopped outside Klondyke Alley. The café where he’d shared bacon rolls with Rab Chatham was a short walk away. Chatham had placed regular bets at Klondyke Alley. Had he been aware of what was happening one storey above? Rebus peered up at the grimy windows of the tenement flats. Decision made, he got out and locked the car. There were five separate buttons on the intercom and he pressed each of them in turn. As he’d expected, the buzzer sounded, letting him know the main door had unlocked itself. He pushed it open and stepped into a shadowy hallway leading to the winding stone staircase.

The flat he wanted was one floor up. There were two doors. One had a name on it — Haddon. The other was anonymous. Rebus pressed his ear to the door, then eased open the letter box for a look. The place felt empty. He rapped on the wood with his knuckles, wondering if the neighbour who had buzzed him in would start to show any interest. But there was no sound of any other doors opening. He tried the door handle. A single Yale lock seemed to be the flat’s only protection. Rebus put his shoulder to it without success. He tried again, then stepped back and lifted his right foot, slamming it into the wood. He felt a jab of pain in his hip, so swapped legs and planted the sole of his shoe hard against the door. There was a cracking sound. He had another go, and this time the door burst open a few inches. Rubbing his thigh, he shoved the door a little wider.

The problem was mail. It lay an inch or two deep on the carpet. Rebus squeezed through the gap and bent down to scoop some of it up. Holding it in his left hand, he checked the flat’s interior. There was no bed in the bedroom, no furniture in the living room, nothing in the drawers of the kitchen. From the look of the toilet, it had last been used weeks ago by someone who hadn’t bothered flushing. Back in the hall, he squatted down and sifted through the mail. There were the usual circulars, and a couple of cards to say the meter reader hadn’t been able to get in. Most of the envelopes were plain white or brown. Most had little cellophane windows. Business post, addressed to dozens of companies Rebus had never heard of. He opened one. It was offering ‘enhanced services at a special rate for your start-up company’. He doubted the others would be much different.

Moving into the living room, he stood in the middle of the floor. There were marks on the walls where pictures had been removed by a previous owner or tenant. A cable snaked in from a corner of the only window, waiting to be connected to a TV. There was a phone point on one of the chipped skirting boards, but no phone. Like the companies it served, the flat was nothing more than a shell. But then what had he expected — Anthony Brough, feet up on the sofa sipping Moët?

Well, it would have been nice.

‘I’ve called the police,’ Rebus heard a voice say from the landing outside. By the time he reached the doorway, the neighbour had retreated behind their own door. Rebus approached it and knocked. He heard a chain being slid into place, the door opening two inches. Above the chain he could make out a pair of bespectacled eyes. The man looked tired and unshaven, dressed in a string vest and jogging pants. Unemployed, probably.

‘No need for that, sir,’ Rebus said, trying to sound professional.

‘Well I’ve done it anyway.’

‘How long has the other flat been empty, do you know?’

‘Ever since I moved in.’

‘Anybody ever visit?’

The man shook his head. ‘The police are on their way,’ he felt the need to clarify.

‘I’m with the police, sir,’ Rebus explained.

‘Is that right?’ Clearly not believing a word of it.

‘You’ve never seen or heard anything from that flat? No comings and goings?’

‘Nothing.’ The man was starting to close the door.

‘I’ll be on my way, then. Thanks for your help. You can always cancel that call-out, if you want...’

But the door had shut with a click, plus a turn of the mortise key to be on the safe side.

Rebus didn’t know how long he had. Ten minutes minimum, forty-five max. But what was the point of lingering? He gave the envelopes another quick look in case anything anomalous stood out. After all, the last case he’d worked, a takeaway menu had been a crucial, missed clue. But there was nothing here for him. He traipsed back down to the ground floor, opening the door and exiting on to the pavement. A punter was coming out of Klondyke Alley, lifting a cigarette packet from their inside pocket.

‘Got a light, bud?’ the man asked.

Rebus patted his jacket, remembering he’d given his box of matches away. ‘Sorry,’ he said. But the smoker was already moving on to the next passer-by.

Rebus stepped into Klondyke Alley and took a look around. He rested on a stool at the machine nearest the door and stuck in a pound. Time was, he liked a bet — horses, even the odd night at the casino. Bandits not so much. But he won straight away, cashed out and decided to try again. The patrol car was pulling to a halt outside. No blues and twos — not taking the call-out too seriously. Rebus stayed where he was, even though he had now lost his pound and his three quid winnings. There was a woman at a machine nearby. He could see her back and half her face. He got up and stood next to her.

‘Hello,’ he said.

‘Get to fuck.’

‘You’re Jude?’

She turned to examine him. ‘Do I know you?’

‘I met you at your dad’s funeral. I’m a friend of Malcolm’s.’

Jude Fox rolled her eyes. ‘Malcolm sent you?’ Rebus said nothing. ‘He never ceases to amaze. You supposed to warn me off? Send me on my merry way back to my living room and the daytime talk shows? He knows I can have a flutter there too, right? I mean — he does know that?’

‘He only wants what’s best for you, Jude,’ Rebus said slowly, trying to piece together what she was telling him.

‘Everybody seems to want what’s best for me — Malcolm, Darryl Christie, everybody.’ She slammed more coins into the machine.

‘How much do you owe?’ Rebus asked as the truth dawned.

She scowled at him. ‘Malky didn’t tell you?’

‘He said it was a lot,’ Rebus bluffed.

‘Everything’s a lot when you’ve not got much, though, eh?’ She started the reels turning, taking a deep breath and exhaling, trying to calm herself. She was concentrating on the machine when she next spoke. ‘Don’t tell me my brother doesn’t have that kind of money salted away. But will he bail out his sister? Will he hell. Because what’s in it for him? That’s the trade-off — there always has to be something in it for Malcolm Fox.’ She paused and turned to study Rebus again. ‘I do remember you. You were at the church but not the meal. Malcolm and whassername were talking about you.’

‘Siobhan Clarke?’

‘That’s the one. Malcolm was saying he tried drumming you off the force. And now suddenly the two of you are buddies? I swear to God this world makes no sense to me, none at all...’

‘Does Darryl Christie know you’re related to Malcolm?’

Her mouth formed a thin tight line.

‘I’ll take that as a yes. Does Malcolm know he knows?’

Her hand had paused over the array of flashing buttons. She was staring at the machine but not seeing it. ‘Go tell him I’m here doing my duty — he’s the one who asked. He’s the whole bloody reason...’ Tears were forming in her eyes.

‘You need to sort yourself out, Jude.’

‘Pot, meet kettle,’ she sniffled, looking him up and down again, but Rebus was already heading for the door.

He had driven quarter of a mile before he made the call. Traffic was at a crawl towards a junction. Fox picked up almost immediately.

‘Siobhan told me,’ he began. ‘She’s at the hospital waiting for—’

‘I know about Jude,’ Rebus interrupted. ‘How much does she owe Christie?’

The silence on the line stretched. ‘Twenty-seven and rising.’

‘And what does he want from you?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Don’t shit a shitter, Malcolm. He’s got something he can use against you, no way he’s not going to use it.’

‘He wanted everything HMRC has on Glushenko. Don’t worry — I took it straight to Gartcosh. We’re trying to decide if we can finesse it somehow.’

Rebus thought for a moment. ‘There’s no way you told them your sister’s in hock to him — if you had, they’d have had to pull you off the case.’

‘That’s true,’ Fox eventually conceded.

‘So when you say we’re trying to decide if we can finesse it...’

‘Okay, I mean me. Me on my own — unless you’re about to grass me up.’

‘Once Christie has a hold on you, he’s not going to let go.’

‘I can get the money. I just need to sell the bungalow. Until then, I’m stringing him along.’

‘You sure he’s the one on the end of the string, Malcolm?’ Fox made no answer. ‘How long has he given you?’

‘A couple of days.’

‘As from...?’

‘A couple of days ago.’

‘To give him the gen on the Ukrainian or pay off the twenty-seven K? Good luck with that.’

‘What’s your daily limit?’

‘At a cash machine? Two hundred.’

‘Pity.’

Rebus smiled despite himself. ‘Jesus, Malcolm — for a really careful guy, you do seem to get into a few holes.’

‘I like to think I learned from the best. How did you find out, anyway?’

‘I was at the flat above Klondyke Alley. Nipped in for a look-see and Jude thought you’d sent me.’

‘She was at Klondyke Alley?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why would she do that?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Christie knows about her — he’s hardly likely to let anyone launder cash at the machines while she’s sitting there.’

‘Maybe it’s her way of trying to atone,’ Rebus speculated.

‘Aye, maybe.’ He heard Fox give a lengthy sigh. ‘So was there anything at the flat?’

‘Brough and Glushenko were drinking tea and playing cards.’

Fox gave a snort. ‘Siobhan says you were going to talk to Cafferty.’

‘Hasn’t happened yet.’

‘Losing your powers of persuasion?’

‘Maybe he just needed a rest after last night’s exertions.’

‘You don’t think Arnott will speak?’

‘Not a chance.’

‘What do you think he told Cafferty?’

‘Judging by the fact that he’s still alive, I’d lay odds he told him everything.’

‘Which would amount to what, exactly?’

‘Chatham got the job from Arnott. Got twitchy when he realised who it was he’d thumped. Put Craw in the frame as insurance...’

‘Arnott has to know who the original client was. And now Cafferty knows too. Which rules out Cafferty but nobody else.’ Fox paused. ‘Joe Stark?’

‘It had crossed my mind. But Joe has his own guys, why not use them?’

‘Because Darryl would know from the get-go who’d sent them,’ Fox speculated.

‘Maybe...’

‘I’m not convincing you, am I?’

‘Your persuasive powers seem to be matching my own today. Look, if Christie calls you or wants to meet...’

‘He’ll probably be taping it for future use. I’m not a complete thicko, John.’

‘That’s good to hear. We’ll maybe catch up later, aye?’

‘Say hello to Siobhan from me in the meantime.’

‘How did you know?’

‘You’re nothing if not predictable, John.’

‘I prefer “methodical”.’

‘Will you tell her about Jude and Christie?’

‘Not if you don’t want me to.’

‘Then I owe you one.’

The line went dead. Rebus placed the phone on the passenger seat and turned up the music. Three cars ahead of him, the lights were red again.

22

Siobhan Clarke was in a corridor of the Royal Infirmary, phone held up to her face, when she recognised Rebus making his way towards her.

‘You’re limping,’ she said.

‘Just to correct you, I’m actually walking like John Wayne.’

‘John Wayne had a limp?’

‘Technically it’s called “moseying”.’

‘So you didn’t hurt yourself kicking in a door?’ She waved her phone in front of him. ‘Patrol car dispatched to Great Junction Street. Someone broke into a certain flat of our acquaintance. Neighbour described the intruder as a heavy-built man in his sixties with a local accent.’ She paused. ‘So what did you find?’

‘Bugger all,’ Rebus admitted. ‘What about Kenny Arnott?’

‘He’s in the ward right behind me. They say he’ll be okay, though he may not get back the full use of either hand.’

‘Lucky he’s not a pianist, then.’

‘He’s still sedated and there’s talk of an operation if the surgeons think it would help.’

‘So he’s not been saying anything?’

‘A few words here and there.’

‘Did those words include “accident”?’

‘How did you guess?’

‘So what’s next?’

‘I’m meeting with Alvin James. He needs convincing that the two cases are actually one.’

‘It’s not like we have any hard evidence. Would it help if I was there?’

‘I was just debating that — would you play nice?’

‘I’ll be yours to command, Siobhan.’ Rebus watched as a bed was pushed past by two male orderlies, its occupier hooked to a saline drip. ‘Christ, I hate hospitals,’ he said.

‘Had much experience lately? As a patient, I mean.’ She waited for an answer she knew wouldn’t come, then glanced down at an incoming text. ‘James can see me in half an hour. Better skedaddle.’

‘Is there anyone at Arnott’s bedside?’

‘His young cage-fighting pal is visiting. And Christine Esson’s due to take over from me.’ She peered over his shoulder. ‘Talk of the devil.’

‘Sorry I’m late,’ Esson apologised. ‘Stopped off for a bottle of water and a magazine.’

‘He’s in there,’ Clarke said, gesturing. ‘Bed three. Visitor with him is Donny Applecross. He uses Arnott’s gym. Don’t expect much chat.’

Esson nodded and made her way into the ward. Rebus was looking at Clarke.

‘So am I invited or not?’

‘You really promise not to start winding James up?’

‘Cross my heart.’

Clarke exhaled noisily. ‘Okay then. Let’s go...’

‘Is your head full of fucking mince?’ Rebus asked Alvin James.

He was standing in front of the detective superintendent, Clarke alongside him. James was leaning back in his chair, one foot up on the edge of his desk. His team, Fox included, had been watching and listening. It had taken Clarke a full ten minutes to recount what they knew and what they suspected. At the end of which, after a few seconds’ thought, James had said he wasn’t sure, which was when Rebus had opened his mouth and asked the question.

‘John...’ Clarke cautioned.

‘I mean,’ Rebus ploughed on, ‘if you can’t see the connection, you’re up there with Tommy.’

James’s forehead creased. ‘Tommy?’

‘Deaf, dumb and blind.’

‘I wouldn’t say I’m any of those things,’ James continued calmly, ‘but as a police detective, I work on evidence, and that’s the one thing you’ve not given me.’

‘Then why not rally the troops and detect some?’

‘We’ll certainly interview Mr Arnott when he’s available.’ James looked down at the notes he’d made during Clarke’s presentation. ‘And Cafferty, too, though you don’t sound hopeful that either of them will give us anything. The fact remains that there’s nothing to prove Robert Chatham attacked Darryl Christie, or that this is why he was killed. We can ask Christie if he has an alibi for the night in question. From what you’ve told me, I’m guessing he will, and that it will be iron-clad.’ His eyes moved from Clarke to Rebus and back again. ‘You know yourself, Siobhan, what the Procurator Fiscal will say if I take this to her.’

Clarke was forced to nod in agreement.

‘Okay, it’s thin,’ Fox piped up, ‘but that doesn’t mean it’s not right. John has a point when he says we should dig further.’

‘Not so long ago,’ James said, ‘your friend John here was telling us it all had to do with a murder back in the 1970s. There’s a folder on your desk as proof, Malcolm. I dread to think of the hours you wasted going through it, plus reading the book that woman wrote, plus letting yourself be taken on a wild goose chase to St Andrews and Perthshire.’

‘I’m right this time,’ Rebus bristled. ‘Siobhan knows it, Malcolm knows it.’

‘Some of us haven’t fallen under your spell the way they have,’ James commented. He rubbed one cheek. ‘On the other hand, we’re not exactly making headway in any other direction...’

‘This could be the lease of life the inquiry needs,’ Fox stressed.

James looked at him. ‘Reversing away from the dead end, eh, Malcolm?’

Clarke’s shoulders straightened — she had won him over.

‘Okay,’ he went on. ‘Let’s arrange a new game plan, starting with the attack at the gym — neighbours, local CCTV, whatever we can get our hands on.’ James had risen from his desk and was making a circuit of the room, pausing for a moment at each desk. ‘Was the hammer new? Let’s talk to DIY stores and hardware shops. Where’s the weapon now? Did the assailant dispose of it nearby? Then there are the nails — if we get lucky, he bought everything at the same time. It wasn’t forced entry, so maybe someone saw a stranger loitering in the vicinity. He might have popped into a local shop, or been parked kerbside for long enough that passers-by took note.’ He paused and fixed his eyes on Clarke. ‘Anything I’ve forgotten?’

‘We need to see if Arnott will open up to us. Might help if we have leverage.’

James nodded. ‘So we look at his business dealings, see if there’s anything he’s been hiding. Friends, associates — the usual drill.’ He returned to his desk and fell into his chair, pulling a pad of paper towards him and turning to a fresh sheet. ‘I need five minutes to decide on what order we do this in and which tasks you each get.’ He had already started writing. ‘And in case nobody’s noticed, there’s a member of the public in this room — maybe one of you could escort him out of the building?’

Rebus stared at the top of Alvin James’s head. ‘Your patter’s shite,’ he said.

‘I’d say that’s all you merit,’ James replied, without looking up.

Glancey and Oldfield had risen to their feet, eager to haul Rebus outside, but Clarke placed a hand on his forearm.

‘Come on, John,’ she said. ‘I’ll see you to the door.’

For a moment, he refused to budge, then he allowed her to lead him out into the corridor and down the stairs.

‘We got the result we wanted,’ she reminded him as they reached the ground floor.

‘Bully for us.’

‘He’s good at geeing up his team, though, you have to give him that.’

‘No, you have to give him that — he’s your boss, not mine.’

‘In point of fact, he’s not my boss either.’

‘You just handed him your case, Siobhan.’

‘I suppose that’s true.’ She followed Rebus out of the building on to the pavement. ‘So what now?’ she asked.

‘I’ve got a dog to walk.’

‘And after that? Maybe put some ice on your hip?’

‘It’s not that bad.’

‘Just your body telling you something?’

‘Aye, it keeps doing that — I wish to hell it would shut up. You heading back upstairs?’

‘I think so.’

‘On you go, then. And tell James something from me.’

‘What?’

‘That I’ve seen more arseholes than a proctologist, and he’s a Grade A specimen.’

‘Am I allowed to rephrase that?’

‘I’d rather it was verbatim.’ Rebus stared across the street to where his Saab was parked. ‘And speaking of arseholes...’ He crossed the road and ripped the parking ticket from his windscreen. ‘Almost got the full set,’ he called to Clarke, waving it towards her as he opened the door and got in. He added it to the collection in his glove box and started the engine. If Hank Marvin did end up being the death of him, at least he could say he’d cheated the council out of their pound of flesh...

Rebus drove straight back to the Infirmary and told Christine Esson she could take a break.

‘On whose orders?’ she asked.

‘All I need is five minutes. Maybe you could nip to the loo or something.’

‘It’s nice to see you too, John.’

‘Sorry, I’m forgetting my manners. How are you, Christine? You and Ronnie still an item?’

‘Not for much longer if he doesn’t shave off that moustache.’

‘I thought the hirsute look was in? Want me to drop a hint?’

‘You think I’ve not tried?’

‘I could hold him down while you take a razor to his face?’

She smiled and placed her magazine on the floor before getting to her feet. ‘Five minutes?’

‘Tops.’ Rebus looked at the figure in the bed. The sheet had been pulled up to his neck, but with his arms lifted clear by a framework of splints and clamps, so that his bandaged hands sat mid-air, relieved of any pressure. His eyes were closed, but Rebus got the feeling he was awake. ‘Has he said anything?’

‘Not since I arrived. His other visitor left soon after.’

‘Donny Applecross?’

Esson nodded. ‘A nurse asked Mr Arnott if he wanted a drink. He tilted his head and she fed him through a straw.’ Esson gestured towards the plastic tumbler on the bedside unit.

‘Off you go then and stretch your legs.’

Rebus watched her pick up her shoulder bag and make her exit. The ward was full, but none of the men looked remotely interested in anything around them. Two were asleep, one with his mouth gaping, small snores escaping. Another was wearing headphones while watching a TV monitor. Each bed had a similar screen, but you paid for the privilege. He wondered if it was any more expensive than the car park, but surely that was unfeasible.

Rebus didn’t bother sitting down. He walked around the bed to the other side and poured a little more water from the jug into the tumbler.

‘Fancy some?’ he asked. There was no response. He checked the chart as best he could. An intravenous drip had been fixed to Arnott’s left forearm. Usually they used the back of the hand, but Rebus could appreciate that this would not have been an option with this particular patient.

‘No family, Kenny? No mates other than your young fighter friend? That’s a shame. You look okay, though.’ Rebus paused. ‘In fact, you look good enough to kiss.’ He leaned over so that a shadow fell across Arnott’s face. With their mouths no more than an inch apart, Arnott’s eyes flew open. Rebus smiled and straightened up.

‘I seem to have got your attention,’ he said. ‘So here’s what I have to say. We are going after Cafferty on your behalf, with your help or without it. Either way he’s going to think you talked, so you better start hoping we put together a strong enough case to lock him away for a while. Be a hell of a lot easier if you told us at least a little of what happened. And if you so much as whisper the word “accident”, I swear I’ll squeeze your bandages till you puke.’ He paused again. ‘Okay, that’s me said my piece.’ He rounded the bed again and angled the chair so it was facing the patient. Then he settled on to it slowly. Arnott was blinking. His eyes seemed moist and he was focusing on the ceiling lights.

‘You’re not a cop,’ he said eventually, so softly Rebus almost didn’t catch it.

‘That’s right, Kenny.’

‘Then what are you?’

‘One of Cafferty’s oldest enemies, which is good news for you.’

‘I can’t help you. He’d kill me.’

‘You told him everything, though? Just nod if you did.’

Rebus waited and watched Arnott angle his chin downwards and up again.

‘You know who ordered that attack on Darryl Christie,’ Rebus went on. ‘They used you to find someone. You chose Rab Chatham, gave him the address but nothing else. After Chatham found out it was Darryl, he had a wobble and decided to use Craw Shand as insurance, knowing Craw would take the blame with a gladsome heart and Chatham would be safe from a vengeful Darryl. If I’m right so far, another nod would be nice.’

The head bobbed again.

‘Thank you,’ Rebus said. ‘So now we’re just left with the who and the why. The why isn’t such a problem — I think we’re slowly getting there. A name, Kenny, one little name and we can start building the case against Cafferty, always assuming the name you give me had Rab Chatham done away with... Am I safe to assume that at least?’

Arnott squeezed his eyes shut and a tear rolled down the side of his face towards his ear. ‘He’d kill me,’ he repeated, voice quavering. His whole body seemed to be shivering, and Rebus turned his eyes towards the readout on the monitor next to the drip.

‘You okay, Kenny?’ he asked.

Arnott’s teeth were clenched and his face was turning the colour of beetroot. Rebus rose from his chair and leaned over the bed. Arnott’s breathing had grown ragged.

‘Want me to call for someone? Pain getting a bit much?’ He looked around for a nurse but couldn’t see one. The numbers on the digital readout were climbing. Then Arnott seemed to spasm, his face grimacing.

‘Nurse!’ Rebus yelled.

Two arrived out of nowhere, ignoring Rebus as they flanked the patient, assessing the situation. Words flew between them and Rebus backed away, giving them all the space they might need and more. He felt the presence of someone behind him and turned to find Christine Esson standing there, staring past him with widening eyes.

More staff were approaching the bed. The curtains were being pulled closed around it. The sleeping patients had woken up and were watching. The man with the TV slipped off his headphones and craned his neck.

‘Jesus, John,’ Esson hissed.

‘I didn’t do anything.’

‘You did something.’

‘I was talking and he was listening and then...’

A machine on a trolley was being wheeled in. Rebus could see the paddles attached to it. Someone else was bringing a syringe and a small bottle of clear liquid. A nurse was closing the curtains around all the other beds, to put paid to the spectacle. She pointed at Rebus and Esson.

‘I’m going to have to ask you to leave. As in, right now.’

They took a few steps into the corridor just as more staff rushed past. ‘What do I tell Siobhan?’ Esson asked, looking in the direction of the ward.

‘The truth,’ Rebus advised.

‘Mentioning you?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘She’ll have my guts for garters, letting you have your five bloody minutes.’

‘Maybe you had to take a toilet break. I saw my chance and crept in.’

Esson stared at him. ‘Is this us concocting a story?’

‘I suppose it is,’ Rebus agreed. ‘How is it sounding so far?’

‘It sounds like you’re saving my guts from becoming garters.’ Esson peered around the corner of the nurses’ station into the ward. ‘Maybe he’ll be all right, eh?’ she said, trying to sound hopeful.

‘I’m sure he will,’ Rebus said, listening as the doctor with the paddles barked the single word ‘Clear!’

When news of Kenny Arnott’s death reached the MIT room, there was a numbed silence that lasted fully fifteen seconds until Fox broke it with a question.

‘What now?’

‘We keep going,’ James said.

‘Was the cardiac arrest brought on by the torture?’ Anne Briggs asked.

‘We’ll have to wait for the autopsy.’

‘If it was, we’re talking culpable homicide,’ Siobhan Clarke added. She had been the one who’d broken the news, after stepping out into the hallway to take Christine Esson’s call. She was still standing just inside the doorway, her phone in her hand. One detail she had left out was the presence of John Rebus at the bedside and the absence of anyone from CID.

‘Which makes it imperative,’ James said, ‘that we redouble our efforts. Sean, how are we getting on with those DIY stores and hardware shops?’

‘Biggest ones are all done. Staff are checking their recordings and even till receipts.’

‘That could take a while.’

Glancey nodded. ‘And I’m on to the fourth hardware shop on my list.’

‘Good man,’ James said. ‘Wallace?’

‘Door-to-door is about ready to go.’ The room fell silent so Sharpe could be heard. ‘Took a while to conjure up the bodies. There are a couple left over, and that’ll comprise our search team until I can drum up more help. I’ll be heading out there in about ten minutes.’

‘Thanks,’ James said. ‘How about you, Anne?’

‘Tracking down the victim’s friends and associates just got that bit harder. We could do with a search warrant for home and business premises, see if his computer is any help.’

‘I’ll sort it.’ James turned to Mark Oldfield, who was busy at the kettle. ‘You okay to help out with the doorstepping?’

‘Sure,’ Oldfield said, not quite managing to look enthusiastic.

‘There’ll be a café somewhere on the route,’ Fox teased him.

‘How about you, Malcolm?’ James butted in. ‘Managing to keep busy?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘Feel like applying for those search warrants?’ Fox nodded and watched as Alvin James started clapping, his eyes taking in his team. ‘All right then, people, let’s get going. The crime may have changed but the investigation hasn’t.’ He turned towards Clarke. ‘You know the pathologist, don’t you? Find out how soon she can do the autopsy.’

‘Easiest thing is to ask in person. If she’s in the autopsy suite, her phone will be off.’

‘Do that, then.’

Clarke kept her eyes averted from Fox as she made her escape. Striding towards her car, she called Rebus and pressed the phone to her ear.

‘Thought I’d be hearing from you,’ he muttered.

‘What happened?’

‘I was just talking to the man, Siobhan.’

Clarke got into her car and put the phone on speaker while she turned the key in the ignition and fastened her seat belt. ‘Having sneaked past Christine while she was in the loo?’

‘You can’t go blaming her.’

‘I don’t blame her.’ Clarke checked the road was clear and moved off. ‘It’s you I’m furious with.’

‘All I did was tell him we were going after Cafferty big time, with his help or without.’

‘And?’

‘He said he’d kill him if he said anything.’

‘Who’d kill him?’

‘What?’

‘Who’d kill him?’ she repeated. ‘Cafferty?’

‘Well, yes, obviously.’ But Rebus didn’t sound sure. ‘How’s James handling it?’

‘Very competently. He’s got everyone working flat out.’

‘Present company excepted?’

‘I’m on my way to the mortuary.’

‘To chivvy Deb into fast-tracking the autopsy? Reckon there’s a chance we can pin culpable homicide on Big Ger?’

‘Your guess is as good as mine. So where are you now?’

‘Five minutes from the Cowgate.’

‘You’re going to see Deborah?’

‘That was the plan — great minds and all that.’

‘John... for us to have even the slimmest hope of nabbing Cafferty, everything has to be done by the book.’

‘No argument here.’

‘You’re not a police officer.’

‘I’m not sure why people think they need to keep reminding me. How long till you arrive?’

‘Ten, twelve minutes.’

‘I’ll be in the car park.’

The phone went dead as Clarke pulled out to overtake a bus.

‘Fourteen minutes,’ Rebus said, making show of checking his watch. Clarke had parked next to his Saab. She could see the regulation black vans but no sign of Deborah Quant’s car.

‘She’s not here,’ Rebus confirmed. ‘I already asked. Teaching a class at the uni. Should be done in an hour or so, though. We could grab a coffee.’

‘Where?’

‘Caffè Nero at Blackwell’s,’ he suggested. Clarke shook her head.

‘I meant what I said — think how you’d feel if we got Cafferty to trial and a technicality scuppered us.’

‘The technicality being me?’ Rebus nodded slowly. ‘You know best, Siobhan. With me, it’s always been about the outcome rather than the process.’

‘Which is why you’ve lost a few along the way.’

‘I can’t just walk away.’

‘Not even for a day?’

Rebus shook his head slowly, trying for a contrite look and failing. Clarke puffed out her cheeks and studied the tarmac, rubbing the sole of one shoe against it.

‘You sure about that coffee?’ he asked.

‘She’s coming here after the lecture?’

‘Almost certainly.’

‘Are we walking to the café?’

‘Have you seen the hill it’s up?’ Rebus responded.

‘My car or yours?’

‘More room in mine.’

She looked towards the Saab. ‘There’s also half a chance it won’t make it to the top.’ Her phone was buzzing. ‘James,’ she told Rebus as she made to answer.

‘Yes, Alvin?’

‘Are you with Professor Quant?’

‘She won’t be here for a bit.’ Clarke paused. ‘You sound—’

‘We might just have struck lucky,’ James blurted out. ‘Had to happen eventually.’

‘Oh?’

‘Are you going to hang around there or do you want to join the party?’

‘I’ll be there in fourteen minutes,’ she said, ending the call.

James and his team were readying to brief a lawyer from the Procurator Fiscal’s office. The Fiscal Depute’s name was Shona MacBryer. MacBryer knew Clarke, and the two shared a nod of greeting as she arrived. Fox and Oldfield were handing round mugs. Someone had splashed out on a cafetière and proper coffee, and the biscuits were Duchy Originals. Nothing but the best for MacBryer, not when they were about to try persuading her they had a locked-down case requiring only her thumbs-up before the arrest was made.

‘A hardware shop on Leith Walk,’ James was saying. He was seated directly in front of MacBryer’s chair, having hoisted himself on to his desk, hands on knees. With his legs spread, his crotch was at eye level, a fact he seemed unaware of but which had caused MacBryer to twist her mouth in displeasure. ‘The owner had a man come in yesterday afternoon — well dressed, in his sixties, shaven head. A hefty bloke, three-quarter-length black coat and black leather gloves. Didn’t hang about, knew exactly what he wanted — two nice big claw hammers and a dozen six-inch nails, same number we retrieved from the boxing club. So DS Glancey sends the shopkeeper a file photo of Morris Gerald Cafferty and the shopkeeper says he’s sure it’s the same man.’

MacBryer had opened an iPad, preparing to take notes. ‘This would be easier at a desk,’ she said.

‘Take Malcolm’s.’

MacBryer thanked him and shifted to Fox’s chair, James shoving all Fox’s paperwork to one side. James sat on his own chair and was preparing to continue his speech when MacBryer held up a finger to stop him.

‘Can I just clarify — the shopkeeper has only been spoken to by phone so far.’

‘DS Sharpe is fetching him here — shouldn’t be much longer.’

‘So a man who may or may not be Mr Cafferty buys two hammers and some nails. Do you have a forensic report?’

‘Not as yet,’ James admitted.

‘If gloves were worn...’

James nodded his understanding. ‘But there may be DNA at the scene. Forensics have given the floor a thorough swabbing, lifted all sorts of bits and pieces.’

‘Which might prove Cafferty had visited the building, but not pinpoint his presence there at the time of the attack.’

‘And if we put him in a parade?’

MacBryer glanced up from her typing. ‘A positive identification would tell us nothing more than that he bought a hammer and some nails.’

‘Not more than a five- or ten-minute walk from the boxing club.’ James looked to Fox. ‘Where does Cafferty live?’

‘Used to be Merchiston...’ Fox sought out Clarke.

‘Quartermile,’ she obliged. ‘Quite the hike from Leith Walk.’

‘Does the shop have CCTV?’ MacBryer asked.

‘No,’ Glancey said.

‘Proprietor’s name?’

‘Joseph Beddoes.’

‘Did he seem lucid?’

‘I’d say he’s a reliable witness.’

MacBryer stared at him without blinking. ‘On the evidence of a single phone call?’

‘We’re sure it’s Cafferty,’ James interrupted. He had angled his chair so he was facing MacBryer. Her mug of coffee sat untouched, as did the biscuit she’d been given.

‘For a successful prosecution, we need a bit more than that, Detective Superintendent. Mr Cafferty is not unknown to the Fiscal’s office. We’ve had half a dozen previous cases fail. Recovery of the weapon would help.’

‘We’ve officers scouring the neighbourhood.’

‘Clothing could well be bloodstained,’ MacBryer went on.

‘In which case,’ Fox interrupted, ‘Cafferty will already have disposed of it. He’s not exactly an amateur.’

‘Even professionals have been known to slip up,’ MacBryer commented. She had paused in her note-taking. ‘Cafferty will be lawyered up — you can be sure of that. If your case rests on one witness and no forensic evidence...’ She didn’t need to complete the sentence. ‘I imagine you’ll be questioning Mr Cafferty?’

‘We will.’

‘And when he denies any involvement, as he surely will?’

‘We keep building the case.’

MacBryer nodded thoughtfully. ‘That’s all you can do, and I sincerely hope that at our next meeting you can bring me more than this. Because this, Detective Superintendent, isn’t nearly enough.’ She closed the iPad’s cover and got to her feet, looking for her shoulder bag. Fox handed it to her, and with a few nods and gestures of goodbye, she left the room, taking all the oxygen with her.

Fox reclaimed his chair and began to put the stuff on the desk back in order. Clarke stood just inside the doorway, watching James slump in his own chair.

‘You summoned her for that?’ Clarke asked.

James shook his head. ‘She was coming anyway — an initial catch-up on whether Arnott’s death changes things.’ He picked up a biscuit, then set it down again. ‘I just thought...’

‘MacBryer knows what she’s doing, and she’s crossed swords with Cafferty many a time. It’ll take more than the word of a single shopkeeper...’

‘I get that, okay?’ James glared at her. ‘Now if you’ll excuse us, DI Clarke, we’re kind of busy here.’

‘Malcolm has had dealings with Cafferty, too — if he has anything to say, you’d be wise to listen.’

James grunted, busy on his laptop. Fox gave a half-smile of thanks and tipped his head towards the hallway. Clarke turned to go, descending the stairs and pausing at the bottom, checking her phone for messages. She wanted to help James and the others, wanted them to pin the attack on Cafferty. For no other reason than that it would be a little gift to Rebus.

It was a couple of minutes before Fox appeared. He opened the front door and led her on to the pavement.

‘That was my fault,’ he said. ‘I pushed them hard on Cafferty. The description sold them and the notion of a quick result stopped them thinking straight for a bit.’

‘But they’re back on track now?’

‘Slow and methodical.’ Fox’s phone pinged. He checked the text message, his jaw tightening.

‘What’s up?’ Clarke asked.

‘Nothing.’

‘Is something wrong, Malcolm?’

‘No.’

‘Remind me to play you at poker sometime.’

‘Why?’

‘Because your ears have gone red and you can’t meet my eyes.’

‘Sheila Graham told me I had a good poker face.’

‘She was lying. So are you going to tell me what’s wrong?’

‘Nothing’s wrong.’

‘Whatever you say. But a trouble shared and all that...’

Fox nodded distractedly. ‘I’d better get back in.’

‘Wait a second — what about John? Is everything all right with him?’

‘Why shouldn’t it be?’

She tried staring him out, but gave up. ‘Will we catch up later?’

‘Sure.’ He was already pushing open the door.

‘Bye then,’ Clarke said, without receiving an answer.

Climbing the stairs, Fox looked at the text again.

Tick tock.

Sent by Darryl Christie, of course. Fox had contacted a property solicitor. The man was going to recce the outside of the bungalow at lunchtime, and provide an initial valuation by close of play. One way or another, Jude would be all right.

And he, too, would survive.

23

The naked man had been weaving his way in a dazed state around the streets of West Pilton for maybe fifteen or twenty minutes. Photos had been snapped on camera phones and sent to the internet, with one young person even managing a selfie. As he approached a primary school, however — break time; kids gambolling in the playground — the alarm was raised and the police summoned. The officers in the patrol car managed to head him off before he reached the school perimeter, and threw a blanket over him. His hair was matted, and he smelled of sweat and faeces. His ribs poked out and he seemed unable to form a coherent sentence. Not knowing what else to do, they deposited him at Drylaw police station, where he could become someone else’s problem. He would be charged with public indecency, just as soon as they got a name for him.

They had one soon enough. A dentist, checking his Twitter feed at lunchtime, saw a couple of the photos and recognised a man he’d played tennis with until they’d had a falling-out. He called the police and identified Anthony Brough. By this time, the detainee had been given a shower and some clothes. A doctor had been summoned and was of the opinion that the man shivering and babbling in front of him was a drug user of some kind.

‘Probably taken something he shouldn’t.’

An injection was prescribed and the man taken back to his cell and given a sandwich and a cup of tea, which he succeeded in keeping down for almost a minute.

It was Twitter again that led with Brough’s identity, the dentist having posted his thoughts. After all, Brough had lost him a chunk of his savings, and here was revenge of a sort.

All of which led Christine Esson to inform Siobhan Clarke and Clarke to call Malcolm Fox.

‘Where do you want him?’ she asked.

‘How about Gayfield Square?’ Fox asked.

‘Will do.’

Fox then called Drylaw and spoke to a sergeant, who told him Brough had been muttering something about being kidnapped.

‘Where was he first spotted?’ Fox enquired.

‘Social media would know better than me,’ the sergeant replied. So Fox tried Facebook and Twitter and the answer seemed to be Ferry Road Avenue. He called the sergeant back and requested that officers be sent to the street and surrounding area to see if any location could be found.

‘Isn’t it as likely he’s spinning us a line? Gets blitzed and when he comes to his senses he whips out the first excuse he can think of?’

‘That’s possible.’

‘Or else he was dumped here from a car or van?’

‘Please just go take a look.’

There was a loud sigh on the line, and the sergeant rang off without saying any more.

A second doctor had been summoned to Gayfield Square and was waiting when Brough arrived. Fox and Clarke watched him being led into a makeshift examination room. The prognosis eventually came: Anthony Brough needed to be taken to hospital. He was malnourished, and whatever cocktail of drugs he had been fed — intravenously and by mouth — might have side effects. Blood tests were needed. Psychological evaluation might be required at some point.

‘We need to talk to him,’ Fox insisted, but the doctor shook his head.

‘Not yet. Not for a while. I think I’ve found him a bed at the Western General.’

‘Oh good, another hospital,’ Clarke said, eyes on Fox.

They grabbed drinks and chocolate bars from the machine along the corridor, resting their backs against the wall.

‘Glushenko had him but let him go?’ Fox eventually offered.

‘If you were Ukrainian mob royalty, would you be putting your feet up in West Pilton?’

‘Maybe not. But one of his men might. On the other hand, the sergeant I spoke to reckoned it was more likely Brough had been dumped there.’

‘In which case the question is: why? If he was abducted, why bring it to an end?’

‘Maybe they got what they wanted from him.’

‘The missing money, you mean?’ Clarke nodded, allowing the possibility.

‘Or he really has just been on a bender. You ever hear about that Scottish explorer, Mungo Park? Walked into the jungle with dozens of bearers, carrying countless trunks and bags. Staggered out again months later dressed in nothing but his top hat.’

‘That can’t be true.’

‘I remember reading it somewhere.’ Fox checked his watch. ‘What do you want to do?’

‘No point hanging around here.’

‘We could get to the hospital early, beat the rush?’

‘Or?’ Clarke screwed up the chocolate wrapper and tossed it into a bin.

‘Or join the search party in West Pilton, which is practically on the way.’

‘Whose car?’

‘I don’t mind.’

‘Mine then.’

‘Go easy on me, Siobhan. My nerves aren’t what they were.’

‘Just for that, I’m playing Ninja Horse all the way.’

‘Is that a game?’

‘It’s a heavy metal band.’

‘One last thing — when do we tell John?’

Clarke considered this. ‘Maybe not just yet.’

‘Brough’s sister and his assistant?’

‘Ditto.’

‘Any particular reason?’

‘How crowded do you want it around his bedside?’

‘Good point.’

‘Besides which,’ Clarke added, readying to move off, ‘John seems to have a touch of the grim reaper about him today...’

Rebus just happened to have dropped in at Leith police station as Cafferty arrived for his interview accompanied by his solicitor, a skeletal man called Crawfurd Leach, who wore a three-piece pinstripe suit and black shoes polished to within an inch of their lives. He was in his forties and almost completely bald, what hair he had left slicked back from the forehead and ears. He wore John Lennon-style glasses and there were always a few stray tufts of stubble on his cheekbones, no matter how clean-shaven the rest of his face.

Rebus was in the gents’ toilet, washing his hands, when Cafferty pushed open the door and made for a urinal.

‘You got my text, then?’ Rebus asked.

‘What’s on your mind, John?’

‘That was stupid. Stupid and overdramatic.’

‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’

‘I thought you’d outgrown the hands-on stuff. Shows how much I know.’

Rebus was drying his palms on a paper towel as Cafferty joined him at the sink. They studied one another in the mirror.

‘You ever kill someone, John?’

‘Only when there was no alternative.’

‘Isn’t that a bit boring, though?’

‘Did you leave him to die or to live?’

‘You miked up or something?’ Cafferty had leaned in towards the mirror, studying his own face. ‘It’s pretty much done now anyway. You ever played bridge?’

‘No.’

‘Me neither, but I know the rules. There’s a point where the bidding’s finished and all that’s left to do is let the cards fall. There might be a surprise or two, but the hard work’s already been done.’ Cafferty smiled. ‘The shopkeeper, that’s all they have?’

‘I wouldn’t know.’

‘They’re like kids playing snap. You and me are used to proper grown-up games.’

Wondering what was taking his client so long, Leach pushed his head around the door and scowled when he saw Cafferty had company.

‘Don’t fret, Crawfurd,’ Cafferty said. ‘We were just comparing manhoods.’ And with a wink to Rebus, he followed his lawyer to the interview room.

Rebus made for the MIT office, where Briggs and Oldfield were pretending to be busy while actually sulking that they hadn’t been chosen to partner Alvin James.

‘He took Siobhan?’ Rebus commented, surprised.

‘She’s not around.’

‘Fox?’

‘Likewise. It’s Sean in there with him. Wallace is still running the search operation and door-to-door.’

‘I like the new set-up,’ Rebus stated, studying the cafetière and lifting the last Duchy Original from the packet.

‘Was there something you wanted?’ Briggs asked.

‘Just kicking my heels really.’ He beamed a smile towards her.

‘I thought Alvin was going to make sure you didn’t get past the front desk.’

‘Must have slipped his mind. Any updates from the boxing club?’

‘Forensics haven’t found anything worth shouting about,’ Oldfield admitted. ‘Without the weapon, we’re stuffed.’

‘I wouldn’t go that far,’ Rebus reassured him. ‘You’ve got the man who sold Cafferty the hammer. If Cafferty can’t produce said hammer, that’s going to look suspicious. And if he does...’

‘Which he won’t.’

‘Which he won’t,’ Rebus agreed.

‘Suspicions don’t make a case,’ Briggs said.

‘Sounds like you’ve had the benefit of the Procurator Fiscal’s wisdom. Hard to credit, I admit, but they don’t always know best.’ Rebus took another bite of biscuit. He had ended up at Fox’s desk, sitting on Fox’s chair, casting his eyes over Fox’s paperwork.

‘Alvin will blow a fuse if you’re here when he comes back.’

‘Nothing Big Ger likes more than a nice long chat,’ Rebus explained. ‘And as his lawyer is charging three figures per hour, he won’t be in a hurry either.’

‘Story is you know him almost too well.’

Rebus met Briggs’s gaze. ‘For the sake of my health, yes, that’s probably true.’

‘I’ve been checking his files. Seems this is the first time he’s used a hammer.’

Rebus considered this. ‘I think he may be regretting it. He walks past the shop and thinks, why not? He needs something. Kenny Arnott is twenty years younger than him and no pushover.’ He offered a shrug. ‘Besides which, a hammer and nails is old school — maybe he thought Arnott would appreciate that.’

‘Appreciate it?’ Briggs sounded appalled.

‘It’s hard to explain.’ Rebus was about to anyway when Alvin James appeared in the doorway, his face like thunder.

‘I was just leaving,’ Rebus assured him.

‘He wants you. He won’t speak to me until after.’

‘That’s unfortunate.’

‘Yes it bloody well is. Five minutes, he says. Then we can get back to questioning him.’ James stabbed a finger towards Rebus’s chest. ‘You’re going to report back every word he utters, understood?’

‘Will you still be recording?’

James shook his head. ‘Five minutes,’ he repeated, spreading the fingers of one hand. ‘So don’t go getting too comfortable...’

Rebus knocked and entered the interview room, at which point Cafferty told Crawfurd Leach to stretch his legs.

‘I’m not sure that’s wise,’ the lawyer drawled.

‘Just fuck off, Crawfurd. Go try a proper shave or something.’

Cafferty watched his lawyer leave, closing the door softly after him. There was a beaker of tea in front of him, but nothing else. The tape recorder and camera had been turned off. Rebus sat down in what he presumed had been Alvin James’s seat, on the opposite side of the table. Cafferty was studying his surroundings as if considering an offer of tenancy.

‘We’ve been in a few of these down the years, eh, John?’

‘A few, yes.’

‘Craw tells me you roughed him up once — Johnny Bible case, wasn’t it?’

‘That was in Craigmillar, though.’

‘Different rules back then. But you know what?’ Cafferty puffed out his chest. ‘I feel like I’m getting my second wind.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Because all those cards are landing just the way they should, and I’m so far ahead on points it’s almost embarrassing.’ He chuckled, fingers playing across the beaker.

‘Superintendent James has only given me five minutes,’ Rebus warned. ‘Is that enough time for you to make your full and frank confession?’

‘I just thought... we might not see one another again, ever, not in a place like this. Now that you’ve been pensioned off and everything. Is that cough of yours getting any better? Of course not. I seem to have this new lease of life, while everybody around me is falling apart.’

‘Some of them helped along by you.’ Rebus paused. ‘You’re not going to give them anything, are you?’

‘Of course not.’

‘What about me, though?’

‘You?’

‘I think I deserve something.’

‘Is it your birthday again? I gave you Glushenko, isn’t that enough?’

‘You didn’t give me Glushenko — all you did was dangle a “Russian” in front of me. You’ve known about him all along, though, haven’t you? He’s the card you’ve had up your sleeve.’

‘You’re a piece of work, John. I’m sure I’ve told you that before. This lot don’t deserve you.’

‘They’re good cops.’

Cafferty snorted. ‘Not nearly good enough.’

‘You slipped up, you got identified.’

‘Was that really me, though? One shopkeeper in his seventies who wears glasses like the bottoms of milk bottles? You know yourself nobody’s going to trial on the weight of that.’

‘Have they asked for your clothes?’

‘I can give them clothes — they’ll look exactly like the ones I was dressed in yesterday.’

‘What did you do with the hammer? What did Arnott tell you?’

Cafferty gave a thin, almost rueful smile. ‘Glushenko’s close, John. He’s very close. And when he gets here... game over.’

The door swung outwards. Alvin James and Sean Glancey stood there, Leach’s head visible between their shoulders.

‘Time’s up,’ James stated briskly. Rebus was already on his feet.

‘He just wanted a walk down memory lane,’ he explained. ‘Five minutes of my life I’m not getting back.’

‘Off you jolly well fuck then,’ James told him, ‘and let the professionals have a go.’

Rebus left the room, glancing towards Cafferty as he went, but Cafferty’s eyes were on James, as he readied to continue the game.

Clarke and Fox arrived just in time to hear the news — a terraced house, its curtains closed but front door ajar, a single street away from the first reported sighting of Anthony Brough. A couple of uniforms had headed inside and were pretty confident. They were on the doorstep as Clarke and Fox approached. Clarke had her warrant card open.

‘DI Clarke,’ she said. ‘Give me what you have.’

‘Ground-floor bedroom, back of the house, next to the kitchen. Lock fitted to the outside of the door, but the padlock itself lying on the hall carpet. The room stinks. Window’s been boarded up, nailed shut. There’s a camp bed and a pail to piss in, bottle filled with what looks like water, but that’s about it.’

‘Pile of clothes just outside the door,’ his colleague added. ‘Suit, shirt, shoes.’

Clarke peered through the doorway. ‘Is it a squat, or what?’

‘There’s stuff in the kitchen, and a mattress upstairs with a sleeping bag on it, plus more clothes in a couple of bin bags.’

‘Toothbrush and razor in the bathroom,’ the first uniform said.

‘Anyone else been inside?’ Fox asked.

‘Just us.’

‘Touch anything?’

‘We know better than that.’ The constable’s face had tightened a little.

‘I want to know who lives here,’ Clarke said. A small crowd had gathered on the pavement, mostly kids on bikes. ‘Ask the neighbours either side. Then we can check for paperwork. Probably some bills in a drawer somewhere.’

‘Council will have a record of whoever’s coughing up the annual tax,’ Fox added.

Clarke studied the interior again before crossing the threshold. Fox didn’t look so sure.

‘Bedroom is the locus, Malcolm,’ she assured him. ‘Speaking of which...’ She took out her phone and tapped in the CSM’s number.

‘Siobhan,’ Haj Atwal said on answering. ‘Is this by way of another contribution to the coffers?’

She gave him the address. ‘It’s nothing too nasty — person held captive. But we need the locus given a once-over.’

‘Thirty minutes?’ he offered.

‘Someone will be here,’ Clarke said, ending the call. Then, to Fox: ‘Shall we?’

Fox followed her down the narrow hall. There was a tang of vomit in the air. They stopped at the bedroom door. The hook-and-eye fixings for the padlock looked cheap and flimsy, the padlock itself small and shiny.

‘As new,’ Fox commented.

Without stepping into the room itself, they could see that it was as the officer had described it. Nothing on the bare plaster walls. Plywood nailed across the entirety of the small window. Camp bed tipped on its side, a single blanket lying beneath it. Pail and water bottle. Some sick had dried to a crust on the threadbare carpet halfway between bed and pail. Fox had turned his attention to the bundled clothes near his feet. He nudged them with the toe of his shoe, dislodging a wallet from one of the suit jacket’s pockets. Taking a pen from his own pocket, he crouched down and flipped the wallet open. Credit and debit cards, driving licence. With his handkerchief covering his fingertips, he slid the driving licence out just far enough to determine that its owner was Anthony Brough.

Clarke peered down at it and nodded. Fox turned his attention to the brass padlock. It was unlocked, no sign of the key.

‘Think the abductor just got sloppy?’ Clarke mused.

‘Looks that way.’

They moved into the kitchen. An ashtray by the sink was full of spliff remains. Clarke slid out a couple of drawers without finding any bills or other mail. Fox, on the opposite side of the kitchen, had pulled open two adjoining cupboards above the worktop.

‘Hello,’ he said.

Clarke turned and saw bags of white powder; bags of green leaves and buds; bags of pills of varying size and colour; vials and bottles with rubber-sealant caps, filled with clear liquid, obviously intended for injections. Fox studied the writing on one of the bottles.

‘Might need a vet to tell us what this stuff does,’ he advised.

‘I don’t think we’re talking purely personal use here, Malcolm, do you?’

Fox had spotted something lying on the floor, in one dark corner. ‘What does that look like?’ he said.

‘A padlock key,’ Clarke said. ‘Dropped by the kidnapper.’

‘Unable to find it, he can’t risk locking the padlock, so he takes a chance.’ Fox nodded to himself.

The elder of the two uniforms was standing in the doorway. ‘The occupier is Eddie Bates. Never any trouble, but gets a lot of visitors at all hours.’

‘Anyone else live here?’

‘Just him.’

‘Run the name, see if he’s known to us. We also need a description — he might just have nipped out and already be on his way back.’

‘Do we send out search parties?’

Clarke considered for a moment. ‘We lie low,’ she decided. ‘Pull the front door to and see what happens.’ She led Fox and the constable down the hall towards the front door. ‘Uniforms and marked cars, I want them at a safe distance.’ She was already on her phone. ‘Haj,’ she said when the CSM picked up, ‘hold fire on that. I’ll tell you when it’s safe to head over here.’

‘So what’s the plan?’ Fox asked as they walked down the path towards the pavement.

‘You and me in a car, eyes on the front door.’

‘You really think this guy Bates has just “nipped out”? It’s been at least a couple of hours since Brough escaped. That’s a long time to leave an abductee...’

‘Bates maybe thought he’d doped him to the eyeballs. He’d taken a couple of hits for himself, maybe a spliff or two, gets the munchies...’ She saw Fox looking at her. ‘Go on then, what would you do?’

‘I’d be circulating a description of him — bus and train stations. If he did come home and find Brough had done a runner, he’d probably want to be gone from here.’

‘Without taking any of the stuff from the kitchen with him? There’s probably a couple of thousand quid’s worth in those cupboards.’

‘True,’ Fox conceded.

They moved their car to the end of the street. When the uniforms and patrol cars evaporated, so did the spectators. Within a few minutes, the area was quiet. Clarke called Christine Esson and gave her Bates’s name and address.

‘Get me anything you can. Including Facebook, Twitter, Instagram. A recent photo would be perfect.’

‘Will do.’

‘Would a drug dealer really post pictures on the internet?’ Fox asked after the call was finished.

‘Everybody else does.’

‘I don’t.’

‘That’s because you’re a freak, Malcolm.’

‘While the people sharing their privacy with complete strangers are perfectly normal?’

‘Weird, isn’t it?’

Fox shook his head. His phone buzzed and he checked the screen.

Tick tock.

‘Your mysterious admirer again?’ Clarke guessed.

‘It’s Darryl Christie,’ Fox admitted.

‘What’s he after?’

‘He wants me to use the resources of Police Scotland to track down Glushenko.’

‘And why would you do that for him?’

‘Because my sister owes him money.’

‘How come?’

‘Gambling debts.’

‘You’re not going to, though?’

‘I’m stringing him along.’

‘You can’t just pay him off?’

‘It’d mean selling my house. I’m looking into that, too.’

‘Bloody hell, Malcolm. If it helps, I can lend you...’

Fox was shaking his head. ‘I can do this, Siobhan.’

‘Does your boss know?’

‘Of course.’

‘And you’re only telling me this now because...?’

‘It passes the time.’

‘Well, seeing as you’re in a chatty mood — what do you know about John’s health?’

‘Why would he tell me?’

‘I just get the feeling I might be the only one who’s in the dark.’

‘I’m sure he’s fine.’

‘What about you, Malcolm — are you fine?’

‘I wish you’d got that Gartcosh promotion, Siobhan. I was content where I was.’ He paused. ‘And I miss the pair of us hanging out together.’

Clarke was silent for a moment, before reaching over and squeezing his hand. ‘Thanks,’ she said.

‘And you’re sorry about how you reacted when I got the posting?’

She pulled her hand back. ‘Let’s not spoil the moment, eh?’ They looked at one another and smiled.

Fox caught a glimpse of something in his wing mirror. ‘Heads up,’ he warned Clarke. A man was plodding along the pavement, a carrier bag full of shopping hanging from one arm. His steps had the careful precision of someone who was inebriated but trying not to look it.

‘Daytime drinking is a wonderful thing,’ Clarke commented as the man walked past their car without noticing. He had a roll-up in his mouth and was coughing. Thinning fair hair. Faded denims and matching jacket, scuffed brown work boots. He looked as though a sudden gust might blow him over. He paused at the right gate and opened it with one knee.

‘That’s him, then,’ Clarke said. ‘Let’s wait till he’s inside.’

The man was using a key to unlock the door. It took him a couple of goes. He disappeared inside, closing it after him.

‘Okay,’ Clarke said, getting out of the car.

They had just reached the doorstep when the door itself burst open. The man had ditched the carrier bag and looked suddenly sober as well as shocked. Seeing the two figures, he tried shutting the door again, but Fox shouldered it open, sending him flying.

‘I’ve done nothing!’ he spluttered as he started getting back to his feet.

‘We’ve got some lost property of yours, Mr Bates,’ Clarke stated. ‘Need to have a little word with you on the subject...’

24

The news from the Western General was that Anthony Brough was sleeping. Blood tests had been carried out and were being analysed. By evening, the patient might be awake and able to talk. With this in mind, Clarke and Fox were back at Gayfield Square. Christine Esson handed over a copy of Bates’s criminal record. His history of petty crime went back to schooldays and included four stretches in prison. But his last brush with the law had been almost three years ago, and there was nothing to suggest he had climbed a few rungs of the ladder to the position of quantity dealer. Clarke handed the sheets over to Fox and let him read them while she studied Ronnie Ogilvie. He was behind his desk and busy on his computer, but there was something...

‘You got rid of the moustache,’ she announced.

He stroked his upper lip. ‘Yeah,’ he said, as Esson stifled a smile.

‘In the two hours since I was last here,’ Clarke went on.

‘Took a sudden notion.’

Fox had finished reading. He placed the report on Clarke’s desk. ‘What do we do till the lawyer turns up?’ he asked.

Esson had picked up her ringing phone. She placed her hand across the mouthpiece. ‘Just arrived at the front desk,’ she informed them.

‘You ready?’ Clarke asked Fox.

‘Good and,’ he replied, buttoning his suit jacket.

The solicitor looked overworked, the top button of his shirt undone behind the pale blue tie. His black-rimmed glasses kept sliding down his nose. Clarke nodded a greeting and loaded the recording machine with two tapes, while Fox made sure the video was working.

‘My client—’

Clarke interrupted him, stating her name for the record and adding that of Detective Inspector Malcolm Fox. She paused and waited.

‘I’m Alan Tranter, representing Mr Edward Bates,’ the solicitor said, sifting what paperwork he had.

‘And you are?’ Clarke asked Bates, her eyes drilling into him.

‘Eddie Bates,’ he eventually muttered. ‘No one ever calls me Edward.’

‘I’ll make sure the turnkeys have a note of that,’ Clarke said. ‘That’s what we call them — the people who’ll be keeping an eye on you while you’re in the cells here.’

‘What’s the charge?’

‘Abduction. Not sure we can call it kidnapping yet, since nobody seems to have received a ransom note. But abduction will do. It means holding somebody against their will, and it’s quite serious. But when you add it to conspiracy to supply drugs...’

‘I don’t know anything about drugs.’

‘They’ve been taken from your kitchen to our lab at Howden Hall. They’ll be weighed, counted, identified. The packaging they came in will be fingerprinted — just like you, Mr Bates.’

‘I’m telling you, someone must have put them there.’

‘Right under your nose? Without you being any the wiser? Maybe they stuck Anthony Brough in that room, too, without you noticing the shiny padlock or the smell of shit and puke? Are you not the inquisitive sort, Mr Bates?’

‘Is this tone really necessary, DI Clarke?’ Tranter said.

‘Your client is in a spot of bother, Mr Tranter. You’d do well to make sure that sinks in. We’ll find his prints on the pail, the water bottle, the metal edges of the camp bed...’

‘Not forgetting the padlock itself,’ Fox added.

‘You don’t have those prints yet, though, do you?’ the solicitor queried.

‘Crime-scene team are there as we speak.’ Clarke turned her attention back to Bates. ‘I should warn you, they’re very good.’

Tranter checked his notes again. ‘Has this Anthony Brough said anything? Is it possible his stay in the house was voluntary? I learn from my client that Mr Brough is hardly of impeccable quality...’ He broke off, meeting Clarke’s stare.

‘Meaning what?’ she asked.

‘My client has, in the past, supplied Mr Brough with a small quantity of certain stimulants.’

‘How small?’

‘Were this to go to trial, an answer might be forthcoming. Mr Brough works in the banking and investment sector, yes? Are you sure charging Mr Bates is in the gentleman’s best interests? I mean, do you think he’ll see it that way?’

‘Doesn’t matter if he does or he doesn’t — we’ll be the ones bringing the prosecution.’

The room was quiet for a few moments, except for Bates’s chesty breathing.

Fox cleared his throat, unbuttoning his suit jacket. ‘If you really did sell stuff to Brough,’ he asked Bates, ‘he’ll be able to identify you if we show him a photo? He’ll know your name?’

Bates looked down towards where his hands were gripping the edge of the table.

‘I didn’t sell to him directly,’ he muttered.

‘Who then?’

‘Look,’ the lawyer interrupted, ‘I’m sure this can be fully explored when my client—’

‘His secretary,’ Eddie Bates blurted out.

Fox and Clarke shared a look. ‘Give me a name,’ Fox said, ‘and I might even start to believe you.’

‘Sewell,’ Bates said confidently. ‘Molly Sewell.’

‘Is there no front desk you can’t get past?’ Clarke said, watching Rebus stalk towards her along the corridor. She was drinking lukewarm tea and had managed half a BLT sandwich. The sliced bread was damply unappetising, and the tomato had a slight fizziness to it.

‘I’m like the cast of The Great Escape in reverse,’ Rebus said. ‘What’s this I hear about Anthony Brough?’ Clarke just stared at him. ‘I have my sources, Siobhan.’

‘Sources not too far from here, I imagine,’ Clarke retorted, casting a glance through the doorway towards the desk where Christine Esson sat, eyes averted. Hearing voices, Fox emerged from the office. He too had a sandwich he was failing to make much progress with.

‘Sorry to interrupt your lunchtime,’ Rebus said. ‘Or is it an early dinner?’ He pretended to check his watch.

‘Brough was doped to the eyeballs and being kept under lock and key,’ Clarke began. ‘His jailer is a dealer called Eddie Bates — know him?’

‘Name sounds familiar.’ Rebus furrowed his brow.

‘His story is that Brough was just visiting. Wouldn’t exactly be my destination of choice if I had plenty of cash and wanted to go on a bender, but that’s what he’s telling us.’

‘Who — Brough or Bates?’

‘Bates.’ Clarke tossed the remains of her sandwich into a bin and brushed crumbs from her hands. ‘Brough’s still groggy and being pumped full of vitamins. We’re going to talk to him soon.’

‘Has Francesca been notified?’

Clarke nodded. ‘And Molly Sewell.’

‘So what is it you’re not telling me?’

‘According to Bates, Sewell was the go-between. She ordered the goods for her boss and handed over the cash.’

‘Okay.’

‘It doesn’t stack up, though. Brough wasn’t in anything resembling a party house. He was locked away, naked, in a room with its window boarded up, a bucket to piss and crap in. He’d been starved half to death and injected with God knows what.’

‘People get their jollies in different ways,’ Rebus commented, while Clarke shook her head. ‘So you’re thinking Bates saw a way to make more money by ransoming the boss? Have we seen any sign of a demand?’

‘We haven’t — how about you?’

‘It’s not the kind of thing I’d keep to myself.’

‘John, it’s exactly the kind of thing you’d keep to yourself.’

‘I’m telling the truth.’ Rebus paused. ‘This guy Bates, does he seem the kidnapping type?’

‘I wasn’t aware there was a specific type,’ Clarke bristled.

‘I wouldn’t say he was,’ Fox interceded. ‘He’s not smart enough, for one thing. A kidnap requires a calculating brain.’

‘Then why did he snatch Brough?’ Clarke demanded, folding her arms.

‘Maybe Brough will tell us,’ Rebus suggested. ‘When were you thinking of visiting?’

‘Very soon. I take it you’re angling for an invite?’

‘I wouldn’t be so presumptuous. But if you’re offering...’

Fox’s phone pinged to let him know he had a text.

‘Christie?’ Rebus and Clarke said in unison, staring at one another afterwards.

‘Just for a change, no,’ Fox answered. ‘Alvin James is wondering why I’m not at my desk.’

‘Tell him you’re on Gartcosh business,’ Rebus advised.

‘That’s exactly what I’m doing,’ Fox said as he tapped his screen.

‘Just one thing,’ Rebus added. ‘Whichever car we take, I can’t sit in the back. I get queasy.’

‘Always supposing we’re letting you come,’ Clarke retorted.

‘Better an invited guest than a gatecrasher, don’t you think?’

‘Are you forgetting your recent record in hospital wards?’

‘This time will be different, Siobhan, trust me...’

There was quite a gathering around Anthony Brough’s bed. When Francesca spotted Rebus entering the ward, she bounded up to him like an excited child, squeezing his hand and standing on tiptoe, her mouth to his ear.

‘My brother is the devil, did you know that?’

She had pulled her sleeves partway up her arms. Rebus could see old scar tissue.

Alison Warbody approached, tugging the sleeves back down again.

‘No misbehaving,’ she cooed. ‘Remember what I said.’

Francesca allowed herself to be led back to the bedside, where Molly Sewell was standing. Francesca pointed Rebus out to her brother, who was sitting up, three pillows supporting his head.

‘He’s a policeman,’ she intoned. ‘Very interested in Maria Turquand.’

‘Can’t you give her a Valium or something?’ Anthony Brough was looking at Warbody as he spoke.

‘Oh yes,’ she responded. ‘Drugs are just what she needs.’

Clarke and Fox were bedside by now and introduced themselves.

‘Wait a second,’ Warbody said, pointing at Rebus. ‘He said he was Fox.’

Clarke gave Rebus a sour look. ‘His name’s John Rebus,’ she informed Warbody. Then, to Brough: ‘You look a lot better, sir.’

‘Still got a head full of cotton wool,’ Brough replied. ‘Albeit cotton wool armed with a pneumatic drill.’ He had the deep, sonorous voice of the Scottish gentry. His face had regained a bit of colour, the cheeks beginning to return to their natural ruddiness, and his wavy sandy-coloured hair had been combed, probably by a nurse. Brough ran a hesitant hand through it, as if trying to reshape it.

‘You must have lots of questions,’ he said, addressing the group. ‘I know I do. But right now, everything’s a muddle, so forgive me if I don’t have the answers.’

‘First thing we’re interested in, sir,’ Clarke ventured, ‘is whether you were there of your own volition?’

‘I don’t even know where I was. It was like a bad dream, all of it. Running naked through the streets — that’s what you have nightmares about, isn’t it?’

‘You were in a house in West Pilton, owned by a man by the name of Eddie Bates.’

‘Never heard of him.’

Clarke turned her head away from Brough. ‘How about you, Ms Sewell?’

‘What?’ Molly Sewell looked startled. ‘No idea.’

Francesca had started repeating Bates’s name under her breath, finding a rhythm to it.

‘What has this got to do with Maria Turquand, anyway?’ Brough was asking.

Clarke shook her head. ‘We’re not here about that, Mr Brough.’

But Brough was staring at Rebus as though his interest had been piqued. Then he screwed shut his eyes, gritting his teeth in pain. ‘Wish they’d bring me some more bloody pills.’ He plucked at his regulation-issue pyjama top. ‘I’ve got the sweats, too. This place is like a furnace.’

‘A fiery furnace,’ his sister blurted out, eyes widening. She began to giggle. Brough’s eyes were on Warbody again.

‘Alison,’ he said, ‘it’s not that I don’t appreciate the thought and all, but shouldn’t you take my sister home now?’

‘I don’t like hospitals,’ Francesca explained to anyone who would listen.

‘Nobody does,’ her brother answered.

‘She wanted to see you,’ Warbody said.

Francesca looked puzzled. ‘Did I?’

‘You know you did.’

‘I suppose so.’ Francesca gave a huge shrug of the shoulders.

‘Could we have a word, please?’ Clarke was asking Molly Sewell. ‘In private?’

‘Can’t it wait?’

‘We’ll only be five minutes. Mr Brough will still be here.’

Clarke led the way, with Fox to the rear and a reluctant Sewell in the middle.

‘What’s that about?’ Brough asked Rebus.

‘Do you mind if I sit? I’m not as young as some of you.’ Rebus settled into the only chair.

‘Yes, you’re old,’ Francesca stated. ‘You’re really really old. Are you going to die soon?’

‘Francesca!’ Warbody gripped her by one arm and gave it a shake.

‘Take her for a walk,’ Brough pleaded. ‘The shop or something — maybe outside for a breath of air.’

‘All right,’ Warbody said, clasping Francesca’s hand in her own. ‘We’ll come back in a while, though.’

‘Can’t wait,’ Brough said, blowing a kiss to his sister, who bobbed down as if to dodge it. She was singing as she was escorted from the ward.

‘She’s a lot of work,’ Rebus sympathised. ‘I’m assuming you pay for everything?’

‘Worth every penny.’

‘Funny, I heard your sister pays for her carer out of her own pocket. Sir Magnus left her plenty — good job she didn’t trust you to invest it for her, eh?’

Brough gave Rebus a hard stare. ‘I really can’t tell you anything.’

‘Can’t or won’t?’

‘Can’t.’

‘So what’s the last thing you remember before you woke up in that room?’

‘How many days was I there?’

‘A bit more than a week, probably.’

Brough rested his head on the pillows, staring towards the ceiling. ‘I was at home. Usual night-time routine.’

‘And what’s that?’

‘Couple of whiskies and a few lines of coke. Or maybe some downers if I’m feeling like a nice long doze.’ Brough thought for a moment. ‘Started to feel a bit woozy; next thing I know I’m shivering on somebody else’s fucking floor.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Why did your colleagues take Molly away?’

‘They want to know if there’s been a ransom demand.’

‘Is that what you think it was? A kidnapping?’

‘What do you think, Mr Brough?’

‘I’ve honestly no idea.’

‘Must have crossed your mind, though...’

‘What?’ Brough turned his head towards Rebus.

‘That it was Glushenko on the other side of the door, readying to slit your throat.’ Rebus waited for Brough to say something. The mouth was working but nothing came. ‘See, we know everything,’ Rebus continued, rising from the chair, leaning over the bed with his knuckles pressing into the mattress. ‘You’re not going to peg out on me, are you? I had that happen all too recently. Another would look bad...’

‘Who’s this Glushenko you mentioned?’

‘The man you stole millions from. The flat above Klondyke Alley? You and your pal Darryl Christie? All those SLPs bouncing money around the globe, well away from the eyes of the tax authorities. Suddenly all this cash from Ukraine arrives. Your investments have been tanking and your clients aren’t happy with you, so you skim some off before sending it on its way. But the deficit gets noticed and Glushenko is furious. He’s coming to pay you and Darryl a visit. Then you do your vanishing act, leaving Darryl in the frame.’ Rebus paused. ‘How am I doing so far?’ Brough remained silent. ‘Oh yes, and your poor investors didn’t get any of that skimmed cash in the end, did they? You kept it all to yourselves, you and Darryl.’

‘That’s not true.’ Brough was shaking his head slowly. ‘I wanted them to get their share, started arranging the necessary transfers. But the money wasn’t there.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘It wasn’t there.’

‘Christie?’ Rebus guessed.

‘Who else?’

‘You know someone attacked him outside his house?’

‘Good. I hope they did him some proper damage.’

‘I’m guessing it wasn’t on your orders, then?’

‘I wish I’d thought of it.’ There were flecks of saliva at the corners of Brough’s mouth.

‘Does Glushenko really exist?’

Brough’s eyes narrowed again. ‘Of course.’

‘You’ve met him? Spoken to him? He’s not just some bogeyman who’s been conjured up to get everybody antsy — Darryl Christie in particular?’

‘He’s real.’

‘Then it’s ironic, isn’t it? All the time you were locked away, you were safe. But now you’ve managed to escape...’ Rebus left the sentence unfinished. He could see that, headache or no headache, Brough’s mind was racing.

‘Can you help me?’ Brough eventually said, his voice just above a whisper.

‘Help you how?’

‘I need to be two things — free, and safe.’

‘Fine goals to aim for,’ Rebus agreed.

‘I have something to trade.’

‘Oh aye? Got a bit of that non-existent cash you want to see go to a deserving ex-cop’s pocket?’

‘Maybe you’re the sort of man who craves closure more than lucre.’

‘First time for everything, I suppose.’

Brough ran his tongue along his lips, moistening them. ‘I know who killed her,’ he said.

‘Killed who?’ Rebus asked, knowing as he did so the name he was about to hear.

‘Maria Turquand,’ Brough said.

They found three seats in the foyer. The place was busy with staff and visitors, most of them on phones, no one paying attention to Clarke, Fox and Molly Sewell. They probably looked like family fretting about a relative in one of the wards. Fox moved his chair to form a sort of circle. Sewell’s eyes were settling anywhere but on the two detectives.

‘We need to ask you something,’ Clarke said quietly. ‘And we need you to start being honest with us.’ She paused. ‘Look at me, Molly.’ The young woman complied. ‘I’m going to ask you again: does the name Eddie Bates mean anything to you?’

‘No.’

‘Lying to us can get you into serious trouble,’ Fox interrupted. ‘You do understand that?’

‘Eddie Bates seems to know you,’ Clarke added. ‘He tells us he sold you drugs intended for Anthony Brough. Are you saying he’s lying?’

‘He must be.’ Sewell watched as, hand in hand, Francesca Brough and Alison Warbody strode past and exited the building.

‘They make quite a pair,’ Fox commented.

‘Alison’s absolutely heroic. Not everyone would have the patience she does.’

‘Francesca certainly looks like hard work.’

‘It’s not her fault, you know.’ Sewell’s voice had grown colder. ‘Too much tragedy and too many drugs—’

‘Which,’ Clarke interrupted, ‘brings us back to Eddie Bates. Say we were to take you to Gayfield Square police station and put you in a room with him...?’

Sewell gnawed on her bottom lip. Her eyes were darting around again. ‘Maybe I do know him,’ she conceded.

‘And you’re sure you’ve never received any sort of ransom demand? A note of any kind?’

Sewell met Clarke’s gaze. ‘Are you telling me Eddie kidnapped Anthony?’

‘I’m telling you your boss was kept locked away in Eddie Bates’s house. Do you know where that is?’ Sewell shook her head. ‘Would Anthony have known?’

‘The two of them never met.’

‘But Bates knew who the drugs were for?’

Sewell considered her answer, then nodded slowly. ‘Sometimes he came to the office.’

‘How about Anthony’s home address?’

Sewell shook her head again. ‘Usually we met on the street outside the office. Eddie said it was handy because he had another client across the road.’

‘Bruce Collier?’ Fox guessed. Sewell just shrugged.

‘Eddie could have found Anthony’s address,’ she speculated. ‘Nothing is impossible these days.’

‘Just to be clear, then — Anthony never knew the source of the drugs, nor where Bates lived?’

‘You’re thinking he could have run out, got desperate, and turned up there?’ Sewell pondered this. ‘Well, yes, maybe.’

‘Except,’ Fox said, ‘you just told us your boss had no idea who his supplier was.’

‘He might have found Eddie’s number on my desk,’ Sewell suggested.

‘So how did it work? Anthony asked you to find him a dealer and you went and did just that?’

Sewell shrugged. ‘That’s what a good PA does.’

‘What did you do — check Yellow Pages?’

‘I go out clubbing some weekends. I asked a friend, who asked someone else, who gave me a phone number.’

‘Any clubs in particular?’ Clarke asked.

‘Ringo’s.’ She paused to think. Maybe the Devil’s Dram — is it important?’

‘Probably not. So how long have you known Bates?’

‘A couple of years.’

‘Any idea where your boss got his stuff before that?’

‘Someone who ended up going to jail.’

Clarke looked to Fox to see if he had any other questions. He was rubbing his jaw thoughtfully.

‘Has Eddie actually said he was holding Anthony for money?’ Sewell asked.

‘We’re still piecing it together,’ Clarke admitted.

‘Am I in trouble?’

‘For scoring drugs for your boss?’ Clarke considered this. ‘Maybe.’

‘Am I going to go to prison?’

‘I wouldn’t think so, though it would certainly help your cause if you told us anything you think we need to know.’

Sewell shrugged. ‘There’s nothing I can think of. Is it okay if I head back upstairs?’

Clarke took a notepad from her pocket and handed it over. ‘Put down your home address and a couple of contact numbers. We’ll need to talk to you again so we have a proper record of your version of events.’

Sewell bent her head over the pad, resting it on her right knee. Clarke took the pad back when she’d finished and checked she could read the neat handwriting.

‘Can I go now?’

Clarke nodded, watching as Sewell sprang to her feet. Fox got up and moved his chair back to its original position.

‘What now?’ he asked.

‘Maybe another word with Eddie Bates.’ Clarke looked at him. ‘Do you need to let Gartcosh know about Brough?’

‘I suppose I should. Do we want to ask Brough a few questions?’

‘Once the dust has settled.’

‘I’ve just realised, we left John alone with the patient. I wonder if that was wise.’

‘Why not ask him?’ Clarke nodded towards the figure striding across the foyer. She waved, and Rebus noticed her. He offered a curt nod and signalled with his hand that there’d be a phone call later. Then he was out of the automatic doors and gone.

‘What was all that about?’ Fox asked.

‘I think it means trouble for someone,’ Clarke answered. ‘Been a while since I saw him with that look in his eyes...’

25

When no one answered, Rebus rang the bell again. The sun was setting and birdsong filled the air. Not that he could see any birds — they were just there, present but largely invisible. He reached for the large metal knocker and tried that.

‘Yes, yes, yes,’ a voice announced from behind the door. ‘It takes a while, you know, with this hip of mine.’ As the door swung open, John Turquand took a second to recognise the man in front of him.

‘You were here the other day,’ he said.

‘That’s right. Mind if I come in?’

‘It’s really not convenient.’

‘Now isn’t that a fucking shame?’ Rebus walked past Turquand into the hall, heading for the library. He poured himself a small whisky and had downed it by the time Turquand arrived. ‘Long drive from Edinburgh,’ he explained.

‘You seem to be agitated,’ Turquand stated. He was dressed in the same clothes as on Rebus’s previous visit, and had failed to shave between times.

‘Sit down,’ Rebus ordered, doing the same himself.

The bridge table was still waiting for a game to be played. Rebus snatched up the cards and shuffled them, watching Turquand’s performance as he edged towards the chair opposite and settled himself.

‘Peter Attwood was a friend of yours — a good friend. Must have infuriated you when he started sleeping with Maria.’

‘Well, yes, when I found out.’

‘And that happened some time before she died, didn’t it? Contrary to the story you told.’

‘Are you about to accuse me of something? Should I have a lawyer present?’

‘It was Sir Magnus’s idea,’ Rebus went on. ‘He was worried that Maria’s various flings were affecting your work. He needed you to be at your sharpest for the Royal Bank takeover. He told you to have it out with her. And you did try — you followed her, knew which room she stayed in at the Caley. You even tried phoning the room, but chickened out. Sir Magnus was adamant, though — something had to be done, and if you didn’t speak to her, he would. So you steeled yourself and went to the hotel, stood outside her room and knocked. When she opened the door, she was expecting Peter Attwood. She didn’t know he was breaking it off.’

‘Stop it, please.’ Turquand’s top lip was trembling.

‘The look on her face — radiant, ready to embrace her lover — it was a look she never gave you, and it sent you into a rage. You shoved her inside and put your hands around her neck.’

‘No...’

‘You throttled the life out of her.’

Turquand’s head was in his hands, elbows on the table. Rebus kept shuffling the pack as he spoke.

‘A crime of passion, they’d probably have called it — except that the passion was hers. And when it was done, you returned to your boss and confessed everything. He told you it would be all right, calmed you down, said he was ready to give you an alibi. You’d been in a meeting with him all afternoon. You became a suspect, of course, but so did a lot of other people. And eventually even the police lost interest. You were safe to make your millions and spend them.’

‘How do you know this? Who told you?’

Rebus placed the cards on the table. ‘On his deathbed, Sir Magnus confided in his grandchildren. He wanted them to know something.’

Turquand looked up from between his fingers. ‘What?’

‘That a certain kind of person can get away with anything — up to and including murder. He was moulding them in his own image, or thought he was. He wanted them tough, ruthless, venal — all the qualities to make a success of business and maybe even life itself.’

‘That’s horrible,’ Turquand said.

‘Your employer was a horrible man. It certainly rubbed off on Anthony. He’s always had this hold over you. It’s why you gave his investment company a glowing endorsement. It’s why he was able to make you plough in so much of your own money.’ Rebus paused. ‘And it’s why you’re powerless now that he’s lost all that cash. I look around me here and do you know what I see? A prison. A nice enough place to be incarcerated, but that’s where you’ve been ever since Maria died. It’s why you never remarried. You’re serving a life sentence, Mr Turquand, with the Brough family standing guard.’

Turquand lowered his arms and leaned back in the wooden chair, which creaked in protest.

‘There must be a reason why he told you.’

‘Anthony’s in hospital, recovering from an abduction. He’s got no proof you were behind it, seeking long-deferred revenge, but he knows that financially you’re an empty shell. Maybe you think you have nothing to lose by torturing him.’

‘Abducted? This is the first I’ve heard of it, believe me!’

‘I know it is,’ Rebus said quietly, rising to his feet.

‘So... what happens now?’

‘Well, you could walk into any police station and confess. You might even get a book deal out of it, courtesy of Maxine Dromgoole. You’d be famous, which is better than nothing, I suppose.’

‘And if I choose not to do that?’ Turquand was pressing his fingers against the green baize of the table.

‘If you were going to spill the beans, Mr Turquand, you’d have done it years back, just to be rid of Anthony’s attentions. Pointless now really, isn’t it, with the coffers more or less empty? The Broughs have already done their damage, one way and another.’

‘You’re not going to arrest me?’

‘I’m not a policeman. And after all, it would be your word against Anthony’s. Plus, deathbed confessions seldom hold much weight in court.’

‘Yes,’ Turquand agreed. ‘Sir Magnus could have made up the whole story, couldn’t he? One last little game with his grandchildren.’ He was trying to get to his feet, looking to Rebus for help that wasn’t about to be offered. The two men stood face to face.

‘But we know the truth, you and me,’ Rebus said.

‘We do.’ Turquand paused. ‘Is Anthony going to be all right after his ordeal?’

‘Already on his way to a full recovery.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Turquand said, shuffling along behind as Rebus headed for the hall. ‘I did love her, you know, in my way. But that was never enough for Maria.’

‘Is this where you tell me she was asking for it? Don’t waste your breath.’

‘I was just trying to...’ The sentence died away, unfinished.

Rebus paused on the doorstep, watching the door close slowly. He sniffed the chill air. Mulched leaves and dewy grass. Some of the birds were still singing, but fewer than before. Fox had been right, he mused — the whisky in the decanter had been cheap. Taking a couple of steps back, he unzipped his trousers and began to urinate. After ten seconds, the door opened a couple of inches. Turquand must have been waiting for the sound of the Saab leaving. He looked horrified as the spray bounced off the doorstep, spattering the door.

‘Long drive back to Edinburgh,’ Rebus explained, zipping himself back up.

Clarke and Fox had gone for an early dinner at Giuliano’s on Union Place. Across the road, the doors of the Playhouse Theatre had opened. A musical was playing, the keenest audience members readying to have their tickets checked. Others were enjoying a pre-theatre pizza at the tables around the two detectives, including one exuberant group of middle-aged women, each with a pink boa draped around her shoulders. More bottles of red were being ordered as Clarke and Fox waited for their food.

‘What did Gartcosh say?’ Clarke asked.

‘Like us, they’re keen to know two things — who ordered the abduction, and what happens now Brough is back on the street.’

‘They don’t think Bates could have acted alone?’

‘I persuaded them that was unlikely.’

‘Do they really know about the money Jude owes?’

‘Would I still be working the case if they did?’

Clarke sipped her tonic water. ‘Which raises another question — should you be working the case? Conflict of interest and all that?’

‘Have you seen me do anything that would throw a spanner in the works?’

Clarke shrugged. ‘Procurator Fiscal might think differently.’

‘Procurator Fiscal doesn’t view the world through our eyes.’

‘You sound like a certain retired cop we know.’ Clarke looked around, impatient for her food.

‘I was sent here because of the attack on Darryl Christie,’ Fox went on. ‘Gartcosh wanted to see if it connected to his dealings with Anthony Brough — Brough was always the main target. But then with the death of Robert Chatham, the focus had to switch. Now it turns out the two were connected all along.’

‘But Brough remains tantalisingly out of reach?’ Clarke speculated. She was nodding to herself as her phone rang. ‘It’s that ex-cop we were talking about,’ she told Fox, picking up and answering. Rebus sounded as if he were driving.

‘Have you been to see Brough again?’ he asked, not in the mood for small talk.

‘Not yet. We had another go at Bates and left him in his cell to stew.’

‘You should go to the hospital.’

‘Why?’

‘Because he’s scared. I think he might be ready to talk.’

‘About the SLPs?’ Clarke’s eyes met Fox’s.

‘About everything, as long as we promise to save his neck.’

‘Tell me you didn’t promise him anything?’

‘How could I?’

‘I doubt that would stop you.’ She leaned back as her bowl of gnocchi arrived.

‘He’s going to jail, Siobhan. For the wrong crime, maybe, but that’s where he’s headed and he knows it. It’s just a matter of what class of prison and for how long.’

‘Always supposing Glushenko doesn’t get him first.’

‘Always supposing.’

She listened to the silence. ‘What did you mean about “the wrong crime”?’

‘He’s a murderer, Siobhan. The second I’ve met in as many hours who’s got away with it.’

‘What?’

‘I’ll explain later.’

‘Where are you right now?’

‘I’m just driving.’

‘Driving where, though?’

‘Are you with Malcolm?’

‘Yes.’

‘Indian or Italian?’

‘Italian.’

‘I wish I was there with you.’

‘There’s a seat at the table.’

‘Maybe a drink later at the Ox — after you’ve been to see Brough.’

‘What are we supposed to be saying to him?’

‘Get Malcolm to check that with his friends at HMRC. The laundered cash that’s gone walkabout... the days in that room in West Pilton — Brough will bounce back, but right now he’s fragile and hasn’t a clue what his next move is. Your job is to show him the way.’

‘A map might help.’

‘You don’t need a map, Siobhan.’

‘What time at the Ox?’

‘Maybe ten?’

‘It’s past my bedtime, but I’ll try.’

‘See you then.’

The line went dead. Clarke relayed the gist of the conversation to Fox. Before she’d finished, Fox had taken out his own phone and was tapping in Sheila Graham’s number. While he was talking, Clarke’s phone sounded again. She put it to her ear.

‘Yes, Christine?’

‘I’m halfway home,’ Esson said, ‘but the station just called me. They’d tried your number but it was busy.’

‘What’s up?’

‘It’s your friend Eddie Bates. Apparently he wants to talk.’

‘We’ve not long finished with him.’

‘Well, you must have passed the audition — he wants you back.’

‘I was just about to go see Anthony Brough.’

‘Toss a coin then, maybe? But I’m guessing Malcolm’s treating you to Giuliano’s, and last time I looked, that was a two-minute walk from Gayfield Square...’

Clarke rang off and gestured towards Fox.

‘Hold on a sec,’ Fox duly said into his phone, before holding it away from him.

‘Need to drop in on Bates first,’ Clarke warned him. When Fox looked quizzical, she offered a shrug and pushed away her uneaten food.

‘Alan McFarlane’s coming up from London specially,’ Fox said as they entered the police station and headed for the interview room. Clarke had called ahead to make sure Bates was transferred from his cell.

‘When will he get here?’

‘Tomorrow morning, I’d think. Too late now for a flight.’

‘Let’s hope Brough is still feeling the jitters.’

‘Nothing to stop us paying a visit after this,’ Fox said.

‘You’re awfully keen — still trying to make a good impression?’

‘Who with?’

‘Anyone likely to notice.’ Clarke smiled to let him know she was teasing, then pulled open the door to the interview room. There were two officers waiting with Bates. She nodded to let them know they could leave. Bates was twitchy, rubbing and scratching at his arms.

‘Cold turkey?’ Fox guessed. ‘A good dealer never uses.’

‘It pays to be sociable sometimes,’ Bates said.

Clarke took the chair opposite him, leaving Fox to stand nearby. Next to the seated Bates he looked huge and threatening, which was the whole point.

‘So just to sum up,’ Clarke began, ‘when we last met — oh... seventy-five minutes ago or thereabouts — you were sticking to your story. And we were sticking to the truth of your situation, which is that you are going to be put away for a very long time for false imprisonment and peddling drugs.’ She broke off. ‘Is your lawyer on his way?’

‘I don’t need a lawyer. I want to cut a deal.’

‘Everybody wants something, Eddie,’ Fox stated, folding his arms.

‘Look, all that stuff I told you... I thought I was saying it for the right reasons. I do have a sense of honour, you know.’

‘You’re not a grass?’

‘That’s right! But a time comes when it’s every man for himself, aye?’

‘You’ll get no argument from me.’

Bates looked from Clarke to Fox and then back again as he debated with himself. He blew air from his cheeks and focused on the scarred tabletop.

‘It was Molly,’ he said eventually.

‘Molly Sewell?’

Bates nodded. ‘She arranged it, even told me which room to use and how to kit it out. Like she’d been planning it for a while.’

‘Molly wanted you to keep her boss prisoner? Did she tell you why?’ Clarke was trying not to sound disbelieving.

Bates shook his head. ‘She drugged his whisky. Went into his house and checked he was out for the count. Then we carried him out to her car, took him to my place.’

‘Without anybody seeing?’

‘We looked like we were helping a drunk mate.’

‘How did she get into his house?’ Fox asked.

‘What?’

‘Was the door unlocked?’

‘Must have been, I suppose. Or else she had a key.’

‘How long were you supposed to keep him?’

‘Not much longer, maybe only another day.’

‘And you don’t know why?’

‘She never said. I mean, yeah, I thought there’d be money at the back of it. Makes sense if you think about it — kidnap your own boss, pay the ransom, let him go.’

‘But there never was a demand for money.’

Bates looked at Clarke again. ‘Then I’ve no idea what it was about — you’ll have to ask her. Far as I was concerned, I was doing a favour.’

‘You realise this sounds like you’re piling one porky on top of another?’ Clarke said. ‘We dismiss a story, you come up with a more outlandish one?’

Bates just shrugged. ‘It’s the God’s honest truth — and I expect you to remember that.’

‘Oh, we’ll remember it — you aided and abetted a kidnapper and held the victim to non-existent ransom.’ Clarke turned to Fox. ‘What do you think?’

‘Probably much the same as you. You’ve got Sewell’s home address and phone number — let’s ask her.’

Clarke nodded, her eyes on Eddie Bates. ‘That’ll give you time to conjure up another storyline — maybe try aliens next, eh?’

She exited the room, followed by Fox, and indicated to the waiting officers that Bates could be taken back to his cell. As he was led away, both detectives watched. Then Clarke took the pad from her pocket, the one with Molly Sewell’s details. She tried her home number first. The receiver was picked up by someone with an American accent.

‘Is Molly there?’ Clarke asked.

‘Think you’ve got the wrong number.’

Clarke held up the pad, reeling the number off.

‘Okay, that’s the right number, but there’s no one here called Molly, unless one of my flatmates got lucky last night...’

Clarke apologised and rang off, then tried the mobile. An automated voice answered immediately.

‘The number you have dialled has not been recognised.’

She tried again, same result. Fox was nodding.

‘Let’s go,’ he said.

It took them only ten minutes to drive to the address. Duncan Street sat between Ratcliffe Terrace and Minto Street. One-way traffic, meaning Clarke had to make three right turns before beginning the slow crawl along it, looking for number 28. One side of the street comprised a terrace of Georgian houses with imposing porticoes. The other side included a dental practice and an MOT garage.

‘Only go up to twenty-four,’ Fox said as they reached the Minto Street junction. Rather than go all around the houses again, Clarke reversed and drew into a parking space. She handed the notepad to Fox.

‘Definitely says twenty-eight,’ he confirmed.

‘She’s sold us a pup.’

Fox nodded. ‘But not the whole pup. The tenement next to the pub is twenty-four, meaning the pub on the corner could be twenty-six. That’s just shy of the address written here.’

‘So?’

‘So if she’d just been making something up off the top off her head, what are the chances of getting it so close?’

‘She knows the street,’ Clarke said, nodding.

‘So maybe someone she knows lives here...’

‘Or she’s in one of these other houses.’ Clarke turned her head to Fox. ‘How does a bit of doorstepping sound to you?’

‘I’m game if you are.’

They started at the Minto Street end, giving Sewell’s name and description. A couple of householders said she sounded familiar but they didn’t know the names of most of their neighbours. The grand building just along from the dental practice had once housed a publishing company but now boasted half a dozen bells for the occupants of its apartments. The first one they tried got them an invitation inside. The man was in his mid-thirties, bespectacled and wearing a green sweater, its sleeves rolled up.

‘Yes, Molly,’ he said, after Clarke ended her routine. ‘She’s in Flat Six.’ He even showed them the way. Clarke tried the door, but there was no answer. There was no letter box — all the mail arrived at the main door and was picked up there. She tried knocking again.

‘When was the last time you saw her?’ Fox asked the neighbour.

‘Not for a few days. I did hear a door close earlier tonight — could have been hers. There was a taxi idling outside.’

‘A taxi?’

‘Well, a vehicle anyway, but you get to know the sound they make.’

Fox nodded his thanks. Clarke’s mouth was moving as she weighed up their options.

‘You’ve been a big help,’ Fox told the man, hinting that he could go. The man gave a little bow of his head and returned to his own flat.

‘She took the money, didn’t she?’ Clarke surmised. ‘And when Brough found out... No, that doesn’t work. Maybe he was starting to get an inkling, though.’

‘So why didn’t she run then?’

‘She needed somebody to take the blame. Maybe Brough was readying to run.’

‘To get away from Glushenko?’ Fox nodded slowly.

‘When Glushenko hits town, that’s when Bates lets Brough go, so he can stumble right into him. Meantime, Sewell tiptoes away and no one’s any the wiser.’

‘No one who’s alive, that is.’

She studied him. ‘How does that sound to you?’

‘Feasible.’

‘Likely?’

‘It takes strong nerves, hanging around after the money’s done its vanishing trick, Brough trying to work out who’s got it and how they pulled it off.’

‘He’d suspect Christie first,’ Clarke said. ‘That buys her some time. Then there are all the other villains on Brough’s books.’

‘But she’d have been on his list.’

Clarke nodded. ‘But the very fact that she stuck around...’

‘Might put him off the scent.’

They fell silent, running through the theory again, trying to find other possibilities.

‘Another shout-out to airports, ferries and train stations?’ Fox suggested.

‘Where do you reckon she’ll go?’

‘With ten million tucked away in a bank somewhere?’ Fox considered the possibilities. ‘Center Parcs?’ he offered.

Despite herself, Siobhan Clarke gave a snort of laughter.

26

Christie’s white Range Rover was parked in the driveway, and there was a light on in the hall. Rebus rang the bell and waited, studying the fake cameras and burglar alarm. No answer. He tried again, then walked to the living-room window. It was curtained, but the curtains didn’t quite meet at the top and he could see there were lights on in there, too.

He walked around the side of the house. A security light was tripped, showing him the rear door to the house, to the right of which sat the partially melted bin. He turned the door handle and the door opened inwards.

‘Hello?’ he called.

He stepped inside and called Christie’s name.

Nothing.

He could see a modern kitchen off to his right, with a breakfast bar at its centre. Plates and pans were stacked next to the dishwasher.

‘Darryl? It’s Rebus!’

Into the main downstairs hall. He peered up the staircase and saw that the landing was in darkness. The door to the living room was ajar, so he gave it a push.

‘Join us,’ a guttural voice commanded.

The man was standing in the middle of the room, dressed in a three-quarter-length black leather coat, black denims, and what looked like cowboy boots. His head was shaved, but he sported a goatee beard. It, too, was black. The eyes were pinpricks, the nose hooked. Late twenties or early thirties? Not overly tall, but given added stature by dint of the curved sword held in one hand, revolver in the other.

Rebus looked towards Darryl Christie. He was seated on an armchair in front of Glushenko, hands wrapped around his chest in a hug, both knees twitching.

‘Nice room, Darryl,’ Rebus said, trying to calm his heart rate. ‘Can I assume your mum was responsible for the decor?’

‘Please,’ the Ukrainian said, ‘introduce yourself.’

‘I’m in insurance,’ Rebus said. ‘I’m here to give Mr Christie a quote.’ He turned again towards Christie. ‘Family not around?’ he checked.

‘My guest was good enough to wait until they’d gone to the flicks.’ Christie’s voice was calm despite the body language.

‘Are you a policeman?’ Glushenko enquired.

‘No.’

‘Liar.’ Glushenko showed gleaming teeth as he grinned. ‘Give me your wallet.’

Rebus started to reach into his jacket, the Ukrainian gesturing that he should do so with infinite slowness. Rebus held it out.

‘Put it on the mantelpiece.’

Rebus did so.

‘Now pull a chair over next to the bastard.’

Glushenko watched as Rebus complied. He stood the sword against the fireplace but kept the revolver aimed between the two seated figures as he opened the wallet. A few business cards spilled out.

‘Detective Inspector Malcolm Fox,’ Glushenko intoned. ‘Major Crime Division.’ He glanced at Rebus. ‘Impressive...’

‘So I’m told,’ Rebus acknowledged.

Glushenko nodded. ‘Your phone, too, please.’

Rebus took it out.

‘Slide it across the floor towards me.’

When it arrived, Glushenko stepped on it with the heel of one boot. Rebus heard the screen crack. The man’s hand reached for the sword again.

‘How did you get that past Customs?’ Rebus asked.

‘I bought it in your country. They are sold as ornaments, but I was able to sharpen it.’

‘I think he plans to behead me,’ Christie explained.

‘Exactly so.’

‘Leaving me for my mum and the boys to find.’

Glushenko nodded. ‘Or,’ he said, ‘you could hand me the money you stole.’

‘I don’t have it. I never did have it.’

‘For what it’s worth,’ Rebus added, ‘I think he’s telling the truth. It was stolen from the man who stole it from you.’

‘Brough?’ Glushenko looked like he might spit at mention of the name. ‘The Invisible Man?’

‘Actually, he’s back in the land of the living,’ Rebus said. ‘As of earlier today. He’d been kept doped to the eyeballs by whoever took your money.’

Glushenko stared at Rebus. ‘Who are you? How is it that you know so much?’

Rebus turned his head towards Christie. ‘I know you ordered that beating you took. Even made sure Chatham was told the cameras outside were dummies. The slashed car tyres and the bin — those were your doing too. You thought maybe it would buy you some time — Mr Glushenko here might not interfere if he thought someone like Brough was already out to get you. Plus you’d be assured a lot of police attention, which likely would keep him at bay. But when Chatham found out who the victim had been and started blabbing to the likes of Craw Shand... you got on to the person who arranged the beating and told him Chatham had to be got rid of.’

Christie shook his head slowly. ‘Kenny Arnott was only supposed to give Chatham a fright so he’d keep his mouth shut in future.’

‘What went wrong?’

‘They did too good a job. Chatham tried getting away, went into the water. They’d poured whisky into him because that was the way it would have gone down if he’d really been for the chop.’

‘I’m guessing none of Arnott’s guys could swim?’

‘What we in the trade call a total fuck-up.’

‘The condemned man’s confession?’ Glushenko seemed to approve. ‘So now you can die cleansed of sin, yes?’

‘Do you want me standing or kneeling?’ Christie asked.

‘This man has a certain dignity,’ Glushenko said to Rebus.

‘He also never had your money,’ Rebus reminded him.

‘But he was partner of man who did! And now you tell me Brough is in the city, he will be my next appointment...’

Christie had risen to his feet. He clasped his hands behind his back, looking suddenly calmer and more collected than any man Rebus had ever known.

‘Ten million from almost a billion,’ Christie said. ‘It really makes that much of a difference?’

‘If people learn that I can be cheated and do nothing? Yes, that makes a difference.’

Christie had angled his head towards the still-seated Rebus. ‘I don’t suppose he’s going to want any witnesses, either,’ he cautioned, sinking to one knee.

‘I was thinking the same thing, Darryl.’

Rebus watched as Glushenko slipped the revolver into the pocket of his leather coat so he could grip the sword with both hands. He was raising it in an arc as Darryl’s right hand whipped round from behind his back. The pistol must have been tucked in his waistband. He aimed it at Glushenko’s face and pulled the trigger.

The explosion filled the room. A spray of warm liquid hit Rebus. Behind the billowing smoke, there was more blood on the wall above the mantelpiece. Rebus tried not to look at the damage to the Ukrainian as the man’s knees buckled and he fell in a heap to the floor, the sword clattering next to him. Christie was back on his feet, the gun pointed at the prone figure. He stood like that as the smoke cleared. Rebus stayed where he was, attention focused on the pistol, unwilling to draw attention to himself until Christie had processed everything. The words that eventually escaped Christie’s lips weren’t the ones Rebus had expected.

‘Look at the mess — Mum’s going to kill me.’ He turned towards Rebus and tried out a thin, sickly smile, his face and clothes speckled with gore. ‘Bit of a stretch to make it look like suicide?’

‘Just a bit,’ Rebus conceded. ‘Explains why you stayed put, though — you really did have insurance.’

‘This?’ Christie held up the pistol. ‘I’ve got Cafferty to thank — he suggested getting tooled up.’

‘Did he now?’

Christie’s eyes narrowed. ‘You think he meant for something like this to happen?’

‘He must have known it was a possibility.’

‘Glushenko kills me or I kill him — either way Cafferty wins.’ Christie considered this. ‘The sly old bastard,’ he muttered.

‘Any chance of you putting that down, now you’re done with it?’ Rebus nodded towards the pistol. Christie placed it on the mantelpiece and picked up Rebus’s wallet, taking it over to him.

‘Might want to give it a wipe, DI Fox.’

‘And change my shirt,’ Rebus added, studying himself. ‘Why didn’t you shoot him straight off?’

‘He had a gun pointed at me. I knew my best chance was when he was focused on the sword, me kneeling, ready to meet my maker.’ Christie paused. ‘So what happens now?’

‘You call it in.’

‘Me?’

Rebus gestured towards the remains of his phone. ‘Mine’s out of action.’

‘Self-defence, though, eh?’

‘I can think of lawyers who’d have a good crack at that,’ Rebus agreed.

‘And you’ll stand in the witness box and help me?’

‘I’ll say what I saw.’

Christie took a moment to ponder this. ‘Three to five? Five to seven?’

‘Maybe eight to ten,’ Rebus said. ‘Judges tend to frown when shooters are involved.’

‘So out again in five years?’

Rebus nodded slowly as Christie settled back into the armchair. ‘I’ll miss the house,’ he said. ‘And Mum, of course.’

‘She’ll visit. Cal and Joseph, too.’

‘Of course they will,’ Christie said softly. ‘Maybe I’ll buy Cafferty’s old place after all, move them in there. They won’t want to live here...’ He paused again. ‘I did fuck up, though, didn’t I? Walked straight into Cafferty’s trap...’

‘Traps most often look like something you want or need,’ Rebus confirmed.

Christie was staring at the mantelpiece. ‘Maybe I could pay a little visit before they come for me.’

‘I don’t think that would be wise, Darryl. Two murders looks a lot less like self-defence.’

Christie nodded his eventual agreement. There was a phone sitting in its charging cradle on a small table by the window. Rebus walked over to it, lifted it up and held it out.

‘You do it,’ Christie told him, sounding suddenly exhausted.

Rebus punched in the number and waited. He walked back to the window and pulled open the curtains, wondering if the gunfire would have brought out any of the neighbours — maybe they had already called it in. Hearing movement behind him, he turned in time to see Christie stalking from the room.

‘Darryl!’ he called out. Glancing towards the mantelpiece, he saw the pistol was gone. The operator had come on the line to ask him which emergency service he required.

‘No time,’ he said, dropping the phone. He was halfway out of the room when he remembered something. Diving back in, he removed the revolver from Glushenko’s pocket, and reached the back door as the Range Rover was reversing out at speed, scraping one of the gateposts on its way.

Rebus ran to his car and got in, placing the gun on the passenger seat, butt towards him, muzzle facing the door. He was intending to phone while he drove, until he remembered he had no phone. The first pub he passed, he hit the brakes, squealing to a stop. The smokers gathered on the pavement looked bemused as he demanded a phone. A woman handed hers over.

‘Where’s the fire?’ she said.

Rebus knew Cafferty’s number by heart. An automated voice told him to leave a message after the tone. ‘Get out now!’ he yelled. ‘Christie’s on his way to blow your brains out!’

Next call: Siobhan.

‘I’ve got news—’ she began.

‘Christie’s just killed Glushenko,’ Rebus interrupted. ‘Now he’s on his way to do the same to Cafferty!’ He paused to let this sink in. ‘Can your news wait?’

‘Yes,’ Clarke said.

Rebus tossed the phone back to the woman. ‘Does that count as a fire?’ he asked her, not waiting for her reply.

He ran every red light, stopping only when he encountered the immovable obstacle of a tram as it progressed at the usual stately pace along Princes Street. He took the opportunity to examine the revolver. It looked practically antique, but the bullets sitting snugly in their chambers were shiny and new. He snapped it shut and measured its weight in his hand. Slow and cumbersome — no match for Christie’s pistol.

The road ahead had cleared. Rebus hit the accelerator and his horn and sped up the Mound.

George IV Bridge... around the one-way and into Lauriston Place... then left into the Quartermile development. The white Range Rover was parked on a double yellow line, lights on, driver’s door gaping, engine idling. Rebus pulled up alongside and got out. The metal gate to Cafferty’s block was open, and the main door had been hit by gunshots, the wood next to the lock splintered. Rebus toed it open and walked in. A uniformed guard stood in the hall, clutching a two-way radio. He froze at the sight of the revolver.

‘I’m with the police,’ Rebus tried to reassure him. ‘Have you called it in?’

The guard nodded, eyes on Rebus’s bloodstained shirt.

‘I really am with the police. The guy upstairs is armed, too — best if you stay here.’

According to the illuminated panel, the lift had gone to the top floor. Rebus took the stairs rather than wait. He had to haul himself up the final few, heart thumping, breath coming in gasps. He choked back a cough and pulled open the door, entering the communal hallway. At the far end, the pistol had been used in place of a key again. Rebus breathed in the now familiar smell of cordite, pushed open the door and stepped inside.

‘He’s not here!’ Christie spat. He was circuiting the large open-plan living space, the pistol hanging by his side. Rebus held the revolver behind him as he made his approach.

‘Lights are on, but no one’s home,’ Christie continued to complain. There was a mug of tea on the kitchen worktop. Rebus touched it: still warm.

‘You told him, didn’t you?’ Christie raged.

‘My phone’s in smithereens, remember?’

‘You fucking did, though — I can see it in your eyes!’ Christie pointed the pistol at Rebus’s head.

‘It’s not me you want, Darryl,’ Rebus reminded him. ‘I’m not the one who got you into this mess, remember?’

‘Maybe I should go see Brough, then — save Big Ger for later.’

‘That’s certainly a plan.’ Rebus could hear a siren approaching. ‘Best be quick, though — sounds like someone heard the shots.’

The pistol was still pointed at Rebus’s head. The fiery look in Christie’s eyes began to die back a little.

‘You’re a lucky man, Rebus — did anyone ever tell you that?’

‘Brough’s a different proposition, remember — cold-blooded murder isn’t as easy to defend in court.’

‘Fucker deserves to die.’

‘We seldom get what we really deserve, Darryl.’

‘Maybe I can change that for once — Brough first, then Cafferty.’ Christie was backing his way down the hall towards the door. He didn’t see one of the doors off to the right open slowly on its silent hinges. A hammer swung down, catching him on the top of his skull. As he flinched, he let off a shot. Rebus could feel it as it passed by him before smashing through the glass door to the balcony. Christie’s whole body skewed, coming to rest against the wall before crumpling. Rebus walked towards him.

‘Hiding in the toilet?’

‘Didn’t have time to do much else,’ Cafferty said.

‘The second hammer?’

Cafferty held it up for inspection, nodding.

‘I meant to ask why you bought two.’

‘They were on special offer,’ Cafferty said. ‘I’m not one to turn down a bargain.’ He was studying the unconscious figure. ‘You sure Glushenko’s dead?’

‘Shot in the face at more or less point-blank range.’ Rebus gestured towards his spattered shirt.

‘Did that belong to your grandad?’ Cafferty meant the revolver.

‘It was the Ukrainian’s. He had a nice sharp sword, too. Lucky you offered Darryl that bit of advice.’

The two men stared at one another.

‘I’ve always been generous that way,’ Cafferty said eventually.

Rebus’s flat.

Midnight had come and gone. Having given his statement at Gayfield Square, been swabbed for DNA and fingerprinted, and had his clothes bagged, Rebus was lingering in the shower while Clarke and Fox sat at the table in the living room, shovelling down food rescued from a chip shop just before it closed. Clarke’s phone sat next to her, just in case there was news of Molly Sewell. Rebus finally entered, freshly dressed and rubbing a towel through his hair. He plucked a chip from Fox’s carton.

‘Thought you said you weren’t hungry.’

‘I’m not,’ Rebus told him, drawing out a chair and sitting down. The Turquand paperwork had been pushed to one side of the table. He stared at it.

‘Cafferty has a lot to answer for,’ Clarke said, ‘putting that idea in Christie’s head.’

‘On the other hand, if he hadn’t, it would be Darryl on Deb’s slab in the morning rather than Comrade Glushenko.’

‘From what you say, facial ID is probably out.’

‘It’ll be DNA or distinguishing features,’ Rebus agreed. ‘Any news of Ms Sewell?’

‘Nothing,’ Clarke said, peering at her screen.

Rebus was thoughtful for a moment. ‘Cafferty let me in on a secret, while we were waiting for the blues and twos.’

‘What?’

‘Eddie Bates was dealing with Cafferty’s blessing — his blessing and his backing.’ Rebus saw that he had two very willing listeners. ‘Bates knew that Molly Sewell worked for someone with money. He told Cafferty, thinking Cafferty could maybe do something with it. So Cafferty met with Molly.’

‘When?’

‘A few months back. His idea was that she’d be good for information.’

‘He already knew Brough and Christie were partners?’

Rebus nodded. ‘But Molly explained the why and the how. Then, when she’d got to know Cafferty a bit better, she told him her plan. She’d met Francesca many a time and had got friendly with Alison Warbody. Alison told her how much she despised Brough. It was his fault Francesca was the way she was. It gnawed away at Molly until she decided to do something about it.’

‘Namely, rip him off.’

‘But handing half to Warbody. Francesca was down to her last half-million, thanks to low interest rates and expensive help. Relatively speaking, she was a pauper.’

‘What did Brough do?’ Fox asked. ‘To Francesca, I mean.’

‘On his deathbed, old Sir Magnus told them both that they could break any rule, get away with anything. The lesson was fresh in Anthony’s mind when he stuck Julian Greene’s head under the surface of that swimming pool and held it there.’

‘With Francesca watching?’ Clarke asked.

Rebus nodded. ‘Anthony obviously didn’t approve of Francesca’s suitor. All of which sent her looking for oblivion.’

‘At one point,’ Fox said, ‘she wanted an exorcism.’

‘For her brother rather than her.’

‘You got this from Cafferty?’ Clarke asked Rebus.

‘I sort of pieced it together,’ he answered with a shrug. ‘But I don’t doubt it’s the truth.’

‘So did Warbody get her share?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘Shouldn’t we be asking?’

‘Sure.’

‘But she’s not likely to tell us, is she?’

The room fell silent again until Rebus spoke.

‘Darryl even approached Cafferty to help search for Brough.’

‘So he could offer Brough to Glushenko?’

‘No — so Glushenko might get wind that Cafferty was on the lookout, and maybe start to think there was a link between the two.’

‘So he’d target Big Ger rather than Darryl?’

‘Not that Cafferty did help look, of course. But he strung Darryl along.’

‘He’s been stringing all of us along,’ Clarke commented.

Silence again until Rebus leaned forward across the table. ‘Say you do catch Molly and bring her in — what exactly have you got? Is Brough going to testify that his abduction revolved around money skimmed from an account filled to the brim with stolen cash, laundered by gangsters?’

‘That’s probably HMRC’s call,’ Fox said.

‘And the best of luck to them. But if Molly keeps quiet, and Brough keeps quiet, and Cafferty keeps quiet...’

‘There’s always Christie,’ Clarke countered. ‘He’s looking at a lengthy sentence. Maybe he’d cooperate?’

‘You really think so?’

‘Not really, no,’ she conceded. ‘What about Craw Shand?’

‘Stolen away by Cafferty, making it look like force was used.’

‘So we’d pile even more pressure on Darryl Christie?’

Rebus nodded. ‘Craw’s on his way home now from a bed and breakfast in Helensburgh, courtesy of his new friend.’

Fox looked from Rebus to Clarke and back again. ‘So the only person going to jail is Darryl Christie?’

‘You’re forgetting Eddie Bates — but essentially, yes.’

‘And what does that mean for the city?’

‘It means,’ Rebus said, ‘Big Ger Cafferty just got a career-best result.’

‘Every silver lining has a cloud,’ Siobhan Clarke said with a sigh. ‘Do we tell Alvin James tonight or tomorrow?’

Rebus was looking at Fox. ‘Jude may be off the hook, Malcolm. Then again, if and when Cafferty steps into Darryl’s shoes...’ He shrugged. ‘What you choose to tell her is up to you.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘If she thinks the debt’s cancelled, might make her rethink her life — fresh start and all that.’

Fox nodded, then tapped a finger against the Turquand files. ‘Just a pity you didn’t get closure, John.’

‘Ah,’ Rebus said, leaning back in his seat, ‘I was about to come to that...’