Rather Be the Devil (Inspector Rebus 21)

by Ian Rankin

  No idea.

  The breed, then?

  Mongrel.

  And all the while, he would be thinking about cigarettes.

  The sun was already sinking from the sky. He reckoned there would be frost later. While Brillo went for a run, Rebus reached into his pocket, producing his phone in place of a fresh pack of twenty. He was wondering if Fat Rab was still on the force, so he called the one person he thought might be able to help.

  ‘Well now,’ Christine Esson answered in his ear, ‘here’s my second ghost today.’

  ‘Siobhan told me about Fox.’

  ‘He brought flowers and chocolates.’

  ‘Just because I never call, it doesn’t mean I don’t miss your charm and wit, DC Esson.’

  ‘But it’s my other skills you’re calling about, right?’

  ‘On the button as usual, Christine.’

  ‘So what is it this time?’

  ‘An easy one, I hope. A DI called Robert Chatham. Based out at Livingston last I heard. I need to talk to him.’

  ‘Give me fifteen minutes.’

  ‘You’re a gem, lass.’ Rebus ended the call. Thirty feet away, nature was taking its course. Rebus put away his phone and brought out a small black polythene bag, then started walking towards Brillo.

  ‘Who was that?’ Fox asked from across the room.

  ‘Nobody.’

  ‘Funny, that’s exactly who it sounded like.’ Fox approached Esson’s desk. They were alone in the CID suite, Ronnie Ogilvie out fetching sandwiches. ‘What’s this errand Siobhan’s running?’

  ‘She told you – it’s nothing to do with Darryl Christie.’

  ‘Who’s Robert Chatham?’ Fox enquired, peering at the note Esson had just made to herself.

  ‘Malcolm, will you back the hell off?’

  He held up his hands in surrender, but lingered close by her desk, too close for Esson’s liking.

  ‘Does Siobhan ever mention me?’

  Esson shook her head.

  ‘Gartcosh wasn’t my idea, you know. But I’d have been daft to turn it down.’

  ‘No argument here.’

  He was angling his head to look at her computer screen. She gave him the death stare again.

  ‘You must have something by now,’ he complained.

  ‘A whole string of Mr Christie’s business interests.’

  ‘Can I see?’

  ‘I’ll email them to you.’ She hit a few keys. ‘In fact, I just have. Now will you leave me in peace?’

  Fox walked back to the opposite end of the office, studying his phone and finding her email. Nothing he didn’t already know, except that Esson had addresses for the two betting shops. What was it Sheila Graham had said? Christie laundering money through them – how did that work then? Fox hadn’t got round to asking. He glanced up at Esson, but couldn’t – wouldn’t – ask her. She might think him gormless for not knowing the ins and outs. Besides, he had a better idea.

  ‘I’ll be back in a bit,’ he announced.

  ‘What about your sandwich?’

  ‘It’ll keep.’

  ‘Foolish words, Malcolm – you’ve not seen Ronnie when he’s hungry.’

  ‘I’ll take my chances.’

  ‘What’ll I tell Siobhan when I see her?’

  Fox thought for a moment. ‘Tell her I’m running an errand of my own.’

  Down the stairs and out of the building, taking in a few gulps of the fresh air. He unlocked his car and got in, easing his way out of the parking space, heading for Leith Walk.

  Seated in her own car, Clarke watched him go. A text arrived and she studied it with a smile.

  Malc’s offski – safe to come in!

  She wondered how Christine knew. Educated guess, probably. Then a second text: Might even be a sandwich for you!

  Clarke opened the car door and got out.

  4

  Fox hadn’t been into a betting shop since his late teens. His father hadn’t been much of a gambler, but would study the racing form on a Saturday morning and place a bet on four different horses – he called it a ‘Yankee’. If Malcolm was at home and Mitch couldn’t be bothered with the walk, he would be dispatched to the bookmaker’s along the street, despite protestations that a phone call would be as easy, or that his sister Jude could do it for a change. But Mitch wanted the security of a paper receipt, so that he could be confident the bet really had been recorded. Not that Malcolm could ever recall any actual wins – nothing worth bragging about to a son. And Jude was always somewhere else.

  He was surprised to walk into Diamond Joe’s and find no dishevelled old men nursing the stubs of both pencils and cigarettes. There was a cashier behind a glass screen – as in the past – but the place was filled with shiny machines and wall-mounted TVs. One channel was showing a golf tournament, another tennis, while a further couple showed horse racing. But the few punters in the place were focused on the machines. There was a stool in front of each. Plenty of jaunty blips and beeps and colourful lights. Not just high-tech one-armed bandits, but versions of blackjack and roulette, too. Spoilt for choice, Fox made for one of the most basic-looking models. It had four reels as its centrepiece. He slotted home a pound coin and touched the flashing button. Once the reels had stopped spinning, lights and jingle-jangle sounds told him he should be doing something. But what? He touched one button, then another. Nothing seemed to change, and he was left with one credit. He hit the start button, watched the reels as they clunked to their individual stops. Anything? Nothing. He tried the start button again, but it wasn’t being fooled.

  A quid gone in fifteen seconds.

  He stayed on the stool, pretending to be sending a text on his phone while getting a feel for the room. The cashier looked bored. She was chewing gum and studying her own phone. Fox walked over to her.

  ‘Can I bet on horses here?’ he asked.

  She stared at him, then lifted her eyes to the bank of screens.

  ‘How do I do it, though?’ he persisted.

  ‘Slips are over there,’ she answered, gesturing. ‘Or you can do it online.’ She waggled her phone. ‘The app’s free. There’s even a tenner credit for newbies.’

  He nodded his thanks and went over to the shelf with the betting slips, lifting one and studying it. It reminded him of maths homework, all grids, symbols and letters that were supposed to mean something to him. His dad used to write down the name of each horse, along with the race time and location, then tear off the scrap of paper and hand it over with his bet.

  Next to the slips sat a display of pools coupons. Mitch had done those, too, each and every Saturday, never able – as a Hearts fan – to put his own team down for anything other than a win. Fox smiled at the memory, then heard a sound resembling air escaping a tyre. It was the word ‘Yes!’ stretched out almost to breaking point and uttered from one of the stools. The punter rubbed his hands together as a slip of paper appeared from a slot. He bounded up to the cashier with it.

  ‘That’ll do me for today, Lisa,’ he said.

  The cashier studied the slip, then put it through a machine of her own before opening a drawer and counting out ten twenty-pound notes.

  ‘I’ll take a receipt, too,’ the man said. The cashier obliged and the customer stuffed everything in his jacket pocket. ‘Nice doing business with you.’ He made his way to the door, but paused with his fingers just brushing the handle. Then he turned back and handed the cashier one of the twenties, receiving pound coins in return. Scooping these up, he made for one of the other machines, settling himself down and feeding them in.

  Fox realised he was being watched. He gestured to show the cashier he was taking a pools coupon with him, then made his own way towards the outside world, where he crumpled the coupon, tossing it in the nearest bin.

  He wasn’t sure if he had learned anything useful, but with nothing better to do, he drove to the next address. With stunning originality, it was called Diamond Joe’s Too. He went in and marched up to the cashier – identical
set-up to its sister operation, but with a wary-looking man in his forties behind the glass. He handed over a twenty and asked for pound coins.

  ‘Know about our new app?’ the cashier enquired.

  ‘Ten-pound credit,’ Fox said. ‘Use it all the time.’

  ‘Not quite the same, though, is it?’ The man was nodding towards the machines.

  ‘Nothing like,’ Fox agreed, heading for a stool.

  He was eight quid down but starting to get the hang of things when the door opened and a woman walked in. She slung her bag on to the ground next to a blackjack machine, shrugged out of her leather jacket and got busy, for all the world like someone clocking in for a day on the production line. She hadn’t so much as glanced at anyone else in the place, though she gave the machine in front of her a long, slow stroke with one finger, as though she might coax generosity of spirit from it.

  Fox bided his time, slowly feeding his own machine. He even notched up a couple of small wins, keeping them as credits. Fifteen minutes to lose twenty quid. He wasn’t sure of the etiquette of watching other players from over their shoulder. The glower from the young man next stool along soon put him right, so he wandered over to the woman playing blackjack. He paused next to her, but she kept her eyes on the machine.

  ‘Not interested,’ she said.

  ‘Hello, Jude.’

  Fox’s sister turned her head towards him. As usual, her lank hair needed washing, and her eyeshadow was smudged. Her mouth formed a thin line.

  ‘You keeping tabs on me?’

  ‘Just coincidence,’ he shrugged.

  ‘Never took you for the gambling type – always Mister Play-Safe.’

  ‘How about you?’

  Her smile showed teeth. ‘Chalk and cheese, brother. Chalk and cheese.’

  ‘This your usual spot?’

  ‘You always said I needed something to get me out of the house.’

  ‘Oh aye, it’s a good way to meet people, this.’

  ‘Hell’s the point of meeting people?’

  ‘It’s how life’s supposed to work, Jude.’

  She concentrated on the game for a moment, then turned towards him again. ‘Wake the fuck up, Malcolm,’ she said, giving equal weight to each word.

  ‘Ever gamble online? Maybe use Diamond Joe’s handy little app?’

  ‘None of your business.’

  ‘Except I pay three figures into your bank each and every week.’

  ‘If it’s thanks you’re after, best find another charity case.’

  ‘I thought I was helping my sister get back on her feet.’

  She swivelled on the stool so her whole body was towards him, a furious look on her face.

  ‘No, Malcolm, what you were doing was moving your guilt money around the family. Soon as Dad was dead, you only had me. And you had to give it to someone, didn’t you, so you could feel that nice warm self-satisfied glow?’

  ‘Christ’s sake, Jude …’

  He saw her face soften a little. But instead of apologising, she turned back to her game.

  ‘Can you shut the yapping?’ the punter on the machine opposite demanded. ‘Trying to concentrate here.’

  ‘Sod you, Barry,’ Jude snarled back at him. ‘Five more minutes, you’ll be skint and on your smelly way.’

  ‘That really your sister?’ the man retorted, eyes on Fox. ‘Bet you wish you were a fucking only child.’

  ‘We both do,’ Jude stated, feeding more money into the never-satisfied slot.

  Robert Chatham’s home address was a terraced house on the Newhaven waterfront. A woman answered and Rebus explained he was an old colleague looking to catch up.

  ‘He’s working tonight.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Somewhere on Lothian Road. He’s a doorman.’

  Rebus nodded his thanks and got back in his Saab, retracing his route into the city and parking at a bus stop halfway up Lothian Road. The wide street boasted half a dozen bars, most of which changed their names and decor so often Rebus couldn’t have kept track if he tried. The first place he came to, the black-clad doormen were too young, but he stopped anyway.

  ‘Looking for Robert Chatham,’ he explained, receiving sullen shakes of the head. ‘Thanks for the conversation, then.’

  The next bar didn’t feel the need for security. It looked warm and inviting, laughter billowing out as the door was opened by a reveller readying to light a cigarette.

  One beer won’t kill you, Rebus thought to himself. You could settle for a half. But he kept moving instead. At weekends, Lothian Road could be hairy – stag and hen parties colliding; young wage-earners high on drugs, alcohol and life itself. But tonight it was midweek quiet, or else too early and chilly for the pavements to be lively. As Rebus approached the third bar, he noted its solitary gatekeeper. Broad-shouldered in a dark three-quarter-length coat. Shaved head and no discernible neck. Early fifties but fighting fit, ID stuffed into a clear plastic armband around one bicep.

  ‘Seem to know the face,’ the man said as Rebus stopped in front of him.

  ‘I used to be a DI,’ Rebus explained.

  ‘We ever work together?’

  Rebus shook his head, then held out a hand. ‘Name’s John Rebus.’ Chatham’s grip was solid, and Rebus returned it as best he could. ‘And you’re Robert Chatham.’

  ‘My other half phoned to let me know there was a visitor on his way. You’re out of the force now, though?’

  ‘I do a bit of work as a civilian. How long since you left?’

  ‘Three years.’ Chatham broke off to hold open the door for a pair of new arrivals, allowing Rebus a glimpse of the bar’s interior. Too dark for his liking, and a pounding soundtrack.

  ‘Is that called techno?’ he asked.

  ‘I call it noise,’ Chatham replied. ‘So what is it I can do for you?’

  ‘You had a spell at SCRU.’

  ‘A short spell – Eddie Tranter was off sick.’

  ‘I worked SCRU myself not long after.’

  ‘Oh aye?’

  ‘There’s a case I’ve been looking at – Maria Turquand.’ Chatham nodded slowly, saying nothing. ‘You dusted it off after Vince Brady offered new evidence.’

  ‘Evidence?’ Chatham snorted. ‘It was his word against Bruce Collier’s. Collier got his lawyers on it PDQ. Threatened to sue Brady, Lothian and Borders, and any newspaper we talked to.’

  ‘You reckon he had something to hide?’

  Chatham considered this. ‘Not really,’ he eventually conceded.

  ‘You think it was her lover all along?’

  ‘I take it you’ve seen the files – what do you think?’

  ‘Any chance we can discuss this somewhere that isn’t a pavement on Lothian Road?’

  ‘I don’t knock off till midnight. Only place I’m going after that is my kip.’

  ‘Tomorrow morning?’

  The doorman stared at Rebus. ‘I really don’t think I’m going to be any help.’

  ‘I’d appreciate it all the same.’

  ‘There’s a café on North Junction Street,’ Chatham eventually conceded. ‘Best bacon rolls in the city. Ten o’clock do you?’

  ‘Ten’s fine.’ They shook again, and Rebus headed for his car. He turned his head for a final look at Chatham, but the man was busy with his phone, holding it close to his face as he tapped the screen. Texting or calling? Rebus had his answer as Chatham lifted the phone to his ear. He was staring in Rebus’s direction as his mouth started to move.

  ‘Lip-reading, John,’ Rebus muttered. ‘There’s a hobby you could take up.’ He unlocked the Saab and got in, turning up the heat. His Marchmont flat was only five minutes away. Brillo would be needing a walk.

  Their meeting with Darryl Christie had been arranged for seven, but then changed by Christie to eight. When they’d arrived at his door, however, his mother was ready with an apology that Darryl was ‘a bit busy’ and could they come back in another hour?

  They returned to their two cars, parked kerbsi
de. Fox waited a minute or two before opening the passenger-side door of Clarke’s Astra.

  ‘Does it really make sense for us to sit in separate cars?’

  ‘Up to you,’ Clarke said. But she didn’t look exactly welcoming as he climbed in. She busied herself with her phone while Fox stared through the windscreen at his surroundings.

  ‘Thought I just saw my namesake,’ he eventually offered.

  Clarke glanced up. ‘They do get foxes here.’ As if on cue, the security lights came on outside Christie’s neighbour’s house. A lean shape could be seen stalking past.

  ‘Why do you think they chose this spot? Whoever thumped Darryl, I mean – why outside his actual house?’

  ‘Doesn’t need to be any real reason.’

  ‘Is his address public knowledge?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought so.’

  ‘Which might narrow things down a bit.’

  ‘It might,’ Clarke conceded. After a further fifteen seconds, she gave up the pretence of being busy on her phone, and half turned towards him instead. ‘But I’m more interested in why he was singled out in the first place.’

  ‘I went to his betting shops this afternoon.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Just for a look-see.’

  ‘Christine told me she’d copied you in on his various businesses. Mind if I ask why you zeroed in on them rather than any of his other interests?’

  ‘Maybe they were at the top of the list.’

  ‘They weren’t, though, were they?’

  Fox considered for a moment. ‘HMRC are interested in him. They think he’s laundering money.’

  ‘You mentioned that in Page’s office.’

  ‘If he’s cleaning up cash for various gangs from all over the country, any one of them could have taken against him.’

  ‘For short-changing them?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘What if I throw Cafferty’s name into the ring?’