by Ian Rankin
‘Do you know what SLPs are?’
‘No.’
‘Maybe I should show you, then.’ She seemed to have made her mind up. Springing to her feet, she grabbed her coffee and told him to do the same. He followed her back to the HMRC section, where they found a spare chair and pulled it over to her desk. There were a few questioning looks from Graham’s colleagues, so she introduced Fox.
‘Relax,’ she said. ‘He’s almost one of us.’
She got busy on her keyboard until a page-long list appeared onscreen.
‘Scottish limited partnerships. Guess how many of them are registered at the flat above Klondyke Alley?’
Fox’s eyes narrowed. ‘All of these?’
Graham had clicked her mouse several times, and the list kept growing. ‘Over five hundred,’ she stated. ‘Five hundred companies that give their business address as a one-bedroom flat in Leith.’
‘I’m hoping you’re going to tell me why.’
‘They’re shell companies, Malcolm. A way of hiding assets and moving them around the globe. Try tracking the actual owners and you usually end up in some offshore tax haven like the British Virgin Islands or the Caymans, jurisdictions that aren’t exactly forthcoming when the UK tax authorities start asking questions. There’s a new law coming in. UK owners will have to reveal who the real beneficiaries are, though whether we’ll be able to trust that information is a moot point. For now though, SLPs are a great way of hiding who you are and what the hell you’re doing.’
‘And Darryl Christie runs this whole thing?’
Graham shook her head. ‘The flat is rented from Christie by a corporate services provider called Brough Consulting.’
‘No relation to the private bank?’
‘Not quite. Brough Consulting is one man, Anthony Brough, grandson of Sir Magnus, who ran Brough’s until it was bought by one of the Big Five.’
‘How close is he to Darryl?’
‘Quite close.’
‘So these shell companies … they’re like an extension of the money laundering?’
‘That’s what we’re trying to find out. It’s a hideous paper trail that happens to be mostly electronic. So we sit here all day, working our way from one company to the next, one beneficial owner to the next, trying to find real flesh-and-blood people hiding in the margins of a hundred thousand transactions.’ She looked at him. ‘It is proper detective work, you see. Except we tend to call it forensic accounting.’
‘Have you made anything stick yet?’
‘Against Brough Consulting? We’d be popping the champagne if we had.’
‘Getting close, though?’
‘We thought maybe Darryl Christie would lead us somewhere.’
‘But that hasn’t happened.’ Fox thought for a moment. ‘Could any of these shell companies have some beef with Darryl?’
‘We’ve no way of knowing.’
‘You can’t intercept his emails and phone calls?’
‘Not without the say-so from upstairs. And probably a doubling of resources – has news reached you that we’re supposed to be tightening our belts? This is Austerity Britain we’re living in.’ She swivelled in her chair so her knees brushed his. ‘You need to keep this to yourself, Malcolm, remember that. Even if it starts to have some bearing on the assault case, you talk to me before you start sharing with your pals back in Edinburgh.’
‘Understood,’ Fox said. ‘And thanks. It means a lot that you would trust me.’
‘There’s more I could tell you, but it would probably go over your head – some of it goes above mine.’
‘Numbers were never my strong point.’
‘But you can balance a chequebook – that’s what you said at our first meeting.’
‘Maybe I exaggerated a little.’ He jabbed a finger towards his cheek. ‘Good poker face, remember?’
Graham smiled again. ‘You’re heading back to Edinburgh?’ She watched Fox nod. ‘Quid pro quo, then – don’t leave me out of the loop.’
‘I won’t,’ Fox said.
‘So where does the inquiry go next?’
‘That’s DI Clarke’s call.’ His phone was vibrating in his jacket. He dug it out and checked the screen. ‘Speak of the devil,’ he said, opening the text message. Graham saw his eyebrows arch in surprise.
‘Something?’ she asked.
‘Something,’ he acknowledged, turning the phone towards her so she could read what was there.
We’ve got a confession.
‘You better skedaddle, then,’ Graham said. ‘And be sure to phone me with the news.’
‘I’ll do that,’ Fox said, deserting the remains of his coffee as he headed for the door.
6
A solitary journalist stood guard on the pavement outside Gayfield Square police station. Her name was Laura Smith and she was the crime correspondent for the Scotsman.
‘I’m freezing half to death here, DI Fox,’ she complained as he made to pass her.
‘No comment, Ms Smith.’
‘It’s not like I haven’t done you favours in the past.’
‘It’s DI Clarke you should be pestering.’
‘She’s not answering her phone.’
‘Probably because she’s got nothing to say. And isn’t a mugging a bit pedestrian for a crime reporter?’
‘Not when you bear in mind who the victim is.’
‘Local entrepreneur Darryl Christie?’
She smiled. ‘Don’t worry, my paper’s lawyers will make sure I don’t say anything that could get us into trouble.’
‘That’s good, because I dare say Mr Christie has lawyers, too.’
‘Just give me a sentence – I can quote you as “police sources”.’
‘I’ve got nothing for you, Laura. But I’ll put in a word with DI Clarke.’
‘Cross your heart?’
‘I wouldn’t want you suing me for breach of promise.’
He opened the door and went in, past the reception desk, punching in the code for the inner door, then along the narrow corridor to the interview rooms. No doubting which one contained the confessor – a huddle of uniforms had gathered next to it, whispering and listening.
Fox hadn’t been lying to Laura Smith – he’d tried phoning Clarke for clarification, but without any luck. Now he asked the most senior of the constables for the story.
‘Walked up to one of the beat officers, said he needed to tell him something.’
‘Where was this?’
‘A Greggs on South Bridge. Carrying a shopping bag and looking like he needed hosing down. Officer played along, asked him what he’d done. He said he’d whacked Darryl Christie around the head, given his ribs a few kicks for good measure.’
‘Probably a nutter,’ another uniform offered.
‘Specific injuries haven’t been mentioned anywhere, though, have they?’ the older constable said.
‘Hospital would know. Family and neighbours, too. Word has a way of getting out.’
‘Is there a lawyer on the way?’ Fox queried.
‘Says he doesn’t want one. Not been charged yet anyway.’
‘So who’s in there with him? DI Clarke?’
‘And DC Esson.’
Fox stared hard at the door, with its signage switched from VACANT to IN USE. The surface of the door was heavily scored, its paintwork chipped away. Fox was wondering if he could just march in. He could, of course – it was his right. But if Siobhan was getting answers … and if the man inside clammed up, spell broken by the interruption …
‘Has he got a name?’ he asked instead.
‘Officer he spoke to must have got it, but he’s off writing up his report.’
‘Will he mention that he was queuing for doughnuts at Greggs at the time?’
‘Man’s got to eat,’ the older constable said, as if dispensing the wisdom of the ages. ‘And it was a steak bake, to be exact.’
There was a noise from inside and the door opened, catching them by surprise. Like all the doors, it opened outward
s, so that no one left inside could attempt a barricade. The edge of the door caught one of the uniforms a glancing blow to his shoulder. He let out a yelp as Christine Esson emerged.
‘Serves you right,’ she said, in place of apologising. Siobhan Clarke was right behind her. She spotted Fox and gestured for him to follow as she made for the stairs to the CID suite. Esson meantime was telling the uniforms to make themselves useful – two to keep an eye on the man still seated in the interview room, another to fetch him something to drink and eat.
‘He pongs to high heaven,’ Clarke informed Fox, sucking in gulps of fresh air.
‘Vagrant?’
‘Not as such. Lives in Craigmillar. Unemployed. His name’s William Shand. William Crawford Shand.’
‘And he knows about the cracked ribs?’
Clarke glanced back at him. ‘News travels.’
‘Unless you happen to be Laura Smith.’
‘Laura can wait.’ Clarke walked into the office, met Ronnie Ogilvie’s eyes and stabbed a finger towards DCI Page’s door.
‘He’s not in,’ Ogilvie stated. He noticed Fox staring at his moustache.
‘Is that new?’ Fox asked. Ogilvie nodded. ‘Not sure it suits you, Ronnie.’
‘I hate to interrupt a burgeoning bromance,’ Clarke said, eyes fixed on Ogilvie, ‘but any idea where he’s gone?’
‘The DCI? Pen-pushers’ meeting at Fettes.’
Clarke sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. ‘I need to get his okay,’ she muttered.
‘Okay for what?’ Fox asked.
‘There’s a civilian Shand wants us to hook him up with. Says he’s the one he wants to confess to. Bit of history between them, it seems. Not sure I can let that happen without the DCI’s say-so.’
Fox was staring at her. ‘Your tone of voice makes me think I know who the civilian is.’
Clarke raised her eyes to the ceiling as the name burst from Malcolm Fox’s lips.
‘Rebus.’
‘Tell me Laura isn’t still outside,’ Clarke said as she led Rebus along the corridor.
‘Of course she is.’
Clarke cursed under her breath. ‘What did you tell her?’
‘Said I was meeting an old friend.’ Rebus turned towards her. ‘How are you, anyway?’
‘I’ve been better.’
‘Two things you need to know, Siobhan.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘One, everybody knows him as Craw. I doubt he’s been called William by anyone other than sheriffs and bailiffs.’
‘He’s got previous?’
‘See, that brings me to my second point – you’ve been sold a pup. A cursory examination of the records would have told you that Craw’s notorious for handing himself in whenever something big hits the news.’
‘We ran him through the system – clean as a whistle the past five years.’
‘Then he’s slid back into his old ways.’ They had reached the interview room, where Fox waited. Rebus shook his hand. ‘What brings you here, Malcolm?’
‘Curiosity.’
‘Well, you’re in the right place – the gent behind that door is a one-man freak show.’ Rebus reached for the handle, then paused. ‘Best if I do this on my own.’
‘Are you forgetting you’re not CID any more?’ Clarke said.
‘Even so …’
‘It’s a deal-breaker, John. There has to be someone in there representing Police Scotland.’
Rebus looked from Clarke to Fox and back again. ‘Then I’ll let the pair of you toss a coin.’ Having said which, he pulled open the door and strode in.
Craw Shand was seated at the narrow table, toying with a sandwich consisting of two thin slices of white bread and a thinner layer of orange processed cheese. There was an inch of tea left in the polystyrene cup, a scum beginning to form on it. Rebus wafted a hand in front of him.
‘Jeezo, Craw. When was the last time you saw soap?’ He gestured for the uniformed officers to leave. Without bothering to ask who Rebus was, they did as ordered.
Still got it, John.
‘All right, Mr Rebus?’ Craw said. His teeth were blackened, his hair – what was left of it – thin and greasy against his scalp. ‘Been a while, eh?’
‘Best part of twenty years, Craw.’
‘Not that long, surely?’
Rebus dragged the metal chair out from the table and sat down. ‘Didn’t they tell you? I’m retired these days.’
‘Is that right?’
‘Reckoned it was safe to retreat from the fray – thought the likes of you had got tired of playing games.’
‘No games today, Mr Rebus.’
‘Then there’s a first time for everything.’
Craw Shand’s eyes were milky as he stared at the man across from him. ‘Remember Johnny Bible, Mr Rebus?’
‘Sure.’
‘Craigmillar cop shop. You were the one who interrogated me.’
‘We don’t interrogate these days, Craw – it’s called an interview.’
‘You were tough but fair.’
‘I’d like to think so.’
‘Right up to the point where you pushed me to the floor and half strangled me.’
‘My memory’s not so good these days, Craw.’
Craw Shand offered a grin. ‘You remember, though.’
‘Maybe I do and maybe I don’t. What’s that got to do with Darryl Christie?’
Both men turned as the door was opened again and Clarke stalked in. Fox could be glimpsed in the corridor, wanting a view of Shand. Clarke pulled the door closed just as Rebus was offering a wave.
‘You’ve not told me,’ Rebus continued, ‘why it was me you needed to speak to. As I’ve been saying, DI Clarke here is perfectly competent.’
‘It was that memory of Craigmillar. I just thought I’d like to see you again.’
‘In case I dished out more of the same? Sorry to disappoint you, Craw, but we’re both in our sixties now and the world’s got a new set of rules.’ Rebus made show of studying his watch. ‘I’ve a dominoes tournament starting in an hour, so I’d be obliged if we could keep this businesslike.’
‘I hit him.’
‘Hit who?’
‘His name’s Darryl Christie. He lives in a big house by the Botanic Gardens.’
‘That’s good, Craw. Matches every online article about what happened.’
‘He was getting out of his car – a white Range Rover. I snuck up behind him and hit him.’
‘With what?’
‘A length of wood. It was lying to the side of the garage. That’s where I waited.’
‘In the dark, aye?’
‘Security lights came on as I walked up the driveway, but nobody came out of the house.’
‘You weren’t worried about the CCTV?’
‘We all know those things are next to useless.’
‘Why did you do it, Craw? Why pick that particular victim?’
‘I was just angry.’
‘About what, though?’
‘People with money. People with too much – the big houses and everything. I’m just sick of them.’
‘So you’d done this before?’
‘I’d thought about it many a time.’
‘But never carried it through?’ Rebus watched as Craw Shand shook his head. He leaned back on the hard metal seat.
‘You’re sure the car was white?’
‘Lights went on again as it came up the drive.’
‘Were the gates locked when you got there?’
‘Gate to the footpath wasn’t. Driveway gates started opening as the car came near.’
Rebus looked to Clarke, who raised one eyebrow. So far, the man could not be faulted.
‘What did you do with the piece of wood?’
‘Tossed it.’
‘Where?’
‘Inverleith Park somewhere.’
‘That’s a fair stretch of land, Craw. Might take us a lot of man hours to find it.’
Shand perked
up at this thought.
‘That’s supposing we were to believe you, of course. And I think you’re the lying toerag you always were.’ Rebus got up from his chair and walked around the table until he was standing behind Shand. He could feel the man tense.
‘Same fucking games you’ve always played,’ he growled. ‘Just because it gets that chipolata in your manky Y-fronts hard. Playtime’s over, pal. Time you headed back to your hovel and your online porn.’
‘I’m telling you, I did it!’
‘And I’m telling you to get the hell out of this interview room before we have to phone Rentokil!’
‘John,’ Clarke cautioned. She had been resting against a wall, but took a few steps towards the table. Then, to Shand: ‘Can you add to your description, Craw? The house, the car, how events played out?’
‘I hit him over the head from behind,’ Shand recited. ‘Then I leaned over him and gave him a punch in the face. Stood back up and kicked him in the ribs a few times – I forget how many. A last kick to the nose and that was that.’
‘Just for being rich?’
‘Exactly.’
Rebus placed a hand on one of Shand’s shoulders, causing him to flinch. ‘We should give the news to Christie. Case closed. We can all go home, and Craw here can go to Saughton nick, where there’ll be a small but perfectly formed price on his head.’ He paused, leaning in closer to Shand’s left ear. ‘You know who Darryl Christie is, Craw?’
‘He owns a hotel.’
‘They said that in the papers too, but what they forgot to mention was that he’s taken over from Big Ger Cafferty. Maybe let that sink in, eh?’ He straightened up, glancing towards Siobhan Clarke, but she was focusing on the seated figure.
‘Anything else, Mr Shand? Anything you specifically remember?’
Shand’s eyes widened. ‘The bin by the back door – half of one of its sides was melted away!’ He looked from Clarke to Rebus and back again, almost in triumph at the memory. Clarke, however, had eyes only for Rebus.
‘Give me a reason not to charge him,’ she said.
Rebus pursed his lips. ‘Seems like my work here is done.’ He gripped Craw Shand’s shoulder again. ‘Good luck, Craw. I really mean that. It’s taken you half a lifetime, but you’ve done it at last. God help you …’
Rebus was seated in the back room of the Oxford Bar. Darkness had fallen and the early-evening crowd downstairs at the bar itself was in good humour. Rebus sipped his drink, turning his head to the window when he heard a tapping sound. It was one of the regulars, who had gone outside for a smoke. He was signalling for Rebus to join him, but Rebus shook his head. He’d had a coughing fit in the toilet five minutes back, hawking gobbets into the sink then running the tap, rinsing away the evidence before dabbing sweat from his brow while thinking that next time maybe he’d remember to bring his inhaler. His face in the mirror told its own story, with little to indicate that the ending would be happy.
