Rather Be the Devil (Inspector Rebus 21)

by Ian Rankin

  Clarke had texted, interested in his whereabouts, so he wasn’t surprised when she climbed the steps from the bar area and peered around the doorway.

  ‘It’s Malcolm’s round,’ she informed him. Rebus shook his head, his hand resting on the glass in front of him.

  Eventually Fox appeared, carrying Clarke’s gin and tonic and a tomato juice. They pulled out chairs and sat opposite Rebus.

  ‘What the hell’s that?’ Fox couldn’t help asking.

  ‘It’s called a half,’ Rebus said, hoisting the small glass and swirling it.

  ‘Denise behind the bar tried warning me, but I thought she was joking.’

  ‘John’s watching himself,’ Clarke explained.

  ‘Is this Deborah Quant’s doing?’

  ‘At least I still take a drink,’ Rebus said, receiving a mock toast from Fox in response. Rebus turned his attention to Clarke. ‘You really think Craw Shand’s suddenly become a ninja?’

  ‘How does he know about the bin?’

  ‘Maybe he heard something. Maybe he went over there and checked the place out.’

  Clarke savoured the first taste of her drink, saying nothing.

  ‘You’re really going to charge him?’

  ‘The DCI can’t see good reason not to.’

  ‘Then you have to convince him he’s wrong. Does Christie know we’ve got Craw in custody?’

  ‘He’s been informed an arrest has been made.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Mr Shand’s name was not unfamiliar to him.’

  ‘Craw always did like a dodgy pub, and Darryl owns a few of those.’

  ‘He says they’ve never spoken or had any business …’

  Malcolm Fox cleared his throat, signalling an interruption. ‘Shand says he chose a victim at random, yes? So it’s neither here nor there if they know one another.’

  Rebus glared at him. ‘Malcolm, Craw Shand could no more beat someone up than I could swim the Forth. He’s in his sixties, weighs about the same as a scarecrow, and moves like someone’s stuck a pole up his arse.’

  ‘Plus,’ Clarke added, ‘he didn’t know about the slashed tyres, added to which he swears he didn’t torch the bin. On the other hand, he knows too much for this to be one of his usual stories …’

  ‘Agreed,’ Rebus eventually conceded. ‘Which is why we’re back to the point I made earlier – he’s been hearing things, or he scoped the place out. He needs questioning about both of those. He also needs to be warned what this is going to mean for him now Darryl Christie’s got his name.’

  ‘Then he’s safer in custody, wouldn’t you agree?’

  ‘Only if he’s in solitary.’

  They sat in silence for a few moments, concentrating on their drinks. There was another tap at the window, a further invitation for Rebus to step outside. He shook his head and mouthed, ‘No.’

  ‘Am I really seeing this?’ Fox said. ‘You’ve packed in the cigs?’

  ‘Call it a trial separation,’ Rebus replied.

  ‘Bloody hell. I need to sell my tobacco shares.’

  ‘I think it’s great,’ Clarke said.

  ‘Though it wipes out about the only hobby he had,’ Fox countered.

  Clarke turned to Rebus. ‘Speaking of which …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The files I gave you – any help?’

  ‘Some.’

  ‘What’s this?’ Fox enquired.

  ‘John’s looking at a society murder from the 1970s. Wish I’d been around at the time, actually.’

  Rebus stared at her. ‘You studied the contents before handing it over?’

  ‘Just the summary. But then I went online. There’s not much, but a few writers have used it in books about famous crimes.’

  ‘So tell me,’ Fox said.

  ‘Woman by the name of Maria Turquand,’ Clarke recited. ‘Had a string of lovers behind her husband’s back. He was the wealthy banker type, worked for Sir Magnus Brough. Maria ended up strangled in a bedroom at the Caledonian Hotel. Her latest lover – one of hubby’s old pals – was chief suspect until another of his conquests provided an alibi. But the hotel was filled to bursting with musicians, hangers-on and the media. You’ve heard of Bruce Collier?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Fox confided.

  ‘That’s because you don’t like music. He was huge at the time. Local success story who’d come home to headline the Usher Hall. Story was, he’d been seen chatting up Maria. Pal of his was around, too – and Maria had bedded him in the past. Then there was the road manager …’ She looked to Rebus for the name.

  ‘Vince Brady,’ he obliged. ‘Whose room was next to Maria’s. And there were connecting doors.’

  ‘I didn’t know that,’ Clarke said.

  ‘I had a word with Robert Chatham.’

  ‘Who’s Robert Chatham?’ Fox asked.

  ‘Ex-CID,’ Rebus explained. ‘Now retired. He headed a cold-case review a few years back.’

  ‘And this has come on to your radar because …?’

  ‘As you rightly said, a man needs a hobby.’

  Fox nodded his understanding. ‘Sir Magnus Brough was the power behind Brough’s, wasn’t he? The private bank?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Is he still around?’

  ‘Long dead.’

  ‘The bank got sold on, didn’t it? Any family members still involved?’

  Rebus was staring at him. ‘I’ve never been a customer. What’s this about, Malcolm?’

  Fox’s mouth twitched. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Liar.’

  ‘You’re amongst friends here,’ Clarke added, leaning in towards him so their shoulders touched.

  ‘Really?’ he asked, his eyes fixing on her.

  ‘Really,’ she stated, while Rebus nodded his confirmation.

  ‘It’s just that his name came up,’ Fox eventually confided.

  ‘At Gartcosh?’

  It was Fox’s turn to nod. ‘Not Sir Magnus, but his grandson.’

  ‘In connection with what?’

  ‘I can’t tell you that.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Operational reasons.’

  Rebus and Clarke shared a look. ‘I keep forgetting,’ Rebus drawled, ‘that you move in higher circles than us these days, Malcolm. Got to keep all the good stuff locked away. Wouldn’t do for lesser mortals to get a taste – might go to our heads.’

  ‘It’s not that I don’t trust you – either of you. But I was sworn to secrecy. And by the way, the fact that you’ve not asked me why I’m back in the city tells me Siobhan’s already told you. I’m not sure I like being ganged up on.’

  ‘Aye, well. It’s nice to know where we all stand, eh, Siobhan?’

  Fox’s shoulders had grown hunched as he gripped his near-empty glass, head angled over it.

  ‘I’m sure Malcolm knows what he’s doing,’ Clarke replied coldly.

  ‘First time for everything,’ Rebus agreed.

  Clarke had finished her drink. She started to get to her feet. ‘You sticking around, John? I could give you a lift.’

  ‘A lift home would do the trick,’ Rebus said, lifting up the coat folded next to him.

  ‘What about me?’ Fox complained. ‘My car’s back at Gayfield Square.’

  Clarke was already heading for the doorway. ‘You,’ she called back towards him, ‘can bloody well walk.’

  ‘It’ll do you good,’ Rebus added as he passed, patting the top of Fox’s head.

  Every Edinburgh pothole was torture, even in a car with the suspension of Darryl Christie’s Range Rover. He sat in the passenger seat, trying not to flinch. Harry, his driver, had the knack of finding the road surface’s every bump and crater. But eventually they reached Merchiston – probably not by the fastest route, as Harry was relying on the sat nav.

  ‘Which house?’ he was asking Christie now.

  ‘Number twenty.’

  ‘This one then.’ Harry slammed on the brake, producing a gasp of pain from besi
de him.

  ‘Sorry, Darryl. You okay?’

  But Christie was paying him no heed. Instead he was staring at the For Sale sign. Slowly he clambered from the car, straightening up with effort. Then he pushed open the gate and walked down the path. No lights on within. One set of curtains open, allowing him a view of a gutted drawing room.

  ‘You thinking of buying?’ Harry asked.

  ‘Go back to the car and wait there,’ Christie snapped.

  He walked down the driveway – so like his own – towards the rear of the property. A sensor picked him up and a light came on, illuminating the garden with its separate coach house, where Cafferty’s one-time bodyguard had slept. Cafferty had paid the man off eventually, services no longer required. A red light blinked from the alarm box above the back door. Christie reckoned it would not be fake.

  His phone buzzed in his pocket and he lifted it out. Joe Stark was calling him. He pressed the phone to his ear.

  ‘What can I do for you, Joe?’

  ‘I heard you got jumped.’

  ‘It’s no biggie.’

  ‘Trust me, it’s a biggie – means every fucker knows you can be jumped.’

  ‘I’m dealing with it.’

  ‘You better be.’

  ‘And I appreciate your concern.’

  ‘My concern?’ Stark’s voice was rising as Christie retraced his steps down the driveway. ‘All I’m concerned about is my fucking money – when do I get it?’

  ‘Soon, Joe, soon.’

  ‘You better hope I believe you, son.’

  ‘Have I ever let you down?’

  ‘Saying that gets us nowhere, Darryl. I’ve already gone easy on you.’

  ‘Are you saying you ordered that thumping?’

  ‘You’d be talking through a wired jaw at the very least if I had. Money or your head, son. Money or your head.’

  The phone went dead. Christie dropped it back into his pocket. Harry was holding the gate open for him.

  ‘Back to the ranch, boss? Or do you fancy a drink somewhere?’

  ‘I’m going home,’ Christie stated. But he paused before getting into the car, turning to cast his eye over Cafferty’s old house again.

  You thinking of buying?

  He wondered what his mother would say to that …

  Day Four

  7

  The previous night, Rebus had taken Brillo for a late walk on Bruntsfield Links before settling down at the dining table and opening his laptop, searching for the name Anthony Brough. All of this after Siobhan Clarke had dropped him off.

  ‘I mean it about Craw,’ Rebus had reminded her. ‘He’s a dead man walking unless you can convince Darryl he’s not the one.’

  ‘I’ll do what I can. But remand’s probably not going to be an option, not even if he’s charged.’

  ‘Then hold him for psychological assessment.’

  ‘It would be nice to have a more likely suspect in our sights.’

  ‘Has anyone spoken to Joe Stark?’

  ‘I thought Joe and Darryl were buddies?’

  ‘Which should have given Darryl an extra layer of protection. But since that’s not been the case …’

  ‘They’ve had a falling-out and this is by way of Joe’s punishment?’

  Rebus had shrugged. ‘Got to be worth a look, no?’

  Just as he’d thought Sir Magnus Brough’s grandson worth a look. In fact, he had dug out everything he could on the Brough family and its banking fiefdom. Established towards the end of the eighteenth century, a lot of its initial success coming from the financing of trade – slaves to America, cotton and tobacco back to the UK. From the Fife coalfields to tea plantations in India, via fine wines from Bordeaux, Brough’s had been there. It had fallen out of family control for a brief period immediately post-war, but Sir Magnus had come in as a junior partner and worked his way up until he owned the whole operation. Rebus had wondered: what sort of man did you have to be to do that? He had found his answer in a handful of online essays and chapters from economic histories – ruthless, rapacious, hands-on, determined and tireless.

  Sir Magnus’s son had been none of these things, and had turned his back on banking, preferring to holiday the year round in far-flung destinations. Jimmy Brough had settled down eventually, marrying Lisanne Bentley. Two kids, Anthony and Francesca, both in their thirties now, orphaned in their teens when a car crash did for their parents, leaving Sir Magnus to look after them. Anthony had joined the bank, but hadn’t survived the takeover. Drugs had sent Francesca off her rocker and mentions of her dropped away to nothing. But Anthony had set up Anthony Brough Investment Group and Brough Consulting, both of which had their headquarters in Edinburgh.

  Rutland Square in Edinburgh, to be exact.

  ‘Small world just got smaller,’ Rebus had muttered, heading for bed.

  So it was that after an early walk to the corner shop, followed by breakfast for dog and owner both, Rebus watched Brillo settle in his basket in the kitchen then headed out. Traffic towards Tollcross and down Lothian Road was its usual rush-hour crawl, not helped by the equally ubiquitous roadworks. He was starting to think he’d have been quicker walking, but then snorted at the very notion. There was a free parking bay on Rutland Square, so he decided to play the part of dutiful citizen and use it, even feeding a couple of coins into the meter.

  From where he stood, he had a good view of one side of the red-stone hotel – the Caley as was. Rutland Square itself comprised four-storey terraces that had probably been residential when built but now had become mainly offices, at least at ground level. He wondered which of them belonged to Bruce Collier, and whether the internet would provide an answer. The elegant stone-pillared façades gave little away, though the occasional worker could be seen through a window, rising from their desk, paperwork in one hand, coffee in the other.

  Rebus walked around the square. At its centre, railings protected a patch of neat lawn and a wrought-iron bench, the gate locked, accessible only with a key. A road off to the right led to Shandwick Place, where the passing of a bright new tram was announced by the clanging of its bell. Torphichen Street cop shop was a stone’s throw away in the other direction. A couple of taxis sped by, having picked up fares at the hotel. One of the plaques Rebus passed announced that something called the Scottish Arts Club was based behind its door. But mostly he saw evidence that the square’s occupiers worked in staid and sensible areas of commerce – chartered surveyors and solicitors, accountants and asset management.

  Brough Investment was almost directly opposite the Scottish Arts Club. Rebus climbed its steps. The main door – solid wood, boasting gloss-black paint, polished brass letter box and knocker – stood open. Behind it, a vestibule led to a second door, of opaque glass. There were half a dozen buttons on the intercom, different company names beside each. Rebus studied the one marked ABIG, his finger hovering above it. What would he say? I’m just wondering why DI Malcolm Fox is so interested in you?

  He smiled to himself. Instead, he stepped back on to the pavement and made a phone call.

  ‘This’ll be good,’ Fox answered.

  ‘Guess where I am,’ Rebus said.

  ‘Wild stab in the dark – Rutland Square.’

  Brought up short, Rebus looked to left and right. No sign of Fox or his car. ‘Clever lad,’ he said, having given himself a moment to recover.

  ‘You seemed too interested last night. No way you were going to let it go.’

  ‘They’re teaching you well at Gartcosh.’

  ‘Not well enough, or I wouldn’t have brought the name up in the first place.’

  ‘Ready to tell me what this is all about, or should I just ring Brough’s bell and ask?’

  ‘Ringing won’t help.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘He’s not there. I phoned twenty minutes ago pretending to be a client. Secretary came in straight away with an apology. Said he’d been cancelling meetings due to being called away.’

  ‘Called away where
?’ Rebus was studying the windows on each floor of the building.

  ‘Seemed to me she didn’t know. I think she’s floundering.’

  ‘Do you know why he’s away?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Meaning you’ve got an inkling? Maybe we should meet and talk this through.’

  ‘John – no offence, but it’s none of your business.’

  ‘That’s true, of course.’

  ‘Most men your age would be content to put their feet up or go bet on the horses.’ He broke off suddenly and Rebus’s brow furrowed. Had Fox just let something slip?

  ‘What is it, Malcolm?’

  ‘Look, I need to call Gartcosh, let them know about Brough.’

  ‘Because he connects to Darryl Christie? That’s it, isn’t it?’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘Of course not, Malcolm. Your secret’s safe with me.’

  Rebus ended the call, and didn’t answer when Fox called straight back. He was tapping the corner of the phone against his teeth when a door opened further along the street. The figure who bounded out, unlocking a silver Porsche and manoeuvring himself in, was instantly recognisable, though Rebus had only seen him in photos and on a distant concert stage.

  Hello, Bruce, he said to himself, walking towards the space the car had just vacated in a roar no doubt pleasing to its driver. He stopped outside Bruce Collier’s front door. More gloss-black paint. But no nameplate of any kind, nothing to indicate that a man with a string of transatlantic number ones called the place home. The ground-floor windows boasted wooden slatted blinds, open enough to allow Rebus a glimpse of the interior. Gaudy paintings on cream walls; white leather sofas and chairs. No gold or platinum discs, and no hi-fi or musical instruments. Flamboyant in his day, Collier had learned to embrace a seemingly quieter life.