Rather Be the Devil (Inspector Rebus 21)

by Ian Rankin

  ‘I say a spot of milk and no sugar, Detective Superintendent James.’

  ‘Please, call me Alvin.’ Then, turning to Fox: ‘One thing we forgot about, Malcolm. Can you rustle up the necessary?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘You’re the one person here who’s already heard John’s story,’ James reasoned.

  Grins were being hidden behind hands around the room as Fox stalked out, heading next door to where the support staff were gathering.

  ‘Is there a kettle anywhere?’

  ‘You’ll probably find one in Argos,’ he was told.

  Muttering under his breath, he left the building and made for Leith Walk. An electric kettle and half a dozen mugs in one shop, supplies of coffee, tea, sugar, milk and plastic spoons in another. The whole sortie took no more than twenty-five minutes, just long enough for Rebus to get to the end of his tale. Thing was, Fox had no way of knowing what – if anything – he had held back. Rebus being Rebus, the truth would not have been the whole truth; the man always liked to know just a wee bit more than anyone else sharing the stage with him.

  Fox dumped both bags on DC Oldfield’s desk.

  ‘You can be mother,’ he stated. Oldfield looked to James for advice, but James just nodded. With a scowl directed at Fox, Oldfield got up, lifting the kettle from its packaging and leaving to find running water.

  ‘So everyone’s in the loop now, yes?’ Fox enquired, slumping into his chair.

  ‘And highly intrigued,’ James said. He was seated behind his desk, tapping a biro against one cheek. He had jotted down notes on an A4 pad of lined paper in front of him and was studying them as he spoke.

  ‘Without discounting anything you’ve just told us, John,’ he said, ‘there are certain protocols that we’d be unwise to ignore. That means getting the results of the post-mortem examination, interviewing Mr Chatham’s partner, and doing a bit of digging at his place of work.’

  ‘Bouncers probably make more enemies than most,’ Glancey commented, refolding his handkerchief and beginning to dab again.

  ‘And he’ll have upset a few undesirables during his CID days,’ Briggs added, drumming a biro against her own notes.

  ‘So we’ll need to look at his record as a DI in Livingston,’ James agreed. ‘When you spoke with him, John, he seemed okay?’

  ‘He was fine.’

  ‘Didn’t say what else he was up to after your meeting?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No phone calls or messages while you were in the café?’

  ‘I appreciate you have all these hoops you feel the need to jump through, but it can’t be coincidence, surely? The same day I get him talking about Maria Turquand’s murder, he ends up in the drink.’

  James was nodding, but Fox could tell the man wasn’t completely sold – and that was starting to grate with Rebus.

  ‘You need to bring us all those files,’ Sharpe said quietly. ‘Files you shouldn’t have taken from SCRU in the first place.’

  Rebus made brief eye contact with Fox, letting him know the score. He had fudged the truth to keep Siobhan Clarke’s name out of it. As far as James and his team were aware, Rebus had swiped Chatham’s review notes from SCRU during his tenure there.

  Over in a corner of the room, Oldfield was making as much noise as possible while plugging in the kettle and sorting out the mugs.

  ‘Remember what I said about the playground, Mark?’ James scolded him.

  There was a knock on the open door. Haj Atwal was standing there.

  ‘Finished dockside?’ James asked.

  ‘Done and dusted, as it were.’ Atwal ran a hand over his shaved head. ‘Everything I’ve got so far will be in your email folder by end of play.’

  ‘Thank you. And the divers?’

  ‘Had a quick look, but as there was no weapon as such …’

  ‘And he’d probably drifted along the coast anyway,’ Rebus couldn’t help adding.

  ‘You’re saying we shouldn’t have bothered?’ James seemed to require an answer, but all Rebus could do was shrug. ‘And what makes you so sure he didn’t enter the water where we found him?’

  ‘Big tall fences and surveillance.’

  ‘But then we’ve not checked the surveillance yet, have we?’

  Fox saw where this was headed – James was wondering how far to trust Rebus: was he trying to misdirect them? He could see Rebus coming to the same conclusion, shoulders tensing, jaw clenching.

  ‘You about ready to interview me as a suspect, Alvin?’ Rebus asked.

  James tried to look disbelieving. ‘Not at all,’ he offered.

  ‘Then we’re done here? I’m free to leave?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Rebus headed for the door, managing a final glance towards Fox before brushing past Haj Atwal.

  ‘Victim’s clothing will be sent for analysis,’ Atwal was telling the room at large. ‘Autopsy’s the next step.’

  ‘Thank you,’ James said, busying himself until the crime scene manager had retreated into the corridor.

  ‘Should have asked who’s doing the autopsy,’ Sharpe commented. His voice still hadn’t risen much above a whisper – Fox wondered if it was a ploy; the man spoke so quietly, you had to give him your full attention.

  ‘Professor Quant,’ Fox answered. ‘Deborah Quant.’

  Alvin James was giving him an appraising look. ‘And is there anything we should know about Professor Quant, Malcolm?’ he asked.

  ‘She’s highly qualified, personable, unshowy.’ Fox pretended to think for a moment. ‘Oh, and she and Rebus are an item.’

  James raised an eyebrow. ‘Are they now?’

  ‘So if John Rebus is your killer, maybe she’s the one who’ll make sure he gets away with it.’

  Alvin James threw back his head and laughed. ‘A bit of humour always helps defuse the tension, eh?’

  Fox pretended to return the half-sincere smiles being directed at him.

  ‘I’ve got a question for you all,’ Oldfield interrupted.

  ‘What is it, Mark?’

  ‘Tea or coffee?’ Then, to Fox specifically: ‘And how do you take it?’

  ‘Without saliva, preferably,’ Fox said. ‘Though as I’m about to go for a slash, you might find yourself tempted beyond reason …’

  Rebus was tugging the parking ticket from beneath one of the Saab’s wiper blades and looking up and down the street for the culprit.

  ‘Bad luck,’ Fox offered.

  ‘And me on a pension.’ Rebus stuffed the slip into his pocket. ‘You think this guy James is up to the task?’

  ‘Too early to say.’

  Rebus had started chomping on a piece of chewing gum.

  ‘Does that help?’

  ‘Barely,’ Rebus stated. ‘Remember: you don’t let on Siobhan got me that file.’

  ‘Message received. Anything else you brushed under the carpet?’

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘Then how will I know not to blurt it out?’

  ‘Maybe if you try keeping your trap shut for once.’ Rebus glowered at him. ‘Can’t say young Alvin fills me with confidence. Too shiny by half.’

  ‘His suit or his face?’

  ‘Everything about him, Malcolm. Only thing he’s got his sights on is the next rung of the ladder.’

  Fox couldn’t disagree. ‘I don’t think he’s dismissing the Turquand connection out of hand.’

  ‘It’s the only connection there is.’

  ‘Then he’ll get round to probing it.’

  ‘Aye, once he’s been through his bloody “protocols”. Keep at him, Malcolm. You’ve got to make him see what’s going on.’

  Fox nodded slowly. ‘Who else knew you’d started looking?’

  Rebus considered this. ‘Deborah got a sneak preview. And Siobhan, of course.’

  ‘Plus whoever gave Siobhan the file.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘And anyone Robert Chatham might have gone running to.’

  It was Rebus’s turn
to nod, albeit distractedly. ‘We’ve got to get his phone records – see who he spoke to after I left him.’

  ‘Where did you meet him?’

  ‘A greasy spoon not too far from Ocean Terminal. He liked the bacon rolls there.’

  ‘The condemned man ate a hearty meal then, as Professor Quant will soon discover.’

  ‘Do you think I’d be allowed in to watch?’ Rebus asked, brow furrowing.

  ‘Might not be wise.’

  ‘True enough – the James Gang are already trying to put a nice big frame around me.’

  ‘I think you may be exaggerating ever so slightly.’

  ‘You have to be my eyes and ears, Malcolm. Promise me that.’

  ‘I’d better go back in. They’ll be phoning Guinness World of Records to measure my bladder.’

  Fox turned and pushed open the door, letting it creak shut behind him. Suddenly he was everyone’s eyes and ears … which reminded him. He found Sheila Graham’s number and hit the call button as he began to climb the imposing staircase.

  ‘Thought it would be you,’ Graham said.

  ‘News travels.’

  ‘ACC Lyon told ACC McManus and ACC McManus was good enough to pass it along.’

  ‘I can still keep tabs on the Christie case.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘In fact, I’ve got something for you. According to Anthony Brough’s secretary, he’s AWOL – meetings cancelled, et cetera. Seemed to me she was in the dark about where he’s gone or why.’

  ‘Chickens may be coming home to roost.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘I need to give this some thought, Malcolm. Anything else to report?’

  ‘I’ve been a bit busy since lunchtime.’

  ‘Your first Major Investigation Team?’

  ‘I used to head the Professional Standards Unit, Sheila. I’ve played with the big boys before.’

  He could sense her smile at the other end of the line. ‘We’ll talk later,’ she said, ending the call as he reached the door to the MIT room.

  Alvin James gestured towards the mug on Fox’s desk.

  ‘I’ve kept watch, so fear not.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Fox said.

  ‘Though we’re all a bit disappointed in you, Malcolm.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘No biscuits,’ Briggs said.

  ‘No biscuits,’ Alvin James agreed.

  ‘Plus the longest piss in recorded history,’ Mark Oldfield added.

  ‘Not that we think that’s what you were doing,’ James added slyly.

  ‘Well, you’re right – I was on the phone to Gartcosh. I can give you a name if you want to check.’

  ‘We’re all friends here, Malcolm. Nothing more to be said.’

  ‘Except for this,’ Briggs interrupted. ‘Next time – biscuits. Digestives, for preference.’

  ‘Chocolate digestives,’ Sharpe corrected her in a whisper.

  The autopsy was booked for 4.30, soon after Chatham’s partner Liz Dolan had identified the body. Fox had been tasked with accompanying her. Her legs had gone from beneath her, and he’d struggled to get her back to her feet.

  ‘Oh God,’ she kept saying. ‘Oh God, oh God, oh God.’

  Fox had been there before and he offered the usual crumbs of sympathy, none of which she seemed willing to hear. She was shaking, clutching at him, holding him in a tearful embrace.

  It’s not easy, Liz.

  It’s a hellish thing.

  Is there a friend I can contact? Family?

  Somebody, in other words, to pass the responsibility to.

  But they’d never had children, and none of their parents were alive. She had a sister in Canada; Chatham’s brother had predeceased him.

  ‘What am I going to do?’ she said, voice quivering, strings of bleached saliva at the corners of her mouth. ‘Such a good man. Such a good man.’

  ‘I know,’ Fox agreed, steering her to the waiting room and a chair. ‘I’ll get us some tea – how do you take it?’

  But she was staring at the wall opposite, eyes fixed on a poster showing Edinburgh from the air. Fox leaned out into the hallway, checking to left and right, eventually catching the eye of a passing attendant.

  ‘Got a family member here who could do with something,’ he pleaded.

  ‘Valium maybe?’ the man offered.

  ‘I think she’d settle for tea.’

  ‘Milk and two?’

  ‘I’m not sure she takes sugar.’

  ‘Trust me, they all take sugar …’ The man moved off again in his calf-high rubberised boots.

  Liz Dolan was leaning forward in her seat, looking as if she might be about to throw up. She wore black leggings under a knee-length patterned skirt. Her fingers were worrying away at the skirt’s hem as she took in erratic gulps of air.

  ‘You going to be okay, Liz?’ he asked.

  ‘Not for a long time.’

  ‘Tea’s on its way.’

  ‘That’s all right then, eh?’ For the first time, she met his eyes, so he’d know she was being sarcastic. He sat down slowly, leaving one chair vacant between them. ‘So what happens now?’ she asked eventually, wiping her nose with her sleeve.

  ‘You’ll want to arrange things – the funeral and such like.’

  ‘I was meaning you – Rab was murdered, so what do you do next?’

  ‘Well, when you feel up to it, we’d like to maybe ask you a few things, find out his movements.’

  ‘He had breakfast with someone – an ex-cop.’

  ‘Yes, we know about that.’

  ‘He was in a right flap after.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Snapped at me when I asked him what was wrong.’

  ‘Did he give you an answer?’

  She shook her head. ‘But he was upset right up until the minute he went out.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘Early afternoon. I told him he hadn’t had enough sleep.’

  ‘He worked evenings, didn’t he?’

  ‘Five till midnight, sometimes a bit later if it was the weekend.’

  ‘Had the pair of you known one another long?’

  ‘Six and a half years.’

  ‘Since before he retired, then?’

  She nodded again. ‘He’d been married twice before. Woe betide those witches if they try to gatecrash the funeral.’

  ‘No love lost?’

  ‘You’re a cop, you know what it’s like – long hours, cases that get under your skin but you don’t want to talk about them …’ She looked at him until he nodded. ‘Both his wives ended up going off with some other poor sod.’

  ‘Did he ever talk to you about the job?’

  ‘A little bit, after he’d retired. There’d be reunions, and sometimes he’d invite me along.’

  ‘You’ll have heard a few stories, then.’

  ‘A few, aye.’

  Their teas arrived and Fox offered a nod of thanks to the attendant. The man paused for a moment.

  ‘Sorry for your loss,’ he said to Dolan.

  ‘Thanks.’ She seemed mesmerised by the boots as the attendant trudged back to work. ‘Christ,’ she said, softly.

  ‘Deborah Quant’s the one looking after Rab,’ Fox said. ‘She’s very good, very respectful.’

  Dolan nodded and fixed her eyes on the poster again, the mug held in both hands. ‘Being a doorman … well, there were a few stories there, too.’

  ‘I don’t imagine it’s an easy job.’

  ‘It’s fine when they’re all behaving themselves, but Rab found that boring.’

  ‘He liked a bit of a ruck?’

  ‘Came home with a few cuts and bruises. The girls were the worst, he said. They’d use nails and teeth.’

  ‘The weaker sex, eh?’

  She managed something that was almost a smile. ‘They chatted him up too, though – he liked that bit quite a lot.’

  ‘Just a normal guy, then.’

  ‘A normal guy,’ she echoed. But then she remem
bered there was nothing in the least normal about the way her day was unfolding, and tears started to trickle down her cheeks again.

  ‘Oh God.’

  And although she’d already waved the offer away once, Fox reached into his pocket for a handkerchief.

  9

  It was almost seven by the time Deborah Quant emerged from the mortuary’s staff door. She had showered and changed and was searching in her bag for her car keys when the figure emerged from behind one of the parked vans.

  ‘Jesus, John!’ she gasped. ‘I was about to karate-chop you there.’

  ‘You do karate?’ Rebus said. ‘I didn’t know that.’

  She stomped over to her car and unlocked it. Getting in, she waited for Rebus to pull open the passenger door and join her.

  ‘So?’ he asked.

  ‘He was alive when he went in the water. Stomach contents: bacon and bread dough. DC Briggs said you’d had breakfast with the deceased.’

  ‘MIT sent their only woman to the autopsy?’

  Quant glowered at him. ‘We manage childbirth fine; a dead body’s neither here nor there. Anyway, turns out that roll was the last thing Mr Chatham ate.’

  ‘No lunch or dinner?’

  ‘Not so much as a packet of crisps. Whisky, though – a fair whiff of the distillery as we opened him up.’

  ‘Enough to incapacitate him?’

  ‘Blood tests will give us the answer.’

  ‘So when can we expect those?’

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  She half turned towards him. ‘Is this becoming personal, John?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘You saw the man the day he was killed. Maybe you think you’re somehow responsible.’

  ‘Could be I touched a nerve.’

  ‘With the victim?’

  ‘Or someone he met later in the day.’

  ‘It’s not your problem, though. DC Briggs was clear on that.’

  He stared at her. ‘What did she tell you?’

  ‘She knows we’re … friendly.’