Rather Be the Devil (Inspector Rebus 21)

by Ian Rankin

‘Friendly?’

  ‘That’s the word she used. And I happen to think that you should be concentrating on yourself right now instead of old cases and new.’

  ‘I’m fine, Deb.’

  ‘I don’t think you are.’

  ‘Who have you been talking to?’

  She shook her head. ‘I’ve not gone behind your back, John – and no doctor or consultant would dream of discussing a patient with a third party.’

  Rebus stared out of the side window: nothing to see except one of the vans, maybe the one that had transported Robert Chatham from the quayside. ‘I can handle this,’ he said softly.

  She reached for his hand and gripped it. ‘You’re a stubborn old bastard and you’d rather go to your grave than let anyone see a weak spot in that armour you think you put on every morning.’

  He turned towards her. Her eyes were moist. Leaning in towards her, he kissed her cheek. She pressed her forehead against his and they sat like that for almost half a minute, no words needed. Then she straightened up and took a deep breath.

  ‘Okay?’ Rebus asked.

  ‘You know I’m here for you? Any time you need me?’

  He nodded. ‘And I need you right now, Professor Quant.’ He watched as her eyes narrowed, knowing what he was about to say. ‘Tell me about the way Robert Chatham’s hands were tied.’ He paused for a moment. ‘You’d be making a stubborn old bastard very happy …’

  Craigmillar was cleaning up its act, at least on the surface.

  A lot of the damp, unlovely housing had been bulldozed, replaced by shiny new apartment buildings. The shops still rolled down their metal security grilles of an evening, but a Lidl and a Tesco Metro had arrived. Clarke wouldn’t quite call it gentrified – Craigmillar still seemed to exist in most minds as a conduit between the city and routes to the south. She knew traffic was busiest at the weekend as shoppers headed for Fort Kinnaird with its Next, Boots and Gap. But Fort Kinnaird was also home to garages selling Bentleys and Porsches, something she knew only because she had for a short time considered getting a Porsche of her own. Why not? She made good money and had few outgoings. Her mortgage rate was low and likely to stay that way. She had given the Cayman a test drive and had loved it, before deciding against. No way she’d feel safe parking it kerbside. There were gangs in the city who preyed on cars like that. Plus she’d be the talk of Gayfield Square, and the comments would all revolve around her being on the take or in someone’s pocket – someone like Darryl Christie.

  Stopping on a Craigmillar side street, she got out and patted the roof of her Astra.

  ‘You’ll do,’ she told it, before heading to Craw Shand’s door.

  It was a 1970s terrace, paint flaking from its window frames. There was neither a bell nor a knocker, so she thumped with her fist, then stood back to watch for movement behind the curtains. Nothing, but she could see that the lights were on. A dog was barking nearby, someone screeching at it to shut up. Kids passed on pedal bikes, hoods up, faces muffled. Clarke knocked again, then bent down and pushed open the letter box.

  ‘It’s me, Craw. DI Clarke.’

  ‘What do you want?’ his voice called from within.

  ‘Just checking you’re all right. I see you didn’t take my advice.’

  ‘What advice?’ Shand’s speech was slurred. With her nose to the letter box, Clarke could smell neither drink nor dope.

  ‘To keep your head down, somewhere other than your home address.’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Let’s hope it stays that way.’ She pushed one of her business cards through the slit. ‘You’ve got my mobile number if you need it.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  She studied the door frame. ‘One good kick and they’d be inside before you knew it.’

  ‘Then maybe I should be in protective custody.’

  ‘I’ve thought about it, Craw, but my boss says no.’

  ‘Then you’ll both have to live with the consequences if anything happens.’

  ‘At least we’ll still be living, Craw. Tell me how you really know so much about Christie’s house – did you go there when you heard the news, is that it?’

  ‘Off you go now, little piggy.’

  ‘That’s not very nice, Craw. I’m about the only person in the world who’s on your side right now.’

  ‘Off you go,’ Shand repeated, turning off the light in the living room as if to signal the end of the conversation.

  Clarke lingered, even tapping softly on the curtained window. The curtains looked thin and cheap. It was a life, she supposed. Who was to say he was less contented with his lot than anyone else she knew? Anyone else in the city, come to that? Half his life he’d been seeking a crime he could take credit for, and he’d finally struck gold.

  Clarke hoped he’d live to enjoy the victory.

  Back in the Astra, she watched in her rear-view mirror as a car crawled towards her. As it passed, she caught the licence plate. Darryl Christie’s Range Rover. She started her car and followed. Rather than make for the main road, it seemed to be doing a circuit, heading further into the estate before turning at a few junctions, a route that would lead it past Shand’s house again. Clarke flashed her lights, but the driver ignored her, so she waited until the road was wide enough and put the foot down, passing him and slamming on the brakes. She got out, making sure the driver could get a good look at her. As she approached, the driver’s-side window slid down halfway.

  ‘Best-looking carjacker I’ve seen in a while.’

  Tattooed arms, groomed hair, beard. The ‘owner’ of the Devil’s Dram.

  ‘What are you doing in this car?’ Clarke demanded.

  ‘It’s Darryl’s.’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘He’s not up to driving it, so he said I could.’

  ‘Wouldn’t have thought Craigmillar is its natural habitat.’

  ‘I’ve a mate lives round here somewhere. I was planning to show it off.’

  ‘The mate wouldn’t be called Craw Shand?’

  A shake of the head.

  ‘So what’s your mate’s address?’ Clarke persisted.

  ‘That’s the trouble – I can’t quite remember. Thought I’d know it when I saw it.’

  ‘Got your story all worked out, eh?’

  His face hardened. ‘Fuck’s it got to do with you anyway? Did I wander into a police state when I wasn’t looking?’

  ‘I want you out of Craigmillar and I don’t want you coming back. Tell your boss that Craw’s being watched night and day.’

  ‘I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Then I’ll tell him myself, while you drive this crate away from Craigmillar.’

  ‘There seems to be a heap of junk blocking the route, Officer.’

  Clarke already had her phone out and was finding Christie’s number as she got into her car and pulled it over to the side of the road. The Range Rover growled past with a parp of its horn. At Christie’s house, her call was answered by a male voice she didn’t recognise.

  ‘Is that Joseph or Cal?’ she asked.

  ‘Cal,’ she was told.

  ‘Hi there, I’m looking for Darryl.’

  ‘Hang on then.’

  She watched as the Range Rover’s tail lights receded, and listened to Cal walk into a room filled with music. She half recognised the tune, some current R&B hit.

  ‘For you,’ Cal was saying.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘What did I tell you, Cal? You always ask.’ The phone was handed over and the sound system’s volume faded away.

  ‘Yes?’ Christie enquired.

  ‘It’s DI Clarke.’

  ‘I’m off duty.’

  ‘You seem to be forgetting – you’re the victim this time, Mr Christie. We’re supposed to be on the same side, though that may just have come to an abrupt halt.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘I’ve been talking to your pal from the Devil’s Dram.’
/>
  ‘Harry?’

  ‘He’s quite distinctive-looking, with the beard and everything. Not exactly stealth-bomber material.’

  ‘What are you on about?’

  ‘He was scoping out Craw Shand’s house.’

  ‘Is that right?’

  ‘Drove past it twice in that car of yours – which, incidentally, likewise lacks camouflage.’

  ‘I loaned him it.’

  ‘That’s certainly the story he gave me.’

  ‘It’s also the end of the story.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  But as if to prove her wrong, Christie had already hung up. She stared at her screen, knowing there’d be no answer if she called back. Instead, she tossed the phone on to the passenger seat and drove off in the same direction as the Range Rover. What harm could it do to tail it for a while, just so that bearded Harry got the message?

  She was two cars behind him at the Cameron Toll roundabout when her phone’s screen lit up. It was Malcolm Fox. She pressed the Bluetooth button on her steering wheel.

  ‘Thought you’d be spending the evening with your new best buddies,’ she said. After a moment’s silence, she heard his voice over the car speakers.

  ‘What do you want me to say?’

  I want you to say you’re sorry the new regime takes all the best, most interesting cases!

  ‘Is there something I can do for you, Malcolm?’

  ‘Are you in your car?’

  ‘Brilliantly deduced.’

  ‘On your way home?’

  ‘Slowly but surely.’

  ‘I just thought, after the day we’ve both had, maybe I could buy you a drink.’

  ‘Is that because you want to hear all my news, or so you can tell me yours?’

  ‘It’s just a drink, Siobhan. We don’t even have to talk shop.’

  ‘But we will.’

  ‘I suppose that’s true.’

  She thought for a moment. The Range Rover was definitely heading back into town. Job done. ‘How about food instead? Curry at Pataka?’

  ‘Fine by me.’

  ‘I’m less than ten minutes away.’

  ‘I’m more like fifteen.’

  ‘Last one in pays,’ Clarke said, smiling for the first time in hours.

  intercom crackled.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Good evening, I’m wondering if you’ve seen your neighbour across the way recently.’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘Anthony Brough.’

  ‘Never heard of him – you sure he lives here?’

  ‘His office is the other side of the square. We’ve some concerns about his welfare.’

  The person on the other end of the intercom weighed up Rebus’s phrasing. ‘You the police? Hang on a sec …’

  Rebus made sure that when the door swung open, his gaze was everywhere but on the person who’d just unlocked it.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘As I say, it’s just that he’s not been seen for some time and there’s growing …’ He broke off as his eyes met those of the man standing one step above him. He pretended surprise. ‘Sorry, but you look a lot like Bruce Collier.’

  ‘That’s probably because I am Bruce Collier.’

  Open-necked denim shirt, suntanned face. A bit of a paunch, the leather belt tied perhaps a notch too tight. Shiny brown leather shoes, and gold chains on both wrists as well as around his heavily creased neck.

  ‘I’m a big fan,’ Rebus said. ‘Right back to Blacksmith days.’

  ‘You must be a palaeontologist then.’ Collier’s face was all crinkles when he smiled.

  ‘Mind if I …’ Rebus stretched out a hand, which Collier grasped.

  ‘Come on in, Officer,’ he said, leading the way. Inside, the place was a mix of the traditional and the modern – stone floor, wooden coat stand, recessed ceiling lights. Rebus nodded towards a Warhol print on one wall.

  ‘Is that an original?’

  ‘Oil sheikh gave it to me after I’d performed at his birthday party. I won’t tell you who the headliner was, but they got a Rembrandt. What did you say your name was?’

  ‘Rebus. John Rebus.’

  ‘Well, my name’s Bruce and it’s nice to meet a fan who’s still got all their faculties. Fancy a beer?’

  ‘Maybe a coffee?’

  Collier studied him. ‘I always thought that was a cliché – no drinking on duty.’

  ‘I could do with the caffeine.’

  ‘This way then.’

  They headed down a curving staircase into the basement. The kitchen was long and narrow, fitted with the latest gadgets and boasting a glass extension to the rear with views over a neat walled garden lit by halogen.

  ‘Supposed to deter burglars,’ Collier said, gesturing to the lights. ‘Instant okay for you?’

  ‘Fine.’

  Rebus watched as the man tipped a spoonful of coffee into a mug, then held the mug under a tap at the sink.

  ‘Instant boiling water,’ Collier explained. ‘So who’s this fellow who’s gone walkabout?’

  ‘His name’s Anthony Brough. He runs an investment firm.’

  ‘Any connection to the bank?’

  ‘He’s Sir Magnus Brough’s grandson.’

  ‘I had a run-in with that old bugger once,’ Collier said with a snort. ‘Used to have an account with them – they charged an arm and a leg for the privilege. Thing was, you were supposed to keep a hundred K in your account and I fell short for a month or three. Next thing I know, the phone rings and it’s the old boy himself. Can’t imagine that these days, can you? In fact, I think I’d had to present myself in person at their HQ just to open the account.’ Collier pulled himself up short. ‘Sorry, I’m burbling on. Been too long in my own company.’

  ‘Are you married, Bruce?’

  Collier fetched milk from the fridge and handed it to Rebus, along with the mug. ‘She’s in India, travelling with a pal of hers. That’s why the place is so clean – no cooking here since she left.’

  ‘I’m just remembering something,’ Rebus said, while Collier returned the milk to the fridge. ‘Wasn’t there some scandal about Brough’s back in the seventies?’

  ‘Scandal?’ Collier had swapped the milk for white wine. He unscrewed the bottle and poured a slug into a waiting glass.

  ‘A murder at some hotel.’

  ‘That was right around the corner!’ Collier exclaimed. ‘The dear old Caley. I was staying there at the time.’

  ‘Usher Hall, 1978? I think I saw you there.’

  ‘Supposed to be the ticker-tape-parade homecoming celebration. Local lad made good and all that.’

  ‘But there was a murder instead?’

  Collier studied him above the rim of his almost-full glass. ‘You must remember it. When did you join the police?’

  ‘I’m not as old as I look. So are you still recording, Bruce?’

  Collier’s face creased. His hair was unnaturally brown and unnaturally thick. A weave, a wig, or good genes and a dye job? Rebus couldn’t decide. ‘Bits and pieces,’ he said eventually.

  ‘Do you have a studio?’

  ‘I’ll show you.’

  Rebus followed him out of the kitchen and across the hall. It was a small room with no natural light. Behind a window was a smaller room again. Rebus could make out the mixing desk.

  ‘If I need a grand piano or drums, we do those elsewhere, but this is fine otherwise. Some bands these days record straight to a laptop and sort it all out with apps and the internet.’

  ‘You’ve not quite gone that route yet,’ Rebus commented, studying the dozen or so platinum and gold discs framed along three walls. A selection of electric and acoustic guitars sat on stands. Collier grabbed one and settled on a stool. He played a few chords, eyes on Rebus.

  ‘That’s “A Monument in Time”,’ Rebus said.

  ‘How about this?’ More chords, Collier making a mistake and starting again.

  ‘“Woncha Fool Around With Me”,’ Rebus stated.


  ‘You know your stuff,’ Collier said. He made to replace the guitar on its stand, then held it out towards Rebus instead.

  ‘I don’t play,’ Rebus informed him.

  ‘Everybody should learn an instrument.’

  ‘Did you start at school?’

  ‘Our music teacher played in a jazz band. I used to rib him about it, so he got me to go along one night – I was underage but he sneaked me in.’

  ‘You loved it?’

  ‘I hated it. Took up guitar the very next day, determined to learn stuff he would loathe.’

  The two men shared a smile. Collier was still smiling as he took a step towards Rebus. ‘You’re not really here about this investment guy, are you?’

  ‘Actually, I am. But it’s a bit of a coincidence …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You and the Broughs and the Caley.’

  ‘And why’s that?’

  ‘A man called Robert Chatham was pulled from Leith Docks this morning.’

  ‘I heard about it on the news. Suicide, was it?’

  ‘The name doesn’t mean anything to you? Robert Chatham? Detective Inspector Robert Chatham?’

  Collier thought for a moment, then began to nod. ‘Shit, yes, he grilled me a few years back! Your lot had reopened that bloody case because my road manager wanted to make as much trouble as he could before he pegged it – bugger had just had the first of his heart attacks. So now this Chatham guy has gone and topped himself? I suppose that is a coincidence.’

  ‘It wasn’t suicide, sir. His hands had been tied behind his back.’

  Collier’s eyes widened as he puckered his mouth.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’ve had anything to do with him recently?’ Rebus asked, placing the half-empty mug on the stool.

  ‘Not in however many years it is.’

  ‘Eight,’ Rebus reminded him.

  ‘Eight years, then.’

  ‘Your friend Dougie Vaughan – do you still see him around?’

  All previous traces of humour had left Collier’s face. ‘I’m going to ask you to leave. And if you don’t, I’ll be straight on the phone to my lawyer.’

  ‘You invited me in, Mr Collier.’

  ‘Because you lied and said you were interested in one of my neighbours – something I doubt your bosses will be happy about.’

  ‘I’m what you might call self-employed.’