by Ian Rankin
‘Don’t worry,’ he assured her. ‘I’m not infectious …’
One thing he hadn’t considered was that an eleven o’clock consultation might not get under way until at least quarter to twelve. The hospital waiting room wasn’t the most inspiring of spots. He hadn’t bothered to bring a paper, and the day-old one he found on a chair kept him occupied for not much more than ten minutes. He was just about to tell the receptionist that he was a busy man and would need to make another appointment, but his name was called before the words came out.
And afterwards …
After the local anaesthetic, the CT scan, the needle biopsy …
Probably nothing to worry about, but better to be safe than sorry …
A shadow on the lung sometimes means little or nothing …
We do have some reading matter for you, and there are websites we can suggest, just to put your mind at ease …
Words that rolled from the consultant’s mouth like a script she’d learned by heart long ago. How many patients had sat where Rebus sat, hearing but not really listening? Then released to the fresh air and a world that couldn’t comprehend how they were feeling, accompanied by a dull pain and some medication to see them through.
Buck up, John, he told himself as he reached the car park. You’re not for the crow road just yet.
Fox had been given the task of going through the cold-case notes. He would bet a pound to a penny that Rebus had kept copies, but he wasn’t about to tell Alvin James that. Half the stuff he already knew from Siobhan’s summary in the Oxford Bar two nights back. James wanted Rebus to come in and be interviewed formally, with the session taped, so they could have a record of his conversation with Chatham. Mark Oldfield had been dispatched to the café to make sure Rebus’s story about breakfast checked out. Sean Glancey and Anne Briggs were interviewing Liz Dolan at her home. Wallace Sharpe was at his desk, studying the autopsy report with furious intensity while Alvin James took a phone call. The milk from the previous day had gone sour and not been replaced, meaning black tea or black coffee. Fox was the only one of the three who seemed not to mind.
He had done an internet search on Bruce Collier, even watched a few clips of the man in his prime. There was plenty of archive material about his 1978 homecoming concert. The show had gone on, of course, but Maria Turquand’s murder had been mentioned in a couple of the reviews. There was much less online information concerning Collier’s musician friend Dougie Vaughan, or the other players in the drama, most having lived out the bulk of their lives in the pre-internet age. A few photos of Maria and John Turquand on their wedding day and at subsequent society balls. Sir Magnus Brough, of course, captured in tweeds as he prepared to blast grouse or pheasant from the Perthshire skies; bowler-hatted in pinstripes on the steps of his bank’s Charlotte Square premises; at the well-attended funeral of his son and daughter-in-law, a hand on the shoulder of each of his teenage grandchildren.
Which, of course, led Fox to search for Anthony Brough himself. Not for the first time, but you never could tell what detail you might have missed – and Fox was nothing if not diligent. It was all flotsam, though, no real depth or insight. The drowning of his friend on Grand Cayman. The aftershock felt most keenly by Anthony’s ‘sensitive’ sister Francesca. A couple of business puffs regarding the setting-up of his investment company, but nothing, naturally, about shell companies or Darryl Christie.
Nothing to suggest why he hadn’t been seen of late.
Fox watched Alvin James end his call. He seemed to have been given a small but effective jolt of electricity. Wallace Sharpe had noticed, too, and was waiting for his boss to share the news.
‘Toxicology report,’ James obliged. ‘Our victim had imbibed the best part of a bottle of whisky.’ He started composing a text as he spoke. ‘I’m asking Sean to check with the widow how much he regularly took of an afternoon or evening.’
‘Wasn’t he supposed to be working the night he died?’ Fox enquired. ‘Would he have downed that much prior to starting a shift?’
‘Good point, Malcolm. There was some on his clothing, too – lab seems to think so anyway.’
‘Like it was forced down his throat?’
‘Or else something had scared him witless, giving him the shakes.’
‘Any news of the ligature?’ Sharpe enquired in a whisper.
‘Blue polyurethane,’ James said, reading from the sheet in front of him. ‘Cheap guy ropes use it – meaning tents and stuff. I’m not sure that gets us much further. Basic double knot, but tied tight enough to cut the circulation.’
‘He was alive when he went in the water, but do we know if he was conscious?’ Fox asked
‘After a bottle of hooch?’ James rubbed a hand across his forehead. ‘I’d have been KO’d. How about you?’
‘I don’t drink,’ Fox admitted, ‘so I doubt I’d be exactly chipper.’ He watched as James studied his phone, a text having newly arrived.
‘Well guess what, Malcolm – our chap was off the sauce, too. For the best part of a year, according to Ms Dolan.’
‘So person or persons unknown,’ Sharpe mused, ‘got him incapable, then tied him up and chucked him in the Forth.’
‘Or tied him up first,’ Fox countered. ‘Easier that way to force the whisky down him.’
Sharpe signalled his grudging acceptance of this. James was studying the chart they’d fixed to one wall – a timeline of Chatham’s final day, as yet hopelessly incomplete.
‘We need those phone records pronto – home and mobile. Plus CCTV from around the city. Everywhere he worked, we need to see their footage for the past few days. I want to know everyone he spoke with, every place he frequented. Co-workers, buddies, anyone who came on his radar. All we seem to know right now is that he had breakfast with John Rebus, headed home afterwards for a few hours, seemed anxious, then sloped out without a word of goodbye. After which, it’s like he doesn’t exist. It’s down to us to find out where he went. Twelve noon till whenever he died – all those gaps need to be filled.’ James was looking at Fox. ‘So where would you start, Malcolm?’
Fox thought for a moment. ‘I’d start with a map,’ he said.
‘This better be me having a bad dream,’ Cafferty said, staring at the figure on his doorstep.
‘You never sent a change of address card,’ Darryl Christie said with a shrug.
‘So how did you find me?’
‘Tried a couple of buzzers until someone answered. Told them I’d a delivery for Mr Cafferty. Nice place …’ He made to enter, but Cafferty blocked him. They stayed that way as the seconds passed, but then Cafferty stepped aside. ‘In you come, then.’
The hallway led to a large open-plan room, all pale wood and unadorned white walls. A glass door led to the balcony. Christie opened it without bothering to ask permission and stepped outside.
‘Quite a view,’ he said, peering down at the usual array of students, cyclists and joggers criss-crossing the Meadows. Raising his head, he took in Marchmont, with the Pentland Hills behind. ‘Can’t quite see Rebus’s flat, though – bet you wish you could.’
‘I thought you were laid low, Darryl,’ Cafferty said.
‘My body’s not quite as bruised as my ego.’ Christie dabbed the tips of his fingers against the skin around his nose. The strapping was gone, but there was still discolouring and slight swelling. ‘Hurts to take a deep breath, if that’s any consolation.’ He paused. ‘Someone takes you down, you start to wonder why they’re not as afraid of you as they ought to be.’ He kept his eyes on the vista. ‘You’ve had a bit of experience in that direction yourself, so I’m not telling you anything you don’t know.’
‘You think it’s something to do with me, is that it?’
‘You personally? No.’
‘Me paying someone, though?’
‘Yes, well, that had crossed my mind.’
‘And what does your friend Joe say?’
Christie seemed to consider this. ‘Mr Stark has been a bit quiet.’
‘That’s not like him.’
‘He did phone to commiserate, of course.’
‘But no bedside visit? Looks like things might be cooling between you, Darryl …’
‘The beating made me look weak. Joe Stark can’t abide weakness.’ The two men were leaning against the balcony rail, hands clasping it. ‘If you really wanted rid of me,’ Christie went on, ‘this is as good a chance as any – one shove and I’m a goner.’
‘Think of the witnesses, though.’
‘It would be your word against theirs.’
‘There isn’t a hit out on you, Darryl – not one that came from me. Not this week, at least.’
The two men shared a wary smile.
‘You know they’ve charged someone?’ Christie said, turning at last towards Cafferty. ‘He’s called Craw Shand.’
‘Oh aye?’
‘You’ve not come across him?’
‘Name doesn’t—’
‘This morning, for example. At his house.’
Cafferty’s eyes narrowed. ‘You’re having him watched?’
‘Of course I am.’
‘But you don’t think he’s your attacker?’
‘He tells lies for the fun of it. But he knows stuff he shouldn’t, which means that whoever hit me, Shand knows them.’
‘Not me, son.’
‘No?’
Cafferty shook his head slowly, maintaining eye contact throughout.
‘Then why pay him a visit?’
‘Same reason you just gave – he knows something.’
‘And?’
‘And he stuck to his story,’ Cafferty said, making sure not to blink, not to give any tells.
‘Why’s it so important to you?’
‘Because my name’s on two lists – yours and CID’s. I’m as interested in finding out as you are.’
‘So you can give them a hug of thanks?’
‘So I can know.’
Christie considered this. ‘I think I remember you saying as much once – back in the days when you thought you could mould me. Something clichéd about knowledge being power.’
‘It’s a cliché because it happens to be true.’
Christie nodded, pretending to be interested in the view again as he spoke. ‘It might be all to do with a guy called Anthony Brough.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘We had a business arrangement that didn’t work out. Now he’s nowhere to be found.’
‘Local, is he? Scottish, I mean?’
‘Yes.’
‘So what does he do?’
‘He’s an investment broker, offices in Rutland Square.’
‘Does he owe you money, or is it the other way round?’
‘I’d just like to know his whereabouts.’
‘And you think I can help?’
Christie offered a shrug. ‘I’m not having much luck on my own.’
‘Did you think to ask Joe Stark or any of your other old pals?’
‘Like I say, I seem to be on my own.’
‘So I get to be your best friend now, is that it?’
Christie met Cafferty’s eyes. ‘Joe Stark is an old man. One day soon he’s going to topple.’
‘And you step into the vacuum?’
‘I wouldn’t mind taking over his show, leaving Edinburgh to someone else. It’s a beautiful city, but it’s starting to bore me.’ He paused. ‘At least say you’ll think about it – for old times.’
‘Of course I’ll think about it.’
The two men shook hands and began to move indoors.
‘Have you seen my house?’ Christie asked.
‘No.’
‘It’s a bit like your old place. This is very different – what changed?’
‘Eighteen rooms and I used about four of them. At least you’ve got a family to fill yours.’
Christie nodded. ‘You’ll put the word out?’ he asked, watching Cafferty close the balcony door.
‘About Anthony Brough? I don’t see why not.’
‘I knew you’d still have ears on the street.’
‘The fruits of a lifetime spent doling out drinks and the odd banknote.’ Cafferty paused. ‘You should get a bit of personal protection – seriously.’
‘You mean a bodyguard?’
‘Either that or a weapon – I’m assuming you’ll know someone who could help.’
‘Never really been my style, but thanks for the advice.’ Christie was making for the hallway and the front door. Cafferty leaned past him to open it.
‘By the way,’ Cafferty asked. ‘Seen the Russian lately?’
Christie stopped on the welcome mat outside the door. ‘What Russian?’
Cafferty held up a hand, palm out. ‘Have it your way, Darryl.’
‘No, I’m serious – what Russian?’
‘Just something I heard.’
Christie gave a shrug and a shake of the head.
‘Must have misunderstood,’ Cafferty said, beginning to close the door.
Christie walked to the lift, jabbed the button and waited, hands clenched at his sides, eyes staring at his blurry reflection in the brushed aluminium doors.
‘He’s Ukrainian, you prick,’ he said under his breath.
11
Fox had to admit it – he was impressed.
The MIT room was all focused activity, with Alvin James at its centre, keeping it that way. A map had been found and pinned to the wall. On it, coloured pins showed the spot where the body had been found, the victim’s home, and other locations associated with him, from the café where he’d met Rebus to the bars and clubs he worked and the gym where he spent much of his free time. James had already said it: the man would have been no pushover, meaning they were probably looking for two or more assailants. The currents of the Firth of Forth had been scrutinised. Western Harbour, where the body had ended up, was hemmed in by two breakwaters, leaving a narrow access channel. According to the expert they’d consulted, the body had most likely either been thrown into the harbour itself or put in the water somewhere in the vicinity. That still left them a lot of coastline, and aerial photographs had been sourced and pinned up next to the map. The highlights of the autopsy report were there, too, as were lists of the deceased’s friends and associates. But the timeline of Chatham’s final day was still far from complete.
Anne Briggs was transcribing the interview with Liz Dolan, while the others were on their phones, arranging to talk with the names on the lists. Fox had a list of his own to work through. It had just arrived from Chatham’s mobile phone provider, and sat on his desk next to a similar sheet detailing the past month’s landline activity. Internet browsing and downloads were only given as totals, but numbers called and texts sent were laid out in more comprehensive terms. The phone Chatham called most often was his home landline, usually in the evening – probably bored and cold as he waited to see some action at work. One number interested Fox – a mobile number. No calls to it, but over a hundred texts in a single month. Fox had tapped it into his own phone, but it went to an automated answering service. He hung up, and asked Briggs for Liz Dolan’s mobile number. Briggs told him. Not a match. And he could see Dolan’s mobile now – Chatham had texted it a couple of dozen times during the month. Fox put a question mark beside the mystery number and kept working.
Less than five minutes later, he had something. James could see it in his face, and strode over to the desk.
‘Gimme,’ he said.
‘Each and every Saturday, around twelve noon,’ Fox obliged, tapping his finger against the number called. ‘A two- to three-minute call to the same landline.’
‘Yes?’
‘I just phoned it myself. It’s a betting shop called Klondyke Alley.’
‘So?’
Fox kept his eyes on the list. ‘It’s just … we didn’t know he was the betting type, did we?’
James got Anne Briggs’s attention. She slipped off her headphones as he asked her the question.
�
��Yes,’ she said. ‘Partner told us that – he’d have a regular bet on the horses.’
‘Enough to get into trouble?’ Fox enquired.
‘I didn’t get the feeling they had money worries.’
‘Malcolm has a point, though – we need to look at Mr Chatham’s bank accounts.’
‘I don’t recall bookmakers being quite so fierce,’ Briggs said sceptically, ‘even with punters who owe them big.’
‘No stone unturned, Anne,’ James warned her. He had turned his attention to the cold-case file, the one Rebus had delivered. Fox had given him a two-minute briefing on it, and James hadn’t seen any cause to prioritise it at this stage.
‘I could go take a look at Klondyke Alley,’ Fox offered. ‘I checked and it’s on Great Junction Street, not a ten-minute walk from here.’
James studied him. ‘What’s your thinking?’
‘Could be Chatham placed bets in person as well as by phone.’
James considered this. ‘Ten minutes, you say?’
‘Each way,’ Fox corrected him. ‘I can bring back milk.’
‘And biscuits,’ Briggs called from her desk.
‘And biscuits,’ Fox agreed.
Klondyke Alley sat between a café and a charity shop, with a bus stop directly outside. Its brightly lit window showed an oversized one-armed bandit, its reels turning slowly and constantly. Fox stepped inside. It was almost identical to Diamond Joe’s and Diamond Joe’s Too – one bored-looking cashier; a few glazed-eyed punters seated in front of their favoured machines; TV screens fixed to the walls. Fox stood in front of the cash desk, waiting for the bulky man behind the glass to finish the text he was composing on his phone. It took a while. The cashier gave Fox an unwelcoming look.
‘Help ye?’ he barked.
‘I don’t meet many novelists,’ Fox said, gesturing towards the man’s phone. ‘I assume that was a chapter you were finishing.’
‘I’m going to guess you’re not here to place any bets.’
‘You’d be right.’ Fox held out his warrant card in one hand and a recent photo of Robert Chatham in the other. ‘Know this guy?’ he asked.
