by Ian Rankin
‘Slow but steady progress.’
‘The guy arrested for the attack?’
‘Is probably not who we’re looking for. But I’m starting to wonder about Anthony Brough.’
‘You doubt it’s a coincidence that he’s suddenly not around?’
‘What do you think?’
‘I think a number of Mr Brough’s recent schemes have yielded big losses. A lot of his clients are out of pocket.’
‘And baying for his blood?’
‘I’m not sure about that. But these are people who can’t always go chat to a bank manager about a loan to tide them over. Cash is their currency. They might need a lender who isn’t going to ask too many questions …’
‘Someone like Darryl Christie, you mean?’
She nodded slowly. ‘But let’s not make this about business, Malcolm. I appreciate you taking the trouble to keep me company.’
A slow smile spread across Fox’s face. ‘Oh I think this is all business, Sheila. There was a titbit you wanted to throw me and you’ve just accomplished that.’
‘Am I so transparent? Well, maybe you’re right. But that’s done now, so we really can just have a drink and a chat.’ She nodded towards his glass. ‘Have you never been a drinker?’
‘I was a drinker right up until the day I stopped.’
‘What happened?’
‘You know Jekyll and Hyde? That was me with alcohol.’
Graham tipped her head back, stretching her neck muscles. ‘It just makes me nicely mellow,’ she said. ‘And some days I need that feeling.’ She lifted her glass and clinked it against his. ‘What about this other case you’re working?’
‘Oddly, it’s beginning to connect to yours.’
‘Oh?’
‘The ex-cop who was killed, he ran a review of the Maria Turquand murder.’
‘I don’t think I know her.’
‘She was found dead in her hotel room in 1978.’
‘Here in the city?’
‘Right here.’
‘And they told me Edinburgh was safe for women. So where’s the connection?’
‘Maria’s husband was Sir Magnus Brough’s right-hand man. Fast forward to the present, and grandson Anthony has an office that pretty much looks on to the hotel where Maria was murdered.’
Graham puzzled over this as she sipped her drink.
‘I’m not saying there’s any real connection, of course,’ Fox felt it necessary to qualify. ‘It’s interesting, that’s all. But when Anthony’s parents died, he and his sister were basically raised by Sir Magnus.’
‘There may be something else,’ Graham said quietly, resting her elbows on the table. ‘One of Anthony’s early clients was John Turquand. It was in the papers at the time. Brough used it as a sort of calling card to other would-be investors. Turquand’s long retired, but his was a respected name in financial circles.’ She broke off. ‘We seem to be talking shop again, don’t we?’
‘Well, you did ask.’
‘I suppose I did.’ She glanced at her phone. ‘Just checking the time.’
‘How long before the next train?’
‘Seventeen minutes.’
‘Another white wine, then?’
‘Why not?’
He went to the bar, wondering about Anthony Brough and John Turquand, and about Darryl Christie and Maria Turquand’s murder. Placing the fresh drink in front of Graham, he asked what she thought of Brough’s disappearance.
‘Nobody’s reported him missing,’ she confided. ‘Not much to be done until they do.’
‘Is he married?’
‘Still very much the playboy about town. He could be lying low in a hotel suite anywhere between here and Sydney.’
‘The question is why.’
‘Agreed.’
‘Do you think Darryl Christie would shed any light?’
‘I think he’d deny even knowing Brough’s name.’
‘There’s no record of them working together or meeting up?’
‘It’s all an electronic and paper trail, Malcolm. And you’d have the devil’s job finding Christie’s name anywhere. Companies he’s associated with, yes, but the man himself is bloody elusive.’
‘Is there anything you can pull him in for?’
‘You mean so we can fish without seeming to?’ She considered this. ‘Far as we know, his tax affairs are in order. There was a full audit two years back, and he ended up paying a few hundred quid.’ She shrugged.
‘But if he’s lending money illegally …’
‘It’s not necessarily illegal to lend money. Besides which, we’ve no proof other than hearsay and guesswork. Our best bet is still this physical attack on him. It has to mean something and it must have shaken him up, made him wonder who his friends are and who might have it in for him.’
‘Then you should talk to your boss, demand phone taps and twenty-four/seven surveillance.’
‘The sort of thing that was meat and drink to you when you worked Professional Standards?’
‘Damned right.’
‘I suppose I could ask, though I’m in danger of sounding like a broken record.’ She placed a hand on her stomach to stifle a sudden gurgling. ‘Should have grabbed something to eat,’ she apologised.
‘It’s not too late,’ Fox said. ‘There are places on Cockburn Street.’ He paused. ‘Always supposing there’s a later train you can catch.’
She met his eyes. ‘There’s a later train,’ she said. ‘But on one condition.’
He held up a hand. ‘I’ve got to insist on paying – my town, my rules.’
‘How very gallant of you. But my condition is no shop talk. For real this time.’
‘Pretend we’re normal people, you mean?’
‘Normal people eating a normal dinner on a normal night out.’
‘It’s not going to be easy,’ Fox warned her. ‘But let’s give it a go …’
Day Six
13
The call had come at 6.30 a.m., hauling Siobhan Clarke from her bed. She pulled on some clothes, dragged a wet brush through her hair and headed for her Astra. The patrol car was parked outside Craw Shand’s house, two uniforms waiting for her. It was just starting to get light and the street lamps were still on, bathing both men in a faint orange glow.
‘Round the back,’ one of them said.
She followed them around the side of the house into the handkerchief-sized garden. The door to the kitchen stood open, splinters of wood showing where it had been forced.
‘You’ve been in?’ Clarke asked.
‘Only to ascertain there’s no one home.’
‘Have you called it in as a crime scene?’
‘Can’t really say that it is, unless you know different.’
‘If it’s not a crime scene, what is it?’
‘Maybe he locked himself out,’ the officer said with a shrug.
Clarke stepped inside, keeping her hands in her pockets so there’d be no temptation to touch anything.
‘One thing the CSM hates,’ she advised, ‘is contamination.’ She turned towards the two constables. ‘Stay here while I take a look.’
She hadn’t been in the house before, but it didn’t look as though it had been trashed, and there was still a TV in the living room. Bottles of booze untouched, too. Upstairs: Shand’s bedroom, plus a spare that was being used for storage. No sign of any violence; no ransacking. So what the hell had happened?
She padded back down the stairs to the kitchen.
‘What do you think?’ she was asked.
‘I think a man charged with assault has just gone missing.’
‘Somebody took him?’
‘Or he left before they got here.’
‘Could be they came looking,’ the second officer proposed, ‘but there was no one home. Shand returns later, sees the state of his door, and makes himself scarce.’
‘Possible,’ Clarke said, looking at the dishes piled up in the sink.
‘So is it a crime scene or not?
’
‘Won’t do any harm to dust for prints. Everybody leaves something behind – a hair, a bit of saliva, maybe a footprint …’
‘You don’t sound hopeful.’
‘Lack of enthusiasm due to too little sleep,’ Clarke commented, taking out her phone, scrolling to ‘CSM’ in her address book and making the call. While she waited for it to be picked up, she made sure she had both officers’ full attention. ‘We have photos and physical description on file – I want them circulated PDQ. Shand is a creature of habit. If he’s out there, he’s going to become visible.’
‘And if he’s running, we just have to find him before anyone else.’
‘That, too,’ Clarke said, as Haj Atwal answered her call and asked why whatever she wanted couldn’t wait another hour.
Fox was seated at his desk, reading the copy of Maxine Dromgoole’s book that had arrived from the library service. He had already noted that it had been last borrowed just under a year back. Judging from the date stamps in the front, it had been popular when first published. Its title was The Ends of Justice: Scotland’s Greatest Unsolved Crimes. Bible John was in there, of course, as were the World’s End murders and Renee MacRae, but by far the longest chapter was dedicated to Maria Turquand. Nothing more recent, though; nothing to suggest that Robert Chatham had been feeding other titbits to his lover.
Hearing his name called, Fox looked up from his work. Alvin James was the only other person in the room. He was gesturing towards him, so Fox crossed to his desk. James was watching something on his laptop.
‘CCTV from outside a place called the Tomahawk Club, two Saturdays back. These must be the blokes Dromgoole was talking about.’
‘No sound?’
‘Just pictures, more’s the pity, and grainier than I’d like.’
Fox watched as three figures confronted Chatham. There was a good deal of finger-pointing and what looked like shouting. The leader of the group rose up on his toes to make himself appear taller. Chatham stood his ground, though, and seemed implacable. He was not about to be goaded into a fight, even after another doorman arrived as back-up. Then a fourth figure appeared and seemed to calm things down further, slinging an arm around the most hot-tempered of the group.
‘Looks like smoke rather than fire,’ Fox commented.
‘I still want to talk to them.’ James shut down the file and opened another. ‘And I’ve invited this ne’er-do-well in for a chat, too.’
Another grainy night-time video. Fox knew who he was watching, though he doubted anyone who didn’t know him would have been able to identify John Rebus.
‘They’re just talking,’ he said.
‘That they are. But as soon as Rebus leaves, Chatham gets out his phone and makes a call.’
‘Yes, it’s on his billing statement. He was speaking to his boss.’
‘But watch this.’ Chatham forwarded the recording. ‘See? Chatham asks his colleague to take over. Then he walks out of shot.’
‘Headed where?’
James gave a little smile. He clicked on a third file. ‘CCTV from outside a pub further down the street. See that phone box? Does that look like Robert Chatham opening its door?’
‘I suppose it does,’ Fox conceded.
‘Man carries a mobile with him, why use a public telephone?’
‘He didn’t want the call to be traceable?’ Fox offered. James nodded his agreement.
‘I’d love to know who he was calling.’
‘I doubt an interview with Rebus will give you any answers.’
‘You rang, m’lord?’
The two men looked up as Rebus walked in.
‘How did you get past the front desk?’ James demanded to know.
‘The front desk of a police station in my home city? As an ex-cop, I really haven’t a clue.’
‘I’m going to be having words with them,’ James stated.
‘So how goes it at the beating heart of the investigation?’ Rebus asked as he made a circuit of the room, pausing at Fox’s desk to pick up the copy of the Dromgoole book. ‘Any good?’ he asked Fox, waving it at him.
‘When I left my message,’ James interrupted, ‘I specified that you should phone and make an appointment for the interview.’
‘Well, I was in the area,’ Rebus responded. ‘But it looks like most of your crew sleep late, so unless one of you two wants the job, maybe I’ll come back another time …’
‘Now you’re here, maybe you should take a look at this,’ James said. Rebus walked around the desk, watching the film over James’s shoulder and nodding afterwards.
‘I’ve been wondering about that call.’
‘Chatham’s boss is called Kenny Arnott,’ Fox explained. ‘He runs a company supplying doormen to pubs and clubs.’
James was staring at Rebus. ‘What about the phone box?’
Rebus shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t mind knowing who he was calling.’
‘I’ll be requesting that information, don’t you worry.’ James closed the file and leaned back in his chair. ‘And while I’m doing that, Malcolm will be taking your statement.’
There was a momentary silence as Fox and Rebus made eye contact.
‘Fine,’ Malcolm Fox said.
He led the way to the interview room. There was a tape machine fixed to its table, plus a camera pointing down from one corner of the ceiling. Fox took a seat and motioned for Rebus to sit opposite.
‘No notes?’ Rebus asked.
‘Not needed.’
‘Recording?’
Fox shook his head. ‘Let’s make this quick. You’re here because you twice spoke to Chatham in the days before he died. Once in the café, and prior to that outside a bar he was working.’
‘I can’t deny it. I also had nothing to do with his death.’
‘We both know this is a waste of time, but one thing stands out – he was spooked by something you said.’
Rebus processed the information. ‘Agreed,’ he said.
‘So who did he call, and why?’
‘He used a public phone to keep things nice and private.’
‘That’s how it looks.’
‘I wish I could help, Malcolm,’ Rebus said with a shrug.
‘The only thing the pair of you talked about was the Turquand case?’
‘Correct.’
‘It was a brief chat that first night?’
‘You saw it yourself on the tape – I wanted it to be longer but he said he was knackered. You’ve got the CCTV – does anyone rock up after I left, someone he might have arranged to meet?’
‘Detective Superintendent James has been the one watching the footage.’
‘Maybe I should take a look, too.’
‘Feel free to ask him.’
‘I’m asking you.’
Fox shook his head slowly. He was still shaking it as the door opened. James himself was standing there.
‘Slight problem,’ he said. ‘I’ve been called to Gartcosh – got to brief the chiefs.’
‘I think I can hold the fort till the others get back,’ Fox said.
‘Thing is, Maxine Dromgoole’s just turned up at the front desk. You okay to do her interview, too?’
‘Of course,’ Fox stated.
James was looking at Rebus. ‘Sorry we’re kicking you out.’
‘I’m devastated.’
James decided to ignore this, leaving the door ajar as he made his exit.
‘He doesn’t like to keep his masters waiting, does he?’ Rebus commented.
‘It’s true what he says, though – we only have the one interview room, so …’
‘Let me sit in.’
Fox stared at him. ‘Why?’
‘Because there’s something I know that you don’t.’
‘It wouldn’t exactly be following procedure.’
‘Nobody’ll know if you don’t tape it.’
Fox leaned back a little and folded his arms, waiting for more, so Rebus obliged.
‘One question – I jus
t have to ask her one question.’
‘And then I’ll know what you know?’
‘Yes. Though there is an alternative.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘While you’re stuck in here, I’m on James’s laptop playing the CCTV.’
‘He really wouldn’t like that.’
‘Hard to disagree.’
‘What do you know about Dromgoole?’
‘Apart from her being Chatham’s lover? Well, she wrote that book on your desk. Her piece about Collier’s road manager kicked off Chatham’s review of the Turquand case. It was all in the file Siobhan gave me.’ Rebus paused. ‘And one more thing …’ His voice tailed off.
‘Which I’ll only find out if I let you sit in on the interview?’
‘Yes.’
‘This is the thanks I get for calling you to tell you about the affair in the first place?’
‘I’m a bad bugger, Malcolm, there’s no denying it.’
Fox gave a sigh. ‘One question?’
Rebus held up his forefinger. ‘Scout’s honour.’
‘You stay here then,’ Fox eventually said, knowing he was probably going to regret it, ‘and I’ll go fetch her.’
Two minutes later he was back. Rebus had vacated his seat and offered it to Dromgoole as she entered. She sat down and Rebus took up position by the door. Fox had started unwrapping a tape, but then remembered Rebus’s words and left it next to the machine.
‘My colleague here,’ he said as carefully as he could, ‘goes by the name of John Rebus.’
She raised both eyebrows, studying Rebus as though he were some new and interesting species. ‘I know who you are,’ she said. ‘You’ve got history with Morris Gerald Cafferty.’
Rebus tried to think of a response, but Dromgoole wasn’t about to wait. ‘Could you get me a meeting with him?’
‘A meeting with Cafferty?’
‘I’m hoping to write a book – did Inspector Fox not say?’
Rebus gave Fox a hard stare, but she was talking again.
‘I’ve tried writing to him, but he never replies. It’s a book about Scotland in the seventies and eighties, about the criminals of the day and what they got up to. From my research, Mr Cafferty would seem the best candidate – most of the others of his ilk are no longer around to tell their stories.’
