Rather Be the Devil (Inspector Rebus 21)

by Ian Rankin

  ‘I had to check up on a couple of names she gave me – one in Fife, the other in Perthshire. Just in case you thought I was slacking …’

  James held up both hands in a show of surrender. ‘And you took a wingman, by the look of it. A member of the public, no less. That’s bound to look good if these “names” are called at the trial.’

  ‘The man has a point,’ Rebus teased, filling his mug. ‘No biscuits left?’

  ‘Sorry,’ Clarke replied, biting down on the last sliver of hers.

  ‘Time to share,’ James announced, slapping a hand down on his desk. ‘You tell us yours and we’ll tell you ours.’

  ‘All right,’ Fox said, his eyes on Clarke. She took the hint and eased herself from the chair – his chair. He squeezed past her and sat down. Mark Oldfield offered her his seat, but she shook her head and slid on to a corner of his desk instead, legs dangling.

  ‘Let’s begin,’ Alvin James said …

  Rebus had offered to buy the drinks, but Clarke had cried off, having already promised to share her favourite restaurant with Alvin James.

  ‘Doesn’t take her long to get her feet under the table,’ Fox complained as Rebus returned from the bar to their corner table.

  ‘Relax,’ Rebus chided him. ‘Shiv’s not the one who got promoted to Gartcosh, remember?’

  ‘She’d fit in there a lot better than I do, though – we both know it, so don’t bother denying it.’

  ‘How’s your tomato juice?’

  ‘A shot of vodka wouldn’t harm it. How’s your low-alcohol beer?’

  Rebus screwed up his face.

  ‘The state of the pair of us,’ Fox muttered, causing Rebus to chuckle. They sipped in silence for a few seconds. Rebus rubbed foam from his lips with the back of his hand.

  ‘It was interesting what Siobhan said, though,’ he eventually offered.

  ‘I was trying not to listen.’

  ‘About Darryl Christie telling her he’d moved everyone out of the house when he hadn’t.’

  ‘Why tell the truth when a lie will suffice?’

  ‘It’s a funny lie to tell, though.’

  ‘He may have his reasons.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘He’s hiding behind his mum and brothers, betting that whoever wants him hurt won’t want civilians involved.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Or else he just likes lying to the police – I get the feeling everyone I’ve spoken to recently has lied to me at least once: Dromgoole, Peter Attwood, John Turquand, Molly Sewell …’

  ‘Me?’ Rebus asked.

  ‘Probably. Almost definitely, in fact. My dad used to drum it into Jude and me that we’d go to hell if we ever told a lie.’

  ‘And did you stick by that?’

  ‘I did my best.’

  ‘Then maybe you won’t be joining the rest of us in the fiery depths.’ Rebus toasted him with his glass before taking another sip.

  ‘Are you putting off going home?’ Fox asked. ‘In case there really is a phone message?’

  ‘Nothing scares me, Malcolm.’

  ‘Is that right? I’m the exact opposite.’

  ‘That’s good, though, means you err on the side of caution. Look at your relationship with booze – you saw it was becoming a problem and you stopped. Me, I should have stopped years back. Instead of which, I challenged the demon drink to a wrestling match, just the two of us sweating it out.’

  ‘Only ever one winner in those contests.’

  ‘Aye – mortality. Same thing that’s waiting for me back at the flat, message or no message.’

  ‘That’s what I like about spending time with you, John – you never fail to light up a room with that positive attitude.’

  ‘I’m smiling now, though.’

  Fox looked at him. ‘So you are. Why’s that, I wonder?’

  Rebus leaned forward and patted him softly on the shoulder. ‘It’s your round, lad,’ he said.

  Denise the barmaid had arrived, scouting for empty glasses. She glowered at Rebus.

  ‘If this place goes broke, it’ll be your fault.’

  Rebus looked at Fox. ‘You see where I get that positive attitude from,’ he said.

  Fox had turned down Rebus’s offer of a bite to eat. He was wondering which restaurant Siobhan would have taken Alvin James to. There were three possibles, and he drove past each, slowing and peering through their windows as best he could. Then he stopped at a Sainsbury’s and bought a ready meal, some bananas and the evening paper.

  You’ll survive, he told himself as he pulled into the driveway of his Oxgangs bungalow. As he lifted his shopping from the passenger seat, he heard a car door open and close nearby. Looking up, he saw it was Darryl Christie. Christie just stood there next to the white Range Rover, waiting for Fox to walk up to him. Instead, Fox unlocked his front door and went inside, placing the bag on the kitchen counter and pausing there until the bell rang. He opened the door.

  ‘Was that you calling for back-up?’ Christie asked. ‘Because if it was, you better phone them with an excuse. Trust me, this chat has to be private.’

  ‘I don’t remember making an appointment, Mr Christie.’

  ‘What I’ve got to say is important.’

  ‘Then maybe you should drop by Leith tomorrow.’

  Christie was peering over Fox’s shoulder. ‘We should step inside,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘My car, then. This really does need to be kept between us.’

  ‘You shouldn’t be here.’

  ‘Are you even listening to me?’ Christie’s face had hardened.

  ‘Frankly, I’ve got better things to do with my evening.’

  The two men studied one another. Eventually, Christie sniffed and ran a finger across the base of his nose. ‘Okay then,’ he said, half turning as if to depart. But then he paused. ‘It’s Jude’s head on the block, though, just remember that …’

  He walked down the path, hands in pockets, not looking back.

  ‘Bluff,’ muttered Fox, heading back inside. He took the ready meal from its cardboard sleeve and stabbed the film lid with the tip of a knife. Three minutes in the microwave, then leave for one more minute. Eat while piping hot. He opened the microwave door, then stopped. The newspaper was on the counter and he stared at its front page without really seeing it.

  ‘Fine then,’ he said, striding to the front door.

  The Range Rover was still there, Christie drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. Fox climbed into the passenger seat and slammed shut the door.

  ‘So tell me,’ he said.

  Christie took a deep breath and released it slowly, as if debating whether to comply. The movement of Fox’s hand towards the door handle made his mind up.

  ‘I didn’t know she was your sister – not at first. I mean, I only ever knew her by her first name. Her first name and her address. Her address and her financial details.’ He paused to let this sink in.

  ‘She owes you money?’ Fox guessed.

  ‘She really does.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Before we get to that, let’s talk about you. Let’s talk about you being here on secondment from Gartcosh, asking questions about various betting shops, trying to pressure your own sister into spying for you …’ Christie tutted. ‘Cleaning up dirty money by putting it into fixed-odds machines? Do you really think you’re ever going to pin that on me?’

  ‘Are you saying it isn’t happening?’

  ‘I’m saying you’d have the devil’s job proving it in court. And recruiting your own sister to the cause … a woman with a gambling problem – not quite the most reliable of witnesses, DI Fox.’

  Fox could feel his jaw clenching, mostly because Christie was right.

  ‘Sanctioned by Gartcosh, was it?’ Christie went on. ‘Or is this you using your initiative? In which case, I doubt your bosses are going to be too thrilled.’

  ‘I’m going to ask again – how much does she owe?’
r />   Christie turned towards the passenger seat for the first time, caressing the steering wheel with his fingers as he spoke. ‘Twenty-seven grand – give or take.’

  Fox tried swallowing, his mouth suddenly dry. ‘I think you’re lying,’ he said.

  ‘Then come to Diamond Joe’s and I’ll show you the figures. It’s mostly from her online activities, of course. I’m almost as stunned by it as you are – I mean, the interest rate isn’t even forty per cent …’

  ‘I can get you the money.’

  ‘You sure about that?’

  ‘Given enough time.’

  ‘But time’s the one thing you don’t have, DI Fox, because I want something from you right now.’

  ‘The cashpoint will give me a couple of hundred.’

  ‘It’s not about money!’ Christie snarled.

  ‘What then?’

  ‘Knowledge, of course. The knowledge stored at Gartcosh.’

  ‘You want to know what they have on you?’

  ‘Especially as it relates to this man.’ Christie had lifted a slip of paper from the dashboard. Fox unfolded it.

  ‘Aleksander Glushenko,’ he read. ‘Sounds Russian.’

  ‘He’s Ukrainian.’

  Fox stared at the name again, then held the note towards Christie. ‘I can’t do this,’ he said.

  ‘That’s a pity – Jude made destitute, your name dragged into it, the papers tipped off that you were using her as bait … and your bosses notified about all your various shenanigans.’ Christie gestured towards the slip of paper. ‘Am I really asking so much, Malcolm?’

  ‘I can get you the money.’

  ‘Hang on to the name anyway. That way, I may hold fire a few days before taking you and your sister to the cleaners.’ Christie paused for a moment. ‘Now get out of my fucking car.’

  Fox knew how good it would feel to rip the piece of paper into tiny shreds and throw them into Christie’s face. Instead, he opened the door and got out, the note pressed into his palm. The car was heading off before he’d even reached his front door.

  Inside, he unpeeled the film lid from the ready meal before remembering that he hadn’t yet cooked it. He swore under his breath and took out his phone.

  ‘Oh Christ,’ said Jude when she picked up. ‘Look, Malcolm …’

  ‘You’re an unbelievable fucking idiot, Jude! Not just to get into debt like that – with a wolf like him – but then to toss me in his direction as a bone!’

  ‘I know, I know, I know. I wasn’t thinking straight. I wasn’t thinking at all.’

  ‘You were thinking about you, dear sister, same as always. Everybody around you can be hung out to dry, just so long as Jude survives …’ He sighed and lowered his voice. ‘Promise me you’ll get help – Gamblers Anonymous, whatever it takes. Twenty-seven grand, Jude …’

  He listened to her sobs, closing his eyes and resting his forehead against one of the cupboard doors. She was trying to talk, but he couldn’t make out any of the words. It didn’t matter anyway.

  He ended the call and perched on a stool at the counter. Using a ballpoint pen on the blank side of the ready meal’s cardboard sleeve, he began to work out how much he had, how much he could raise. The slip of paper was lying on the counter a little further along, crumpled but readable. An easy enough name to remember: Aleksander Glushenko.

  Who the hell was Aleksander Glushenko?

  If Fox found out, and discovered the connection between the two men, could he use that against Christie in some way rather than aiding and abetting him?

  Maybe. Just maybe.

  But to be on the safe side, he kept totting up numbers …

  Three phone messages were waiting for Rebus at his flat on Arden Street.

  ‘Press one or say one to listen to your messages …’

  Instead of which, he had gone to the window, staring out at the night. Then he had walked to the record deck. Solid Air was still there from the evening Deborah Quant had stayed over. It was an album that had always been there for him, no matter the troubles in his life. And hadn’t John Martyn been troubled, too? Johnny Too Bad – hitting the booze, falling out and brawling with friends and lovers. One leg hacked off in the operating theatre. But barrelling on through life, singing and playing until the end.

  Nice thing about an album – when it was over, you could lift the needle and start from the beginning again.

  With the title track playing softly, Rebus finally picked up the phone.

  ‘Press one …’

  He pressed.

  And heard a pre-recorded message telling him he didn’t have long to claim for his mis-sold payment protection insurance.

  Delete.

  ‘Message two …’

  The same automated caller. From further on in their spiel.

  Delete.

  ‘Message three …’

  ‘Did you know that a government-backed scheme can give you a new boiler at no charge …?’

  Delete.

  ‘You have no more messages …’

  Rebus stared at the phone for fully fifteen seconds before placing it back on its charger. He peered down at his chest.

  ‘At this rate, my heart will give out before Hank Marvin gets me,’ he muttered, turning the amplifier’s volume control all the way up.

  Day Seven

  17

  Next morning, Fox drove to Gartcosh. His night had been restless and he had nicked his chin while shaving. He’d woken up to four texts from Jude, three of them apologetic, one baleful and accusatory. Entering the main building, he climbed the stairs and walked past the HMRC office. Through the window, he could see Sheila Graham seated at her desk, so he headed back to the ground floor, got himself a coffee, and found a perch in the atrium where the upstairs floor was visible.

  Nobody paid him any heed. He remembered that he was good at this – blending in, becoming invisible. He’d always enjoyed stakeouts and tailing suspects. With his suit, tie and lanyard, he looked just like everyone else. Only the most senior staff wore anything resembling a uniform. Remove them from the picture and he could have been in any corporate building in the country.

  Graham had left her office and was walking towards the other end of the building, where the Organised Crime team were tucked away behind a locked door, one requiring a special keycard. It didn’t really surprise Fox that Graham carried just such a card around her neck. She pulled open the door and passed through it, by which time Fox was halfway up the staircase. He walked into the HMRC office and looked around. Graham’s neighbour was seated at his own computer, facing Graham’s desk. Recognising him from his previous visit, Fox gave a nod of greeting.

  ‘You just missed her,’ the man said.

  ‘Will she be long?’

  ‘Bit of housekeeping to discuss with ACC McManus.’

  Fox made show of checking the time on his wristwatch. ‘I’ll maybe wait for a bit, if that’s okay.’

  The man gave a shrug of assent and got busy on his screen again. Fox sat down in front of Graham’s monitor. It was in screen-saver mode, and when he nudged the mouse, he saw that a password was required for access.

  ‘Think she’d mind if I checked my emails?’

  ‘You can’t do it on your phone?’

  ‘I can’t always get a signal.’

  ‘Try “GcoshG69”.’

  Fox typed it in. ‘Thanks,’ he said.

  ‘I should have asked – making any progress in Edinburgh?’

  ‘Slowly,’ Fox said. He was studying a list of files. He couldn’t see the name Glushenko, so entered it as a search.

  No results.

  Having stared at the screen for a few moments, he turned his attention to the desk itself. A three-inch-high pile of manila folders sat to the right of the console. He opened the cover of the first one, but the details meant nothing to him. Same for the one immediately beneath. To the other side of the console sat a tray containing A4 sheets of paper, some stapled or held together with paper clips, Post-it notes att
ached at various points. But again, no Glushenko.

  The desk boasted two deep drawers. Fox slid the nearest one open a few inches. More paperwork, neatly filed.

  ‘You okay there?’ the HMRC officer asked, growing suspicious.

  ‘Just wondering if she got the report I sent.’

  ‘Easier to ask her, no?’

  ‘Ask me what?’

  Fox turned his head and saw that Sheila Graham had stopped just inside the doorway.

  ‘Short meeting,’ he said.

  ‘McManus got called away.’ She took a few more steps towards her desk. Fox rose to his feet, ceding the chair to her. But her eyes were on the screen. He looked too, and saw that the Glushenko search was still displayed. When he turned back towards her, she was staring at him.

  ‘You and me,’ she said quietly, ‘need to have a little chat …’

  He followed her out of the office and along the walkway towards one of the glass meeting boxes. She slid the sign on the door to IN USE and marched in, seating herself at the large rectangular table and taking out her phone.

  ‘Sit,’ she commanded Fox.

  ‘I can explain.’

  ‘That’s exactly what you’re going to do, but someone else needs to hear it too.’ She waited for her call to be answered. When it was, she announced to the person on the other end that she was putting the speakerphone on. As she placed the phone flat on the table, a male voice said, ‘What’s up, Sheila?’

  ‘There’s someone here with me. Detective Inspector Malcolm Fox. I mentioned him to you.’

  ‘You did.’

  ‘We’re in a private room and can’t be overheard. Can you say the same?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then maybe you can start by identifying yourself to DI Fox.’

  ‘My name is Alan McFarlane. I’m in charge of the Economic Crime Command at the National Crime Agency, based in London.’

  ‘DI Fox has just come to me with a name – a name I didn’t give him,’ Graham said.

  ‘Does it begin with a G?’

  ‘It does.’

  ‘Aleksander Glushenko,’ Fox added, feeling the need to say something.

  ‘How did you come across him, DI Fox?’