by Ian Rankin
‘We loved attics when we were young,’ Francesca blurted out.
‘I’m not seeing an answering machine,’ Rebus said, looking around.
‘There isn’t even a telephone – Anthony didn’t feel the need.’
‘You’ve called his mobile? Sent him texts?’
‘A couple of times,’ Warbody admitted. ‘Not because we’re worried, just to see if he wanted to join us for a meal or a trip into town.’
‘You still don’t think it’s unusual not to get a reply?’
‘He could be breaking the bank at Monte Carlo.’ Warbody gave a shrug.
‘Or pigging out at the Caledonian,’ Francesca added. ‘He likes to eat and drink there.’
‘Any special reason?’ Rebus asked her.
‘It’s handy for his office,’ Warbody interrupted.
‘Plus,’ Francesca went on, ‘it’s where she was killed.’
‘You mean Maria Turquand?’
The young woman’s eyes widened. ‘You know about her?’
‘I take an interest in old cases. Your brother’s interested too?’
‘Look, Inspector,’ Warbody said, manoeuvring herself between Rebus and Francesca, ‘we’d help you if we could, but there’s really nothing we can do.’ She noticed that Francesca was dancing back down the stairs again, so made to follow. The two women were waiting by the front door as Rebus reached the hall.
‘I appreciate your assistance,’ he told Warbody. He took out his phone. ‘I’ve given you my contact number – do you mind if I take yours?’
‘Why?’
‘In case I need to get in touch – saves me having to come back in the flesh.’
She saw the sense of this, so reeled off the number while Rebus entered it into his phone.
‘Thanks again,’ he said.
The net curtain across the way was twitching again as the two women headed for their own bolthole. Rebus called out to Warbody, who, after a moment’s reluctance, joined him.
‘I take it Mr Brough pays your salary?’ he asked.
She shook her head. ‘I work for Francesca. Sir Magnus made sure she was comfortable.’
‘She got half the estate?’
‘Not quite, but she got as much as her brother. And unlike Anthony, she’s not a gambler.’
‘He gambles?’
‘Isn’t that what all investment comes down to? No gain without risk.’
‘I suppose so.’ He thanked her with a nod and watched her march down the steps and close the door after her. As he walked towards his parked car, he saw another directly behind it. Malcolm Fox emerged.
‘Fancy meeting you here,’ Fox drawled.
‘Great minds, Malcolm.’
‘He’s not at home, then?’
‘His sister is, though.’
‘Oh?’
‘She lives in the downstairs flat, looked after by a woman called Warbody.’
‘How did she seem?’
‘The sister? Away with the bloody fairies.’
‘I’ve just been discussing her with a—’
But Rebus interrupted him with a gesture. ‘Let’s continue this in my office.’ He nodded towards the Saab. ‘I just want to make a quick call first.’
When they were seated with the doors closed, Rebus phoned Molly Sewell, identifying himself and saying he had a quick question for her. He had put the phone’s speaker on so that Fox could listen.
‘Go ahead then,’ she said.
‘You told us you’d been to your employer’s home and put a note through his door. I’ve just been in there, and I didn’t see any note.’
‘Maybe you didn’t look hard enough.’
‘I looked,’ Rebus stated.
‘Then someone must have moved it – maybe the cleaner.’
‘Or Alison Warbody,’ Rebus commented, listening to the ensuing silence on the line. ‘Why didn’t you mention that Francesca Brough lives directly beneath her brother?’
‘I didn’t want you bothering her. You’ve seen her?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then it can’t have escaped your notice that she’s incredibly fragile.’
‘I managed to spend ten minutes with her without snapping a piece off.’
‘What an unfeeling thing to say.’
‘I did score pretty low on sensitivity at the police college. But it’s not up to you to decide what we’re allowed to—’
‘John,’ Fox interrupted.
Rebus broke off and stared at him.
‘She’s rung off,’ Fox explained. Rebus studied his phone’s screen and cursed under his breath.
‘Your turn then,’ he said, leaning back in the driver’s seat.
Fox filled him in on the chat with Wilbur Bennett. Rebus took a few moments to digest everything he’d heard, then shook his head slowly.
‘The whole family’s something else,’ he concluded.
‘You think they’re protecting Anthony,’ Fox stated.
‘Don’t you?’
Fox nodded. ‘What’s more, I know why.’
Rebus half turned towards him. ‘Go on.’ But then he had another thought, and tapped at the screen of his phone once more, with the speaker still active.
‘Hello?’
‘Ms Warbody,’ he said, ‘it’s DI Fox again.’ He had turned his head so he wouldn’t have to deal with the look he knew Fox would be giving him. ‘Something I forgot to ask – Ms Sewell says she put a note through Mr Brough’s—’
‘I picked it up.’
‘You did?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s okay then. Thank you, Ms Warbody.’
The phone went dead and Rebus turned his head to meet Fox’s stare.
‘You snatched some of my business cards,’ Fox said eventually.
‘Of course I did – sometimes people need to think they’re talking to a cop.’
‘But they’re not, John, and impersonating a police officer is an offence.’
‘I know guys who spent their whole lives on the force doing not much more than impersonating cops.’
‘That’s beside the point.’
‘The point is … what did you make of that?’ Rebus was waving his phone in Fox’s face.
‘What was I supposed to make of it?’
‘You don’t think she sounded like she’d just been told what to say by someone who knew I’d be asking the question?’
‘Maybe. But to get back to what I was trying to tell you earlier …’
‘What?’
‘I know what’s going on here. Not all of it, but a lot of it.’
Rebus stared at him. ‘You do?’
‘Want me to share?’
‘I’m all ears …’
Fifteen minutes later, hands gripping the steering wheel, Rebus shook his head and gave a noisy exhalation.
‘That’s what he meant by the Russian,’ he muttered.
‘Who?’
‘Cafferty. He told me to look for the Russian. I thought it was to do with the Turquand case, but all the time …’
‘Glushenko’s Ukrainian, though.’
‘But the name sounds Russian – you said so yourself. Cafferty’s information was just slightly less than a hundred per cent accurate. Thing is – how did he even come to know that much? He’d hardly have heard from Christie or Brough, would he?’
‘Maybe this is still a town that talks to him,’ Fox offered.
‘You could be right.’ Rebus nodded slowly. ‘Or there could be something here we’re not seeing. Did Darryl Christie look to you like he’s sitting on a chunk of ten million pounds?’
‘I’m not sure how someone like that would look.’
‘Something we’re not seeing,’ Rebus repeated. Then he smiled for Fox’s benefit. ‘But thanks to you, Malcolm, we’re closer than we were.’
Fox’s own phone was letting him know he had a text.
‘My absence has been noted,’ he announced.
‘The James Gang?’
‘The very s
ame.’
‘How’s the investigation going?’
‘We seem to be making heavy weather. You really think it’s all about Maria Turquand?’
‘Odds-on favourite, I’d say.’
‘Pity you’ve yet to convince Detective Superintendent James.’
‘I lack your people skills.’
‘You want me to keep nudging him?’
‘With any blunt object lurking in the vicinity.’
‘Thing is, I’m not sure you’re right – not this time.’
‘That hurts, Malcolm. You know you’ve got a very sick man right here in front of you? Added to which, it’s my birthday …’
‘It was your birthday three months back. Siobhan and me took you out, remember?’
‘I forgot that,’ Rebus said with a pained expression. ‘Okay, off you go to dole out biscuits to your MIT chums – some of us have real work to do.’
‘Such as?’
‘Probably best you don’t know.’
‘Probably best you don’t go pretending to be me any more.’ Fox held out a hand. ‘I want those business cards back.’
‘I’ve used them all up.’
‘Liar.’
‘Cross my shadowed lung and hope to die.’
‘Christ, John, don’t joke about that. Any news yet?’
Rebus’s face softened a little. ‘No,’ he admitted.
‘You’ve still not shared it with anyone?’
‘Just you.’
Fox nodded and started opening his door.
‘Hey,’ Rebus said, causing him to pause. ‘Have you told me everything?’
‘Everything?’
‘About Christie and Brough.’
‘Not everything, no.’
‘Good lad,’ Rebus said with a spreading smile. ‘You’re finally learning.’
Malcolm Fox couldn’t help but smile back.
19
Siobhan Clarke hated herself for waiting on the phone call. Over dinner the previous night, Alvin James had said that he wanted her on the Major Investigation Team. It was just a matter of letting people know, including her boss. She had already found three excuses to visit DCI Page’s cubbyhole office that morning, thinking he’d maybe just not got round to passing the news along.
But there had been no news.
Should she remind Alvin? A friendly text, perhaps, in the guise of wondering how the inquiry was shaping up?
You’re not that needy, girl, she told herself, but she worried that she was.
The search for Craw Shand was ongoing, but with enthusiasm waning. Laura Smith had run the story online, repeating it several times to no avail. Clarke had texted to thank her. Christine Esson had commented that if someone had meant him harm, surely a body would have turned up by now. Clarke wasn’t so sure – plenty of spots where a cadaver could be stored; lots of wild places within an hour’s drive of the city. Craw hadn’t used his mobile phone and hadn’t been near a bank machine. The CCTV cameras across the city centre had failed to pick him up. Friends had been located and questioned, again without success. Meantime, Esson and Ogilvie had shown photos of Shand to Darryl Christie, who had shaken his head, making the same gesture when he was played a recording of Shand’s voice. Nor had the photos meant anything to Christie’s neighbours – no one had seen Craw Shand in the vicinity of Christie’s home.
Clarke’s phone sat on her desk, tormenting her with its stubborn silence. Esson was busy at her computer, while Ronnie Ogilvie took a call, using his free hand to stroke what there was of his moustache. Clarke pulled some paperwork towards her, but couldn’t concentrate. Instead, she got up and put her coat on. Christine Esson gave her a quizzical look. Ignoring her, Clarke headed for the door.
Traffic was sluggish towards the city centre and she drummed her fingers to the music on her radio. Two songs and a news report later, she turned into Cowgate and parked at the goods entrance to the Devil’s Dram. A delivery van was dropping off catering supplies, so she squeezed past the boxes and went inside. Darryl Christie was downstairs for a change, discussing something with Hodges. They stood behind the illuminated bar. The subject seemed to be flavoured gins.
‘And here comes an expert,’ Christie announced at her approach.
‘Do you never give up?’ Hodges added, eyes narrowing.
Christie ignored him. ‘Pull up a stool – you can be our guinea pig. The rhubarb and ginger is a bit tasty, apparently.’
‘I never accept free drinks.’
‘Just Happy Hour ones, eh?’ Christie said. ‘We took your lovely portrait down, by the way. Harry reckoned it would be a bit too much for the clientele.’ He paused, leaning across the bar, palms pressed down against it. ‘That wasn’t very nice, by the way, barging into my home when I was elsewhere.’
‘You told me you’d moved your family out – I’m interested in why you changed your mind.’
‘Is this about Craw Shand? You still think I’ve taken him out of the game?’ Christie managed a thin smile. ‘How often do I have to tell you?’
‘If whoever attacked you isn’t in custody, why are you acting like it’s all gone away?’
‘What makes you think I’ve not taken precautions?’
‘And what precautions might those be, Mr Christie?’
He tutted. ‘As if I’d tell you. My mum was livid, you know – she thinks I was condoning Cal’s behaviour. Well, I was doing a lot worse at his age, and at least I sent a chaperone.’ Christie focused his attention on Hodges, who began to look uncomfortable. ‘For all the fucking good that did. Thing about a chaperone is, they’re supposed to be there.’
‘I was hanging back to take a call, Darryl. You know that. They were never out of my sight, swear to God.’
Christie squeezed Hodges’ shoulder, but his eyes were back on Clarke. ‘I’d imagine you’re winding things down, no? Other fish to fry and so forth?’
‘Not until Craw turns up. He’s been charged with assault, remember – your assault. Procurator Fiscal tends to take a dim view when the main suspect vanishes.’
‘Well, good luck finding him. Now, about these gins …’ The uplighters below the bar cast half Christie’s face in shadow, exaggerating the other half so that he seemed to be wearing a Halloween mask. ‘Are you quite sure I can’t tempt you?’
‘I’m sure,’ Clarke said, turning and walking away.
The interviews with Cal Christie’s friends had gone nowhere and the mood in the MIT room was grim.
‘Maybe it’s time to take Rebus’s theory a bit more seriously,’ Fox suggested.
‘Give me a suspect, then,’ Alvin James demanded, not bothering to hide his exasperation. ‘Tell me which of these pensioners was able to overpower a bodybuilder and tip him into the Forth.’
‘We’re talking about people with a bit of spare cash,’ Fox continued calmly. ‘Bruce Collier, John Turquand, Peter Attwood – any one of them could probably dig deep enough to pay someone.’
‘And who would they pay, Malcolm? Give me a list of the city’s hit men.’
Fox held up his hands. ‘I’m just saying.’
‘Saying what, though?’
‘We’ve maybe not explored the possibility as thoroughly as we could. You come up against a wall, the best thing you can do is find reverse and try another route.’
James glared at him. The others in the room were looking away, pretending to be indifferent – Glancey dabbing at the nape of his neck, while Sharpe studied some of the dust he’d just gathered from his desk with a forefinger. ‘What we’re going to do,’ James eventually said, ‘is go back to the very start. Crime scene, autopsy, victim’s associates. We’re going to fill in the gaps in his timeline and we’re going to check the logs and records again. And just to remind you all – the man was a cop most of his life; we owe it to him to pull out all the stops. Got that?’
There were murmurs of acceptance from behind the desks. James flew to his feet and walked into the centre of the room, readying to dish out tasks. Five minutes
later, Fox found himself with Chatham’s phone bills – landline and mobile – and the printout of calls made from the phone box he had used after speaking to Rebus. As Rebus had left him, having arranged to meet for breakfast the next morning, Chatham had used his mobile to call his employer, Kenny Arnott. When questioned, Arnott had stated that Chatham had wanted to discuss the following week’s working hours. No, he hadn’t sounded upset or flustered. He had sounded the same as always. And no, it wasn’t so unusual to be called by an employee at 10 p.m. Those were the hours doormen worked, so they tended to be the hours Arnott kept too.
Their conversation had lasted just over three minutes.
As soon as it was over, Chatham had asked a colleague to cover for him and headed to the phone box, this time to call three different bars in the city: Templeton’s, the Wrigley and the Pirate. None of them used doormen provided by Arnott, but as Arnott himself had said when asked, Chatham could have been touting for a bit of freelance work. When questioned, none of the staff at any of the three could remember anything. Hardly surprising: they weren’t the most salubrious establishments, and all had suffered at the hands of the Licensing Board at some point in the past, meaning they had no love for the local police. As to why he had used a phone box rather than his mobile … Well, nobody had a ready answer. The colleague who had taken over for the duration didn’t know. Kenny Arnott didn’t know. Anne Briggs had offered a guess to Fox: battery died. Yes, perhaps. But scouting out new jobs at ten at night, when the pubs would be at their busiest and no manager available to chat for more than a minute or so?
Templeton’s: ninety-five seconds.
The Wrigley: two minutes and five seconds.
The Pirate: forty-seven seconds.
Then back to his post until his shift ended at midnight. No more calls or texts that evening, nothing until the following morning, when, after the meeting with Rebus in the café, he sent the messages to Maxine Dromgoole. And after that … nothing at all.
‘How’s it going, Malcolm?’ Alvin James was standing in front of Fox’s desk, looking as if he’d had one espresso too many.
‘Nothing new,’ Fox conceded.
James spun back into the centre of the room. ‘Give me something, people! We’re supposed to be good at this – that’s the only reason we’re here. If I have to report back to the ACC that we’re achieved the square root of hee-haw, it’ll be the end of us. Somebody threw him in the water! Somebody saw! The whisky – was it bought locally? Check shops and supermarkets. Get the CCTV from the roads along that part of the Forth – they had to have used transport.’ He clapped his hands together like the boss of a football team at half-time in a relegation play-off.
