Rather Be the Devil (Inspector Rebus 21)

by Ian Rankin

  Rebus turned his attention to the paramedic. ‘Is he going to be okay?’

  ‘He’s been beaten around the head. You can see the marks on his temples.’

  ‘A hammer, yes?’ Rebus guessed.

  ‘Maybe,’ she allowed. ‘And to answer your other question, we’re waiting for advice on how best to move him.’

  ‘Anyone called the police?’

  She stared at him. ‘Isn’t that why you’re here?’

  Rebus took out his phone and texted Siobhan Clarke. ‘Wheels are in motion,’ he told the paramedic. Then, to Applecross: ‘What time would he have started locking up?’

  ‘Eight thirty, nine. I left around eight.’

  ‘Were you the last out?’

  The young man nodded, tensing his fists. ‘Be a different story if I’d stuck around.’

  ‘You weren’t to know.’ Rebus paused. ‘That is, unless there’s something you want to tell me.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘For starters, who’d want to do something like this to a fine upstanding man such as Kenny?’

  Arnott was mumbling something, one of the kneeling paramedics leaning forward so she could make it out.

  ‘He’s saying it was an accident,’ she announced.

  ‘Well of course it was,’ Rebus said, his eyes on the young cage fighter. ‘Because if it wasn’t, you might feel honour-bound to do something about it that could lead to you getting hurt – and Kenny doesn’t want you getting hurt.’ He turned away and leaned down so that his face was directly over Arnott’s. ‘Give me a name, Kenny – a name, a face, a description.’

  Arnott squeezed his eyes shut and filled his lungs. ‘It was an accident!’ he roared, almost weeping from the effort.

  Rebus straightened up. ‘Hard as nails, your boss,’ he said to the young man. ‘Which is just as well, really …’

  He sat in his car, chewing gum and listening to the radio, until Clarke’s Astra arrived. She had been preceded by a fire engine and a van with the name of a joinery firm on its side. Rebus explained the situation as he walked with a bleary-eyed Clarke back into the gym. Applecross had changed into shorts and a vest and, barefoot and hands strapped, was pretending the punchbag in front of him was responsible for his manager’s anguish.

  ‘Dedication for you,’ Rebus commented to Clarke. She was focusing on the scene around Kenny Arnott.

  ‘He was here all night?’ she asked.

  ‘Looks like.’

  ‘Wouldn’t he have been screaming fit to burst?’

  ‘Not much foot traffic around here – and people might expect to hear noises from a boxing club.’

  She seemed to accept this. The joiner, tools laid out in front of him, was deep in discussion with one of the firemen about how much of the floor was going to have to be sawn through.

  ‘Even then,’ he added, ‘if the nail’s gone into a joist, that might have to be cut away too.’

  The man looked calm enough, though Rebus doubted he had been called to many similar jobs.

  ‘Let’s do it then,’ the paramedic said. One of the ambulances had already left on another job, just her and her colleague left with the patient.

  ‘Will he feel anything?’ the colleague asked the fireman.

  ‘We’ll find out soon enough.’

  ‘Maybe another dose of morphine first, then …’

  Clarke turned away and, arms folded, walked towards the boxing ring, Rebus following.

  ‘Who did it?’ she asked in an undertone. ‘Darryl Christie?’

  ‘Not sure this is Darryl’s style. Cafferty, on the other hand …’

  She stared at him. ‘What was he after?’

  ‘Same as us – information.’

  ‘How would he know, though? About Arnott and Chatham and the rest?’

  ‘He’s got Craw Shand,’ Rebus stated.

  She thought this over, then nodded slowly. ‘Let’s go talk to him.’

  ‘We’ve been here before with Cafferty,’ Rebus cautioned. ‘You know the way he is …’

  Her eyes met his. ‘You can’t go on your own, John. When all’s said and done, you’re a civilian.’

  ‘I’m really not. And he’ll open up to me.’

  Her gaze intensified. ‘Why is that, I’ve always wondered?’

  ‘Because he likes to get my attention, knowing damned well that I almost certainly can’t touch him. He needs to keep reminding me he’s in charge, not you or me or anyone else.’

  Clarke said nothing for a few moments, then nodded again. ‘Fine. But you bring everything back to me afterwards, agreed?’

  ‘Agreed,’ Rebus said, heading towards the doorway as an electric saw began competing in noise levels against the relentless thwock of Donny Applecross’s fists and feet hitting the punchbag.

  Cafferty wasn’t answering. Rebus sent a text instead, then drove to the café on Forrest Road, but he wasn’t there either. He tried pressing the bell at Quartermile, but to no effect, so he returned to the café and ordered a mug of coffee, seating himself at the table Cafferty liked, waiting. Someone had left a newspaper on a nearby chair; he turned its pages, his mobile clutched in his free hand. It was twenty minutes before the text arrived.

  Another time, it said.

  Rebus hammered back a reply. Did Kenny Arnott keep you up late? Where have you stashed Craw?

  Two minutes later: Craw’s on holiday, a B&B and plenty spending money in his pocket.

  Rebus composed another text and pressed send. He gave you what you wanted then? And that took you to Rab Chatham’s boss.

  He waited two minutes, then five, then eight. With the coffee gone, he stepped back outside, holding the screen to his face. Ten minutes, twelve … He unlocked the Saab and got in, noting that a warden had given him a ticket. He got out again and snatched it from beneath the wiper blade, tossing it on to the passenger seat.

  Still nothing.

  Where are you?

  Nothing.

  What are you up to?

  No reply.

  He’s Ukrainian, not Russian

  Rebus’s phone told him a text was coming. He watched it arrive. What makes you think I wouldn’t know that? Didn’t want to make it TOO easy for you.

  Rebus’s fingers got busy again: Meet me.

  Send.

  Wait.

  Incoming.

  He’s lucky I didn’t kill him.

  Who? Arnott? Christie? Craw?

  Everybody’s lucky, even you – it wasn’t really your birthday, was it?

  But then you didn’t really give me a present.

  Should have seen the hunger in your eyes, though. Nice to see passion stirring in such an old crock.

  Fuck you too. Meet me. Let’s do this face to face.

  Why?

  My thumbs are getting sore. And I can’t believe you don’t want to gloat in person.

  My gloating days are behind me.

  I don’t believe that for a minute. Let’s do this.

  I’ll think about it.

  It has to be right now.

  Another wait, but this time he knew it was fruitless. Cafferty was a busy man with a lot on his mind, Rebus only occupying a tiny part of the game he was playing.

  Playing? No, he was controlling it, like the croupier with his hand on the fixed roulette wheel, knowing the house was going to win in the end.

  Rebus drove across town to Great Junction Street and stopped outside Klondyke Alley. The café where he’d shared bacon rolls with Rab Chatham was a short walk away. Chatham had placed regular bets at Klondyke Alley. Had he been aware of what was happening one storey above? Rebus peered up at the grimy windows of the tenement flats. Decision made, he got out and locked the car. There were five separate buttons on the intercom and he pressed each of them in turn. As he’d expected, the buzzer sounded, letting him know the main door had unlocked itself. He pushed it open and stepped into a shadowy hallway leading to the winding stone staircase.

  The flat he wanted was one floor up. Ther
e were two doors. One had a name on it – Haddon. The other was anonymous. Rebus pressed his ear to the door, then eased open the letter box for a look. The place felt empty. He rapped on the wood with his knuckles, wondering if the neighbour who had buzzed him in would start to show any interest. But there was no sound of any other doors opening. He tried the door handle. A single Yale lock seemed to be the flat’s only protection. Rebus put his shoulder to it without success. He tried again, then stepped back and lifted his right foot, slamming it into the wood. He felt a jab of pain in his hip, so swapped legs and planted the sole of his shoe hard against the door. There was a cracking sound. He had another go, and this time the door burst open a few inches. Rubbing his thigh, he shoved the door a little wider.

  The problem was mail. It lay an inch or two deep on the carpet. Rebus squeezed through the gap and bent down to scoop some of it up. Holding it in his left hand, he checked the flat’s interior. There was no bed in the bedroom, no furniture in the living room, nothing in the drawers of the kitchen. From the look of the toilet, it had last been used weeks ago by someone who hadn’t bothered flushing. Back in the hall, he squatted down and sifted through the mail. There were the usual circulars, and a couple of cards to say the meter reader hadn’t been able to get in. Most of the envelopes were plain white or brown. Most had little cellophane windows. Business post, addressed to dozens of companies Rebus had never heard of. He opened one. It was offering ‘enhanced services at a special rate for your start-up company’. He doubted the others would be much different.

  Moving into the living room, he stood in the middle of the floor. There were marks on the walls where pictures had been removed by a previous owner or tenant. A cable snaked in from a corner of the only window, waiting to be connected to a TV. There was a phone point on one of the chipped skirting boards, but no phone. Like the companies it served, the flat was nothing more than a shell. But then what had he expected – Anthony Brough, feet up on the sofa sipping Moët?

  Well, it would have been nice.

  ‘I’ve called the police,’ Rebus heard a voice say from the landing outside. By the time he reached the doorway, the neighbour had retreated behind their own door. Rebus approached it and knocked. He heard a chain being slid into place, the door opening two inches. Above the chain he could make out a pair of bespectacled eyes. The man looked tired and unshaven, dressed in a string vest and jogging pants. Unemployed, probably.

  ‘No need for that, sir,’ Rebus said, trying to sound professional.

  ‘Well I’ve done it anyway.’

  ‘How long has the other flat been empty, do you know?’

  ‘Ever since I moved in.’

  ‘Anybody ever visit?’

  The man shook his head. ‘The police are on their way,’ he felt the need to clarify.

  ‘I’m with the police, sir,’ Rebus explained.

  ‘Is that right?’ Clearly not believing a word of it.

  ‘You’ve never seen or heard anything from that flat? No comings and goings?’

  ‘Nothing.’ The man was starting to close the door.

  ‘I’ll be on my way, then. Thanks for your help. You can always cancel that call-out, if you want …’

  But the door had shut with a click, plus a turn of the mortise key to be on the safe side.

  Rebus didn’t know how long he had. Ten minutes minimum, forty-five max. But what was the point of lingering? He gave the envelopes another quick look in case anything anomalous stood out. After all, the last case he’d worked, a takeaway menu had been a crucial, missed clue. But there was nothing here for him. He traipsed back down to the ground floor, opening the door and exiting on to the pavement. A punter was coming out of Klondyke Alley, lifting a cigarette packet from their inside pocket.

  ‘Got a light, bud?’ the man asked.

  Rebus patted his jacket, remembering he’d given his box of matches away. ‘Sorry,’ he said. But the smoker was already moving on to the next passer-by.

  Rebus stepped into Klondyke Alley and took a look around. He rested on a stool at the machine nearest the door and stuck in a pound. Time was, he liked a bet – horses, even the odd night at the casino. Bandits not so much. But he won straight away, cashed out and decided to try again. The patrol car was pulling to a halt outside. No blues and twos – not taking the call-out too seriously. Rebus stayed where he was, even though he had now lost his pound and his three quid winnings. There was a woman at a machine nearby. He could see her back and half her face. He got up and stood next to her.

  ‘Hello,’ he said.

  ‘Get to fuck.’

  ‘You’re Jude?’

  She turned to examine him. ‘Do I know you?’

  ‘I met you at your dad’s funeral. I’m a friend of Malcolm’s.’

  Jude Fox rolled her eyes. ‘Malcolm sent you?’ Rebus said nothing. ‘He never ceases to amaze. You supposed to warn me off? Send me on my merry way back to my living room and the daytime talk shows? He knows I can have a flutter there too, right? I mean – he does know that?’

  ‘He only wants what’s best for you, Jude,’ Rebus said slowly, trying to piece together what she was telling him.

  ‘Everybody seems to want what’s best for me – Malcolm, Darryl Christie, everybody.’ She slammed more coins into the machine.

  ‘How much do you owe?’ Rebus asked as the truth dawned.

  She scowled at him. ‘Malky didn’t tell you?’

  ‘He said it was a lot,’ Rebus bluffed.

  ‘Everything’s a lot when you’ve not got much, though, eh?’ She started the reels turning, taking a deep breath and exhaling, trying to calm herself. She was concentrating on the machine when she next spoke. ‘Don’t tell me my brother doesn’t have that kind of money salted away. But will he bail out his sister? Will he hell. Because what’s in it for him? That’s the trade-off – there always has to be something in it for Malcolm Fox.’ She paused and turned to study Rebus again. ‘I do remember you. You were at the church but not the meal. Malcolm and whassername were talking about you.’

  ‘Siobhan Clarke?’

  ‘That’s the one. Malcolm was saying he tried drumming you off the force. And now suddenly the two of you are buddies? I swear to God this world makes no sense to me, none at all …’

  ‘Does Darryl Christie know you’re related to Malcolm?’

  Her mouth formed a thin tight line.

  ‘I’ll take that as a yes. Does Malcolm know he knows?’

  Her hand had paused over the array of flashing buttons. She was staring at the machine but not seeing it. ‘Go tell him I’m here doing my duty – he’s the one who asked. He’s the whole bloody reason …’ Tears were forming in her eyes.

  ‘You need to sort yourself out, Jude.’

  ‘Pot, meet kettle,’ she sniffled, looking him up and down again, but Rebus was already heading for the door.

  He had driven quarter of a mile before he made the call. Traffic was at a crawl towards a junction. Fox picked up almost immediately.

  ‘Siobhan told me,’ he began. ‘She’s at the hospital waiting for—’

  ‘I know about Jude,’ Rebus interrupted. ‘How much does she owe Christie?’

  The silence on the line stretched. ‘Twenty-seven and rising.’

  ‘And what does he want from you?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Don’t shit a shitter, Malcolm. He’s got something he can use against you, no way he’s not going to use it.’

  ‘He wanted everything HMRC has on Glushenko. Don’t worry – I took it straight to Gartcosh. We’re trying to decide if we can finesse it somehow.’

  Rebus thought for a moment. ‘There’s no way you told them your sister’s in hock to him – if you had, they’d have had to pull you off the case.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Fox eventually conceded.

  ‘So when you say we’re trying to decide if we can finesse it …’

  ‘Okay, I mean me. Me on my own – unless you’re about to grass me up.’<
br />
  ‘Once Christie has a hold on you, he’s not going to let go.’

  ‘I can get the money. I just need to sell the bungalow. Until then, I’m stringing him along.’

  ‘You sure he’s the one on the end of the string, Malcolm?’ Fox made no answer. ‘How long has he given you?’

  ‘A couple of days.’

  ‘As from …?’

  ‘A couple of days ago.’

  ‘To give him the gen on the Ukrainian or pay off the twenty-seven K? Good luck with that.’

  ‘What’s your daily limit?’

  ‘At a cash machine? Two hundred.’

  ‘Pity.’

  Rebus smiled despite himself. ‘Jesus, Malcolm – for a really careful guy, you do seem to get into a few holes.’

  ‘I like to think I learned from the best. How did you find out, anyway?’

  ‘I was at the flat above Klondyke Alley. Nipped in for a look-see and Jude thought you’d sent me.’

  ‘She was at Klondyke Alley?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why would she do that?’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Christie knows about her – he’s hardly likely to let anyone launder cash at the machines while she’s sitting there.’

  ‘Maybe it’s her way of trying to atone,’ Rebus speculated.

  ‘Aye, maybe.’ He heard Fox give a lengthy sigh. ‘So was there anything at the flat?’

  ‘Brough and Glushenko were drinking tea and playing cards.’

  Fox gave a snort. ‘Siobhan says you were going to talk to Cafferty.’

  ‘Hasn’t happened yet.’

  ‘Losing your powers of persuasion?’

  ‘Maybe he just needed a rest after last night’s exertions.’

  ‘You don’t think Arnott will speak?’

  ‘Not a chance.’

  ‘What do you think he told Cafferty?’

  ‘Judging by the fact that he’s still alive, I’d lay odds he told him everything.’

  ‘Which would amount to what, exactly?’

  ‘Chatham got the job from Arnott. Got twitchy when he realised who it was he’d thumped. Put Craw in the frame as insurance …’

  ‘Arnott has to know who the original client was. And now Cafferty knows too. Which rules out Cafferty but nobody else.’ Fox paused. ‘Joe Stark?’