Rather Be the Devil (Inspector Rebus 21)

by Ian Rankin

  24

  The news from the Western General was that Anthony Brough was sleeping. Blood tests had been carried out and were being analysed. By evening, the patient might be awake and able to talk. With this in mind, Clarke and Fox were back at Gayfield Square. Christine Esson handed over a copy of Bates’s criminal record. His history of petty crime went back to schooldays and included four stretches in prison. But his last brush with the law had been almost three years ago, and there was nothing to suggest he had climbed a few rungs of the ladder to the position of quantity dealer. Clarke handed the sheets over to Fox and let him read them while she studied Ronnie Ogilvie. He was behind his desk and busy on his computer, but there was something …

  ‘You got rid of the moustache,’ she announced.

  He stroked his upper lip. ‘Yeah,’ he said, as Esson stifled a smile.

  ‘In the two hours since I was last here,’ Clarke went on.

  ‘Took a sudden notion.’

  Fox had finished reading. He placed the report on Clarke’s desk. ‘What do we do till the lawyer turns up?’ he asked.

  Esson had picked up her ringing phone. She placed her hand across the mouthpiece. ‘Just arrived at the front desk,’ she informed them.

  ‘You ready?’ Clarke asked Fox.

  ‘Good and,’ he replied, buttoning his suit jacket.

  The solicitor looked overworked, the top button of his shirt undone behind the pale blue tie. His black-rimmed glasses kept sliding down his nose. Clarke nodded a greeting and loaded the recording machine with two tapes, while Fox made sure the video was working.

  ‘My client—’

  Clarke interrupted him, stating her name for the record and adding that of Detective Inspector Malcolm Fox. She paused and waited.

  ‘I’m Alan Tranter, representing Mr Edward Bates,’ the solicitor said, sifting what paperwork he had.

  ‘And you are?’ Clarke asked Bates, her eyes drilling into him.

  ‘Eddie Bates,’ he eventually muttered. ‘No one ever calls me Edward.’

  ‘I’ll make sure the turnkeys have a note of that,’ Clarke said. ‘That’s what we call them – the people who’ll be keeping an eye on you while you’re in the cells here.’

  ‘What’s the charge?’

  ‘Abduction. Not sure we can call it kidnapping yet, since nobody seems to have received a ransom note. But abduction will do. It means holding somebody against their will, and it’s quite serious. But when you add it to conspiracy to supply drugs …’

  ‘I don’t know anything about drugs.’

  ‘They’ve been taken from your kitchen to our lab at Howden Hall. They’ll be weighed, counted, identified. The packaging they came in will be fingerprinted – just like you, Mr Bates.’

  ‘I’m telling you, someone must have put them there.’

  ‘Right under your nose? Without you being any the wiser? Maybe they stuck Anthony Brough in that room, too, without you noticing the shiny padlock or the smell of shit and puke? Are you not the inquisitive sort, Mr Bates?’

  ‘Is this tone really necessary, DI Clarke?’ Tranter said.

  ‘Your client is in a spot of bother, Mr Tranter. You’d do well to make sure that sinks in. We’ll find his prints on the pail, the water bottle, the metal edges of the camp bed …’

  ‘Not forgetting the padlock itself,’ Fox added.

  ‘You don’t have those prints yet, though, do you?’ the solicitor queried.

  ‘Crime-scene team are there as we speak.’ Clarke turned her attention back to Bates. ‘I should warn you, they’re very good.’

  Tranter checked his notes again. ‘Has this Anthony Brough said anything? Is it possible his stay in the house was voluntary? I learn from my client that Mr Brough is hardly of impeccable quality …’ He broke off, meeting Clarke’s stare.

  ‘Meaning what?’ she asked.

  ‘My client has, in the past, supplied Mr Brough with a small quantity of certain stimulants.’

  ‘How small?’

  ‘Were this to go to trial, an answer might be forthcoming. Mr Brough works in the banking and investment sector, yes? Are you sure charging Mr Bates is in the gentleman’s best interests? I mean, do you think he’ll see it that way?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter if he does or he doesn’t – we’ll be the ones bringing the prosecution.’

  The room was quiet for a few moments, except for Bates’s chesty breathing.

  Fox cleared his throat, unbuttoning his suit jacket. ‘If you really did sell stuff to Brough,’ he asked Bates, ‘he’ll be able to identify you if we show him a photo? He’ll know your name?’

  Bates looked down towards where his hands were gripping the edge of the table.

  ‘I didn’t sell to him directly,’ he muttered.

  ‘Who then?’

  ‘Look,’ the lawyer interrupted, ‘I’m sure this can be fully explored when my client—’

  ‘His secretary,’ Eddie Bates blurted out.

  Fox and Clarke shared a look. ‘Give me a name,’ Fox said, ‘and I might even start to believe you.’

  ‘Sewell,’ Bates said confidently. ‘Molly Sewell.’

  ‘Is there no front desk you can’t get past?’ Clarke said, watching Rebus stalk towards her along the corridor. She was drinking lukewarm tea and had managed half a BLT sandwich. The sliced bread was damply unappetising, and the tomato had a slight fizziness to it.

  ‘I’m like the cast of The Great Escape in reverse,’ Rebus said. ‘What’s this I hear about Anthony Brough?’ Clarke just stared at him. ‘I have my sources, Siobhan.’

  ‘Sources not too far from here, I imagine,’ Clarke retorted, casting a glance through the doorway towards the desk where Christine Esson sat, eyes averted. Hearing voices, Fox emerged from the office. He too had a sandwich he was failing to make much progress with.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt your lunchtime,’ Rebus said. ‘Or is it an early dinner?’ He pretended to check his watch.

  ‘Brough was doped to the eyeballs and being kept under lock and key,’ Clarke began. ‘His jailer is a dealer called Eddie Bates – know him?’

  ‘Name sounds familiar.’ Rebus furrowed his brow.

  ‘His story is that Brough was just visiting. Wouldn’t exactly be my destination of choice if I had plenty of cash and wanted to go on a bender, but that’s what he’s telling us.’

  ‘Who – Brough or Bates?’

  ‘Bates.’ Clarke tossed the remains of her sandwich into a bin and brushed crumbs from her hands. ‘Brough’s still groggy and being pumped full of vitamins. We’re going to talk to him soon.’

  ‘Has Francesca been notified?’

  Clarke nodded. ‘And Molly Sewell.’

  ‘So what is it you’re not telling me?’

  ‘According to Bates, Sewell was the go-between. She ordered the goods for her boss and handed over the cash.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘It doesn’t stack up, though. Brough wasn’t in anything resembling a party house. He was locked away, naked, in a room with its window boarded up, a bucket to piss and crap in. He’d been starved half to death and injected with God knows what.’

  ‘People get their jollies in different ways,’ Rebus commented, while Clarke shook her head. ‘So you’re thinking Bates saw a way to make more money by ransoming the boss? Have we seen any sign of a demand?’

  ‘We haven’t – how about you?’

  ‘It’s not the kind of thing I’d keep to myself.’

  ‘John, it’s exactly the kind of thing you’d keep to yourself.’

  ‘I’m telling the truth.’ Rebus paused. ‘This guy Bates, does he seem the kidnapping type?’

  ‘I wasn’t aware there was a specific type,’ Clarke bristled.

  ‘I wouldn’t say he was,’ Fox interceded. ‘He’s not smart enough, for one thing. A kidnap requires a calculating brain.’

  ‘Then why did he snatch Brough?’ Clarke demanded, folding her arms.

  ‘Maybe Brough will tell us,’ Rebus suggested. �
��When were you thinking of visiting?’

  ‘Very soon. I take it you’re angling for an invite?’

  ‘I wouldn’t be so presumptuous. But if you’re offering …’

  Fox’s phone pinged to let him know he had a text.

  ‘Christie?’ Rebus and Clarke said in unison, staring at one another afterwards.

  ‘Just for a change, no,’ Fox answered. ‘Alvin James is wondering why I’m not at my desk.’

  ‘Tell him you’re on Gartcosh business,’ Rebus advised.

  ‘That’s exactly what I’m doing,’ Fox said as he tapped his screen.

  ‘Just one thing,’ Rebus added. ‘Whichever car we take, I can’t sit in the back. I get queasy.’

  ‘Always supposing we’re letting you come,’ Clarke retorted.

  ‘Better an invited guest than a gatecrasher, don’t you think?’

  ‘Are you forgetting your recent record in hospital wards?’

  ‘This time will be different, Siobhan, trust me …’

  There was quite a gathering around Anthony Brough’s bed. When Francesca spotted Rebus entering the ward, she bounded up to him like an excited child, squeezing his hand and standing on tiptoe, her mouth to his ear.

  ‘My brother is the devil, did you know that?’

  She had pulled her sleeves partway up her arms. Rebus could see old scar tissue.

  Alison Warbody approached, tugging the sleeves back down again.

  ‘No misbehaving,’ she cooed. ‘Remember what I said.’

  Francesca allowed herself to be led back to the bedside, where Molly Sewell was standing. Francesca pointed Rebus out to her brother, who was sitting up, three pillows supporting his head.

  ‘He’s a policeman,’ she intoned. ‘Very interested in Maria Turquand.’

  ‘Can’t you give her a Valium or something?’ Anthony Brough was looking at Warbody as he spoke.

  ‘Oh yes,’ she responded. ‘Drugs are just what she needs.’

  Clarke and Fox were bedside by now and introduced themselves.

  ‘Wait a second,’ Warbody said, pointing at Rebus. ‘He said he was Fox.’

  Clarke gave Rebus a sour look. ‘His name’s John Rebus,’ she informed Warbody. Then, to Brough: ‘You look a lot better, sir.’

  ‘Still got a head full of cotton wool,’ Brough replied. ‘Albeit cotton wool armed with a pneumatic drill.’ He had the deep, sonorous voice of the Scottish gentry. His face had regained a bit of colour, the cheeks beginning to return to their natural ruddiness, and his wavy sandy-coloured hair had been combed, probably by a nurse. Brough ran a hesitant hand through it, as if trying to reshape it.

  ‘You must have lots of questions,’ he said, addressing the group. ‘I know I do. But right now, everything’s a muddle, so forgive me if I don’t have the answers.’

  ‘First thing we’re interested in, sir,’ Clarke ventured, ‘is whether you were there of your own volition?’

  ‘I don’t even know where I was. It was like a bad dream, all of it. Running naked through the streets – that’s what you have nightmares about, isn’t it?’

  ‘You were in a house in West Pilton, owned by a man by the name of Eddie Bates.’

  ‘Never heard of him.’

  Clarke turned her head away from Brough. ‘How about you, Ms Sewell?’

  ‘What?’ Molly Sewell looked startled. ‘No idea.’

  Francesca had started repeating Bates’s name under her breath, finding a rhythm to it.

  ‘What has this got to do with Maria Turquand, anyway?’ Brough was asking.

  Clarke shook her head. ‘We’re not here about that, Mr Brough.’

  But Brough was staring at Rebus as though his interest had been piqued. Then he screwed shut his eyes, gritting his teeth in pain. ‘Wish they’d bring me some more bloody pills.’ He plucked at his regulation-issue pyjama top. ‘I’ve got the sweats, too. This place is like a furnace.’

  ‘A fiery furnace,’ his sister blurted out, eyes widening. She began to giggle. Brough’s eyes were on Warbody again.

  ‘Alison,’ he said, ‘it’s not that I don’t appreciate the thought and all, but shouldn’t you take my sister home now?’

  ‘I don’t like hospitals,’ Francesca explained to anyone who would listen.

  ‘Nobody does,’ her brother answered.

  ‘She wanted to see you,’ Warbody said.

  Francesca looked puzzled. ‘Did I?’

  ‘You know you did.’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Francesca gave a huge shrug of the shoulders.

  ‘Could we have a word, please?’ Clarke was asking Molly Sewell. ‘In private?’

  ‘Can’t it wait?’

  ‘We’ll only be five minutes. Mr Brough will still be here.’

  Clarke led the way, with Fox to the rear and a reluctant Sewell in the middle.

  ‘What’s that about?’ Brough asked Rebus.

  ‘Do you mind if I sit? I’m not as young as some of you.’ Rebus settled into the only chair.

  ‘Yes, you’re old,’ Francesca stated. ‘You’re really really old. Are you going to die soon?’

  ‘Francesca!’ Warbody gripped her by one arm and gave it a shake.

  ‘Take her for a walk,’ Brough pleaded. ‘The shop or something – maybe outside for a breath of air.’

  ‘All right,’ Warbody said, clasping Francesca’s hand in her own. ‘We’ll come back in a while, though.’

  ‘Can’t wait,’ Brough said, blowing a kiss to his sister, who bobbed down as if to dodge it. She was singing as she was escorted from the ward.

  ‘She’s a lot of work,’ Rebus sympathised. ‘I’m assuming you pay for everything?’

  ‘Worth every penny.’

  ‘Funny, I heard your sister pays for her carer out of her own pocket. Sir Magnus left her plenty – good job she didn’t trust you to invest it for her, eh?’

  Brough gave Rebus a hard stare. ‘I really can’t tell you anything.’

  ‘Can’t or won’t?’

  ‘Can’t.’

  ‘So what’s the last thing you remember before you woke up in that room?’

  ‘How many days was I there?’

  ‘A bit more than a week, probably.’

  Brough rested his head on the pillows, staring towards the ceiling. ‘I was at home. Usual night-time routine.’

  ‘And what’s that?’

  ‘Couple of whiskies and a few lines of coke. Or maybe some downers if I’m feeling like a nice long doze.’ Brough thought for a moment. ‘Started to feel a bit woozy; next thing I know I’m shivering on somebody else’s fucking floor.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Why did your colleagues take Molly away?’

  ‘They want to know if there’s been a ransom demand.’

  ‘Is that what you think it was? A kidnapping?’

  ‘What do you think, Mr Brough?’

  ‘I’ve honestly no idea.’

  ‘Must have crossed your mind, though …’

  ‘What?’ Brough turned his head towards Rebus.

  ‘That it was Glushenko on the other side of the door, readying to slit your throat.’ Rebus waited for Brough to say something. The mouth was working but nothing came. ‘See, we know everything,’ Rebus continued, rising from the chair, leaning over the bed with his knuckles pressing into the mattress. ‘You’re not going to peg out on me, are you? I had that happen all too recently. Another would look bad …’

  ‘Who’s this Glushenko you mentioned?’

  ‘The man you stole millions from. The flat above Klondyke Alley? You and your pal Darryl Christie? All those SLPs bouncing money around the globe, well away from the eyes of the tax authorities. Suddenly all this cash from Ukraine arrives. Your investments have been tanking and your clients aren’t happy with you, so you skim some off before sending it on its way. But the deficit gets noticed and Glushenko is furious. He’s coming to pay you and Darryl a visit. Then you do your vanishing act, leaving Darryl in the frame.’ Rebus paused. ‘How am I doing so far?’ Brough remained silent
. ‘Oh yes, and your poor investors didn’t get any of that skimmed cash in the end, did they? You kept it all to yourselves, you and Darryl.’

  ‘That’s not true.’ Brough was shaking his head slowly. ‘I wanted them to get their share, started arranging the necessary transfers. But the money wasn’t there.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘It wasn’t there.’

  ‘Christie?’ Rebus guessed.

  ‘Who else?’

  ‘You know someone attacked him outside his house?’

  ‘Good. I hope they did him some proper damage.’

  ‘I’m guessing it wasn’t on your orders, then?’

  ‘I wish I’d thought of it.’ There were flecks of saliva at the corners of Brough’s mouth.

  ‘Does Glushenko really exist?’

  Brough’s eyes narrowed again. ‘Of course.’

  ‘You’ve met him? Spoken to him? He’s not just some bogeyman who’s been conjured up to get everybody antsy – Darryl Christie in particular?’

  ‘He’s real.’

  ‘Then it’s ironic, isn’t it? All the time you were locked away, you were safe. But now you’ve managed to escape …’ Rebus left the sentence unfinished. He could see that, headache or no headache, Brough’s mind was racing.

  ‘Can you help me?’ Brough eventually said, his voice just above a whisper.

  ‘Help you how?’

  ‘I need to be two things – free, and safe.’

  ‘Fine goals to aim for,’ Rebus agreed.

  ‘I have something to trade.’

  ‘Oh aye? Got a bit of that non-existent cash you want to see go to a deserving ex-cop’s pocket?’

  ‘Maybe you’re the sort of man who craves closure more than lucre.’

  ‘First time for everything, I suppose.’

  Brough ran his tongue along his lips, moistening them. ‘I know who killed her,’ he said.

  ‘Killed who?’ Rebus asked, knowing as he did so the name he was about to hear.

  ‘Maria Turquand,’ Brough said.

  They found three seats in the foyer. The place was busy with staff and visitors, most of them on phones, no one paying attention to Clarke, Fox and Molly Sewell. They probably looked like family fretting about a relative in one of the wards. Fox moved his chair to form a sort of circle. Sewell’s eyes were settling anywhere but on the two detectives.