Rather Be the Devil (Inspector Rebus 21)

by Ian Rankin

  Christie nodded his eventual agreement. There was a phone sitting in its charging cradle on a small table by the window. Rebus walked over to it, lifted it up and held it out.

  ‘You do it,’ Christie told him, sounding suddenly exhausted.

  Rebus punched in the number and waited. He walked back to the window and pulled open the curtains, wondering if the gunfire would have brought out any of the neighbours – maybe they had already called it in. Hearing movement behind him, he turned in time to see Christie stalking from the room.

  ‘Darryl!’ he called out. Glancing towards the mantelpiece, he saw the pistol was gone. The operator had come on the line to ask him which emergency service he required.

  ‘No time,’ he said, dropping the phone. He was halfway out of the room when he remembered something. Diving back in, he removed the revolver from Glushenko’s pocket, and reached the back door as the Range Rover was reversing out at speed, scraping one of the gateposts on its way.

  Rebus ran to his car and got in, placing the gun on the passenger seat, butt towards him, muzzle facing the door. He was intending to phone while he drove, until he remembered he had no phone. The first pub he passed, he hit the brakes, squealing to a stop. The smokers gathered on the pavement looked bemused as he demanded a phone. A woman handed hers over.

  ‘Where’s the fire?’ she said.

  Rebus knew Cafferty’s number by heart. An automated voice told him to leave a message after the tone. ‘Get out now!’ he yelled. ‘Christie’s on his way to blow your brains out!’

  Next call: Siobhan.

  ‘I’ve got news—’ she began.

  ‘Christie’s just killed Glushenko,’ Rebus interrupted. ‘Now he’s on his way to do the same to Cafferty!’ He paused to let this sink in. ‘Can your news wait?’

  ‘Yes,’ Clarke said.

  Rebus tossed the phone back to the woman. ‘Does that count as a fire?’ he asked her, not waiting for her reply.

  He ran every red light, stopping only when he encountered the immovable obstacle of a tram as it progressed at the usual stately pace along Princes Street. He took the opportunity to examine the revolver. It looked practically antique, but the bullets sitting snugly in their chambers were shiny and new. He snapped it shut and measured its weight in his hand. Slow and cumbersome – no match for Christie’s pistol.

  The road ahead had cleared. Rebus hit the accelerator and his horn and sped up the Mound.

  George IV Bridge … around the one-way and into Lauriston Place … then left into the Quartermile development. The white Range Rover was parked on a double yellow line, lights on, driver’s door gaping, engine idling. Rebus pulled up alongside and got out. The metal gate to Cafferty’s block was open, and the main door had been hit by gunshots, the wood next to the lock splintered. Rebus toed it open and walked in. A uniformed guard stood in the hall, clutching a two-way radio. He froze at the sight of the revolver.

  ‘I’m with the police,’ Rebus tried to reassure him. ‘Have you called it in?’

  The guard nodded, eyes on Rebus’s bloodstained shirt.

  ‘I really am with the police. The guy upstairs is armed, too – best if you stay here.’

  According to the illuminated panel, the lift had gone to the top floor. Rebus took the stairs rather than wait. He had to haul himself up the final few, heart thumping, breath coming in gasps. He choked back a cough and pulled open the door, entering the communal hallway. At the far end, the pistol had been used in place of a key again. Rebus breathed in the now familiar smell of cordite, pushed open the door and stepped inside.

  ‘He’s not here!’ Christie spat. He was circuiting the large open-plan living space, the pistol hanging by his side. Rebus held the revolver behind him as he made his approach.

  ‘Lights are on, but no one’s home,’ Christie continued to complain. There was a mug of tea on the kitchen worktop. Rebus touched it: still warm.

  ‘You told him, didn’t you?’ Christie raged.

  ‘My phone’s in smithereens, remember?’

  ‘You fucking did, though – I can see it in your eyes!’ Christie pointed the pistol at Rebus’s head.

  ‘It’s not me you want, Darryl,’ Rebus reminded him. ‘I’m not the one who got you into this mess, remember?’

  ‘Maybe I should go see Brough, then – save Big Ger for later.’

  ‘That’s certainly a plan.’ Rebus could hear a siren approaching. ‘Best be quick, though – sounds like someone heard the shots.’

  The pistol was still pointed at Rebus’s head. The fiery look in Christie’s eyes began to die back a little.

  ‘You’re a lucky man, Rebus – did anyone ever tell you that?’

  ‘Brough’s a different proposition, remember – cold-blooded murder isn’t as easy to defend in court.’

  ‘Fucker deserves to die.’

  ‘We seldom get what we really deserve, Darryl.’

  ‘Maybe I can change that for once – Brough first, then Cafferty.’ Christie was backing his way down the hall towards the door. He didn’t see one of the doors off to the right open slowly on its silent hinges. A hammer swung down, catching him on the top of his skull. As he flinched, he let off a shot. Rebus could feel it as it passed by him before smashing through the glass door to the balcony. Christie’s whole body skewed, coming to rest against the wall before crumpling. Rebus walked towards him.

  ‘Hiding in the toilet?’

  ‘Didn’t have time to do much else,’ Cafferty said.

  ‘The second hammer?’

  Cafferty held it up for inspection, nodding.

  ‘I meant to ask why you bought two.’

  ‘They were on special offer,’ Cafferty said. ‘I’m not one to turn down a bargain.’ He was studying the unconscious figure. ‘You sure Glushenko’s dead?’

  ‘Shot in the face at more or less point-blank range.’ Rebus gestured towards his spattered shirt.

  ‘Did that belong to your grandad?’ Cafferty meant the revolver.

  ‘It was the Ukrainian’s. He had a nice sharp sword, too. Lucky you offered Darryl that bit of advice.’

  The two men stared at one another.

  ‘I’ve always been generous that way,’ Cafferty said eventually.

  Rebus’s flat.

  Midnight had come and gone. Having given his statement at Gayfield Square, been swabbed for DNA and fingerprinted, and had his clothes bagged, Rebus was lingering in the shower while Clarke and Fox sat at the table in the living room, shovelling down food rescued from a chip shop just before it closed. Clarke’s phone sat next to her, just in case there was news of Molly Sewell. Rebus finally entered, freshly dressed and rubbing a towel through his hair. He plucked a chip from Fox’s carton.

  ‘Thought you said you weren’t hungry.’

  ‘I’m not,’ Rebus told him, drawing out a chair and sitting down. The Turquand paperwork had been pushed to one side of the table. He stared at it.

  ‘Cafferty has a lot to answer for,’ Clarke said, ‘putting that idea in Christie’s head.’

  ‘On the other hand, if he hadn’t, it would be Darryl on Deb’s slab in the morning rather than Comrade Glushenko.’

  ‘From what you say, facial ID is probably out.’

  ‘It’ll be DNA or distinguishing features,’ Rebus agreed. ‘Any news of Ms Sewell?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Clarke said, peering at her screen.

  Rebus was thoughtful for a moment. ‘Cafferty let me in on a secret, while we were waiting for the blues and twos.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Eddie Bates was dealing with Cafferty’s blessing – his blessing and his backing.’ Rebus saw that he had two very willing listeners. ‘Bates knew that Molly Sewell worked for someone with money. He told Cafferty, thinking Cafferty could maybe do something with it. So Cafferty met with Molly.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘A few months back. His idea was that she’d be good for information.’

  ‘He already knew Brough and Christie were part
ners?’

  Rebus nodded. ‘But Molly explained the why and the how. Then, when she’d got to know Cafferty a bit better, she told him her plan. She’d met Francesca many a time and had got friendly with Alison Warbody. Alison told her how much she despised Brough. It was his fault Francesca was the way she was. It gnawed away at Molly until she decided to do something about it.’

  ‘Namely, rip him off.’

  ‘But handing half to Warbody. Francesca was down to her last half-million, thanks to low interest rates and expensive help. Relatively speaking, she was a pauper.’

  ‘What did Brough do?’ Fox asked. ‘To Francesca, I mean.’

  ‘On his deathbed, old Sir Magnus told them both that they could break any rule, get away with anything. The lesson was fresh in Anthony’s mind when he stuck Julian Greene’s head under the surface of that swimming pool and held it there.’

  ‘With Francesca watching?’ Clarke asked.

  Rebus nodded. ‘Anthony obviously didn’t approve of Francesca’s suitor. All of which sent her looking for oblivion.’

  ‘At one point,’ Fox said, ‘she wanted an exorcism.’

  ‘For her brother rather than her.’

  ‘You got this from Cafferty?’ Clarke asked Rebus.

  ‘I sort of pieced it together,’ he answered with a shrug. ‘But I don’t doubt it’s the truth.’

  ‘So did Warbody get her share?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘Shouldn’t we be asking?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘But she’s not likely to tell us, is she?’

  The room fell silent again until Rebus spoke.

  ‘Darryl even approached Cafferty to help search for Brough.’

  ‘So he could offer Brough to Glushenko?’

  ‘No – so Glushenko might get wind that Cafferty was on the lookout, and maybe start to think there was a link between the two.’

  ‘So he’d target Big Ger rather than Darryl?’

  ‘Not that Cafferty did help look, of course. But he strung Darryl along.’

  ‘He’s been stringing all of us along,’ Clarke commented.

  Silence again until Rebus leaned forward across the table. ‘Say you do catch Molly and bring her in – what exactly have you got? Is Brough going to testify that his abduction revolved around money skimmed from an account filled to the brim with stolen cash, laundered by gangsters?’

  ‘That’s probably HMRC’s call,’ Fox said.

  ‘And the best of luck to them. But if Molly keeps quiet, and Brough keeps quiet, and Cafferty keeps quiet …’

  ‘There’s always Christie,’ Clarke countered. ‘He’s looking at a lengthy sentence. Maybe he’d cooperate?’

  ‘You really think so?’

  ‘Not really, no,’ she conceded. ‘What about Craw Shand?’

  ‘Stolen away by Cafferty, making it look like force was used.’

  ‘So we’d pile even more pressure on Darryl Christie?’

  Rebus nodded. ‘Craw’s on his way home now from a bed and breakfast in Helensburgh, courtesy of his new friend.’

  Fox looked from Rebus to Clarke and back again. ‘So the only person going to jail is Darryl Christie?’

  ‘You’re forgetting Eddie Bates – but essentially, yes.’

  ‘And what does that mean for the city?’

  ‘It means,’ Rebus said, ‘Big Ger Cafferty just got a career-best result.’

  ‘Every silver lining has a cloud,’ Siobhan Clarke said with a sigh. ‘Do we tell Alvin James tonight or tomorrow?’

  Rebus was looking at Fox. ‘Jude may be off the hook, Malcolm. Then again, if and when Cafferty steps into Darryl’s shoes …’ He shrugged. ‘What you choose to tell her is up to you.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘If she thinks the debt’s cancelled, might make her rethink her life – fresh start and all that.’

  Fox nodded, then tapped a finger against the Turquand files. ‘Just a pity you didn’t get closure, John.’

  ‘Ah,’ Rebus said, leaning back in his seat, ‘I was about to come to that …’

  Day Nine

  27

  The Galvin Brasserie.

  An early dinner, Rebus and Deborah Quant the only customers in their section of the restaurant. She’d ordered a Bloody Mary and downed it in three gulps.

  ‘Tough day?’ Rebus guessed.

  ‘You ever seen someone who’s been …?’ She broke off. ‘Sorry, I forgot – you were there. Come to think of it, didn’t I hear you were bedside when Kenny Arnott passed away, too?’

  ‘Guilty as charged.’

  She pretended to move her chair a few inches further away from him.

  ‘It’s not contagious,’ he said with a smile.

  ‘So what are we celebrating? Until an hour ago, my dinner plan involved a microwave and a corkscrew.’ She paused. ‘You’ve got some colour in your cheeks, by the way. And the weight loss shows.’

  ‘Maybe that’s what we’re celebrating, then. That and the fact that I got some news.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Hank Marvin’s not the threat I thought he was.’

  She looked puzzled, but instead of an explanation, Rebus just smiled. ‘Oh, and one other thing – that story I started to tell you?’

  ‘Your locked-room mystery? Don’t tell me you’ve come up with a new theory?’

  The waiter was hovering to take their food order.

  ‘I’ll tell you over the main course.’ Rebus looked at the menu. ‘I think I’m going to have two steaks.’

  ‘Two?’

  ‘One to take home to Brillo.’

  ‘If you’re paying, be my guest.’

  Another couple had walked in and were being greeted by the maître d’. Rebus recognised Bruce Collier, and wondered if the tanned, exotically dressed woman with him was his wife, newly back from India. He supposed there were people whose minds he should put at rest – not just Collier, but Peter Attwood and Dougie Vaughan. Didn’t they deserve to be told the whole story? Maybe one of them would even do something about it.

  Collier didn’t notice Rebus. His attention was focused on his partner. Deborah Quant had finished ordering, so Rebus told the waiter what he wanted.

  ‘Penny for them,’ Quant said, once the waiter had left.

  ‘I’ve just worked out what the music on the speakers is,’ he said. ‘It’s John Martyn, “Over the Hill”.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And nothing. It’s just, maybe I’m not there yet.’

  ‘Nobody said you were.’

  ‘I was starting to think it, though, before all of this.’

  ‘All of what?’

  ‘The last week or so, everything that’s happened. It makes me realise there’s unfinished business.’

  ‘There’s always unfinished business, John.’

  ‘Maybe, maybe not.’

  ‘You think you can do something about it?’

  ‘As long as I’ve got some fight left in me.’

  ‘This is Cafferty we’re talking about, yes?’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘He’s past it – you told me that yourself. Past it and long retired.’

  ‘If you saw him right now, you might change your mind.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because,’ Rebus said, signalling to the waiter for more drinks, ‘the old devil is back …’

  Nine o’clock, and the revellers were making their way through the Grassmarket and the Cowgate, stopping off at selected pubs and clubs. Cafferty had left Craw Shand with a hundred pounds of credit behind the bar of the Pirate, making Craw suddenly very popular with the other regulars. Stepping out into the darkness, he pulled on his black leather gloves and walked the short distance to the Devil’s Dram. Its doors were locked – no red carpet, no doormen. A group of half a dozen students looked as if they couldn’t quite believe it, before heading off to find another room filled with noise and flashing lights.

  Cafferty kicked the doors a couple of
times, then went around to the back entrance and kicked and rattled that door, too. Eventually it was yanked open from within.

  ‘We’re shut,’ the man snarled.

  ‘Who are you?’ Cafferty demanded.

  ‘Who’s asking?’

  ‘People call me Big Ger.’

  The man swallowed. ‘I’m Harry.’

  ‘And do you run this place, Harry?’

  ‘Not really. It belongs to—’

  ‘I know who it used to belong to, and we both know he won’t be paying any bills for a while. But from what I hear, this establishment could be a goldmine with the right man in charge, and business has a way of evaporating if doors stay locked.’

  ‘Yeah, but—’

  ‘You’ve sent everyone home? The DJ? Bar staff? Chef?’

  Harry nodded.

  ‘Well get on the phone and haul them back here!’

  Cafferty squeezed past Harry and stalked through the storage and kitchen areas, emerging into the club proper. He took it all in, the motifs of imps, demons and general bad behaviour, then climbed to the mezzanine, took one look at the nearest banquette, and sat down. Eventually Harry reached the top of the stairs.

  ‘I don’t see you making any calls, son,’ Cafferty said with a growl.

  Harry fumbled for his phone and started tapping the screen. Cafferty stretched his arms out along the back of the banquette.

  ‘I want this place buzzing by ten thirty. Then you can sit down with me and tell me the ins and outs.’

  ‘Of what?’ Harry glanced up from his screen.

  ‘Your old boss’s empire. Isn’t that what happens in any good company when there’s a change at the top?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And fetch me a bottle of malt – best you can find. Time this place started living up to its name.’

  Morris Gerald Cafferty watched the young man sprint back down the stairs, then closed his eyes, allowing himself the luxury of a moment’s relaxation, jaw unclenching, shoulders released of their tension.

  It had been a long time coming.

  A long time coming.

  ‘But here I am again,’ he said. ‘And here I stay.’

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