by Ian Rankin
‘Wouldn’t put anything past him. But he’d probably only make a move if he thought Darryl was weakened by something.’
‘Such as?’
Fox shrugged. ‘Maybe we’ll get an inkling when we talk to Darryl.’
‘I’ll be doing the talking, Malcolm. You’re there to listen.’
‘Understood.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Is this us thawing out here?’
‘Maybe a little. Have you asked Gartcosh about intelligence sharing?’
‘They’re mulling it over.’
‘Nice to feel we’re all part of the same big happy family …’ Clarke broke off and watched as Gail McKie padded down the path, opening the gate and making for the Astra. Clarke slid her window down, and McKie’s face appeared in the gap.
‘He’s ready for you,’ she said, turning back towards the house.
‘Right then,’ Clarke said to Fox, sliding the window closed and pulling the key from the ignition.
McKie was waiting for them inside the front door. ‘He’s in the living room,’ she said. ‘Told me not to bother offering a drink – you won’t be staying long.’
‘Are your other two sons around for a quick chat after?’ Clarke enquired. McKie shook her head.
‘Out with mates.’
‘That’s a pity.’
‘They’ve really nothing to say.’
‘They need to tell me that for themselves.’
Clarke pushed open the door and stepped into the living room. Flower-patterned sofa, almost the entire floor covered with a huge colourful rug, something Persian or Indian. Flowers in vases on occasional tables, and seated in the very centre of the room on a dining chair fetched from elsewhere, Darryl Christie. He was dressed in a shell suit and gleaming trainers, but looked stiff and pained. His nose had been strapped, the eyes still puffy and bruised.
‘How are you?’ Clarke asked.
‘I’ve felt better.’ He spoke quietly, as if each word hurt.
‘Cracked ribs, I hear.’
‘They’ve got me in some sort of corset thing.’ His eyes had settled on Fox, who stood hands in pockets at Clarke’s shoulder.
‘You’re looking a lot better than last time we met,’ Christie commented. Fox’s face remained stony. ‘If you’re wondering about the dining chair, it’s better for me than an armchair. But go ahead and make yourselves comfortable.’
They settled side by side on the sofa. Christie lifted a hand slowly, rubbing it across his hair, hair that needed a wash. There was stubble on his chin and cheeks, and the knuckles of his left hand were grazed.
‘Lost a tooth, too,’ he told them. ‘Hence the whistling.’ He tried for a grin, so they could see the gap.
‘We’ve asked up and down the street,’ Clarke said. ‘Nobody saw or heard anything, and the few bits of CCTV we’ve collected don’t seem to have caught whoever did it. That’s why we’re hoping you can help.’
‘Sorry to disappoint. Whoever it was, they were lying in wait, maybe round the back of the house or the side of the garage. Security light was triggered when I drove in, so that didn’t alert me. They came up behind me and hit me across the head. I went down and was in the Land of Nod before they got to work.’
‘You think it was a pro?’
‘Don’t you?’
‘Leads me to my next question – any idea who might have it in for you?’
‘I’ve not a single enemy in the world, DI Clarke.’
‘Not even Big Ger Cafferty?’ Fox broke in, earning a stern sideways glance from Clarke.
‘It wasn’t Cafferty – not in the flesh. I’d have heard him wheezing with the effort.’
‘You reckon one assailant or two?’ Clarke asked.
‘One would have done the job. I’m not the brawniest. Last time I saw a gym was high school.’
‘Fallen out with any associates recently?’
The question had come from Fox. Christie looked at him. ‘Know why I stopped travelling with a posse? It was because I didn’t need them. Like I say, no enemies.’
‘Plus everyone knows that if they touch you, they’re also messing with Joe Stark and his outfit. I’m surprised he’s not hopped over from Glasgow with grapes and Lucozade.’
‘Joe had nothing to do with this.’ Christie shifted in his chair, his mouth twisting at a sudden stab of pain.
‘We know about your car tyres and the bin being set on fire,’ Clarke stated. ‘If this is an individual who’s out to get you, they’re probably not going to stop. Best-case scenario: they’re just trying to put a scare on you for some reason.’
‘That’s a real comfort, DI Clarke.’
‘You need to think about your family as well as yourself, Darryl.’
‘I never stop thinking about my family!’
‘Then you might want to move them out for the duration.’
Christie nodded slowly. ‘I might just do that, thanks.’
‘And you may not think you need a posse, but one or two bodies wouldn’t go amiss – close by you through the day and sentry duty here at night. We’ll have patrol cars tour the neighbourhood at regular intervals, at least for a day or two.’
Christie kept nodding. ‘It’s almost as if you care,’ he said eventually, eyes flitting from Clarke to Fox.
‘Just doing our job,’ Clarke stated. ‘Though without your cooperation, that may not be quite enough to stop another attack.’
‘Or even an escalation,’ Fox added.
‘I thought I was cooperating?’ Christie pretended to complain.
‘Line of work you’re in, Darryl,’ Clarke said, getting to her feet, ‘if you don’t have enemies, you’re doing something wrong. I know you’re hurting right now and probably not taking the painkillers because you want your head clear – that way you can think hard about the list of candidates. So a word of advice: don’t start a war. You can bring us the names, let us check them out. It won’t be a sign of weakness, I promise. Quite the opposite.’ She was standing in front of him, hands clasped. ‘And maybe get those fake cameras switched for real ones, okay?’
‘Whatever you say, DI Clarke.’
Clarke made to leave the room, Fox a few steps behind. When he risked a glance in Christie’s direction, Christie gave the slyest of winks. Fox’s face remained impassive as he followed Clarke out of the house.
‘I thought I told you not to do any talking?’ she muttered.
‘Couldn’t help myself, sorry.’
Clarke unlocked her car but didn’t get in. She stood on the pavement instead, staring at the house she’d just left.
‘Did we learn anything useful?’ Fox asked.
‘I thought he was maybe trying to become Cafferty,’ Clarke obliged. ‘Turns out that’s not what this house is.’
‘What is it, then?’
‘Who do you think decorated that room and bought all the chintz?’
‘His mother?’
Clarke nodded. ‘That’s who it’s all for. He might have kept his dad’s surname, but Darryl’s heart belongs to Mummy …’
Day Three
5
‘You weren’t kidding about the rolls,’ Rebus said, taking another bite.
‘Bacon just the right side of crispy,’ Robert Chatham agreed.
They were seated across from one another at a booth with padded seats and a Formica-topped table. Mugs of dark-brown tea and plates in front of them, Radio Forth belting out from the kitchen.
‘Sorry if I was a bit ragged last night,’ Chatham went on. ‘Wasn’t expecting to hear of Maria Turquand ever again. You’ve seen the photos of her? Wasn’t she a stunner?’
‘She was.’
‘Brainy, too – studied Latin and Greek.’
‘And Ancient History,’ Rebus added, to show that he too had done his homework.
‘Probably never should have got married – bit too much wildness about her.’
‘Likely frowned upon in John Turquand’s world.’
Chatham nodded as he chewed. ‘Problem we ha
d was, a lot of the bit-part players had died. No way we could confirm anything by asking hotel staff or guests. And, thirty years having passed, the ones we did track down had forgotten anything they used to know. Place was a melee that day, too – comings and goings, reporters who’d booked interviews with Collier or were chancing to luck that they’d get near him. Then there were the fans, who were either standing outside chanting his name or else dodging into the foyer and making for the stairs.’ Chatham took a slurp of tea. ‘We had a computer guy try plotting a 3D plan of the foyer and all the people who might have seen the killer enter or leave, but there were too many variables. In the end, he gave up.’
‘What about the press photographers?’
Chatham nodded slowly. ‘We looked at everything we could find. Even got a couple of Collier’s diehard fans to hand over stuff they’d shot on the street outside.’ He made a zero with thumb and forefinger.
‘So if you couldn’t place either Maria’s lover or her husband at the scene, did you begin to give a bit more credence to Vince Brady’s version?’
‘All Brady said was that Collier had been chatting to the victim in the third-floor corridor. Collier denied it, and turned out there was some bad blood between him and Brady. He’s dead, you know.’
‘Vince Brady?’
‘Last year. Third or fourth heart attack, I think.’ Chatham put down the remains of his roll, wiped his fingers on a serviette and looked at Rebus. ‘Why the sudden interest? Has something happened?’
Instead of answering, Rebus had another question ready. ‘How about the husband and the lover – did you interview them?’
‘Turquand and Attwood? You’ve seen the files, you tell me.’
‘Not everything makes it into the official account.’
Chatham gave a thin smile. ‘I did have a word with both, as it happens – off the record.’
‘Why off the record?’
‘Because we were supposed to focus on Brady and Collier. Top brass didn’t think it worth looking much further. But you’ll remember that one of the room-service staff said he saw a man who looked a bit like Peter Attwood.’
‘He couldn’t be certain, though.’
Chatham nodded. ‘And Attwood’s story was that he had broken it off with Maria – not that he’d told her. Took the coward’s way out: left her waiting in her room for him to show up, while he was busy elsewhere with her replacement.’
‘He’s all class.’
‘When I saw him eight years ago, he was happily married with a first grandkid on the way. Said he was “another man” back in the seventies.’
‘He’s still in the land of the living?’
‘No idea. I don’t always pore over the obituaries.’
‘What about John Turquand?’
‘Retired and living in a castle in Perthshire. Likes his hunting, shooting and fishing. Always supposing he’s not kicked the bucket.’
‘Did he ever marry again?’
‘Threw himself into his work instead. Made his millions and started to spend them.’
‘Life turned out pretty well for the two main suspects.’
‘Didn’t it though? And Bruce Collier does a bit of touring still, too.’
‘I heard he was living back up here.’
‘Townhouse in Rutland Square, though you’re more likely to find him at one of his other homes – Barbados and Cape Town, I think I read.’
‘Rutland Square?’
‘I smiled at that, too. Practically next door to the Caley. Reckon it means anything?’
‘I don’t know. Probably not. Wonder if he still hangs out with his old pal Dougie Vaughan.’
‘Ah, there’s another thing – according to Vince Brady, Collier made him hand over one of his room keys to Dougie Vaughan.’
‘Yes, I read that. Any idea why?’
‘So Vaughan could take a nap if the need arose. Hanging out seemed to involve quite a lot of booze.’
Rebus’s eyes narrowed. ‘Brady had the room next to Maria Turquand,’ he stated.
‘Right.’
‘And Vaughan had a key.’
‘Sort of – he said he vaguely remembered a key but didn’t know which room it was for or what happened to it. He swears he never went anywhere other than Bruce Collier’s suite.’ Chatham pushed his plate to one side and leaned across the table. ‘You know there were connecting doors?’
‘What?’
‘Between Maria’s room and Vince Brady’s. Don’t bother checking – the hotel did away with them years back. Solid walls now, not so solid back then.’
‘And Vaughan and the victim had had a bit of a fling.’
‘He still swears he never saw her that day.’
‘How about Vince Brady’s alibi?’
‘He was running around like a mad thing, backwards and forwards to the Usher Hall to check on the crew and the programme stall. A dozen or more people confirmed talking to him in a dozen places.’
‘He must have been in his room some of the time, though.’
‘Agreed, but he didn’t hear or see anything.’
‘Apart from Maria Turquand in the hallway with Bruce Collier.’
‘Apart from that, yes.’
Rebus thought for a moment. ‘One last thing – did a Russian crop up at all?’
Chatham’s brow furrowed. ‘A Russian?’
‘Anywhere you can think of.’
Chatham shook his head and the two men drank their tea in silence for a moment.
‘So what’s this all about?’ Chatham enquired.
‘It’s just a feeling I got, right back at the start of the original investigation. The feeling we were missing something, not seeing something.’
‘And it’s taken you until now to revisit that?’
‘I’ve been a bit busy. I’m not so busy these days.’
Chatham nodded his understanding. ‘When I retired, it took a while to change gears.’
‘How did you do it?’
‘The love of a good woman. Plus I got the doorman job, and I go to the gym.’ He gestured towards his plate. ‘That’s an occasional treat, and I can work it off this afternoon.’
‘I’ve got a dog I can walk.’ Rebus paused. ‘And a good woman.’
‘Spend more time with both of them then. Learn to let go.’
Rebus nodded his agreement. ‘This is going to take me a while to digest,’ he said.
‘Same here.’ Chatham thumped his chest with one hand.
‘I didn’t mean the bacon. Though now that I think of it, that too. Thanks for seeing me.’
The two men shook hands across the table.
‘Back so soon?’
Unsure of the protocol, Fox had been loitering in the doorway of the HMRC section, waiting to catch Sheila Graham’s eye. It had worked eventually and she was now standing in front of him.
‘So you’ve either brought news,’ she began, folding her arms, ‘or else decided it’s a waste of time.’
‘I just think I need a bit more of a briefing. In fact, ideally I’d like to see what you’ve already got on Christie.’
‘Why?’
‘So I don’t end up telling you what you already know.’
She studied him, her face impassive. Eventually she managed a smile. ‘Let me buy you a coffee,’ she said.
There was a stall in a corner of the ground-floor atrium, so they queued there, taking their drinks to one of the breakout areas – basically comfy seating separated by a small circular table.
‘So what have you learned so far?’ Graham asked.
‘Christie’s been targeted before – car and rubbish bin. There’s no CCTV of the attack and none of the neighbours could help. So we’re looking for possible enemies, without getting much help from the victim.’
‘Is he recovering?’
‘At home,’ Fox acknowledged. ‘I saw him last night.’
‘You saw him?’
‘DI Clarke went to question him and I tagged along.’
‘But he knows you, yes?’
‘I didn’t say I was working at Gartcosh these days.’
‘He couldn’t already know?’
‘I think he would have said something, just so I’d know he knew.’
‘We don’t want him to twig that we’re digging into his affairs,’ Graham cautioned.
‘He must have an inkling, though.’
Graham considered this. ‘Maybe,’ she conceded.
‘I also took a look at both his betting shops. Nothing struck me as out of the ordinary.’
‘Which two?’
‘They’re both called Diamond Joe’s.’ Fox paused. ‘Why?’
‘There’s a third, though you won’t find Christie’s name on any paperwork. And to be honest, I doubt you’d notice anything unusual, even if money was being laundered under your nose.’
‘How’s that then?’
‘Fixed-odds machines – usually roulette. Losses can be minimised to around four per cent. When you finish playing, you print out a ticket and exchange it for cash at the counter. They give you a receipt, so if you’re ever found with a suspiciously large pile of notes, you’ve got evidence it’s legit.’
‘So basically the bookie is charging a four per cent fee?’
‘A cheap way of cleaning up dirty money. You can send thousands an hour through each and every machine. They’re busy trying to change the law in Brussels – any winnings over two thousand euros will need to include the recipient’s details. The industry over here is fighting against it.’
‘If someone’s hogging a machine hour after hour, feeding in thousands, surely the cashier notices?’
‘Often they don’t, or aren’t particularly bothered. Then again, if the person who owns the shop is in on the scam …’
‘Like Darryl Christie, you mean?’
She nodded slowly. ‘But there’s a lot more to Mr Christie than that.’
‘Oh?’
Her face hardened. ‘This goes no further, Malcolm.’ She edged forward on her seat, and he did the same. There was no one within twenty feet of them, but Graham dropped her voice anyway.
‘The betting shop I’m talking about is called Klondyke Alley. There happens to be a one-bedroom flat above it that is probably also owned by Christie.’
‘I’m listening.’