Rather Be the Devil (Inspector Rebus 21)

by Ian Rankin

  Rebus turned to watch as the Porsche exited the square. Quieter, yes, but not quite ready for complete anonymity …

  Craw Shand had been charged, despite the Fiscal Depute’s qualms.

  ‘It’s thin stuff, Siobhan,’ she had warned.

  ‘I know,’ Clarke had acknowledged.

  Charged, and then freed on bail. Shand had seemed satisfied with this result, thanking Clarke for her concern when she reminded him to keep his head down and maybe think about not going home for a few days.

  ‘But wouldn’t that be breaking my bail conditions?’ he had asked.

  ‘Not if you keep checking in at your local police station – trust me.’

  He’d even wanted to clasp her by the hand, but she’d drawn it away and shaken her head, watching him as he made his way out on to Gayfield Square, where, thankfully, Laura Smith failed to be lurking.

  Clarke got on the phone to Christie’s house, where his mother picked up.

  ‘He’s not here,’ she said. ‘But that was quick work, catching the bastard. I’m sorry I doubted you.’

  ‘Well, here’s your chance to make amends,’ Clarke said. ‘I need a word with Darryl.’

  ‘He’s at work.’

  ‘Any of his many businesses in particular?’

  ‘The Devil’s Dram, I think.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Clarke knew the Devil’s Dram. Named for the amount of whisky lost to evaporation in each barrel, it was a nightclub on the Cowgate, just along from the city mortuary. She’d last been inside on a girls’ night out, organised by Deborah Quant. She was there within ten minutes, but couldn’t find anywhere to park. Eventually she settled on the mortuary itself, tucking her Astra in next to one of the anonymous black vans in the courtyard.

  The Cowgate was a canyon of a place, two lanes wide and with narrow pavements, steep gradients leading off. Not too long back, Clarke had chased a murderer up one of those lanes, until the effort got the better of her – not a detail she’d bothered adding to her written report. The graffitied metal doors of the Devil’s Dram were locked tight. There were no windows, just stonework, similarly daubed – hard to tell if it was a design feature or the work of vandals. Clarke gave the doors a thump and a kick. Eventually she could hear them being unlocked. A young man was scowling at her, sleeves rolled up, arms colourfully tattooed. His immaculate hair had been swept back from his forehead, and he sported a luxuriant beard.

  ‘You look like you probably work behind the bar,’ Clarke commented.

  ‘I own the bar,’ he corrected her.

  ‘On paper, maybe.’ Clarke shoved her warrant card into his face. ‘But it’s the real boss I’m here to see.’

  He managed a sneer but stepped aside eventually, just enough so she could squeeze past into a dimly lit vault that led to the main room. Plastic gargoyles leered from the ceiling, while bearded satyrs cavorted along the walls. Rock music was blaring from the speakers.

  ‘I like a bit of Burt Bacharach in the morning,’ Clarke said.

  ‘It’s Ninja Horse.’

  ‘Do me a favour then and put it back in the stable.’

  With a final sneer, the young man moved off. There was a glass staircase leading to a VIP balcony area directly above the long mirrored bar. As Clarke started to climb, the music cut off abruptly. The place was being readied for the night to come, vacuum cleaners busy, bottles restocked, chairs and stools repositioned. Darryl Christie was watching from his upstairs table, nose still strapped but eyes a bit less swollen, if no less bruised. He had paperwork spread out in front of him, and made show of turning each sheet so it sat blank side up as Clarke approached.

  ‘I’m not Customs and Excise, Darryl,’ she pretended to complain.

  ‘Maybe it’s my trade secrets I’m hiding – how to build a successful club from nothing.’

  There was a glass of sparkling water next to him. He lifted it to his mouth, sipping through a bright red straw, content to wait for what she had to say.

  ‘Craw Shand is back on the street,’ she obliged.

  ‘Is that right?’

  ‘If anything happens to him, you’ll have me to answer to.’

  ‘The big bad DI Clarke?’ Christie stifled a grin. ‘Thing I’ve learned about getting even with someone, it’s best to leave a bit of time. Could be weeks, could be months – there’s still the anticipation.’

  ‘Is that how it was with the man who killed your sister?’

  Christie’s cheekbones tightened. ‘He killed more than one kid. He was never going to last long in jail.’

  ‘Barlinnie, wasn’t it? I’m guessing that means Joe Stark did the organising – his city, his sphere of influence. You and him still close, Darryl?’

  ‘What’s it to you, Officer?’

  ‘Just because we’ve charged Shand doesn’t mean we’ve stopped looking. That includes everyone you know, friend or foe.’

  ‘So you’ll have pulled Cafferty in, then?’

  ‘Maybe after we talk to Joe Stark.’

  ‘You can talk till you’re blue in the face, won’t make the slightest difference.’ He was rising to his feet with effort, gasping a little as the pain hit his ribs.

  ‘Your mum reckons you owe me for catching Shand so quickly.’

  ‘And not touching him would balance the books between us? Nice try, Siobhan.’ He was standing only a few inches from her. ‘It was good to see you in here a few weeks back. Did you enjoy your evening? From the CCTV, it looked like you did. Seven G and Ts I think I counted.’ He gave another grin, gesturing towards the staircase. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me …’

  She stood her ground for a moment, and he gave a little bow of his head to tell her she’d made her point. So she went back down the steps, the smell of disinfectant heavy in the air. As she retraced her route across the floor of the main room, imps and demons staring down at her, the music started up again, setting her teeth on edge. Back out on the pavement, she paused to take a few deep breaths, then noticed her phone was buzzing. She checked the screen: her pal in the Police Scotland control room.

  ‘What is it, Tess?’

  ‘Body fished out of Leith Docks, not far from the Britannia.’

  ‘Suicide?’

  ‘Bit of a Houdini if it is. Houdini in reverse, I suppose I mean.’

  ‘Spit it out then.’

  ‘I’m hearing his hands were tied behind his back.’

  ‘That does make it suspicious.’

  ‘I thought so. But the reason I thought you’d be interested is one of our lot recognised the face.’

  Clarke froze, eyes on the doors of the Devil’s Dram.

  Please God, she said to herself. But surely not so soon …

  She realised Tess was spelling out a name, a name that meant something to her.

  ‘Give me that again,’ she demanded, then ended the call and found Rebus’s number.

  ‘Yes, Siobhan?’ he answered.

  ‘They’ve just fished Robert Chatham out of the docks,’ she said.

  ‘Fuck,’ retorted Rebus.

  She was thinking what else to tell him when she realised he’d hung up.

  The Royal Yacht Britannia had a permanent berth to the rear of the Ocean Terminal shopping centre and the adjoining multistorey car park. At right angles to this berth stood a reception building used for passengers embarking and disembarking the smaller classes of cruise ship. With no such ships in the vicinity, the building was kept locked, but it had been opened now and was a hive of activity as police, forensic specialists, photographers and an assortment of ancillary staff buzzed around, under the supervision of the crime scene manager. The corpse itself lay dockside, a makeshift tent erected to protect it from general view.

  Rebus caught sight of Deborah Quant and one of her colleagues, both in protective overalls, headgear and elasticated overshoes. She had eased up her face mask so it sat against her forehead, her hand cupped to her mouth to keep the conversation private. Nearby, a small white van had parked. Its r
ear doors were open to reveal rubber diving suits and oxygen tanks, two men waiting, arms folded, to be told what to do.

  The crime scene manager’s name was Haj Atwal. He carried a clipboard with him and used it to gesture towards Siobhan Clarke.

  ‘Signed in?’

  ‘At the cordon,’ she confirmed. ‘You know John Rebus?’

  The two men shook hands. Rebus asked how long the victim had been in the water.

  ‘Exactly what our medical friends are discussing. From what I’ve heard so far, the autopsy will answer a few questions.’ Atwal paused, staring at Rebus. ‘Thought you’d been put out to pasture?’

  ‘I’m here for a bit of a graze,’ Rebus replied.

  ‘John spoke with the victim only yesterday morning,’ Clarke explained. ‘Always supposing he is who we think he is.’

  ‘Facial recognition by the first uniform on the scene,’ Atwal stated. ‘Plus his wallet was in his pocket – credit cards and driving licence. We got his phone, too.’

  ‘Anything strike you as missing?’

  ‘Not a thing.’

  ‘So not mugged for his belongings, then?’

  Atwal’s look said he wasn’t about to start a guessing game. His strengths were the procedural and the verifiable. Clarke watched as another van trundled into view. Bigger than the one belonging to the dive team, with a black paint job. It might even have been the same one she’d parked next to at the mortuary.

  ‘Everybody’s itching to get on with it,’ Atwal commented.

  ‘Only natural,’ Rebus said, nodding in the direction of the victim. ‘That’s one of our own lying there.’

  ‘He was retired, though, same as you – so the two of you weren’t meeting to talk business?’

  ‘Problem is, that’s exactly what we were doing – a case everyone else thought was extinct.’

  ‘Seems to me it might just have become active,’ Atwal concluded, moving away to answer a question from one of his team.

  Rebus and Clarke kept their distance from the body, watching everyone work. Eventually Deborah Quant spotted them and, after a word to her colleague, headed in their direction. She lifted her mask again. No smiles or greetings; all business.

  ‘Suspicious death,’ she stated. ‘More than that, I can’t say right now.’

  ‘Any cuts and bumps?’ Rebus enquired.

  ‘None that couldn’t have been sustained from an amount of time in the water.’

  Rebus studied their surroundings. ‘High fences and security cameras. Not the easiest place to dump a body.’

  ‘Someone will have to check tidal currents. He could have gone in the water anywhere between Cramond and Portobello.’

  ‘He lived across from Newhaven harbour.’

  Quant stared at him. ‘Why am I not surprised you knew him?’

  ‘Spoke with him only yesterday, Deborah.’

  Her eyes softened. ‘He was a friend?’

  ‘Only our second meeting,’ Rebus corrected her. ‘You’ve no idea if he drowned?’

  ‘I’d say it’s likely. No obvious wounds, and he wasn’t strangled or anything.’

  ‘So he’d probably have been yelling for dear life?’

  ‘That’s feasible.’

  ‘Meaning someone could have heard,’ Clarke stated.

  Quant studied her. ‘Are you in charge, Siobhan?’

  ‘Not until someone tells me so.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Rebus interrupted, peering past Clarke’s shoulder. ‘Looks like word really has got around.’

  Malcolm Fox was striding towards the group, trying to arrange his face so it was friendly but respectful.

  ‘Detective Inspector Fox,’ Quant said. ‘Thought we’d lost you to Gartcosh.’

  ‘I managed to get a tourist visa.’ Fox checked something on his phone. ‘Is the CSM here?’

  ‘The Italian-looking guy,’ Rebus said, gesturing towards Atwal. Fox nodded his thanks and moved off again.

  ‘Haj’s parents are Indian,’ Deborah Quant said.

  ‘I know that.’ Rebus offered a thin smile.

  ‘What does Malcolm want with him anyway?’ Clarke enquired, frowning.

  ‘I think Malcolm’s tourist visa has just been revised. Like I say, Robert Chatham was one of our own …’ Rebus stared at Clarke until the truth dawned on her.

  ‘Gartcosh are claiming it,’ she announced.

  Rebus was nodding slowly. ‘With Malcolm in the vanguard.’

  Quant was studying Fox’s retreating figure. ‘You mean he’s in charge?’

  ‘Looks like, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘Thanks for the spadework, Malcolm. But I’m in charge now.’

  Fox stood in front of Detective Superintendent Alvin James. He was a few years younger than Fox, wiry, with jutting cheekbones and a freckled face, his reddish-blonde hair neatly trimmed and parted. Fox reckoned he probably ran long-distance; it was that sort of physique. Maybe played competitive five-a-side, too. Sporty and clean-living and always amenable to promotion.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Fox said, hands clasped behind his back.

  James gave the thinnest of smiles. ‘Call me Alvin – and I mean it about the spadework.’

  They were standing in an unaired office on the first floor of Leith police station, at the corner of Constitution Street and Queen Charlotte Street. The building, which had once been Leith’s town hall, was solid but shabby, its operating hours restricted. The office they were in had been set aside for this use and this use only – unlocked only when the Major Investigation Team came to town. Alvin James was the senior investigating officer, hand-picked for the role by ACC Lyon at Gartcosh. His team comprised CID officers and admin staff. They were already busy, plugging in laptops, sorting out the Wi-Fi, and trying to open the windows so the place was a bit less stuffy.

  Fox recognised none of the detectives, which meant they were almost certainly not local. James seemed to read his mind.

  ‘I know a lot of our colleagues this side of the country think Police Scotland is just Strathclyde with an aka, but it’s not like that. Okay, so I’ve spent most of my professional life in Glasgow, but there are people here from Aberdeen and Dundee, too. On the other hand, none of us know this place the way you do – that’s why you’ll be my go-to guy. Does that sound reasonable to you?’

  ‘Thing is, I’m working another case right now.’

  ‘ACC Lyon said as much, but she’s checked with Ben McManus and he seems to reckon you’re a dab hand at multi-tasking. You’re here when I need you, but otherwise you can be beavering away on your other inquiry. How does that sound?’

  ‘It sounds … workable.’

  ‘Terrific. So what do I need to know?’ James watched as Fox wrestled with the question, then broke into a toothy smile and wagged a finger. ‘Just kidding. But one thing I would like you to do is think about local bodies – warm ones, I mean. Preferably CID. We may need to co-opt a few if things get busy.’

  ‘The best DI in the city is Siobhan Clarke. She has two first-rate DCs under her.’

  ‘See? You’re already more than pulling your weight – thanks for that.’

  James turned on his heel and, rubbing his hands together, began dishing out orders to the rest of his squad. Having no role to play, Fox stood there shuffling his feet. His ringing phone came as a relief. Without checking who was calling, he pressed it to his ear.

  ‘It’s me,’ Rebus said.

  ‘Thanks a bunch for that joke you played earlier,’ Fox said, keeping his voice down.

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘Telling me the CSM was Italian.’

  ‘I only said he looked Italian. Have you got a minute for a chat?’

  ‘I suppose I might have.’

  ‘Last night in the pub, remember me mentioning Robert Chatham?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘No, because you were too busy thinking about Sir Magnus Brough and his grandson.’

  Fox strode from the office into the empty corridor. ‘Chatham’s who we
’ve just pulled from the water.’

  ‘Exactly so.’

  ‘He was killed the same day he talked to you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Christ, John …’

  ‘Are they setting up the MIT room at Leith?’

  ‘Pretty much ready to go. A detective superintendent called Alvin James is SIO.’

  ‘Can’t place the name. I’m guessing he’s Glasgow, though.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Gartcosh chose him – stands to reason.’

  ‘I’ve put in a good word for Siobhan.’

  ‘She might not thank you for it. Now off you go and tell Alvin and his Chipmunks that a retired east-coast cop knows more than they do, and he’ll be there to tell his story in about twenty minutes.’

  8

  ‘So this is the brave new world I keep hearing of?’ Rebus sauntered into the room, hands in pockets.

  ‘You’ll be John Rebus?’ Alvin James said, rising from his desk to shake hands.

  ‘And you’ll be Superintendent James.’

  ‘Detective Superintendent James.’

  Rebus acknowledged the correction with a movement of his mouth. He nodded towards Fox, who had the desk next to James. There were four other faces in the room. They had obviously worked together before and gave him a collective stare of professional scepticism. James gestured towards each in turn.

  ‘DS Glancey and DS Sharpe; DCs Briggs and Oldfield.’

  Just the one woman, DC Briggs, trim and businesslike. Glancey overflowed from his chair. He had dispensed with his jacket and was dabbing sweat from his face with a pristine handkerchief. Sharpe had a wise but wary look, an owl to Glancey’s bull. Oldfield was younger, cocksure and primed for action. Rebus turned from them towards Fox.

  ‘All feels very familiar, eh, Malcolm?’ Then, for James’s benefit: ‘We had a crew in from Glasgow not too long back. It got a bit messy.’

  ‘We’re not all from Glasgow, though,’ James felt the need to point out. ‘What we are, Mr Rebus, is a unit whose focus will be to find whoever did for Robert Chatham.’ He folded his arms and rested his backside against the corner of a desk. ‘Malcolm says you might have some information that would help. So we can keep this at the playground level or rise above that and get some actual business done.’ He paused, angling his head slightly. ‘What do you say?’