by Ian Rankin
James shrugged off his coat and hung it up. ‘Interviews with Roddy Cape and Dandy Reynolds,’ he said, before noticing Fox’s blank look. ‘The two nyaffs who were with Cal Christie that night.’
‘Right.’
‘One thing we can’t let happen is for this inquiry to stall. Got to keep up the momentum.’ He clapped his hands together and rubbed them. To Fox’s ears, it sounded as if he was trying to motivate himself.
‘Will DI Clarke be joining us today?’ Fox asked casually.
‘She might. She’s tip-top, Malcolm, you were right about that.’
‘Did she take you somewhere nice last night?’
‘Curry house – don’t ask which street; this town still mystifies me.’ James paused. ‘You got enough to do?’
‘I’m fine.’
James nodded distractedly and settled at his desk, booting up his laptop. Fox pretended to get busy on his own, doing a check of recent house sales in his neighbourhood. Following his divorce, he had bought his ex-wife out of her half of the mortgage. If he had to sell, he could clear what Jude owed. Downside was, he’d then be looking at renting, or else starting a fresh mortgage on somewhere a lot smaller, and perhaps in a less salubrious part of town.
Not yet, he repeated to himself. Not unless absolutely necessary …
He closed the property website and started a search for Anthony Brough instead. Although he knew about the man’s recent exploits, he wanted to dig back a little further. It didn’t take long to reach the tragic holiday in Grand Cayman, the one where Brough’s best friend, Julian Greene, had drowned in the pool after consuming a cocktail of alcohol and drugs. The death had had a lasting effect on Brough’s sister Francesca. She’d been hospitalised shortly afterwards, having gone from self-harming to a suicide attempt. The local newspaper in Grand Cayman had done its best to be diplomatic about the whole string of events, but the Daily Mail in London had been far less circumspect, going so far as to hint at a cover-up. Had Greene been alone, or were others poolside at the time? Had they failed to notice, failed to act? Had evidence of drug use been cleared away and the scene rearranged before an ambulance was called? The Brough family’s solicitor had turned spokesperson, able to claim that ‘these innocent young people’ were in shock, and accusing the media of ‘tasteless and tawdry tactics that do nothing but interfere with the grieving process’.
Fox sent a speculative email to the Grand Cayman newspaper asking if anyone working there might recall the drowning. He got an almost immediate reply giving the name of a retired journalist called Wilbur Bennett, along with a phone number. Excusing himself to James, he exited the room and headed out to the car park, where he made the call.
‘I’m having breakfast,’ a male voice snapped by way of answer.
‘Wilbur Bennett? My name’s Malcolm Fox. I’m a police detective in Scotland. Sorry to disturb you at such an early hour …’
‘Are you really a cop?’
‘Last time I looked.’
‘Only when I worked Fleet Street, we often pretended to be. It was as good a way as any of opening a door.’
‘I know someone a bit like that,’ Fox admitted. ‘But it’s your time in Grand Cayman I’m interested in.’
‘The drowning, then?’
‘That’s very perceptive.’
‘I didn’t do too many stories with a Scottish angle.’
‘It happened at a house owned by Sir Magnus Brough, is that right?’
‘Got it in one, though it was about to go on the market.’
‘Oh?’
‘The old boy had just popped his clogs. Always seemed rum to me that his two wards were cavorting on holiday so soon after the funeral. That’s the way I always thought of them – “wards”, like something out of Dickens. Best explanation I got was that the trip was already planned and it was what Sir Magnus would have wanted.’
‘Odd to have two deaths in such a short space of time.’
‘Isn’t it, though?’ Wilbur Bennett paused and took a slurp of something – coffee maybe, or something a bit stronger. From his voice – as rich and cloying as teacake – Fox got the impression of someone who might welcome the first drink of the day at an early hour. ‘So why the sudden interest, Officer?’
‘No real reason. Something’s come up and it may involve Anthony Brough in a peripheral capacity.’
‘You’ve been tasked with digging into his past? Well, what I saw of him I didn’t like. He was too cocky by half – all that privilege and sense of entitlement. Probably why the Mail did a number on him – or would have if the lawyers hadn’t started growling.’
‘Did you feed them any titbits, Mr Bennett?’
‘The Mail, you mean?’
‘You worked Fleet Street before moving to Grand Cayman – I’m guessing you still had contacts there.’
‘Well, you might be right. Here, tell you what – shall I pretend I’ve something juicy to tell you but I’ll only do so face to face? You can fly out here for a few days …’
‘I’m sorely tempted, but we have to think of the hard-pressed taxpayer.’
Bennett snorted. ‘Not out here we don’t!’
‘Point taken. You’re a tax haven like the Virgin Islands, aren’t you?’
‘That we are.’
‘Which probably means dirty money has washed ashore at some time or other.’
‘Caribbean’s always been full of pirates,’ Bennett’s voice boomed. ‘But to get back to that swimming pool …’
‘Yes?’
‘The inquiry – such as it was – never did get to the heart of it. Servants had heard raised voices. Then, questioned again later, they changed their story. The poor sod who died, he had plenty of booze and cocaine coursing through him, but not enough to knock him out. In fact, taking a dip should have revived him. Then there were the marks on his shoulders – nobody bothered trying to explain them. From what little I could glean, he’d had a major crush on the sister for a few months. And after he died, she went to pieces.’
‘Who found the body?’
‘Her and her brother. They were indoors allegedly, watching a film with the rest of the party. Took some time to realise Greene hadn’t joined them. Found him floating in the pool. No drugs lying around by the time the medics and cops arrived. When the autopsy found cocaine in his system, they said they were unaware he’d taken any – usual story. And surprise surprise, the only place in the house where any was found was Greene’s bedroom, a bag of white powder in a bedside drawer, never checked for fingerprints.’
‘You’ve got a good memory, Mr Bennett.’
‘Only because the whole investigation was a farce. You live as long as I have in a place like this, you see who gets away with things and who doesn’t, and it can make you sick sometimes.’
‘Are you telling me you think Julian Greene was killed?’
‘I’m telling you it doesn’t matter a tuppenny damn one way or the other – nobody paid for it then and nobody’s going to pay now. But ask yourself why Francesca went off her rocker straight after. Some of us thought she deserved an Oscar, way she threw herself into it. I’m willing to bet she’s still alive – thriving, even.’
‘Alive, yes,’ Fox conceded. ‘But that’s about as much as I know.’
‘She wanted to see an exorcist – did you hear about that?’
‘No.’
‘That’s what she told them after they’d pumped her stomach. Money can buy you a lot of things, but not always the one thing you really need – reckon I could get a self-help book out of that?’
‘Mindfulness for Millionaires?’ Fox suggested.
‘You might be on to something, chum! I’m away to dust off the old typewriter, unless there’s anything else I can help you with …?’
‘Say Julian Greene’s death wasn’t an accident – who would your money be on?’
‘Their parents died in a car crash, and from that moment on they were stuck together like glue with only their greedy old shit of a grandpa
for moral guidance.’ Bennett paused for a moment’s thought. ‘One or the other, or maybe even both. As I say, it hardly matters. Hardly matters at all …’
Ann Street was reckoned by many to be the most beautiful terrace in the city. Tucked away between Queensferry Road and Stockbridge, its two elegant facing rows of Georgian homes were separated by a narrow roadway constructed of traditional setts. The front gardens were immaculate, the black metal railings glossy, the lamp posts harking back to a more elegant age. Anthony Brough’s house was towards one end of the street and not quite as imposing as those in the centre of the terrace. Rebus pushed open the gate, stood on the doorstep and pressed the bell. When there was no answer, he peered through the letter box. He could see an entrance hall and a stone staircase. Straightening up, he took a few steps to the window and peered into a modern living room boasting a TV and sofa but not much else. Back on the pavement, he was considering his options when he caught something from the corner of his eye – a net curtain twitching in the house opposite. Ah, Edinburgh. Of course a net curtain would twitch. Neighbours liked to know what was going on; for some, it was an all-embracing passion.
Rebus crossed the street, and was halfway up the path when the door opened slowly. The woman was in her seventies, stooped but immaculately dressed.
‘Is he not at home?’ she enquired in a lilting voice.
‘Doesn’t look like.’
‘I’ve not seen him for quite some time.’
‘That’s why we’re a bit worried,’ Rebus informed her. ‘His secretary says it’s been over a week …’
The neighbour considered this. ‘Yes, I suppose it must be.’
‘Any other visitors?’
‘I’ve not seen any.’
‘Do you know Mr Brough well, would you say?’
‘We stop and chat …’
‘And you last saw him over a week ago?’
‘I suppose,’ she echoed, frowning as she tried to count the days.
‘Had he seemed anxious at all?’
‘Isn’t everyone? I mean, you only have to switch on the news …’ She gave a perfectly formed shudder. Rebus was holding out a card. It was one of Malcolm Fox’s, lifted from the MIT office. He had crossed out Fox’s phone number and email address and added his own mobile number in black ballpoint.
‘Detective Inspector,’ the woman said as she peered at the card. ‘He’s not dead, is he?’
‘I’m sure he’s not.’
‘Francesca and Alison must be up to high doh.’
‘Alison?’
‘Francesca’s carer.’ The neighbour immediately corrected herself. ‘No, her assistant. That’s what she likes to be called.’
‘You know Mr Brough’s sister, then?’
The neighbour arched her back in surprise that he even needed to ask. ‘Well of course,’ she said. She nodded past Rebus towards the house. ‘She lives there, doesn’t she?’
Rebus turned his head to look. ‘There?’ he asked, just to be sure.
‘In the garden flat, directly below the main house. You just go down the steps and …’
But Rebus was already on his way. Yes, there was another gate, smaller, to the right of the one leading to the main house, with winding stone steps down to a well-tended patio. Rebus had been aware of it on arrival, but had thought it a separate property. The windows either side of the green wooden door had bars on – nothing unusual about that; many of the city’s garden flats boasted the same.
‘Garden’ – when Rebus had first gone flat-hunting in the city, so many decades back, he had wondered at that word. Why not just ‘basement’? That was what it meant, after all. Except that ‘garden’ implied you were getting a garden, too, and these flats did often lead directly into the rear garden of the property. He had looked at several before plumping for the second floor of a Marchmont tenement. His reasoning? No need to do any gardening.
The door was opened by a tall, well-built woman in her early thirties, her fair hair pulled back into a bun, one stray tress curling down past her left ear.
‘Yes?’ she asked.
Rebus held out another filched business card. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Fox,’ he announced as she took the card and studied it.
‘Is it about the break-ins?’
‘Break-ins?’
‘There’s been a spate recently.’ She studied him closely. ‘Surely you must know.’
‘I’m here about Anthony Brough. Would you be Alison?’
‘How do you know that?’
‘One of the neighbours,’ Rebus admitted with a smile.
‘Oh.’ She tried out a smile of her own.
‘You’ll be aware that Mr Brough hasn’t been seen in quite some time. His secretary is becoming concerned for his safety.’
The woman called Alison considered this. ‘I see,’ she eventually said.
‘She’s been to the house to look for him – I dare say she spoke to you too?’
‘Molly, you mean? Yes, she did. But it’s not so unusual for Anthony to take off on some jaunt or other.’
Rebus was looking past her shoulder at the long, unlit hallway. There was a thick velvet curtain at the far end, which he guessed would lead to stairs, stairs connecting to the main house.
‘Is Francesca at home? Could I maybe speak to her, Miss …?’
‘Warbody. And yes, she’s home.’
‘You’re her assistant?’
‘That’s right.’
‘I’d imagine she must be fretting about her brother?’
‘Francesca takes medication. Time doesn’t mean as much to her as to some of us.’
Rebus tried his smile again. ‘Would it be possible to talk to her?’
‘She hasn’t seen him.’
‘Since when?’
‘Eight, ten days back.’
‘No phone calls or texts?’
‘I think I would know.’
‘And you’re saying that’s not out of character?’
‘That’s exactly what I’m saying.’
‘Who are you speaking to?’ The voice – thin, almost ethereal – had come from one of the doorways. Rebus could just make out the shape of a head.
‘Nobody,’ Warbody called back.
‘I’m with the police,’ Rebus announced. ‘I was just asking about your brother.’
Warbody was glowering, but Rebus ignored her. Francesca Brough was walking towards the daylight, almost on tiptoe, like a ballerina. She had a ballerina’s frame, too, albeit one wrapped in thick black tights and a baggy oatmeal sweater, its sleeves stretched so that her hands were hidden within. One of the sleeves was in her mouth as she reached the doorstep. Her hair was clumsily cut, the scalp showing beneath. Her skin was almost ghostly and her lips bloodless as she sucked at the wool. The material seemed matted, as though this was not an unusual ritual.
‘Hello,’ she said, voice muffled.
‘Hello,’ Rebus echoed.
‘The inspector,’ Warbody explained, ‘is here because Anthony’s gone off on one of his walkabouts.’
‘He does that,’ Francesca said, as Warbody gently pulled her hand away from her mouth.
‘That’s what I’ve just been explaining.’
‘And you last saw him …?’
The question seemed to perturb Francesca. She looked to Warbody for guidance.
‘Eight or ten days back,’ Warbody obliged.
‘Eight or ten days,’ Francesca repeated.
‘I assume you’ve been upstairs to check?’ The two women looked at Rebus. ‘You can get into the house?’ he persisted.
‘Yes, we can,’ Francesca said softly.
‘Could we maybe go take a look, then?’ Rebus requested.
‘He’s not there,’ Warbody stated. ‘We would have heard him.’
Francesca was reaching towards a hook on the wall. She lifted down two keys, mortise and Yale. ‘Here we are,’ she said.
Rebus’s eyes were on Warbody. ‘There isn’t a door behind that curtain?’ h
e asked, gesturing.
‘It’s locked from the other side.’
‘Why?’
She offered a shrug. ‘Anthony likes his privacy.’ Then: ‘He really won’t like it that we’ve taken a stranger inside.’
‘I won’t tell him if you don’t.’ Rebus’s wink was aimed at Francesca. She giggled, holding her hands over her mouth.
‘Let’s get on with it then,’ Warbody said with a sigh of defeat.
They climbed back up to street level and through the main gate. Both keys needed to be used. There was an alarm pad on the wall inside the front door, but Warbody knew the code.
Rebus had bent to pick up some mail from the floor.
‘Put it with the rest,’ Warbody said. There was an inch-high pile on an occasional table. Rebus sifted through it. ‘Enjoying yourself?’ she asked coldly. Francesca had padded into the room with the TV, but emerged again seconds later and headed down the hall. Warbody followed, Rebus bringing up the rear. They entered an extension to the original house. It was a bright kitchen, with sliding glass doors leading to a patio and steps down into the garden. An ashtray and wine glass sat on a small outdoors table. The kitchen itself was immaculate.
‘Does Mr Brough have a cleaner?’
‘Wednesday mornings,’ Warbody confirmed.
‘So the wine glass means …?’
‘It means someone needs to have a word with her about standards.’
They paused and watched as Francesca opened the sink’s mixer faucet and then shut it off again, only to repeat the process. Warbody approached and placed the palm of her hand against the small of Francesca’s back. It was enough. Francesca’s arms fell to her sides and her face took on a look of contrition.
‘Can we go upstairs?’ Rebus asked.
‘Yes, let’s!’ And Francesca bounded out of the room, taking the stairs two at a time.
Two bedrooms and a large study. The bedrooms looking out over Ann Street, the study tucked away at the rear of the property. In the upstairs hall, Rebus looked for evidence of further floors, but he’d seen everything.
‘He was meaning to renovate the attic,’ Warbody offered, as if reading his mind. ‘But it’s not happened yet.’