Rather Be the Devil (Inspector Rebus 21)

by Ian Rankin

  ‘What is it?’ Fox asked. But Rebus was already stalking towards the Saab.

  ‘Any time, lads,’ Kenny Arnott called to their retreating backs. ‘Nice of you to drop by …’

  ‘What is it?’ Fox repeated as he climbed into the passenger seat.

  ‘Know who would drink at a hole like the Pirate?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Craw Shand.’

  ‘Meaning what?’

  ‘Meaning I need to do a bit of thinking, which necessitates muting you – sorry about that.’

  ‘Muting me?’

  Rebus reached for the stereo, pushing a button. Music burst from the speakers, filling the car as Rebus pressed his foot against the accelerator. Had Fox been any kind of a music buff, he might have recognised the guitar sound.

  Rory Gallagher, ‘Kickback City’.

  From a corner of the street, Cafferty watched them leave, and kept staring as Kenny Arnott opened the door to his gym. The place looked busy, but that was okay. Arnott would still be there at closing time. Maybe he’d even be on his own …

  ‘Does anyone have a photo of Glushenko or Nazarchuk or whatever he’s called?’ Siobhan Clarke asked.

  She was seated with Rebus and Fox at a corner table in the back room of the Oxford Bar. The downstairs area was post-work busy, but the rest of the pub was quiet as yet. Rebus was nursing a half of IPA. He’d just texted Deborah Quant to suggest dinner somewhere, but she’d pinged a message back immediately saying she was due at some official function and how was his COPD?

  Both hunky and dory, he typed, pressing send.

  His personal demon was outside again, tapping on the glass and holding up a packet of twenty. Rebus pulled back the net curtain long enough to flick the Vs by way of answer.

  ‘Not that I’ve seen,’ Fox was telling Clarke. ‘A few dodgy passport photos, but with different hairstyles, and wearing glasses in some but not others.’

  ‘I don’t get it,’ she said. ‘If this thug is coming for Darryl, why isn’t Darryl worried?’

  ‘Maybe he thinks we’re watching over him,’ Rebus commented. ‘Cheaper than hiring bodyguards.’

  ‘And another thing, shouldn’t we be putting Anthony Brough’s name out there? He’s done a runner with mob money – how long do you think he’s going to last?’

  ‘Alan McFarlane down in London is checking if his passport’s been used,’ Fox said. ‘Could be on a Caribbean beach by now.’

  ‘Somewhere with no extradition treaty,’ Rebus added, lifting his glass again. He’d had a coughing fit earlier, but had retired to the toilet with his inhaler. His shirt was damp, sticking to his back, but otherwise he was fine, so much so that he was beginning to think a second IPA wouldn’t hurt.

  ‘So he flees with all this money, leaving Darryl in the lurch,’ Clarke said, watching Fox’s nod of confirmation. ‘And there’s a big bad Ukrainian on his way here seeking some sort of vengeance … Cafferty would be lapping it up if he knew.’

  ‘He does know,’ Rebus corrected her. ‘He knows some of it, at least. Only he thinks the Ukrainian is a Russian.’

  ‘How does he know?’

  ‘That’s a very good question,’ Rebus allowed. ‘Maybe we should ask him.’

  ‘You think he’s involved in some way?’ Fox enquired, elbows on the table.

  ‘There’s always that possibility.’

  ‘He paid to have Darryl attacked?’

  Rebus pondered this. ‘Do we have photos of Craw Shand and Rab Chatham?’

  ‘Back at the MIT room,’ Fox said.

  ‘Then we should go there.’ Rebus checked the time. ‘I’m guessing they’ll have knocked off for the evening. All the same, best if me and Siobhan wait outside.’

  ‘And after I’ve lifted the photos, what next?’

  Rebus looked at him. ‘We pay our respects at a den of iniquity, of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ Fox said, watching as Rebus and Clarke drained their glasses.

  The Pirate was called the Pirate because it had been taken over in the 1960s by a man called Johnny Kydd. That was one version, anyway. Rebus regaled his passengers with others as they headed to Cowgate.

  ‘You ever been to the Devil’s Dram?’ Clarke interrupted at one point.

  ‘Thumping music and mass snogging? Not really my scene.’ He glanced at her. ‘But I know Deb was there not too long ago, with the hangover next day to prove it.’

  ‘Darryl Christie runs it like something out of Goodfellas – has his own table upstairs, master of all he surveys.’

  ‘Maybe not for much longer,’ Fox said. ‘HMRC reckon it’s costing him more than it takes in. Same goes for his hotel.’

  ‘You might have said something,’ Clarke complained.

  ‘I only found out this morning.’

  ‘Even so.’

  ‘Well, I’m telling you now.’

  ‘When I went to his hotel, it was being renovated – that has to cost a few quid.’

  ‘Builders should maybe have asked for the money upfront,’ Fox commented.

  ‘So what’s the story?’ Rebus asked. ‘He must be making money somewhere.’

  ‘His betting shops and online gambling,’ Fox conceded. ‘But he’s using those to prop up everything else.’

  ‘Doesn’t he control most of the drugs in the city?’ Clarke enquired.

  ‘That doesn’t exactly come under HMRC’s remit.’

  ‘I’ve been reading in the paper recently,’ Rebus added, ‘that Border Force Scotland have had a few success stories – big shipments stopped before reaching their targets.’

  ‘Meaning supply could be limited?’

  Rebus nodded. ‘No supply, no money.’

  ‘Might explain why he’d be keen to get into bed with Anthony Brough. Ten million split two ways …’

  ‘Would certainly tide Darryl over.’

  ‘He doesn’t still have it, does he?’ Clarke asked.

  ‘If he did, why not hand it back to Glushenko?’ Fox answered.

  ‘So Brough’s scarpered with the lot.’

  ‘Somebody knows,’ Rebus said quietly. ‘The PA, the sister, her carer …’

  ‘There is another alternative, of course,’ Clarke piped up. ‘Maybe Glushenko has Brough.’

  The car fell silent as they considered this. Then Fox cleared his throat.

  ‘You remember the friend who drowned in Sir Magnus’s pool?’ he said, his eyes on Clarke. ‘I spoke to a journalist in Grand Cayman who said he wouldn’t rule out foul play.’

  ‘Is there no end to the stuff you’ve been holding back?’ Clarke retorted.

  ‘It’s not exactly relevant to Darryl Christie or Craw Shand, though, is it?’

  Clarke stuck out her bottom lip. ‘And I thought we were pals.’

  ‘Remember, children,’ Rebus said from the driver’s seat. ‘Toys must remain in the pram at all times.’

  ‘Easy for an OAP to say.’

  Clarke and Fox were sharing a smile as Rebus pushed out his own bottom lip.

  The Pirate was near the foot of Blair Street, just before the Cowgate junction. Rebus parked on a double yellow line and they got out. The bar was down some steps, its interior smelling of the same mould that would have lingered on its walls a few centuries back. The main room had a vaulted ceiling, which, like the walls, consisted of exposed stonework. Most of the bars in the vicinity had been gentrified, but not the Pirate. The framed prints – sailing ships of the world – were askew and mildewed. The floor would forever remain sticky, due to the amount of drink spilled on it. The solitary barman was entertaining the only two drinkers in the place to a sullen silence, the new arrivals doing nothing except darken his mood.

  ‘Help ye?’ he snapped.

  ‘Bottle of your best champagne, please,’ Rebus said.

  ‘If ye want fizz, we’ve got cider and lager.’

  ‘Both of them fine substitutes.’ Rebus held out the two photos. ‘Care to take a look?’

  ‘What for?’

&n
bsp; ‘Because I’m asking nicely – for the moment.’

  The barman glared at him, but then decided to at least glance at the head shots. ‘Don’t know them.’

  ‘Now there’s a surprise.’

  ‘You buying a drink or leaving me in peace?’

  ‘I didn’t know I’d walked into a quiz show.’ Rebus turned the photos towards the two pint-drinkers. ‘Help me out here,’ he said, watching as they shook their heads.

  ‘Craw Shand,’ he persisted. ‘He drinks in here sometimes, when he’s not at Templeton’s or the Wrigley. Places like this make him feel right at home.’ He focused his attention back on the barman. ‘His home’s a shithole, by the way.’

  ‘I want the three of you out.’

  ‘Maybe you should call the police.’

  ‘Come to think of it, where’s your ID?’

  Fox had started reaching into his pocket, but Rebus stopped him. ‘We don’t humour wankers like him,’ he explained. Then, to the two drinkers: ‘You’ll want to see the rating we give this place on TripAdvisor. Thanks for your help, gentlemen …’

  He led Fox and Clarke back to the door, opening it and ushering them through. ‘The famous John Rebus charm,’ Clarke said. ‘It never ever fails.’

  ‘Just you wait,’ Rebus said, slipping his hands into his pockets and looking content to stand his ground.

  ‘What is it we’re waiting for?’

  ‘My instincts to be proved right.’

  Ten seconds later, the door behind them reopened, one of the pair of customers stepping outside. Rebus gave him a nod and the man held up a cigarette, asking if he had a light. Rebus took a box of matches from his pocket.

  ‘Keep them,’ he said.

  ‘That’s very kind.’

  Rebus turned to Fox. ‘You got a twenty on you?’

  Fox frowned, then dug into his right-hand trouser pocket. Rebus plucked the note from his hand and gave it to the man, who offered a grin, showing yellow teeth. With cigarette lit, he commenced to suck the life from it.

  ‘Craw hasn’t been around for a few days,’ he said as he exhaled smoke. ‘Bugger owes me, too.’

  ‘Why’s that?’ Rebus asked.

  ‘The phone rang and Alfie was busy changing barrels, so I picked up. Man on the other end was looking for Craw.’ He cast a glance back at the door, checking it was tightly closed. ‘Said it would be worth his while to still be here around midnight.’

  ‘And you passed on the message?’

  The smoker nodded. ‘Craw said he’d stand me a drink just as soon as he had some spare cash.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you stuck around?’

  ‘Ah, no. I turn into a pumpkin at midnight.’

  ‘Did the caller give his name?’

  ‘Not that I remember.’ Having pocketed the matches, the man had brought out his pack of cigarettes, making the offer to Rebus.

  ‘I won’t,’ Rebus said.

  ‘You’re not a smoker?’

  ‘I’m trying to quit. Relieving me of those matches has been a big help.’ He patted the man’s shoulder and turned to leave. The offer of a smoke was still there, but Clarke and Fox shook their heads and made to follow.

  Back in the Saab, Rebus studied both photographs as he thought things through.

  ‘Fine,’ Fox said. ‘Your hunch was right and Rab Chatham met with Craw Shand.’

  ‘So Chatham attacked Christie?’ Clarke added. ‘And Christie retaliated by having him killed?’

  ‘Doesn’t quite add up, does it?’ Rebus conceded.

  ‘Someone must have arranged it and paid Chatham to do it,’ Fox went on. ‘When you walked up to him that night, you spooked him. He wanted someone else to take the fall, and he knew Craw’s reputation.’

  ‘But Chatham wouldn’t be enough to satisfy Darryl,’ Clarke added. ‘He’d want to know who was really behind it. Did Chatham die before he could talk?’

  ‘No sign he was tortured,’ Fox said. ‘Just the whisky and then drowned.’

  ‘I thought it had something to do with the Turquand case,’ Rebus said quietly. ‘I was walking the wrong bloody trail all the time – so much for a copper’s nose.’

  ‘Do we talk to Arnott again?’ Fox asked. ‘He has to be part of it. Chatham spoke to him only minutes before he headed to the call box.’

  ‘Maybe in the morning,’ Rebus agreed. ‘Right now, I think we all need a bit of a break. Well, I know I do – I’m not like you young things.’

  ‘Some food would hit the spot,’ Fox said.

  ‘I’d be up for that,’ Clarke added.

  ‘Better be your shout, Siobhan,’ Rebus said. ‘Malcolm’s already down twenty quid.’

  ‘Aye, thanks for that,’ Fox muttered.

  ‘Fair’s fair,’ Rebus told him. ‘Name your restaurant and I’ll drop you off – cheaper than a taxi.’

  ‘You’re not joining us?’

  ‘Watching my weight, remember?’ Rebus patted his stomach.

  ‘I’m starting to worry now,’ Clarke said, turning towards Fox to see if he agreed. But he was staring out of the window, avoiding eye contact.

  ‘John,’ she said quietly. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Not tonight, Siobhan,’ Rebus said, lowering his own voice to match hers. ‘Not tonight.’

  Kenny Arnott started switching off the lights. Donny Applecross had been the last to leave. Arnott liked that. The kid had attitude – attitude, focus and stamina. If he didn’t get hurt, he would manage a few years in the cage-fight game. He wasn’t as wily as some, and he needed to bulk up a bit, but that was something they could work on.

  It was dark outside now, Arnott’s favourite time of the day, as he switched from gym owner to security fixer. He had fourteen guys on duty tonight. It would have been fifteen if Rab hadn’t got stupid. Still, best not to dwell – that was what Arnott’s mum had always said when there was bad news, didn’t matter if it was close to home or half a world away. Best not to dwell. He had a mind to take a drive, stop off and chew the fat with a few of his guys, just to remind them he was looking out for them. Then again, his girlfriend was waiting for him in the flat. The flat was new, and so was Anna. He’d already bought her too many clothes and too much perfume. What the hell else was he going to do? She deserved it, and she was always grateful. He wasn’t so sure about her mates. They were loud and always talking about stuff he didn’t understand – singers and actors, TV shows and celebrities. But then Anna was almost half his age. Stood to reason he’d be out of the loop some of the time. And one or two of her besties … well, he wouldn’t say no.

  With only one of the overhead strip lights still on, he readied to set the alarm. Not that there was much worth nicking, but the insurance had insisted. But someone was knocking on the door. Had Donny or one of the others forgotten something? They wouldn’t knock, though. Those cops again? One way to find out …

  The figure filled the doorway, silhouetted against the sodium street lighting. The arm swung down and Arnott staggered back at the impact of hammer against skull. His vision blurred and his knees went from under him. He was pushing himself to his feet when the hammer connected again. Gloved hands. Three-quarter-length black coat. A domed head above it all, the lips parted, showing teeth. Arnott held up his hands in a show of surrender. The door had been kicked closed. He could feel blood trickling down his forehead. He blinked it out of his eyes.

  ‘Know who I am?’ the giant said, his voice like earth filling a pit.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Say my name, then.’

  ‘You’re Big Ger Cafferty.’

  ‘And what are these?’ Cafferty dug in his coat pocket and started scattering the contents across the floor in front of Arnott.

  ‘Nails,’ Arnott croaked.

  ‘Six-inch nails, to be precise.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I want you to tell me why one of your employees whispered sweet nothings into my friend’s ear.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’


  Cafferty managed a disappointed look, towering over the crouched figure. Arnott couldn’t meet the man’s stare, so busied himself dabbing at the blood with his jacket sleeve.

  ‘You want it done the hard way, that’s fine by me. One way or another, you’ll be spilling your guts.’

  ‘I don’t know anything, gospel truth.’

  ‘I didn’t know you were religious, Kenny.’ Cafferty was slipping out of his coat. ‘But if you are, wee bit of advice for you – time to start praying …’

  Day Eight

  21

  Having been wakened by Brillo wanting a walk as the sky was just starting to lighten, Rebus had decided to drive to Kenny’s Gym for want of anything else to keep him busy. He wasn’t sure how early the place would open, but he arrived to see two ambulances parked outside and the door to the boxing club standing wide open. Cursing under his breath, he stopped behind the rearmost ambulance and got out.

  Inside the gym, two green-suited paramedics were kneeling either side of a prone figure, while a third stood next to an anxious-looking young man. Rebus sought his name – Donny Applecross, Arnott’s cage-fighting protégé. As he stepped forward, he recognised the figure on the floor as Kenny Arnott himself. His head partially encased in polystyrene to protect it, arms splayed. His palms were upwards, blood pooling between and beneath the fingers.

  ‘This what I think it is?’ Rebus asked.

  The paramedic nearest him turned her head. ‘Sorry, who are you?’

  ‘I’m with Police Scotland. We were here yesterday to question Mr Arnott.’

  Arnott had been given a painkilling injection. His eyes looked glazed as soft moans escaped from between his cracked lips.

  ‘So,’ Rebus went on, ‘are you waiting for medical advice or the local joiner?’

  The unused nails were strewn around the floor. Rebus stooped and picked one up, showing it to Applecross.

  ‘What’s the story here, son?’

  ‘Like I was just saying, Kenny gave me a key. I often do an early workout. He was …’ He glanced down at Arnott’s figure. ‘He was lying there when I got here.’

  ‘Door locked?’

  Applecross shook his head. ‘Shut but not locked.’