Rather Be the Devil (Inspector Rebus 21)

by Ian Rankin

  ‘Thanks,’ James said. ‘How about you, Anne?’

  ‘Tracking down the victim’s friends and associates just got that bit harder. We could do with a search warrant for home and business premises, see if his computer is any help.’

  ‘I’ll sort it.’ James turned to Mark Oldfield, who was busy at the kettle. ‘You okay to help out with the doorstepping?’

  ‘Sure,’ Oldfield said, not quite managing to look enthusiastic.

  ‘There’ll be a café somewhere on the route,’ Fox teased him.

  ‘How about you, Malcolm?’ James butted in. ‘Managing to keep busy?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Feel like applying for those search warrants?’ Fox nodded and watched as Alvin James started clapping, his eyes taking in his team. ‘All right then, people, let’s get going. The crime may have changed but the investigation hasn’t.’ He turned towards Clarke. ‘You know the pathologist, don’t you? Find out how soon she can do the autopsy.’

  ‘Easiest thing is to ask in person. If she’s in the autopsy suite, her phone will be off.’

  ‘Do that, then.’

  Clarke kept her eyes averted from Fox as she made her escape. Striding towards her car, she called Rebus and pressed the phone to her ear.

  ‘Thought I’d be hearing from you,’ he muttered.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I was just talking to the man, Siobhan.’

  Clarke got into her car and put the phone on speaker while she turned the key in the ignition and fastened her seat belt. ‘Having sneaked past Christine while she was in the loo?’

  ‘You can’t go blaming her.’

  ‘I don’t blame her.’ Clarke checked the road was clear and moved off. ‘It’s you I’m furious with.’

  ‘All I did was tell him we were going after Cafferty big time, with his help or without.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He said he’d kill him if he said anything.’

  ‘Who’d kill him?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Who’d kill him?’ she repeated. ‘Cafferty?’

  ‘Well, yes, obviously.’ But Rebus didn’t sound sure. ‘How’s James handling it?’

  ‘Very competently. He’s got everyone working flat out.’

  ‘Present company excepted?’

  ‘I’m on my way to the mortuary.’

  ‘To chivvy Deb into fast-tracking the autopsy? Reckon there’s a chance we can pin culpable homicide on Big Ger?’

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine. So where are you now?’

  ‘Five minutes from the Cowgate.’

  ‘You’re going to see Deborah?’

  ‘That was the plan – great minds and all that.’

  ‘John … for us to have even the slimmest hope of nabbing Cafferty, everything has to be done by the book.’

  ‘No argument here.’

  ‘You’re not a police officer.’

  ‘I’m not sure why people think they need to keep reminding me. How long till you arrive?’

  ‘Ten, twelve minutes.’

  ‘I’ll be in the car park.’

  The phone went dead as Clarke pulled out to overtake a bus.

  ‘Fourteen minutes,’ Rebus said, making show of checking his watch. Clarke had parked next to his Saab. She could see the regulation black vans but no sign of Deborah Quant’s car.

  ‘She’s not here,’ Rebus confirmed. ‘I already asked. Teaching a class at the uni. Should be done in an hour or so, though. We could grab a coffee.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Caffè Nero at Blackwell’s,’ he suggested. Clarke shook her head.

  ‘I meant what I said – think how you’d feel if we got Cafferty to trial and a technicality scuppered us.’

  ‘The technicality being me?’ Rebus nodded slowly. ‘You know best, Siobhan. With me, it’s always been about the outcome rather than the process.’

  ‘Which is why you’ve lost a few along the way.’

  ‘I can’t just walk away.’

  ‘Not even for a day?’

  Rebus shook his head slowly, trying for a contrite look and failing. Clarke puffed out her cheeks and studied the tarmac, rubbing the sole of one shoe against it.

  ‘You sure about that coffee?’ he asked.

  ‘She’s coming here after the lecture?’

  ‘Almost certainly.’

  ‘Are we walking to the café?’

  ‘Have you seen the hill it’s up?’ Rebus responded.

  ‘My car or yours?’

  ‘More room in mine.’

  She looked towards the Saab. ‘There’s also half a chance it won’t make it to the top.’ Her phone was buzzing. ‘James,’ she told Rebus as she made to answer.

  ‘Yes, Alvin?’

  ‘Are you with Professor Quant?’

  ‘She won’t be here for a bit.’ Clarke paused. ‘You sound—’

  ‘We might just have struck lucky,’ James blurted out. ‘Had to happen eventually.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Are you going to hang around there or do you want to join the party?’

  ‘I’ll be there in fourteen minutes,’ she said, ending the call.

  James and his team were readying to brief a lawyer from the Procurator Fiscal’s office. The Fiscal Depute’s name was Shona MacBryer. MacBryer knew Clarke, and the two shared a nod of greeting as she arrived. Fox and Oldfield were handing round mugs. Someone had splashed out on a cafetière and proper coffee, and the biscuits were Duchy Originals. Nothing but the best for MacBryer, not when they were about to try persuading her they had a locked-down case requiring only her thumbs-up before the arrest was made.

  ‘A hardware shop on Leith Walk,’ James was saying. He was seated directly in front of MacBryer’s chair, having hoisted himself on to his desk, hands on knees. With his legs spread, his crotch was at eye level, a fact he seemed unaware of but which had caused MacBryer to twist her mouth in displeasure. ‘The owner had a man come in yesterday afternoon – well dressed, in his sixties, shaven head. A hefty bloke, three-quarter-length black coat and black leather gloves. Didn’t hang about, knew exactly what he wanted – two nice big claw hammers and a dozen six-inch nails, same number we retrieved from the boxing club. So DS Glancey sends the shopkeeper a file photo of Morris Gerald Cafferty and the shopkeeper says he’s sure it’s the same man.’

  MacBryer had opened an iPad, preparing to take notes. ‘This would be easier at a desk,’ she said.

  ‘Take Malcolm’s.’

  MacBryer thanked him and shifted to Fox’s chair, James shoving all Fox’s paperwork to one side. James sat on his own chair and was preparing to continue his speech when MacBryer held up a finger to stop him.

  ‘Can I just clarify – the shopkeeper has only been spoken to by phone so far.’

  ‘DS Sharpe is fetching him here – shouldn’t be much longer.’

  ‘So a man who may or may not be Mr Cafferty buys two hammers and some nails. Do you have a forensic report?’

  ‘Not as yet,’ James admitted.

  ‘If gloves were worn …’

  James nodded his understanding. ‘But there may be DNA at the scene. Forensics have given the floor a thorough swabbing, lifted all sorts of bits and pieces.’

  ‘Which might prove Cafferty had visited the building, but not pinpoint his presence there at the time of the attack.’

  ‘And if we put him in a parade?’

  MacBryer glanced up from her typing. ‘A positive identification would tell us nothing more than that he bought a hammer and some nails.’

  ‘Not more than a five- or ten-minute walk from the boxing club.’ James looked to Fox. ‘Where does Cafferty live?’

  ‘Used to be Merchiston …’ Fox sought out Clarke.

  ‘Quartermile,’ she obliged. ‘Quite the hike from Leith Walk.’

  ‘Does the shop have CCTV?’ MacBryer asked.

  ‘No,’ Glancey said.

  ‘Proprietor’s name?’

  ‘Joseph Beddoes.’ />
  ‘Did he seem lucid?’

  ‘I’d say he’s a reliable witness.’

  MacBryer stared at him without blinking. ‘On the evidence of a single phone call?’

  ‘We’re sure it’s Cafferty,’ James interrupted. He had angled his chair so he was facing MacBryer. Her mug of coffee sat untouched, as did the biscuit she’d been given.

  ‘For a successful prosecution, we need a bit more than that, Detective Superintendent. Mr Cafferty is not unknown to the Fiscal’s office. We’ve had half a dozen previous cases fail. Recovery of the weapon would help.’

  ‘We’ve officers scouring the neighbourhood.’

  ‘Clothing could well be bloodstained,’ MacBryer went on.

  ‘In which case,’ Fox interrupted, ‘Cafferty will already have disposed of it. He’s not exactly an amateur.’

  ‘Even professionals have been known to slip up,’ MacBryer commented. She had paused in her note-taking. ‘Cafferty will be lawyered up – you can be sure of that. If your case rests on one witness and no forensic evidence …’ She didn’t need to complete the sentence. ‘I imagine you’ll be questioning Mr Cafferty?’

  ‘We will.’

  ‘And when he denies any involvement, as he surely will?’

  ‘We keep building the case.’

  MacBryer nodded thoughtfully. ‘That’s all you can do, and I sincerely hope that at our next meeting you can bring me more than this. Because this, Detective Superintendent, isn’t nearly enough.’ She closed the iPad’s cover and got to her feet, looking for her shoulder bag. Fox handed it to her, and with a few nods and gestures of goodbye, she left the room, taking all the oxygen with her.

  Fox reclaimed his chair and began to put the stuff on the desk back in order. Clarke stood just inside the doorway, watching James slump in his own chair.

  ‘You summoned her for that?’ Clarke asked.

  James shook his head. ‘She was coming anyway – an initial catch-up on whether Arnott’s death changes things.’ He picked up a biscuit, then set it down again. ‘I just thought …’

  ‘MacBryer knows what she’s doing, and she’s crossed swords with Cafferty many a time. It’ll take more than the word of a single shopkeeper …’

  ‘I get that, okay?’ James glared at her. ‘Now if you’ll excuse us, DI Clarke, we’re kind of busy here.’

  ‘Malcolm has had dealings with Cafferty, too – if he has anything to say, you’d be wise to listen.’

  James grunted, busy on his laptop. Fox gave a half-smile of thanks and tipped his head towards the hallway. Clarke turned to go, descending the stairs and pausing at the bottom, checking her phone for messages. She wanted to help James and the others, wanted them to pin the attack on Cafferty. For no other reason than that it would be a little gift to Rebus.

  It was a couple of minutes before Fox appeared. He opened the front door and led her on to the pavement.

  ‘That was my fault,’ he said. ‘I pushed them hard on Cafferty. The description sold them and the notion of a quick result stopped them thinking straight for a bit.’

  ‘But they’re back on track now?’

  ‘Slow and methodical.’ Fox’s phone pinged. He checked the text message, his jaw tightening.

  ‘What’s up?’ Clarke asked.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Is something wrong, Malcolm?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Remind me to play you at poker sometime.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because your ears have gone red and you can’t meet my eyes.’

  ‘Sheila Graham told me I had a good poker face.’

  ‘She was lying. So are you going to tell me what’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing’s wrong.’

  ‘Whatever you say. But a trouble shared and all that …’

  Fox nodded distractedly. ‘I’d better get back in.’

  ‘Wait a second – what about John? Is everything all right with him?’

  ‘Why shouldn’t it be?’

  She tried staring him out, but gave up. ‘Will we catch up later?’

  ‘Sure.’ He was already pushing open the door.

  ‘Bye then,’ Clarke said, without receiving an answer.

  Climbing the stairs, Fox looked at the text again.

  Tick tock.

  Sent by Darryl Christie, of course. Fox had contacted a property solicitor. The man was going to recce the outside of the bungalow at lunchtime, and provide an initial valuation by close of play. One way or another, Jude would be all right.

  And he, too, would survive.

  23

  The naked man had been weaving his way in a dazed state around the streets of West Pilton for maybe fifteen or twenty minutes. Photos had been snapped on camera phones and sent to the internet, with one young person even managing a selfie. As he approached a primary school, however – break time; kids gambolling in the playground – the alarm was raised and the police summoned. The officers in the patrol car managed to head him off before he reached the school perimeter, and threw a blanket over him. His hair was matted, and he smelled of sweat and faeces. His ribs poked out and he seemed unable to form a coherent sentence. Not knowing what else to do, they deposited him at Drylaw police station, where he could become someone else’s problem. He would be charged with public indecency, just as soon as they got a name for him.

  They had one soon enough. A dentist, checking his Twitter feed at lunchtime, saw a couple of the photos and recognised a man he’d played tennis with until they’d had a falling-out. He called the police and identified Anthony Brough. By this time, the detainee had been given a shower and some clothes. A doctor had been summoned and was of the opinion that the man shivering and babbling in front of him was a drug user of some kind.

  ‘Probably taken something he shouldn’t.’

  An injection was prescribed and the man taken back to his cell and given a sandwich and a cup of tea, which he succeeded in keeping down for almost a minute.

  It was Twitter again that led with Brough’s identity, the dentist having posted his thoughts. After all, Brough had lost him a chunk of his savings, and here was revenge of a sort.

  All of which led Christine Esson to inform Siobhan Clarke and Clarke to call Malcolm Fox.

  ‘Where do you want him?’ she asked.

  ‘How about Gayfield Square?’ Fox asked.

  ‘Will do.’

  Fox then called Drylaw and spoke to a sergeant, who told him Brough had been muttering something about being kidnapped.

  ‘Where was he first spotted?’ Fox enquired.

  ‘Social media would know better than me,’ the sergeant replied. So Fox tried Facebook and Twitter and the answer seemed to be Ferry Road Avenue. He called the sergeant back and requested that officers be sent to the street and surrounding area to see if any location could be found.

  ‘Isn’t it as likely he’s spinning us a line? Gets blitzed and when he comes to his senses he whips out the first excuse he can think of?’

  ‘That’s possible.’

  ‘Or else he was dumped here from a car or van?’

  ‘Please just go take a look.’

  There was a loud sigh on the line, and the sergeant rang off without saying any more.

  A second doctor had been summoned to Gayfield Square and was waiting when Brough arrived. Fox and Clarke watched him being led into a makeshift examination room. The prognosis eventually came: Anthony Brough needed to be taken to hospital. He was malnourished, and whatever cocktail of drugs he had been fed – intravenously and by mouth – might have side effects. Blood tests were needed. Psychological evaluation might be required at some point.

  ‘We need to talk to him,’ Fox insisted, but the doctor shook his head.

  ‘Not yet. Not for a while. I think I’ve found him a bed at the Western General.’

  ‘Oh good, another hospital,’ Clarke said, eyes on Fox.

  They grabbed drinks and chocolate bars from the machine along the corridor, resting their backs against the w
all.

  ‘Glushenko had him but let him go?’ Fox eventually offered.

  ‘If you were Ukrainian mob royalty, would you be putting your feet up in West Pilton?’

  ‘Maybe not. But one of his men might. On the other hand, the sergeant I spoke to reckoned it was more likely Brough had been dumped there.’

  ‘In which case the question is: why? If he was abducted, why bring it to an end?’

  ‘Maybe they got what they wanted from him.’

  ‘The missing money, you mean?’ Clarke nodded, allowing the possibility.

  ‘Or he really has just been on a bender. You ever hear about that Scottish explorer, Mungo Park? Walked into the jungle with dozens of bearers, carrying countless trunks and bags. Staggered out again months later dressed in nothing but his top hat.’

  ‘That can’t be true.’

  ‘I remember reading it somewhere.’ Fox checked his watch. ‘What do you want to do?’

  ‘No point hanging around here.’

  ‘We could get to the hospital early, beat the rush?’

  ‘Or?’ Clarke screwed up the chocolate wrapper and tossed it into a bin.

  ‘Or join the search party in West Pilton, which is practically on the way.’

  ‘Whose car?’

  ‘I don’t mind.’

  ‘Mine then.’

  ‘Go easy on me, Siobhan. My nerves aren’t what they were.’

  ‘Just for that, I’m playing Ninja Horse all the way.’

  ‘Is that a game?’

  ‘It’s a heavy metal band.’

  ‘One last thing – when do we tell John?’

  Clarke considered this. ‘Maybe not just yet.’

  ‘Brough’s sister and his assistant?’

  ‘Ditto.’

  ‘Any particular reason?’

  ‘How crowded do you want it around his bedside?’

  ‘Good point.’

  ‘Besides which,’ Clarke added, readying to move off, ‘John seems to have a touch of the grim reaper about him today …’

  Rebus just happened to have dropped in at Leith police station as Cafferty arrived for his interview accompanied by his solicitor, a skeletal man called Crawfurd Leach, who wore a three-piece pinstripe suit and black shoes polished to within an inch of their lives. He was in his forties and almost completely bald, what hair he had left slicked back from the forehead and ears. He wore John Lennon-style glasses and there were always a few stray tufts of stubble on his cheekbones, no matter how clean-shaven the rest of his face.