Rather Be the Devil (Inspector Rebus 21)

by Ian Rankin

  ‘We need to ask you something,’ Clarke said quietly. ‘And we need you to start being honest with us.’ She paused. ‘Look at me, Molly.’ The young woman complied. ‘I’m going to ask you again: does the name Eddie Bates mean anything to you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Lying to us can get you into serious trouble,’ Fox interrupted. ‘You do understand that?’

  ‘Eddie Bates seems to know you,’ Clarke added. ‘He tells us he sold you drugs intended for Anthony Brough. Are you saying he’s lying?’

  ‘He must be.’ Sewell watched as, hand in hand, Francesca Brough and Alison Warbody strode past and exited the building.

  ‘They make quite a pair,’ Fox commented.

  ‘Alison’s absolutely heroic. Not everyone would have the patience she does.’

  ‘Francesca certainly looks like hard work.’

  ‘It’s not her fault, you know.’ Sewell’s voice had grown colder. ‘Too much tragedy and too many drugs—’

  ‘Which,’ Clarke interrupted, ‘brings us back to Eddie Bates. Say we were to take you to Gayfield Square police station and put you in a room with him …?’

  Sewell gnawed on her bottom lip. Her eyes were darting around again. ‘Maybe I do know him,’ she conceded.

  ‘And you’re sure you’ve never received any sort of ransom demand? A note of any kind?’

  Sewell met Clarke’s gaze. ‘Are you telling me Eddie kidnapped Anthony?’

  ‘I’m telling you your boss was kept locked away in Eddie Bates’s house. Do you know where that is?’ Sewell shook her head. ‘Would Anthony have known?’

  ‘The two of them never met.’

  ‘But Bates knew who the drugs were for?’

  Sewell considered her answer, then nodded slowly. ‘Sometimes he came to the office.’

  ‘How about Anthony’s home address?’

  Sewell shook her head again. ‘Usually we met on the street outside the office. Eddie said it was handy because he had another client across the road.’

  ‘Bruce Collier?’ Fox guessed. Sewell just shrugged.

  ‘Eddie could have found Anthony’s address,’ she speculated. ‘Nothing is impossible these days.’

  ‘Just to be clear, then – Anthony never knew the source of the drugs, nor where Bates lived?’

  ‘You’re thinking he could have run out, got desperate, and turned up there?’ Sewell pondered this. ‘Well, yes, maybe.’

  ‘Except,’ Fox said, ‘you just told us your boss had no idea who his supplier was.’

  ‘He might have found Eddie’s number on my desk,’ Sewell suggested.

  ‘So how did it work? Anthony asked you to find him a dealer and you went and did just that?’

  Sewell shrugged. ‘That’s what a good PA does.’

  ‘What did you do – check Yellow Pages?’

  ‘I go out clubbing some weekends. I asked a friend, who asked someone else, who gave me a phone number.’

  ‘Any clubs in particular?’ Clarke asked.

  ‘Ringo’s.’ She paused to think. Maybe the Devil’s Dram – is it important?’

  ‘Probably not. So how long have you known Bates?’

  ‘A couple of years.’

  ‘Any idea where your boss got his stuff before that?’

  ‘Someone who ended up going to jail.’

  Clarke looked to Fox to see if he had any other questions. He was rubbing his jaw thoughtfully.

  ‘Has Eddie actually said he was holding Anthony for money?’ Sewell asked.

  ‘We’re still piecing it together,’ Clarke admitted.

  ‘Am I in trouble?’

  ‘For scoring drugs for your boss?’ Clarke considered this. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Am I going to go to prison?’

  ‘I wouldn’t think so, though it would certainly help your cause if you told us anything you think we need to know.’

  Sewell shrugged. ‘There’s nothing I can think of. Is it okay if I head back upstairs?’

  Clarke took a notepad from her pocket and handed it over. ‘Put down your home address and a couple of contact numbers. We’ll need to talk to you again so we have a proper record of your version of events.’

  Sewell bent her head over the pad, resting it on her right knee. Clarke took the pad back when she’d finished and checked she could read the neat handwriting.

  ‘Can I go now?’

  Clarke nodded, watching as Sewell sprang to her feet. Fox got up and moved his chair back to its original position.

  ‘What now?’ he asked.

  ‘Maybe another word with Eddie Bates.’ Clarke looked at him. ‘Do you need to let Gartcosh know about Brough?’

  ‘I suppose I should. Do we want to ask Brough a few questions?’

  ‘Once the dust has settled.’

  ‘I’ve just realised, we left John alone with the patient. I wonder if that was wise.’

  ‘Why not ask him?’ Clarke nodded towards the figure striding across the foyer. She waved, and Rebus noticed her. He offered a curt nod and signalled with his hand that there’d be a phone call later. Then he was out of the automatic doors and gone.

  ‘What was all that about?’ Fox asked.

  ‘I think it means trouble for someone,’ Clarke answered. ‘Been a while since I saw him with that look in his eyes …’

  25

  When no one answered, Rebus rang the bell again. The sun was setting and birdsong filled the air. Not that he could see any birds – they were just there, present but largely invisible. He reached for the large metal knocker and tried that.

  ‘Yes, yes, yes,’ a voice announced from behind the door. ‘It takes a while, you know, with this hip of mine.’ As the door swung open, John Turquand took a second to recognise the man in front of him.

  ‘You were here the other day,’ he said.

  ‘That’s right. Mind if I come in?’

  ‘It’s really not convenient.’

  ‘Now isn’t that a fucking shame?’ Rebus walked past Turquand into the hall, heading for the library. He poured himself a small whisky and had downed it by the time Turquand arrived. ‘Long drive from Edinburgh,’ he explained.

  ‘You seem to be agitated,’ Turquand stated. He was dressed in the same clothes as on Rebus’s previous visit, and had failed to shave between times.

  ‘Sit down,’ Rebus ordered, doing the same himself.

  The bridge table was still waiting for a game to be played. Rebus snatched up the cards and shuffled them, watching Turquand’s performance as he edged towards the chair opposite and settled himself.

  ‘Peter Attwood was a friend of yours – a good friend. Must have infuriated you when he started sleeping with Maria.’

  ‘Well, yes, when I found out.’

  ‘And that happened some time before she died, didn’t it? Contrary to the story you told.’

  ‘Are you about to accuse me of something? Should I have a lawyer present?’

  ‘It was Sir Magnus’s idea,’ Rebus went on. ‘He was worried that Maria’s various flings were affecting your work. He needed you to be at your sharpest for the Royal Bank takeover. He told you to have it out with her. And you did try – you followed her, knew which room she stayed in at the Caley. You even tried phoning the room, but chickened out. Sir Magnus was adamant, though – something had to be done, and if you didn’t speak to her, he would. So you steeled yourself and went to the hotel, stood outside her room and knocked. When she opened the door, she was expecting Peter Attwood. She didn’t know he was breaking it off.’

  ‘Stop it, please.’ Turquand’s top lip was trembling.

  ‘The look on her face – radiant, ready to embrace her lover – it was a look she never gave you, and it sent you into a rage. You shoved her inside and put your hands around her neck.’

  ‘No …’

  ‘You throttled the life out of her.’

  Turquand’s head was in his hands, elbows on the table. Rebus kept shuffling the pack as he spoke.

  ‘A crime of passion,
they’d probably have called it – except that the passion was hers. And when it was done, you returned to your boss and confessed everything. He told you it would be all right, calmed you down, said he was ready to give you an alibi. You’d been in a meeting with him all afternoon. You became a suspect, of course, but so did a lot of other people. And eventually even the police lost interest. You were safe to make your millions and spend them.’

  ‘How do you know this? Who told you?’

  Rebus placed the cards on the table. ‘On his deathbed, Sir Magnus confided in his grandchildren. He wanted them to know something.’

  Turquand looked up from between his fingers. ‘What?’

  ‘That a certain kind of person can get away with anything – up to and including murder. He was moulding them in his own image, or thought he was. He wanted them tough, ruthless, venal – all the qualities to make a success of business and maybe even life itself.’

  ‘That’s horrible,’ Turquand said.

  ‘Your employer was a horrible man. It certainly rubbed off on Anthony. He’s always had this hold over you. It’s why you gave his investment company a glowing endorsement. It’s why he was able to make you plough in so much of your own money.’ Rebus paused. ‘And it’s why you’re powerless now that he’s lost all that cash. I look around me here and do you know what I see? A prison. A nice enough place to be incarcerated, but that’s where you’ve been ever since Maria died. It’s why you never remarried. You’re serving a life sentence, Mr Turquand, with the Brough family standing guard.’

  Turquand lowered his arms and leaned back in the wooden chair, which creaked in protest.

  ‘There must be a reason why he told you.’

  ‘Anthony’s in hospital, recovering from an abduction. He’s got no proof you were behind it, seeking long-deferred revenge, but he knows that financially you’re an empty shell. Maybe you think you have nothing to lose by torturing him.’

  ‘Abducted? This is the first I’ve heard of it, believe me!’

  ‘I know it is,’ Rebus said quietly, rising to his feet.

  ‘So … what happens now?’

  ‘Well, you could walk into any police station and confess. You might even get a book deal out of it, courtesy of Maxine Dromgoole. You’d be famous, which is better than nothing, I suppose.’

  ‘And if I choose not to do that?’ Turquand was pressing his fingers against the green baize of the table.

  ‘If you were going to spill the beans, Mr Turquand, you’d have done it years back, just to be rid of Anthony’s attentions. Pointless now really, isn’t it, with the coffers more or less empty? The Broughs have already done their damage, one way and another.’

  ‘You’re not going to arrest me?’

  ‘I’m not a policeman. And after all, it would be your word against Anthony’s. Plus, deathbed confessions seldom hold much weight in court.’

  ‘Yes,’ Turquand agreed. ‘Sir Magnus could have made up the whole story, couldn’t he? One last little game with his grandchildren.’ He was trying to get to his feet, looking to Rebus for help that wasn’t about to be offered. The two men stood face to face.

  ‘But we know the truth, you and me,’ Rebus said.

  ‘We do.’ Turquand paused. ‘Is Anthony going to be all right after his ordeal?’

  ‘Already on his way to a full recovery.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Turquand said, shuffling along behind as Rebus headed for the hall. ‘I did love her, you know, in my way. But that was never enough for Maria.’

  ‘Is this where you tell me she was asking for it? Don’t waste your breath.’

  ‘I was just trying to …’ The sentence died away, unfinished.

  Rebus paused on the doorstep, watching the door close slowly. He sniffed the chill air. Mulched leaves and dewy grass. Some of the birds were still singing, but fewer than before. Fox had been right, he mused – the whisky in the decanter had been cheap. Taking a couple of steps back, he unzipped his trousers and began to urinate. After ten seconds, the door opened a couple of inches. Turquand must have been waiting for the sound of the Saab leaving. He looked horrified as the spray bounced off the doorstep, spattering the door.

  ‘Long drive back to Edinburgh,’ Rebus explained, zipping himself back up.

  Clarke and Fox had gone for an early dinner at Giuliano’s on Union Place. Across the road, the doors of the Playhouse Theatre had opened. A musical was playing, the keenest audience members readying to have their tickets checked. Others were enjoying a pre-theatre pizza at the tables around the two detectives, including one exuberant group of middle-aged women, each with a pink boa draped around her shoulders. More bottles of red were being ordered as Clarke and Fox waited for their food.

  ‘What did Gartcosh say?’ Clarke asked.

  ‘Like us, they’re keen to know two things – who ordered the abduction, and what happens now Brough is back on the street.’

  ‘They don’t think Bates could have acted alone?’

  ‘I persuaded them that was unlikely.’

  ‘Do they really know about the money Jude owes?’

  ‘Would I still be working the case if they did?’

  Clarke sipped her tonic water. ‘Which raises another question – should you be working the case? Conflict of interest and all that?’

  ‘Have you seen me do anything that would throw a spanner in the works?’

  Clarke shrugged. ‘Procurator Fiscal might think differently.’

  ‘Procurator Fiscal doesn’t view the world through our eyes.’

  ‘You sound like a certain retired cop we know.’ Clarke looked around, impatient for her food.

  ‘I was sent here because of the attack on Darryl Christie,’ Fox went on. ‘Gartcosh wanted to see if it connected to his dealings with Anthony Brough – Brough was always the main target. But then with the death of Robert Chatham, the focus had to switch. Now it turns out the two were connected all along.’

  ‘But Brough remains tantalisingly out of reach?’ Clarke speculated. She was nodding to herself as her phone rang. ‘It’s that ex-cop we were talking about,’ she told Fox, picking up and answering. Rebus sounded as if he were driving.

  ‘Have you been to see Brough again?’ he asked, not in the mood for small talk.

  ‘Not yet. We had another go at Bates and left him in his cell to stew.’

  ‘You should go to the hospital.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he’s scared. I think he might be ready to talk.’

  ‘About the SLPs?’ Clarke’s eyes met Fox’s.

  ‘About everything, as long as we promise to save his neck.’

  ‘Tell me you didn’t promise him anything?’

  ‘How could I?’

  ‘I doubt that would stop you.’ She leaned back as her bowl of gnocchi arrived.

  ‘He’s going to jail, Siobhan. For the wrong crime, maybe, but that’s where he’s headed and he knows it. It’s just a matter of what class of prison and for how long.’

  ‘Always supposing Glushenko doesn’t get him first.’

  ‘Always supposing.’

  She listened to the silence. ‘What did you mean about “the wrong crime”?’

  ‘He’s a murderer, Siobhan. The second I’ve met in as many hours who’s got away with it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ll explain later.’

  ‘Where are you right now?’

  ‘I’m just driving.’

  ‘Driving where, though?’

  ‘Are you with Malcolm?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Indian or Italian?’

  ‘Italian.’

  ‘I wish I was there with you.’

  ‘There’s a seat at the table.’

  ‘Maybe a drink later at the Ox – after you’ve been to see Brough.’

  ‘What are we supposed to be saying to him?’

  ‘Get Malcolm to check that with his friends at HMRC. The laundered cash that’s gone walkabout … the days in that roo
m in West Pilton – Brough will bounce back, but right now he’s fragile and hasn’t a clue what his next move is. Your job is to show him the way.’

  ‘A map might help.’

  ‘You don’t need a map, Siobhan.’

  ‘What time at the Ox?’

  ‘Maybe ten?’

  ‘It’s past my bedtime, but I’ll try.’

  ‘See you then.’

  The line went dead. Clarke relayed the gist of the conversation to Fox. Before she’d finished, Fox had taken out his own phone and was tapping in Sheila Graham’s number. While he was talking, Clarke’s phone sounded again. She put it to her ear.

  ‘Yes, Christine?’

  ‘I’m halfway home,’ Esson said, ‘but the station just called me. They’d tried your number but it was busy.’

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘It’s your friend Eddie Bates. Apparently he wants to talk.’

  ‘We’ve not long finished with him.’

  ‘Well, you must have passed the audition – he wants you back.’

  ‘I was just about to go see Anthony Brough.’

  ‘Toss a coin then, maybe? But I’m guessing Malcolm’s treating you to Giuliano’s, and last time I looked, that was a two-minute walk from Gayfield Square …’

  Clarke rang off and gestured towards Fox.

  ‘Hold on a sec,’ Fox duly said into his phone, before holding it away from him.

  ‘Need to drop in on Bates first,’ Clarke warned him. When Fox looked quizzical, she offered a shrug and pushed away her uneaten food.

  ‘Alan McFarlane’s coming up from London specially,’ Fox said as they entered the police station and headed for the interview room. Clarke had called ahead to make sure Bates was transferred from his cell.

  ‘When will he get here?’

  ‘Tomorrow morning, I’d think. Too late now for a flight.’

  ‘Let’s hope Brough is still feeling the jitters.’

  ‘Nothing to stop us paying a visit after this,’ Fox said.

  ‘You’re awfully keen – still trying to make a good impression?’

  ‘Who with?’

  ‘Anyone likely to notice.’ Clarke smiled to let him know she was teasing, then pulled open the door to the interview room. There were two officers waiting with Bates. She nodded to let them know they could leave. Bates was twitchy, rubbing and scratching at his arms.