Rather Be the Devil (Inspector Rebus 21)

by Ian Rankin

  ‘Cold turkey?’ Fox guessed. ‘A good dealer never uses.’

  ‘It pays to be sociable sometimes,’ Bates said.

  Clarke took the chair opposite him, leaving Fox to stand nearby. Next to the seated Bates he looked huge and threatening, which was the whole point.

  ‘So just to sum up,’ Clarke began, ‘when we last met – oh … seventy-five minutes ago or thereabouts – you were sticking to your story. And we were sticking to the truth of your situation, which is that you are going to be put away for a very long time for false imprisonment and peddling drugs.’ She broke off. ‘Is your lawyer on his way?’

  ‘I don’t need a lawyer. I want to cut a deal.’

  ‘Everybody wants something, Eddie,’ Fox stated, folding his arms.

  ‘Look, all that stuff I told you … I thought I was saying it for the right reasons. I do have a sense of honour, you know.’

  ‘You’re not a grass?’

  ‘That’s right! But a time comes when it’s every man for himself, aye?’

  ‘You’ll get no argument from me.’

  Bates looked from Clarke to Fox and then back again as he debated with himself. He blew air from his cheeks and focused on the scarred tabletop.

  ‘It was Molly,’ he said eventually.

  ‘Molly Sewell?’

  Bates nodded. ‘She arranged it, even told me which room to use and how to kit it out. Like she’d been planning it for a while.’

  ‘Molly wanted you to keep her boss prisoner? Did she tell you why?’ Clarke was trying not to sound disbelieving.

  Bates shook his head. ‘She drugged his whisky. Went into his house and checked he was out for the count. Then we carried him out to her car, took him to my place.’

  ‘Without anybody seeing?’

  ‘We looked like we were helping a drunk mate.’

  ‘How did she get into his house?’ Fox asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Was the door unlocked?’

  ‘Must have been, I suppose. Or else she had a key.’

  ‘How long were you supposed to keep him?’

  ‘Not much longer, maybe only another day.’

  ‘And you don’t know why?’

  ‘She never said. I mean, yeah, I thought there’d be money at the back of it. Makes sense if you think about it – kidnap your own boss, pay the ransom, let him go.’

  ‘But there never was a demand for money.’

  Bates looked at Clarke again. ‘Then I’ve no idea what it was about – you’ll have to ask her. Far as I was concerned, I was doing a favour.’

  ‘You realise this sounds like you’re piling one porky on top of another?’ Clarke said. ‘We dismiss a story, you come up with a more outlandish one?’

  Bates just shrugged. ‘It’s the God’s honest truth – and I expect you to remember that.’

  ‘Oh, we’ll remember it – you aided and abetted a kidnapper and held the victim to non-existent ransom.’ Clarke turned to Fox. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Probably much the same as you. You’ve got Sewell’s home address and phone number – let’s ask her.’

  Clarke nodded, her eyes on Eddie Bates. ‘That’ll give you time to conjure up another storyline – maybe try aliens next, eh?’

  She exited the room, followed by Fox, and indicated to the waiting officers that Bates could be taken back to his cell. As he was led away, both detectives watched. Then Clarke took the pad from her pocket, the one with Molly Sewell’s details. She tried her home number first. The receiver was picked up by someone with an American accent.

  ‘Is Molly there?’ Clarke asked.

  ‘Think you’ve got the wrong number.’

  Clarke held up the pad, reeling the number off.

  ‘Okay, that’s the right number, but there’s no one here called Molly, unless one of my flatmates got lucky last night …’

  Clarke apologised and rang off, then tried the mobile. An automated voice answered immediately.

  ‘The number you have dialled has not been recognised.’

  She tried again, same result. Fox was nodding.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he said.

  It took them only ten minutes to drive to the address. Duncan Street sat between Ratcliffe Terrace and Minto Street. One-way traffic, meaning Clarke had to make three right turns before beginning the slow crawl along it, looking for number 28. One side of the street comprised a terrace of Georgian houses with imposing porticoes. The other side included a dental practice and an MOT garage.

  ‘Only go up to twenty-four,’ Fox said as they reached the Minto Street junction. Rather than go all around the houses again, Clarke reversed and drew into a parking space. She handed the notepad to Fox.

  ‘Definitely says twenty-eight,’ he confirmed.

  ‘She’s sold us a pup.’

  Fox nodded. ‘But not the whole pup. The tenement next to the pub is twenty-four, meaning the pub on the corner could be twenty-six. That’s just shy of the address written here.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So if she’d just been making something up off the top off her head, what are the chances of getting it so close?’

  ‘She knows the street,’ Clarke said, nodding.

  ‘So maybe someone she knows lives here …’

  ‘Or she’s in one of these other houses.’ Clarke turned her head to Fox. ‘How does a bit of doorstepping sound to you?’

  ‘I’m game if you are.’

  They started at the Minto Street end, giving Sewell’s name and description. A couple of householders said she sounded familiar but they didn’t know the names of most of their neighbours. The grand building just along from the dental practice had once housed a publishing company but now boasted half a dozen bells for the occupants of its apartments. The first one they tried got them an invitation inside. The man was in his mid-thirties, bespectacled and wearing a green sweater, its sleeves rolled up.

  ‘Yes, Molly,’ he said, after Clarke ended her routine. ‘She’s in Flat Six.’ He even showed them the way. Clarke tried the door, but there was no answer. There was no letter box – all the mail arrived at the main door and was picked up there. She tried knocking again.

  ‘When was the last time you saw her?’ Fox asked the neighbour.

  ‘Not for a few days. I did hear a door close earlier tonight – could have been hers. There was a taxi idling outside.’

  ‘A taxi?’

  ‘Well, a vehicle anyway, but you get to know the sound they make.’

  Fox nodded his thanks. Clarke’s mouth was moving as she weighed up their options.

  ‘You’ve been a big help,’ Fox told the man, hinting that he could go. The man gave a little bow of his head and returned to his own flat.

  ‘She took the money, didn’t she?’ Clarke surmised. ‘And when Brough found out … No, that doesn’t work. Maybe he was starting to get an inkling, though.’

  ‘So why didn’t she run then?’

  ‘She needed somebody to take the blame. Maybe Brough was readying to run.’

  ‘To get away from Glushenko?’ Fox nodded slowly.

  ‘When Glushenko hits town, that’s when Bates lets Brough go, so he can stumble right into him. Meantime, Sewell tiptoes away and no one’s any the wiser.’

  ‘No one who’s alive, that is.’

  She studied him. ‘How does that sound to you?’

  ‘Feasible.’

  ‘Likely?’

  ‘It takes strong nerves, hanging around after the money’s done its vanishing trick, Brough trying to work out who’s got it and how they pulled it off.’

  ‘He’d suspect Christie first,’ Clarke said. ‘That buys her some time. Then there are all the other villains on Brough’s books.’

  ‘But she’d have been on his list.’

  Clarke nodded. ‘But the very fact that she stuck around …’

  ‘Might put him off the scent.’

  They fell silent, running through the theory again, trying to find other possibilities.


  ‘Another shout-out to airports, ferries and train stations?’ Fox suggested.

  ‘Where do you reckon she’ll go?’

  ‘With ten million tucked away in a bank somewhere?’ Fox considered the possibilities. ‘Center Parcs?’ he offered.

  Despite herself, Siobhan Clarke gave a snort of laughter.

  26

  Christie’s white Range Rover was parked in the driveway, and there was a light on in the hall. Rebus rang the bell and waited, studying the fake cameras and burglar alarm. No answer. He tried again, then walked to the living-room window. It was curtained, but the curtains didn’t quite meet at the top and he could see there were lights on in there, too.

  He walked around the side of the house. A security light was tripped, showing him the rear door to the house, to the right of which sat the partially melted bin. He turned the door handle and the door opened inwards.

  ‘Hello?’ he called.

  He stepped inside and called Christie’s name.

  Nothing.

  He could see a modern kitchen off to his right, with a breakfast bar at its centre. Plates and pans were stacked next to the dishwasher.

  ‘Darryl? It’s Rebus!’

  Into the main downstairs hall. He peered up the staircase and saw that the landing was in darkness. The door to the living room was ajar, so he gave it a push.

  ‘Join us,’ a guttural voice commanded.

  The man was standing in the middle of the room, dressed in a three-quarter-length black leather coat, black denims, and what looked like cowboy boots. His head was shaved, but he sported a goatee beard. It, too, was black. The eyes were pinpricks, the nose hooked. Late twenties or early thirties? Not overly tall, but given added stature by dint of the curved sword held in one hand, revolver in the other.

  Rebus looked towards Darryl Christie. He was seated on an armchair in front of Glushenko, hands wrapped around his chest in a hug, both knees twitching.

  ‘Nice room, Darryl,’ Rebus said, trying to calm his heart rate. ‘Can I assume your mum was responsible for the decor?’

  ‘Please,’ the Ukrainian said, ‘introduce yourself.’

  ‘I’m in insurance,’ Rebus said. ‘I’m here to give Mr Christie a quote.’ He turned again towards Christie. ‘Family not around?’ he checked.

  ‘My guest was good enough to wait until they’d gone to the flicks.’ Christie’s voice was calm despite the body language.

  ‘Are you a policeman?’ Glushenko enquired.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Liar.’ Glushenko showed gleaming teeth as he grinned. ‘Give me your wallet.’

  Rebus started to reach into his jacket, the Ukrainian gesturing that he should do so with infinite slowness. Rebus held it out.

  ‘Put it on the mantelpiece.’

  Rebus did so.

  ‘Now pull a chair over next to the bastard.’

  Glushenko watched as Rebus complied. He stood the sword against the fireplace but kept the revolver aimed between the two seated figures as he opened the wallet. A few business cards spilled out.

  ‘Detective Inspector Malcolm Fox,’ Glushenko intoned. ‘Major Crime Division.’ He glanced at Rebus. ‘Impressive …’

  ‘So I’m told,’ Rebus acknowledged.

  Glushenko nodded. ‘Your phone, too, please.’

  Rebus took it out.

  ‘Slide it across the floor towards me.’

  When it arrived, Glushenko stepped on it with the heel of one boot. Rebus heard the screen crack. The man’s hand reached for the sword again.

  ‘How did you get that past Customs?’ Rebus asked.

  ‘I bought it in your country. They are sold as ornaments, but I was able to sharpen it.’

  ‘I think he plans to behead me,’ Christie explained.

  ‘Exactly so.’

  ‘Leaving me for my mum and the boys to find.’

  Glushenko nodded. ‘Or,’ he said, ‘you could hand me the money you stole.’

  ‘I don’t have it. I never did have it.’

  ‘For what it’s worth,’ Rebus added, ‘I think he’s telling the truth. It was stolen from the man who stole it from you.’

  ‘Brough?’ Glushenko looked like he might spit at mention of the name. ‘The Invisible Man?’

  ‘Actually, he’s back in the land of the living,’ Rebus said. ‘As of earlier today. He’d been kept doped to the eyeballs by whoever took your money.’

  Glushenko stared at Rebus. ‘Who are you? How is it that you know so much?’

  Rebus turned his head towards Christie. ‘I know you ordered that beating you took. Even made sure Chatham was told the cameras outside were dummies. The slashed car tyres and the bin – those were your doing too. You thought maybe it would buy you some time – Mr Glushenko here might not interfere if he thought someone like Brough was already out to get you. Plus you’d be assured a lot of police attention, which likely would keep him at bay. But when Chatham found out who the victim had been and started blabbing to the likes of Craw Shand … you got on to the person who arranged the beating and told him Chatham had to be got rid of.’

  Christie shook his head slowly. ‘Kenny Arnott was only supposed to give Chatham a fright so he’d keep his mouth shut in future.’

  ‘What went wrong?’

  ‘They did too good a job. Chatham tried getting away, went into the water. They’d poured whisky into him because that was the way it would have gone down if he’d really been for the chop.’

  ‘I’m guessing none of Arnott’s guys could swim?’

  ‘What we in the trade call a total fuck-up.’

  ‘The condemned man’s confession?’ Glushenko seemed to approve. ‘So now you can die cleansed of sin, yes?’

  ‘Do you want me standing or kneeling?’ Christie asked.

  ‘This man has a certain dignity,’ Glushenko said to Rebus.

  ‘He also never had your money,’ Rebus reminded him.

  ‘But he was partner of man who did! And now you tell me Brough is in the city, he will be my next appointment …’

  Christie had risen to his feet. He clasped his hands behind his back, looking suddenly calmer and more collected than any man Rebus had ever known.

  ‘Ten million from almost a billion,’ Christie said. ‘It really makes that much of a difference?’

  ‘If people learn that I can be cheated and do nothing? Yes, that makes a difference.’

  Christie had angled his head towards the still-seated Rebus. ‘I don’t suppose he’s going to want any witnesses, either,’ he cautioned, sinking to one knee.

  ‘I was thinking the same thing, Darryl.’

  Rebus watched as Glushenko slipped the revolver into the pocket of his leather coat so he could grip the sword with both hands. He was raising it in an arc as Darryl’s right hand whipped round from behind his back. The pistol must have been tucked in his waistband. He aimed it at Glushenko’s face and pulled the trigger.

  The explosion filled the room. A spray of warm liquid hit Rebus. Behind the billowing smoke, there was more blood on the wall above the mantelpiece. Rebus tried not to look at the damage to the Ukrainian as the man’s knees buckled and he fell in a heap to the floor, the sword clattering next to him. Christie was back on his feet, the gun pointed at the prone figure. He stood like that as the smoke cleared. Rebus stayed where he was, attention focused on the pistol, unwilling to draw attention to himself until Christie had processed everything. The words that eventually escaped Christie’s lips weren’t the ones Rebus had expected.

  ‘Look at the mess – Mum’s going to kill me.’ He turned towards Rebus and tried out a thin, sickly smile, his face and clothes speckled with gore. ‘Bit of a stretch to make it look like suicide?’

  ‘Just a bit,’ Rebus conceded. ‘Explains why you stayed put, though – you really did have insurance.’

  ‘This?’ Christie held up the pistol. ‘I’ve got Cafferty to thank – he suggested getting tooled up.’

  ‘Did he now?’

  Christi
e’s eyes narrowed. ‘You think he meant for something like this to happen?’

  ‘He must have known it was a possibility.’

  ‘Glushenko kills me or I kill him – either way Cafferty wins.’ Christie considered this. ‘The sly old bastard,’ he muttered.

  ‘Any chance of you putting that down, now you’re done with it?’ Rebus nodded towards the pistol. Christie placed it on the mantelpiece and picked up Rebus’s wallet, taking it over to him.

  ‘Might want to give it a wipe, DI Fox.’

  ‘And change my shirt,’ Rebus added, studying himself. ‘Why didn’t you shoot him straight off?’

  ‘He had a gun pointed at me. I knew my best chance was when he was focused on the sword, me kneeling, ready to meet my maker.’ Christie paused. ‘So what happens now?’

  ‘You call it in.’

  ‘Me?’

  Rebus gestured towards the remains of his phone. ‘Mine’s out of action.’

  ‘Self-defence, though, eh?’

  ‘I can think of lawyers who’d have a good crack at that,’ Rebus agreed.

  ‘And you’ll stand in the witness box and help me?’

  ‘I’ll say what I saw.’

  Christie took a moment to ponder this. ‘Three to five? Five to seven?’

  ‘Maybe eight to ten,’ Rebus said. ‘Judges tend to frown when shooters are involved.’

  ‘So out again in five years?’

  Rebus nodded slowly as Christie settled back into the armchair. ‘I’ll miss the house,’ he said. ‘And Mum, of course.’

  ‘She’ll visit. Cal and Joseph, too.’

  ‘Of course they will,’ Christie said softly. ‘Maybe I’ll buy Cafferty’s old place after all, move them in there. They won’t want to live here …’ He paused again. ‘I did fuck up, though, didn’t I? Walked straight into Cafferty’s trap …’

  ‘Traps most often look like something you want or need,’ Rebus confirmed.

  Christie was staring at the mantelpiece. ‘Maybe I could pay a little visit before they come for me.’

  ‘I don’t think that would be wise, Darryl. Two murders looks a lot less like self-defence.’