Rather Be the Devil (Inspector Rebus 21)

  Fox watched as Glancey and Briggs pulled their shoulders back in a show of enthusiasm. Wallace Sharpe wasn’t looking quite so keen. But then, as the surveillance expert, he’d be the one saddled with the hours of camera footage. Mark Oldfield was by the kettle, waiting for it to boil. James spotted him and shook his head.

  ‘No, no, no, Mark – you get a tea break when I say so and not before. Time you all earned it for a change. Back to your desk, son. Give me names, give me ideas, give me something I can use.’

  Fox had the timeline up on his screen. Chatham had headed out of the house without a word to his partner, having told Dromgoole he wouldn’t be seeing her that day. So what did he do instead? He left his car in its usual spot. Liz Dolan had told police he often took the bus, but there was no sign of him taking one that afternoon. If he had been snatched off the street, surely there would have been a witness or two. So maybe he had gone somewhere willingly, in one of the thousands upon thousands of cars visible on the citywide CCTV cameras.

  Bloody hell – ‘needle in a haystack’ hardly covered it. No wonder Wallace Sharpe looked so despondent.

  Fox picked up his phone, which had started to vibrate. Caller ID: Rebus. He pressed the phone to his ear.

  ‘Hang on a sec,’ he told Rebus, getting up and moving into the hallway. Alvin James gave him a hopeful look, which Fox crushed with a shake of the head.

  ‘What can I do for you, John?’ he asked, leaning against one of the olive-coloured walls.

  ‘The smallest of favours.’

  ‘I’m not giving you any more business cards.’

  ‘Business cards won’t help – this bugger already knows I’m not a cop.’

  ‘That’s why you need me along?’

  ‘In a nutshell.’

  ‘Who is he? What do we want from him?’

  ‘I like that “we”, Malcolm. And to answer your question: he’s a legend. I really think you’ll get a buzz from meeting him.’

  Fox checked his watch. ‘When and where?’

  ‘Right now would suit me.’

  ‘There’s a surprise.’

  ‘Unless I’m tearing you away from anything urgent …’

  Fox sighed. ‘Not really. Okay, give me the address.’

  ‘I’m waiting outside.’

  ‘Of course you are,’ Fox said, ending the call.

  He didn’t bother going back to explain or grab his coat. Rebus was double-parked across from the police station. Fox climbed in and Rebus put his foot down.

  ‘So where are we going?’

  ‘Rutland Square.’

  ‘Bruce Collier?’

  ‘Only fair I introduce you,’ Rebus said. ‘After all, you’ve met most of the other main players.’

  ‘I pitched an idea to Alvin James – one of them paying to have Rab Chatham done away with.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He didn’t seem keen.’

  ‘The man lacks vision.’

  ‘And yours is twenty-twenty?’

  ‘With hindsight sometimes,’ Rebus said with a smile.

  ‘James has got us retreading old ground, starting from the beginning.’

  ‘The mark of an inquiry that’s going nowhere.’

  ‘Exactly. So what’s Collier going to tell us?’

  ‘Wait and see.’ Rebus watched as Fox slid down his window, breathing deeply. ‘Too long behind a desk, Malcolm – it makes a man stale.’

  ‘We finally tracked down the calls he made from the phone box. Three pubs. His employer reckons he was touting for business – but at that time of night? I’m not so sure. And the calls were short – not one of them over three minutes.’

  ‘Telling you what exactly?’

  ‘He used the phone box because he didn’t want anyone to be able to check.’

  Rebus nodded slowly. ‘Makes sense.’

  ‘And this was straight after you spoke to him, bringing up the Turquand case.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘He told you he was going home straight after his shift, yes?’

  ‘Said our little chat would have to wait till morning.’

  ‘But according to his partner, there’s a gap of almost two hours between him finishing work and her hearing the front door close.’

  ‘Which pubs did he phone?’

  ‘Templeton’s, the Wrigley and the Pirate.’

  ‘Well, there’s not one of them couldn’t use a doorman.’

  ‘I felt sure you’d know them.’

  ‘Templeton’s is Gilmerton Road way, the Wrigley is in Northfield, and the Pirate is just off Cowgate.’

  ‘Anything you can tell me about them?’

  ‘Probably good places to do your Christmas shopping – hand any of the regulars a list of what you want, they’ll be back an hour later quoting a very reasonable price.’

  ‘Having just broken into someone’s house?’

  ‘Putting the “nick” into St Nick. Not too many places like that left in the city.’ Rebus was thoughtful. ‘So he talks to his boss, and then he starts phoning around.’

  ‘Hardly the sorts of place that would cater to the likes of Turquand, Attwood and Collier.’

  ‘True enough. And I don’t think any of them has live music, so we can probably rule out Dougie Vaughan.’ Rebus paused. ‘Cafferty was there that day, though.’

  ‘Where? In the hotel?’

  Rebus nodded. ‘And that sort of bar might just appeal to him. He used to own a few that were of similar calibre. Come to think of it, Darryl Christie owned some too, before he moved on to better things …’

  Fox’s phone buzzed and he looked at the screen. Speak of the bloody devil – a text from Christie. The clock’s ticking, don’t forget. He sent a three-word text in reply – I’m on it – and switched off the phone.

  Rebus had pointed the Saab at Princes Street, then ignored the No Entry sign and kept on it where only buses, trams and taxis were allowed. ‘Pain in the arse having to go via George Street,’ he explained.

  ‘How many tickets do you average a month?’

  ‘Police business, Malcolm – you’ll back me up on that.’

  They took a sharp left on to Lothian Road, then turned right almost immediately and passed the Waldorf Caledonian before stopping outside Collier’s house.

  ‘That’s his Porsche over there,’ Rebus announced, gesturing towards the line of cars parked across the street.

  ‘Very nice, too,’ Fox said. He watched as Rebus reached into the back seat of the Saab, bringing out a red polythene bag, then followed as Rebus rang the doorbell and waited.

  Bruce Collier opened the door, squinting into the daylight. He hadn’t shaved, and looked as though he had slept in the black T-shirt and grey joggers.

  ‘Not you again,’ he barked.

  ‘Show him the card, DI Fox,’ Rebus said. Fox took out his warrant card, but Collier ignored it.

  ‘Ought to be a law against this,’ he complained instead.

  ‘A law against the law?’ Rebus pretended to muse. ‘Interesting thought. Mind if we come in? The hallway will do, we’re not staying.’

  ‘Make it quick, then.’ Collier ushered them in and closed the door, rubbing his hand through his hair. Rebus made show of sniffing the air.

  ‘Nice sweet aroma, isn’t it? Dope, I mean.’

  Collier folded his arms and waited.

  ‘Bruce?’ A woman’s voice, wafting from somewhere upstairs.

  ‘Two minutes,’ Collier called back.

  ‘I thought your wife was in India, Mr Collier?’

  ‘Just get on with it,’ Collier snapped.

  ‘There used to be a sort of religious police force in Edinburgh, you know. Back in stricter times. They were called the Night Police. There to uphold the morals when the lights went out across the city.’

  ‘Fascinating.’

  Rebus stared at him. ‘The day Maria Turquand was murdered, a delivery was made to your suite. Probably not dissimilar to what I’m smelling now, plus some cocain
e and who knows what else.’

  ‘Oh aye?’

  ‘The man who delivered it was called Morris Gerald Cafferty. He became a big player – the biggest in these parts by a long shot. Do you remember him?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Name doesn’t mean anything to you? You put him on the guest list for that evening’s concert.’

  ‘I’m not sure what you’re getting at, or why you’re doing all the talking when you’re not even a bloody cop!’

  ‘Mr Rebus,’ Fox drawled, ‘is working with Police Scotland at this point in time, sir. You’d be advised to answer any questions he puts to you.’

  Collier puffed out his cheeks and exhaled. He looked weary, clinging on by his fingernails to a lifestyle that should have said goodbye to him a decade or more back.

  ‘Anyway,’ Rebus continued, ‘the thing is this. You didn’t have enough cash on you to pay Cafferty, and your road manager was nowhere to be found, so you rifled Dougie Vaughan’s pockets while he was crashed out.’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘I’m just wondering if you happened to see the key to Vince Brady’s room. Mr Vaughan says he lost it at some point.’

  ‘You’re asking me if I took it – well, I didn’t.’

  ‘Could Cafferty have lifted it?’

  ‘He wasn’t anywhere near the bed.’

  ‘You do remember him, then?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘When you handed the cash over, the key couldn’t have been tucked in between the notes?’

  ‘You’re trying to set up this gangster Cafferty? That’s what this is about? The key got mislaid, end of story. Now if you don’t mind …’ He had already opened the door and was gesturing towards the world outside.

  ‘Thought you’d like this,’ Rebus said, holding up the bag. The words ‘I Found It At Bruce’s’ were printed on it in black lettering.

  ‘I remember that place,’ Collier said. ‘Did signings there a few times. Rose Street, wasn’t it?’

  Rebus opened the bag and lifted out Blacksmith’s first album. Collier stared at it for a moment.

  ‘You really think I’m going to give you an autograph?’

  Rebus shook his head. ‘I just wanted you to know I was a genuine fan, back in the mists of time.’ He pretended to study the LP sleeve. Its edges were frayed and there was a cigarette burn in one corner. ‘Bit like yourself, Mr Collier – it’s seen better days …’

  Fox followed Rebus outside as the door slammed behind them.

  ‘Good line,’ he said admiringly.

  ‘Better still if nobody could say the same about me.’ Rebus stifled a cough and popped a piece of gum into his mouth.

  ‘So what now? Back to Leith?’

  ‘If you like.’

  ‘What’s the alternative?’

  ‘You’ve got me thinking about all those phone calls Chatham made …’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And I have half a mind to go talk to Kenny Arnott.’

  ‘Will he speak to you without a warrant card?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Fox pretended to consider for a moment. ‘Maybe best if I come with you, then.’

  ‘Well, if you insist …’

  As they got into the Saab, Rebus tossed the carrier bag on to the back seat.

  ‘They any good?’ Fox asked.

  ‘Dogshit,’ Rebus replied, starting the engine.

  20

  ‘Do we know if this guy Arnott connects to either Cafferty or Christie?’ Rebus asked as he drove.

  ‘Rab Chatham worked a few nights at the Devil’s Dram,’ Fox said. ‘How come Christie doesn’t use his own security? Wouldn’t that make more sense?’

  Rebus mulled this over. ‘Darryl’s a new breed of gangster. He buys in what he needs for as long as he needs it. An army of full-time heavies doesn’t come cheap. Added to which, you’re never sure when one of them’s going to learn too much about you and sell you out to the competition.’

  ‘Or else maybe start plotting a coup against you?’

  ‘That too,’ Rebus acknowledged. ‘Back in the day, Cafferty was surrounded by henchmen. One of them – name of Weasel – turned out to be a major liability. Over in the west, people like Joe Stark want to be seen flanked by muscle – reminds them how big and important they are. Our Darryl isn’t that way inclined. I doubt he sees himself as anything other than a businessman, providing services people require.’

  ‘Drugs, gambling, dodgy loans …’

  ‘And more besides.’ Rebus was bringing the Saab to a stop outside an unloved brick of a building near Pilrig Park.

  ‘It’s a boxing club,’ Fox commented.

  ‘Brought your gloves with you?’ Rebus enquired as he undid his seat belt and got out.

  The door to Kenny’s Gym was unlocked, so they walked into a busy room filled with male perspiration. Two heavyweights sparred in the ring, their arms, chests and backs heavily tattooed. Punchbags were getting good use elsewhere, and a wiry young lad was dripping sweat as he used a skipping rope in front of a full-length mirror. There were weights and a couple of rowing machines on the far side of the room. Three men who were watching the action in the ring seemed to be having a conversation comprised almost entirely of profanities.

  ‘I’m sure your mothers are very proud,’ Rebus announced, drawing their attention to him. He had stuffed his hands into his pockets and spread his feet.

  ‘Anyone smell a big fat side of bacon?’ one of the three said, scowling.

  ‘Can’t fault your nose,’ Rebus answered. ‘Which is pretty impressive, judging by its shape. How did the other guy look afterwards?’

  The man had started to move forwards, but a hand on his shoulder stopped him. It was the man next to him who took a few steps towards Rebus. He had curly brown hair and a round freckled face, the eyes not unwelcoming.

  ‘The other guy,’ he answered, ‘looked like Tam here hadn’t managed to lay a glove on him. Went on to win a few more fights and make a bit of money.’

  ‘With you as his manager?’ Rebus guessed.

  The man shrugged and stuck out a hand. ‘Kenny Arnott.’

  Rebus shook the hand. ‘My name’s Rebus. This is Detective Inspector Fox. Any chance of a word?’

  ‘I’ve already been questioned about Rab,’ Arnott said.

  ‘This is by way of a follow-up. Is there somewhere more private?’

  ‘My office,’ Arnott said. He led the way to the door and back out on to the street, where he lit a cigarette, blowing smoke into the sky.

  ‘This is your office?’ Fox asked.

  Arnott nodded and waited, eyes twinkling.

  ‘You still in the game?’

  Arnott looked at Rebus. ‘Depends which game you mean.’

  ‘Managing boxers.’

  ‘There’s a cage fighter I look after. You probably just saw him.’

  ‘Skinny, all muscle, busy on the skipping rope?’

  ‘That’s the one. Donny Applecross.’

  ‘Is he any good?’

  ‘He’s getting there.’ Arnott held up the cigarette. ‘When this is done, I’m going back in.’

  ‘We’re wondering,’ Rebus said, ‘about the call Mr Chatham made to you the night before he was killed. He was on duty outside a bar on Lothian Road. I spoke to him just before ten, and as soon as I was gone, he phoned you.’

  ‘I’ve explained this already,’ Arnott said, looking aggrieved. ‘It was shop talk – shifts for the following week.’

  ‘My name wasn’t mentioned?’

  ‘Remind me.’

  ‘John Rebus. I’d just been asking Mr Chatham about the Maria Turquand murder.’

  ‘News to me, bud.’

  ‘You know the case, though?’ Rebus watched as Arnott shook his head. ‘When you took on Rab Chatham, you knew he was ex-CID?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘He never talked about cases he’d worked?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘I find that hard to believe.’
>
  ‘Maybe he shared stories with the other doormen – you’d have to ask them. Only time I ever spent with him was at the initial interview. After that it was mostly phone calls and texts.’

  ‘How was he as a doorman?’ Fox asked.

  ‘He was diligent.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Always turned up to a job. Got stuck in when the need arose.’ Arnott held up the cigarette again. ‘Two more drags and we’re done.’

  Rebus batted the cigarette away with the back of his hand. It flew to the ground unheeded. Arnott’s eyes had lost their sparkle, his whole face darkening.

  ‘This is a murder inquiry,’ Rebus told him. ‘We don’t measure it in fucking tabs.’

  Arnott considered this and nodded slowly. ‘He was one of your own, I get that. He was one of mine, too, don’t forget, and if there was anything I knew that would help …’ He shrugged.

  ‘He spoke to you,’ Rebus said quietly, ‘and then he headed straight to a phone box and called three pubs – Templeton’s, the Wrigley, and the Pirate. What was that all about, Mr Arnott?’

  ‘I already explained to the other coppers – looking for a bit of extra work maybe.’

  ‘Those pubs don’t have security?’

  ‘Far as I know they do – courtesy of my competitor.’

  ‘Andrew Goodman, you mean? So your theory is that Rab Chatham was looking to work for Goodman? How likely does that sound? And wouldn’t he need to talk with Goodman rather than phone the pubs themselves? You can see how we might find this all fairly implausible.’

  ‘Then maybe he was looking to catch up with someone after his shift ended.’

  In which case, thought Rebus, he must have hit pay dirt with the Pirate, his final call. Not the kind of bar he would have thought Chatham or any of his buddies would have frequented. Dregs and lowlifes comprised the more regular clientele. The great unwashed …

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Rebus muttered.