Rather Be the Devil (Inspector Rebus 21)

  Rebus was in the gents’ toilet, washing his hands, when Cafferty pushed open the door and made for a urinal.

  ‘You got my text, then?’ Rebus asked.

  ‘What’s on your mind, John?’

  ‘That was stupid. Stupid and overdramatic.’

  ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘I thought you’d outgrown the hands-on stuff. Shows how much I know.’

  Rebus was drying his palms on a paper towel as Cafferty joined him at the sink. They studied one another in the mirror.

  ‘You ever kill someone, John?’

  ‘Only when there was no alternative.’

  ‘Isn’t that a bit boring, though?’

  ‘Did you leave him to die or to live?’

  ‘You miked up or something?’ Cafferty had leaned in towards the mirror, studying his own face. ‘It’s pretty much done now anyway. You ever played bridge?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Me neither, but I know the rules. There’s a point where the bidding’s finished and all that’s left to do is let the cards fall. There might be a surprise or two, but the hard work’s already been done.’ Cafferty smiled. ‘The shopkeeper, that’s all they have?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know.’

  ‘They’re like kids playing snap. You and me are used to proper grown-up games.’

  Wondering what was taking his client so long, Leach pushed his head around the door and scowled when he saw Cafferty had company.

  ‘Don’t fret, Crawfurd,’ Cafferty said. ‘We were just comparing manhoods.’ And with a wink to Rebus, he followed his lawyer to the interview room.

  Rebus made for the MIT office, where Briggs and Oldfield were pretending to be busy while actually sulking that they hadn’t been chosen to partner Alvin James.

  ‘He took Siobhan?’ Rebus commented, surprised.

  ‘She’s not around.’

  ‘Fox?’

  ‘Likewise. It’s Sean in there with him. Wallace is still running the search operation and door-to-door.’

  ‘I like the new set-up,’ Rebus stated, studying the cafetière and lifting the last Duchy Original from the packet.

  ‘Was there something you wanted?’ Briggs asked.

  ‘Just kicking my heels really.’ He beamed a smile towards her.

  ‘I thought Alvin was going to make sure you didn’t get past the front desk.’

  ‘Must have slipped his mind. Any updates from the boxing club?’

  ‘Forensics haven’t found anything worth shouting about,’ Oldfield admitted. ‘Without the weapon, we’re stuffed.’

  ‘I wouldn’t go that far,’ Rebus reassured him. ‘You’ve got the man who sold Cafferty the hammer. If Cafferty can’t produce said hammer, that’s going to look suspicious. And if he does …’

  ‘Which he won’t.’

  ‘Which he won’t,’ Rebus agreed.

  ‘Suspicions don’t make a case,’ Briggs said.

  ‘Sounds like you’ve had the benefit of the Procurator Fiscal’s wisdom. Hard to credit, I admit, but they don’t always know best.’ Rebus took another bite of biscuit. He had ended up at Fox’s desk, sitting on Fox’s chair, casting his eyes over Fox’s paperwork.

  ‘Alvin will blow a fuse if you’re here when he comes back.’

  ‘Nothing Big Ger likes more than a nice long chat,’ Rebus explained. ‘And as his lawyer is charging three figures per hour, he won’t be in a hurry either.’

  ‘Story is you know him almost too well.’

  Rebus met Briggs’s gaze. ‘For the sake of my health, yes, that’s probably true.’

  ‘I’ve been checking his files. Seems this is the first time he’s used a hammer.’

  Rebus considered this. ‘I think he may be regretting it. He walks past the shop and thinks, why not? He needs something. Kenny Arnott is twenty years younger than him and no pushover.’ He offered a shrug. ‘Besides which, a hammer and nails is old school – maybe he thought Arnott would appreciate that.’

  ‘Appreciate it?’ Briggs sounded appalled.

  ‘It’s hard to explain.’ Rebus was about to anyway when Alvin James appeared in the doorway, his face like thunder.

  ‘I was just leaving,’ Rebus assured him.

  ‘He wants you. He won’t speak to me until after.’

  ‘That’s unfortunate.’

  ‘Yes it bloody well is. Five minutes, he says. Then we can get back to questioning him.’ James stabbed a finger towards Rebus’s chest. ‘You’re going to report back every word he utters, understood?’

  ‘Will you still be recording?’

  James shook his head. ‘Five minutes,’ he repeated, spreading the fingers of one hand. ‘So don’t go getting too comfortable …’

  Rebus knocked and entered the interview room, at which point Cafferty told Crawfurd Leach to stretch his legs.

  ‘I’m not sure that’s wise,’ the lawyer drawled.

  ‘Just fuck off, Crawfurd. Go try a proper shave or something.’

  Cafferty watched his lawyer leave, closing the door softly after him. There was a beaker of tea in front of him, but nothing else. The tape recorder and camera had been turned off. Rebus sat down in what he presumed had been Alvin James’s seat, on the opposite side of the table. Cafferty was studying his surroundings as if considering an offer of tenancy.

  ‘We’ve been in a few of these down the years, eh, John?’

  ‘A few, yes.’

  ‘Craw tells me you roughed him up once – Johnny Bible case, wasn’t it?’

  ‘That was in Craigmillar, though.’

  ‘Different rules back then. But you know what?’ Cafferty puffed out his chest. ‘I feel like I’m getting my second wind.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Because all those cards are landing just the way they should, and I’m so far ahead on points it’s almost embarrassing.’ He chuckled, fingers playing across the beaker.

  ‘Superintendent James has only given me five minutes,’ Rebus warned. ‘Is that enough time for you to make your full and frank confession?’

  ‘I just thought … we might not see one another again, ever, not in a place like this. Now that you’ve been pensioned off and everything. Is that cough of yours getting any better? Of course not. I seem to have this new lease of life, while everybody around me is falling apart.’

  ‘Some of them helped along by you.’ Rebus paused. ‘You’re not going to give them anything, are you?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘What about me, though?’

  ‘You?’

  ‘I think I deserve something.’

  ‘Is it your birthday again? I gave you Glushenko, isn’t that enough?’

  ‘You didn’t give me Glushenko – all you did was dangle a “Russian” in front of me. You’ve known about him all along, though, haven’t you? He’s the card you’ve had up your sleeve.’

  ‘You’re a piece of work, John. I’m sure I’ve told you that before. This lot don’t deserve you.’

  ‘They’re good cops.’

  Cafferty snorted. ‘Not nearly good enough.’

  ‘You slipped up, you got identified.’

  ‘Was that really me, though? One shopkeeper in his seventies who wears glasses like the bottoms of milk bottles? You know yourself nobody’s going to trial on the weight of that.’

  ‘Have they asked for your clothes?’

  ‘I can give them clothes – they’ll look exactly like the ones I was dressed in yesterday.’

  ‘What did you do with the hammer? What did Arnott tell you?’

  Cafferty gave a thin, almost rueful smile. ‘Glushenko’s close, John. He’s very close. And when he gets here … game over.’

  The door swung outwards. Alvin James and Sean Glancey stood there, Leach’s head visible between their shoulders.

  ‘Time’s up,’ James stated briskly. Rebus was already on his feet.

  ‘He just wanted a walk down memory lane,’ he explained. ‘Five minutes of my life I’m no
t getting back.’

  ‘Off you jolly well fuck then,’ James told him, ‘and let the professionals have a go.’

  Rebus left the room, glancing towards Cafferty as he went, but Cafferty’s eyes were on James, as he readied to continue the game.

  Clarke and Fox arrived just in time to hear the news – a terraced house, its curtains closed but front door ajar, a single street away from the first reported sighting of Anthony Brough. A couple of uniforms had headed inside and were pretty confident. They were on the doorstep as Clarke and Fox approached. Clarke had her warrant card open.

  ‘DI Clarke,’ she said. ‘Give me what you have.’

  ‘Ground-floor bedroom, back of the house, next to the kitchen. Lock fitted to the outside of the door, but the padlock itself lying on the hall carpet. The room stinks. Window’s been boarded up, nailed shut. There’s a camp bed and a pail to piss in, bottle filled with what looks like water, but that’s about it.’

  ‘Pile of clothes just outside the door,’ his colleague added. ‘Suit, shirt, shoes.’

  Clarke peered through the doorway. ‘Is it a squat, or what?’

  ‘There’s stuff in the kitchen, and a mattress upstairs with a sleeping bag on it, plus more clothes in a couple of bin bags.’

  ‘Toothbrush and razor in the bathroom,’ the first uniform said.

  ‘Anyone else been inside?’ Fox asked.

  ‘Just us.’

  ‘Touch anything?’

  ‘We know better than that.’ The constable’s face had tightened a little.

  ‘I want to know who lives here,’ Clarke said. A small crowd had gathered on the pavement, mostly kids on bikes. ‘Ask the neighbours either side. Then we can check for paperwork. Probably some bills in a drawer somewhere.’

  ‘Council will have a record of whoever’s coughing up the annual tax,’ Fox added.

  Clarke studied the interior again before crossing the threshold. Fox didn’t look so sure.

  ‘Bedroom is the locus, Malcolm,’ she assured him. ‘Speaking of which …’ She took out her phone and tapped in the CSM’s number.

  ‘Siobhan,’ Haj Atwal said on answering. ‘Is this by way of another contribution to the coffers?’

  She gave him the address. ‘It’s nothing too nasty – person held captive. But we need the locus given a once-over.’

  ‘Thirty minutes?’ he offered.

  ‘Someone will be here,’ Clarke said, ending the call. Then, to Fox: ‘Shall we?’

  Fox followed her down the narrow hall. There was a tang of vomit in the air. They stopped at the bedroom door. The hook-and-eye fixings for the padlock looked cheap and flimsy, the padlock itself small and shiny.

  ‘As new,’ Fox commented.

  Without stepping into the room itself, they could see that it was as the officer had described it. Nothing on the bare plaster walls. Plywood nailed across the entirety of the small window. Camp bed tipped on its side, a single blanket lying beneath it. Pail and water bottle. Some sick had dried to a crust on the threadbare carpet halfway between bed and pail. Fox had turned his attention to the bundled clothes near his feet. He nudged them with the toe of his shoe, dislodging a wallet from one of the suit jacket’s pockets. Taking a pen from his own pocket, he crouched down and flipped the wallet open. Credit and debit cards, driving licence. With his handkerchief covering his fingertips, he slid the driving licence out just far enough to determine that its owner was Anthony Brough.

  Clarke peered down at it and nodded. Fox turned his attention to the brass padlock. It was unlocked, no sign of the key.

  ‘Think the abductor just got sloppy?’ Clarke mused.

  ‘Looks that way.’

  They moved into the kitchen. An ashtray by the sink was full of spliff remains. Clarke slid out a couple of drawers without finding any bills or other mail. Fox, on the opposite side of the kitchen, had pulled open two adjoining cupboards above the worktop.

  ‘Hello,’ he said.

  Clarke turned and saw bags of white powder; bags of green leaves and buds; bags of pills of varying size and colour; vials and bottles with rubber-sealant caps, filled with clear liquid, obviously intended for injections. Fox studied the writing on one of the bottles.

  ‘Might need a vet to tell us what this stuff does,’ he advised.

  ‘I don’t think we’re talking purely personal use here, Malcolm, do you?’

  Fox had spotted something lying on the floor, in one dark corner. ‘What does that look like?’ he said.

  ‘A padlock key,’ Clarke said. ‘Dropped by the kidnapper.’

  ‘Unable to find it, he can’t risk locking the padlock, so he takes a chance.’ Fox nodded to himself.

  The elder of the two uniforms was standing in the doorway. ‘The occupier is Eddie Bates. Never any trouble, but gets a lot of visitors at all hours.’

  ‘Anyone else live here?’

  ‘Just him.’

  ‘Run the name, see if he’s known to us. We also need a description – he might just have nipped out and already be on his way back.’

  ‘Do we send out search parties?’

  Clarke considered for a moment. ‘We lie low,’ she decided. ‘Pull the front door to and see what happens.’ She led Fox and the constable down the hall towards the front door. ‘Uniforms and marked cars, I want them at a safe distance.’ She was already on her phone. ‘Haj,’ she said when the CSM picked up, ‘hold fire on that. I’ll tell you when it’s safe to head over here.’

  ‘So what’s the plan?’ Fox asked as they walked down the path towards the pavement.

  ‘You and me in a car, eyes on the front door.’

  ‘You really think this guy Bates has just “nipped out”? It’s been at least a couple of hours since Brough escaped. That’s a long time to leave an abductee …’

  ‘Bates maybe thought he’d doped him to the eyeballs. He’d taken a couple of hits for himself, maybe a spliff or two, gets the munchies …’ She saw Fox looking at her. ‘Go on then, what would you do?’

  ‘I’d be circulating a description of him – bus and train stations. If he did come home and find Brough had done a runner, he’d probably want to be gone from here.’

  ‘Without taking any of the stuff from the kitchen with him? There’s probably a couple of thousand quid’s worth in those cupboards.’

  ‘True,’ Fox conceded.

  They moved their car to the end of the street. When the uniforms and patrol cars evaporated, so did the spectators. Within a few minutes, the area was quiet. Clarke called Christine Esson and gave her Bates’s name and address.

  ‘Get me anything you can. Including Facebook, Twitter, Instagram. A recent photo would be perfect.’

  ‘Will do.’

  ‘Would a drug dealer really post pictures on the internet?’ Fox asked after the call was finished.

  ‘Everybody else does.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘That’s because you’re a freak, Malcolm.’

  ‘While the people sharing their privacy with complete strangers are perfectly normal?’

  ‘Weird, isn’t it?’

  Fox shook his head. His phone buzzed and he checked the screen.

  Tick tock.

  ‘Your mysterious admirer again?’ Clarke guessed.

  ‘It’s Darryl Christie,’ Fox admitted.

  ‘What’s he after?’

  ‘He wants me to use the resources of Police Scotland to track down Glushenko.’

  ‘And why would you do that for him?’

  ‘Because my sister owes him money.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘Gambling debts.’

  ‘You’re not going to, though?’

  ‘I’m stringing him along.’

  ‘You can’t just pay him off?’

  ‘It’d mean selling my house. I’m looking into that, too.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Malcolm. If it helps, I can lend you …’

  Fox was shaking his head. ‘I can do this, Siobhan.’

  ‘Does y
our boss know?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And you’re only telling me this now because …?’

  ‘It passes the time.’

  ‘Well, seeing as you’re in a chatty mood – what do you know about John’s health?’

  ‘Why would he tell me?’

  ‘I just get the feeling I might be the only one who’s in the dark.’

  ‘I’m sure he’s fine.’

  ‘What about you, Malcolm – are you fine?’

  ‘I wish you’d got that Gartcosh promotion, Siobhan. I was content where I was.’ He paused. ‘And I miss the pair of us hanging out together.’

  Clarke was silent for a moment, before reaching over and squeezing his hand. ‘Thanks,’ she said.

  ‘And you’re sorry about how you reacted when I got the posting?’

  She pulled her hand back. ‘Let’s not spoil the moment, eh?’ They looked at one another and smiled.

  Fox caught a glimpse of something in his wing mirror. ‘Heads up,’ he warned Clarke. A man was plodding along the pavement, a carrier bag full of shopping hanging from one arm. His steps had the careful precision of someone who was inebriated but trying not to look it.

  ‘Daytime drinking is a wonderful thing,’ Clarke commented as the man walked past their car without noticing. He had a roll-up in his mouth and was coughing. Thinning fair hair. Faded denims and matching jacket, scuffed brown work boots. He looked as though a sudden gust might blow him over. He paused at the right gate and opened it with one knee.

  ‘That’s him, then,’ Clarke said. ‘Let’s wait till he’s inside.’

  The man was using a key to unlock the door. It took him a couple of goes. He disappeared inside, closing it after him.

  ‘Okay,’ Clarke said, getting out of the car.

  They had just reached the doorstep when the door itself burst open. The man had ditched the carrier bag and looked suddenly sober as well as shocked. Seeing the two figures, he tried shutting the door again, but Fox shouldered it open, sending him flying.

  ‘I’ve done nothing!’ he spluttered as he started getting back to his feet.

  ‘We’ve got some lost property of yours, Mr Bates,’ Clarke stated. ‘Need to have a little word with you on the subject …’