‘My car, then. This really does need to be kept between us.’
‘You shouldn’t be here.’
‘Are you even listening to me?’ Christie’s face had hardened.
‘Frankly, I’ve got better things to do with my evening.’
The two men studied one another. Eventually, Christie sniffed and ran a finger across the base of his nose. ‘Okay then,’ he said, half turning as if to depart. But then he paused. ‘It’s Jude’s head on the block, though, just remember that...’
He walked down the path, hands in pockets, not looking back.
‘Bluff,’ muttered Fox, heading back inside. He took the ready meal from its cardboard sleeve and stabbed the film lid with the tip of a knife. Three minutes in the microwave, then leave for one more minute. Eat while piping hot. He opened the microwave door, then stopped. The newspaper was on the counter and he stared at its front page without really seeing it.
‘Fine then,’ he said, striding to the front door.
The Range Rover was still there, Christie drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. Fox climbed into the passenger seat and slammed shut the door.
‘So tell me,’ he said.
Christie took a deep breath and released it slowly, as if debating whether to comply. The movement of Fox’s hand towards the door handle made his mind up.
‘I didn’t know she was your sister — not at first. I mean, I only ever knew her by her first name. Her first name and her address. Her address and her financial details.’ He paused to let this sink in.
‘She owes you money?’ Fox guessed.
‘She really does.’
‘How much?’
‘Before we get to that, let’s talk about you. Let’s talk about you being here on secondment from Gartcosh, asking questions about various betting shops, trying to pressure your own sister into spying for you...’ Christie tutted. ‘Cleaning up dirty money by putting it into fixed-odds machines? Do you really think you’re ever going to pin that on me?’
‘Are you saying it isn’t happening?’
‘I’m saying you’d have the devil’s job proving it in court. And recruiting your own sister to the cause... a woman with a gambling problem — not quite the most reliable of witnesses, DI Fox.’
Fox could feel his jaw clenching, mostly because Christie was right.
‘Sanctioned by Gartcosh, was it?’ Christie went on. ‘Or is this you using your initiative? In which case, I doubt your bosses are going to be too thrilled.’
‘I’m going to ask again — how much does she owe?’
Christie turned towards the passenger seat for the first time, caressing the steering wheel with his fingers as he spoke. ‘Twenty-seven grand — give or take.’
Fox tried swallowing, his mouth suddenly dry. ‘I think you’re lying,’ he said.
‘Then come to Diamond Joe’s and I’ll show you the figures. It’s mostly from her online activities, of course. I’m almost as stunned by it as you are — I mean, the interest rate isn’t even forty per cent...’
‘I can get you the money.’
‘You sure about that?’
‘Given enough time.’
‘But time’s the one thing you don’t have, DI Fox, because I want something from you right now.’
‘The cashpoint will give me a couple of hundred.’
‘It’s not about money!’ Christie snarled.
‘What then?’
‘Knowledge, of course. The knowledge stored at Gartcosh.’
‘You want to know what they have on you?’
‘Especially as it relates to this man.’ Christie had lifted a slip of paper from the dashboard. Fox unfolded it.
‘Aleksander Glushenko,’ he read. ‘Sounds Russian.’
‘He’s Ukrainian.’
Fox stared at the name again, then held the note towards Christie. ‘I can’t do this,’ he said.
‘That’s a pity — Jude made destitute, your name dragged into it, the papers tipped off that you were using her as bait... and your bosses notified about all your various shenanigans.’ Christie gestured towards the slip of paper. ‘Am I really asking so much, Malcolm?’
‘I can get you the money.’
‘Hang on to the name anyway. That way, I may hold fire a few days before taking you and your sister to the cleaners.’ Christie paused for a moment. ‘Now get out of my fucking car.’
Fox knew how good it would feel to rip the piece of paper into tiny shreds and throw them into Christie’s face. Instead, he opened the door and got out, the note pressed into his palm. The car was heading off before he’d even reached his front door.
Inside, he unpeeled the film lid from the ready meal before remembering that he hadn’t yet cooked it. He swore under his breath and took out his phone.
‘Oh Christ,’ said Jude when she picked up. ‘Look, Malcolm...’
‘You’re an unbelievable fucking idiot, Jude! Not just to get into debt like that — with a wolf like him — but then to toss me in his direction as a bone!’
‘I know, I know, I know. I wasn’t thinking straight. I wasn’t thinking at all.’
‘You were thinking about you, dear sister, same as always. Everybody around you can be hung out to dry, just so long as Jude survives...’ He sighed and lowered his voice. ‘Promise me you’ll get help — Gamblers Anonymous, whatever it takes. Twenty-seven grand, Jude...’
He listened to her sobs, closing his eyes and resting his forehead against one of the cupboard doors. She was trying to talk, but he couldn’t make out any of the words. It didn’t matter anyway.
He ended the call and perched on a stool at the counter. Using a ballpoint pen on the blank side of the ready meal’s cardboard sleeve, he began to work out how much he had, how much he could raise. The slip of paper was lying on the counter a little further along, crumpled but readable. An easy enough name to remember: Aleksander Glushenko.
Who the hell was Aleksander Glushenko?
If Fox found out, and discovered the connection between the two men, could he use that against Christie in some way rather than aiding and abetting him?
Maybe. Just maybe.
But to be on the safe side, he kept totting up numbers...
Three phone messages were waiting for Rebus at his flat on Arden Street.
‘Press one or say one to listen to your messages...’
Instead of which, he had gone to the window, staring out at the night. Then he had walked to the record deck. Solid Air was still there from the evening Deborah Quant had stayed over. It was an album that had always been there for him, no matter the troubles in his life. And hadn’t John Martyn been troubled, too? Johnny Too Bad — hitting the booze, falling out and brawling with friends and lovers. One leg hacked off in the operating theatre. But barrelling on through life, singing and playing until the end.
Nice thing about an album — when it was over, you could lift the needle and start from the beginning again.
With the title track playing softly, Rebus finally picked up the phone.
‘Press one...’
He pressed.
And heard a pre-recorded message telling him he didn’t have long to claim for his mis-sold payment protection insurance.
Delete.
‘Message two...’
The same automated caller. From further on in their spiel.
Delete.
‘Message three...’
‘Did you know that a government-backed scheme can give you a new boiler at no charge...?’
Delete.
‘You have no more messages...’
Rebus stared at the phone for fully fifteen seconds before placing it back on its charger. He peered down at his chest.