‘Hello?’
‘Ms Warbody,’ he said, ‘it’s DI Fox again.’ He had turned his head so he wouldn’t have to deal with the look he knew Fox would be giving him. ‘Something I forgot to ask — Ms Sewell says she put a note through Mr Brough’s—’
‘I picked it up.’
‘You did?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s okay then. Thank you, Ms Warbody.’
The phone went dead and Rebus turned his head to meet Fox’s stare.
‘You snatched some of my business cards,’ Fox said eventually.
‘Of course I did — sometimes people need to think they’re talking to a cop.’
‘But they’re not, John, and impersonating a police officer is an offence.’
‘I know guys who spent their whole lives on the force doing not much more than impersonating cops.’
‘That’s beside the point.’
‘The point is... what did you make of that?’ Rebus was waving his phone in Fox’s face.
‘What was I supposed to make of it?’
‘You don’t think she sounded like she’d just been told what to say by someone who knew I’d be asking the question?’
‘Maybe. But to get back to what I was trying to tell you earlier...’
‘What?’
‘I know what’s going on here. Not all of it, but a lot of it.’
Rebus stared at him. ‘You do?’
‘Want me to share?’
‘I’m all ears...’
Fifteen minutes later, hands gripping the steering wheel, Rebus shook his head and gave a noisy exhalation.
‘That’s what he meant by the Russian,’ he muttered.
‘Who?’
‘Cafferty. He told me to look for the Russian. I thought it was to do with the Turquand case, but all the time...’
‘Glushenko’s Ukrainian, though.’
‘But the name sounds Russian — you said so yourself. Cafferty’s information was just slightly less than a hundred per cent accurate. Thing is — how did he even come to know that much? He’d hardly have heard from Christie or Brough, would he?’
‘Maybe this is still a town that talks to him,’ Fox offered.
‘You could be right.’ Rebus nodded slowly. ‘Or there could be something here we’re not seeing. Did Darryl Christie look to you like he’s sitting on a chunk of ten million pounds?’
‘I’m not sure how someone like that would look.’
‘Something we’re not seeing,’ Rebus repeated. Then he smiled for Fox’s benefit. ‘But thanks to you, Malcolm, we’re closer than we were.’
Fox’s own phone was letting him know he had a text.
‘My absence has been noted,’ he announced.
‘The James Gang?’
‘The very same.’
‘How’s the investigation going?’
‘We seem to be making heavy weather. You really think it’s all about Maria Turquand?’
‘Odds-on favourite, I’d say.’
‘Pity you’ve yet to convince Detective Superintendent James.’
‘I lack your people skills.’
‘You want me to keep nudging him?’
‘With any blunt object lurking in the vicinity.’
‘Thing is, I’m not sure you’re right — not this time.’
‘That hurts, Malcolm. You know you’ve got a very sick man right here in front of you? Added to which, it’s my birthday...’
‘It was your birthday three months back. Siobhan and me took you out, remember?’
‘I forgot that,’ Rebus said with a pained expression. ‘Okay, off you go to dole out biscuits to your MIT chums — some of us have real work to do.’
‘Such as?’
‘Probably best you don’t know.’
‘Probably best you don’t go pretending to be me any more.’ Fox held out a hand. ‘I want those business cards back.’
‘I’ve used them all up.’
‘Liar.’
‘Cross my shadowed lung and hope to die.’
‘Christ, John, don’t joke about that. Any news yet?’
Rebus’s face softened a little. ‘No,’ he admitted.
‘You’ve still not shared it with anyone?’
‘Just you.’
Fox nodded and started opening his door.
‘Hey,’ Rebus said, causing him to pause. ‘Have you told me everything?’
‘Everything?’
‘About Christie and Brough.’
‘Not everything, no.’
‘Good lad,’ Rebus said with a spreading smile. ‘You’re finally learning.’
Malcolm Fox couldn’t help but smile back.
19
Siobhan Clarke hated herself for waiting on the phone call. Over dinner the previous night, Alvin James had said that he wanted her on the Major Investigation Team. It was just a matter of letting people know, including her boss. She had already found three excuses to visit DCI Page’s cubbyhole office that morning, thinking he’d maybe just not got round to passing the news along.
But there had been no news.
Should she remind Alvin? A friendly text, perhaps, in the guise of wondering how the inquiry was shaping up?
You’re not that needy, girl, she told herself, but she worried that she was.
The search for Craw Shand was ongoing, but with enthusiasm waning. Laura Smith had run the story online, repeating it several times to no avail. Clarke had texted to thank her. Christine Esson had commented that if someone had meant him harm, surely a body would have turned up by now. Clarke wasn’t so sure — plenty of spots where a cadaver could be stored; lots of wild places within an hour’s drive of the city. Craw hadn’t used his mobile phone and hadn’t been near a bank machine. The CCTV cameras across the city centre had failed to pick him up. Friends had been located and questioned, again without success. Meantime, Esson and Ogilvie had shown photos of Shand to Darryl Christie, who had shaken his head, making the same gesture when he was played a recording of Shand’s voice. Nor had the photos meant anything to Christie’s neighbours — no one had seen Craw Shand in the vicinity of Christie’s home.
Clarke’s phone sat on her desk, tormenting her with its stubborn silence. Esson was busy at her computer, while Ronnie Ogilvie took a call, using his free hand to stroke what there was of his moustache. Clarke pulled some paperwork towards her, but couldn’t concentrate. Instead, she got up and put her coat on. Christine Esson gave her a quizzical look. Ignoring her, Clarke headed for the door.
Traffic was sluggish towards the city centre and she drummed her fingers to the music on her radio. Two songs and a news report later, she turned into Cowgate and parked at the goods entrance to the Devil’s Dram. A delivery van was dropping off catering supplies, so she squeezed past the boxes and went inside. Darryl Christie was downstairs for a change, discussing something with Hodges. They stood behind the illuminated bar. The subject seemed to be flavoured gins.
‘And here comes an expert,’ Christie announced at her approach.
‘Do you never give up?’ Hodges added, eyes narrowing.
Christie ignored him. ‘Pull up a stool — you can be our guinea pig. The rhubarb and ginger is a bit tasty, apparently.’
‘I never accept free drinks.’
‘Just Happy Hour ones, eh?’ Christie said. ‘We took your lovely portrait down, by the way. Harry reckoned it would be a bit too much for the clientele.’ He paused, leaning across the bar, palms pressed down against it. ‘That wasn’t very nice, by the way, barging into my home when I was elsewhere.’
‘You told me you’d moved your family out — I’m interested in why you changed your mind.’
‘Is this about Craw Shand? You still think I’ve taken him out of the game?’ Christie managed a thin smile. ‘How often do I have to tell you?’