‘Don’t you?’
‘Leads me to my next question — any idea who might have it in for you?’
‘I’ve not a single enemy in the world, DI Clarke.’
‘Not even Big Ger Cafferty?’ Fox broke in, earning a stern sideways glance from Clarke.
‘It wasn’t Cafferty — not in the flesh. I’d have heard him wheezing with the effort.’
‘You reckon one assailant or two?’ Clarke asked.
‘One would have done the job. I’m not the brawniest. Last time I saw a gym was high school.’
‘Fallen out with any associates recently?’
The question had come from Fox. Christie looked at him. ‘Know why I stopped travelling with a posse? It was because I didn’t need them. Like I say, no enemies.’
‘Plus everyone knows that if they touch you, they’re also messing with Joe Stark and his outfit. I’m surprised he’s not hopped over from Glasgow with grapes and Lucozade.’
‘Joe had nothing to do with this.’ Christie shifted in his chair, his mouth twisting at a sudden stab of pain.
‘We know about your car tyres and the bin being set on fire,’ Clarke stated. ‘If this is an individual who’s out to get you, they’re probably not going to stop. Best-case scenario: they’re just trying to put a scare on you for some reason.’
‘That’s a real comfort, DI Clarke.’
‘You need to think about your family as well as yourself, Darryl.’
‘I never stop thinking about my family!’
‘Then you might want to move them out for the duration.’
Christie nodded slowly. ‘I might just do that, thanks.’
‘And you may not think you need a posse, but one or two bodies wouldn’t go amiss — close by you through the day and sentry duty here at night. We’ll have patrol cars tour the neighbourhood at regular intervals, at least for a day or two.’
Christie kept nodding. ‘It’s almost as if you care,’ he said eventually, eyes flitting from Clarke to Fox.
‘Just doing our job,’ Clarke stated. ‘Though without your cooperation, that may not be quite enough to stop another attack.’
‘Or even an escalation,’ Fox added.
‘I thought I was cooperating?’ Christie pretended to complain.
‘Line of work you’re in, Darryl,’ Clarke said, getting to her feet, ‘if you don’t have enemies, you’re doing something wrong. I know you’re hurting right now and probably not taking the painkillers because you want your head clear — that way you can think hard about the list of candidates. So a word of advice: don’t start a war. You can bring us the names, let us check them out. It won’t be a sign of weakness, I promise. Quite the opposite.’ She was standing in front of him, hands clasped. ‘And maybe get those fake cameras switched for real ones, okay?’
‘Whatever you say, DI Clarke.’
Clarke made to leave the room, Fox a few steps behind. When he risked a glance in Christie’s direction, Christie gave the slyest of winks. Fox’s face remained impassive as he followed Clarke out of the house.
‘I thought I told you not to do any talking?’ she muttered.
‘Couldn’t help myself, sorry.’
Clarke unlocked her car but didn’t get in. She stood on the pavement instead, staring at the house she’d just left.
‘Did we learn anything useful?’ Fox asked.
‘I thought he was maybe trying to become Cafferty,’ Clarke obliged. ‘Turns out that’s not what this house is.’
‘What is it, then?’
‘Who do you think decorated that room and bought all the chintz?’
‘His mother?’
Clarke nodded. ‘That’s who it’s all for. He might have kept his dad’s surname, but Darryl’s heart belongs to Mummy...’
Day Three
5
‘You weren’t kidding about the rolls,’ Rebus said, taking another bite.
‘Bacon just the right side of crispy,’ Robert Chatham agreed.
They were seated across from one another at a booth with padded seats and a Formica-topped table. Mugs of dark-brown tea and plates in front of them, Radio Forth belting out from the kitchen.
‘Sorry if I was a bit ragged last night,’ Chatham went on. ‘Wasn’t expecting to hear of Maria Turquand ever again. You’ve seen the photos of her? Wasn’t she a stunner?’
‘She was.’
‘Brainy, too — studied Latin and Greek.’
‘And Ancient History,’ Rebus added, to show that he too had done his homework.
‘Probably never should have got married — bit too much wildness about her.’
‘Likely frowned upon in John Turquand’s world.’
Chatham nodded as he chewed. ‘Problem we had was, a lot of the bit-part players had died. No way we could confirm anything by asking hotel staff or guests. And, thirty years having passed, the ones we did track down had forgotten anything they used to know. Place was a melee that day, too — comings and goings, reporters who’d booked interviews with Collier or were chancing to luck that they’d get near him. Then there were the fans, who were either standing outside chanting his name or else dodging into the foyer and making for the stairs.’ Chatham took a slurp of tea. ‘We had a computer guy try plotting a 3D plan of the foyer and all the people who might have seen the killer enter or leave, but there were too many variables. In the end, he gave up.’
‘What about the press photographers?’
Chatham nodded slowly. ‘We looked at everything we could find. Even got a couple of Collier’s diehard fans to hand over stuff they’d shot on the street outside.’ He made a zero with thumb and forefinger.
‘So if you couldn’t place either Maria’s lover or her husband at the scene, did you begin to give a bit more credence to Vince Brady’s version?’
‘All Brady said was that Collier had been chatting to the victim in the third-floor corridor. Collier denied it, and turned out there was some bad blood between him and Brady. He’s dead, you know.’
‘Vince Brady?’
‘Last year. Third or fourth heart attack, I think.’ Chatham put down the remains of his roll, wiped his fingers on a serviette and looked at Rebus. ‘Why the sudden interest? Has something happened?’
Instead of answering, Rebus had another question ready. ‘How about the husband and the lover — did you interview them?’
‘Turquand and Attwood? You’ve seen the files, you tell me.’
‘Not everything makes it into the official account.’
Chatham gave a thin smile. ‘I did have a word with both, as it happens — off the record.’
‘Why off the record?’
‘Because we were supposed to focus on Brady and Collier. Top brass didn’t think it worth looking much further. But you’ll remember that one of the room-service staff said he saw a man who looked a bit like Peter Attwood.’
‘He couldn’t be certain, though.’
Chatham nodded. ‘And Attwood’s story was that he had broken it off with Maria — not that he’d told her. Took the coward’s way out: left her waiting in her room for him to show up, while he was busy elsewhere with her replacement.’
‘He’s all class.’
‘When I saw him eight years ago, he was happily married with a first grandkid on the way. Said he was “another man” back in the seventies.’
‘He’s still in the land of the living?’
‘No idea. I don’t always pore over the obituaries.’
‘What about John Turquand?’
‘Retired and living in a castle in Perthshire. Likes his hunting, shooting and fishing. Always supposing he’s not kicked the bucket.’
‘Did he ever marry again?’