‘Threw himself into his work instead. Made his millions and started to spend them.’
‘Life turned out pretty well for the two main suspects.’
‘Didn’t it though? And Bruce Collier does a bit of touring still, too.’
‘I heard he was living back up here.’
‘Townhouse in Rutland Square, though you’re more likely to find him at one of his other homes — Barbados and Cape Town, I think I read.’
‘Rutland Square?’
‘I smiled at that, too. Practically next door to the Caley. Reckon it means anything?’
‘I don’t know. Probably not. Wonder if he still hangs out with his old pal Dougie Vaughan.’
‘Ah, there’s another thing — according to Vince Brady, Collier made him hand over one of his room keys to Dougie Vaughan.’
‘Yes, I read that. Any idea why?’
‘So Vaughan could take a nap if the need arose. Hanging out seemed to involve quite a lot of booze.’
Rebus’s eyes narrowed. ‘Brady had the room next to Maria Turquand,’ he stated.
‘Right.’
‘And Vaughan had a key.’
‘Sort of — he said he vaguely remembered a key but didn’t know which room it was for or what happened to it. He swears he never went anywhere other than Bruce Collier’s suite.’ Chatham pushed his plate to one side and leaned across the table. ‘You know there were connecting doors?’
‘What?’
‘Between Maria’s room and Vince Brady’s. Don’t bother checking — the hotel did away with them years back. Solid walls now, not so solid back then.’
‘And Vaughan and the victim had had a bit of a fling.’
‘He still swears he never saw her that day.’
‘How about Vince Brady’s alibi?’
‘He was running around like a mad thing, backwards and forwards to the Usher Hall to check on the crew and the programme stall. A dozen or more people confirmed talking to him in a dozen places.’
‘He must have been in his room some of the time, though.’
‘Agreed, but he didn’t hear or see anything.’
‘Apart from Maria Turquand in the hallway with Bruce Collier.’
‘Apart from that, yes.’
Rebus thought for a moment. ‘One last thing — did a Russian crop up at all?’
Chatham’s brow furrowed. ‘A Russian?’
‘Anywhere you can think of.’
Chatham shook his head and the two men drank their tea in silence for a moment.
‘So what’s this all about?’ Chatham enquired.
‘It’s just a feeling I got, right back at the start of the original investigation. The feeling we were missing something, not seeing something.’
‘And it’s taken you until now to revisit that?’
‘I’ve been a bit busy. I’m not so busy these days.’
Chatham nodded his understanding. ‘When I retired, it took a while to change gears.’
‘How did you do it?’
‘The love of a good woman. Plus I got the doorman job, and I go to the gym.’ He gestured towards his plate. ‘That’s an occasional treat, and I can work it off this afternoon.’
‘I’ve got a dog I can walk.’ Rebus paused. ‘And a good woman.’
‘Spend more time with both of them then. Learn to let go.’
Rebus nodded his agreement. ‘This is going to take me a while to digest,’ he said.
‘Same here.’ Chatham thumped his chest with one hand.
‘I didn’t mean the bacon. Though now that I think of it, that too. Thanks for seeing me.’
The two men shook hands across the table.
‘Back so soon?’
Unsure of the protocol, Fox had been loitering in the doorway of the HMRC section, waiting to catch Sheila Graham’s eye. It had worked eventually and she was now standing in front of him.
‘So you’ve either brought news,’ she began, folding her arms, ‘or else decided it’s a waste of time.’
‘I just think I need a bit more of a briefing. In fact, ideally I’d like to see what you’ve already got on Christie.’
‘Why?’
‘So I don’t end up telling you what you already know.’
She studied him, her face impassive. Eventually she managed a smile. ‘Let me buy you a coffee,’ she said.
There was a stall in a corner of the ground-floor atrium, so they queued there, taking their drinks to one of the breakout areas — basically comfy seating separated by a small circular table.
‘So what have you learned so far?’ Graham asked.
‘Christie’s been targeted before — car and rubbish bin. There’s no CCTV of the attack and none of the neighbours could help. So we’re looking for possible enemies, without getting much help from the victim.’
‘Is he recovering?’
‘At home,’ Fox acknowledged. ‘I saw him last night.’
‘You saw him?’
‘DI Clarke went to question him and I tagged along.’
‘But he knows you, yes?’
‘I didn’t say I was working at Gartcosh these days.’
‘He couldn’t already know?’
‘I think he would have said something, just so I’d know he knew.’
‘We don’t want him to twig that we’re digging into his affairs,’ Graham cautioned.
‘He must have an inkling, though.’
Graham considered this. ‘Maybe,’ she conceded.
‘I also took a look at both his betting shops. Nothing struck me as out of the ordinary.’
‘Which two?’
‘They’re both called Diamond Joe’s.’ Fox paused. ‘Why?’
‘There’s a third, though you won’t find Christie’s name on any paperwork. And to be honest, I doubt you’d notice anything unusual, even if money was being laundered under your nose.’
‘How’s that then?’
‘Fixed-odds machines — usually roulette. Losses can be minimised to around four per cent. When you finish playing, you print out a ticket and exchange it for cash at the counter. They give you a receipt, so if you’re ever found with a suspiciously large pile of notes, you’ve got evidence it’s legit.’
‘So basically the bookie is charging a four per cent fee?’
‘A cheap way of cleaning up dirty money. You can send thousands an hour through each and every machine. They’re busy trying to change the law in Brussels — any winnings over two thousand euros will need to include the recipient’s details. The industry over here is fighting against it.’
‘If someone’s hogging a machine hour after hour, feeding in thousands, surely the cashier notices?’
‘Often they don’t, or aren’t particularly bothered. Then again, if the person who owns the shop is in on the scam...’
‘Like Darryl Christie, you mean?’
She nodded slowly. ‘But there’s a lot more to Mr Christie than that.’
‘Oh?’
Her face hardened. ‘This goes no further, Malcolm.’ She edged forward on her seat, and he did the same. There was no one within twenty feet of them, but Graham dropped her voice anyway.
‘The betting shop I’m talking about is called Klondyke Alley. There happens to be a one-bedroom flat above it that is probably also owned by Christie.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘Do you know what SLPs are?’
‘No.’
‘Maybe I should show you, then.’ She seemed to have made her mind up. Springing to her feet, she grabbed her coffee and told him to do the same. He followed her back to the HMRC section, where they found a spare chair and pulled it over to her desk. There were a few questioning looks from Graham’s colleagues, so she introduced Fox.
‘Relax,’ she said. ‘He’s almost one of us.’
She got busy on her keyboard until a page-long list appeared onscreen.
‘Scottish limited partnerships. Guess how many of them are registered at the flat above Klondyke Alley?’