‘I’m telling you, I did it!’
‘And I’m telling you to get the hell out of this interview room before we have to phone Rentokil!’
‘John,’ Clarke cautioned. She had been resting against a wall, but took a few steps towards the table. Then, to Shand: ‘Can you add to your description, Craw? The house, the car, how events played out?’
‘I hit him over the head from behind,’ Shand recited. ‘Then I leaned over him and gave him a punch in the face. Stood back up and kicked him in the ribs a few times — I forget how many. A last kick to the nose and that was that.’
‘Just for being rich?’
‘Exactly.’
Rebus placed a hand on one of Shand’s shoulders, causing him to flinch. ‘We should give the news to Christie. Case closed. We can all go home, and Craw here can go to Saughton nick, where there’ll be a small but perfectly formed price on his head.’ He paused, leaning in closer to Shand’s left ear. ‘You know who Darryl Christie is, Craw?’
‘He owns a hotel.’
‘They said that in the papers too, but what they forgot to mention was that he’s taken over from Big Ger Cafferty. Maybe let that sink in, eh?’ He straightened up, glancing towards Siobhan Clarke, but she was focusing on the seated figure.
‘Anything else, Mr Shand? Anything you specifically remember?’
Shand’s eyes widened. ‘The bin by the back door — half of one of its sides was melted away!’ He looked from Clarke to Rebus and back again, almost in triumph at the memory. Clarke, however, had eyes only for Rebus.
‘Give me a reason not to charge him,’ she said.
Rebus pursed his lips. ‘Seems like my work here is done.’ He gripped Craw Shand’s shoulder again. ‘Good luck, Craw. I really mean that. It’s taken you half a lifetime, but you’ve done it at last. God help you...’
Rebus was seated in the back room of the Oxford Bar. Darkness had fallen and the early-evening crowd downstairs at the bar itself was in good humour. Rebus sipped his drink, turning his head to the window when he heard a tapping sound. It was one of the regulars, who had gone outside for a smoke. He was signalling for Rebus to join him, but Rebus shook his head. He’d had a coughing fit in the toilet five minutes back, hawking gobbets into the sink then running the tap, rinsing away the evidence before dabbing sweat from his brow while thinking that next time maybe he’d remember to bring his inhaler. His face in the mirror told its own story, with little to indicate that the ending would be happy.
Clarke had texted, interested in his whereabouts, so he wasn’t surprised when she climbed the steps from the bar area and peered around the doorway.
‘It’s Malcolm’s round,’ she informed him. Rebus shook his head, his hand resting on the glass in front of him.
Eventually Fox appeared, carrying Clarke’s gin and tonic and a tomato juice. They pulled out chairs and sat opposite Rebus.
‘What the hell’s that?’ Fox couldn’t help asking.
‘It’s called a half,’ Rebus said, hoisting the small glass and swirling it.
‘Denise behind the bar tried warning me, but I thought she was joking.’
‘John’s watching himself,’ Clarke explained.
‘Is this Deborah Quant’s doing?’
‘At least I still take a drink,’ Rebus said, receiving a mock toast from Fox in response. Rebus turned his attention to Clarke. ‘You really think Craw Shand’s suddenly become a ninja?’
‘How does he know about the bin?’
‘Maybe he heard something. Maybe he went over there and checked the place out.’
Clarke savoured the first taste of her drink, saying nothing.
‘You’re really going to charge him?’
‘The DCI can’t see good reason not to.’
‘Then you have to convince him he’s wrong. Does Christie know we’ve got Craw in custody?’
‘He’s been informed an arrest has been made.’
‘And?’
‘Mr Shand’s name was not unfamiliar to him.’
‘Craw always did like a dodgy pub, and Darryl owns a few of those.’
‘He says they’ve never spoken or had any business...’
Malcolm Fox cleared his throat, signalling an interruption. ‘Shand says he chose a victim at random, yes? So it’s neither here nor there if they know one another.’
Rebus glared at him. ‘Malcolm, Craw Shand could no more beat someone up than I could swim the Forth. He’s in his sixties, weighs about the same as a scarecrow, and moves like someone’s stuck a pole up his arse.’
‘Plus,’ Clarke added, ‘he didn’t know about the slashed tyres, added to which he swears he didn’t torch the bin. On the other hand, he knows too much for this to be one of his usual stories...’
‘Agreed,’ Rebus eventually conceded. ‘Which is why we’re back to the point I made earlier — he’s been hearing things, or he scoped the place out. He needs questioning about both of those. He also needs to be warned what this is going to mean for him now Darryl Christie’s got his name.’
‘Then he’s safer in custody, wouldn’t you agree?’
‘Only if he’s in solitary.’
They sat in silence for a few moments, concentrating on their drinks. There was another tap at the window, a further invitation for Rebus to step outside. He shook his head and mouthed, ‘No.’
‘Am I really seeing this?’ Fox said. ‘You’ve packed in the cigs?’
‘Call it a trial separation,’ Rebus replied.
‘Bloody hell. I need to sell my tobacco shares.’
‘I think it’s great,’ Clarke said.
‘Though it wipes out about the only hobby he had,’ Fox countered.
Clarke turned to Rebus. ‘Speaking of which...’
‘What?’
‘The files I gave you — any help?’
‘Some.’
‘What’s this?’ Fox enquired.
‘John’s looking at a society murder from the 1970s. Wish I’d been around at the time, actually.’
Rebus stared at her. ‘You studied the contents before handing it over?’
‘Just the summary. But then I went online. There’s not much, but a few writers have used it in books about famous crimes.’
‘So tell me,’ Fox said.
‘Woman by the name of Maria Turquand,’ Clarke recited. ‘Had a string of lovers behind her husband’s back. He was the wealthy banker type, worked for Sir Magnus Brough. Maria ended up strangled in a bedroom at the Caledonian Hotel. Her latest lover — one of hubby’s old pals — was chief suspect until another of his conquests provided an alibi. But the hotel was filled to bursting with musicians, hangers-on and the media. You’ve heard of Bruce Collier?’
‘I don’t think so,’ Fox confided.
‘That’s because you don’t like music. He was huge at the time. Local success story who’d come home to headline the Usher Hall. Story was, he’d been seen chatting up Maria. Pal of his was around, too — and Maria had bedded him in the past. Then there was the road manager...’ She looked to Rebus for the name.
‘Vince Brady,’ he obliged. ‘Whose room was next to Maria’s. And there were connecting doors.’
‘I didn’t know that,’ Clarke said.
‘I had a word with Robert Chatham.’
‘Who’s Robert Chatham?’ Fox asked.
‘Ex-CID,’ Rebus explained. ‘Now retired. He headed a cold-case review a few years back.’
‘And this has come on to your radar because...?’
‘As you rightly said, a man needs a hobby.’
Fox nodded his understanding. ‘Sir Magnus Brough was the power behind Brough’s, wasn’t he? The private bank?’
‘That’s right.’