‘Is he still around?’
‘Long dead.’
‘The bank got sold on, didn’t it? Any family members still involved?’
Rebus was staring at him. ‘I’ve never been a customer. What’s this about, Malcolm?’
Fox’s mouth twitched. ‘Nothing.’
‘Liar.’
‘You’re amongst friends here,’ Clarke added, leaning in towards him so their shoulders touched.
‘Really?’ he asked, his eyes fixing on her.
‘Really,’ she stated, while Rebus nodded his confirmation.
‘It’s just that his name came up,’ Fox eventually confided.
‘At Gartcosh?’
It was Fox’s turn to nod. ‘Not Sir Magnus, but his grandson.’
‘In connection with what?’
‘I can’t tell you that.’
‘Why?’
‘Operational reasons.’
Rebus and Clarke shared a look. ‘I keep forgetting,’ Rebus drawled, ‘that you move in higher circles than us these days, Malcolm. Got to keep all the good stuff locked away. Wouldn’t do for lesser mortals to get a taste — might go to our heads.’
‘It’s not that I don’t trust you — either of you. But I was sworn to secrecy. And by the way, the fact that you’ve not asked me why I’m back in the city tells me Siobhan’s already told you. I’m not sure I like being ganged up on.’
‘Aye, well. It’s nice to know where we all stand, eh, Siobhan?’
Fox’s shoulders had grown hunched as he gripped his near-empty glass, head angled over it.
‘I’m sure Malcolm knows what he’s doing,’ Clarke replied coldly.
‘First time for everything,’ Rebus agreed.
Clarke had finished her drink. She started to get to her feet. ‘You sticking around, John? I could give you a lift.’
‘A lift home would do the trick,’ Rebus said, lifting up the coat folded next to him.
‘What about me?’ Fox complained. ‘My car’s back at Gayfield Square.’
Clarke was already heading for the doorway. ‘You,’ she called back towards him, ‘can bloody well walk.’
‘It’ll do you good,’ Rebus added as he passed, patting the top of Fox’s head.
Every Edinburgh pothole was torture, even in a car with the suspension of Darryl Christie’s Range Rover. He sat in the passenger seat, trying not to flinch. Harry, his driver, had the knack of finding the road surface’s every bump and crater. But eventually they reached Merchiston — probably not by the fastest route, as Harry was relying on the sat nav.
‘Which house?’ he was asking Christie now.
‘Number twenty.’
‘This one then.’ Harry slammed on the brake, producing a gasp of pain from beside him.
‘Sorry, Darryl. You okay?’
But Christie was paying him no heed. Instead he was staring at the For Sale sign. Slowly he clambered from the car, straightening up with effort. Then he pushed open the gate and walked down the path. No lights on within. One set of curtains open, allowing him a view of a gutted drawing room.
‘You thinking of buying?’ Harry asked.
‘Go back to the car and wait there,’ Christie snapped.
He walked down the driveway — so like his own — towards the rear of the property. A sensor picked him up and a light came on, illuminating the garden with its separate coach house, where Cafferty’s one-time bodyguard had slept. Cafferty had paid the man off eventually, services no longer required. A red light blinked from the alarm box above the back door. Christie reckoned it would not be fake.
His phone buzzed in his pocket and he lifted it out. Joe Stark was calling him. He pressed the phone to his ear.
‘What can I do for you, Joe?’
‘I heard you got jumped.’
‘It’s no biggie.’
‘Trust me, it’s a biggie — means every fucker knows you can be jumped.’
‘I’m dealing with it.’
‘You better be.’
‘And I appreciate your concern.’
‘My concern?’ Stark’s voice was rising as Christie retraced his steps down the driveway. ‘All I’m concerned about is my fucking money — when do I get it?’
‘Soon, Joe, soon.’
‘You better hope I believe you, son.’
‘Have I ever let you down?’
‘Saying that gets us nowhere, Darryl. I’ve already gone easy on you.’
‘Are you saying you ordered that thumping?’
‘You’d be talking through a wired jaw at the very least if I had. Money or your head, son. Money or your head.’
The phone went dead. Christie dropped it back into his pocket. Harry was holding the gate open for him.
‘Back to the ranch, boss? Or do you fancy a drink somewhere?’
‘I’m going home,’ Christie stated. But he paused before getting into the car, turning to cast his eye over Cafferty’s old house again.
You thinking of buying?
He wondered what his mother would say to that...
Day Four
7
The previous night, Rebus had taken Brillo for a late walk on Bruntsfield Links before settling down at the dining table and opening his laptop, searching for the name Anthony Brough. All of this after Siobhan Clarke had dropped him off.
‘I mean it about Craw,’ Rebus had reminded her. ‘He’s a dead man walking unless you can convince Darryl he’s not the one.’
‘I’ll do what I can. But remand’s probably not going to be an option, not even if he’s charged.’
‘Then hold him for psychological assessment.’
‘It would be nice to have a more likely suspect in our sights.’
‘Has anyone spoken to Joe Stark?’
‘I thought Joe and Darryl were buddies?’
‘Which should have given Darryl an extra layer of protection. But since that’s not been the case...’
‘They’ve had a falling-out and this is by way of Joe’s punishment?’
Rebus had shrugged. ‘Got to be worth a look, no?’
Just as he’d thought Sir Magnus Brough’s grandson worth a look. In fact, he had dug out everything he could on the Brough family and its banking fiefdom. Established towards the end of the eighteenth century, a lot of its initial success coming from the financing of trade — slaves to America, cotton and tobacco back to the UK. From the Fife coalfields to tea plantations in India, via fine wines from Bordeaux, Brough’s had been there. It had fallen out of family control for a brief period immediately post-war, but Sir Magnus had come in as a junior partner and worked his way up until he owned the whole operation. Rebus had wondered: what sort of man did you have to be to do that? He had found his answer in a handful of online essays and chapters from economic histories — ruthless, rapacious, hands-on, determined and tireless.
Sir Magnus’s son had been none of these things, and had turned his back on banking, preferring to holiday the year round in far-flung destinations. Jimmy Brough had settled down eventually, marrying Lisanne Bentley. Two kids, Anthony and Francesca, both in their thirties now, orphaned in their teens when a car crash did for their parents, leaving Sir Magnus to look after them. Anthony had joined the bank, but hadn’t survived the takeover. Drugs had sent Francesca off her rocker and mentions of her dropped away to nothing. But Anthony had set up Anthony Brough Investment Group and Brough Consulting, both of which had their headquarters in Edinburgh.
Rutland Square in Edinburgh, to be exact.
‘Small world just got smaller,’ Rebus had muttered, heading for bed.
So it was that after an early walk to the corner shop, followed by breakfast for dog and owner both, Rebus watched Brillo settle in his basket in the kitchen then headed out. Traffic towards Tollcross and down Lothian Road was its usual rush-hour crawl, not helped by the equally ubiquitous roadworks. He was starting to think he’d have been quicker walking, but then snorted at the very notion. There was a free parking bay on Rutland Square, so he decided to play the part of dutiful citizen and use it, even feeding a couple of coins into the meter.