From where he stood, he had a good view of one side of the red-stone hotel — the Caley as was. Rutland Square itself comprised four-storey terraces that had probably been residential when built but now had become mainly offices, at least at ground level. He wondered which of them belonged to Bruce Collier, and whether the internet would provide an answer. The elegant stone-pillared façades gave little away, though the occasional worker could be seen through a window, rising from their desk, paperwork in one hand, coffee in the other.
Rebus walked around the square. At its centre, railings protected a patch of neat lawn and a wrought-iron bench, the gate locked, accessible only with a key. A road off to the right led to Shandwick Place, where the passing of a bright new tram was announced by the clanging of its bell. Torphichen Street cop shop was a stone’s throw away in the other direction. A couple of taxis sped by, having picked up fares at the hotel. One of the plaques Rebus passed announced that something called the Scottish Arts Club was based behind its door. But mostly he saw evidence that the square’s occupiers worked in staid and sensible areas of commerce — chartered surveyors and solicitors, accountants and asset management.
Brough Investment was almost directly opposite the Scottish Arts Club. Rebus climbed its steps. The main door — solid wood, boasting gloss-black paint, polished brass letter box and knocker — stood open. Behind it, a vestibule led to a second door, of opaque glass. There were half a dozen buttons on the intercom, different company names beside each. Rebus studied the one marked ABIG, his finger hovering above it. What would he say? I’m just wondering why DI Malcolm Fox is so interested in you?
He smiled to himself. Instead, he stepped back on to the pavement and made a phone call.
‘This’ll be good,’ Fox answered.
‘Guess where I am,’ Rebus said.
‘Wild stab in the dark — Rutland Square.’
Brought up short, Rebus looked to left and right. No sign of Fox or his car. ‘Clever lad,’ he said, having given himself a moment to recover.
‘You seemed too interested last night. No way you were going to let it go.’
‘They’re teaching you well at Gartcosh.’
‘Not well enough, or I wouldn’t have brought the name up in the first place.’
‘Ready to tell me what this is all about, or should I just ring Brough’s bell and ask?’
‘Ringing won’t help.’
‘Why not?’
‘He’s not there. I phoned twenty minutes ago pretending to be a client. Secretary came in straight away with an apology. Said he’d been cancelling meetings due to being called away.’
‘Called away where?’ Rebus was studying the windows on each floor of the building.
‘Seemed to me she didn’t know. I think she’s floundering.’
‘Do you know why he’s away?’
‘Not really.’
‘Meaning you’ve got an inkling? Maybe we should meet and talk this through.’
‘John — no offence, but it’s none of your business.’
‘That’s true, of course.’
‘Most men your age would be content to put their feet up or go bet on the horses.’ He broke off suddenly and Rebus’s brow furrowed. Had Fox just let something slip?
‘What is it, Malcolm?’
‘Look, I need to call Gartcosh, let them know about Brough.’
‘Because he connects to Darryl Christie? That’s it, isn’t it?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘Of course not, Malcolm. Your secret’s safe with me.’
Rebus ended the call, and didn’t answer when Fox called straight back. He was tapping the corner of the phone against his teeth when a door opened further along the street. The figure who bounded out, unlocking a silver Porsche and manoeuvring himself in, was instantly recognisable, though Rebus had only seen him in photos and on a distant concert stage.
Hello, Bruce, he said to himself, walking towards the space the car had just vacated in a roar no doubt pleasing to its driver. He stopped outside Bruce Collier’s front door. More gloss-black paint. But no nameplate of any kind, nothing to indicate that a man with a string of transatlantic number ones called the place home. The ground-floor windows boasted wooden slatted blinds, open enough to allow Rebus a glimpse of the interior. Gaudy paintings on cream walls; white leather sofas and chairs. No gold or platinum discs, and no hi-fi or musical instruments. Flamboyant in his day, Collier had learned to embrace a seemingly quieter life.
Rebus turned to watch as the Porsche exited the square. Quieter, yes, but not quite ready for complete anonymity...
Craw Shand had been charged, despite the Fiscal Depute’s qualms.
‘It’s thin stuff, Siobhan,’ she had warned.
‘I know,’ Clarke had acknowledged.
Charged, and then freed on bail. Shand had seemed satisfied with this result, thanking Clarke for her concern when she reminded him to keep his head down and maybe think about not going home for a few days.
‘But wouldn’t that be breaking my bail conditions?’ he had asked.
‘Not if you keep checking in at your local police station — trust me.’
He’d even wanted to clasp her by the hand, but she’d drawn it away and shaken her head, watching him as he made his way out on to Gayfield Square, where, thankfully, Laura Smith failed to be lurking.
Clarke got on the phone to Christie’s house, where his mother picked up.
‘He’s not here,’ she said. ‘But that was quick work, catching the bastard. I’m sorry I doubted you.’
‘Well, here’s your chance to make amends,’ Clarke said. ‘I need a word with Darryl.’
‘He’s at work.’
‘Any of his many businesses in particular?’
‘The Devil’s Dram, I think.’
‘Thank you.’
Clarke knew the Devil’s Dram. Named for the amount of whisky lost to evaporation in each barrel, it was a nightclub on the Cowgate, just along from the city mortuary. She’d last been inside on a girls’ night out, organised by Deborah Quant. She was there within ten minutes, but couldn’t find anywhere to park. Eventually she settled on the mortuary itself, tucking her Astra in next to one of the anonymous black vans in the courtyard.
The Cowgate was a canyon of a place, two lanes wide and with narrow pavements, steep gradients leading off. Not too long back, Clarke had chased a murderer up one of those lanes, until the effort got the better of her — not a detail she’d bothered adding to her written report. The graffitied metal doors of the Devil’s Dram were locked tight. There were no windows, just stonework, similarly daubed — hard to tell if it was a design feature or the work of vandals. Clarke gave the doors a thump and a kick. Eventually she could hear them being unlocked. A young man was scowling at her, sleeves rolled up, arms colourfully tattooed. His immaculate hair had been swept back from his forehead, and he sported a luxuriant beard.
‘You look like you probably work behind the bar,’ Clarke commented.
‘I own the bar,’ he corrected her.
‘On paper, maybe.’ Clarke shoved her warrant card into his face. ‘But it’s the real boss I’m here to see.’
He managed a sneer but stepped aside eventually, just enough so she could squeeze past into a dimly lit vault that led to the main room. Plastic gargoyles leered from the ceiling, while bearded satyrs cavorted along the walls. Rock music was blaring from the speakers.