‘What are you doing in this car?’ Clarke demanded.
‘It’s Darryl’s.’
‘I know that.’
‘He’s not up to driving it, so he said I could.’
‘Wouldn’t have thought Craigmillar is its natural habitat.’
‘I’ve a mate lives round here somewhere. I was planning to show it off.’
‘The mate wouldn’t be called Craw Shand?’
A shake of the head.
‘So what’s your mate’s address?’ Clarke persisted.
‘That’s the trouble — I can’t quite remember. Thought I’d know it when I saw it.’
‘Got your story all worked out, eh?’
His face hardened. ‘Fuck’s it got to do with you anyway? Did I wander into a police state when I wasn’t looking?’
‘I want you out of Craigmillar and I don’t want you coming back. Tell your boss that Craw’s being watched night and day.’
‘I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.’
‘Then I’ll tell him myself, while you drive this crate away from Craigmillar.’
‘There seems to be a heap of junk blocking the route, Officer.’
Clarke already had her phone out and was finding Christie’s number as she got into her car and pulled it over to the side of the road. The Range Rover growled past with a parp of its horn. At Christie’s house, her call was answered by a male voice she didn’t recognise.
‘Is that Joseph or Cal?’ she asked.
‘Cal,’ she was told.
‘Hi there, I’m looking for Darryl.’
‘Hang on then.’
She watched as the Range Rover’s tail lights receded, and listened to Cal walk into a room filled with music. She half recognised the tune, some current R&B hit.
‘For you,’ Cal was saying.
‘Who is it?’
‘Dunno.’
‘What did I tell you, Cal? You always ask.’ The phone was handed over and the sound system’s volume faded away.
‘Yes?’ Christie enquired.
‘It’s DI Clarke.’
‘I’m off duty.’
‘You seem to be forgetting — you’re the victim this time, Mr Christie. We’re supposed to be on the same side, though that may just have come to an abrupt halt.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘I’ve been talking to your pal from the Devil’s Dram.’
‘Harry?’
‘He’s quite distinctive-looking, with the beard and everything. Not exactly stealth-bomber material.’
‘What are you on about?’
‘He was scoping out Craw Shand’s house.’
‘Is that right?’
‘Drove past it twice in that car of yours — which, incidentally, likewise lacks camouflage.’
‘I loaned him it.’
‘That’s certainly the story he gave me.’
‘It’s also the end of the story.’
‘I don’t think so.’
But as if to prove her wrong, Christie had already hung up. She stared at her screen, knowing there’d be no answer if she called back. Instead, she tossed the phone on to the passenger seat and drove off in the same direction as the Range Rover. What harm could it do to tail it for a while, just so that bearded Harry got the message?
She was two cars behind him at the Cameron Toll roundabout when her phone’s screen lit up. It was Malcolm Fox. She pressed the Bluetooth button on her steering wheel.
‘Thought you’d be spending the evening with your new best buddies,’ she said. After a moment’s silence, she heard his voice over the car speakers.
‘What do you want me to say?’
I want you to say you’re sorry the new regime takes all the best, most interesting cases!
‘Is there something I can do for you, Malcolm?’
‘Are you in your car?’
‘Brilliantly deduced.’
‘On your way home?’
‘Slowly but surely.’
‘I just thought, after the day we’ve both had, maybe I could buy you a drink.’
‘Is that because you want to hear all my news, or so you can tell me yours?’
‘It’s just a drink, Siobhan. We don’t even have to talk shop.’
‘But we will.’
‘I suppose that’s true.’
She thought for a moment. The Range Rover was definitely heading back into town. Job done. ‘How about food instead? Curry at Pataka?’
‘Fine by me.’
‘I’m less than ten minutes away.’
‘I’m more like fifteen.’
‘Last one in pays,’ Clarke said, smiling for the first time in hours.
intercom crackled.
‘Yes?’
‘Good evening, I’m wondering if you’ve seen your neighbour across the way recently.’
‘Which one?’
‘Anthony Brough.’
‘Never heard of him — you sure he lives here?’
‘His office is the other side of the square. We’ve some concerns about his welfare.’
The person on the other end of the intercom weighed up Rebus’s phrasing. ‘You the police? Hang on a sec...’
Rebus made sure that when the door swung open, his gaze was everywhere but on the person who’d just unlocked it.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘As I say, it’s just that he’s not been seen for some time and there’s growing...’ He broke off as his eyes met those of the man standing one step above him. He pretended surprise. ‘Sorry, but you look a lot like Bruce Collier.’
‘That’s probably because I am Bruce Collier.’
Open-necked denim shirt, suntanned face. A bit of a paunch, the leather belt tied perhaps a notch too tight. Shiny brown leather shoes, and gold chains on both wrists as well as around his heavily creased neck.
‘I’m a big fan,’ Rebus said. ‘Right back to Blacksmith days.’
‘You must be a palaeontologist then.’ Collier’s face was all crinkles when he smiled.
‘Mind if I...’ Rebus stretched out a hand, which Collier grasped.
‘Come on in, Officer,’ he said, leading the way. Inside, the place was a mix of the traditional and the modern — stone floor, wooden coat stand, recessed ceiling lights. Rebus nodded towards a Warhol print on one wall.
‘Is that an original?’
‘Oil sheikh gave it to me after I’d performed at his birthday party. I won’t tell you who the headliner was, but they got a Rembrandt. What did you say your name was?’
‘Rebus. John Rebus.’
‘Well, my name’s Bruce and it’s nice to meet a fan who’s still got all their faculties. Fancy a beer?’
‘Maybe a coffee?’
Collier studied him. ‘I always thought that was a cliché — no drinking on duty.’
‘I could do with the caffeine.’
‘This way then.’
They headed down a curving staircase into the basement. The kitchen was long and narrow, fitted with the latest gadgets and boasting a glass extension to the rear with views over a neat walled garden lit by halogen.
‘Supposed to deter burglars,’ Collier said, gesturing to the lights. ‘Instant okay for you?’
‘Fine.’
Rebus watched as the man tipped a spoonful of coffee into a mug, then held the mug under a tap at the sink.
‘Instant boiling water,’ Collier explained. ‘So who’s this fellow who’s gone walkabout?’
‘His name’s Anthony Brough. He runs an investment firm.’
‘Any connection to the bank?’
‘He’s Sir Magnus Brough’s grandson.’
‘I had a run-in with that old bugger once,’ Collier said with a snort. ‘Used to have an account with them — they charged an arm and a leg for the privilege. Thing was, you were supposed to keep a hundred K in your account and I fell short for a month or three. Next thing I know, the phone rings and it’s the old boy himself. Can’t imagine that these days, can you? In fact, I think I’d had to present myself in person at their HQ just to open the account.’ Collier pulled himself up short. ‘Sorry, I’m burbling on. Been too long in my own company.’