‘Just the cash?’
‘Well, the key wasn’t there, but the state I was in, if I ever did have it, I could have left it anywhere.’ He offered a shrug and moved off. Rebus watched him go.
‘Why would she do that?’ he asked Clarke.
‘Sex with Mr Vaughan, you mean?’
‘Well, that too. But I’m talking about Dromgoole. She’s having a huge secret affair with Rab Chatham, and she brings him face to face with Dougie Vaughan.’
‘They were having an affair?’
Rebus nodded distractedly. ‘Malcolm phoned me with the news.’
‘That was nice of him — so what’s your thinking?’
‘Maybe she was shaking the tree. That’s feasible, isn’t it? But it would mean she hadn’t quite let the Turquand story lie, in which case it’s also possible she had nudged Chatham into getting back into it too.’ He began to scratch his throat with a fingernail, only eventually noting the look Clarke was giving him.
‘What?’ he asked.
‘You needed me here in case he asked to see a warrant card,’ she stated.
‘Busted,’ Rebus admitted, helping himself to one of her chips.
Fox’s sister lived on a terraced street in Saughtonhall. A lamp was on in her living room and the curtains were open, so he watched her for a moment through the window. She was curled up in an armchair, an ashtray on her thigh, cigarette in one hand and phone in the other. Just as he was about to tap a greeting on the glass, she caught a glimpse of him and, startled, leapt to her feet, sending ashtray, phone and cigarette flying.
‘Just me!’ he called as she approached the window. Next thing, she was at the door.
‘What are you up to?’ she complained.
‘I saw your light was on. I was about to knock.’
‘Instead of which you stood out there in the dark like any other bloody pervert.’
She had headed indoors again and was picking up her phone and ashtray. Fox located the smouldering cigarette. It had left a burn in the oatmeal carpet — by no means the first. She plucked it from him and held it between her lips as she tidied up butts.
‘I’ll help you vacuum,’ Fox offered.
‘It needs repairing.’
‘What’s wrong with it?’
‘It doesn’t work,’ she stated, settling into her chair again, eyes on the screen.
‘Must be an important text,’ he mused.
‘It’s a game.’ She turned the phone towards him for a moment. All he could make out were coloured balls arranged in rows. ‘And before you ask, I got it for free.’
‘I wasn’t going to ask,’ he lied, looking for somewhere to sit that wasn’t covered in sandwich wrappers, crisp packets or women’s magazines. Instead, he opened the window an inch.
‘Just letting some air in,’ he said when Jude gave him another of her looks. ‘So how have you been?’
‘You mean since you found me in that gambling den? And come to think of it, what were you doing there?’
‘A routine inquiry.’
‘I bet you say that to all the women you stalk.’ She exhaled smoke towards the ceiling.
‘I really wasn’t stalking you. I didn’t even know you liked a flutter.’
‘A girl needs something to occupy her time.’
‘Yes, so you said.’
She glanced up from her phone. ‘Did I? Sorry if I found our little chat instantly forgettable.’
‘Do you ever use other betting shops?’
‘You know me, Malcolm — a complete tart. One of anything is never enough.’
He chose to ignore her tone. ‘How about on Great Junction Street?’
‘I’m not often in Leith.’
‘But if you were...?’
She either paused or finished her game, placing the phone face down next to the ashtray and studying her brother.
‘Is this your latest crusade? People gambling their lives away? Last time I looked, it wasn’t a crime.’
‘Those fixed-odds machines, they’re sometimes used to launder money.’
‘You looking to recruit your own sister as a spy? Is that what this is all about?’
‘No.’ He paused. ‘But if you did happen to see or hear anything...’
‘Like any other upright citizen I’d come straight to you, Officer.’ She paused. ‘But how will I tell which are the bad guys?’ She tapped her cigarette against the rim of the ashtray.
‘Maybe the amount of money they’re feeding into the machines, and the fact they don’t look too bothered about risking it.’
‘And say I go along with this — do I get something in return?’
‘You mean apart from the gratitude of the law-abiding public?’
‘Yes.’
‘Was there anything in particular?’
‘Maybe a moratorium on you nagging me.’
‘Define “nagging”.’
‘Getting at me about my lifestyle, my laziness, my not having a job.’ She stubbed out her cigarette. ‘Oh, and all that holier-than-thou guff about the money you dole out.’
‘It’s to pay your rent and bills.’
‘And because you needed a new charity case after Dad died.’
‘Yes, you said that the other day, too.’ Fox’s own phone was buzzing. Caller ID: Sheila Graham. ‘I need to take this,’ he muttered, heading for the hallway, answering only after he’d closed the living-room door.
‘Good evening, Sheila.’
‘Is this a bad time?’
‘Not at all. You’re working late.’
‘I was in Edinburgh for a meeting. I got to Waverley just in time to see my train pull away, so I just wondered if you were at a loose end.’
‘I can be there in fifteen minutes. There’s a bar called the Doric across the street from the back entrance.’
‘I think I saw it when the cab dropped me off. I’ll have a beer waiting for you.’
‘I usually drink Appletiser.’
‘Then you’re a cheap date.’
‘Fifteen minutes.’
He ended the call and went back into the living room.
‘I’ve got to go,’ he announced. Jude had lit a fresh cigarette and was busy on her phone again. She held up her hand and gave him the briefest of waves.
‘The place I’m interested in is called Klondyke Alley,’ he added.
‘Klondyke Alley,’ she echoed, eyes fixed on the screen. ‘Always supposing I happen to find myself on Great Junction Street.’
‘Always supposing,’ Fox agreed, turning to leave. ‘And thanks.’
After he had gone, Jude went over to the window just to make sure. Then she took a small piece of paper from the back pocket of her jeans and unfolded it, tapping the number into her phone.
‘Hello?’ she said when her call was answered. ‘I need to talk to Mr Christie. Is there any way you can get a message to him?’
Sheila Graham was dressed for business — charcoal two-piece trouser suit with plain white blouse beneath. Earlier, the blouse might have been buttoned to the neck, but now it was open, as if to signal that she was off duty. She was at a table by the window and smiled as Fox walked in. Most of the other drinkers looked like people waiting for trains, wheelie cases and backpacks parked next to their seats. Graham had a laptop case and a shoulder bag and was drinking white wine. Fox’s Appletiser was waiting. He perched on a stool across from her, lifted his glass and offered a toast.
‘Rough day?’ he enquired.
‘Scottish Government stuff. I won’t bore you with the details. How are things with you, Malcolm?’
‘Slow but steady progress.’
‘The guy arrested for the attack?’
‘Is probably not who we’re looking for. But I’m starting to wonder about Anthony Brough.’