‘One question — I just have to ask her one question.’
‘And then I’ll know what you know?’
‘Yes. Though there is an alternative.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘While you’re stuck in here, I’m on James’s laptop playing the CCTV.’
‘He really wouldn’t like that.’
‘Hard to disagree.’
‘What do you know about Dromgoole?’
‘Apart from her being Chatham’s lover? Well, she wrote that book on your desk. Her piece about Collier’s road manager kicked off Chatham’s review of the Turquand case. It was all in the file Siobhan gave me.’ Rebus paused. ‘And one more thing...’ His voice tailed off.
‘Which I’ll only find out if I let you sit in on the interview?’
‘Yes.’
‘This is the thanks I get for calling you to tell you about the affair in the first place?’
‘I’m a bad bugger, Malcolm, there’s no denying it.’
Fox gave a sigh. ‘One question?’
Rebus held up his forefinger. ‘Scout’s honour.’
‘You stay here then,’ Fox eventually said, knowing he was probably going to regret it, ‘and I’ll go fetch her.’
Two minutes later he was back. Rebus had vacated his seat and offered it to Dromgoole as she entered. She sat down and Rebus took up position by the door. Fox had started unwrapping a tape, but then remembered Rebus’s words and left it next to the machine.
‘My colleague here,’ he said as carefully as he could, ‘goes by the name of John Rebus.’
She raised both eyebrows, studying Rebus as though he were some new and interesting species. ‘I know who you are,’ she said. ‘You’ve got history with Morris Gerald Cafferty.’
Rebus tried to think of a response, but Dromgoole wasn’t about to wait. ‘Could you get me a meeting with him?’
‘A meeting with Cafferty?’
‘I’m hoping to write a book — did Inspector Fox not say?’
Rebus gave Fox a hard stare, but she was talking again.
‘I’ve tried writing to him, but he never replies. It’s a book about Scotland in the seventies and eighties, about the criminals of the day and what they got up to. From my research, Mr Cafferty would seem the best candidate — most of the others of his ilk are no longer around to tell their stories.’
‘Cafferty may even have hastened their demise,’ Rebus said.
‘Are you still in touch with him?’
‘Not really,’ he lied.
‘But you could get a message to him?’
‘I wouldn’t like to promise anything.’
Fox shifted in his chair. ‘To bring us back to the reason you’re here, Ms Dromgoole...’
Chastened by his tone, she calmed, and even managed to look solemn. But she couldn’t help glancing towards Rebus as she answered Fox’s questions about her relationship with Robert Chatham. After quarter of an hour, Fox was winding down. Rebus decided this was his cue.
‘You met Mr Chatham because of the Maria Turquand case,’ he said. She half turned in her chair so she was facing him.
‘Yes,’ she agreed.
‘Did you retain an interest in it? After you’d published your book, I mean.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Occasional chats about it with Mr Chatham? And maybe with others, too? People like Dougie Vaughan?’
‘Have you been speaking to Dougie?’
‘I was at his concert last night.’
‘It was in my diary,’ Dromgoole said. ‘But I didn’t feel up to it, of course.’
‘You’re a fan, though? You go watch him perform, probably buy him a drink after?’
‘Or during,’ she corrected him.
‘And one night, you took Mr Chatham along too. I think you did that knowing Dougie would eventually place him. Were you hoping for something? Maybe a guilty look or a sudden bum note that would give the game away?’
‘I suppose I was,’ she eventually conceded. ‘Rab was angry with me afterwards. If Dougie recognised him, then he might also work out we were lovers. Rab was scared Liz would find out.’
‘But you considered it a risk worth taking?’
‘Yes.’
‘Because above all else, you can’t let Maria Turquand go?’
She considered how to answer. ‘Maria was an extraordinary woman. A free spirit in a world that demanded the opposite. All those boring money men and their dinners and clubs. She should never have allowed herself to be trapped. They couldn’t deal with her, you see.’ She stared at Rebus. ‘You’re interested too, aren’t you?’
‘A few questions had cropped up,’ Rebus answered her. ‘I spoke to Rab about them, and soon after that...’
‘You’re the ex-cop — he texted me about you.’
‘Do you think he might have been doing some archaeology himself? Maybe so he could surprise you if and when he found anything?’
‘I suppose it’s possible.’ She was still staring at Rebus. ‘Is there something new?’ But Rebus wasn’t about to answer that. ‘Have you spoken to Maria’s husband and her lover?’ Dromgoole continued. ‘They’re both still alive, you know. When I asked for interviews, they resisted. I ended up posing written questions, but their answers were vague. I’m not sure either of them really loved her...’ After a moment lost in thought, she became animated again. ‘You really should question them! They can hardly refuse to answer a detective!’
‘That’s certainly true,’ Rebus said, glancing in Fox’s direction.
After a further five minutes, Fox accompanied Dromgoole to the station’s front door, shaking her hand and asking if she didn’t want a taxi. But she preferred to walk — she needed a walk. He climbed the stairs again to find Rebus at Alvin James’s computer.
‘Christ’s sake, John,’ he complained.
‘I can’t unlock it,’ Rebus said. ‘I don’t suppose you know his password?’
‘I wouldn’t tell you if I did.’
Rebus slammed the screen shut and leaned back in James’s chair. ‘What do we do now, then? And where are the rest of the goon squad anyway?’
‘Tracking down Chatham’s friends and colleagues... talking to his employer...’
‘Remind me of the name.’
‘Kenny Arnott.’ Fox sifted through the notes on his desk. ‘There are two outfits in the city providing similar services — one run by Andrew Goodman, one by Arnott.’
‘Either of them ever been in trouble?’
‘Not that I know of.’
‘Doesn’t sound like it’ll keep James’s crew busy for long, then.’
‘They’re also going through Chatham’s house, seeing if there’s anything on his computer or tucked away in a drawer somewhere...’
‘While you’re left here to read a library book?’
‘Playing to one of my many strengths.’
‘What? Basic literacy?’
Fox managed a smile, and Rebus joined him. ‘So how will you be spending your day?’ Fox asked.
‘If I had a warrant card on me, I’d probably be heading off to talk to a couple of antiquated rich white men.’
‘Turquand and Attwood?’
‘One in St Andrews and one in Perthshire — not a bad afternoon out of the office.’
‘But you’ve not got a warrant card, have you?’
‘The only flaw in my plan.’
‘I could come with you.’
‘And why would you do that?’
‘Because there’s something I know that you don’t.’
‘And I’ll only find out what that is if I take you?’
‘One question, John. For Turquand specifically.’ Fox was holding up his forefinger. Rebus mirrored the action as both men’s smiles broadened.
Harry’s full name was Hugh Harold Hodges. He’d had his first spot of bother with the police at the age of eleven: shoplifting from a supermarket. A dare, apparently. His parents were professionals — one a doctor, one a teacher — and they were paying for him to attend a good school. But he started truanting, and the shoplifting continued. Harry liked hanging around older, less privileged kids. He stole for them, fought alongside them and smoked dope with them. So his parents kicked him out. Slept rough for a while, then seemed to step off the grid completely until he cropped up in France, where the Parisian police took an interest. So it was back to Edinburgh and eventually work for Darryl Christie.