‘Is that what you think’s happening to you?’
‘Harry told you the God’s own truth.’
‘We’re putting Craw’s description out.’
‘You know everyone will think I had something to do with it.’
‘I don’t suppose that’ll do your reputation much harm.’
‘If anything, it’ll add to it, but that doesn’t mean I snatched him. And by the way, I took your advice.’
‘Oh?’
‘Moved my mum and the boys into a hotel for a few days.’
‘Has something else happened?’
‘Cars rumbling past the house at odd hours... stopping outside, engines revving.’
‘Recognise any of them?’
‘No.’
‘Maybe you got the licence numbers?’
‘Sorry.’
‘How about cameras? Have you got round to swapping your fakes for real ones?’
‘I’m on it.’
‘So with your mum and brothers gone, you’ve got the place to yourself?’
‘You offering to babysit?’
‘I’m just thinking how handy an empty house would be if you wanted to stash someone there.’
‘Come take a look sometime.’
‘Maybe I’ll do that.’
‘From what I hear of the man, you’d smell him long before you saw him. Bye bye, Inspector...’
Standing in his living room, staring out towards the park opposite, Christie realised that Cafferty now had a better view than him. Another black mark against the sod. Having ended the call with Clarke, he tapped in Hodges’ number.
‘Yes, boss?’ Hodges asked.
‘I just want to make sure we’re clear on this — you didn’t decide to use your initiative or anything? Maybe you’ve hidden Shand away and were planning to surprise me?’
‘Absolutely not. Who’s to say he’s not just done a runner?’
‘Did he maybe clock my car one of those times you did a drive-past?’
‘That was the whole point, wasn’t it?’
‘I suppose so.’ Christie ended the call and rubbed his free hand softly across his eyes. He was tired and knew he should switch off, if only for ten minutes. But how could he?
He was Darryl Christie.
People were out to get him.
He tried Anthony Brough’s number again. The automated service picked up. It was sorry he could not leave a number but ‘memory is full’.
‘I swear I’m going to kill you,’ Christie said into his phone. Then he heard a noise out in the hall.
Heavy footsteps descending the staircase in a rush.
Christie shook his head and smiled...
14
Maxine Dromgoole had sent Fox a text with addresses and phone numbers for Peter Attwood and John Turquand. Fox sat in the passenger seat of Rebus’s Saab, checking maps on his phone while Rebus drove. A few miles south of St Andrews, however, Rebus started coughing and had to stop by the side of the road while the fit continued. His face had gone puce-coloured behind the handkerchief he was holding to his mouth.
‘Christ, John.’ Fox tried patting Rebus’s back. ‘You sure you’re okay?’
Instead of answering, Rebus got out of the car, fumbling in his jacket for his inhaler. They were on a straight stretch of road, fields either side. He stood on the overgrown verge, bent over with hands on knees, until the coughing eventually subsided. He wiped tears from the corners of his eyes. Fox had emerged from the car and was standing a few feet away. A tractor chugged past, its driver watching them, trying to decide what they were up to.
‘Sorry about that,’ Rebus said, gasping for breath.
‘No need to apologise. What’s in the inhaler?’
‘Some kind of steroids. They’ve promised me I’ll be on the weightlifting team come the next Commonwealth Games.’ Rebus patted his chest. ‘Thought I was maybe getting over it — not that you do get over it.’
‘This isn’t just bronchitis, is it?’
‘What else would it be?’
‘Something that’s got you fretting. I notice things like that.’
Rebus stuffed the inhaler back in his pocket. ‘It’s probably nothing,’ he said.
‘Okay.’
He met Fox’s eyes and made his mind up. ‘A shadow on one lung,’ he confessed. ‘They’ve done a biopsy. No results as yet. You’re the only one I’ve told, and if it goes any further you’ll be the second detective to be fished out of the Forth — understood?’
‘Of course.’
‘Last thing I need is anyone treating me as a charity case.’
‘You mean Deborah Quant?’
‘Deb... Siobhan...’
‘But you don’t think I’d do that?’
‘You don’t like me well enough.’
‘I like you fine.’
‘You’re a terrible liar, Malcolm. When you were Complaints, you tried your damnedest to nail me.’
‘You weren’t exactly a model police officer.’
‘Granted.’
‘But that’s history.’
‘Besides which, you got your wish — I’m not a cop these days.’
‘You still do a pretty good impression.’ Fox paused, watching a car speed past on its way to St Andrews. ‘So when will you have news?’
‘About Hank Marvin? Any day — might even be an envelope or a phone message waiting for me at home right now.’
‘Hank Marvin played guitar in the Shadows,’ Fox said.
‘You catch on fast, Malcolm.’
‘I have my moments. Do you want me to drive? We’re nearly there.’
Rebus shook his head. ‘I need you to navigate, remember? Those bloody phone apps make no sense to me whatsoever...’
Both men had seen photos of Peter Attwood, but none of them recent. He lived with his wife in a modern detached house on the outskirts of the town. As the Saab crunched over the gravel driveway, Attwood appeared at the door. He wore a baggy brown cardigan and brown cord trousers, and his thinning silver hair looked brilliantined. A pipe was clamped between his teeth. He shook hands with both visitors as they made their introductions.
‘Jessica’s visiting a friend,’ he said, leading them indoors, ‘but I’m just about capable of making a cup of tea.’
While he was in the kitchen, Rebus and Fox explored the living room. Bookshelves, a rack filled with classical CDs, a TV that wouldn’t have looked out of place on Antiques Roadshow. There were a couple of squishy armchairs and matching sofa, plus an array of family photographs on the mantelpiece.
‘Seems to come round regular as clockwork,’ Attwood said, carrying in a tray and placing it on the small table between the armchairs.
‘What does, sir?’ Fox asked.
‘Reopening the file on poor Maria’s death. Help yourselves, chaps.’ Attwood added a splash of milk to his own mug and sat down. Rebus and Fox did the same, settling side by side on the sofa.
‘Eight years ago,’ Rebus said, ‘you would have been interviewed by an officer called Chatham.’
‘That sounds about right. Then there was the ghastly journalist woman...’
‘Maxine Dromgoole,’ Fox clarified.
‘The very same.’
‘The thing is, sir,’ Rebus said, ‘Robert Chatham has been murdered.’
‘Bloody hell.’
‘And we just wondered if you’d had any contact with him.’
‘Why should I?’
‘Because he might not have been able to let the case go.’
Attwood considered this. ‘Maria had that effect on men, but I haven’t heard anything of the fellow in the eight years since he questioned me.’
‘How about Ms Dromgoole?’
‘She sent me a lengthy email, like something out of Mastermind. Did I know that musician fellow? Was I sure I hadn’t visited the hotel earlier in the day?’