When The Devil Drives by Christopher Brookmyre

that she didn’t have to worry so much about uncomfortably flirty behaviour from a man in his seventies. That was always a nagging concern whenever she pulled an overnighter. All of Galt Linklater’s investigators were old enough to be her father, but there was no accounting for how deluded some men could become, especially if you were being pleasant to them and they’d had a few drinks. So far there had been nothing inappropriate, but her mental list contained a subsection for the guys she’d least like to be sharing a hotel with. Rab Forrest, being old enough to be her grandfather, wasn’t in it.
    They had an early start, requiring eyes on the subject’s house and car for seven o’clock. His name was Roddy Harris, a former joiner recently relocated from Perth, and it was the veracity of the ‘former’ part that they were there to establish. He was receiving income-protection payouts from an insurance firm, having been diagnosed with multiple sclerosis, which had, he claimed, caused him to give up his work. Rab further informed Jasmine that Harris had sold up a four-bedroom house in Perth, he and his wife downsizing to a two-bedroom flat in Beauly now that their kids had grown up and left home.
    As a self-employed joiner, he had taken out an income-protection policy with Steadfast Insurance twelve years back. This had followed a two-month lay-off from work due to a back injury, the resultant lack of income causing him to realise his vulnerability given that he had no employer to rely on for sick pay. His first claim on this policy was for something a bit more than a slipped disc, however. He was diagnosed with MS, which, among its other privations, at times could leave him incapable of gripping his tools. Unable to guarantee his ability to take on jobs, he was forced to close his business. Steadfast’s policy required that they pay him roughly thirty grand a year untilretirement age, which meant they were looking at a total dispensation of more than a quarter of a million pounds. However, the insurance firm had suspicions that Mr Harris was more capable than his diagnosis was making out, and hired Galt Linklater to gather evidence.
    ‘How do you get a fake diagnosis of MS?’ Jasmine asked Rab.
    ‘You don’t,’ was his stark answer.
    They followed Harris from Beauly to Inverness, where they promisingly observed him going into B&Q. He emerged with some timber and a roll of chicken wire, which he put into the back of his Volvo estate.
    He stopped off for some groceries at a supermarket, then headed back across the Kessock Bridge. However, instead of proceeding home to his flat in Beauly he stopped about a mile outside, at an isolated cottage in expansive but rather unkempt grounds.
    They watched him take the timber and chicken wire from his car and approach the front door, which was answered by an elderly woman with white hair below a black headscarf. He disappeared inside the cottage, then emerged again a few minutes later, this time producing a toolbox and a saw from the rear of the Volvo.
    On a hunch, Rab sent Jasmine out on foot, down a farm track that afforded a view of the land at the cottage’s rear. She took up position using the cover of a hedge and focused her video camera to capture Harris carrying out repairs on a chicken coop while the old woman hovered near by, and at one point brought him a cup of tea and a roll.
    As she relayed quietly to Rab over the radio, it was painful to watch. Harris kept dropping his tools, dropping nails, dropping timber, and adopted a repertoire of awkward postures while sawing and hammering in order to compensate for his inability to grip properly. Crucially, however, he did ultimately get the job done, which pleased the old woman, but not as much as it would please Steadfast Insurance.
    Jasmine kept her head down and her gait stooped as she made her way back along the farm track, but she felt that her posture could not be low enough to match her conduct. She got back in