by Ian Rankin
‘I was conscientious, John,’ he said quietly. ‘I did everything I could to the best of my abilities. Maybe that was never going to be enough for some people, but if there’s anything you can do … anything to stop them flushing my reputation down the crapper …’
Rebus found himself nodding slowly, the two men locking eyes, knowing neither was being completely truthful at this meeting.
‘Not just your reputation, Bill,’ Rebus said, watching as Rawlston stepped in so close he feared for a moment that a hug was imminent. But there was a pat on the forearm instead.
‘I’ll see you out,’ Bill Rawlston said quietly.
Having finally found a parking space for his Saab, Rebus was a few steps from his tenement on Arden Street when he heard a car door open behind him.
‘Wondered when I’d be seeing you,’ he said to Siobhan Clarke.
‘Can I come up?’
‘Brillo needs a walk.’
‘Then I’ll keep you company.’
He reached a hand out towards her, his keys dangling from one finger. ‘His lead’s hanging in the hall. Keech bags in the kitchen drawer beneath the kettle.’
She took the keys. ‘What’s the matter, old-timer – stairs too much for you?’
‘Can’t see the point when there are younger legs available.’
Clarke unlocked the tenement door and headed in. She was right, though – the two flights of unforgiving Edinburgh stairs were becoming a definite issue. More and more he’d have to pause at the first landing, maybe for a puff from the inhaler. He’d considered selling up and buying something at ground level, either a main-door flat or a bungalow. Maybe he still would.
Brillo was barking with excitement as Clarke led him back down to where the outside world with its plethora of sights and smells was waiting.
‘The Meadows?’ she guessed, attempting to hand the lead to Rebus.
‘The Meadows it is,’ he said, stuffing his hands into his pockets and walking off.
‘I’m not great with dogs,’ Clarke cautioned, as Brillo strained against his leash.
‘You’re doing fine,’ Rebus assured her. The sky was clear, the temperature not much above zero. A group of students passed them, swinging carrier bags filled with bottles.
‘Your flat could do with a tidy,’ Clarke stated.
‘You were only supposed to go in the kitchen.’
‘Your kitchen could do with a tidy,’ she corrected herself.
‘Are you offering?’
‘I’m a bit busy these days. I just thought maybe with Deborah and everything …’
‘Professor Quant and myself are taking a bit of a break.’
‘Oh.’
‘It’s not that we fell out or anything. In fact, I should probably blame you.’
‘Why?’
‘For keeping her so busy.’ Rebus paused. ‘Your man Sutherland looks pretty useful.’
‘No complaints so far.’
‘Only day one, Siobhan – plenty fuck-ups ahead. What about the rest of his crew?’
‘They seem fine.’
‘Shouldn’t you be with them right now, bonding over a few post-work drinks?’
‘You know why I’m here, John.’
‘Tell me.’
‘I want to hear the whole story.’
‘You don’t think that’s what I gave Sutherland?’
‘First time for everything, I suppose.’
‘I didn’t lie, though, give me credit for that. Any progress since I left?’
‘Not really.’ She took a deep breath. ‘So Stuart Bloom was a private eye, employed by a man called Jackie Ness to find out about a land deal. Ness had a long-time rivalry with another businessman called Adrian Brand …’
‘Now Sir Adrian Brand.’
‘Brand wanted a chunk of green-belt land so he could build a golf course; Ness reckoned the same land would be perfect for a film studio. He thought Brand might be lining pockets to clinch the deal, but he needed proof …’
‘Enter Stuart Bloom.’
‘Trained as a journalist, studied computers and how to hack into them. Was in a fairly open relationship with a lecturer called …’
‘Derek Shankley.’
‘Shankley’s father Alex was Glasgow CID …’
‘Murder squad to be precise.’ They had reached Melville Drive. The Meadows lay before them, a large tree-edged playing field with the old infirmary and the university beyond it. Rebus reached down and unclipped Brillo’s lead. The small, wiry dog bounded off. Clarke and Rebus stayed where they were, half watching as Brillo slowed and began nosing his territory.
‘The night Bloom went missing,’ Clarke continued, ‘he’d just made a report to Jackie Ness at Ness’s home.’
‘The palatial Poretoun House,’ Rebus agreed.
‘Which happens to be next to Poretoun Woods. And it turns out those woods are where Bloom’s body has been lying all these years.’
‘If it’s him.’
‘If it’s him,’ Clarke conceded. ‘Tess Leighton is putting in a late shift to check other missing persons from the period.’ She turned her head towards him. ‘And CCU became involved because …?’
‘For one thing, the family had complained we weren’t putting in enough effort. They had the lover down as a suspect and thought we’d gone too easy on him.’
‘Because of who his father was?’
‘Alex Shankley was a hairy-arsed Glasgow cop. A man’s man. Football on a Saturday, roast dinner on a Sunday. Spent his days chasing knife gangs and scumbags.’ Rebus broke off.
‘And ashamed of his son?’
‘Maybe. I don’t know. But word went around that it would be appreciated if we could try to keep mentions of Derek to a minimum. Wouldn’t be so easy these days, but we had our fair share of friendly journalists back then.’
‘Hang on, though. Bloom trained as a journalist. Wouldn’t the press be keen to find out what had happened to one of their own?’
Rebus shrugged. ‘He wasn’t in the trade long enough to make friends.’
‘Okay, so what about the meeting with Jackie Ness?’
‘A regular update at the mansion. Bloom’s instructions were to keep doing what he’d been doing.’
‘And what had he been doing?’
‘Asking around; buying a few drinks; accessing computers …’
‘When he disappeared, you looked at his computer?’
‘Not me personally, but the team did. He didn’t have an office as such, worked out of his flat. Never found his laptop, though – or should I say “notebook”. Didn’t find his phone either. All we knew was, in the weeks after he disappeared, he didn’t open any emails, didn’t make any calls, and withdrew no money from a cashpoint.’
‘Did you think he was dead?’
Rebus nodded. ‘Fight with his lover; picked up the wrong stranger from a club; ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time.’
‘Say he’d tried breaking into Adrian Brand’s home, or maybe his office,’ Clarke speculated.
‘We interviewed everyone we could, most of them more than once. Wasn’t as much CCTV back then, but even so, it was hard to just disappear into thin air. We were waiting for someone to talk, but no one did.’
‘His parents are on their way here,’ Clarke said with a sigh.
‘From where?’
‘They live near Dumfries these days.’
‘You think they can make the identification?’
‘More likely it’ll be down to DNA. But Graham is asking Jackie Ness to look at the clothing. He was apparently the last person to see Bloom. Derek Shankley’s being asked, too. You remember what Bloom was wearing the night he vanished?’
Rebus shook his head.
‘According to the newspaper reports, a red check shirt, deni
m jacket and blue jeans – same gear we found on the body in the Polo.’ She stared at him. ‘I need to know what you’re not telling me, John.’
‘We’ve pretty much covered it.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘It’s good to see you, Shiv. I just wish it didn’t have to end like this.’
Her eyes widened slightly. ‘Like what?’
Rebus nodded towards where Brillo had paused to squat. ‘With you being the one who’s got the keech bag.’
Clarke’s phone started vibrating. She tried for a disappointed look as she handed Rebus the small black polythene bag. ‘I’d better take this,’ she said.
When Rebus returned with Brillo now back on his lead, he asked her who’d called.
‘It’s nothing,’ she said, not managing to hide her exasperation.
‘Doesn’t sound like nothing.’
‘I’ve had a few calls, 0131, but when I answer, they just hang up.’
‘Not a number you recognise?’ He watched as she shook her head. ‘Tried phoning back?’
‘One time. No answer.’
‘It didn’t go to an answering machine or anything?’ Rebus gestured towards her phone. ‘Give it another shot. Keep you busy while I walk over to that bin.’
By the time he’d dumped the bag, she was walking towards him.
‘Someone picked up,’ she explained. ‘It’s a phone box on the Canongate.’
‘So who was on the other end?’
‘Sounded like a tourist. Said they were just passing.’
‘Bit of a mystery then. How many did you say you’ve had?’
‘I don’t know. Ten, twelve, something like that.’
‘All from the same number?’
She checked her screen for recent calls. ‘Two different numbers.’
‘So check out the other one, maybe that’ll give you the answer. That’s what a detective would do, DI Clarke.’ They shared a momentary smile, but then Rebus started coughing.
‘Cold weather’s a bugger,’ he explained.
‘You’re doing okay, though?’
‘Seem to have survived another winter. Annual spirometry test last week – lungs at seventy per cent.’
‘Winter’s not quite over yet – supposed to be snow on the way from Russia, maybe a lot of it.’
‘A good reason to stay indoors.’
‘You’ve dropped a bit of weight, that must be helping.’
‘Who can afford food on a police pension? There are positives, though.’
‘Such as?’
‘If I catch an infection, it could be the death of me – the perfect excuse not to be sociable. Plus, I can’t visit any big polluted cities like London.’
‘You had plans to go there?’
‘Not on your life.’ Rebus’s eyes shifted to Brillo. ‘I know about ACU, by the way,’ he admitted.
‘How?’
‘You’re not the only cop I talk to. Why didn’t you say?’
‘What was there to say?’
‘Jesus, Shiv, the number of times I was carpeted, I’m a walking encyclopedia on how to deal with those arseholes.’
‘Maybe I wanted to do it on my terms rather than yours. Besides, it was no big deal. They were fishing, that was all, like CCU in the Stuart Bloom case.’ She paused for a beat. ‘Unless you and yours really were hiding something?’
‘No comment, your honour.’ They stood in silence for the better part of thirty seconds. A single night-time jogger was out; traffic was light; a couple of dogs had started a barking contest on nearby Bruntsfield Links, causing Brillo’s ears to prick up.
‘If you’re not too scared of germs,’ Rebus eventually said, ‘we could go back to mine for a cup of coffee.’
But Clarke was shaking her head. ‘I should be getting home. I’ll probably see Deborah tomorrow; anything you want me to say to her?’
‘Nothing I can’t tell her myself.’ Rebus paused. ‘Just don’t mention the kitchen.’
Clarke reasoned that Canongate was on her way home anyway, so she turned right at North Bridge and looked for phone boxes. A brace of them stood in front of a kilt shop, not far from John Knox’s House. This was still tourist territory. She kept driving and found the street getting quieter – seemingly darker, too – as she neared its foot, where the contemporary architecture of the Scottish Parliament faced off against the ancient scowl of the Palace of Holyrood directly across the road. Driving around the roundabout, she retraced her route. The kilt shop phone boxes were the only ones she’d seen, so she pulled her car in next to them and got out. Neither looked exactly enticing, their windows spattered and misted by the residue of flyers that had been only partially removed.
She took out her own phone and called the number. The ringing came from the box right next to her. She cancelled the call and yanked open the door. The aroma of urine was very faint, but still caught in her nostrils. She gave the interior a good look, including its floor, but saw nothing to interest her. Closing the door again, she tapped the second unknown number into her phone. Sure enough, the ringing this time came from the companion booth. Clarke looked up and down the street, craning her neck to check all the windows above street level. Her phone listed the dates and times of the various calls. Two in the early afternoon, most between seven and nine in the evening, one at midnight. Someone local? Using a public telephone so as to remain untraceable? It struck her as an old-fashioned solution. If you wanted to stay anonymous, you could do so on a mobile; you just had to withhold your number. But there were ways of getting past that. All police detectives knew as much. Was someone in trouble? Or had someone been given her number by mistake? Maybe they kept expecting a male voice at the other end. Or else it was some random crank. She’d even heard of automated calls, just checking that lines and systems were working. It could be anything.
There was a pub called McKenzie’s across the road and she was tempted. But she had plenty of gin at home, plus the necessary tonic water and lemon. A man had emerged from the dimly lit interior to smoke a cigarette. She walked over to him and nodded a greeting.
‘This your local?’ she asked.
‘Aye.’
‘Ever noticed anyone using those phone boxes?’ She pointed towards them.
He drew in some smoke and held it before exhaling. ‘Who the hell uses a phone box these days?’
‘Not everyone has a mobile.’
‘You could have fooled me. You the police?’
‘I might be.’
‘So what’s going on?’
‘Just some nuisance calls.’
‘Heavy breathing, you mean? Christ, that takes me back. Happened to my wife once. Years ago, mind.’
‘What about the pub – any new faces turned up recently?’
‘It’s mostly Americans and Chinese, looking for coffee and something to eat. Place makes more money from meals than drink these days. Want me to keep my eyes peeled?’
‘I’d appreciate it.’ She found a business card in her pocket. ‘I’m based at Gayfield Square. They can always get a message to me.’
‘Siobhan’s a nice name,’ he said, peering at the card.
‘My parents thought so.’
‘Can I buy you a drink, Siobhan?’
Clarke made show of scowling. ‘What would your wife say?’
‘She’d say, “Robbie, I never knew you still had it in you.”’
He was still chuckling as Clarke headed back to her car.
She drove the length of her street without finding a parking space, so ended up around the corner on a yellow line. There was a POLICE sign she could place on the dashboard, but it was, she knew from experience, an invitation to vandals, so instead she decided she’d remember to move the Astra before the wardens started their morning shift. A few late-night revellers were heading down Broughton
Street with their fast-food containers, voices raucous with laughter. Music was pumping from one of the windows above her – but from the tenement opposite hers, praise be. There was someone sitting in a parked car. Their face had been illuminated by the screen of their phone, but the car interior was dark by the time Clarke found her key and unlocked her door. She made sure it clicked shut behind her.
The stairwell was well lit and uncluttered, no mail waiting for her other than the usual advertising bumf. She climbed to her landing, unlocked the door to her flat and flicked on the hall light. She wondered what it would be like to be welcomed by Brillo or another dog. Nice to have something to come home to, maybe. In the kitchen, she filled the kettle. Rebus’s own kitchen hadn’t been that bad, she decided, noticing the dishes in her sink. While the water boiled, she headed through to the living room, pausing at the window. She could just make out the car below, its front driver’s-side window illuminated again. She watched as the window slid down, a hand and wrist emerging, the phone pointed towards her tenement door. A single flash as a photograph was taken.
‘What the hell?’ Clarke muttered. She watched for a further moment, then stalked back into the hall, snatching up her keys and heading for the stairs. The car’s engine was running by the time she hauled open the tenement door. Headlamps lit, wheels turning as it began to leave its parking spot. She couldn’t make out the driver, no idea if they were male or female. As it pulled away, she stumbled over the kerb, taking a minute to right herself, by which time the car had turned into Broughton Street and was gone. No make, no number plate. She stared at the gap where the car had been, and decided to move her own.
‘Silver lining, Siobhan,’ she told herself, making for the corner.
Wednesday
4
The mortuary car park was almost full by the time Clarke arrived. She’d grabbed a coffee from her local café and carried it with her as she made for the staff entrance. Most of the attendants knew her and gave nods of welcome as she walked down the corridor. The autopsy suite was one floor up, so she climbed the stairs, opening the last door she came to. It led to the viewing area. There were two rows of benches, a glass panel separating the spectators from the room where the actual work was done. Sutherland’s team had already gathered. They were concentrating on the ceiling-mounted loudspeaker as Professors Deborah Quant and Aubrey Hamilton discussed procedure. Both women wore regulation gowns, foot protectors, masks, caps and goggles. Quant was the taller, which was useful when they had their backs to the viewing room. Mortuary staff fussed around them with stainless-steel implements and bowls and various sizes of clear plastic specimen pouch. Scales had been fetched, though Clarke very much doubted there’d be anything in the way of vital organs to weigh. Graham Sutherland wasn’t the only one to cast an envious eye at Clarke’s coffee.
