In a House of Lies: The Brand New Rebus Thriller (Inspector Rebus 22)

by Ian Rankin

  ‘What have I missed?’ she asked.

  ‘Clothing’s in the process of being removed.’ He handed a set of photographs to her. An identical set was being perused by one of the mortuary technicians. They showed Stuart Bloom at various ages and in a range of poses. In one of the later ones, he appeared to be wearing the same jacket and shirt from the night he’d gone missing. Stepping closer to the glass, Clarke saw that the denim jacket and check shirt had been sliced cleanly in sections from the cadaver, though not without taking some skin in the process. What was left on the slab looked like a prop from a horror film. Tweezers were removing samples of hair, eyebrows and a fingernail, along with bits of glass from the shattered window.

  ‘Apparently the wildlife have had a go at him down the years,’ Sutherland commented.

  ‘I thought the boot was closed, car windows intact?’

  He looked at her. ‘I mean bugs and the like. They smell decay, they’re always going to find a way.’

  Pathologist and anthropologist were now studying the skull, Quant circling the area of damage with her finger. They moved on to the jaw, examining the teeth.

  ‘Dental records,’ Clarke said. Sutherland nodded his agreement and turned towards George Gamble. While the other detectives were on their feet, Gamble had decided to stay seated, pudgy hands resting on thick knees.

  ‘They’re on their way,’ Gamble obliged.

  Sutherland’s eyes met Clarke’s. ‘CCU agreed to release the case files. A couple of dozen boxes and about as many computer disks. It’s all coming to us from the warehouse.’

  ‘Joy of joys,’ Tess Leighton drawled.

  ‘Bit of reading for you, Tess,’ Callum Reid said with a grin.

  ‘For all of you,’ Sutherland corrected him. ‘Team effort, remember?’

  Leighton wagged a finger at Reid, who gave a sniff and turned his attention back to the examination. The door swung open, a member of the mortuary team standing there in overalls and shin-high rubber boots.

  ‘Could do with one of you in reception,’ he said. ‘They’re threatening to gatecrash.’

  ‘Who’s “they”?’ Sutherland asked. Clarke reckoned she knew.

  ‘The family?’ She watched the assistant nod.

  ‘And they’ve a reporter with them,’ he added.

  ‘Do the honours, Siobhan,’ Sutherland said. ‘We need one of them anyway for the DNA.’

  ‘What do I tell them, though?’

  Sutherland managed a shrug that didn’t look wholly sympathetic. His attention was again on the autopsy, especially now that the ankles – still handcuffed – were being photographed, inspected, discussed.

  Clarke tried not to let her feelings show as she made her exit, following the assistant to the public reception area. Another staff member was there, in white blouse and black trousers. She had risen from her desk and stood with arms stretched wide, as if to form a wall between the visitors and the stairs and corridors behind her. The assistant had melted away, leaving Clarke to walk to the receptionist’s side.

  ‘I’m Detective Inspector Clarke,’ she announced, holding open her warrant card. This had the desired effect – sometimes it did, sometimes it didn’t. The visitors’ attention shifted to her. She recognised Stuart Bloom’s parents from the photographs of them online. They looked to be in their early sixties. The mother, Catherine, wore a well-cut black coat. Her hair was silver, cut short, suiting the shape of her face. Time and tide had not been so kind to her husband. He had a haunted look in the photographs, always very much leaving the speeches to his wife. Martin Bloom had been an accountant and possibly still was. His suit looked like he wore it most days with the same tightly knotted necktie. His hair needed a trim, and grey hairs sprouted from both ears.

  ‘The family deserve to be told, DI Clarke. After all these years of police incompetence and cover-up …’

  Clarke held up a hand as she studied the man who’d just spoken. He was probably still in his twenties, his face superficially like that of the Blooms’ son Stuart. Yet Clarke knew Stuart had been an only child. The man realised something was needed from him.

  ‘I’m Dougal Kelly. I’m a family friend.’

  ‘And would you also happen to be a journalist, Mr Kelly?’

  ‘I’m writing a book,’ Kelly admitted. ‘But that’s neither here nor there.’

  Clarke seemed wordlessly to agree. She had turned away from him to focus on the parents.

  ‘Mr and Mrs Bloom, I know this is difficult, but right now we really don’t have anything concrete we can share.’

  ‘You could start by letting us see him,’ Catherine Bloom blurted out, a tremor in her voice.

  ‘That’s not really possible until we have a positive identification.’

  ‘You’re telling us it might not be him?’ Martin Bloom enquired quietly.

  ‘Right now we don’t know very much.’

  ‘But you know something!’ His wife’s voice was rising again.

  ‘Say it’s not Stuart, and we let you view the body before the real family. You must see the distress that would cause.’

  ‘How long until you know for certain?’ Dougal Kelly asked.

  ‘Not too long, I hope.’ Clarke’s eyes were still on the parents. ‘If we could swab one of you for DNA. And maybe take a hair or two …’

  ‘You can do that here?’ the father asked.

  ‘I’d think so.’ Clarke turned to the receptionist, who was back in her seat, trying for invisibility. ‘Okay if we use the waiting room while I check?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And maybe rustle up a cup of tea or something?’

  The receptionist nodded, picking up her phone.

  ‘This way then,’ Clarke said, leading them the few yards to the closed door.

  ‘You seem to know this place well,’ Kelly said, keeping his tone light.

  Clarke gestured for them to go in. A few plastic chairs, a table covered in old magazines; posters on the walls showing a field of sunflowers, a waterfall, a sunset. She sat down first, watching as they followed suit.

  ‘Were you part of the original inquiry?’ Kelly asked. Clarke shook her head.

  ‘There better be no one from those days attached to this,’ Catherine Bloom spat.

  ‘Most of them are long retired,’ her husband said, patting the back of her hand. ‘DCI Rawlston and all that lot.’

  ‘The Chuggabugs are still around!’ his wife countered. Clarke thought she’d misheard.

  ‘Chuggabugs?’

  Dougal Kelly leaned forward. ‘Too young for Wacky Races? Me too. Even in 2006 it was a relic, but that’s the name they got.’

  ‘Who?’

  It was Catherine Bloom who answered. ‘The cops working for Adrian Brand.’

  ‘We only found out much later,’ Kelly explained, ‘that their colleagues called them that. Though not to their faces, I bet.’ He saw he still had some work to do. ‘Dastardly and Muttley? It was a TV cartoon. Same cars racing each other week after week. Dick Dastardly cheating and never seeing the benefit.’

  ‘I’ve heard of it.’

  ‘One of the cars was the Arkansas Chuggabug. A hillbilly driving and a bear as his passenger.’

  ‘Okay …’

  ‘And somehow Steele and Edwards got the nickname.’

  A jolt of adrenalin shot through Clarke. She tried not to let it show. ‘Steele and Edwards?’

  ‘They were in Adrian Brand’s pay,’ Catherine Bloom interrupted. ‘And no one thought that was suspicious? No one thought that was part of the conspiracy?’

  Her husband had stopped patting her wrist and started rubbing it, but she snatched her hand away.

  ‘I’m fine!’ she barked, just as the receptionist put her head around the door.

  ‘I need to know milk and sugar,’ she announced with the f
alsest of smiles.

  Clarke was on her feet and heading for the door. ‘I’ll just be a minute,’ she explained. ‘Forgot to check if we can do the DNA here.’

  She retraced her steps to the car park, then stood there for a moment running a hand through her hair. Her phone was in her other hand, so she made the call. Rebus picked up almost immediately.

  ‘Was it you that came up with the name for them?’ she asked.

  ‘And good morning to you, Siobhan. What name for who?’

  ‘The Chuggalugs.’

  There was silence for a moment. ‘Chuggabugs,’ he corrected her.

  ‘Two cops called Steele and Edwards?’

  ‘Thick as thieves, as the saying goes. Who have you been talking to?’

  ‘Stuart Bloom’s parents.’

  ‘I wonder who told them.’

  ‘They’re with a writer called Dougal Kelly.’

  ‘Never heard of him. Has my name come up?’

  ‘Bill Rawlston’s did. Next thing I know, they’re talking about Steele and Edwards and how they were in Adrian Brand’s pocket.’ She waited for a response but none came. ‘Well, were they, John?’

  ‘This might be better done face to face.’

  ‘You know Steele and Edwards are still on the force, right?’

  ‘I’ve not heard anything about them in years.’

  ‘They’re ACU, John. They were the ones who came after me.’

  ‘Bloody hell – they were in uniform back then and unlikely to trouble an IQ test. They must know where the bodies are buried.’

  ‘Not the subtlest phrasing under the circumstances.’

  ‘I apologise. So the Chuggabugs went over to the dark side? Well, I suppose that makes as much sense as anything else these days. You at the mortuary?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Seen Deborah?’

  ‘Not to talk to. She’s got Aubrey Hamilton with her.’

  ‘The forensic anthropologist?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘A pretty good tag team. Maybe you’d best mention Steele and Edwards to your boss.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘So he can pull them in for questioning, have a bit of fun with them.’

  ‘You think I’d be that vindictive?’

  ‘If not, I didn’t teach you much.’

  She found she could almost smile. ‘I’ll give it some thought.’

  ‘Want to come dog-walking later? Let off some steam?’

  ‘You mean keep you in the loop? How ethical would that be, do you think?’

  ‘Throw me a bone here – keep me and Brillo happy.’

  ‘I’ll talk to you later, John.’

  ‘Make sure you do.’

  She ended the call and found that she’d walked all the way across the car park and out on to the Cowgate. When she turned round, she saw Graham Sutherland at an upstairs window, signalling for her to come back. She was trying not to blush as she retraced her steps.

  Sutherland met her in the corridor outside the autopsy suite.

  ‘What was that all about?’ he asked.

  ‘Just had to take a call,’ Clarke answered. ‘Plus, the Blooms want to know if we can do the DNA here.’

  ‘Professor Quant is already on it. She’s finished the preliminary examination. Professor Hamilton has a bit of work to do, and she wants to see for herself where the car was found.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Something to do with how the specific environment breaks down a human body. The jargon was a bit beyond me.’ His stern look was beginning to soften. ‘How are the parents?’

  ‘She’s frantic, he’s more resigned. They seem to be giving their story to a writer called Dougal Kelly.’

  ‘Good luck to them.’ Sutherland pushed his hands into his pockets. ‘We’re in limbo till we get the ID verified.’

  ‘Doesn’t stop us cracking on. Ninety per cent chance it’s him. No other mispers from the time fit the description.’

  Sutherland nodded. ‘I suppose we can go through the old case notes while we’re waiting. Maybe talk to a few people.’

  ‘There’s something I should probably tell you, sir. Two of the uniforms from the original inquiry are now ACU. They’re the ones I recently locked horns with.’

  Sutherland considered for a moment. ‘Not a problem, is it?’

  ‘Just thought you should know.’

  ‘Is that what your call was about?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘No secrets, Siobhan. Seems to me that’s what was at the root of the original inquiry’s problems.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Let’s go back to using “Graham” again, shall we?’

  ‘Sir,’ Clarke said, with a bow and a smile.

  5

  A visitor was waiting at the front desk of Leith police station. He was stocky and corkscrew-haired, with a pair of John Lennon-style glasses perched on his nose. Tweed jacket, chinos and an open-necked pink shirt.

  ‘My name’s Glenn Hazard,’ he said, dishing out business cards. ‘I’m here on behalf of Sir Adrian Brand.’

  ‘You’re in PR, Mr Hazard,’ Sutherland said, having checked the card. ‘Sir Adrian’s one of your clients?’

  Hazard nodded. ‘The most important of my clients,’ he clarified.

  ‘And what brings you here today?’

  ‘The story’s already gone viral – you’ve found Stuart Bloom.’ He sought each pair of eyes for confirmation.

  ‘Not strictly true.’

  ‘Well, the online community’s latched on to it, so whether you have or not hardly matters.’ He saw the look he was getting and backtracked. ‘No, of course it matters. But my job is damage limitation. Sir Adrian has already had to deal with the fallout from when Bloom disappeared. It would be good to … control the flow of information and kill rumours before they get started.’

  ‘What are you trying to say, Mr Hazard?’

  ‘Poretoun Woods – they’re owned by my client.’

  ‘Jackie Ness sold them to Sir Adrian?’ Clarke asked.

  Hazard was shaking his head. He was about to start his answer when Sutherland interrupted.

  ‘Best if you come upstairs, Mr Hazard. It’d be good to get this sorted out. Good for your client, I mean.’

  The MIT room hadn’t yet been aired and still smelled musty. One of the radiators hissed a constant complaint, and Callum Reid tried without success to open a window. Equipment had been unpacked, however – computers, a TV monitor, and a whiteboard perched on an easel – and it looked more like an inquiry hub than previously. Photos of Stuart Bloom and his partner Derek Shankley had been pinned up next to the map. Photocopies of newspaper reports from the 2006 investigation sat on each desk. Mugs and a kettle had appeared. Clarke looked towards Tess Leighton.

  ‘You were busy last night,’ she said.

  ‘George helped, actually,’ she replied.

  Hazard settled on the chair that had been Rebus’s the previous day. He looked the sort that would be hard to faze – probably a minimum requirement for working in public relations.

  ‘Did you represent Sir Adrian back in the day?’ Sutherland was asking as he got comfortable behind his desk.

  ‘I wasn’t in PR then,’ Hazard replied.

  ‘Interesting job, is it?’

  ‘Every day a new challenge.’

  ‘Bit like police work then.’ Which was the end of the small talk. ‘So Poretoun Woods are owned by Sir Adrian Brand. Since when?’

  ‘Just the past couple of years. They came with Poretoun House. He bought both from a hotelier called Jeff Sellers. Sellers had plans to turn the place into another hotel – boutique, five-star, you know the drill. I think the money ran out, so Sir Adrian stepped in. Snapped up a bargain, I believe.’

  ‘Both house an
d woods used to belong to Jackie Ness,’ Clarke said.

  ‘Ness sold to Sellers.’

  ‘Does he know your client’s got hold of them?’

  Hazard gave the thinnest of smiles. ‘I’d imagine so, even though the actual owner is one of Sir Adrian’s companies rather than Sir Adrian personally.’

  ‘He’s dusting off the golf course plan?’

  ‘Not that I’ve heard. That was the other side of the city from Poretoun, you know – west rather than south-east.’

  ‘There’s still bad blood, though?’

  ‘Maybe it would be more accurate to say both gentlemen have long memories. But that’s really why I’m here. The media are going to have the proverbial field day. Stuart Bloom was snooping into Sir Adrian’s affairs. Twelve years later he ends up dead on land owned by Sir Adrian. You can see how that’s going to play, unless we manage the story with the utmost care.’

  ‘We’re not in the business of managing stories, Mr Hazard,’ Sutherland stated. ‘Back in the day, things might have been a lot cosier, but that was then and this is now.’

  ‘You can’t want to see an innocent man suffer, his reputation damaged. I’m just saying that when you prepare your press releases and give your media briefings …’

  ‘Keep your client’s name out of it?’

  ‘As far as possible, yes, to protect the innocent. I’d be more than happy to help your press office in the drafting of—’

  ‘We might need to talk to Sir Adrian,’ Clarke interrupted, walking to the side of Sutherland’s desk so she was facing Hazard. ‘Is Poretoun House our best bet?’