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

by Ian Rankin

  Fox grew thoughtful. ‘And after you’d finished with the files …?’

  ‘They were sent to CCU for a look-see. Nothing came of that, so they went into storage. Whoever’s in charge now, they’ll probably be poring over them, don’t you think?’

  ‘If they’re on the ball.’

  ‘Not always the case, is it?’ Hungerford chuckled.

  ‘Steele and Edwards apart, anyone else of note?’

  ‘Bloody hell, Malc, my memory’s not what it was.’ Hungerford rubbed his jaw. ‘Mary Skelton – she was all right actually; bit of a looker and very pleasant with it. Doug Newsome – most you could say of him was he was lazy; didn’t always write his reports up with a degree of rigour.’ He paused and smiled. ‘And then there was John Rebus, of course.’

  Fox’s mouth twitched. ‘Why do you say “of course”?’

  ‘My time in Professional Standards, Rebus was never far from a bollocking or a suspension. Did you never cross swords?’

  ‘Rebus retired at the end of 2006. Well, sort of.’

  ‘Sounds like you have come across him, though?’

  ‘John Rebus has a way of turning up. Anything in particular blot his copybook on the Bloom case?’

  ‘He was mates with the boyfriend’s dad, a cop from Glasgow. Word was, they kept meeting for a quiet drink.’

  ‘Which might not mean much in itself.’

  ‘Unless information was being passed along. We never proved anything.’

  Fox sat for a moment deep in thought, then he nodded slowly. ‘Thanks for your time, Ray, I really appreciate it. It was good to catch up.’

  ‘You know where I am if you need me again.’ Hungerford had extended his hand, but not for the shake Fox was about to offer. The palm was upwards, stretched flat. He nodded towards the front of the cab, where the meter had been ticking throughout. ‘Twenty-five fifty,’ he said. Then, with a wink: ‘Don’t worry, I’ll write you a receipt for thirty.’

  7

  The others had made their excuses after one drink, but Clarke and Sutherland stuck around for a second. He fetched her the tonic water she’d requested, along with a half of IPA to add to the pint he’d almost finished. The bar was about as upmarket as this part of Leith got, meaning cops could feel relatively safe there. All the same, they were seated at a corner table with a view of the door.

  ‘Sure you don’t want a gin in that?’ Sutherland asked.

  ‘Don’t want to make a bad impression.’

  ‘Two gins after work is hardly a disciplinary offence.’ He chinked his glass against hers. ‘Speaking of which …’

  ‘How much do you know?’

  ‘Just that ACU thought you were passing stories to a reporter pal.’

  ‘I wasn’t.’

  ‘And also that you’d used a work computer to try getting the same reporter some information.’

  ‘I was cleared.’

  ‘Indeed you were, and you resent having been accused.’

  ‘I was made to feel like I was a bad cop. I’m not.’

  ‘These two ACU officers …?’

  ‘Steele and Edwards.’

  Sutherland nodded. ‘Do you hold a grudge against them?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I think that’s maybe a lie.’

  ‘Depends how you define “grudge”. Would I do them a favour in future? No. Would I want someone to attack them in a dark alley? No.’

  ‘And if you saw them out having a drink, then climbing into the driving seat …?’

  ‘I’d phone it in like a shot.’

  They both smiled, focusing on their drinks. Clarke leaned back, rolling her head, feeling the tension there.

  ‘I remember,’ Sutherland was saying, ‘back in Inverness. There was a time-server none of us liked. He had a drink problem, but we covered for him where necessary. Day he retired, there was a party laid on in the canteen with more than a few refreshments. We all clapped and handed him the gift we’d bought, then watched and waved as he headed out to his car, ready to drive home. Traffic had been tipped off. He was stopped, lost his licence.’

  ‘A sort of justice to that, I suppose.’ Clarke sipped her drink. ‘So did you grow up in Inverness?’

  Sutherland nodded. ‘Not much of an accent left, except when I visit family. I notice you’re English.’

  She shook her head. ‘Born here; grew up there – I blame the parents. So where else have you been other than Inverness?’

  ‘Aberdeen, Glasgow, even Skye for a while.’

  ‘They have crime on Skye?’

  ‘I like to think I eradicated it.’ He made a little toast to himself. ‘You ever been anywhere other than Edinburgh?’

  ‘I was on secondment in Glenrothes when Stuart Bloom disappeared.’

  ‘That was lucky – if you’d been attached to the case, you couldn’t be on my team now. Conflict of interest, et cetera.’

  Clarke nodded distractedly. ‘So where do you live these days?’ she eventually asked.

  ‘Shettleston, in Glasgow.’

  ‘Can you see Barlinnie from there?’

  ‘More or less. How about you?’

  ‘Five minutes from here. Just off Broughton Street.’

  ‘On your own?’ He watched her nod. ‘Me too. Wasn’t always the case, but you know how it is. I decided to marry my golf clubs instead. I don’t suppose you play?’

  ‘Do I look like a golfer?’

  ‘I don’t know – what does a golfer look like?’

  ‘My idea of fresh air and exercise is the local café and paper shop.’ Her phone buzzed. It was lying on the table to the side of her glass, so she could see that it was the call box again.

  ‘Not answering?’ Sutherland queried.

  ‘It’s not important.’

  They waited for it to stop.

  ‘I get the distinct feeling there’s more to you than meets the eye, Detective Inspector Clarke.’

  ‘Trust me, there really isn’t.’

  Sutherland thought for a moment, watching her from behind his raised glass. He smacked his lips when he lowered it. ‘I know Tess has given the Bloom file a first pass, but would you like to take a look too?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Might be our friends Steele and Edwards will pop up there, something you could tuck away for future use.’

  She stared at him. ‘It was you who tipped off Traffic, wasn’t it?’ His left eyebrow was the only part of his face that moved. ‘There’s a prize if you tell me.’

  ‘Okay, I’m intrigued.’

  ‘A game of pitch ’n’ putt at Bruntsfield Links.’

  ‘An offer that’s hard to refuse. But you might be wearing a wire, so …’ He maintained eye contact as he slowly but definitively nodded.

  ‘Has to be on a warm day, mind,’ Clarke cautioned.

  ‘And how many of those does Edinburgh get?’

  ‘We had one a couple of years back.’

  They both started laughing.

  The Meadows again, illuminated by the street lamps on Melville Drive.

  The rain had stopped, but the grass was wet, the cold penetrating their shoes and chilling their toes. Rebus stood with hands in pockets, the collar of his overcoat up, while Clarke had pulled the hood of her waterproof jacket over her head. In front of them, Brillo was busy sniffing some invisible trail. It was like watching an infant take a line for a walk across a sheet of paper.

  ‘He’s determined,’ Clarke admitted.

  ‘Not to mention tireless – can’t think who that reminds me of.’

  ‘I wanted to ask you about Steele and Edwards. How dirty do you think they were back then?’

  ‘You know that old saying – you need a lang spoon tae sup wi’ the devil?’

  ‘I thought that was Fifers.’

  ‘Sam
e thing. All you need to know is, that’s what they were like. Kept everything to themselves. Always sat at a different table from everyone else, heads together. If they had a brain, it was a hundred per cent the property of Brian Steele. Grant Edwards had heft but not much else.’

  ‘He’s not changed much.’

  ‘Well, you’ve had more recent dealings with them. But back then, none of us thought they would last too much longer in the force. They’d be up on a charge or else off to greener pastures.’

  ‘Meaning what?’

  ‘Steele owned a couple of executive cars, chauffeured bigwigs around. That’s probably how he fell in with Adrian Brand. He always said police work was boring.’

  ‘And Edwards?’

  ‘Did some of the driving. Worked a lot of his free nights as a club doorman. Was said to have money in a car wash out near the Forth Bridge.’

  ‘Did they try to influence the investigation?’

  ‘At Brand’s behest, you mean?’ Rebus thought for a moment. ‘Aye, maybe. They wouldn’t have been above taking a few quid from him, either to keep him posted or else to make sure he wasn’t given too much grief.’

  ‘We had a visit today from Brand’s PR man. He wants much the same.’

  ‘I dare say he’s not undercharging for his services either.’ Rebus produced a lighter from his coat and flicked it until a flame appeared. ‘Christ, I wish I still smoked.’

  ‘Your lungs probably disagree.’

  ‘Specialist wanted me to get an exercise bike – can you imagine?’

  ‘Not really, no.’

  ‘Me in the flat, pedalling away, going nowhere.’

  A car had stopped on Melville Drive. They heard its door close and turned to watch as a dark figure approached.

  ‘The prodigal returns,’ Rebus announced. ‘Or is it the swine that returns? I’m a bit rusty.’

  ‘Hello to you too, John.’ Malcolm Fox was gesturing towards the cigarette lighter. ‘Thought you’d stopped.’

  ‘This is just in case I decide to go out in a blaze of glory.’

  Fox had leaned in towards Clarke to peck her on the cheek.

  ‘Steady on,’ Rebus chided him. ‘We’re not in bloody France.’

  ‘How are you, Siobhan?’

  She nodded in the affirmative. ‘How about you, Malcolm?’

  He nodded back before turning towards Rebus. ‘I went to the Oxford Bar first off, but they said they hardly see you these days. I’m at the age where nothing should surprise me, but I’ll admit that nearly took my legs from under me.’

  ‘Aye, they’ve had to announce a profits warning. Stock Exchange isn’t happy. And speaking of happy ships, how are things at Gartcosh? Lost any more high hiedyins lately?’

  ‘It’s not exactly been plain sailing.’

  ‘Latest allegations are all to do with bullying – hope none of that’s been happening to you in the playground, Malc. We all know you’re a sensitive soul. See, in my day we just took it on the chin.’

  ‘Might explain why you ended up with so many bruises.’

  Rebus stretched out his arms. ‘Do you see any?’

  Fox tapped a finger to his own head. ‘In here, I mean.’

  Rebus screwed his eyes shut. ‘Well, despite the brain damage, let’s see if I can still do a bit of mind-reading.’ He pretended to cogitate. ‘I see a skeleton in a car, a lot of media attention, and the top brass anxious about an old case and those who worked on it.’ He opened his eyes again. ‘And here you are.’

  ‘You’ve not lost it.’ Fox pretended to clap his hands.

  ‘You’re working at the Big House, you used to be Complaints, who else are they going to send to do their sniffing?’ Rebus looked down to where Brillo was circling the new arrival. Fox bent at the waist and gave the dog a pat.

  ‘Your name was mentioned in passing,’ he admitted, straightening up again.

  ‘How about Brian Steele and Grant Edwards?’ Clarke asked.

  ‘Them too.’ Fox studied her. ‘What’s your interest, Siobhan?’

  ‘I’m MIT.’

  ‘Officer in charge?’

  She shook her head. ‘That’s DCI Sutherland.’

  ‘Siobhan has also,’ Rebus said, ‘had a bit of a run-in with ACU.’

  ‘Meaning Steele and Edwards?’

  ‘We used to call them the Chuggabugs,’ Rebus commented.

  Fox’s eyes were still on Clarke. ‘You’ve requisitioned the 2006 case notes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I need to take a look at them.’

  ‘That’s DCI Sutherland’s call.’

  ‘In point of fact, it’s ACC Lyon’s call, and I’m sure the message is on its way from her to your boss.’

  ‘Isn’t that nice, Siobhan?’ Rebus drawled. ‘You and Malcolm on a case again.’

  ‘Actually,’ Clarke parried, ‘what I’m doing is investigating a murder.’

  ‘That’s true, Malcolm,’ Rebus agreed, with the appearance of a sage nod. ‘Whereas you’re back to your old speciality of stirring the shit prior to slopping it over fellow officers, be they serving, retired or long buried. Must give you a nice warm glow.’ He paused. ‘You live in a bungalow, don’t you?’

  Fox frowned at the change of subject. ‘Yes,’ he eventually said.

  Rebus nodded to himself. ‘That’s why I could never live in one.’ He had a sudden thought and turned his attention back to Clarke. ‘Mind you, just say Malcolm were to find some dirt on the Chuggabugs – might not be a bad result.’

  ‘Someone’s going to have to explain that nickname to me,’ Fox said.

  ‘Cartoon characters,’ Clarke obliged.

  ‘Who recently had a go at Siobhan here,’ Rebus added. ‘Hence the appetite for a bit of dirt on them.’

  ‘Thing to remember, John,’ Fox cautioned, ‘is that dirt has a way of spreading itself around.’

  ‘So does pee,’ Rebus responded, gesturing to where Brillo had cocked his leg against Malcolm Fox’s ankle.

  There was a space directly across the street from Clarke’s tenement. Lucky, she thought. Then she wondered if it had maybe been in use until just before she got there. She remembered the car from the previous night. Exact same spot. Having locked the Astra, she looked up and down the street, but all the cars seemed to be empty. No sign of anyone loitering on the pavement either. As she approached the tenement, though, she saw there was something scrawled on the door. Big fat silver letters against the dark-blue paint. She took out her phone and switched on the torch function, though she had already made the words out. But she just wanted to be sure they said what she thought they did.

  PIG SCUM LIVES HERE!!!

  PIG SCUM OUT!!!

  She scanned the rest of the door. It was pristine. But then she noticed the intercom. The same silver pen had been used to cover up her name. She took a paper tissue from her pocket and ran it over the ink. Not quite dry. Another look up and down the street before she slid her key into the lock. Once inside, she stood with her back to the door, waiting. But no one was hiding, no one coming down the stairs towards her. Her heart was racing as she climbed to her landing, checking the door to her flat. The graffiti artist hadn’t come this far. Or if he had …

  She unlocked the door and studied the hallway before walking in. Locking the door behind her, she crossed to the living room window, staring at the street and the windows opposite before closing the shutters and beginning to turn on the lights.

  Thursday

  8

  There were TV cameras outside the police station on Queen Charlotte Street. Approaching, Siobhan Clarke saw Catherine Bloom giving an interview. Against her chest she held a blown-up photograph of her son. At her shoulder stood Dougal Kelly, making sure his JUSTICE FOR STUART sign was visible. Stuart’s father stood well back from the action, watching his wife with w
hat to Clarke looked like a mixture of pride and resignation. The campaign had been long and apparently tireless, but had taken its toll. Half a dozen print journalists were eavesdropping on the TV interview, holding up their phones to record the exchange. One of them gave a hopeful look towards Clarke, but she shook her head. She was barely inside the building when the text message arrived: Meet later? But cafés and wine bars with Laura Smith had been the start of Clarke’s spot of bother with ACU. Smith was the only crime reporter left at the Scotsman, and the relationship had proved fruitful, Smith never overstepping the mark, never printing anything without first checking that Clarke was okay with it. But when she had started covering the suspensions of various officers at the top of the Police Scotland tree, ACU had come to demand who was leaking.

  Truth was, Smith wouldn’t even tell her good friend Siobhan Clarke.

  Ignoring the text, Clarke climbed the stairs. She was a bit bleary, having spent half an hour the previous night removing as much of the graffiti on her tenement door as she could. She had checked it this morning – the words were still there, though they were faint. What would her neighbours think? Some knew she was a cop, some didn’t. She would find a painter to cover it up with a couple of fresh coats, just as soon as she could stop yawning. Because that was another thing – around 1a.m., as she’d been drifting off to sleep, there’d been another call from the phone box on the Canongate.

  ‘What do you want?’ she’d snarled, listening as the line went dead.

  ‘Nice of you to join us, DI Clarke.’ The booming Glaswegian voice belonged to Detective Chief Superintendent Mark Mollison, divisional commander for Edinburgh. Clarke realised she should have expected a visit – especially when the media were in the vicinity. ‘We’ve just been discussing when and where to hold the first press conference. Do you have any views?’

  Clarke looked around the room. They were all there, making her the late arrival. Sutherland and Reid had positioned themselves next to the wall, with its spreading display of maps, photos and cuttings. The last of the computers had arrived, along with a free-standing printer. She realised that the noises she’d heard from the next door along were those of the final members of the support staff settling in.