by Ian Rankin
After a largely fruitless half-hour, he returned to the security footage, watching as Rebecca got to her feet, adjusting her tight dress. Steele was leading the way as the pair headed for the exit. He didn’t wait for her, didn’t take her arm or hand as Cafferty would have done. He stopped for a word with the doormen, leaving her to wave down a taxi.
There was a knock at the door, so Cafferty closed the screen.
‘What?’ he barked.
The manager’s head appeared around the door. ‘About ready to lock up,’ he explained. ‘Want your car fetched?’
‘I’ll probably walk.’ Cafferty checked one final time that the safe was locked, remembering for a moment another safe a long time back, one whose contents he had been keen to examine.
‘Want me to tell Shug to hang around?’
‘I’m not an invalid – I don’t need a fucking carer!’
The manager’s head disappeared again, the door closing. Cafferty had scared him. Cafferty could always scare him. And he liked that.
Rebus’s eyes were stinging, reminding him of the days when he’d smoked, a stray puff catching him unawares. No smoking tonight, though, just too much time spent on the Meikle files. A desk lamp would have helped, but he didn’t have one. He’d had the same CD on repeat, Van Morrison’s Moondance, the volume turned down low. When he got up to switch it off, he felt his vertebrae click. Placed his fists either side of his spine and pushed. More clicks.
‘Like a shagged-out record, John,’ he told himself. He’d allowed himself two beers, in between half a packet of gum. He had half a mind to call Deborah Quant for a chat, but it was gone midnight and she would be asleep. Peering from his window, he saw that a couple of flats opposite his still had their lights on; students probably. Marchmont had always been a student area, even back in the mists of time when his wife Rhona had persuaded him to buy there. She’d been a teacher and her feeling was that being around so many students would ‘keep us young’.
Aye, right.
Not that he would have said that – not then. Or maybe he would; it was hard to remember the person he’d been, new to the city and new to the job.
He turned from the window and looked at the paperwork piled high on his dining table. He’d made pages of notes, each word capitalised so he’d be able to read it. His handwriting these days was a mess. But he knew the Meikle case now, knew it probably as well as anyone on Siobhan Clarke’s original team. His phone had pinged earlier with a text from Dallas Meikle. Word had been got to Ellis that there was a visitor coming. A good night’s sleep was now required; not that Rebus would get it. His mind was revved up as a result of all the reading. It would take more than another play of Moondance to switch off the motor. Meaning he might as well sit down at the table again for one last read-through. It was either that or wake up Brillo for an unneeded walk.
Switching from Moondance to Solid Air, Rebus went back to work.
Tuesday
28
At 11 a.m. on Tuesday, Emily Crowther phoned Clarke from Poretoun House. She was there with the scene-of-crime team, watching as they went about their business.
‘You won’t believe it,’ she told Clarke. ‘I’ll send you a couple of pics, hang on …’
The line went dead and Clarke waited. She was in the MIT office, seated at her desk, on which sat a putter, nine iron, two tees and two golf balls. They’d been waiting for her that morning, a gift from Graham Sutherland. Across the room, the list Derek Shankley had helped compile was being gone through name by name, phone calls made, interviews arranged. Within a few seconds her phone pinged, alerting her to the photos. There were three of them. The SOCOs in their white overalls were taking the place apart, floorboards removed, plaster scraped from the walls for analysis. Brand had insisted on being in attendance. In one photograph he had his own camera out, leaning down as Haj Atwal studied a section of floorboard. Clarke called Crowther.
‘It’s almost like he’s enjoying it,’ she commented. ‘But have they found anything?’
‘Not as far as I know. With a civilian in the room, Haj is being tight-lipped. What time do we leave for Glasgow?’
‘Let’s wait till after the rush hour. Six thirty should do it.’
‘Might not be finished here by then. There are about twenty rooms covering three floors. The house is shagged but gorgeous. Why do you think he’s letting us rip it up?’
‘Because it’s not really a house. It’s two fingers raised in Jackie Ness’s direction.’
‘So the photos …?’
‘Doubtless winging their way to Ness as we speak.’
‘Speaking of whom, any progress?’
‘The car is being searched again, just in case we missed something.’ Clarke saw that Graham Sutherland was getting to his feet. He was approaching the TV, seeking the remote so he could turn up the volume. ‘Emily, I’m going to have to go …’ She ended the call. Sutherland was blocking her view of the screen. The volume was audible by the time she reached his side. The reporter was standing on the edge of Poretoun Woods.
‘And after the questioning of film producer Jackie Ness and this morning’s renewed search of his old home just the other side of these woods behind me, now comes the revelation that the victim, private investigator Stuart Bloom, was handcuffed at the ankles inside his recovered Volkswagen Polo. This was reported only moments ago by an internet-based news agency and has yet to be verified by ourselves, though police have made no denial.’
Sutherland made eye contact with Clarke. ‘Because we’ve not been asked,’ he growled.
‘Press office should have warned us,’ Clarke said. ‘They must surely have known.’
Sutherland held out a hand towards her. ‘Pass me that nine iron, would you? I want to put it through this bloody screen.’
Mobile phones had started ringing: her own and Sutherland’s, plus the landlines not currently being used by Reid and Gamble. Tess Leighton appeared in the doorway, her own mobile pressed to her ear. Clarke nodded, then gestured towards the TV. Sutherland was muting the sound again. Fox had joined Leighton in the doorway. He raised an eyebrow in Clarke’s direction: managed to blag one more day, he seemed to be telling her.
‘Okay, people,’ Sutherland intoned, ‘we knew this moment would come. There’s a press conference due this afternoon anyway, so we can deal with all the questions then. Or let DCS Mollison deal with them, at any rate …’
As if summoned by Sutherland’s words, leather shoes could be heard climbing the stairs, Mollison’s head appearing at the top. He strode into the room, face thunderous.
‘We’re just hearing it for ourselves right now, sir,’ Sutherland said, raising a hand in apology.
‘The family will be up to high doh,’ Mollison snapped. ‘As if they didn’t have enough ammo against us as it is!’
And sure enough, the TV had switched from Poretoun Woods to Fettes HQ, Catherine Bloom positioned on the pavement just outside the gates, behind which stood a stern-looking uniformed officer, as if fearing invasion. As the camera moved position, Dougal Kelly sidled into view at Catherine’s shoulder. Sutherland pressed the volume button again.
‘We’ve always known,’ Stuart Bloom’s mother was saying, her voice trembling with emotion, ‘that the police acted irresponsibly, lazily and almost certainly corruptly, protecting those who have against those who have not, and looking down on Stuart’s family and circle of friends.’ She paused for breath. If Clarke hadn’t known better, she’d have said the woman had had media training. Then again, with Dougal Kelly in her corner, maybe she had. ‘But now,’ Catherine Bloom continued, ‘we have evidence of potential involvement by the police in the crime itself and not just the cover-up. There needs to be an inquiry into the handling of this case, carried out by a police force from outside Scotland, and questions need to be asked at the highest level of government about what was known, what was brushe
d under the carpet, and who knew what.’ She focused her gaze on the camera lens, speaking directly to the viewer. ‘My son’s callous murder must not have been in vain. I want justice; I want change; I want the guilty to be named, shamed and put behind bars – each and every one of them!’
The interview ended, cutting back to the studio and a visibly shaken newsreader. Sutherland cut the sound once more, hardly daring to meet Mollison’s eyes.
‘We need a chat in private,’ Mollison said solemnly. Sutherland nodded and sought out Tess Leighton.
‘Our room’s at your disposal,’ she quickly agreed. Sutherland led the way, Mollison at his heels. The office was quiet for a few moments, until George Gamble whistled softly.
‘What happens now?’ Phil Yeats asked.
‘In public, not much,’ Clarke guessed. ‘Plenty of private bollockings, I dare say, and maybe additional staff and resources for us. But we still have a murder to solve, and stringing us up isn’t going to help with that.’
‘But everyone will expect us to focus on the investigating officers from the time.’
‘And we’re doing that anyway, aren’t we?’
‘What if we give the press Ness’s fingerprint? Would that take the heat off?’
‘The handcuffs are still handcuffs. We need to know how the hell they got there and whose they were to begin with.’ Clarke ran a hand through her hair.
‘It keeps getting messier, doesn’t it?’ Callum Reid asked. He was straightening his tie, as if in readiness – Sutherland dismissed to the changing room, him promoted to captain. Clarke gave him a stern look.
‘I’ve survived messier,’ she told him. ‘This has a way to go yet.’ More texts had started arriving on her phone. There was one from Laura Smith, so she opened it.
Buy you a bite? Usual spot 12.30?
Clarke tapped a one-word reply: Fine.
The café was on Leith Walk, almost equidistant between Leith and Gayfield Square police stations. It was run by an Italian family and specialised in toasted sandwiches so overfilled no one could finish them. The booths were cramped and the music cheesy. Clarke squeezed in across from Laura Smith and stared at the third member of their party.
‘I’ve known Dougal a while,’ Smith explained. ‘We worked a night desk together some years back.’
Clarke gave Dougal Kelly a tight smile. ‘Could you give us a minute? Maybe fetch a jug of water?’
He waited until Smith had nodded her agreement before heading for the counter.
‘The handcuffs?’ Clarke said quietly.
‘I told you I’d give you a day or two. It was out there, Siobhan. Too many tongues had started wagging on your side of the fence.’
‘How well do you really know this guy?’ Clarke was staring at Kelly’s back.
‘The book he’s writing won’t be published till next year. And he definitely protects his sources.’
‘He knows about the run-in we had with ACU?’
Smith nodded.
‘And you brought him with you today because …?’
‘Just listen to what he has to say, okay?’
Kelly was returning with the pitcher and three glasses. ‘All right if I sit down?’ he asked. Clarke nodded, without managing to look welcoming. The owner was fetching his notepad. They ordered and he left, yelling instructions in the direction of the kitchen.
‘Shouldn’t you be stuck like glue to the grieving mother?’ Clarke asked Kelly.
‘She’s back in the hotel bedroom, digesting the news.’
‘We still don’t know where the cuffs came from,’ Clarke stressed. Kelly just shrugged.
‘One more piece of the jigsaw,’ he commented. ‘You have to admit, there’s a picture emerging.’
‘Unlike some, I don’t jump to conclusions.’ Clarke took a sip of water while Kelly sighed, gripping the rim of the table with both hands.
‘I’ll just say what I have to say, okay? The officers involved in the original inquiry – people like John Rebus, Mary Skelton, Douglas Newsome – they all fell down on the job. More than that; in some cases they broke the very laws they were honour-bound to uphold. I’ve got information on every single one of them.’
‘Including a couple of uniforms called Steele and Edwards?’
Kelly couldn’t meet her eyes. ‘Not so much, no.’
Clarke gave a snort. ‘That’s because they’re your source for all of this, yes? Happy to land everyone else in it just so long as they’re protected?’
‘I’m not saying they’re whiter than white.’
‘Trust me, that would be a tough sell around this table.’
‘But Rawlston with his lazy assumption that there had to be a gay angle; Skelton bunking off half the time; Newsome altering statements; Rebus doing favours for Derek Shankley …’ He paused. ‘You’ve not even started interviewing them, have you?’
‘In Mary Skelton’s case, that would require a spiritualist,’ Clarke replied icily. ‘In point of fact, we’ve already spoken with Rawlston and Rebus. And I’m sure Laura’s let you know we’ve had a visit from Derek Shankley and his father, too. So if you’re looking for evidence of sloppy policing or a cover-up, you need to try harder. And while you’re doing that, we’ll be doing our job, despite all the grief we’re getting.’
‘Can you really blame the family, after the way they’ve been treated?’
‘All I know is, everyone on the team in Leith is working their damnedest, and media attention just gets in the way.’
‘Catherine’s hurting – her and Martin both.’ Kelly paused and sighed. ‘You know, all the time he was missing, they never once considered having Stuart declared dead. There was always that sliver of hope. For a while, Martin started drinking. He managed to kick it, but it nearly ended the marriage.’
‘This’ll all be going in your book, will it?’
‘The family decide what goes in.’
‘So it might not be the full story.’ Clarke nodded to herself. ‘Just another version.’ She began to manoeuvre her way out of the booth and tossed a ten-pound note on to the tabletop. ‘That should cover mine. Don’t seem to have any appetite.’
‘The Blooms could be useful to you, you know,’ Kelly was saying. ‘They have the ear of the media. Someone out there knows who killed Stuart and why. The longer this plays on TV and elsewhere, the more it might get to them.’
Clarke ignored him, waved an apology towards the frowning proprietor and yanked open the door. She was halfway across the pavement when Laura Smith emerged, clattering towards her on wedge heels.
‘Siobhan …’
Clarke paused and waited. Smith glanced back at the window, where Kelly was watching.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I thought I was helping.’
‘Me or him?’
The journalist tried for a look suggesting penitence. ‘Let me make it up to you.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘A heads-up on a story we’re running in the morning. It’s about Sir Adrian Brand.’
‘Yes?’
‘You’re out at Poretoun House, aren’t you? Ripping the place apart from what I hear.’
‘What’s the story, Laura?’
‘Just that Sir Adrian is friends with DCS Mollison. We’ve got pics of them at charity galas and out on the golf course.’
‘So?’ Clarke managed not to show that her heart had sunk a little. ‘Have you asked DCS Mollison for a quote?’
‘He’s been hard to get hold of.’
‘Since news of the handcuffs broke? Wonder why that could be, Laura.’
Smith scowled at Clarke’s sarcasm. ‘I’m a reporter, Siobhan. This is my job.’
‘And did you find the story all on your own, or did you have a bit of help?’ Clarke looked towards the window. Kelly was dabbing at his phone with both thumbs. ‘He wants
a friend inside MIT, and can give you something in return if you make an introduction?’
‘A story’s a story.’
‘Not when it’s being skewed. A game of golf? A charity night? Whoopee-fucking-do, Laura. You know as well as I do, it says everything and nothing, but that won’t stop the conspiracy theorists lapping it up, especially when you add as a last line that DCS Mollison could not be reached for comment.’
‘I couldn’t get to him, but you can.’
Clarke raised both eyebrows. ‘So you want me to do your job for you? Get him to talk to you? Dream on, sister.’ She spun away and unlocked her car. She had already started the engine when Smith’s fingernails tapped at the window. Clarke lowered it and Smith leaned in so they were face to face.
‘Know how few of us are left out here in the wild, Siobhan? Journalists like me, we’re an endangered species. It’s all bloggers and social justice warriors and gossip hounds. How many of them can you put a name to? Maybe you better start trying, because soon they’re going to be all that’s left.’
Clarke watched her turn and head back inside, where her overfilled sandwich was waiting. Kelly had picked his up and was wondering where to start. Smith sat across from him. He spoke, she listened, then they both turned in Clarke’s direction. She fixed her gaze on the windscreen in front of her and signalled to join the stream of traffic, ignoring the blaring horn of the taxi behind her.
29
Rebus hadn’t been inside Saughton for a few years. His phone was confiscated and he had to go through an airport-style scanner. They even swabbed him to check for drugs. He explained about the inhaler and they asked upstairs before allowing him to hang on to it. And then he was in. The visitors’ room was large and poorly heated, the tables busy with family members. Rebus was led towards Ellis Meikle. The young man sat rigid as a statue, jaw clenched, eyes fixed to the whitewashed stone wall over Rebus’s shoulder after Rebus had seated himself on the red moulded-plastic chair.
‘Thanks for seeing me,’ he said.
