by Ian Rankin
‘I’m looking for the motive, Deb, and not really seeing one.’
‘You know as well as I do, we don’t always get that sort of closure. Plenty of killers don’t know why they did it or else won’t say.’ She reached over and placed a hand on his knee. ‘Cases are seldom a hundred per cent watertight. Ninety usually does it for the jury. Do you think Jackie Ness is going to get away with it?’
Rebus shrugged. ‘If your forensic pals got a move on, I might know the answer to that.’
‘Why did Siobhan bring the Meikle case to you?’
‘She’s snowed under.’
‘And maybe she did it to keep you active?’
‘Either that or out of her hair.’
‘She must have dozens of cases like Meikle, though – does she have links to the uncle or something?’
‘Sort of.’
‘It’s not just altruism then?’
‘It seldom is.’
He watched as Quant tugged the band from her hair, shaking it loose so it fell across her shoulders and forehead.
‘Are you staying?’ she asked.
‘I’d like to, but there’s Brillo to think of.’
‘You could walk him, then come back after.’
‘I could.’ His eyes scanned the room. ‘I like it here.’
‘The decor, the furnishings …?’
‘I think it’s the fact you have a lift,’ he joked, earning a cushion in the face.
33
Sir Adrian Brand and his wife Cordelia had been out for the evening – La Traviata, courtesy of Scottish Opera at the Festival Theatre. Parking was always problematic so they had taken a black cab. Afterwards, they managed a late supper at Ondine before heading home to Murrayfield. The cab dropped them at the gates.
‘We’ll walk,’ Brand instructed the driver, handing over a twenty and telling him to keep the change. The cab started to move off as his wife glowered at him.
‘It’s only fifty yards,’ he chided her, punching the code into the panel on the gatepost.
‘But in heels,’ she complained, lifting one leg for him to see.
‘I’ll carry you then,’ he said with a smile as the gates began to swing open.
Neither of them had noticed the car parked across the street, or that someone had emerged from it and was striding towards them. Cordelia Brand caught a glimpse of the figure from the corner of her eye, and clutched her evening bag close to her chest.
‘Adrian …’ she said.
Brand turned just as the fist was swinging towards him. It connected with the meat of his nose, blood splashing down his shirt front. A knee to the groin doubled him over, and a kick to the stomach put him on all fours. His wife was yelling for help, swiping at the assailant with her bag. He didn’t seem to register her blows. Instead, he leaned down, grabbing Brand by the hair and pulling until his face angled upwards, tears streaming from the eyes.
‘A man can only take so much,’ Jackie Ness hissed, showing both rows of teeth. ‘A lesson you should have learned by now.’ He slammed Brand’s forehead against the pavement, then straightened up and began walking back to his car. Cordelia Brand was torn between stopping him and helping her husband. Decision made, she fumbled in her bag for her phone.
It was 2 a.m. when Clarke got the call. She dressed and picked up her car keys. Jackie Ness’s car had been pulled over on Melville Drive. He’d been placed under arrest and taken to St Leonard’s police station. Sir Adrian Brand was at the Royal Infirmary, awaiting a scan. He seemed okay, but the doctors in A&E wanted to be sure. His wife had given a statement, along with a photo she had snapped with her phone of Ness’s car leaving the scene, its number plate clearly visible. A statement had also been taken from Brand himself. Graham Sutherland was reading it as Clarke entered the MIT room in Leith. Callum Reid turned away from the kettle and handed Clarke a mug of instant.
‘No milk, sorry,’ he said. His hair was uncombed and his eyes were bleary. He wore a shirt and jacket but no tie. Sutherland, on the other hand, looked immaculate. Clarke wondered if he slept upright in his clothes.
‘I didn’t bother disturbing anyone else’s beauty sleep,’ Sutherland said. ‘Just thought my two DIs should be in the loop.’
‘This is because of the Poretoun House search?’ Clarke asked. Stupid question, but she was still half asleep.
‘Mr Ness has been questioned by officers at St Leonard’s, and that’s the story he gave. Even showed them his phone. Over two dozen photos, sent to him by Sir Adrian Brand over a four-hour period. One of them is a selfie, Brand grinning while the work goes on behind him.’
‘I’d probably have gone tonto myself,’ Reid commented. ‘On top of the prints on the handcuffs and the media attention.’
‘I dare say Professional Standards will want a word with us.’
‘Not our fault he snapped,’ Clarke felt it necessary to state. ‘Has Ness put in a complaint?’
‘He might, if his solicitor suggests it. Mitigating circumstances and all that.’
‘Solicitor will say we should have known the reason Brand was on hand to take all those photos was to torment his old adversary.’
Callum Reid nodded his agreement and took a sip from his mug, wincing at its bitter contents.
‘So what now?’ Clarke asked.
‘Lady Brand is at the hospital with her husband. I’d like you to go have a word, see what was said between the two men.’
‘And then a chat with Ness?’
Sutherland looked at Clarke. ‘Maybe tomorrow. He’s being kept in the cells overnight. Chances are it’ll be a sheriff’s court appearance in the morning, a fine and another walk past the cameras and microphones.’
‘After which we bring him back into custody?’
‘Maybe. Meantime, go see what you can glean at A&E.’
Clarke’s windscreen had already started frosting over again. They sat together and waited for the heater to do its job. Reid yawned and checked his phone for news. Clarke’s own phone let her know she had a text. It was from Laura Smith.
Is it true about Ness and Brand?
Clarke texted back: I’m not talking to you. A reply came immediately.
Dougal didn’t get the fingerprint story from me! My editor’s raging I missed it! Can I phone you?
Instead of responding, Clarke released the handbrake and they headed to the hospital. No traffic on the roads apart from cabs. Clarke decided it was safe to ignore the odd red light, though Reid tutted theatrically every time she did it. He had brought his mug with him and she wished she had done the same.
‘Professional Standards would be the icing on the cake,’ he commented.
‘That’s the problem with this cake, Callum – it’s all icing and no bloody filling.’
They made good time and parked near the doors to A&E, making sure emergency vehicles could get past. Two ambulances stood under the canopy, doors open. It was a busy night. There were eight or nine patients seated in reception and a couple of others on trolleys. Paramedics in green overalls chatted among themselves to the side of the reception desk. Clarke and Reid showed ID to the receptionist and were given a ward number. When they got there, Cordelia Brand was seated alone on a row of chairs, her bag on her knees, face ghostly, eyes staring. Clarke and Reid introduced themselves.
‘He’ll be admitted when they’re done examining him,’ Lady Brand said. ‘There’s a bed waiting, I think. But right now they’re doing some sort of brain test. I’m sure he’s fine. He’s talking and everything, just hellish shaken.’
‘You recognised the assailant?’ Reid asked.
‘Oh, it was Jackie Ness all right. Adrian had been laughing about him earlier in the evening. Sending him those photos – I told him it was childish behaviour. But how could we know where it would lead?’
‘Had Ness contacted your husband at all
? After the photos started arriving, I mean?’
‘Not that I know of. There were just a couple of them, weren’t there?’
‘A couple of dozen actually,’ Clarke corrected her. The woman’s face tightened.
‘Childish, as I say. But that doesn’t excuse what happened.’
‘Not at all,’ Reid agreed.
‘What did happen exactly?’ Clarke enquired. ‘Can you talk us through it?’
‘If Adrian had let the driver take us up to the door, we’d have been safely inside before that man could reach us. But no, we had to walk the length of the drive.’ She showed them her shoes. ‘In these, I ask you. But Adrian’s mind was made up, so that was that. He was opening the gates when Ness walked over. He’d obviously been waiting in his car; for how long I can’t say, but probably stewing all that time. I was warning Adrian – I thought it was a mugger – when the punch came. Adrian’s nose was bleeding, and then a knee caught him in the groin area. There was another punch to the stomach, I think – no, a kick, a kick to the stomach. He was on the ground by then, but Ness yanked on his hair so Adrian was looking up at him. That’s when he said it.’
‘Said what?’
‘“A man can only take so much. You should know that by now.”’
‘Those exact words?’
‘“You should know that” or “you should have learned that” – something along those lines.’
Clarke jotted it down in her notebook.
‘What do you think he meant?’ Reid was asking. Cordelia Brand offered a shrug.
‘The man’s clearly lost his mind, wouldn’t you say?’
A nurse had arrived through a set of swing doors. ‘Another hour or so, I’m afraid,’ she explained.
‘Any chance we can talk to him?’ Clarke asked, holding open her warrant card.
‘Doubtful until morning. You’d have to ask the doctor.’
‘Please don’t go upsetting him,’ Lady Brand begged the two detectives. ‘This will have bruised his ego as well as his face. He spars with his personal trainer, you know.’
‘We can all get caught by a sucker punch,’ Reid reassured her. The nurse was leaving. Lady Brand took her phone from her bag and showed them the photo of Ness’s car.
‘He should go to jail, but he won’t,’ she said.
‘What makes you think that?’
‘They’re overcrowded as it is – all an assault merits these days is a slap on the wrist. I’m a prison visitor, so I know.’
‘Saughton prison?’ Clarke asked casually. Reid was giving her a questioning look, but she ignored him.
‘Yes.’
‘Ever encountered a teenager called Ellis Meikle?’
‘He should be somewhere else, somewhere for younger prisoners. But then again, he is a murderer.’
‘So you know him to speak to?’
The woman shook her head. ‘Only by reputation – which is that he never says much, except to ask when he can have a games console. I don’t think human life means as much to him as that other world he inhabits. Now if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll go find a mirror so I can brush my hair and tidy my face. Need to look my best for Adrian when I see him.’
The two detectives watched her leave. She had good posture, her back ramrod straight. Clarke imagined her as a girl, books balanced on her head as she learned the necessary poise and refinement.
‘What was all that about?’ Reid asked as he checked his phone for messages.
‘Just a case I worked on.’
‘Do you keep tabs on all of them?’
Clarke didn’t bother answering. She stared at the words she had jotted on her notepad. ‘What do you make of Ness’s outburst?’
‘I’m not sure.’ He put his phone away and stifled a yawn. ‘So do we hang around here on the off chance of a word with the patient?’
‘Depends how keen you are.’
‘Bit of shut-eye wouldn’t go amiss.’
‘Hard to disagree. Bright and early at Leith, though?’
‘Last one in buys elevenses.’
‘You’re on.’
Malcolm Fox was in his kitchen, hands wrapped around a mug of instant hot chocolate. He had slept fitfully, a couple of hours at most. Before bed, he had peered through his curtains, half expecting to see the black Audi parked across his driveway. Either that or Rebus’s Saab. The further down he dug into the Bloom case, the more he found. Not hard facts as such, but hints and trails and links. Trace evidence, in a way. You looked for it at the scene of a crime, but that wasn’t the only place you could find it. Rebus had been good, of course, one of the best – it was the reason Complaints had never been able to kick him off the force. But in covering up the flaws, mistakes and misdemeanours of others, he had left the faintest trace evidence of his own.
The question in Fox’s mind was, what was he going to do about what he had found? In presenting his case, he would be showing himself at his best. Jennifer Lyon would take note; bosses even higher up the ladder would take note. He’d have established himself on a fast track to further promotion. That was what he wanted, wasn’t it? Alternatively, he could take it to Steele and Edwards. They’d see to it he joined them at ACU. He’d spent some of his best years chasing down corruption within the force. At ACU he’d be using those skills again. And maybe in time he would even have enough evidence to send Steele and Edwards to court.
Which future awaited him? He stared at the skin forming on the surface of his drink and couldn’t say.
Wednesday
34
In the morning, Sutherland dispatched Gamble and Crowther to question Sir Adrian Brand. He had been discharged and was back home, his eyes swollen and black from the punch he’d taken. His brain was fine, however, and his nose wasn’t broken. The whole MIT room watched the TV screen as the security van carrying Jackie Ness arrived at the court building. Clarke caught sight of Laura Smith amongst the ranks of onlookers. Turning from the screen, she led Sutherland to one side.
‘DCS Mollison just dodged a bullet,’ she informed him. ‘Scotsman were going to run a story about how cosy he was with Sir Adrian. They pulled it after the fingerprint news and Ness’s attack on Brand, but they’ll find a use for it eventually.’
‘How cosy?’
‘Charity galas and golf outings – same as most of his predecessors.’
‘I remember Bill Rawlston was one such.’ Sutherland rubbed at his chin. ‘Does Mollison know about this?’
‘He was pretty busy yesterday as I remember.’
Sutherland nodded slowly. ‘I’ll warn him. Do I dare to ask how you know?’
‘Old-school policing,’ Clarke offered, keeping her face emotionless.
‘I thought your run-in with ACU might have taught you to use more caution in your dealings with our friends in the media.’
‘I’m a slow learner.’
Sutherland managed a thin smile. ‘Can’t say I’ve seen any evidence of that.’
Over at Phil Yeats’s desk, Clarke checked the list Derek Shankley had helped compile of Stuart Bloom’s friends and associates. No sign of Madden and Speke, of course, but Ralph Hanratty’s name was there, along with a phone number and a note: 2006/7?? Meaning, she reckoned, that Shankley hadn’t been in touch with Hanratty since that time. She called the number anyway and got a recorded message telling her it was no longer in service, so she crossed to her own desk and did a Google search, smiling to herself: old-school policing. Hanratty, she learned within five minutes, had gone into the porn business: online only, it seemed. A subscription channel catering to all tastes. Some of the stuff had been too strong, and he’d ended up in court. Clarke wondered if Jackie Ness knew him; she doubted this was the time to ask.
Well, not the time to ask Ness, at any rate. Hanratty’s home address, however, was on the database. She copied it into her phone and u
sed the postcode to bring up a map. Eskbank, hard by Newbattle golf course. She realised Callum Reid was standing over her.
‘Who is he?’ Reid asked.
‘Owner of Rogues back in the day. Now he sells porn.’
‘Have we talked to him yet?’
‘Doesn’t look like.’
‘Any particular reason he’s suddenly of interest?’
‘I heard a rumour he might have had a cop or two on his payroll.’
‘I think we all know it was your friend Rebus who tipped off Bloom’s boyfriend.’
‘All the same …’
Reid picked up the list. ‘Well, they all have to be questioned eventually. What order we do them in doesn’t really matter. I hear that Doug Newsome is coming in later this morning and the ACU wankers this afternoon. We could slot this guy Hanratty in if you like.’
‘Great,’ Clarke said. ‘Thanks.’
Reid made show of checking his watch. ‘We do, of course, also have to make time for elevenses. Mine’s a jam doughnut.’
‘Thirty seconds you beat me by,’ Clarke complained.
‘First past the post, Siobhan – that’s all that matters.’
‘Does Larry Huston live here?’
The woman peered at Rebus from behind glasses that needed cleaning. She was in her forties and hadn’t exercised in a while. Her hair either needed a wash or was already damp, and as it wasn’t raining outside, Rebus suspected the former.
The house was on an estate of identical terraced properties, reminiscent of Restalrig. But this was Murrayburn, across the city, yet another side of Edinburgh the tourists would never see.
‘My name’s John Rebus,’ he said.
‘Too old to be a rozzer, so what are you?’
‘You’re sharp,’ Rebus told her. ‘I used to be police. If Larry’s in, you can tell him I’m here on behalf of Darryl Christie.’
The name meant something to her, though she tried not to let it show. She told Rebus to wait there and headed indoors. She was back half a minute later.
‘In you come then. I’m his daughter, Brie, like the cheese – God knows why; him and my mum never even visited France, and the only cheese in the house was Co-op Cheddar. You wanting a drink?’
