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

by Ian Rankin

  ‘Driven rather than transported there on the back of a flatbed?’ Yeats asked. He looked around the room. ‘Say it sat in a field for nine or ten years – battery would be flat; tyres, too. Oil, spark plugs …’ He shrugged.

  ‘Someone from a garage would have had to get it going,’ Gamble agreed.

  ‘Someone with a bit of know-how anyway,’ Yeats said.

  Inglis had risen from her seat and approached the map, standing the other side of it from Clarke so they could all see. She found Poretoun Woods with her forefinger. ‘Maybe a twenty-mile radius. A longer drive would have dislodged the deposits.’

  ‘We can probably discount Edinburgh,’ Clarke mused.

  ‘I wouldn’t,’ Aubrey Hamilton piped up. ‘Plenty green belt around the edges of the city, meaning farmland.’

  ‘Am I allowed to say it’s needle-in-a-haystack stuff?’ George Gamble announced gruffly. ‘What does it matter if the car was stuck in a field all those years?’

  ‘Think that could happen without someone knowing?’ Clarke enquired. ‘We find where the car was kept, we’ve got ourselves someone who can tell us who put it there and who moved it again.’ She looked to Sutherland for confirmation. He was nodding to himself slowly as he sifted through the handout.

  ‘This is very useful, very useful,’ he intoned quietly. To Clarke’s ears, it sounded as if he was trying to convince himself.

  By 5.50 p.m. they were back in what had become their usual bar, minus Reid and Yeats, who had appointments elsewhere. Between the departure of the two professors and knocking-off time, they had managed, by dint of an internet search, to find the name and phone number of the person they needed at the National Farmers’ Union Scotland. But that person had gone home for the day, as had everyone else in the office.

  ‘It can wait till morning,’ Sutherland had said. ‘I don’t suppose the farms will have gone anywhere, and it’s not as if we’re going to be visiting any of them at dead of night.’

  When Rebus texted, asking Clarke’s whereabouts, she texted back. Not fifteen minutes later, he walked in.

  ‘Perfect timing,’ Sutherland said. ‘I was just about to get in another round.’

  ‘My shout,’ Rebus insisted, pointing at each of them in turn until he’d amassed the order.

  ‘I’ll help carry,’ Sutherland said, accompanying Rebus to the bar. He had removed his tie and loosened his shirt collar.

  ‘How’s it going?’ Rebus asked him.

  ‘Slow but steady.’

  ‘Charges imminent?’

  ‘Hope springs eternal. What brings you here anyway?’

  ‘Just need a word with Siobhan.’

  ‘And maybe with DI Fox too, eh? See if he’s finished finding all the dirt from first time round.’

  Rebus looked over to where Fox and Clarke were pretending to be chatting while actually much more interested in what might be being said at the bar.

  ‘Fox has tried taking me down in the past,’ Rebus commented. ‘He never got very far.’

  ‘How about Steele and Edwards – ever had any run-ins with them?’

  ‘I have a sneaking suspicion they saw me as one of their own. If we got too close, no way of knowing who would leave the grubbier marks.’

  ‘They seem to have led charmed lives.’

  ‘Maybe not for much longer.’ Rebus paused. ‘Siobhan and I both know why you brought her in to MIT. She won’t thank you for the knight-rescues-damsel scenario, but I do. It sent ACU a message, reinforced by the way you’ve stuck up for her since.’

  ‘I get the feeling you think you might be about to send them another.’

  Rebus handed two twenties to the barman.

  ‘You think of her like a daughter, don’t you?’ Sutherland asked.

  ‘I’ve got a daughter.’

  ‘Maybe a favourite niece, then?’

  ‘Another scenario she wouldn’t thank you for,’ Rebus said, hoisting two of the glasses and making his way to the table.

  Eventually people started to drift off – homeward bound or in search of food – until only Rebus, Clarke and Fox were left.

  ‘Here we are again,’ Rebus commented, raising his glass in a toast. ‘Almost like the old days.’

  ‘But without the pints and nicotine,’ Fox said. He was drinking sparkling apple juice, same as Rebus.

  ‘I can appreciate,’ Rebus went on, ‘that while a civilian was present, nobody was ready to open up about the case. But now it’s just the three of us …’

  ‘How much do you know?’ Fox asked.

  ‘John’s pretty well up to speed,’ Clarke answered quickly.

  ‘I won’t ask whose doing that is.’ Fox gave her an arch look. ‘Does he know about the field, though?’

  ‘What field?’ Rebus enquired.

  ‘The one where the VW Polo sat for the best part of a decade. It was only moved to the gully two or three years back.’

  ‘Around the time Ness sold up to Jeff Sellers,’ Clarke clarified. ‘Who in short order sold to Brand.’

  ‘It sat in a field?’ Rebus didn’t sound as if he quite believed it. ‘With the body inside?’

  ‘From the condition of the bodywork, Professor Hamilton reckons it had a tarpaulin over it. But nothing underneath, which is why weeds and the like pushed their way up from ground level. They were uprooted when the car was moved, but were still all twisted round the exhaust and had even invaded the interior floor.’

  ‘Sitting in a field and no one noticed?’

  She shook her head slowly. ‘I know.’

  ‘So now,’ Fox said, ‘we have to look at farms and fields within a twenty-mile radius of Poretoun, which means asking the NFU for help.’

  ‘You talk like it’s your inquiry, Malcolm,’ Clarke said.

  ‘I can’t help myself.’ Fox gave a thin smile, staring at the surface of his drink.

  ‘Almost finished your report?’ Rebus asked him.

  ‘A result this time round would help shift the focus from previous failings.’

  Rebus nodded. He was thinking back to another bar, another conversation.

  ‘I visited Poretoun,’ he began. ‘Got talking to a local whose son has a farm there. Guess what that farmer did when he was young?’

  ‘Enlighten us.’

  ‘Acted as an extra in one of Jackie Ness’s flicks.’

  Clarke stared at him. ‘You’re winding us up.’

  Rebus lifted a hand. ‘Cross my heart.’

  Fox was busy on his phone. He held it up so they could see the screen. ‘Poretoun Glen Farm?’ he said.

  ‘Maybe,’ Rebus conceded. ‘We could all jump in a car and go see.’

  ‘Not without Sutherland’s blessing,’ Clarke stated.

  ‘And what would we see in the dark anyway?’ Fox added.

  ‘Spoilsports,’ Rebus said. Then, eyes on Fox: ‘Mind if I have a quick word with Siobhan?’

  ‘For her ears only?’ Fox nodded his understanding. ‘Anyone want another?’

  They shook their heads, but he went and stood by the bar anyway, half-filled glass in hand. Clarke moved a little closer to Rebus.

  ‘I think,’ Rebus explained in an undertone, ‘I’ve got just about enough for us to take to Dallas Meikle.’

  ‘You know why Ellis did it?’ Her eyes had widened a fraction.

  ‘Why it happened, yes.’

  ‘So tell me!’

  But he was shaking his head. ‘There’s something I have to do first.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Go see Ellis again.’ She looked to him for an explanation, but he shook his head again. ‘Later,’ he said. ‘Meantime, Cafferty dropped me a name – Graeme with an e. That’s who sold the tainted dope to those ODs.’

  ‘Graeme was a sole trader?’

  ‘According to Cafferty. Seems he
got out of Dodge when Cafferty started looking for him.’

  ‘But only as far as Jackie Ness’s film set, by which time he was Gram?’

  Rebus shrugged. Fox was looking impatient. ‘If it turns out to be useful,’ Rebus told Clarke quietly, ‘just remember that you didn’t get it from me.’

  ‘Because that would mean admitting Cafferty confides in you?’

  ‘That’s not what he does – he plays games, some of them long-term.’

  ‘You think he’s still playing one that started in 2006?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  Fox was nearing the table. ‘Finished gossiping about me?’

  ‘I was just telling Siobhan it’s good news Cafferty is cooperating with the inquiry.’

  ‘He is?’

  ‘Steele won’t know any different when you tell him.’

  ‘Why would I tell him when it’s not true?’

  ‘To shake the kaleidoscope,’ Rebus said with a smile.

  ‘The two of them know one another?’

  ‘Cafferty used him as muscle on at least one occasion, that occasion being a meeting with Irish gangster Conor Maloney.’

  ‘Why are we only hearing this now?’ Clarke asked.

  ‘Because – surprise, surprise – everyone concerned will doubtless deny it.’

  ‘So how come you know?’ Fox asked.

  ‘Grant Edwards got drunk and mouthy one night, couldn’t help telling me. I think he thought I’d be peeved Cafferty hadn’t picked me for the job.’

  ‘And what does this achieve, kaleidoscope aside?’ Fox wanted to know. It was Clarke who answered.

  ‘Driving a wedge between Steele and Edwards?’ she guessed.

  ‘The start of one maybe,’ Rebus acknowledged. ‘Now, if anyone’s hungry, I’m in the mood for a curry.’

  Fox shook his head. ‘I’m supposed to be meeting someone for a drink,’ he apologised. His eyes met Clarke’s. Her look confirmed that she hadn’t told Rebus about Tess Leighton.

  ‘How about you, Shiv?’

  ‘Sorry, John. I’ve got an appointment too.’

  ‘I’m being stood up,’ Rebus said, trying to sound as if he could hardly believe it. ‘Don’t think I won’t remember this when you two are old and on your lonesome.’

  ‘We can’t help it if we’re young and in demand,’ Clarke said, finishing her drink and rising to leave.

  47

  A second-floor flat in a tenement on Comely Bank Avenue. Dougal Kelly and Derek Shankley were waiting for Clarke at the main door. Kelly slid the key into the lock and they entered the stairwell. It was well maintained, a couple of children’s bikes chained to the bottom rail of the stone stairs. Clarke had noticed that the name BLOOM was still on one of the buzzers beside the main door. Having climbed the two flights, they stopped at a red-painted door. Just below the spyhole was a brass plaque, again with the name BLOOM on it. It had been polished in recent memory. Derek Shankley ran a finger across it.

  ‘Catherine?’ Clarke asked Kelly. The journalist nodded.

  ‘She comes fortnightly,’ he explained, unlocking the door and ushering them into the flat.

  ‘Thanks for doing this,’ Clarke said, trying not to sound too grudging. Kelly just shrugged.

  Derek Shankley stood with his palms to his cheeks. ‘It’s exactly the same,’ he whispered, studying the hallway.

  Clarke flicked a switch and the lights came on.

  ‘Bills get paid on time,’ Kelly confirmed.

  ‘Explains why the place is warm.’ Clarke touched a radiator.

  ‘Heating’s on a timer, an hour each day.’

  ‘That must still add up – never mind the council tax and what have you.’

  ‘Martin’s tried more than once to convince her to sell.’ Kelly offered a shrug. They had moved from the hall into the living room. Shankley’s palms were still pressed to his cheeks as he took it all in. Books on shelves; a venerable typewriter in a carrying case; a hi-fi with CDs stacked next to it; newspapers and current affairs magazines dating back to 2005 and 2006.

  ‘It’s a time capsule,’ Clarke said.

  ‘Or maybe a mausoleum.’

  She looked at Kelly. ‘And once the burial’s got the go-ahead …?’

  ‘I doubt it’ll change anything. She’ll still want to be able to visit. She sits on his bed, I think she even talks to him.’

  Shankley had settled on an arm of the sofa, removing his hands from his face and using a finger to wipe a single tear from his eye.

  ‘The door was repaired after the break-in?’ Clarke asked.

  ‘Must have been,’ Shankley said. Clarke looked to Kelly.

  ‘You knew about it?’

  ‘Not until Derek told me. Catherine confirmed it, though, and yes, she had the door fixed afterwards.’

  Clarke studied the room. ‘Where would the papers have been?’ she asked. ‘The ones taken from the safe?’

  Shankley didn’t seem sure. ‘On his writing desk maybe,’ he offered.

  The desk itself was a dining table with just the one leaf unfolded. It had been positioned near the room’s bay window, where there was plenty of natural light.

  ‘He always took his laptop with him?’ Clarke asked.

  ‘Always.’

  She had noticed a camera case sitting on one of the bookshelves. It was a Canon.

  ‘This was here when the place got turned over?’ She watched as Shankley nodded.

  ‘Odd kind of break-in,’ Kelly agreed. ‘TV left behind; camera equipment and hi-fi untouched; ditto Stuart’s passport and chequebook.’

  ‘Have you got a theory?’ Clarke asked him.

  ‘They got exactly what they wanted or else they left empty-handed.’

  She nodded her agreement and watched as Shankley left the room, crossing the hall.

  ‘Bedroom,’ Kelly explained.

  ‘He feels the family have written him out of Stuart’s story,’ Clarke said quietly.

  ‘He’s not wrong about that. Catherine doesn’t want him at the funeral either.’

  ‘Seems unnecessarily cruel.’

  ‘I don’t disagree.’ He had walked to within a few feet of Clarke. ‘How are things with you?’

  ‘Your chums Steele and Edwards are determined to have me for dinner.’

  ‘How about your boss and his team?’

  ‘I’ll cope.’

  ‘A drink when we’re finished here?’

  ‘Not tonight.’ She looked at him, all business. ‘The break-in at Brand’s office – you’ve not given it to the media?’

  He shook his head. ‘I convinced Catherine it was in nobody’s interest.’

  Clarke nodded, showing she understood. She studied the room again.

  ‘You think it’s weird,’ he asked, ‘them keeping this place as it is?’

  ‘I think I can understand it.’ They heard muffled sobbing from the room across the hall. ‘Should we …?’

  Kelly shook his head again. ‘Derek had a hell of a time of it, you know – from the very start, I mean. Dad a big macho copper in big macho Glasgow. He lived a lie for a long time; coming out was hard.’

  ‘How did his dad take it?’

  ‘Denial to start with. Then whisky and shouting. Just the two of them in the house, hardly speaking, the one hoping and praying the other would start to understand.’

  ‘Nicely put,’ Clarke said. ‘I hope he does make it into your story – it’s probably the least he deserves.’

  Kelly nodded distractedly, watching the doorway as Derek Shankley appeared there.

  ‘I don’t think I can stay any longer,’ Shankley said, voice trembling. ‘I thought it’d be okay, but it’s really not. I’ll wait outside till you’re done.’

  When he was gone, Kelly looked towards Clarke, wondering if she’d se
en enough. In answer, she checked the bedroom, kitchen and shower room, lingering in none of them. The bed had been made up, a slight indentation where Shankley had rested for a moment. Clarke brushed the surface flat, so Catherine Bloom wouldn’t suspect.

  ‘Good thinking,’ Kelly said from the doorway, ready to lead her back to the outside world.

  Friday

  48

  When Clarke brought her car to a halt in the farmyard next morning, she saw that another car and a van were already there. Three men in pristine wellington boots were studying what looked to Clarke like architectural plans as they pointed in the direction of the nearest fields, fields that currently were occupied by a herd of untroubled cows.

  Clarke had brought Crowther with her. Fox had pleaded his case, but Sutherland had reminded him that he was attached to the investigation only tangentially and for a specific reason.

  ‘In fact, I’ve had Jennifer Lyon on the phone; she reckons you must be about ready to wind everything up. Says there’s plenty of work waiting for you at Gartcosh.’

  Fox had slouched from the room without saying another word.

  ‘Puts hairs on your chest,’ Crowther said, sucking in a lungful of the pungent air. ‘That’s what my dad used to tell me.’

  Clarke was walking towards the group of men.

  ‘You the civil engineer?’ one of them asked.

  ‘I’m a detective.’ She showed her warrant card. ‘I’m looking for Andrew Carlton.’

  ‘Join the queue.’

  ‘Can I ask what you’re doing here?’

  ‘We’re in the process of buying this land. It’s going to be a village in miniature. Sixty to seventy new-builds, mostly detached.’

  Clarke had noticed the word Brand on the side of the van. ‘You work for Sir Adrian?’

  All three nodded.

  ‘He’s bought the farm?’

  ‘Taken him a good few years to persuade Carlton and shred all the red tape, but Sir Adrian’s not a man to give up without a fight.’

  ‘Not unless he’s caught napping by a bloody film producer,’ another of the three said, pretending to throw a punch. Laughing to themselves, the men moved off, holding the site plans between them as they walked.

  Turning around, Clarke saw that Crowther was checking the outbuildings. A large empty byre; a milking shed full of gleaming equipment; a silo half filled with manure; a barn with more machinery, a well-stocked workshop situated in a lean-to attached to it. The farmhouse was a modest two-storey affair, its door locked. Through the windows Clarke could make out breakfast detritus on the kitchen table – just the one plate, knife and mug – and a living room that looked like no one used it much.