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

by Ian Rankin

  Crowther gave a shrug and they continued their search. A muddy track behind the barn led to a ramshackle gate, beyond which stood a churned, steeply sloping field. Crowther gestured towards the field’s furthest corner. It had become a dumping ground for unwanted machines and implements.

  ‘What do you think?’ she asked. It was Clarke’s turn to shrug.

  They opened the gate and headed in, slipping and sliding until they adjusted to the ground beneath them. As they got closer, Clarke could make out a baler (she thought), and other bits and pieces that could be attached to a tractor. There were a couple of old trailers, their wood mostly turned to pulp. A small van was missing all four wheels and had begun to sink into the mire. There were also coils of fencing, dangerous-looking collections of rusting barbed wire, and the remains of a fridge freezer and washing machine. Even a venerable-looking toilet and blackened cast-iron bath.

  The two detectives’ interest, however, had quickly shifted to a gap between one of the trailers and the van. The ground here was a slightly different colour. What weeds and plants had pushed through the soil weren’t quite as well established as those nearby.

  ‘Something’s been moved,’ Crowther commented.

  Clarke turned and peered into the front of the van. ‘There’s a tarpaulin in here.’

  ‘Get on to the SOCOs or a chat with the farmer first?’

  ‘SOCOs. If nothing else, their presence might throw Mr Carlton off balance. I wonder where the hell he is.’

  It was then that Clarke heard a tractor in the middle distance. She climbed on to the bonnet of the van for a better look. The tractor was trundling along, the best part of one field over. It stopped suddenly, a figure half emerging on to the running board, facing her. Clarke waved, then watched as the figure leapt down from the cab and stood there for a moment before turning and running in the opposite direction.

  ‘Hell’s he up to?’ Crowther asked.

  ‘Back to the car!’ Clarke called out, jumping from the bonnet of the van and trying as best she could to hurry through the morass.

  They called it in as they drove. Crowther had the sat nav up. Poretoun was the only village around. Not many roads, most of them little more than country lanes and farm tracks. They retraced their route towards the main road and took a left. Eventually they caught sight of the abandoned tractor. The lane was lined with hedgerows, with gaps here and there allowing occasional glimpses of the fields and woods beyond.

  ‘See him?’ Clarke said from between gritted teeth. Her boots were slick with mud, threatening to slip from the pedals.

  ‘No,’ Crowther admitted.

  ‘Get up on the roof.’ Clarke brought the car to a stop.

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Just do it.’

  Crowther got out, clambering on to the bonnet first and then the roof. Clarke slid her window down.

  ‘He can’t be far,’ she called out.

  ‘Unless he’s not on foot. Maybe there was a car …’

  ‘How long did they say for the cavalry?’

  ‘Fifteen minutes, maybe twenty. Dalkeith and Penicuik are the nearest stations.’

  ‘But not always manned?’ Clarke guessed.

  ‘Any chance of a helicopter?’

  ‘Yeah, sure. When we might not even be able to rouse a patrol car.’

  Crowther slid back down the windscreen on to the bonnet and half rolled until her feet hit the ground. ‘Only asking,’ she said, getting back in.

  Clarke pressed the accelerator, eyes scanning left to right. A figure darted from the undergrowth before she could brake. The impact threw him forward, spinning. He hit the roadway shoulder first, head next, and lay there, either unconscious or …

  ‘Dead?’ Crowther asked, jaw refusing to close once the word was out.

  Clarke pulled on the handbrake and pushed open the door. She crouched in front of the farmer. Below his blue overalls, his chest rose and fell, rose and fell.

  ‘Ambulance?’ Crowther asked from the passenger seat.

  ‘Ambulance,’ Clarke confirmed with relief.

  49

  ‘What did you do?’ Ellis Meikle asked Rebus. They were back in HMP Saughton’s visiting hall, same table as before.

  ‘They moved you?’ Rebus asked.

  ‘Not yet, but someone’s had a word. I’m being treated like I’m not to be messed with.’

  ‘I spoke to someone in here who has a bit of clout.’

  ‘Who?’

  Rebus shook his head. ‘Best you don’t get too close. Had any other visitors?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Want to know why I came here in the first place?’ Rebus watched Meikle shrug.

  ‘You said it was down to Uncle Dallas.’

  ‘A friend of mine, she was the cop in charge of your case.’

  ‘Clarke?’

  ‘That’s the one. She started getting prank calls. Being a detective, it took her about ten minutes to unmask the culprit – your uncle Dallas. He’d been given her number and home address by a couple of other cops she’d had some bother with. Being thick and malicious, they decided to offer her up to your uncle. She wants payback but Uncle Dallas wouldn’t help unless she took another look at your case. He thinks you’re innocent, Ellis. He believes in you.’

  ‘He shouldn’t.’

  ‘Thing is, though, I’m going to have to tell him he’s right. It took me a while to make up my mind – I had your dad in the frame but it didn’t quite work. He may have fancied Kristen – he seems to have a thing for women younger than your mum – but like I say, it didn’t quite work. So I’m going to have to tell Uncle Dallas about Billie.’ Rebus paused to let his words sink in. Colour was creeping up Ellis Meikle’s neck.

  ‘No,’ the young man said, voice suddenly hoarse.

  ‘What else can I do?’ Rebus reasoned. ‘You’re in here for a crime you didn’t commit.’ He leaned forward on his elbows. ‘Started to dawn on me when I told you I’d been talking to some of the kids who knew you in Restalrig. Remember? I told you they’d said she made you do it, and straight away you asked if they meant Kristen. Afterwards, I began to wonder – who else if not your girlfriend?’ He paused, giving his words time to sink in.

  ‘Billie was at your house that day; your focus was on the game you were playing – easy for her to send a text from your phone. And that would have been that, if you hadn’t gone out and bumped into one of Kristen’s pals, wondering why you weren’t at the bunker. You knew straight off who must have sent the text – unlikely it was one of your mates. So you hightailed it, but too late. Billie had already done the deed. You took the knife from her, made sure to wipe her prints and add your own, then threw it where it wouldn’t be too hard to find. Got your sister out of there, maybe covering up any blood on her clothes by sticking your own jacket over her. And that was that.’ He lifted his elbows off the table and leaned back in his chair. ‘Something else you said on my first visit: “What else was I going to do?” You didn’t mean killing Kristen; you meant taking the blame.’

  ‘You can’t prove anything.’

  ‘Means, motive and opportunity,’ Rebus said. ‘The holy trinity of any investigation. Opportunity – well, we’ve already ticked that box. Motive – I’m guessing if we got some IT experts in or questioned the right pupils at Billie’s old school, we might find concrete proof that she was being bullied by Kristen. You’d heard the stories too, I dare say – Kristen trying to get to your dad through you.’ The young man looked ready to lash out, so Rebus held up a hand. ‘Just stories, Ellis. I’m not saying they’re true. But these days with the internet and mobile phones and things like WhatsApp and Snapchat – I’ll be honest with you, I don’t really know what those are; I just hear about them. What I do know is, they make bullying a 24/7 reality. I’ve had someone who knows more about them than me take a look. Billie’s friends �
� in the real world and online – were being targeted by Kristen’s coterie and told to “unfriend” her. Billie was a lot happier, more settled, once she was away from her old school, the school where she couldn’t help but see Kristen every day. But that wouldn’t necessarily stop the taunts and the teasing and all the rest. Besides which, Billie was the woman of the house now your parents had separated; she felt she had to look after your dad. Maybe she’d even started to believe the stories …’ He paused again. ‘Which only leaves us the means.’

  ‘I’ll deny everything.’ Teeth bared, Meikle jabbed at the table with a finger. ‘This is where I need to be.’

  ‘Why?’ Rebus asked, genuinely interested.

  ‘Because out there I’m a nobody. No job, no future. In here, I can be something else.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Dad and me, we never really … He only had time for Billie. But now I’ve got him and Dallas paying me attention. I get fan mail, you know – women writing to me from all over. And meantime Billie is where she belongs, getting smarter and growing up. She got all the brains and all the love. This is where I need to be.’

  ‘But not where you deserve to be.’

  Meikle stared across the table. ‘Who are you to say that? What do you know about me, about any of us?’ His shoulders relaxed a little. ‘Go ahead and tell Uncle Dallas anything you like. You want to help your friend – I’m okay with that. But when he asks me, I’ll say you’re lying. I’ll say you’ve no evidence and you’re not even a proper cop.’

  ‘No evidence?’ Rebus’s mouth twitched. ‘Aye, maybe.’ He started to get to his feet, leaning across the table, lowering his voice. ‘We never did get to means, did we?’ He looked ready to make his exit, but stopped and turned back, eyes meeting Meikle’s. ‘Tell Billie there’s a knife missing from the set in her kitchen, the ones in the wooden block. If she wants you serving her sentence for her, she’d better get rid of that block. Only a matter of time before her dad notices – always supposing he hasn’t already.’

  ‘I used to visit them!’ Meikle was calling across the room as Rebus walked away. ‘I could have taken it!’

  ‘Tell your uncle to help my friend,’ Rebus called back. ‘Tell him to do the right thing.’

  The same warder as before was waiting for Rebus in the corridor, arms folded, one foot crossed over the other as he leaned against the wall opposite the library’s closed door. He was smiling at Rebus’s approach.

  ‘Darryl wants another word,’ he said.

  Rebus stopped in front of him, their faces only a couple of inches apart. ‘You’re a fucking disgrace,’ he told him, his jaw tight.

  ‘Makes two of us then. He told me you were Cafferty’s man.’

  ‘I’m nobody’s fucking man,’ Rebus spat, so close now that their chests were touching. Then he turned and walked away. Before he’d reached the end of the corridor, he heard the door to the library open. Christie had probably been just the other side of it, listening. Rebus kept walking, not bothering with so much as a backwards glance, even when he heard his name being called.

  50

  Clarke and Crowther were seated in A&E when Sutherland and Reid arrived. Clarke explained what had happened.

  ‘SOCOs headed to the farm?’ Sutherland asked.

  ‘Haj Atwal’s already there,’ Crowther assured him.

  ‘As of right now, it’s all speculative,’ Sutherland cautioned.

  ‘Does look good, though,’ Reid commented. ‘Not least because he tried to run.’

  Sutherland nodded. ‘Is he in there?’ He gestured behind the reception desk towards a large room filled with curtained cubicles.

  ‘They think he may have one broken rib, maybe a shoulder fracture. They’re strapping him up.’

  ‘If they give him any medication, might be a while till we can question him.’

  ‘During which time the SOCOs can make their report, maybe get the lab to run a quick check of the tarpaulin in case it left its mark on the Polo …’

  ‘Plus,’ Sutherland added, ‘we can find out as much as possible about Mr Carlton.’

  ‘One thing we already know,’ Clarke went on, ‘is that he’s selling the farm for housing. Brand’s been after it for a few years.’

  ‘As good a reason as any to move the Polo elsewhere.’ Sutherland nodded again. ‘This is really great work, Siobhan. Christ alone knows how long it would have taken us to search every bloody farm on the NFU list.’

  ‘We’ve got John Rebus to thank,’ Clarke commented. ‘Plus Emily’s keen eyes.’

  ‘There’ll still be a few questions to answer, mind. Bosses will want your version of the accident.’

  ‘It wasn’t deliberate, Graham,’ Clarke assured him.

  ‘Car’s not even dented,’ Crowther added. ‘Couldn’t have been doing more than twenty.’

  A doctor in a white coat was heading in their direction. ‘You’re here with Andrew Carlton?’ he asked. ‘Good news is, he’s fine. The bruising will be extensive and he’ll be in pain for some time.’

  ‘What have you given him?’ Sutherland enquired.

  ‘Painkillers, you mean? He refused them.’

  ‘He’s awake?’

  ‘Pretty much ready to be discharged. If you’ll follow me …’

  All four followed the doctor to one of the cubicles. He parted the curtain and they saw the farmer lying there, stripped to the waist, chest and left shoulder tightly bandaged.

  ‘Quite a welcome party,’ he said, studying their faces. ‘Am I under arrest?’

  ‘We’ve got a few questions, Mr Carlton,’ Sutherland said. ‘Best asked down at the station.’

  ‘I need to speak to Gerry first.’

  ‘Who’s Gerry?’

  ‘Farmhand. He’ll be wondering where the hell I am.’

  ‘He already knows,’ Clarke said. ‘The scene-of-crime team met up with him.’

  ‘He doesn’t know anything,’ Carlton said quickly.

  ‘About the Polo, you mean?’

  The farmer’s face tightened. ‘Do I get a lawyer?’ he asked.

  ‘We can sort all that out,’ Sutherland told him. ‘Are you okay to move? Should we fetch a wheelchair?’

  ‘I think I’m all right. Could do with some clothes, though.’ He looked down at his chest and shoulder. ‘Shirt won’t go on, but maybe the overalls will.’ His eyes met Clarke’s, recognition dawning. ‘It was you, wasn’t it? Behind the wheel? You need to be more careful on country roads.’

  It had taken a while to manoeuvre Carlton into the back of Reid’s car, and almost as long to get him out again at the other end. He was kept in the interview room while a duty solicitor was fetched. Leighton and Yeats had been busy at their computers and on their phones, digging up as much as they could about the farmer. Carlton had neither wife nor current girlfriend, and asked them not to notify his parents, despite being told it wasn’t the sort of thing that would stay secret for long. He was thirty-eight years old and had been born and raised in Poretoun, coming to farming comparatively late after a university degree in accountancy and jobs in insurance companies and banks. The farm had been his uncle’s, the man desperate that it should stay in the family if at all possible. On his uncle’s death, Carlton had secured a large enough loan for the purchase of the farm, all of this happening towards the end of 2005, just a few months prior to Stuart Bloom’s disappearance.

  The farming had been fine for a few years, but things got progressively tougher until he knew he had to sell. There had always been offers – it was commuting distance to Edinburgh and housing was always needed. Nobody wanted the land for farming, Brand eventually convincing the relevant bodies that it could be re-zoned – green belt no longer. Carlton’s loans and interest would be repaid, and he’d even have a bit left over, though it meant letting down Gerry and the various part-time farm labourers, plus his uncle’s memory.

 
All of this they had learned by the time the flustered-looking solicitor arrived. Her name was Sian Grant. Clarke didn’t know her. She looked young – still in her twenties – and inexperienced. But she would also be idealistic and hungry; Clarke knew they couldn’t afford to underestimate her. Sutherland had decided that Clarke and Crowther should be the first ones to question Carlton – as a reward, and because they knew as much as anyone, if not more. Crowther got the equipment ready after Carlton had had ten minutes with his lawyer. Teas were fetched, the farmer trying hard not to grimace when he lifted the mug.

  ‘Sure you’re up to this?’ Grant asked him.

  ‘It’s going to happen anyway, isn’t it? If not now, then later?’ He watched Clarke give a pleasant nod. ‘Let’s get on with it then.’

  The three women shifted in their seats, composing themselves. Carlton’s overalls hadn’t been done up quite right, his left arm across his strapped chest preventing buttoning. He seemed self-conscious about it. Whenever his good hand wasn’t holding the mug, he tugged at the blue cotton, trying to pull the garment closed.

  ‘Cold?’ his lawyer asked.

  He shook his head, and they began. Clarke got him to fill in some of his biography, leading up to the purchase of the farm.

  ‘Whole family thought I was bonkers,’ he admitted. ‘Maybe I was, but I’d been going to my uncle’s since I was a toddler. Always took school pals there, especially in the summer break. It was a giant adventure playground. Never looked like hard work to me. Long hours, but I didn’t mind that.’

  ‘We’re interested,’ Clarke eventually said, ‘in how Stuart Bloom’s Volkswagen Polo ended up in a corner of one of your fields.’