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

by Ian Rankin

  ‘Lot of stuff got left there.’

  ‘Sorry,’ the lawyer broke in. ‘Do you have evidence that the car in question was at my client’s farm?’

  ‘We’re pretty confident.’

  ‘But until you can prove it, it remains supposition, yes? And he’s just told you that things got dumped in his fields – fly-tipping is a perennial problem in the countryside.’

  ‘Actually,’ Crowther corrected her, ‘the word he used was “left” rather than “dumped”.’

  ‘Left under a tarpaulin,’ Clarke added, ‘so no one would see what was inside. But you must have known, Mr Carlton?’

  He looked to his solicitor. She shook her head.

  ‘Our theory is,’ Clarke continued, ‘that the car and its contents had to be moved when discussions started about selling the land to a developer. It couldn’t be left there for others to find. Must have had a hell of a job getting it out of that quagmire, but I suppose a tractor and tow chain would come in handy.’

  ‘We’ll have the scene-of-crime and forensic lab report within the next few hours,’ Crowther added. ‘They’ve logged all the vegetation that had grown through the Polo’s chassis. They have soil samples that these days are as good as fingerprints. Chances are there’ll even be a few threads from the tarpaulin stuck to the Polo. Trust me, a few threads are all they need.’

  ‘But as of right now,’ Grant countered, ‘you don’t have any of that, DC Crowther.’

  ‘We have your client fleeing the scene,’ Clarke told the lawyer, ‘soon as he saw someone next to where the Polo had been. A woman perched on the bonnet of an old van, waving – scare easily, do you, Mr Carlton?’

  ‘Not something I expected to see,’ he muttered by way of explanation.

  ‘Actually, that word “scare” reminds me of something.’ Clarke pretended to be finding some information in the folder in front of her. ‘You acted in some zombie films for Jackie Ness, didn’t you?’

  The question seemed to catch Carlton off guard. ‘Just in the background.’

  Clarke showed him a still from Bravehearts. ‘This is you, yes? Next to your friend Gram?’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘I’m asking you what you say.’

  ‘Could be anyone,’ Grant prompted.

  ‘Could be anyone,’ Carlton duly parroted.

  ‘But you did play an extra in that film? And in others, too?’

  ‘Loads of us from the village did. It was a good laugh.’

  ‘You didn’t get paid, did you, or fed and watered come to that?’

  ‘Wasn’t why we did it.’

  ‘Plenty of drugs, though, eh? To keep the spirits up?’

  ‘I’m not sure what you’re …’ Grant began, but Clarke’s words rolled right over her.

  ‘Drugs brought along by your good friend Gram. Your good friend Gram who also managed to supply a pair of handcuffs when one scene demanded them, handcuffs identical to the ones found around a murdered man’s ankles in a car that was parked on your land for almost a decade.’ Clarke broke off, giving time for her words to take effect. ‘All of which makes you an accessory, at the very least. Unless you helped murder Stuart Bloom as well as disposing of his body.’

  Grant had swivelled her whole body towards her client, demanding his full attention.

  ‘None of this is proven at this point. It’s a fishing expedition, Andrew, that’s all. The allegations are serious, which is why you shouldn’t have to deal with them until your mind is lucid and free from pain.’ Then to Clarke: ‘You hit him full-on with your car, Inspector. Concussion may be the least of it.’

  Clarke ignored the lawyer. Her focus remained on Andrew Carlton, just as his eyes stayed fixed to hers. When he said something, Clarke didn’t quite catch it, masked as it was by Grant’s continuing remonstration.

  ‘Sorry, Andrew,’ she said, gesturing for the lawyer to be quiet, ‘what was that?’

  Carlton’s eyes dropped but his voice was strong and steady. ‘Graeme was his real name. Not Gram. Graeme.’

  ‘And his surname?’

  ‘Hatch.’

  Clarke watched Crowther scratch the name on her pad in large capital letters. ‘And what happened to Graeme?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I think you do. I don’t suppose he still looks like this?’ Clarke held up the still from the film. The farmer managed a rueful smile.

  ‘We can trace him, you know,’ Crowther said. ‘Better for you to cooperate and not be found out later to have held anything back.’

  ‘He moved away for a while,’ Carlton conceded. ‘Changed his name, changed everything …’ He was lost in thought for a moment. ‘I didn’t know what was in the car. Nothing was in it when he brought it, nothing I could see.’

  ‘Bloom’s body was in the boot,’ Clarke stated quietly. Tears were welling up in Carlton’s eyes.

  ‘I need five minutes with my client,’ Sian Grant demanded.

  ‘Where’s Graeme now?’ Clarke asked the farmer. ‘A weight’s about to lift from you when you tell us.’

  Carlton was shaking his head, sniffing and angling his head so no tears would escape. Clarke turned her attention to the lawyer.

  ‘You need to make your client understand that helping us is the smart thing to do.’ She began getting to her feet, gesturing for Crowther to switch off the recording equipment.

  ‘Interview suspended,’ Crowther said into the machine, checking her watch and adding the time. Then she followed Clarke from the room.

  They made their report in front of Sutherland’s desk while Malcolm Fox brewed fresh mugs of tea. Phil Yeats had been sent to keep watch on the interview room. When Clarke had finished speaking, she checked with Crowther that she hadn’t left anything out.

  ‘We’ve definitely got him,’ was all Crowther said.

  Clarke turned back to Sutherland. ‘Forensics?’ she asked.

  ‘No sign on the Polo’s bodywork of any fibres matching the tarp. The tarp itself, however, is another story. We think we have flecks of paintwork; probably flaked off as the bodywork started to corrode around the wheel arches. Might not get an exact match, but we’ll be able to say what make of car was wrapped up. Add to that the patch of land where the car sat – it’s been measured and is a near-perfect fit for a Polo. Less luck with the vegetation, but the soil will be checked by Professor Inglis and she’s promised not to take so long this time.’

  ‘All of which adds up to what?’ George Gamble asked. ‘Is this farmer our killer?’

  ‘I don’t think that for a minute,’ Clarke said. ‘His pal Gram or Graeme is the one I think we want.’

  ‘Internet isn’t giving me much,’ Tess Leighton interrupted, peering at her screen. ‘There are a few Graeme Hatches listed, but no Poretoun or central Scotland connection.’

  ‘If need be,’ Sutherland said, ‘we hit Register House, try for a birth certificate. Plus we go ask everyone in and around Poretoun.’ He looked at Clarke. ‘He was local, right?’

  ‘As far as we know.’

  ‘And dealing a bit of dope,’ Crowther added. ‘Someone’s bound to remember him.’

  ‘Did someone say dope?’ John Rebus was standing in the doorway.

  ‘You can’t be here,’ Sutherland stated. ‘We’ve a suspect and his solicitor along the hall; if she gets wind that anyone can just walk in off the street …’

  Rebus held up a hand to say he understood. ‘Just wanted a word with Siobhan and she’s not been picking up messages.’

  ‘I’ve been a bit busy, John. Can it wait?’

  ‘Only take five minutes,’ Rebus persisted.

  ‘Outside then,’ she eventually conceded.

  They headed downstairs in silence, through the reception area and on to the pavement. Clarke sucked some air into her lungs, shaking her head at Reb
us’s offer of gum.

  ‘You’ve got someone?’ he asked. ‘The farmer I put you on to?’

  She nodded and sketched the morning out for him.

  ‘In which case,’ he said, ‘my news can wait.’

  ‘You sure?’

  He nodded.

  ‘It’s about Ellis Meikle, though?’

  Another nod.

  ‘And is it good news?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘You don’t sound very certain.’

  ‘I was going to say we should go have a chat with the uncle, but it might be best if I did that myself. You’re up to your eyes as it is.’

  ‘I don’t need to be there?’ She watched him shake his head. ‘Did you at least manage to have a bit of fun, John?’

  ‘Fun?’

  ‘Playing detective again, I mean.’

  ‘All the fun in the world, Siobhan.’ Rebus stretched out an arm. ‘It’s just one huge amusement park out there, happy families everywhere you look.’

  She looked like she was struggling to think what to say, so Rebus patted her on the arm and told her to get back inside. She started to obey, but paused.

  ‘Remember that still centre you told me about?’ she said. ‘That’s how the interview room feels to me right now.’

  Rebus nodded slowly before crossing the road to his waiting car. Instead of turning the ignition, he just sat there chewing, staring into space.

  ‘Families, eh?’ he muttered to himself. He was thinking of the Meikles, but of cops, too. One big unhappy, dysfunctional family. Steele had told him that it was ugly when cops ratted on fellow officers, because it was like a betrayal of family. Certainly that was the way it had been in Rebus’s day. You covered up for the faults and foibles of your colleagues. Many a time a patrol car or van had come to the Oxford Bar to take him home. He’d wake up on his bed fully dressed, no idea who had got him up the two flights of stairs or how they’d managed it. Nothing was ever said – that was just how it was with families. Ellis Meikle reckoned he was where he needed to be. His father meantime was working hard at providing Billie with a settled home life. What right did Rebus have to interfere? A result had been achieved, and it seemed to suit everyone – with the possible exception of Dallas Meikle.

  Yes, Dallas Meikle.

  The next person Rebus needed to speak with.

  Sian Grant was in the corridor between the interview room and the MIT office, Phil Yeats alongside her. Clarke came to a stop in front of them.

  ‘My client has a name he’d like to give you,’ the lawyer said.

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘On the understanding that you acknowledge you are receiving his full cooperation and that this will be taken into account in any future proceedings.’

  ‘It will.’ Clarke was almost holding her breath. The lawyer handed over a scrap of paper. Clarke looked at the name written on it. ‘Phil,’ she said, ‘take Ms Grant back to her client. The interview will restart in a couple of minutes.’ Then she walked into the MIT office and over to Sutherland’s desk, holding the scrap of paper in front of her. Sutherland looked up from the call he was making to the fiscal’s office.

  ‘Glenn Hazard,’ she said. ‘Aka Graeme Hatch.’

  ‘Brand’s PR guy?’ Sutherland had lifted the phone away from his face.

  ‘Brand’s PR guy,’ Siobhan Clarke confirmed. ‘We need to let DCS Mollison know.’

  Sutherland nodded thoughtfully. ‘You do it,’ he told her. ‘Explain to him how the dots got joined. Try not to talk down your own role.’

  Their eyes met as Clarke smiled.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  ‘Doesn’t mean you’re off the hook with ACU, mind.’

  ‘Oh, I’ve got a few plans of my own for them,’ Clarke said, turning away to make the call.

  51

  ‘I’m due at work in an hour,’ Dallas Meikle said, recognising the figure on his doorstep.

  ‘This won’t take that long,’ Rebus assured him. ‘Is Ellis’s mum home?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Then maybe we could talk somewhere else.’ He tugged on Brillo’s lead, confident that, even untethered, Dallas Meikle would follow.

  Rebus was on the bench in the play park by the time Meikle caught up. He offered him gum but Meikle shook his head and gave Brillo’s head a firm rub. Then, having decided that neither man nor dog was about to bite, he eased himself down next to Rebus.

  ‘I’ve done what I can,’ Rebus began, staring out across the park. ‘I’ve re-read everything in the files, talked to a few people, visited Saughton twice.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And in doing so, Siobhan Clarke has kept her side of the bargain.’

  ‘So what have you found?’

  Rebus shook his head slowly. ‘That’s between Ellis and me. He’ll tell you if he wants to; maybe one day that’ll happen.’

  ‘You got the truth from him, though?’

  ‘I got most of the story, I think.’

  ‘But you won’t tell me?’

  ‘I don’t remember that being part of your deal with DI Clarke.’ Rebus turned his gaze to Dallas Meikle. ‘You wanted the case re-examined and that’s what I’ve done. Some would have skimmed the evidence and court transcripts – I did a lot more than that. Some of the stuff I found out, you probably don’t want to know – might make things a bit difficult between you and Ellis’s mum.’ He paused, expecting Meikle to say something. When he didn’t, Rebus angled his head slightly. ‘Except maybe she’s already let you in on at least one of her secrets. Aye, probably after I called her out on it. How does it feel, knowing Billie’s own mum was bullying her online?’ Meikle’s expression darkened but he kept his mouth shut. ‘Fair enough,’ Rebus eventually said, ‘but now you need to do the right thing.’ He paused again. ‘And remember this – Siobhan could have reported you. If she had, you’d be in the middle of becoming a court transcript yourself.’

  ‘That’ll happen anyway, won’t it? By handing over those two cops, I’m condemning myself.’

  ‘Not if you say you took it straight to the authorities; not if you say you’d never got round to making any anonymous calls.’

  ‘Making it my word against theirs.’

  ‘How did they get her mobile number and home address to you?’

  ‘Walked into the bar and handed them over.’

  ‘Still got the bit of paper?’ Rebus watched the man nod. ‘CCTV in the pub?’ A further nod. ‘Suddenly it’s not just your word against theirs. Idiots even told you who they were.’

  ‘Told me not to use a traceable phone – suggested one of the call boxes near the pub. Told me not to say anything during the calls. But they wanted to know when she started sounding rattled. And if I didn’t think it was working, I could always pay her a visit.’

  ‘So you had to have some way of contacting them …?’

  Meikle dug a business card from his back pocket, DS Brian Steele’s name on it along with his address at ACU and the Police Scotland crest, with the force’s motto beneath – Semper Vigilo, ‘Always Vigilant’.

  ‘Know what those words mean?’ Rebus asked, pointing them out to Meikle.

  ‘Not much cop at languages.’

  ‘Ask Billie sometime; she might have the answer.’

  ‘So that’s it? That’s as much as I’m getting?’

  Rebus was rising to his feet. ‘Keep visiting Ellis. Make sure Billie goes too – he’s her brother after all; it’s the least she can do.’

  Rebus drove Brillo back to Arden Street and deposited the dog in its basket in the kitchen. For the duration of the drive, he’d been thinking some more about the Meikles, which had led to memories of his own upbringing. His mother had died young, his father raising two sons – Rebus and his brother Michael – as best he could. But he had worked a lot of
evenings and weekends, sleeping the day through and with occasional trips away. With the boys left to their own devices, they’d grown feral. John had left school at the first opportunity and joined the army, while Michael went on to sell drugs, do time and die young himself. The word ‘dysfunctional’ might not have existed back then, but Rebus reckoned his family would have ticked all the boxes.

  He decided to call his daughter in Tongue, way up on the north coast of Scotland, where she was hard to visit. He got her answering service so left a brief message to say he was thinking of her and asking after his granddaughter Carrie. He boiled the kettle and made a herbal tea, before pouring it down the sink and reaching into the fridge for a low-alcohol beer instead. His breathing was just about back to normal after climbing the two flights. He sent Clarke a text and waited to see if she’d get back to him. A drug dealer called Gram; a farmer from Poretoun; the Polo left undisturbed for years and years, right under the very noses of the police and local population. He tried to imagine the scenario. At first it’s a panicky stopgap of a measure. But nothing happens, it seems to have worked. So you leave it a bit longer, and a bit longer still, until it becomes part of the scenery – you’ve almost forgotten it’s there, or what it means.

  He sent Clarke another text and sipped on the beer, beer that had had all the joy sucked out of it. He’d asked his doctor during his last check-up: would a few pints or shorts really hurt?

  ‘Your funeral,’ the doctor had replied.

  ‘I’m going to put it in my will that I don’t want any sober pall-bearers.’

  The next text he sent was to Malcolm Fox, who called him straight back.

  ‘Nice to hear a friendly voice,’ Rebus told him.

  ‘Jennifer Lyon has as good as ordered me back to Gartcosh. She thinks I’m malingering.’

  ‘And are you?’

  ‘I can’t leave, John – it’s just started to heat up.’

  ‘Yes, Siobhan told me about the farmer.’

  ‘He gave us a name.’

  ‘For his friend Gram?’

  ‘He was Graeme Hatch before. After Bloom’s murder he left town and changed it. He’s Glenn Hazard.’