by Ian Rankin
“So what did the pair of you find to talk about?” Siobhan was curious to know.
“The job mostly. The thing is, Allan’s a really good listener.”
“So mostly you were talking about you?”
“Just the way I like it.” Hawes was leaning back against the sink, arms folded, legs crossed at the ankles, looking pleased with herself. “I told him about Gayfield, and how I’d been seconded to St. Leonard’s. He wanted to know all about the case . . .”
“The Marber case?”
Hawes nodded. “What part I was playing . . . how it was all going . . . We drank margaritas — you could buy them by the jug.”
“How many jugs did you get through?”
“Just the one. Didn’t want him taking advantage, did I?”
“Phyllida, I’d say you definitely wanted him taking advantage.”
Both women were smiling. “Yeah, definitely,” Hawes agreed, giggling again. Then she gave a long sigh, before a look of shock came over her face and she slapped a hand to her mouth.
“Oh God, Siobhan, I haven’t asked about you!”
“I’m okay,” Siobhan said. It was the reason she thought Hawes had brought her in here: Laura’s murder.
“But it must have been horrible . . .”
“I don’t really want to think about it.”
“Have they offered you counseling?”
“Christ, Phyl, why would I need that?”
“To stop you bottling things up.”
“But I’m not bottling things up.”
“You just said you didn’t want to think about it.”
Siobhan was becoming irritated. The reason she didn’t want to think about Laura’s death was that she had something else niggling away at her now: Allan Ward’s interest in the Marber case.
“Why do you think Allan was so interested in your work?” she asked.
“He wanted to know all about me.”
“But specifically the Marber case?”
Hawes looked at her. “What are you getting at?”
Siobhan shook her head. “Nothing, Phyl.” But Hawes was looking curious, and a little worried. Would she go straight to Ward and start blabbing? “Maybe you’re right,” Siobhan pretended to concede. “I’m getting worked up about stuff . . . I think it’s because of what happened.”
“Of course it is.” Hawes took her arm. “I’m here if you need someone to talk to, you know that.”
“Thanks,” Siobhan said, offering what she hoped was a convincing smile.
As they walked back to the office together, her mind turned again to the scene outside the Paradiso. The lock clicking: she hadn’t said anything to Ricky Ponytail about it . . . but she would. She’d replayed the event so many times in the past few hours, wondering how she could have helped. Maybe leaning over to the passenger-side door, pushing it open for Laura, so that she could simply fall backwards into the car before Dow got to her . . . being faster out of the driving seat herself, faster across the hood . . . tackling Dow more effectively. She should have disabled him straightaway . . . Shouldn’t have let Laura lose so much blood . . .
Got to push it all aside, she thought.
Think about Marber . . . Edward Marber. Another victim seeking her attention. Another ghost in need of justice. Rebus had confessed to her once, after too many late-night drinks in the Oxford Bar, that he saw ghosts. Or didn’t see them so much as sense them. All the cases, the innocent — and not so innocent — victims . . . all those lives turned into CID files . . . They were always more than that to him. He’d seemed to see it as a failing, but Siobhan hadn’t agreed.
We wouldn’t be human if they didn’t get to us, she’d told him. His look had stilled her with its cynicism, as if he were saying that “human” was the one thing they weren’t supposed to be.
She looked around the inquiry room. The team was hard at work: Hood, Linford, Davie Hynds . . . When they saw her, they asked how she was. She fended off their concern, noting that Phyllida Hawes was blushing: ashamed not to have had the same reaction. Siobhan wanted to tell her it was okay. But Hynds was hovering by her desk, needing a word. Siobhan sat down, slipping her jacket over the back of the chair.
“What is it?” she asked.
“It’s the money you asked me to look for.”
She stared at him. Money? What money?
“Laura Stafford thought Marber was in line for some big payout,” Hynds explained, seeing her confusion.
“Oh, right.” She was noting that someone had been using her desk in her absence: coffee rings, a few loose paper clips. Her in-tray was full, but looked as though it had been disturbed. She remembered Gray, flicking through case notes . . . and others from Rebus’s team, wandering through the room . . . And Allan Ward, asking Phyllida about the inquiry . . .
Her computer monitor was switched off. When she switched it on, little fish swam across the screen. A new screen saver — not the scrolling message. It looked as if her anonymous gremlin had taken pity on her.
She realized that Hynds had been saying something only when he stopped. The silence drew her attention back to him.
“Sorry, Davie, I didn’t catch that.”
“I can come back,” he said. “Can’t be easy for you, coming in today like this . . .”
“Just tell me what it was you were saying.”
“You sure?”
“Bloody hell, Davie . . .” She picked up a pencil. “Have I got to stab you with this?” He stared at her, and she stared back, suddenly aware of what she’d said. She watched the way her hand was holding the pencil . . . holding it like a knife. “Christ,” she gasped, “I’m sorry . . .”
“Don’t be.”
She dropped the pencil, picked up the receiver instead. She signaled for Hynds to wait while she made the call to Bobby Hogan.
“It’s Siobhan Clarke,” she said into the mouthpiece. “Something I forgot: the blade Dow used . . . there’s a DIY shop next door to here. Maybe that’s where he bought it. They’ll have security cameras . . . could be staff will recognize him.” She listened to Hogan’s response. “Thank you,” she said, putting the receiver down again.
“Have you had any breakfast?” Hynds asked.
“I was just about to ask the same thing.” It was Derek Linford. The look of concern on his face was so exaggerated, Siobhan had to suppress a shiver.
“I’m not hungry,” she told both men. Her phone buzzed and she picked it up. The switchboard wanted to transfer a call. It was from someone called Andrea Thomson.
“I’ve been asked to call you,” Thomson said. “I’m a . . . well, I hesitate to use the word ‘counselor.’ ”
“You’re supposed to be a career analyst,” Siobhan said, stopping Thomson in her tracks.
“Someone’s been talking,” she said after a long silence. “You work with DI Rebus, don’t you?”
Siobhan had to admit, Thomson was sharp. “He told me you’d denied being a counselor.”
“Some officers don’t like the idea.”
“Count me among them.” Siobhan glanced at Hynds, who was gesturing encouragement. Linford was still trying for the sympathetic look, not quite getting it right. Lack of practice, Siobhan guessed.
“You might find that it helps to talk through the issues,” Thomson was saying.
“There aren’t any issues,” Siobhan replied coldly. “Look, Ms. Thomson, I’ve got a murder case to be getting on with . . .”
“Let me give you my number, just in case.”
Siobhan sighed. “Okay then, if it’ll make you feel better.”
Thomson started reeling off two numbers: office and mobile. Siobhan just sat there, making no effort to record them. Thomson’s voice died away.
“You’re not writing them down, are you?”
“Oh, I’ve got them, don’t you worry.”
Hynds was shaking his head, knowing damned well what was going on. He lifted the pencil and held it out to her.
“Give them to me agai
n,” Siobhan told the receiver. Call finished, she held up the scrap of paper for Hynds to see.
“Happy?”
“I’ll be happier if you eat something.”
“Me too,” Derek Linford said.
Siobhan looked at Andrea Thomson’s phone numbers. “Derek,” she said, “Davie and I have got to have a meeting. Can you take any messages for me?” She started shrugging her arms back into her jacket.
“Where will you be?” Linford asked, trying not to sound peeved. “In case we need you . . .”
“You’ve got my mobile number,” she told him. “That’s where I’ll be.”
They went around the corner of the station and into the Engine Shed. Hynds admitted he hadn’t known it was there.
“It really was an engine shed,” she told him, “Steam engines, I suppose. They pulled freight trains . . . coal or something. There are still bits of the railway line, they run down to Duddingston.”
In the café, they bought tea and cakes. Siobhan took one bite and realized she was starving.
“So what is it you’ve found?” she asked.
Hynds was primed to tell the story. She could see he’d been keeping it to himself, not wanting to dilute its effect before she heard it.
“I was talking to Marber’s various financial people: bank manager, accountant, bookkeeper . . .”
“And?”
“And no hint of any large amount about to accrue.” Hynds paused, as though uncertain whether accrue was the right word.
“And?”
“And I started looking at debits instead. These are listed in his bank statements by check number. No clue as to who each check was paid to.” Siobhan nodded her understanding. “Which is probably why one debit slipped by without us noticing.” He paused again, his meaning clear: for us read Linford . . . “Five thousand pounds. The bookkeeper found the check stub but the only thing written there was the amount.”
“Business check or personal?”
“The money was drawn from one of Marber’s personal accounts.”
“And you know who it was to?” She decided to take a guess. “Laura Stafford?”
Hynds shook his head. “Remember our artist friend . . . ?”
She looked at him. “Malcolm Neilson?” Hynds was nodding. “Marber gave Neilson five grand? When was this?”
“Only a month or so back.”
“It could have been payment for a work.”
Hynds had already thought of this. “Marber doesn’t represent Neilson, remember? Besides, anything like that would have gone through the business. No need to tuck it away where no one would see it.”
Siobhan was thinking hard. “Neilson was outside the gallery that night.”
“Looking for more money?” Hynds guessed.
“You think he was blackmailing Marber?”
“Either that or selling him something. I mean, how often do you have a blazing row with someone, then pay them a four-figure sum for the privilege?”
“And what exactly was he selling him?” Siobhan had forgotten all about her hunger. Hynds nodded towards the cake, willing her to finish it.
“Maybe that’s the question we should be asking him,” he said. “Just as soon as you’ve cleared your plate . . .”
Neilson appeared at St. Leonard’s with his solicitor, as requested by Siobhan. Both interview rooms were empty: Rebus’s crew were said to be touring caravan sites. Siobhan sat down in IR2, taking the same seat Linford had been in yesterday when Donny Dow had made his escape.
Neilson and William Allison sat opposite her, Davie Hynds to her side. They’d decided to tape the meeting. It could put pressure on the subject; sometimes they got nervous around microphones . . . knew that whatever they said could come back to haunt them.
“It’s for your benefit as much as ours,” Siobhan had explained, this being the standard line. Allison made sure that there’d be two copies, one for CID and one for his client.
Then they got down to business. Siobhan switched the tape machines on and identified herself, asking the others present to do the same. She studied Malcolm Neilson as he spoke. The artist sat with eyebrows raised, as though surprised to find himself suddenly transported to such surroundings. His hair was its usual wild self, and he was wearing a thick, loose cotton shirt over a gray T-shirt. Whether by accident or design, he had buttoned the shirt wrongly, so one side was lower than the other at the neck.
“You’ve already told us, Mr. Neilson,” Siobhan kicked off, “that you were outside the gallery the night Edward Marber died.”
“Yes.”
“Remind us why you were there.”
“I was curious about the show.”
“No other reason?”
“Such as?”
“You only have to answer the questions, Malcolm,” Allison interrupted. “You don’t need to add your own.”
“Well, since Mr. Neilson has asked the question,” Siobhan said, “perhaps I can let my colleague answer.”
Hynds opened the slim manila folder in front of him and slid a photocopy of the check across the desk. “Would you care to enlighten us?” was all he said.
“DC Hynds,” Siobhan said, providing commentary for the tapes, “is showing Messrs. Neilson and Allison a copy of a check, made out in the sum of five thousand pounds to Mr. Neilson and dated one calendar month ago. The check is signed by Edward Marber and comes from his personal bank account.”
There was silence in the room when she finished.
“Might I consult with my client?” Allison asked.
“Interview paused at eleven-forty hours,” Siobhan said curtly, stopping the machine.
It was times like this she wished she smoked. She stood with Hynds outside IR2, tapping her foot against the floor and a pen against her teeth. Bill Pryde and George Silvers arrived back from Leith and were able to report on their first full interview with Donny Dow.
“He knows he’s going down for his wife,” Silvers said. “But he swears he didn’t kill Marber.”
“Do you believe him?” Siobhan asked.
“He’s a bad bastard . . . I never believe anything those kind tell me.”
“He’s in a bit of a state about his wife,” Pryde commented.
“That really tugs my heartstrings,” Siobhan said coldly.
“Are we going to charge him with Marber?” Hynds asked. “Only, we’ve got another suspect in there . . .”
“In which case,” a new voice added, “what are you doing out here?” It was Gill Templer. They’d told her they wanted to bring in Neilson, and she’d agreed. Now she stood with hands on hips, legs apart, a woman who wanted results.
“He’s consulting with his lawyer,” Siobhan explained.
“Has he said anything yet?”
“We’ve only just shown him the check.”
Templer shifted her focus to Pryde. “Any joy down in Leith?”
“Not exactly.”
She exhaled noisily. “We need to start making some progress.” She was keeping her voice low, so the lawyer and painter wouldn’t hear, but there was no missing the sense of urgency and frustration.
“Yes, ma’am,” Davie Hynds said, turning his head as the door to IR2 swung open. William Allison was standing there.
“We’re ready now,” he said. Siobhan and Hynds retreated back inside.
With door closed and tape running, they sat across the desk once more. Neilson was pushing his hands through his hair, making it stick up at ever more ungainly angles. They waited for him to speak.
“When you’re ready, Malcolm,” the lawyer prodded.
Neilson leaned back in his chair, eyes staring ceilingwards. “Edward Marber gave me five thousand pounds to stop being a nuisance to him. He wanted me to shut up and go away.”
“Why was that?”
“Because people were starting to listen to me when I spoke about him being a cheat.”
“Did you ask him for the money?”
Neilson shook his head.
&
nbsp; “We need it out loud for the tape,” Siobhan prompted.
“I didn’t ask him for anything,” Neilson said. “It was him that came to me. He only offered a thousand at first, but eventually it went up to five.”
“And you were at the gallery that night because you wanted more?” Hynds asked.
“No.”
“You wanted to see how well the show was doing,” Siobhan stated. “That might suggest that you were wondering whether there was any more money to be made out of your nuisance value. After all, you’d accepted the money, and there you were still hassling Marber.”
“If I’d wanted to hassle him, I’d have gone in, wouldn’t I?”
“Then maybe all you wanted was a quiet word . . . ?”
Neilson was shaking his head vigorously. “I didn’t go near the man.”
“But you did.”
“I mean I didn’t speak to him.”
“You were happy with the five?” Hynds asked.
“I won’t say happy . . . but it was a kind of vindication. I took it because it represented five thousand of crooked money that he wouldn’t be spending.” The artist’s hands went to the sides of his face, making a rasping sound against a day’s growth of beard.
“How did you feel when you heard he was dead?” The question came from Siobhan. Neilson locked eyes with her.
“I got a bit of a kick out of it, if I’m being honest. I know that’s hardly the humane response, but all the same . . .”
“Did you wonder if we’d start looking into your relationship with Mr. Marber?” Siobhan asked.
Neilson nodded.
“Did you wonder if we’d find out about this payment?”
Another nod.
“So why didn’t you just tell us?”
“I knew how it would look.” Sounding sheepish now.
“And how do you think it looks?”
“It looks as though I had motive, means and whatever.” His eyes never left hers. “Isn’t that right?”
“If you didn’t do anything, there’s no reason to worry,” she said.
He angled his head. “You’ve got an interesting face, Detective Sergeant Clarke. Do you think I might paint you, when this is finished?”
“Let’s concentrate on the present, Mr. Neilson. Tell us about the check. How was the eventual sum reached? Was it posted to you or did you meet?”
