In a House of Lies

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.

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.’

‘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 Rebus’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.’

‘The PR guy?’

‘Yes!’

‘So it was all Adrian Brand’s doing?’

‘Hazard didn’t start working in PR till a few years ago. There’s nothing to show he knew Brand in any way back in 2006. He would have known Jackie Ness, though. He hung around the film set, selling wherever he could.’

‘Have you brought him in for questioning?’

‘Under caution.’

‘He’s there now?’ An idea was forming in Rebus’s mind.

‘There’s only the one interview room, so they’ve seconded my office. That’s where Carlton is. Someone’s fetching some more recording gear from St Leonard’s. Meantime, DCS Mollison has arrived and the press are back outside.’

‘Fun and games — I can see why you’re staying put.’ Rebus paused. ‘So what’ll be in your actual report, Malcolm? Do I get a sneak preview?’

‘I know what you did, if that’s what you’re asking.’

‘And what did I do?’

‘On top of all the drinking on the job? And landing a reporter in a heap of trouble with Cafferty?’

‘There’s more?’

‘I also know you did your damnedest to cover up the fact that Mary Skelton’s affair was with your boss, Bill Rawlston. Same afternoons she was supposedly visiting her sick mother, he tended to be at non-existent meetings at Fettes. You were the one who told people why he wasn’t around. You even had him in your notes as being with you when you interviewed Jackie Ness. Problem is, Rawlston’s own diary has him at a meeting at Fettes. Different meeting; exact same time.’

‘Whoops.’

‘Whoops is right.’

‘Thing you need to appreciate, Malcolm, is that families always lie — and that’s what we were. In and around the Big House, we lied to each other and sometimes to ourselves. And now there’s just the one Big House — Gartcosh — and guess what?’

‘Nothing’s changed?’ Fox guessed.

‘Everyone still covers their own arse, stabs mates in the back, and tries to look busy when there’s nothing going on — ring any bells, DI Fox?’

‘You think that excuses what happened in the past?’

‘Maybe, maybe not. But thank goodness it all pales into insignificance in comparison with a murder, eh?’

‘Nothing is insignificant, John. Poretoun Glen Farm was visited, you know. By Steele and Edwards, as it happens. They talked to the present owner’s uncle. He was very frail, housebound really, and very thankful his nephew was taking over the reins. Whatever else you say about Steele, he gets the detail down. Left his card so either of them — farmer or nephew — could get back to him if they heard or remembered anything.’

‘Some habits never leave you,’ Rebus said with a thin smile.

‘How do you mean?’

‘Semper vigilo, Malc. I’ll catch up with you soon.’

Fox must have heard something in Rebus’s voice. ‘How soon?’ he asked.

‘Depends on the traffic,’ Rebus said, ending the call.

52

He parked at Leith Links — it was the closest he could get. Media vans, a couple with satellite dishes on their roofs pointed skywards, had taken all the spaces nearer the police station. Rebus watched from the corner. He’d caught the local news on his Saab’s radio, so knew reporters had also been dispatched to Poretoun Glen Farm.

Eventually, DCS Mark Mollison emerged and was immediately mobbed. He had a statement to make, but couldn’t start until everyone had calmed down. Rebus made his move, squeezing past the scrum around Mollison and entering the station. A uniform stood just inside the door, ready to eject unwanted visitors. Rebus held up both hands.

‘I’m not press,’ he said. He didn’t recognise the officer behind the desk so asked to see Detective Inspector Fox.

‘He’s busy — they all are, if you hadn’t noticed.’

‘I’m an ex-cop myself,’ Rebus explained. ‘I’ve been helping on a case and I need a word with Fox or DI Clarke.’

‘I stopped listening after “ex”,’ the officer said, turning away. Rebus was aware of the uniform at his shoulder, ready to usher him out with a firm touch. He got out his phone and sent a text upstairs.

‘One minute,’ he told the uniform. ‘If nobody comes down, I’ll go.’

‘I’ve already started counting,’ the uniform warned him.

Fifty seconds later, Fox arrived, pushing open the inner door. He didn’t look exactly welcoming.

‘Okay?’ the uniform asked.

Eventually, Fox nodded stiffly. Before he could change his mind, Rebus crossed the threshold with a muttered ‘Thanks.’

As they climbed the stairs, Fox asked if anyone had spotted him.

‘Feeding frenzy around Mollison — I’m not daft.’ Rebus stopped, turning to face Fox. ‘Look, there’s something you need to know. Rawlston’s not a well man. A few more months and he won’t be here.’

‘You’re asking me to censor my report? Turn it into fake news?’

‘I’m asking you to take your time finalising it. Tell your boss you need to track down a few more people for interview. You’re being thorough, that’s all.’ Fox started climbing again, Rebus breathing heavily at his heels. ‘Fuck’s sake, Malcolm, nobody’s building a pyre around you. It would be a kindness, that’s all. I’m not even asking you to lie.’ Rebus caught Fox glaring at him. ‘Okay, a white lie to your boss maybe. Will you at least think about it?’

They had reached the first-floor landing, where a grim-faced Siobhan Clarke was waiting. ‘Just had a text from Laura,’ she said, holding up her phone, ‘asking what John Rebus is doing here.’

Fox turned towards Rebus, who was busying himself with his inhaler. ‘Not daft, I believe you were saying.’

‘So what the hell are you doing here, John?’

‘Being nosy,’ Rebus eventually replied. ‘Promise I won’t get in the way.’

Clarke turned to Fox. ‘And I thought I heard that you’d been recalled to Gartcosh?’

‘Just packing up my things,’ Fox told her.

‘What things?’

‘Whatever they are, it’s taking me a little bit longer than anticipated.’

Clarke rolled her eyes and turned away, disappearing into the MIT room before re-emerging.

‘Malcolm,’ she said, ‘I’m putting you in charge of John. Try not to let him slip his collar.’

Fox nodded and led Rebus to the cramped room that had been his office for the past week.

‘I thought the farmer was in here,’ Rebus said.

‘He’s been released,’ Fox said. ‘With conditions.’

‘Meaning not enough evidence to charge him?’

‘Oh, he’ll definitely face charges — we’re just not sure yet what they’ll be, and meantime we want him to keep cooperating.’

‘So what’s he spilled so far?’ Rebus accepted the chair Fox offered him. He picked up a sheaf of paper — all relating to the 2006 inquiry.

‘Please don’t do that,’ Fox said. ‘Anyone walks in and sees you here...’

‘Don’t worry, I won’t breathe a word about you inviting me up here to help you massage your report.’

‘You ever thought about stand-up?’

Rebus put the sheets back. ‘You were about to tell me about the farmer,’ he prompted.

‘He was friends with Graeme Hatch, had been since school. Then Hatch went off to college. Flunked first year and came home to Poretoun, but he’d picked up a new skill while away.’

‘Selling dope?’

‘Not massively, according to Carlton, but enough to make a living. Pubs and clubs around Edinburgh, plus the village and others like it. When a film was being made, that was always a good market.’

‘And all of this under Cafferty’s nose?’

‘We did ask Carlton if Hatch was working for anyone, but he reckons he was all on his own.’

‘Must have got the stuff somewhere.’

‘The internet apparently.’

‘You’re kidding.’

‘Ordered from China and elsewhere via the Dark Web.’

‘Was Carlton a client as well as a user?’ Rebus asked.

‘Just a few uppers to keep the party going.’

Rebus grew thoughtful. ‘Interesting phrase, Malcolm.’

Fox’s brow furrowed. ‘Is it? Why?’

‘That spate of overdoses — the connection with Rogues. Cafferty says it was all down to a seller called Graeme.’ Rebus paused. ‘So what does Carlton say about the car?’

‘Just that Hatch turned up with it one night and said he needed to leave it there.’

‘Did he ask why?’

‘Says he joked about it being stolen. Hatch was adamant — no questions. They took it to the corner of the field, made sure it was surrounded by junk, and draped a tarpaulin over it. He says the interior looked empty. Hatch had a bag with him; Bloom’s laptop and phone could have been inside.’

‘Plus the papers from Brand’s safe?’ Rebus guessed. Fox just shrugged.

‘We know Stuart Bloom’s body was kept in the boot. It’s feasible the farmer never took a peek.’

‘Hatch isn’t saying?’

‘He’s still being questioned, not twenty feet from here.’

‘Lawyered up?’

‘Oh yes.’

‘The car was moved two or three years back?’

Fox nodded. ‘Around the time Carlton told his old pal he was considering selling the farm. They towed it out of the field, jump-started the battery and put a bit of air in the tyres.’

‘It was still working after all those years?’

‘German engineering,’ Fox agreed. Hazard drove off in it and that was the last Carlton heard of it.’

‘He knew, though, right? Knew who it belonged to?’

‘I’d say so, or else why panic when he saw Siobhan?’

‘But what does he say?’

‘He denies it. Never watched the news, so was only vaguely aware someone had gone missing.’

‘He must be lying.’

‘Of course he’s lying.’

‘So his old pal turns up again a few years later having added a bit of weight and with a new haircut, new attitude. And they never talk about the car? Carlton never goes near it?’

‘Allegedly.’

‘And when it turns up again in Poretoun Woods with Stuart Bloom’s remains inside...?’

‘He still doesn’t watch the news.’

‘Aye, right.’ Rebus gave a snort.

‘That’s his story.’

‘Well, it stinks worse than a freshly laid cowpat. And cooperation or no cooperation, if he knew what he was doing, he’s headed jailwards.’

‘Which is why he’ll keep denying it.’

Rebus nodded in agreement. ‘So now you just have to play him off against Hazard.’

‘Exactly. Though there is just the one problem...’

Rebus nodded again. ‘Why did Hazard do it?’

‘Any thoughts on that?’

‘Put me in a room with him for five minutes and I might be able to help.’ Rebus watched as Fox gave a wry smile. ‘I’m serious, Malcolm,’ he said. ‘Deadly serious.’

53

They could hold Hazard for twenty-four hours without charging him. They were using that time to search his home and office, his computers and phone records. They were interviewing people from his past as well as his present. His lawyer meantime was making a bit of noise. What was it with MIT and unproven allegations? First the break-in and now a long-unsolved murder.

Sutherland had stared hard at the solicitor. His name was Francis Dean. He didn’t work at the same firm as Kelvin Brodie, but word had obviously got around.

Hazard’s fingerprints had been taken and he’d been swabbed for a DNA sample. They’d be re-examining the handcuffs, the Polo’s steering wheel and door handles, the tarpaulin and the various vehicles and bits of equipment surrounding the space where the Polo had lain. They’d asked Carlton, but his memory was that Hazard had worn gloves when they were getting the Polo going again. And Carlton himself? No gloves that he could remember. His prints and a cheek swab had been taken, too. The lab at Howdenhall had been told to pull an all-nighter if necessary. Sutherland had already arranged for a delivery of pizzas and soft drinks.

Eventually tiredness got the better of them. Glenn Hazard was taken to a cell at St Leonard’s, and Sutherland’s team were told to try and get a bit of rest. Not too much, though — the clock was ticking and they had plenty to do to convince the fiscal’s office that a murder charge was in order. Rooms had been found in a B&B on the links. Clarke had turned down the offer, insisting that her own flat was only a five-minute drive. Fox asked if he could take the sofa, and she agreed.

‘So that’s a chair for me,’ Rebus said, ‘unless you’re offering this exhausted old man your bed?’

Clarke stared at him. ‘What’s wrong with your own place?’

‘You might forget to call me if there’s a break in the case.’

‘And Brillo?’

‘Good point...’

Rebus drove to Marchmont to fetch Brillo. Meanwhile, Fox had been dropped off at a chip shop near the top of Broughton Street. By the time Rebus reached Clarke’s flat, his fish supper was tepid at best. But the kettle had been boiled and tea brewed, and Fox had brought a battered sausage for the dog.

‘He’d better not sick that back up,’ Clarke cautioned.

‘Me or Brillo?’ Rebus enquired, stuffing vinegary chips into his mouth.

They were seated in the living room. Fox had added cans of cola and Irn-Bru to his purchases, Rebus opening one of the latter.

‘Caffeine’s probably the last thing I need,’ Clarke said, sticking to the peppermint tea she’d made. Having eaten from the wrappings, she dropped them to the floor, leaned her head against the back of her armchair and closed her eyes.

‘You won’t sleep,’ Rebus told her. ‘This is the cops’ equivalent of Christmas Eve.’

‘What if the lab comes up short? Right now it’s just Carlton’s word against Hazard’s. If the farmer’s prints and DNA are all we find on the car...’

‘Jesus, you’re cheery. I thought I was supposed to be the cynical one.’

‘Shiv’s right, though,’ Fox said. ‘The car was on Carlton’s land; Carlton and Bloom were both extras in one of Jackie Ness’s films so maybe knew each other better than Carlton says.’

‘You saying the farmer’s a closet gay and that’s why he killed Bloom?’

‘Bloom spots him at Rogues. Maybe they even have a snog. Bumps into him again during filming. Carlton’s—’

‘So embarrassed he kills him?’ Rebus said, not bothering to hide his disbelief. ‘I don’t see that at all.’ Brillo had climbed on to his lap and was dozing, Rebus rubbing him behind his ears.

‘So why did Hazard do it then? A drug deal gone wrong? Money owed?’

Rebus held up one hand, fingers splayed, his meaning clear to Fox: five minutes with him...

‘Doesn’t matter why it happened,’ Clarke said sleepily, eyelids still closed. ‘We just have to show that one or the other of them did do it.’ She seemed to remember something, rousing herself a little, eyes suddenly on Rebus.

‘You had news for me, John.’

He nodded. ‘Ellis Meikle is covering for his sister.’

‘Billie?’

‘I probably couldn’t prove it in a court of law, but I know that’s what happened.’

‘What will you tell the uncle?’

‘We’ve already spoken.’

‘He’ll give us Steele and Edwards?’

‘Well, to be precise, he’ll make a complaint to PIRC, leaving you out of it as far as possible.’

‘Meaning what?’

‘Meaning he never acted on the Chuggabugs’ suggestion that he use your mobile number — a number they handed him — to harass you.’

‘His word against theirs?’

‘Not quite.’

‘You reckon they might not worm their way out of this one?’

‘Steele’s going down for something, Shiv, trust me.’

She stared at him. ‘What do you know that I don’t?’

‘Well for one thing, I can name every Rolling Stones B-side from the 1960s.’

‘Would you put money on it, though?’ Fox asked.

Rebus started counting on his fingers. ‘“I Want to Be Loved”, “Stoned”, “Little by Little”...’

‘Don’t encourage him,’ Clarke said to Fox. ‘It’s just his way of ducking the question.’

‘She knows me too well,’ Rebus agreed with a shrug in Fox’s direction. Then, to Clarke: ‘Has Hazard said anything at all that gets us closer to knowing what happened?’

‘He didn’t know Stuart Bloom, never met Stuart Bloom, never sold drugs, didn’t move away and change his identity because he was fleeing any sort of crime, has no idea why Andrew Carlton would concoct such a story — except that farmers everywhere are feeling the economic strain and maybe the balance of his mind has become disturbed.’

‘That last sounds like a lawyer talking.’

‘Most of what I’ve just said came from the lawyer. Hazard just sits there like he’s made of granite.’

‘He’s not, though, which means we can get to him.’

‘How?’

‘John here,’ Fox interrupted, ‘wants a bit of time alone with the suspect.’

‘Well that’s not going to happen,’ Clarke stated, closing her eyes again.

‘Not necessarily alone,’ Rebus reasoned. ‘One of you could come along for the ride.’

‘Hazard’s legal team would have a field day. This isn’t Miss Marple, John. You don’t get to walk all over the inquiry.’

‘I got a lot wrong last time, Siobhan. I’d just like the chance to make up for that.’

‘You can’t always get what you want.’

He stared at her, then at Fox. ‘B-side of “Honky Tonk Women”,’ he intoned. ‘Still want to take that bet?’

54

Just before midnight, having made up his mind, Rebus asked to be excused for an hour. Brillo’s ears pricked up, but Rebus shook his head. He left the flat on his own and headed for his car. It was a quick drive, the city quiet, lit by sodium and illuminated shop windows. A few drinkers were huddled outside their favoured bars, sharing cigarettes and stories. Rebus wished for a moment that he were among them. Instead of which, he switched one piece of gum for another and kept driving.

The tenement door was locked, so he pushed the buzzer. This time of night, he’d probably be taken for a passing prankster, so he pressed it again. At the third time of trying, the intercom crackled into life.

‘Wrong fucking flat,’ Charles Meikle said.

‘It’s John Rebus. I need a quick word.’

‘At this time of night?’

‘Thought it best to wait till Billie was asleep.’

There was silence for a moment, then a buzzing as Meikle unlocked the door. Rebus took his time climbing the stairs. Even so, he was breathing heavily as he reached Meikle’s floor.

‘You about to peg out on me?’ the man asked from the open doorway.

Rebus shook his head. ‘I could do with a glass of water, though.’

‘So long as you promise to keep your voice down.’

Rebus nodded and followed Meikle into the kitchen. He didn’t think he’d woken the man. Meikle was still fully dressed and fully alert. He turned from the sink with a half-filled glass. Rebus took it from him, but instead of taking a sip, he placed it on the worktop.

‘Last time I was here,’ he said, ‘this is where you rested your fists. I remember thinking it was a bit odd. You had your palms raised when you did it, like you were trying to hide something.’ He gestured towards the worktop. ‘I see you got rid of it.’

‘Rid of what?’

‘The knife block with the one blade missing.’

‘Says who?’

Rebus ignored this. He finally lifted the glass and sipped from it. ‘Know what that told me? It told me you knew. Well of course you did — where else was Ellis going to take Billie afterwards? She was spattered with blood. He needed to get her back and into clean clothes.’ He paused. ‘All of which makes you an accessory.’

‘None of which you can prove.’

‘Maybe not.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Let’s say I were to talk to Billie herself...’

The look the man gave him, Rebus suspected that if the knife block had still been there, he’d have snatched another blade from it.

Rebus held up a hand. ‘Thing is, I’m not sure I need to. She’s smart and she’s sensitive. No way she’s going to be able to put it behind her. It’s like a shadow she’ll always carry, meaning you’re always going to be on edge, wondering if and when she’ll crack. Same goes for her brother. Whole family’s under a life sentence, not just Ellis.’ He raised his voice a notch. ‘Isn’t that right, Billie?’

She emerged from the darkened hall into the doorway, looking pale and fragile in her full-length nightgown.

‘It’s all right, petal,’ her father told her. ‘That was a promise then and it’s a promise now.’ Then, to Rebus, his voice taking on a threatening tone. ‘You should bugger off now. Come round here again, I swear I’ll wring your neck.’

‘I don’t doubt it.’ Rebus turned towards Billie. ‘Some dad you’ve got there. But it’s one thing to talk about it — or even think about it. Carrying it through, though...’ He eased past her on his way to the front door. ‘That’s cold, Billie — something your dad and Ellis might start to appreciate some day.’

He let himself out and stood on the landing. If words were being spoken inside, he couldn’t hear them. As he descended the stairs, he began to hum a tune. It was only when he got to the bottom that he realised what it was.

R. Dean Taylor, ‘There’s a Ghost in My House’. He hadn’t heard that one in a while...