In a House of Lies

4

The mortuary car park was almost full by the time Clarke arrived. She’d grabbed a coffee from her local café and carried it with her as she made for the staff entrance. Most of the attendants knew her and gave nods of welcome as she walked down the corridor. The autopsy suite was one floor up, so she climbed the stairs, opening the last door she came to. It led to the viewing area. There were two rows of benches, a glass panel separating the spectators from the room where the actual work was done. Sutherland’s team had already gathered. They were concentrating on the ceiling-mounted loudspeaker as Professors Deborah Quant and Aubrey Hamilton discussed procedure. Both women wore regulation gowns, foot protectors, masks, caps and goggles. Quant was the taller, which was useful when they had their backs to the viewing room. Mortuary staff fussed around them with stainless-steel implements and bowls and various sizes of clear plastic specimen pouch. Scales had been fetched, though Clarke very much doubted there’d be anything in the way of vital organs to weigh. Graham Sutherland wasn’t the only one to cast an envious eye at Clarke’s coffee.

‘What have I missed?’ she asked.

‘Clothing’s in the process of being removed.’ He handed a set of photographs to her. An identical set was being perused by one of the mortuary technicians. They showed Stuart Bloom at various ages and in a range of poses. In one of the later ones, he appeared to be wearing the same jacket and shirt from the night he’d gone missing. Stepping closer to the glass, Clarke saw that the denim jacket and check shirt had been sliced cleanly in sections from the cadaver, though not without taking some skin in the process. What was left on the slab looked like a prop from a horror film. Tweezers were removing samples of hair, eyebrows and a fingernail, along with bits of glass from the shattered window.

‘Apparently the wildlife have had a go at him down the years,’ Sutherland commented.

‘I thought the boot was closed, car windows intact?’

He looked at her. ‘I mean bugs and the like. They smell decay, they’re always going to find a way.’

Pathologist and anthropologist were now studying the skull, Quant circling the area of damage with her finger. They moved on to the jaw, examining the teeth.

‘Dental records,’ Clarke said. Sutherland nodded his agreement and turned towards George Gamble. While the other detectives were on their feet, Gamble had decided to stay seated, pudgy hands resting on thick knees.

‘They’re on their way,’ Gamble obliged.

Sutherland’s eyes met Clarke’s. ‘CCU agreed to release the case files. A couple of dozen boxes and about as many computer disks. It’s all coming to us from the warehouse.’

‘Joy of joys,’ Tess Leighton drawled.

‘Bit of reading for you, Tess,’ Callum Reid said with a grin.

‘For all of you,’ Sutherland corrected him. ‘Team effort, remember?’

Leighton wagged a finger at Reid, who gave a sniff and turned his attention back to the examination. The door swung open, a member of the mortuary team standing there in overalls and shin-high rubber boots.

‘Could do with one of you in reception,’ he said. ‘They’re threatening to gatecrash.’

‘Who’s “they”?’ Sutherland asked. Clarke reckoned she knew.

‘The family?’ She watched the assistant nod.

‘And they’ve a reporter with them,’ he added.

‘Do the honours, Siobhan,’ Sutherland said. ‘We need one of them anyway for the DNA.’

‘What do I tell them, though?’

Sutherland managed a shrug that didn’t look wholly sympathetic. His attention was again on the autopsy, especially now that the ankles — still handcuffed — were being photographed, inspected, discussed.

Clarke tried not to let her feelings show as she made her exit, following the assistant to the public reception area. Another staff member was there, in white blouse and black trousers. She had risen from her desk and stood with arms stretched wide, as if to form a wall between the visitors and the stairs and corridors behind her. The assistant had melted away, leaving Clarke to walk to the receptionist’s side.

‘I’m Detective Inspector Clarke,’ she announced, holding open her warrant card. This had the desired effect — sometimes it did, sometimes it didn’t. The visitors’ attention shifted to her. She recognised Stuart Bloom’s parents from the photographs of them online. They looked to be in their early sixties. The mother, Catherine, wore a well-cut black coat. Her hair was silver, cut short, suiting the shape of her face. Time and tide had not been so kind to her husband. He had a haunted look in the photographs, always very much leaving the speeches to his wife. Martin Bloom had been an accountant and possibly still was. His suit looked like he wore it most days with the same tightly knotted necktie. His hair needed a trim, and grey hairs sprouted from both ears.

‘The family deserve to be told, DI Clarke. After all these years of police incompetence and cover-up...’

Clarke held up a hand as she studied the man who’d just spoken. He was probably still in his twenties, his face superficially like that of the Blooms’ son Stuart. Yet Clarke knew Stuart had been an only child. The man realised something was needed from him.

‘I’m Dougal Kelly. I’m a family friend.’

‘And would you also happen to be a journalist, Mr Kelly?’

‘I’m writing a book,’ Kelly admitted. ‘But that’s neither here nor there.’

Clarke seemed wordlessly to agree. She had turned away from him to focus on the parents.

‘Mr and Mrs Bloom, I know this is difficult, but right now we really don’t have anything concrete we can share.’

‘You could start by letting us see him,’ Catherine Bloom blurted out, a tremor in her voice.

‘That’s not really possible until we have a positive identification.’

‘You’re telling us it might not be him?’ Martin Bloom enquired quietly.

‘Right now we don’t know very much.’

‘But you know something!’ His wife’s voice was rising again.

‘Say it’s not Stuart, and we let you view the body before the real family. You must see the distress that would cause.’

‘How long until you know for certain?’ Dougal Kelly asked.

‘Not too long, I hope.’ Clarke’s eyes were still on the parents. ‘If we could swab one of you for DNA. And maybe take a hair or two...’

‘You can do that here?’ the father asked.

‘I’d think so.’ Clarke turned to the receptionist, who was back in her seat, trying for invisibility. ‘Okay if we use the waiting room while I check?’

‘Of course.’

‘And maybe rustle up a cup of tea or something?’

The receptionist nodded, picking up her phone.

‘This way then,’ Clarke said, leading them the few yards to the closed door.

‘You seem to know this place well,’ Kelly said, keeping his tone light.

Clarke gestured for them to go in. A few plastic chairs, a table covered in old magazines; posters on the walls showing a field of sunflowers, a waterfall, a sunset. She sat down first, watching as they followed suit.

‘Were you part of the original inquiry?’ Kelly asked. Clarke shook her head.

‘There better be no one from those days attached to this,’ Catherine Bloom spat.

‘Most of them are long retired,’ her husband said, patting the back of her hand. ‘DCI Rawlston and all that lot.’

‘The Chuggabugs are still around!’ his wife countered. Clarke thought she’d misheard.

‘Chuggabugs?’

Dougal Kelly leaned forward. ‘Too young for Wacky Races? Me too. Even in 2006 it was a relic, but that’s the name they got.’

‘Who?’

It was Catherine Bloom who answered. ‘The cops working for Adrian Brand.’

‘We only found out much later,’ Kelly explained, ‘that their colleagues called them that. Though not to their faces, I bet.’ He saw he still had some work to do. ‘Dastardly and Muttley? It was a TV cartoon. Same cars racing each other week after week. Dick Dastardly cheating and never seeing the benefit.’

‘I’ve heard of it.’

‘One of the cars was the Arkansas Chuggabug. A hillbilly driving and a bear as his passenger.’

‘Okay...’

‘And somehow Steele and Edwards got the nickname.’

A jolt of adrenalin shot through Clarke. She tried not to let it show. ‘Steele and Edwards?’

‘They were in Adrian Brand’s pay,’ Catherine Bloom interrupted. ‘And no one thought that was suspicious? No one thought that was part of the conspiracy?’

Her husband had stopped patting her wrist and started rubbing it, but she snatched her hand away.

‘I’m fine!’ she barked, just as the receptionist put her head around the door.

‘I need to know milk and sugar,’ she announced with the falsest of smiles.

Clarke was on her feet and heading for the door. ‘I’ll just be a minute,’ she explained. ‘Forgot to check if we can do the DNA here.’

She retraced her steps to the car park, then stood there for a moment running a hand through her hair. Her phone was in her other hand, so she made the call. Rebus picked up almost immediately.

‘Was it you that came up with the name for them?’ she asked.

‘And good morning to you, Siobhan. What name for who?’

‘The Chuggalugs.’

There was silence for a moment. ‘Chuggabugs,’ he corrected her.

‘Two cops called Steele and Edwards?’

‘Thick as thieves, as the saying goes. Who have you been talking to?’

‘Stuart Bloom’s parents.’

‘I wonder who told them.’

‘They’re with a writer called Dougal Kelly.’

‘Never heard of him. Has my name come up?’

‘Bill Rawlston’s did. Next thing I know, they’re talking about Steele and Edwards and how they were in Adrian Brand’s pocket.’ She waited for a response but none came. ‘Well, were they, John?’

‘This might be better done face to face.’

‘You know Steele and Edwards are still on the force, right?’

‘I’ve not heard anything about them in years.’

‘They’re ACU, John. They were the ones who came after me.’

‘Bloody hell — they were in uniform back then and unlikely to trouble an IQ test. They must know where the bodies are buried.’

‘Not the subtlest phrasing under the circumstances.’

‘I apologise. So the Chuggabugs went over to the dark side? Well, I suppose that makes as much sense as anything else these days. You at the mortuary?’

‘Yes.’

‘Seen Deborah?’

‘Not to talk to. She’s got Aubrey Hamilton with her.’

‘The forensic anthropologist?’

‘Yes.’

‘A pretty good tag team. Maybe you’d best mention Steele and Edwards to your boss.’

‘Why?’

‘So he can pull them in for questioning, have a bit of fun with them.’

‘You think I’d be that vindictive?’

‘If not, I didn’t teach you much.’

She found she could almost smile. ‘I’ll give it some thought.’

‘Want to come dog-walking later? Let off some steam?’

‘You mean keep you in the loop? How ethical would that be, do you think?’

‘Throw me a bone here — keep me and Brillo happy.’

‘I’ll talk to you later, John.’

‘Make sure you do.’

She ended the call and found that she’d walked all the way across the car park and out on to the Cowgate. When she turned round, she saw Graham Sutherland at an upstairs window, signalling for her to come back. She was trying not to blush as she retraced her steps.

Sutherland met her in the corridor outside the autopsy suite.

‘What was that all about?’ he asked.

‘Just had to take a call,’ Clarke answered. ‘Plus, the Blooms want to know if we can do the DNA here.’

‘Professor Quant is already on it. She’s finished the preliminary examination. Professor Hamilton has a bit of work to do, and she wants to see for herself where the car was found.’

‘Why?’

‘Something to do with how the specific environment breaks down a human body. The jargon was a bit beyond me.’ His stern look was beginning to soften. ‘How are the parents?’

‘She’s frantic, he’s more resigned. They seem to be giving their story to a writer called Dougal Kelly.’

‘Good luck to them.’ Sutherland pushed his hands into his pockets. ‘We’re in limbo till we get the ID verified.’

‘Doesn’t stop us cracking on. Ninety per cent chance it’s him. No other mispers from the time fit the description.’

Sutherland nodded. ‘I suppose we can go through the old case notes while we’re waiting. Maybe talk to a few people.’

‘There’s something I should probably tell you, sir. Two of the uniforms from the original inquiry are now ACU. They’re the ones I recently locked horns with.’

Sutherland considered for a moment. ‘Not a problem, is it?’

‘Just thought you should know.’

‘Is that what your call was about?’

‘Sort of.’

‘No secrets, Siobhan. Seems to me that’s what was at the root of the original inquiry’s problems.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Let’s go back to using “Graham” again, shall we?’

‘Sir,’ Clarke said, with a bow and a smile.

5

A visitor was waiting at the front desk of Leith police station. He was stocky and corkscrew-haired, with a pair of John Lennon-style glasses perched on his nose. Tweed jacket, chinos and an open-necked pink shirt.

‘My name’s Glenn Hazard,’ he said, dishing out business cards. ‘I’m here on behalf of Sir Adrian Brand.’

‘You’re in PR, Mr Hazard,’ Sutherland said, having checked the card. ‘Sir Adrian’s one of your clients?’

Hazard nodded. ‘The most important of my clients,’ he clarified.

‘And what brings you here today?’

‘The story’s already gone viral — you’ve found Stuart Bloom.’ He sought each pair of eyes for confirmation.

‘Not strictly true.’

‘Well, the online community’s latched on to it, so whether you have or not hardly matters.’ He saw the look he was getting and backtracked. ‘No, of course it matters. But my job is damage limitation. Sir Adrian has already had to deal with the fallout from when Bloom disappeared. It would be good to... control the flow of information and kill rumours before they get started.’

‘What are you trying to say, Mr Hazard?’

‘Poretoun Woods — they’re owned by my client.’

‘Jackie Ness sold them to Sir Adrian?’ Clarke asked.

Hazard was shaking his head. He was about to start his answer when Sutherland interrupted.

‘Best if you come upstairs, Mr Hazard. It’d be good to get this sorted out. Good for your client, I mean.’

The MIT room hadn’t yet been aired and still smelled musty. One of the radiators hissed a constant complaint, and Callum Reid tried without success to open a window. Equipment had been unpacked, however — computers, a TV monitor, and a whiteboard perched on an easel — and it looked more like an inquiry hub than previously. Photos of Stuart Bloom and his partner Derek Shankley had been pinned up next to the map. Photocopies of newspaper reports from the 2006 investigation sat on each desk. Mugs and a kettle had appeared. Clarke looked towards Tess Leighton.

‘You were busy last night,’ she said.

‘George helped, actually,’ she replied.

Hazard settled on the chair that had been Rebus’s the previous day. He looked the sort that would be hard to faze — probably a minimum requirement for working in public relations.

‘Did you represent Sir Adrian back in the day?’ Sutherland was asking as he got comfortable behind his desk.

‘I wasn’t in PR then,’ Hazard replied.

‘Interesting job, is it?’

‘Every day a new challenge.’

‘Bit like police work then.’ Which was the end of the small talk. ‘So Poretoun Woods are owned by Sir Adrian Brand. Since when?’

‘Just the past couple of years. They came with Poretoun House. He bought both from a hotelier called Jeff Sellers. Sellers had plans to turn the place into another hotel — boutique, five-star, you know the drill. I think the money ran out, so Sir Adrian stepped in. Snapped up a bargain, I believe.’

‘Both house and woods used to belong to Jackie Ness,’ Clarke said.

‘Ness sold to Sellers.’

‘Does he know your client’s got hold of them?’

Hazard gave the thinnest of smiles. ‘I’d imagine so, even though the actual owner is one of Sir Adrian’s companies rather than Sir Adrian personally.’

‘He’s dusting off the golf course plan?’

‘Not that I’ve heard. That was the other side of the city from Poretoun, you know — west rather than south-east.’

‘There’s still bad blood, though?’

‘Maybe it would be more accurate to say both gentlemen have long memories. But that’s really why I’m here. The media are going to have the proverbial field day. Stuart Bloom was snooping into Sir Adrian’s affairs. Twelve years later he ends up dead on land owned by Sir Adrian. You can see how that’s going to play, unless we manage the story with the utmost care.’

‘We’re not in the business of managing stories, Mr Hazard,’ Sutherland stated. ‘Back in the day, things might have been a lot cosier, but that was then and this is now.’

‘You can’t want to see an innocent man suffer, his reputation damaged. I’m just saying that when you prepare your press releases and give your media briefings...’

‘Keep your client’s name out of it?’

‘As far as possible, yes, to protect the innocent. I’d be more than happy to help your press office in the drafting of—’

‘We might need to talk to Sir Adrian,’ Clarke interrupted, walking to the side of Sutherland’s desk so she was facing Hazard. ‘Is Poretoun House our best bet?’

‘He doesn’t actually live there.’

‘So who does?’

‘I think it’s empty. Sir Adrian has a house in Murrayfield.’

‘So what are his plans for Poretoun House?’

Hazard offered a shrug.

‘And just to get back to the subject,’ Sutherland interrupted, ‘why do you think the body was in those woods?’

Another shrug.

‘Does your client have a theory?’

‘From talking to him, I’d say he’s always thought Jackie Ness must have fallen out with the PI and bumped him off. The woods would have been an easy place to hide the body. Half a mile of dirt track and no one around. It’s certainly true that Ness had a temper on him. There are no end of stories about him — you can find most of them online.’ Hazard paused and fixed Clarke with a look. ‘If you do plan to interview Sir Adrian, you’ll have to promise to do the same with Ness. It would look bad otherwise.’

‘Thanks for the advice,’ Sutherland said icily. His phone buzzed: incoming text. He read it and placed the phone on the desk in front of him. ‘We’re grateful to you for filling in a few blanks, Mr Hazard. Phil, will you see Mr Hazard out, please?’

Hazard looked reluctant, but Sutherland was already on his feet, extending a hand for the PR man to shake.

‘If you need me for anything, anything at all...’

‘We all have your card.’ Sutherland nodded brusquely. He stayed on his feet as Yeats and Hazard left, then sought out Emily Crowther. ‘Could you close the door, please, Emily? We should wait for Phil but we can fill him in when he gets back. Best do this right now.’ He was leaning over his phone, dabbing at the screen. When it began to ring, he switched the speaker on.

‘DCI Sutherland.’ Clarke recognised Deborah Quant’s voice. ‘Thanks for getting back to me.’

‘Team’s all here, Professor,’ Sutherland called out. ‘We’re ready to hear what you’ve got for us.’

‘Whoever was babysitting the Blooms should have asked to see in the mother’s bag. She’d packed half her son’s life in there, including a copy of his dental records.’

Sutherland was gazing in Clarke’s direction, but her eyes were fixed to the far wall as she concentrated on not letting colour flood her face.

‘Looks like a positive match,’ Quant was saying. ‘We’ll still do the DNA — belt and braces and all that. But both parents thought the hair sample we showed them was probably Stuart’s. Same goes for the photos of his clothing. No distinguishing features or tattoos, so that’s pretty much what we’ve got.’

‘Did you mention the handcuffs?’

‘Absolutely not.’

‘And cause of death?’

‘Aubrey and I are pretty well agreed on that. Blunt object trauma. Hole in the back of the head is a couple of centimetres wide. Hammer maybe. Crowbar. We’ve taken samples to see if whatever it was has left any traces. After this length of time, I’m not hugely hopeful.’

‘Thank you, Professor. Anything else we should know?’

‘Aubrey wants to see where the car was found. She asked if your forensics team are still working there.’

‘Car’s gone to the lab.’

‘Keep me informed of their progress. The floor of the boot will tell us if he was killed in situ. Professor Hamilton also says some interesting work is being done with soil these days. There’s someone in Aberdeen might be useful.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Mud on and in the car, bits of dirt ingrained in the tyres, that sort of thing. Might help you track where else it had been before it ended up in the gully.’

‘I’ll bear that in mind.’

‘Ah...’

‘What?’

‘I can hear it in your voice — case hasn’t been budgeted yet?’

‘Not yet, no.’

‘Well, I’ve no idea how much a soil expert costs these days, but I know money’s tight. Having said which, I’m telling you the victim was Stuart Bloom, so the chiefs aren’t going to want to be shown stinting.’

‘You’re a hundred per cent sure, Deborah?’ Clarke asked.

‘Hi, Siobhan. Thought I saw you in the viewing room. Let’s say ninety-nine point nine.’ Sutherland’s phone was making a noise. ‘Sounds like another caller trying to get through,’ Deborah Quant said. ‘You better take that. It’s probably whoever’s acting as chief constable this week.’

‘News travels,’ Sutherland said.

‘Doesn’t it just?’

Sutherland had picked up the phone, ending Quant’s call and pressing the appliance to his ear.

‘Yes, sir?’ he said, making for the hallway. As he left the room, Yeats entered.

‘What did I miss?’ he enquired.

‘Stick the kettle on and we’ll tell you,’ Tess Leighton replied.

6

Detective Inspector Malcolm Fox was chewing a pen at his desk. His feeling was, it made him look busy, like he was thinking great thoughts or working out a knotty problem. His computer screen showed that he was halfway through a memo on the reallocation of resources to Police Scotland’s Major Crime Division. Around him, everything still felt new. Gartcosh was the site of the shiny high-tech Scottish Crime Campus, the nerve centre of Police Scotland. Forty miles west of the capital, it would always be another country to the Edinburgh-dwelling Fox.

The quiet hum of activity belied the fact that Police Scotland was in trouble. Then again, you never had to look too far to find a crisis of one sort or another. But the chief constable was on suspension while being investigated for various misdemeanours, as was one of his assistant chief constables, meaning that Fox’s own boss, ACC Jennifer Lyon, was burdened by extra worries and workload. Despite all of which, there was little to keep Fox occupied. He had dropped heavy hints about a larger role, but Lyon had cautioned him to be patient. In relative terms, he’d only just got his feet under the desk. There was time enough ahead.

‘Besides,’ she’d added, ‘climb too far up the ladder just now and you’re liable to come across a rung that’s been sawn through.’

Lyon had reckoned Fox’s current task a promotion of sorts. If done well, it would get him noticed by those at the top. Everyone seemed to agree that policy was his strength. In other words, he was a desk jockey, good in meetings, presentable, happier with subordinate clauses than actual subordinates. Fox wanted to tell them: I’ve seen action, got my hands dirty in the past. He had even angled for a lateral move from Major Crime to Organised Crime and Counter-Terrorism, but Lyon had just given him a look. Lacking a chief constable, the deputy chief constable — who had been on the brink of retiring — was running the show but leaning heavily on Lyon for support, meaning she was often out of reach. Fox knew that big cases were effectively in limbo, awaiting decisions. His colleagues in Major Crime were anxious verging on mutinous, queuing up to gain the okay from Lyon over this or that course of action.

Which was why a couple of them sprang to their feet when Lyon stalked into the large open-plan office. A brushing motion with one hand told them this wasn’t the time. Instead, Lyon was standing just over Fox’s shoulder. Her hair was bottle-blonde and brittle, curving around the sides of her head as if to cocoon her face. In meetings, when she leaned forward, it covered her eyes, making her impossible to read. Now, Fox concentrated on her pale pink lips as she leaned in towards his left ear.

‘A word outside, Malcolm.’

By the time he had got to his feet, she was already at the door. As Fox made to follow, he caught the looks from his colleagues. They wanted him to plead their cases. He gestured with his head, not quite a nod, straightened his tie and buttoned his suit jacket.

One feature of Gartcosh was its ‘breakout areas’. Basically quiet, comfortable nooks where the various disciplines such as specialist crime, forensic science and the procurator fiscal could exchange information over a relatively relaxed coffee. The whole interior of the building felt like a high-security further education college. Lyon hadn’t quite made it to her destination without interruption. Someone from HMRC’s fraud unit was bending her ear, Lyon giving grim nods in the hope the man would take the hint.

‘Sorry to interrupt,’ Fox said as he approached. ‘You said it was urgent, ma’am.’

Lyon tried for a disappointed look. ‘Another time, Owen? Sorry about this.’

With a glower in Fox’s direction, the HMRC man started to leave.

‘I’ll email you,’ Lyon called out in assurance. Then, lowering her voice so only Fox could hear, ‘Thanks for that. Let’s sit down.’

They did, watching the ebb and flow of officers. One or two gave more than a passing glance, recognising Lyon and wondering who she was with. Lyon played with the lanyards hanging around her neck. Two passes: one a photo ID, the other giving keyless entry to the building’s more secure sections.

‘Is it something to do with the memo?’ Fox nudged.

She shook her head. ‘It’s this Stuart Bloom thing.’ She saw his blank look. ‘I thought you were in Professional Standards at the time?’

‘When are we talking about?’

‘Two thousand and six.’

‘I joined the following year.’

‘His family were still vocal then, and every year since.’

Fox was nodding. ‘The private eye who went missing? Wasn’t their original complaint dismissed?’

‘And every one after. But now it looks like his body has turned up. Questions are going to be asked about how we missed it first time round. Some of the original team didn’t exactly cover themselves in glory, from what I’ve been told.’ She paused, her eyes finally meeting his. ‘I want you to go take a look. You were in the Complaints, you’ll maybe notice what shortcuts were taken. Anything from general sloppiness up to criminal conspiracy — there were always rumours and I’d like to see them quashed.’

‘Wouldn’t I be treading on the toes of the new inquiry?’

‘Is that going to cause you to lose any sleep?’

‘Not at all.’ Fox reacted to her icy tone by sitting up a bit straighter. ‘So I’d go through the original case files...’

‘There’s a bit more to it than that, Malcolm. The family always talked about it being a conspiracy, our lot colluding with the rich and the powerful, leaking stuff to the press to make sure the public saw only one side of the story.’ She broke off, looking to left and right, checking she could not be overheard. All the same, she lowered her voice a little further. ‘We’re not releasing the information just yet, but the victim was handcuffed.’

‘Police issue?’ He watched as she gave the slightest of shrugs. ‘You think cops were involved?’

‘That’s one of the things I want you to think about. Reporting back directly to me. I’ll clear it with the officer in charge. The last thing we need right now is any more crap being tossed in our direction. Media and politicians have more or less scooped the latrine dry.’ When she stopped speaking, Fox saw it suddenly in her eyes: the fatigue from having fought too many bouts, the hope that someone would deal with this and make it all go away.

‘Leave it to me,’ he said.

There was no nod of acknowledgement or smile of thanks. Lyon just got to her feet and strode off towards the relative safety of her own office. Fox sat for a moment longer, then took his phone out and checked the news. The body had been found in Poretoun Woods, south-east of Edinburgh. That meant the MIT’s base would probably be Leith — there were only so many rooms across the country set aside for such operations. His eyes flickered over the story, taking in names and details. If Complaints had been involved, it would have been under the aegis of his predecessor, Ray Hungerford. Ray was still in the land of the living; Fox saw him at retirement parties and funerals. He checked his list of contacts, but there was no number for him.

Lowering the phone, he found himself staring at the door to the Major Crime office. They would be waiting for him to come back, ready for him to tell them he’d had a word with the boss. Instead of which, Fox stood up, pocketed his phone and headed in the direction of the outside world.

It took Fox only a few phone calls to track down Ray Hungerford. He was driving a black taxi these days, apparently, and Fox ordered the cab company to keep him where he was, on a rank on Lothian Road. The drive back into Edinburgh was slowed by roadworks on the M8 and one accident at the junction with a slip road. Fox kept the radio news on, but the media didn’t have much as yet. He listened as Stuart Bloom’s mother was interviewed. She implored anyone with information to come forward. Fox didn’t doubt many would respond to her plea, the vast majority of them attention-seekers or cranks. Some would do it with the best intentions, swamping the inquiry before it had had a chance to establish itself. He couldn’t see the major incident team welcoming him with anything other than impatience and irritation.

‘Just like the old days in the Complaints,’ he muttered to himself as the congestion ahead began to ease. Edinburgh loomed ahead, the castle on its raised volcanic platform visible for miles. Fox felt himself relax a little; he understood the city better than he did Gartcosh. He knew how it worked.

There were three taxis lined up outside the Sheraton Hotel, but one had reversed to the very back of the rank, its flashers on, hire light switched off. Fox pulled up in front of it and got out of his car. As he neared the cab, its passenger-side window slid down.

‘Keeping busy, Ray?’ he enquired.

‘You’ve put on a bit of weight, Malcolm.’

‘Okay if we talk?’

‘What about.’

‘Maybe join me in the back?’

Hungerford kept the engine running so there’d be some heating inside the cab. He settled next to Fox and the two men exchanged a handshake.

‘I’ve turned down three fares, you know,’ Hungerford complained.

‘I appreciate that. Pension not keeping you afloat?’

‘It’s my son’s cab. I’m just in charge while he’s on holiday. Gets me out of the house. You can’t still be Complaints, surely?’

‘Gartcosh these days, Major Crime.’

‘The new Big House, eh?’

‘They’ve got me looking at the Stuart Bloom case,’ Fox revealed.

‘That old chestnut. So it really is him in those woods?’

‘Looks like. The original inquiry wasn’t without its difficulties.’

Hungerford gave him a hard look. ‘Are you working as a diplomat now or something? I was always a fan of plain speaking myself.’

‘Okay then, the original case was pretty much a fuck-up from the start.’

‘There was a good man in charge,’ Hungerford countered. ‘Never heard a bad word about Bill Rawlston.’

‘The officers under him, though...?’

Hungerford puckered his mouth. ‘A prize collection of pricks, incompetents and chancers.’

‘An assessment included in your report, I don’t doubt?’

‘There wasn’t much of a report; everything was hearsay. A handful of officers probably were homophobic. Christ, it used to almost be mandatory. Friends of Bloom’s from the gay scene were hauled in for questioning and not exactly treated with kid gloves. Meantime, you had a good cop in Glasgow who wanted his son kept out of it, even though that son had to be treated as a suspect.’ Hungerford puffed out his cheeks and exhaled. ‘The two moguls meantime...’

‘Jackie Ness and Adrian Brand?’

Hungerford nodded. ‘Usual cock-measuring going on there. They had lawyers crying foul at every opportunity, journalists eager to buy drinks for anyone who might have a story to tell...’

‘Including officers from the investigation?’

‘Undoubtedly. I dare say you’ve done something similar in your time; I know I have. Guy stands you a few nice malts, maybe you start to like him and decide he merits something in return. Some cops used to get off on it — the thrill of seeing a piece in the paper that they’d had a hand in.’

‘Any names in particular.’

Hungerford considered for a few seconds. ‘All this archaeology just because the body’s been found?’

‘High hiedyins want to be confident no zombies are going to start appearing among the skeletons.’

‘And they’ve given it to you because you used to be Complaints?’

‘That’s about the size of it.’

Hungerford nodded while he contemplated. ‘All we really did was dig into the case files and then ask a few questions. It was obvious that mistakes had been made, our own lot negligent or obstructive. Not for the first time, and by no means the last.’

‘You made recommendations?’

‘There were a couple of officers we could have come down hard on if we tried. Steele, one of them was called.’

‘Let me guess — the other was Edwards.’

‘You know them?’

‘They work for ACU these days, based at Gartcosh.’

‘Well, they were just uniforms back then, but playing all sorts of games.’

‘Such as?’

‘They had spare-time jobs, mostly as security. They’d even been part of Adrian Brand’s bodyguard detail.’

‘He needed bodyguards?’

‘Rumours he’d taken money from an Irish gangster connected to the paramilitaries. There’d been a falling-out.’

‘Nothing ever came of it?’

‘Not that I know of. There was definitely something about Steele and Edwards, though — they owned top-of-the-line cars, took expensive holidays. Always the best clothes, designer watches...’

‘All on a copper’s salary.’

‘But like I say, we never quite got to them.’

‘Were they being protected?’

Hungerford offered a shrug. ‘Brand bought tables at a lot of charity dinners, wined and dined his fair share of top brass and MPs.’

Fox grew thoughtful. ‘And after you’d finished with the files...?’

‘They were sent to CCU for a look-see. Nothing came of that, so they went into storage. Whoever’s in charge now, they’ll probably be poring over them, don’t you think?’

‘If they’re on the ball.’

‘Not always the case, is it?’ Hungerford chuckled.

‘Steele and Edwards apart, anyone else of note?’

‘Bloody hell, Malc, my memory’s not what it was.’ Hungerford rubbed his jaw. ‘Mary Skelton — she was all right actually; bit of a looker and very pleasant with it. Doug Newsome — most you could say of him was he was lazy; didn’t always write his reports up with a degree of rigour.’ He paused and smiled. ‘And then there was John Rebus, of course.’

Fox’s mouth twitched. ‘Why do you say “of course”?’

‘My time in Professional Standards, Rebus was never far from a bollocking or a suspension. Did you never cross swords?’

‘Rebus retired at the end of 2006. Well, sort of.’

‘Sounds like you have come across him, though?’

‘John Rebus has a way of turning up. Anything in particular blot his copybook on the Bloom case?’

‘He was mates with the boyfriend’s dad, a cop from Glasgow. Word was, they kept meeting for a quiet drink.’

‘Which might not mean much in itself.’

‘Unless information was being passed along. We never proved anything.’

Fox sat for a moment deep in thought, then he nodded slowly. ‘Thanks for your time, Ray, I really appreciate it. It was good to catch up.’

‘You know where I am if you need me again.’ Hungerford had extended his hand, but not for the shake Fox was about to offer. The palm was upwards, stretched flat. He nodded towards the front of the cab, where the meter had been ticking throughout. ‘Twenty-five fifty,’ he said. Then, with a wink: ‘Don’t worry, I’ll write you a receipt for thirty.’

7

The others had made their excuses after one drink, but Clarke and Sutherland stuck around for a second. He fetched her the tonic water she’d requested, along with a half of IPA to add to the pint he’d almost finished. The bar was about as upmarket as this part of Leith got, meaning cops could feel relatively safe there. All the same, they were seated at a corner table with a view of the door.

‘Sure you don’t want a gin in that?’ Sutherland asked.

‘Don’t want to make a bad impression.’

‘Two gins after work is hardly a disciplinary offence.’ He chinked his glass against hers. ‘Speaking of which...’

‘How much do you know?’

‘Just that ACU thought you were passing stories to a reporter pal.’

‘I wasn’t.’

‘And also that you’d used a work computer to try getting the same reporter some information.’

‘I was cleared.’

‘Indeed you were, and you resent having been accused.’

‘I was made to feel like I was a bad cop. I’m not.’

‘These two ACU officers...?’

‘Steele and Edwards.’

Sutherland nodded. ‘Do you hold a grudge against them?’

‘No.’

‘I think that’s maybe a lie.’

‘Depends how you define “grudge”. Would I do them a favour in future? No. Would I want someone to attack them in a dark alley? No.’

‘And if you saw them out having a drink, then climbing into the driving seat...?’

‘I’d phone it in like a shot.’

They both smiled, focusing on their drinks. Clarke leaned back, rolling her head, feeling the tension there.

‘I remember,’ Sutherland was saying, ‘back in Inverness. There was a time-server none of us liked. He had a drink problem, but we covered for him where necessary. Day he retired, there was a party laid on in the canteen with more than a few refreshments. We all clapped and handed him the gift we’d bought, then watched and waved as he headed out to his car, ready to drive home. Traffic had been tipped off. He was stopped, lost his licence.’

‘A sort of justice to that, I suppose.’ Clarke sipped her drink. ‘So did you grow up in Inverness?’

Sutherland nodded. ‘Not much of an accent left, except when I visit family. I notice you’re English.’

She shook her head. ‘Born here; grew up there — I blame the parents. So where else have you been other than Inverness?’

‘Aberdeen, Glasgow, even Skye for a while.’

‘They have crime on Skye?’

‘I like to think I eradicated it.’ He made a little toast to himself. ‘You ever been anywhere other than Edinburgh?’

‘I was on secondment in Glenrothes when Stuart Bloom disappeared.’

‘That was lucky — if you’d been attached to the case, you couldn’t be on my team now. Conflict of interest, et cetera.’

Clarke nodded distractedly. ‘So where do you live these days?’ she eventually asked.

‘Shettleston, in Glasgow.’

‘Can you see Barlinnie from there?’

‘More or less. How about you?’

‘Five minutes from here. Just off Broughton Street.’

‘On your own?’ He watched her nod. ‘Me too. Wasn’t always the case, but you know how it is. I decided to marry my golf clubs instead. I don’t suppose you play?’

‘Do I look like a golfer?’

‘I don’t know — what does a golfer look like?’

‘My idea of fresh air and exercise is the local café and paper shop.’ Her phone buzzed. It was lying on the table to the side of her glass, so she could see that it was the call box again.

‘Not answering?’ Sutherland queried.

‘It’s not important.’

They waited for it to stop.

‘I get the distinct feeling there’s more to you than meets the eye, Detective Inspector Clarke.’

‘Trust me, there really isn’t.’

Sutherland thought for a moment, watching her from behind his raised glass. He smacked his lips when he lowered it. ‘I know Tess has given the Bloom file a first pass, but would you like to take a look too?’

‘Why?’

‘Might be our friends Steele and Edwards will pop up there, something you could tuck away for future use.’

She stared at him. ‘It was you who tipped off Traffic, wasn’t it?’ His left eyebrow was the only part of his face that moved. ‘There’s a prize if you tell me.’

‘Okay, I’m intrigued.’

‘A game of pitch ’n’ putt at Bruntsfield Links.’

‘An offer that’s hard to refuse. But you might be wearing a wire, so...’ He maintained eye contact as he slowly but definitively nodded.

‘Has to be on a warm day, mind,’ Clarke cautioned.

‘And how many of those does Edinburgh get?’

‘We had one a couple of years back.’

They both started laughing.

The Meadows again, illuminated by the street lamps on Melville Drive.

The rain had stopped, but the grass was wet, the cold penetrating their shoes and chilling their toes. Rebus stood with hands in pockets, the collar of his overcoat up, while Clarke had pulled the hood of her waterproof jacket over her head. In front of them, Brillo was busy sniffing some invisible trail. It was like watching an infant take a line for a walk across a sheet of paper.

‘He’s determined,’ Clarke admitted.

‘Not to mention tireless — can’t think who that reminds me of.’

‘I wanted to ask you about Steele and Edwards. How dirty do you think they were back then?’

‘You know that old saying — you need a lang spoon tae sup wi’ the devil?’

‘I thought that was Fifers.’

‘Same thing. All you need to know is, that’s what they were like. Kept everything to themselves. Always sat at a different table from everyone else, heads together. If they had a brain, it was a hundred per cent the property of Brian Steele. Grant Edwards had heft but not much else.’

‘He’s not changed much.’

‘Well, you’ve had more recent dealings with them. But back then, none of us thought they would last too much longer in the force. They’d be up on a charge or else off to greener pastures.’

‘Meaning what?’

‘Steele owned a couple of executive cars, chauffeured bigwigs around. That’s probably how he fell in with Adrian Brand. He always said police work was boring.’

‘And Edwards?’

‘Did some of the driving. Worked a lot of his free nights as a club doorman. Was said to have money in a car wash out near the Forth Bridge.’

‘Did they try to influence the investigation?’

‘At Brand’s behest, you mean?’ Rebus thought for a moment. ‘Aye, maybe. They wouldn’t have been above taking a few quid from him, either to keep him posted or else to make sure he wasn’t given too much grief.’

‘We had a visit today from Brand’s PR man. He wants much the same.’

‘I dare say he’s not undercharging for his services either.’ Rebus produced a lighter from his coat and flicked it until a flame appeared. ‘Christ, I wish I still smoked.’

‘Your lungs probably disagree.’

‘Specialist wanted me to get an exercise bike — can you imagine?’

‘Not really, no.’

‘Me in the flat, pedalling away, going nowhere.’

A car had stopped on Melville Drive. They heard its door close and turned to watch as a dark figure approached.

‘The prodigal returns,’ Rebus announced. ‘Or is it the swine that returns? I’m a bit rusty.’

‘Hello to you too, John.’ Malcolm Fox was gesturing towards the cigarette lighter. ‘Thought you’d stopped.’

‘This is just in case I decide to go out in a blaze of glory.’

Fox had leaned in towards Clarke to peck her on the cheek.

‘Steady on,’ Rebus chided him. ‘We’re not in bloody France.’

‘How are you, Siobhan?’

She nodded in the affirmative. ‘How about you, Malcolm?’

He nodded back before turning towards Rebus. ‘I went to the Oxford Bar first off, but they said they hardly see you these days. I’m at the age where nothing should surprise me, but I’ll admit that nearly took my legs from under me.’

‘Aye, they’ve had to announce a profits warning. Stock Exchange isn’t happy. And speaking of happy ships, how are things at Gartcosh? Lost any more high hiedyins lately?’

‘It’s not exactly been plain sailing.’

‘Latest allegations are all to do with bullying — hope none of that’s been happening to you in the playground, Malc. We all know you’re a sensitive soul. See, in my day we just took it on the chin.’

‘Might explain why you ended up with so many bruises.’

Rebus stretched out his arms. ‘Do you see any?’

Fox tapped a finger to his own head. ‘In here, I mean.’

Rebus screwed his eyes shut. ‘Well, despite the brain damage, let’s see if I can still do a bit of mind-reading.’ He pretended to cogitate. ‘I see a skeleton in a car, a lot of media attention, and the top brass anxious about an old case and those who worked on it.’ He opened his eyes again. ‘And here you are.’

‘You’ve not lost it.’ Fox pretended to clap his hands.

‘You’re working at the Big House, you used to be Complaints, who else are they going to send to do their sniffing?’ Rebus looked down to where Brillo was circling the new arrival. Fox bent at the waist and gave the dog a pat.

‘Your name was mentioned in passing,’ he admitted, straightening up again.

‘How about Brian Steele and Grant Edwards?’ Clarke asked.

‘Them too.’ Fox studied her. ‘What’s your interest, Siobhan?’

‘I’m MIT.’

‘Officer in charge?’

She shook her head. ‘That’s DCI Sutherland.’

‘Siobhan has also,’ Rebus said, ‘had a bit of a run-in with ACU.’

‘Meaning Steele and Edwards?’

‘We used to call them the Chuggabugs,’ Rebus commented.

Fox’s eyes were still on Clarke. ‘You’ve requisitioned the 2006 case notes?’

‘Yes.’

‘I need to take a look at them.’

‘That’s DCI Sutherland’s call.’

‘In point of fact, it’s ACC Lyon’s call, and I’m sure the message is on its way from her to your boss.’

‘Isn’t that nice, Siobhan?’ Rebus drawled. ‘You and Malcolm on a case again.’

‘Actually,’ Clarke parried, ‘what I’m doing is investigating a murder.’

‘That’s true, Malcolm,’ Rebus agreed, with the appearance of a sage nod. ‘Whereas you’re back to your old speciality of stirring the shit prior to slopping it over fellow officers, be they serving, retired or long buried. Must give you a nice warm glow.’ He paused. ‘You live in a bungalow, don’t you?’

Fox frowned at the change of subject. ‘Yes,’ he eventually said.

Rebus nodded to himself. ‘That’s why I could never live in one.’ He had a sudden thought and turned his attention back to Clarke. ‘Mind you, just say Malcolm were to find some dirt on the Chuggabugs — might not be a bad result.’

‘Someone’s going to have to explain that nickname to me,’ Fox said.

‘Cartoon characters,’ Clarke obliged.

‘Who recently had a go at Siobhan here,’ Rebus added. ‘Hence the appetite for a bit of dirt on them.’

‘Thing to remember, John,’ Fox cautioned, ‘is that dirt has a way of spreading itself around.’

‘So does pee,’ Rebus responded, gesturing to where Brillo had cocked his leg against Malcolm Fox’s ankle.

There was a space directly across the street from Clarke’s tenement. Lucky, she thought. Then she wondered if it had maybe been in use until just before she got there. She remembered the car from the previous night. Exact same spot. Having locked the Astra, she looked up and down the street, but all the cars seemed to be empty. No sign of anyone loitering on the pavement either. As she approached the tenement, though, she saw there was something scrawled on the door. Big fat silver letters against the dark-blue paint. She took out her phone and switched on the torch function, though she had already made the words out. But she just wanted to be sure they said what she thought they did.

PIG SCUM LIVES HERE!!!

PIG SCUM OUT!!!

She scanned the rest of the door. It was pristine. But then she noticed the intercom. The same silver pen had been used to cover up her name. She took a paper tissue from her pocket and ran it over the ink. Not quite dry. Another look up and down the street before she slid her key into the lock. Once inside, she stood with her back to the door, waiting. But no one was hiding, no one coming down the stairs towards her. Her heart was racing as she climbed to her landing, checking the door to her flat. The graffiti artist hadn’t come this far. Or if he had...

She unlocked the door and studied the hallway before walking in. Locking the door behind her, she crossed to the living room window, staring at the street and the windows opposite before closing the shutters and beginning to turn on the lights.