In a House of Lies

8

There were TV cameras outside the police station on Queen Charlotte Street. Approaching, Siobhan Clarke saw Catherine Bloom giving an interview. Against her chest she held a blown-up photograph of her son. At her shoulder stood Dougal Kelly, making sure his JUSTICE FOR STUART sign was visible. Stuart’s father stood well back from the action, watching his wife with what to Clarke looked like a mixture of pride and resignation. The campaign had been long and apparently tireless, but had taken its toll. Half a dozen print journalists were eavesdropping on the TV interview, holding up their phones to record the exchange. One of them gave a hopeful look towards Clarke, but she shook her head. She was barely inside the building when the text message arrived: Meet later? But cafés and wine bars with Laura Smith had been the start of Clarke’s spot of bother with ACU. Smith was the only crime reporter left at the Scotsman, and the relationship had proved fruitful, Smith never overstepping the mark, never printing anything without first checking that Clarke was okay with it. But when she had started covering the suspensions of various officers at the top of the Police Scotland tree, ACU had come to demand who was leaking.

Truth was, Smith wouldn’t even tell her good friend Siobhan Clarke.

Ignoring the text, Clarke climbed the stairs. She was a bit bleary, having spent half an hour the previous night removing as much of the graffiti on her tenement door as she could. She had checked it this morning — the words were still there, though they were faint. What would her neighbours think? Some knew she was a cop, some didn’t. She would find a painter to cover it up with a couple of fresh coats, just as soon as she could stop yawning. Because that was another thing — around 1a.m., as she’d been drifting off to sleep, there’d been another call from the phone box on the Canongate.

‘What do you want?’ she’d snarled, listening as the line went dead.

‘Nice of you to join us, DI Clarke.’ The booming Glaswegian voice belonged to Detective Chief Superintendent Mark Mollison, divisional commander for Edinburgh. Clarke realised she should have expected a visit — especially when the media were in the vicinity. ‘We’ve just been discussing when and where to hold the first press conference. Do you have any views?’

Clarke looked around the room. They were all there, making her the late arrival. Sutherland and Reid had positioned themselves next to the wall, with its spreading display of maps, photos and cuttings. The last of the computers had arrived, along with a free-standing printer. She realised that the noises she’d heard from the next door along were those of the final members of the support staff settling in.

‘Not really, sir,’ she managed to reply. Mollison stood on his own in the centre of the room, hands clasped behind his back, rocking on his heels. He was well over six feet tall, with a face that was all burst veins leading to a nose that would not have disgraced Rudolph the reindeer.

‘Apparently the spot where the car was found is being examined again this morning, and a team will carry out a detailed search of the woods—’

‘Mr Mollison,’ Sutherland interrupted, ‘wonders if Poretoun Woods might make for an atmospheric backdrop.’

Clarke caught her boss’s tone. ‘I’m not entirely sure,’ she ventured, ‘that we have much to say to the media at this point in the inquiry.’ She watched as Sutherland nodded his head in agreement.

‘We certainly have information we don’t want them getting,’ Callum Reid added.

‘The handcuffs?’ Mollison guessed. ‘Any news of those?’

‘They’re being studied in detail by Forensics today,’ Sutherland informed him. ‘All we know as of now is that they’re an older model — in other words, not police issue at the time of Bloom’s disappearance.’

‘It’ll come out eventually, you know — we need to have a strategy for managing it.’

‘Absolutely.’

‘No press conference today, though?’

‘We could revisit the idea this afternoon, sir.’

Mollison tried not to look disappointed. ‘Might as well get back to St Leonard’s, then. Wouldn’t want to think I’m holding you back.’ As he spoke, he threw a sideways glance towards Clarke. With a gesture of farewell to the rest of the team, he marched out of the office, his leather soles clacking their way back down the stairs. Shoulders began to relax; breaths were exhaled.

‘One of you could have warned me,’ Clarke complained.

‘You’ve not given us your number,’ Emily Crowther informed her.

‘That’s the first thing we should do then,’ Sutherland decided. ‘Everybody’s contact details on a sheet of paper, pinned to the wall and copied into your phones.’

‘Maybe a WhatsApp group, too?’ Crowther suggested.

‘If you think it useful.’ Sutherland saw that Phil Yeats was heading towards the kettle. ‘Coffee can wait, Phil,’ he warned him.

‘In Siobhan’s case,’ George Gamble commented, ‘I’m not sure that’s true. You must have kept her out past her bedtime, Graham.’ There were smiles from behind the desks. Sutherland didn’t join in but Clarke did — last thing she wanted was for the team to split into factions. While they copied their details on to the sheet of paper being passed around, she approached Sutherland. He had returned to his chair and was starting to type at his keyboard.

‘Heard anything from Gartcosh?’ she enquired.

‘How did you know?’

‘Malcolm Fox and me go back a ways. I happened to bump into him last night.’

‘So you were out late then?’

‘Decided I’d better walk the pitch ’n’ putt course, just to see what I’ve let myself in for.’

He gave a half-smile. ‘Fox will be here soon. I informed everyone this morning. I’ve put Tess in charge of babysitting him. So if there’s anything you think she should know in advance...’

Clarke nodded and walked over to Tess Leighton’s desk.

‘I’ve worked with Fox in the past,’ she stated. ‘He’s good on detail, used to be in Complaints. He’s thorough, maybe even a bit plodding.’

‘Is he single, though?’ George Gamble interrupted. ‘That’s what Tess is wondering.’

‘Stick it, George,’ Leighton rasped. Then, to Clarke: ‘Any BO or bad breath? Farts and belches?’

‘I think he’ll pass those tests.’

‘Puts him one up on George, then.’

‘You forgetting something, Tess?’ Gamble retorted. ‘He worked for Complaints, meaning he got his jollies putting the boot into the likes of you and me. He might not smell, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t stink.’

Jackie Ness’s production company had an office in a shiny new glass-fronted development in Fountainbridge. Clarke and Emily Crowther had been dispatched to question him. During the drive, Crowther revealed that she had studied English literature at university, policing far from her first choice of career. She’d grown up in Fife and had a boyfriend who ran a bike shop on the edge of Dunfermline. They shared a house in the town and were planning to get married. She was starting to ask Clarke about herself when Clarke announced that they’d arrived.

Crowther was slim and blonde and probably fifteen years younger than her colleague. Knee-length skirt, sheer black tights, shoes with inch-high heels. She didn’t quite look or act like an officer of the law, and Clarke began to get an inkling as to why Sutherland had chosen her for the task.

The company name was Locke Ness. On the wall behind the reception desk, the logo could be seen rising from the depths of a stretch of water.

‘Clever,’ Crowther said, which seemed to please the young receptionist.

‘Mr Ness will be with you shortly,’ she said.

‘We did arrange a time,’ Clarke told her firmly. ‘If he wants to waste ours, maybe we can do this at the station instead.’

The receptionist’s smile melted away. ‘I’ll ask,’ she said, disappearing through a door. Crowther settled on the leather sofa while Clarke examined the shelf containing a handful of cheap-looking awards, and the wall-mounted posters for films such as Zombies v Bravehearts and The Opium Eater Murders. She had done a bit of reading up on the producer. He’d started by owning a string of video rental shops, then put money into low-budget horror films before moving to more mainstream releases. She wasn’t aware of ever having watched any of his output.

The receptionist was back, followed by a man who was shrugging his arms back into the sleeves of his suit jacket.

‘There’s a restaurant next door,’ he announced. ‘I skipped breakfast, so why don’t we go there? I’m Jackie Ness, by the way, in case you were wondering.’ His eyes fell on Emily Crowther and he wagged a finger in her direction. ‘The light loves you, did you know that? Catches your face just perfectly.’ He turned to the receptionist. ‘You agree, don’t you, Estelle?’ Then, to Clarke: ‘The restaurant won’t be busy, it’s not lunchtime yet. There’s a corner booth they normally keep for me. It’s not like we’re recording this or anything, is it? It’s just background.’

‘A better word might be “preliminary”,’ Clarke told him. ‘You’re not under caution and you don’t need a lawyer.’

‘The amount they cost, praise be for that. And you are...?’

‘Detective Inspector Clarke. This is DC Crowther.’

He turned his attention back to Crowther. ‘Just DC, or is there ever any AC?’ Immediately he held up a hand. ‘I know, I shouldn’t have. Couldn’t help it. Apologies et cetera.’

‘Still living in the Betamax era, I see.’

Ness chose to ignore Clarke’s rebuke. ‘Half an hour,’ he told the receptionist, already halfway to the exit.

‘Longer if need be, Estelle,’ Clarke cautioned, before following suit.

The restaurant served mostly burgers, and that was what Ness ordered — albeit vegetarian — along with an Irn-Bru, while the two detectives stuck to coffee. He’d been right though: they were the only customers, and were directed to his favoured spot. Clarke and Crowther sat across from him and watched as he shrugged his way out of his jacket.

‘Male menopause,’ he explained. ‘I’m always sweating or freezing.’

‘Bit old for the menopause, no?’ Clarke said.

‘I was always told you’re as young as the woman you feel.’ He chuckled to himself. It never ceased to amaze Clarke that such specimens survived. She thought of the Loch Ness monster, the last of its kind.

‘Is there a Locke to go with the Ness?’ she enquired.

‘Old business partner. We had a falling-out when he tried stiffing the taxman. The name makes people smile though, so I didn’t bother changing it.’

‘Anything in the pipeline just now?’

‘There’s always something in the pipeline. In fact, the pipeline’s bunged up with treatments and pitches and great scripts that’ll likely never get turned into films. Money just doesn’t materialise most of the time.’

‘Aren’t you the one who supplies the money?’

‘I find the money, and that’s a whole different skill. Goalposts have shifted. In my early days it was DTV — direct to video. Now everything’s digital. You’ve got kids making films on their mobile phones, editing them on their PCs, then chucking them on the internet. You’ve got Amazon and Netflix. Everyone’s streaming; DVDs and Blu-Ray sales are tanking. It’s actually not the goalposts that have shifted. It’s like walking into a completely different game.’

‘But you’re surviving?’

‘What else is there?’

He’d be in his early sixties, Clarke guessed, his hair silver but plentiful, his tan courtesy of a winter cruise or, more likely, a tanning booth. A good haircut, but his last shave had left a few grey hairs dotted about his round and shiny face. His teeth had been fixed, and he maintained the swagger necessary to his job, but his shirt hadn’t been ironed and a button was missing, not quite hidden by the bright crimson tie.

Like his industry, Jackie Ness had seen better days.

‘We’re here to ask you a few questions about Stuart Bloom,’ Clarke said, now the ice had been broken. ‘He was working for you when he went missing.’

‘It’s a hellish thing. My first thought was the same as everybody else — lovers’ tiff.’

‘And when he failed to resurface?’

‘Sometimes people just want to step off the grid. I did a film about it: quiet banking executive walks out on his family and becomes a vigilante.’

‘How about your own relationship with Mr Bloom?’

‘No problems there at all. He wasn’t overcharging, seemed to be getting some good stuff...’

‘Stuff on Adrian Brand?’

‘Aka the Fucker.’ His eyes moved between the two detectives. ‘Pardon my French.’

‘Did you ever suspect Brand might have known what was going on?’

‘You mean did he have Stuart bumped off?’ Ness’s face creased in thought. ‘It was always a possibility. Brand mixed with some ugly people. Stuart was getting close to proving it.’

‘Something that could have put him in danger?’

‘The cops at the time looked into it but didn’t get far.’ Ness broke off as his burger arrived. He picked it up and took a bite. He was still chewing as the drinks appeared. ‘Help yourselves to a sweet potato fry,’ he offered.

‘What did you think,’ Clarke asked, ‘when the car was found in Poretoun Woods?’

He shook his head vigorously. ‘Couldn’t have been there all that time.’

‘Why not?’ Clarke waited while he swallowed and took a sip of the Irn-Bru.

‘I used to film there. Not that exact spot maybe, but we were always in those woods. Anything vaguely medieval; anything to do with zombies or kids getting a scare.’

‘The car was in a pretty deep gully, and well camouflaged.’

‘I’m telling you I’d have noticed it. Added to which, those woods were a pet project of mine — them and the house. I spent a fortune restoring both.’

‘How do you restore woodland?’ Crowther asked, sounding genuinely curious.

‘By planting rare and native species rather than trees you grow as a crop. I had meetings with forestry experts, took on board everything they said.’

‘You’re saying you had a detailed knowledge of Poretoun Woods,’ Clarke commented. Ness locked eyes with her above his burger.

‘I know what you’re getting at — means I’d have known about the gully and that it made a good hiding place. But why would I kill Stuart? He was a great guy, just doing his job and living for the weekend.’

‘Weekends were special to him?’

‘There was a club he liked in the New Town, somewhere just off Leith Street. Rogues, I think it was called. Him and Derek were regulars.’

‘Derek Shankley, you mean? Did you ever meet him?’

‘A couple of times. Never mentioned his dad was one of your lot. Apparently the father was none too happy about his son and Stuart.’

‘How about you, Mr Ness?’

‘I’ve no problem with gay people. Some of the best talent in my films were gay. Maybe not all of them totally out, back in the day, but that’s how it was. Even now, plenty big names are still reluctant to step from the closet. I could give you a few that might surprise you.’

‘Why did you sell Poretoun House?’

Ness’s face darkened a little. ‘Sunk too much of my own money into a film I thought was gold-plated. Then Billy — Billy Locke — had that run-in with HMRC and the company suddenly had penalties to pay.’ He offered a shrug and dropped the remains of the burger back on to the wooden board it had arrived on. The small tin bucket of fries remained untouched. Ness stifled a belch.

‘Why that particular spot, do you think?’ Clarke asked.

‘Maybe to put me in the frame. Stands to reason it was someone who knew my history with the woods.’

‘But they’re owned by your old rival these days.’

Ness’s face darkened further. ‘That was a kick in the teeth. Thought I was safe selling to Jeff Sellers. But then he goes and does a deal with Brand of all people. And you know why Brand did it?’

‘Why?’

‘To fuck with my head — excuse my French one more time. From what I hear, he’s letting the house rot, and the woods too. Any invasive species, he lets it thrive. That’s exactly what him and his kind are — an invasive species.’

‘Meaning what?’

‘Men like him are little more than pillagers and con artists. He’ll say and do anything to get the land he wants, then build any old tat on it. I wanted that patch of green belt for Scotland’s first film studio. It would have brought jobs and prestige. Brand wanted a golf course for his rich pals, and even then he’d have scaled it back to squeeze in more of his ticky-tacky houses.’

‘Do the pair of you still butt heads?’

‘I got tired of the lawyers’ bills; wanted my life back. Plus, the longer Stuart stayed missing, the easier it was to read it as a message — lay off me and my business.’

Clarke took out her notebook and skimmed its pages, making show of finding her next question. ‘Did you ever have dealings with a pair of men called Steele and Edwards?’

Ness gave a snort. ‘They pulled my car over a few times to tell me I was speeding. I knew what was going on, though; Stuart had already warned me they were on Brand’s payroll.’

‘He had proof?’

‘Why would he lie?’

‘This was something he’d discovered in the course of his investigation?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you ever make a formal complaint?’

He stared at her. ‘Are you going to tell me it would have made a blind bit of difference?’

‘Did Stuart Bloom have run-ins with them like you did?’

‘He never said. The club did get busted a few times, though: cops looking for drugs, anyone underage, corrupt and depraved practices... Remember there was a spate of overdoses in the city around that time? That gave your lot the excuse.’

‘Mr Bloom was never arrested in these raids?’

Ness tapped the side of his nose. ‘Said he was smart enough not to be there those nights.’

‘Are you suggesting he was tipped off?’

‘His boyfriend’s dad was a copper — put two and two together.’ Ness poured the dregs of his can into his glass. Then he smiled. ‘You know I used them in one of my films?’

‘Who?’

‘I had a crowd scene I couldn’t afford, so I asked Stuart. Him and Derek rounded up a few of the guys they knew from Rogues. Now that I think of it, we filmed in the woods.’

‘What was the film called?’

‘Zombies v Bravehearts. Ever tried to make four zombies look like a horde?’

‘Is that who Stuart and Derek played?’

Ness shook his head. ‘They were queuing up to get into a kilt, stripped to the waist and painted blue. It was so cold that day, I could have saved the cost of make-up.’

‘Is the film available anywhere?’

‘I’m told copies fetch a small fortune online. Died a death when we first released it. There are clips on YouTube.’

‘I’m guessing there’ll be one somewhere in your office, though.’

‘The only copy I have.’

‘We’ll bring it back, I promise.’

The low sun had shifted and was catching the side of Emily Crowther’s face again.

‘You really should consider acting,’ Ness told her. ‘Do you mind if I...?’ He produced a phone from his pocket and held it up to take a photo. But Clarke blocked the camera with her hand.

‘No publicity,’ she said. Looking crestfallen, Ness put the phone away again.

As they were leaving, he told the waiter he’d settle up at the end of the week. The waiter’s look suggested he’d expected nothing else. With the DVD retrieved — in a plain black plastic box — Clarke and Crowther headed back to Clarke’s car.

‘He could make you a star,’ Clarke commented.

‘Sleazy fucker that he is,’ Crowther muttered in response. Clarke gave her a sideways glance. DC Emily Crowther had just gone up — way, way up — in her estimation, as had DCI Graham Sutherland. He’d known the way someone from the film world might react to a pretty face — and he’d been right.

‘Why the interest in Steele and Edwards?’ Crowther asked as Clarke signalled into traffic.

‘They’re ACU these days.’

‘And you’ve just escaped ACU’s clutches.’ Crowther nodded her understanding.

‘Graham told you?’

Another nod. ‘You were exonerated, though?’

‘Whiter than white,’ Clarke said quietly, signalling to turn at the lights.

9

The first meeting between Malcolm Fox and Tess Leighton became an immediate battle of wills, which he ended up losing. The 2006 case files had been moved to a small, cold room down the corridor from the MIT office. Fox had argued that they should be returned to MIT.

‘All due respect, Malcolm,’ Leighton had drawled, ‘we’re running a murder inquiry in there.’

‘I wouldn’t get in the way.’

She had slid her eyes towards the stacks of boxes. ‘You probably would, though. Easier to concentrate when you’ve got a whole room to yourself. I’m always around if you need me.’

Having said which, she had inched backwards to the door, closing it after her. An hour later, she’d stuck her head back into the room. ‘We’re making a cuppa,’ she had informed him. ‘How do you take it?’

‘Just milk, thanks.’

‘Settled in okay?’

‘I’m freezing my arse off.’

‘Mug of tea will sort you out.’

When she left, he made up his mind, trailing her to the MIT office and positioning himself against one of the radiators, palms pressed against it. Leighton was behind her desk, Phil Yeats busy at the kettle.

‘Just till I’ve thawed out,’ Fox explained to the room at large.

Graham Sutherland looked up from his computer. ‘Making progress?’

‘There’s a lot to take in.’

‘If you come across anything you think might be helpful to us...’

Fox nodded. ‘You’ll be the first to hear.’

‘Meantime,’ Sutherland said to his team, ‘Aubrey Hamilton is heading to Poretoun Woods. Who’s up for accompanying her? How about you, George?’

‘I’d have to get some boots from somewhere.’

Sutherland shifted his attention to Callum Reid.

‘Wouldn’t I be more useful here?’ Reid argued.

‘I can do it if you like,’ Fox chipped in. ‘I wouldn’t mind seeing the gully for myself.’

‘You’re not official, though, Malcolm.’

‘I’ll go,’ Leighton said. ‘Malcolm can tag along if he likes.’ She shrugged as if to say: where’s the harm?

‘Don’t leave me hanging, Tess,’ Sutherland instructed. ‘Hamilton finds anything, I want to know ASAP.’

Leighton nodded her understanding. She had lifted a carrier bag on to her desk and pulled out a pair of wellingtons. ‘You got any?’ she asked Fox.

‘I’ll manage,’ he assured her.

Five minutes later, they were in Leighton’s Corsa. She asked Fox about his work at Gartcosh, then whether he had found anything in the old files.

‘You had a look at them before me,’ he countered. ‘What did you think?’

‘I didn’t like it that two officers had worked for Brand.’

‘Steele and Edwards, you mean?’

‘And the investigation really went out of its way to minimise mention of Derek Shankley, while still managing to focus on the victim’s homosexuality. Lot of gay men pulled in for interview and held for longer than seems strictly necessary.’

‘How about the family’s complaints?’

‘Thing to remember is, it was a misper. There were reasons to suspect foul play but no actual evidence of any kind — which didn’t stop the parents expecting miracles.’

Fox nodded to himself. ‘My boss told me the family’s complaints had been dismissed — that’s not quite the case, though. Police Scotland did end up apologising for the way we’d dealt with them.’

‘Without admitting we’d got anything wrong.’

‘I’m already seeing signs of sloppiness, Tess. It took over a week to get round to questioning Brand, for example. And nobody seems to have bothered even looking for CCTV footage from Bloom’s neighbourhood or the route back into the city from Poretoun House.’

Leighton gave him an appraising glance. ‘All of that from an hour’s reading? I’m impressed.’

‘It helped that you’d given it a go — the interesting stuff was all towards the top of the first box. I’m grateful for that.’

Leighton checked her sat nav. ‘You never did get that tea,’ she said. ‘We could stop for a takeaway.’

‘Maybe on the way back, but thanks for the thought.’

For the rest of the drive they discussed Police Scotland, politics and the state of the world, neither of them particularly willing to open up about their personal lives. But Fox reckoned it would happen; they were starting to get along.

Professor Hamilton had brought a male assistant with her. Fox hadn’t met the forensic anthropologist before, but he knew her reputation. She was short, with brown hair cut in a fringe. She wore glasses, behind which the eyes remained sharply watchful. Blue and white crime-scene tape surrounded the perimeter of the gully. The ground had been disturbed, evidence of the fingertip search carried out the previous day. They’d tried uncovering the old track, the one the car must have used. There had been some success, though saplings and briars had replaced it at many points.

‘Who’d have known there even was an access road?’ Fox had asked as they trudged into the woods.

‘Local farmers,’ Leighton offered. ‘Plus forestry staff, the woods’ owner...’

‘And anyone who bought an Ordnance Survey map,’ Hamilton added. ‘I got hold of one and it’s still marked.’

‘Nice to narrow things down,’ Fox muttered as his shoes sank into the mulch of leaves.

A bored, cold-looking constable guarded the crime scene. He wore a padded jacket and black gloves but seemed ready for a change of shift. He added their details to his clipboard and nodded towards the ropes that would allow them to negotiate the slope.

‘Not that there’s anything to see.’

No, because a farm tractor had been used to winch the VW Polo out, churning up the side of the gully in the process. Hamilton had already ducked under the tape and, ignoring the ropes, was cantering down the slope, her boots finding the necessary purchase.

‘You a climber by any chance?’ Leighton called down to her.

‘Hill-walking,’ Hamilton called back. ‘But in Scotland that can often amount to the same thing.’

Leighton looked towards Fox. He shrugged to let her know he was happy enough where he was. To show willing, however, he began to circle the gully, noting more evidence of the painstaking search. Hamilton’s assistant had joined her in the gully, having made the descent largely on his backside. The two of them began studying the pile of material that had been draped over the car.

‘Uprooted rather than cut with a knife,’ Hamilton eventually said, while her assistant photographed everything held up in front of him. She opened the folder she’d brought. There were dozens of crime-scene pictures inside, and she studied some of them closely, looking up from time to time to visualise the Polo. The SOCOs had bagged cigarette butts, rusty drinks cans, chocolate wrappers. They would be checked for prints and other identifiers. Hamilton scooped up some of the rich dark soil, crumbling it between her fingers. ‘You can learn a lot from bugs,’ she stated, her voice carrying without difficulty. ‘Some insects frequent particular environments. And when it comes to man-made objects, those are prone to deteriorate at different rates, affected again by their environment.’ She held up a photo of the Polo for them to see. ‘I’m just not convinced,’ she said, ‘that this car lay in this gully for twelve years.’

‘So how long was it here?’ Fox called down to her.

‘Not long enough for the amount of corrosion I’d expect to see.’

‘Where was it before?’

‘Could be the bugs will tell us. I still want a soil expert to examine it. I’m guessing we now have a budget?’

Leighton nodded.

‘So I can talk to DCI Sutherland?’

‘I’m sure he’ll be amenable.’

‘Then let’s hope the person I want is available.’

Having done a circuit, Fox was back next to Leighton. ‘Thoughts?’ she asked him.

‘I’ll tell you what’s uppermost in my mind right now, Tess.’

‘What?’

He lifted one leg. ‘I need to buy some new shoes.’

10

Sir Adrian Brand ran his empire from a vast Victorian house on Kinellan Road in Murrayfield. The gardens surrounding the property would have constituted a park in less desirable parts of the city. Sheltered beneath a car port sat a Bentley and a Tesla, the latter hooked up to its charging cable. When Clarke and Crowther rang the bell, the door was opened by Glenn Hazard.

‘Nice to see you again,’ Clarke told him, her tone giving the lie to her words.

‘Sir Adrian is in the garden room,’ Hazard replied. ‘Though like me, he’s wondering why you’re wasting his time.’

‘Because we get a kick out of it?’

He made an exasperated sound and led them across the vast hallway with its chandelier and polished parquet floor, through one door into a sitting room with what looked like a dining room off, then a set of glass doors into an airy conservatory filled with potted plants and wicker furniture. Brand sat pretending to read the Financial Times. He wore rimless glasses on an owl-like face. What hair he still had was slicked back across the top of his head and around his ears. His pale lemon shirt billowed, its top two buttons undone to expose tufts of silvered chest hair. While Jackie Ness’s metal Rolex had looked fake, the gold one hanging loosely around Brand’s thick wrist was almost certainly real.

Brand made a show of closing and folding his newspaper. His PR man had taken the chair to his right, leaving only a narrow sofa for Clarke and Crowther. The two women made space on it. The glass coffee table between them and Brand held a goblet emptied of fresh orange juice, a small pile of current affairs magazines, and an iPad showing a muted TV channel dedicated to Mammon.

‘Thank you for seeing us at such short notice,’ Clarke began.

Brand looked at her for the first time. ‘You say that as if I had any choice in the matter.’

‘I would imagine it’s difficult to force you to do anything you don’t want to do, Sir Adrian.’

His smile was as thin as the platinum chain around his neck. ‘Well, I suppose I was curious. It’s not every day a body turns up on land one happens to own.’

‘Especially the body of someone you knew.’

‘Sir Adrian never met Stuart Bloom,’ Hazard snapped.

Clarke kept her focus on Brand. ‘You knew who he was, though, knew the work he was engaged in for Jackie Ness?’

‘This was all gone over at the time, Inspector.’ Brand wafted a hand in front of him. ‘I got wind that Ness had employed some sort of gumshoe. My people knew that someone had tried hacking into my computer system.’

‘But you couldn’t prove who it was?’

‘I knew Ness was behind it; had my lawyers send a cease and desist notice.’

‘You didn’t go to the police?’

‘I try as best I can to take care of my own affairs. And as you’ve said yourself, I had no proof of Ness’s involvement.’

‘You didn’t think to confront Stuart Bloom?’

‘No.’

‘Or send an emissary to do it for you?’

Brand shifted a little. ‘Again, no.’

‘As part of our inquiry into Mr Bloom’s murder, we’ll be looking at original statements and interviews. Is there anything you said then that you might want to amend with the benefit of hindsight?’

‘I told the truth, Inspector, just as I’m doing now.’

‘As you say, the body was found on land you own — what do you think about that?’

‘I’ve only recently acquired Poretoun Woods.’

‘But all the same...’

Brand gave a shrug, the collar of his shirt rising as far as his ears. ‘I feel sorry for his family, obviously, even though they’ve said some poisonous things about me in the past.’

‘Libellous things,’ Hazard corrected his employer. ‘Over which Sir Adrian took no action.’

‘That’s unusual, isn’t it?’ The two men looked at Clarke. ‘I mean, you’ve never been one to shy away from lawyers and lawsuits.’

‘A man needs a hobby, Inspector.’ Brand’s smile showed a row of perfect teeth.

‘The Bloom family felt you were being protected by the police, because of you who were.’

‘They threw around all manner of wild accusations. It was a Freemasons’ plot, I was lining the chief constable’s pockets — all of it absolute nonsense.’

‘Do you still employ a chauffeur, sir?’

The change of tack didn’t quite throw Brand. ‘Not as such.’

‘How about a bodyguard?’

‘I often travel with Sir Adrian,’ Hazard butted in. Brand turned to him.

‘She means a proper bodyguard, Glenn. Ex-army, Krav Maga training.’ Then, to Clarke: ‘There’s an agency I’ve been known to use on occasion, mostly for overseas trips.’

Clarke nodded slowly, pretending to digest this. ‘Do you still have any dealings with Brian Steele and Grant Edwards?’

Brand’s brow furrowed. ‘Should I know those names?’

‘They worked for you around the time Stuart Bloom disappeared, just in their free time — their day job was as police officers.’

‘A lot of people have worked for me, Inspector.’

‘They used to drive you around, act as muscle. I’m sure if you put your mind to it, you’ll find you remember them.’

Brand eventually nodded. ‘Steele and Edwards, yes. They were with me for a short time.’

‘They were even the source of one of the Bloom family’s complaints.’

‘Were they?’

‘Seeing how both of them were attached to the missing person inquiry. Possible conflict of interest, according to Catherine Bloom.’

‘She came here, you know. More than once, actually. The gates were locked but she used the intercom, yelling at my wife.’

‘Again, you didn’t contact us?’

‘She went away eventually. I felt sorry for her, never having had a son to lose.’

‘Your wife isn’t here today?’

‘She’d have nothing to add. Cordelia has never taken an interest in my business.’

Hazard had leaned forward, elbows on knees, hands bunched into fists. ‘You’ll be asking questions of Jackie Ness, too, I trust? For the sake of parity?’

‘We’ve just come from Mr Ness.’ Clarke kept her eyes on Brand, whose own attention had drifted to stock-market listings on the TV channel. ‘Any recent hostilities between the two of you?’

‘Jackie Ness is living on past glories, such as they were,’ Brand said without looking up. ‘I’ve heard he’s about two phone calls away from bankruptcy, and not for the first time.’

‘You’re saying he’s no longer a rival?’

‘Bastard’s not big enough,’ Glenn Hazard muttered.

Brand looked up from the screen, meeting Clarke’s eyes. ‘Jackie Ness is history,’ he intoned.

‘Why did you buy Poretoun House, Sir Adrian?’

‘As an investment.’

‘And how does leaving it to rot increase its value?’

Brand’s eyes almost gleamed. ‘It got to him, didn’t it? He told you? I knew it would.’

‘That’s why you did it?’

‘Cheap at half the price.’ Brand appeared to notice Emily Crowther for the first time. ‘Do you talk or are you just here for show?’

‘I talk when I’ve got something to say,’ Crowther offered. ‘And as it happens, I do have something.’

‘Yes?’

Crowther gestured towards the potted plants. ‘You’ve got aphids. Quite a lot of them, actually.’

When the time came for them to leave, Hazard stayed on the doorstep, watching Clarke unlock the Astra and get behind the steering wheel, while Crowther climbed into the passenger side. Once the doors were closed and the engine started, Clarke asked Crowther what she thought.

‘He was lying to us. You saw it too.’

Clarke nodded. ‘About sending someone to talk to Stuart Bloom. Wonder who his PR was back then.’

‘Wouldn’t a lawyer be the more obvious choice?’

‘Maybe...’

‘You’re thinking of those two uniforms, aren’t you? Steele and Edwards?’

‘Jackie Ness has already told us they harassed him. Wouldn’t have been difficult for Brand to set them on Stuart Bloom.’

‘Bloom knew of their relationship to Brand — he was the one who warned Ness.’

Clarke nodded slowly. ‘Maybe Fox will find something in the archives.’

‘Something that would earn him a drink?’

Clarke glanced towards Crowther. ‘What are you saying?’

‘Just the way you talk about him — you’ve obviously been close in the past.’

‘Not that close.’ Clarke paused. ‘And when did I even talk about him?’ Then she remembered. ‘The briefing I gave Tess?’

‘So I can tell her, then?’

‘Tell her what?’

Crowther waved her phone from side to side. ‘Tess sent me a text from Poretoun Woods. She’s there with Fox. I get the feeling she likes him.’

‘She’s free to jump him any time she likes.’ Clarke saw that Crowther had started composing a text. ‘Maybe put it more diplomatically than that, though, eh?’ She released the handbrake, watching Hazard’s figure recede in the rear-view mirror. ‘That was a good line about the aphids, by the way. You’re into gardening?’

‘You changing the subject?’

‘Absolutely not. I was just wondering.’

‘In truth, I probably wouldn’t know an aphid if I saw one. But I reckon it’ll have got him wondering.’

‘Wondering and maybe even worrying,’ Clarke agreed. The two detectives were chuckling as the gates opened automatically in front of them.

11

DCI Sutherland had gathered his team for a meeting. Fox stood by the door, waiting to be told to scram, but Sutherland seemed relaxed about his presence in the room.

‘We need fresh interviews with everyone who was part of the inquiry last time round,’ Sutherland said. ‘We know that they might not always be willing. Some of Stuart Bloom’s friends and associates felt they were treated with a lack of proper respect. So there may need to be an apology or two, a bit of mea culpa, but also some benign insistence.’ He scanned the faces around them. ‘We want to speak to every single one of them. It’s been twelve years, so contact details will almost certainly have changed. I’ve requested extra staff to ease the burden, but we need to make a start as of right now.’ He broke off. ‘Are you listening, Siobhan?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Fox noticed that half Clarke’s attention was on her computer. She had plugged in a pair of earbuds but left one dangling. He slid around the periphery towards her. A film seemed to be playing on her screen.

‘Tess,’ Sutherland continued. ‘News from the professor?’

‘She can’t be sure as yet how long the car was in the woods, but she doubts it was there all along.’

‘Pathology tells us Stuart Bloom probably died ten or more years back, so where does that leave us?’

‘It’s definitely his car?’ George Gamble asked.

‘Serial number on the engine block confirms it. Doubtful he was murdered in situ — not enough blood and brain matter on the floor of the boot, according to Forensics. It’s a miracle they can be so confident after all these years, but there you are. The two professors seem to agree — the way the body was positioned in the boot, the injured section of skull was towards the floor. Almost physically impossible to have hit someone while they were lying in that position and damage that particular section. Besides, putting someone in a boot and then hitting them? More probably it was done while he was standing up. Whacked from behind with an object as yet undecided.

‘And the handcuffs?’ Phil Yeats asked.

‘Standard issue for police officers in Scotland up until the millennium. Two metal links joining one cuff to its neighbour. By 2006 they’d been replaced by the Hiatt model — solid plastic moulding instead of the links. The Hiatts were stamped with serial numbers, meaning there’s a record of who owned them. Alas, that wasn’t true of the older model. Bear in mind, they could have been acquired from other sources. We’re not saying these were definitively police handcuffs.’

‘This place Rogues that Bloom used to go to.’ Callum Reid nodded towards Clarke, who had reported on the meetings with Ness and Brand. ‘Didn’t happen to have a dungeon or anything, did it?’

‘Doubtful, but worth checking,’ Sutherland said. ‘In fact, that’s a good point: were there any S and M clubs operating in Edinburgh at the time? Or prostitutes specialising in bondage? Something to add to the list. DCS Mollison is keen for a press conference sooner rather than later; it’d be nice to have a bit of progress to report.’ He noted that Gamble had his hand up. ‘Yes, George?’

‘We’re not making the handcuffs public yet?’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘When it gets out — and it will get out — the family will start yelling police cover-up again.’

‘In which case, we’d best try to find evidence one way or the other.’ Sutherland scanned the room to ensure his words had sunk in. ‘Now get busy.’

Clarke had noticed Fox standing behind her. She paused the film and turned to him.

‘One of Jackie Ness’s?’ Fox guessed.

‘Apparently Bloom and his boyfriend had walk-ons.’

Fox nodded towards the screen. ‘Looks familiar.’

‘It’s Poretoun Woods. And filmed not long before Stuart’s death.’

‘Interesting. Good film?’

‘As wooden as its setting.’

‘Plot?’

‘Scots and English readying to do battle, but up pop the undead. The enemies either join forces or get wiped out.’

‘I quite like the sound of that.’

‘It probably looked good on paper,’ Clarke agreed. She noticed that both Crowther and Leighton were taking an interest in the conversation, so sent a quick scowl towards them. ‘Any great revelations from the woods? You and Tess getting along okay?’

Fox gave her a quizzical look before replying. ‘Professor Hamilton thinks car and body might have been elsewhere for the first few years. If we can pin down where and why.’

‘Why it was moved, you mean?’ Clarke nodded her agreement. ‘But meantime, the focus is on a retread of the original inquiry.’

‘Meaning officers as well as witnesses.’

‘So we’ll be questioning John?’

‘Needs to be thorough, Siobhan.’

She nodded again. One of the admin staff was standing in the doorway.

‘DI Fox?’ she enquired. Fox turned to her.

‘That’s me.’

‘You’ve a visitor downstairs.’

Fox thanked her and headed for the reception area. He didn’t see anyone, but the desk officer pointed towards the door. ‘They’re out there,’ he said. Fox stepped outside and looked to left and right. The TV cameras and reporters had gone. Standing at the corner, smoking a cigarette, was a figure he recognised. He drew in a sharp breath before heading towards the man.

‘Hiya, Malc,’ DS Brian Steele said. ‘How’s tricks?’

‘We’ve not been properly introduced,’ Fox responded.

‘Maybe not, but you’ve seen me around Gartcosh and I’ve seen you. Major Crimes’ gain is ACU’s loss, if you ask me. Man of your experience, we could have made better use of you.’ Steele was blowing smoke from his nose while studying the tip of the cigarette.

‘What brings you here?’ Fox demanded to know.

‘Ach, I was just in the neighbourhood. I heard you’d been attached to the Bloom case, so I thought I’d say hello.’

‘Without actually coming in?’

‘That’ll be happening soon, though, eh? A wee invitation to tell my side of the story. Me and Grant and everybody else who worked the case.’

‘We can start right now if you like. Team’s upstairs, and I’m sure I could lay my hands on some recording equipment.’

Steele exhaled more smoke, making sure it avoided Fox. The man was tall and broad with an unexceptional face and short black hair spiked with gel. ‘Plenty of time for that, Malc. It was you I wanted to see.’

‘Why?’

‘Because we’re on the same side. You were Complaints, I’m ACU. Neither of us likes dirty cops. I know you’ll have heard some of the stories about me — bending the rules, pulling a few stunts. I’ll bet similar things were said about you when you were Complaints. Nobody likes us, nobody trusts us, so they need their lies and rumours.’

‘I’m not much clearer on why you’re here.’

Steele took a step closer. ‘Reopening the old case is an opportunity for more lies, more mud-slinging. I’d just appreciate the odd update, confidentially. In return, I’ll owe you one. Ask around, I’m a good friend to have.’ He finished the cigarette and flicked it halfway across the road. ‘And if you do need sacrificial lambs, I can give you those too. Skelton, Newsome, Rebus — take your pick.’

‘None of them worked for Adrian Brand back then, though, did they?’

‘Plenty cops had side jobs, Malc. It still happens, you know that. But when it came to policing, I gave one hundred per cent, same then as now. Many didn’t do half as much.’

‘Rebus?’

‘More likely to be found in a pub than anywhere else. Half drunk or else hung-over. We covered for him, same as for Mary Skelton.’

‘What did she do?’

‘Her mum was sick; she kept nipping off to visit her. Except everybody knew it was a bloke she was seeing, afternoon delight and all that. I’ve never seen a woman more in heat.’

‘And Newsome?’

‘Doug Newsome was a waste of space. Half the interviews he said he’d done never happened, and the ones he did deign to do, he made stuff up when he transcribed them.’

Fox studied Steele. ‘You were in the ranks at the time. Unusual for a uniform to know so much about the CID side of things.’

‘I was conscientious. And I made friends. That’s how you get ahead, Malc. It got me here, didn’t it?’ He smiled. ‘So what do you say, a quick pint and a quiet chat now and again?’ Steele broke off. ‘What am I saying? You’re a recovering alcoholic — apple juice is your thing, isn’t it? When you’re being sociable, I mean. Mostly you just like quiet nights at home in Oxgangs, when you’re not keeping an eye on your sister, making sure her gambling habit’s under control.’ He was still smiling, but his eyes were as hard as marbles.

‘You’ve done your research,’ Fox conceded.

‘It’s how the world turns.’

‘So tell me, what did you think when you heard Stuart Bloom had been found?’

‘I thought it was an interesting location, especially if someone was trying to make sure we focused on Jackie Ness or Adrian Brand.’

‘Were you one of the original search team?’

‘In the woods?’ Steele nodded. ‘Only took us half a day, mind. The woods, the house and its grounds. More likely he’d met a bit of rough and been done in.’

‘Did you visit Rogues at all?’

‘Not then, no.’

‘But other times?’

‘We went in once or twice, acting on tip-offs. Drugs; underage kids.’

‘Find anything?’

‘Doesn’t mean nothing was happening.’

‘I’m guessing the tip-offs were anonymous?’

‘Not every concerned citizen wants to stick their head above the parapet.’ Steele was growing impatient. ‘Sounds like I’ve already done my interview, doesn’t it?’

‘I doubt we’ve even scratched the surface.’

‘My ears aren’t picking up the warm sounds of a burgeoning friendship.’

‘Nothing wrong with your hearing then.’

Steele looked down at the pavement between them. ‘You’ve been known to hang around with John Rebus, Malc — is he a friend? Because he’s probably got more to lose than most, you know.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘The boozing was the least of it. Bear that in mind when you bring him in for questioning. See, old cases can be like stripping wallpaper — you don’t know what problems you’re going to find beneath, kept hidden by the thinnest of coverings.’ Steele held up his thumb and forefinger, so that a millimetre gap remained between them. ‘I’m a hell of a friend to have, Malc, but I can be the exact opposite, too. Remember that.’ He turned to leave, but then paused. ‘Oh, and don’t think of going running to your boss at Major Crime — Jen Lyon’s got enough to deal with if the stories I hear are true.’

‘What stories?’

‘Bit of gardening leave coming her way. At this rate, you or me might be running the show before too long.’

He started to cross the road, and for the first time Fox noticed the large black Audi parked there. The driver’s window slid down, giving him a clear view of Grant Edwards. Edwards was known for the perpetual smile he wore. His face was that of an oversized infant, almost cherubic. Fox got the feeling the man would have the same demeanour whether he was helping an old lady with her shopping or thumping someone in a bar fight. Interesting that he had stayed in the car, though. Steele had wanted to befriend Fox rather than intimidate him; that had been the plan. Besides which, Edwards wasn’t known for either intellect or subtlety. Waiting in the car would have been Steele’s decision. Fox sent a little wave of farewell in the Audi’s direction as he headed back indoors.

Clarke had found two scenes where Stuart Bloom and Derek Shankley appeared as extras. Their job was to look fierce as they prepared for an imminent attack by the English, then scream and flee as the zombies appeared. The scenes seemed to have been shot in twilight, so it wasn’t easy to pick them out from the other actors, but it helped that they always stood next to one another. When she watched for a third time, she thought she noted amusement in their eyes where fear should have been, as if they’d been sharing a joke between takes.

Always supposing the director bothered with more than one take.

Neither Bloom nor Shankley was listed in the closing credits. The director (and also co-writer) was Alexander Dupree. From an internet search Clarke knew that this was a pseudonym used by Jackie Ness to disguise how few people were involved behind the camera in his productions. Cheaply made, his films had still earned him substantial sums, at least until recently. If a thriller made it big at the international box office, a quick knock-off version courtesy of Locke Ness Productions would be in circulation within a matter of weeks. In interviews, Ness was particularly proud of this guerrilla approach. Get it out quick, and make sure both violence and at least partial nudity appear within the first ten minutes. ‘Fear and desire,’ he’d been quoted as saying, ‘are what drive us. I just hold up a mirror so we can watch ourselves.’

From what she could glean from the nerds on the internet, the film had been made only a month prior to Bloom’s disappearance. She supposed it was to Ness’s credit that he hadn’t tried to capitalise on the PI’s newsworthiness at the time the film was released. Whenever he was asked by interviewers about Bloom’s disappearance, he gave versions of the same answer: ‘It would have been a great studio — great for film, great for Scotland. But that dream died.’ She had mulled those words over. He was tying Stuart Bloom’s disappearance to his own struggle with Adrian Brand. Without naming him, he was effectively blaming his rival.

Her phone buzzed: incoming call. She checked the name on the screen and slipped out of the office, pressing the phone to her ear as she closed the door.

‘I’ve got nothing for you, Laura.’

‘Okay,’ Laura Smith said. ‘But maybe I’ve got something for you.’

‘What?’

‘One of my colleagues doorstepped Alex Shankley this morning.’

‘That was insensitive.’

‘They’d actually gone looking for his son, but it was the dad who answered the knock.’

‘Hang on, this was whose home?’

‘Derek’s. A tenement flat in Partick.’

‘Okay.’

‘Thing is, the father said they couldn’t talk to the press until they’d spoken to you lot.’

‘Very wise.’

‘Siobhan, he was meaning today. That’s why I’m back at my post.’

Clarke returned to the MIT office and crossed to the window, peering through a grubby pane down to Queen Charlotte Street. ‘I don’t see you,’ she whispered, Graham Sutherland being within earshot.

‘I’m round the corner. Probably explains why Malcolm Fox didn’t clock me.’

‘Hang on a sec...’ Clarke left the office again and headed to the small room set aside for Fox and the box files. He was seated beside Tess Leighton, the pair of them deep in discussion, heads close. Clarke retreated along the corridor.

‘When was this?’

‘Not five minutes ago. He was meeting someone.’

‘Who?’

‘When you got in that spot of bother, you weren’t the only one. It was the same guy who grilled me.’

‘Brian Steele?’

‘With his shadow parked up nearby.’

‘Steele and Edwards were here?’

‘For a friendly chinwag with Fox. He hasn’t mentioned it?’

‘He’s not seen me to speak to.’

‘What’s ACU’s involvement with all of this, Siobhan?’

‘No comment.’

‘Something’s being hushed up, something about the crime scene.’

‘Is it?’

‘Come on, Siobhan. I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t know.’

‘And what is it you think you know, Laura?’

‘Well, the handcuffs, for one thing.’

Clarke pressed her lips together for a moment. ‘So now you know why ACU are involved — someone’s leaking. If I had to guess, I’d say someone in the lab or on the scene-of-crime team.’

‘Could be anybody really, couldn’t it?’

‘If you go public, ACU will think it’s me again.’

‘I know. That’s one reason I’m waiting.’

‘The other being?’

‘You obviously don’t want it known about. Makes me think you’re scared it’ll either frighten someone off or else people will jump to the wrong conclusion.’ Clarke stayed silent. ‘Steele and Edwards were in uniform when the Bloom case happened. Did they happen to work on it, Siobhan?’

‘I can’t discuss that. What will you do about the handcuffs?’

‘It’ll break sooner or later.’

‘Can you give us a day or two?’

‘Maybe.’

‘You’re right, Laura. If you’re the one with the exclusive, ACU will come for me.’

‘Which is why I’ll probably give it to someone else, let them grab the glory.’

‘You’d do that?’

‘Saves us both a bit of grief, don’t you think?’

‘Thanks, Laura.’

‘That last mess with ACU, I do feel just a little bit responsible, you know.’

‘Consider the slate wiped.’ Clarke ended the call and watched as two men were led up the stairs and told to wait at the door to the MIT room. The elder of the two looked resolute, the younger hesitant.

Derek Shankley and his father.

12

The interview room at Leith police station. Clarke and Sutherland one side of the table, father and son the other. Four mugs of tea. Two sugars for Alex Shankley and the exact same for Derek.

‘Thank you for making the effort, sir,’ Sutherland told the retired detective.

‘It was Derek’s idea.’

The slight change in the son’s face gave the lie to this. Derek Shankley wore a black leather biker jacket over a white T-shirt. Fashion, Clarke reckoned, would always win out over comfort. He looked cold, the jacket zipped almost to his neck. He had studs in both earlobes and a shaved head. Though clean-shaven, he had kept traces of his sideburns. His father had a chiselled face, but was slightly stooped, the years having taken their toll.

‘You not recording this?’ Alex Shankley asked.

‘Unless one of you is here to confess?’ Sutherland’s smile told them he was joking.

‘We’re here to save you the trouble of making us come. It’s hellish news about Stuart and we want to give you our thoughts.’

‘Yes, I should have said...’ Sutherland turned his attention to Derek. ‘We really are very sorry about Stuart.’

Derek nodded solemnly. He hadn’t aged much since the days of Zombies v Bravehearts. Clarke wondered what his secret was.

‘I was just watching you, Derek,’ she said conversationally. ‘The film you were in with Stuart.’

He almost snorted. ‘Weren’t we terrible?’

‘You looked to be enjoying yourselves, though.’

‘Well, you know what it’s like on film sets.’

‘Actually, I don’t.’

‘We want to know how we can help the inquiry, DCI Sutherland,’ Derek’s father interrupted, placing his hands flat against the table. ‘We want Stuart’s killer brought to justice.’

Sutherland nodded thoughtfully. ‘Have you had much to do with Stuart’s family, Mr Shankley?’

‘Not much.’

‘Yes, that’s what they said. Sent your condolences?’

Shankley made a show of clearing his throat. ‘I don’t have their address.’

Clarke watched as Derek raised an eyebrow — his father had just lied again.

‘Derek didn’t have much to do with the family after Stuart’s disappearance,’ Sutherland commented.

‘What have they been saying?’ the father snapped.

‘That they tried contacting him but he wasn’t very communicative.’

‘They never really liked me,’ Derek conceded. ‘I thought they blamed me.’

‘Blamed you how?’

‘In their eyes, Stuart might have been running from me.’

‘Why would he have done that?’

‘He wouldn’t.’ Derek’s eyes were glazing with the beginning of tears.

‘No tension between the two of you? No arguments?’

Derek looked to Clarke. ‘You saw us in that film — what do you think?’

‘Like I said, you were enjoying yourselves.’

‘We always did.’ He folded his arms as if to affirm the statement, the leather creaking.

‘How about you, Mr Shankley?’ Sutherland’s focus was still on the older man. ‘Did you have any issues with Stuart?’

‘Absolutely not.’

‘Quite comfortable with Derek’s sexuality?’

‘He’s my son, isn’t he? Of course I am.’ It sounded a line that had been used many times before. Derek turned his head to look at his father. That makes three, Clarke reckoned. Three little white lies.

‘Are you,’ she asked Derek, ‘still in touch with friends from those days? Friends Stuart would have known?’

‘Some, yes.’

‘It’s just that we’re compiling a list of people we need to speak to. If you could help us with addresses or phone numbers...’

‘Sure. I’ve no classes today.’

‘You still teach media studies?’ Clarke watched him nod. ‘And are there jobs waiting for your students at the end of the course?’

‘Not as many as there were, and the ones that are there often don’t pay. They’re supposed to be working for the contacts they’ll make, for the good of their CV, or because the internship’s so wonderful why would they ever want paying to be part of it?’ He rolled his eyes while Clarke turned from son to father.

‘There’s something I need to put to you, Mr Shankley. It concerns Rogues nightclub.’

‘What about it?’

‘It was subject to several visits by police officers. Unscheduled visits. But never when your son and Stuart were there.’

‘What are you trying to say?’

‘Just that you were a detective, sir, with friends everywhere, I’m guessing.’

Alex Shankley shifted his gaze from Clarke to Sutherland. ‘I don’t see what any of this has to do with Stuart’s murder.’ Sutherland seemed to agree, his eyes on Clarke.

‘Perhaps Derek could step outside for a moment,’ she said. The son looked to his father, who nodded his agreement. Clarke waited until Derek was on the other side of the door.

‘There’s something I’d like to share with you, but it would have to be in confidence. It’s something you might well find useful, because it’ll help you prepare yourself.’

‘And in exchange?’ Alex Shankley asked.

‘You’ll answer a question I’m going to put to you.’

Shankley weighed up his response. ‘Very well,’ he eventually said.

Clarke moistened her lips. ‘Stuart’s ankles were handcuffed together. Police-issue handcuffs most probably. We’re keeping that to ourselves at present, so please don’t go sharing, even with Derek.’

Shankley nodded his understanding. ‘Public will think it was a cop, and I was a cop.’

‘Now you’ll be prepared,’ Clarke stated.

Shankley nodded again. ‘So ask me your question.’

‘Did someone let you know whenever a police raid was due to be carried out at Rogues?’

‘How would it have looked, a murder squad man’s son being hauled into the back of a police van?’

‘Is that a yes?’

‘It is.’

‘The person who told you, they had to be on the inside, somebody local.’

‘You’ve already had your question, DI Clarke. You’ve got me feeling like a bloody snitch, but that’s as much of my soul as you’re having.’ He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. For the first time, Clarke saw the son reflected in the father.

‘You didn’t kill Stuart Bloom, did you, Mr Shankley?’ Sutherland asked.

‘No, I didn’t.’

‘And you didn’t order or otherwise facilitate his death?’

‘No.’

‘Happen to keep any old pairs of handcuffs in the house?’ Sutherland watched Shankley nod. ‘Any of them gone AWOL down the years?’

‘Definitely not.’

‘Sure about that?’

Shankley gazed towards the door. ‘It nearly destroyed Derek, you know. For a few months he was almost suicidal. Even now...’ He shook his head and sighed. ‘Took me a long time to understand how much they really cared for one another.’

‘Your wife...?’ Clarke asked.

‘Died when Derek was young.’

‘You brought him up by yourself?’

‘Family helped.’

‘Which is why it’s interesting you’ve never felt able to contact Stuart’s family.’

Shankley glowered at the two detectives across from him. ‘Did you hear the things they said about us? About hard-working cops like you and me? When Stuart went missing, his mum phoned me day and night — CID and home. She never gave it a rest, said I should be shouting from the rooftops, talking to all those bloody journalists.’

‘And now your son is teaching the next generation,’ Clarke commented.

The man snorted. Sutherland shifted on his seat.

‘You will,’ he said, ‘check the situation with those handcuffs, won’t you?’

Shankley slapped the table with the flat of his hand. ‘I’ve told you I had nothing to do with it.’

‘And you’ve no inkling who did?’

‘None.’

‘Then we’re probably done here.’ Sutherland made to rise to his feet.

‘But we may need to talk to you again, sir,’ Clarke cautioned. ‘And in the meantime, while Derek’s here, it would be good to get those contacts from him.’

‘If he’s willing, that’s fine. He might not know everyone, though. If he can’t give you a number or he doesn’t know a name, don’t read anything into it.’ Shankley paused, stabbing a finger into the air between the two detectives. ‘Don’t forget, I know how you think. And I know how wrong that thinking can sometimes be. I’ve always stuck up for the force and I always will — but I know.’

‘Don’t judge us by the past, Mr Shankley,’ Clarke said. ‘Trust me, we’ve learned a lot from the cock-ups and cosy conspiracies of your generation.’

That evening, after just the one drink with Graham Sutherland, Clarke stood in front of Rebus’s tenement and pressed his buzzer, leaning in towards the intercom.

‘Yes?’ his voice crackled.

‘I looked for you on the Meadows.’

‘Already done.’ The door sounded to let her know it had been unlocked. She climbed the two flights. Rebus was waiting on the landing, Brillo at his side, tail wagging. ‘Can I just say, Siobhan, that a woman of your age should have better things to do with her evenings.’

‘Thought I was supposed to keep you in the loop.’

‘A phone call would suffice.’ She followed him down the long hallway into the kitchen.

‘You’ve tidied,’ she commented.

‘Cut to the quick by your critique. Coffee or gin?’

‘Actually I’m fine.’

He lifted a box of tea bags. ‘Turmeric. Guess who from?’

‘A certain pathologist?’

‘She thinks I want to live forever.’ He took a bottle of IPA from the worktop and opened it. They went into the living room, where a CD was playing. Rebus turned it down a notch.

‘Is that classical?’

‘Arvo Pärt.’

‘Our pathologist friend again?’

‘Music to soothe the fevered brow.’ He sank into his chair. ‘How’s it all going, anyway?’

‘Malcolm’s settled in.’

‘He’s good at that.’

‘He had a couple of visitors today — the Chuggabugs.’

‘Sounds about right. They’ll be checking their arses are covered.’

‘You think Malcolm will roll over for them?’

‘It won’t be like that, Shiv. They’ll doubtless have something to offer. Maybe they dug up some dirt on him. Our Malcolm’s not half as shiny as he looks, remember.’ Rebus swallowed a mouthful of beer. ‘Anything else?’

‘I sat and watched one of Ness’s films — Zombies v Bravehearts. Stuart Bloom and Derek Shankley were extras. This was after I’d interviewed both Ness and Brand. Can’t say I was enamoured of either — Ness might stab you in the back, but Brand’s as likely to do it while looking you in the eye. Meantime, the forensic anthropologist reckons the car might not have lain in that spot throughout.’

‘Good news for those of us on the original search team.’

Clarke nodded from her corner of the sofa. Brillo had settled by her feet, curled into a ball. ‘Means there was maybe nothing in those woods for you to miss,’ she agreed.

In the silence that followed, Rebus kept his eyes on her. ‘Any time you’re ready,’ he said.

‘Ready?’

‘To say what you came here to say.’

She stiffened her back. ‘Derek Shankley turned up at Leith along with his father. Definitely the father’s idea, but it got me thinking.’

‘That’s because you’re a detective.’

‘See, Jackie Ness had hinted at something. Police raids on a club Stuart Bloom and Derek Shankley frequented.’

‘Rogues?’

Clarke nodded. ‘Stuart and Derek were never there, which could just be coincidence, of course.’

‘But Ness didn’t think so?’

‘If you ask me, Bloom had maybe bragged about it, or at least let something slip.’

‘That they were forewarned?’ She nodded again, her eyes on his. ‘And you think maybe it was the dad who tipped them the wink?’

‘He admitted as much.’

‘But he was Glasgow-based.’

‘So there had to be someone else right here in Edinburgh.’ She paused for a beat. ‘Did you happen to know Alex Shankley back in the day, John?’

Rebus gave a thin smile. ‘You know what the job’s like, Siobhan. Gangs, drugs, acts of violence... there are webs and connections and chains. Murder squads have always pooled and shared.’

‘Alex Shankley was a friend?’

‘We did one another a few favours, just now and then.’ Rebus had risen again to stand by the uncurtained window. ‘Even before I had Brillo, I’d often walk down to the Meadows of an evening. Late, after the pubs had shut. I’d stand there in the middle of it all, listening to the night. You can hear the city, you know. If you train your ears. But hearing it isn’t always enough.’

‘Did Alex Shankley ask for your help when Stuart Bloom went missing?’

‘You know damned fine he did — he wanted his son’s name kept out of it. I spoke to a few of the seasoned hacks, made my case...’

‘Promised them favours if they complied?’

‘Quid pro quo, Siobhan — just like you and Laura Smith. Not so many laptop warriors back then; it was easier to manage the way news got out, the words used and the ones left unsaid. Christ, was it only twelve years ago? Seems like a different age.’

‘The handcuffs, John.’

Rebus shook his head. ‘It wasn’t Alex Shankley. He’d worked murders half his life. He would know handcuffs were going to scream police involvement.’

‘Would the Chuggabugs have known the same?’

‘Up to a point.’ He returned to his chair and sat down, the bottle clutched in his hand. ‘Isn’t it more likely those cuffs are there to send us on a wild goose chase? The cuffs and the gully both.’

‘Why tie the ankles rather than the wrists?’

‘I refer you to my previous answer.’ Rebus dug a pack of gum from his pocket and held it up. ‘Every time I feel like smoking, I’m supposed to chew one of these little bastards instead. From experience, however, they make the beer taste weird.’ Having said which, he drained the bottle before sliding a lozenge of gum into his mouth.

‘How many are you on?’ Clarke asked, watching him chew.

‘Twenty a day — is that the definition of irony or what?’

‘I’m not sure.’ Clarke’s smile was fleeting. ‘John, if it gets out you were jeopardising police operations...’

‘By warning two young men to stay out of a club?’

‘Nothing was ever found in those raids. Doesn’t that sound to you like word got around?’

‘Or else the club was squeaky clean. There’d been a bad consignment, a few kids OD’ing, one of them dying. That’s what the raids were for — not just at Rogues but across the city. For a while, the dealers kept their heads down, job done.’ Rebus grew thoughtful, his chewing slowing. ‘You think ACU have an inkling about me and Alex Shankley?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘Malcolm hasn’t said?’

‘He doesn’t know I know about the meeting.’

‘And how do you know?’

‘Sources.’

‘Would that be Laura again?’ Rebus gave a half-smile. ‘Steele and Edwards were assigned to at least a couple of the Rogues visits in the months before Bloom disappeared. Then they worked the misper case. Could be they found out I was friends with Alex Shankley, joined the dots and then tucked it away for future use.’

Clarke picked up the thread. ‘They also know that you, me and Malcolm are friends, so they tell him that if he does them a favour, they won’t use the information.’

‘Hearsay rather than information,’ Rebus felt the need to qualify.

‘All the same...’

‘Aye.’ Rebus raised the empty bottle towards her. ‘Well, here’s to you, Siobhan. Your visit’s fair cheered up an old man.’

‘Sorry about that.’ Rebus had picked up his phone and was tapping away at it with one finger. ‘Who are you messaging?’

‘Malcolm, of course. I’m letting him know: if they want to come at me, let them come.’

‘He’ll wonder how you know.’

‘It’ll be more evidence of my almost supernatural powers.’ Rebus pressed send, then gave Clarke an almighty wink.

13

She was on Clerk Street when her phone sounded. The call box again. She pressed her foot to the accelerator. Canongate was only a couple of minutes away. Maybe when she didn’t answer they would stick around and try again. She signalled right, saw the two call boxes in front of her and cursed under her breath — no sign of anyone. She drove on for fifty yards, examining the few pedestrians, not recognising any faces. The street was quiet, so she managed a U-turn, heading back to the call boxes. There were plenty of narrow routes leading off Canongate. Her anonymous caller could have vanished down any one of them. She noticed that her smoking friend was back outside McKenzie’s, so she parked and got out. He recognised her and jutted his chin by way of greeting.

‘All right?’

She sought his name, pointed at him. ‘Robbie, right?’

He pointed back. ‘Siobhan.’

‘I had another call, Robbie, not more than five minutes ago.’

‘I’ve only just stepped out.’

‘I don’t suppose you passed anyone going in?’

‘Didn’t notice.’

‘Meaning they might have?’

He offered a shrug, and then a cigarette.

‘Don’t smoke,’ Clarke told him. ‘I’ll maybe see you inside.’ She yanked open the door.

The place was busy and noisy. Thumping music, Sky Sports on the various muted TVs. Mostly a young crowd, maybe students, voices raised in raucous competition with the bass line. A row of older regulars stood at the bar, inured to everything around them, a collie asleep on the floor next to a stool and a dish of drinking water. The bar itself was well-enough lit, but there were shadowy booths and alcoves, which Clarke explored as she pretended to weave her way to the toilets. The toilets themselves were down a flight of stairs, and she paused for a moment halfway, wondering if anyone might emerge. No one did, so she headed back up. Another sweep of the bar and its clients. She was about to leave when a head rose from behind the counter. The barman had obviously been into the cellar, emerging through a trapdoor. He was passing bottles of spirits to a colleague. Clarke knew she knew him from somewhere. Had she been in here before? She didn’t think so. Had he maybe worked one of the city’s many other bars? It was possible.

She was pushing open the door as Robbie the smoker made to come indoors again.

‘Not staying?’ he asked.

‘Maybe next time,’ she replied.

She got into her car and sat there, thinking hard. Late thirties, early forties, thick black hair and sideburns tapering to a point. Tattooed arms, hooded eyes, stubble. Romany? She had an image of him wandering through woodland, a guitar strapped across him. Hang on... Yes, because the last time she’d seen him he’d worn a black leather waistcoat over a white T-shirt and she’d thought the same. Where, though? In a courtroom. Not the accused. Not giving evidence. A tattooed arm draped around a woman’s shoulders.

And then she knew.

He was Ellis Meikle’s uncle, brother of Ellis’s father. Comforting Ellis’s mother at the end of the trial after her son was sentenced. Sentenced to life for murder.

‘Ellis Meikle,’ Clarke intoned, head turned to gaze at McKenzie’s. Then she started the car and headed home, on autopilot all the way.