In a House of Lies

14

Morris Gerald Cafferty lived in a penthouse duplex in the Quartermile development, just across the Meadows from Rebus’s tenement. Rebus tied Brillo up at the entrance and pressed the bell. A camera lens was above it. Rebus got in close, knowing his face would be filling a small monitor somewhere upstairs.

‘Yes?’ Cafferty’s voice enquired.

‘Got a minute?’

‘Just barely.’ But Rebus was buzzed in anyway. He took the lift. Last time he’d been there, Cafferty’s gangland rival Darryl Christie had been only a few minutes ahead of him, armed and looking to take Cafferty out. But Cafferty had prevailed and Christie was serving time, meaning Edinburgh belonged to Cafferty now, and this was his eyrie, protected by CCTV and concierges.

He’d left the apartment door open, so Rebus went in. The short corridor led to a large open-plan space. Cafferty was pouring coffee from a cafetière.

‘I forget how you take it.’

‘Just as it comes.’

‘No sugar?’

‘No sugar.’

‘Men our age, we have to look after ourselves.’ Cafferty handed over the plain white mug and gave Rebus an inspection. ‘Not too bad for a man with a debilitating condition.’

‘You look okay too, more’s the pity.’

Cafferty looked better than okay, actually. Winning back Edinburgh had taken years off him. He’d always had heft, but he seemed to have a renewed spring in his step.

‘There’s a gym practically opposite,’ he explained, patting his stomach. ‘I go when I can. You still got that bloody mutt?’

‘He’s parked outside. Stand on your terrace some nights and you’ll see us just by Jawbone Walk. I take it business is good?’

‘Nobody drinks the way they used to. Licensed trade is always a battle.’

‘And the minicabs? Car wash? Flat rentals?’

‘I see you’re still keeping au fait.’

‘I hear that place you took over from Darryl Christie is struggling, though.’

‘The Devil’s Dram?’ Cafferty shrugged. ‘Good times and bad, John. I’m thinking of changing the focus from whisky to gin.’

‘I’m guessing you’d never part with it — not after what you went through to win it.’

‘Ever been to see Darryl?’

Rebus shook his head. ‘How about you?’

‘I did try once but he knocked me back.’

‘Weren’t you afraid that once you walked into the Bar-L they’d lock the doors and not let you out again?’

‘Legitimate businessman, John. That’s what the judge said at the trial.’

‘Aye, and like you, I could hear the inverted commas.’

‘Tone of voice isn’t what gets written down, though.’ The two of them were standing a few feet apart. Time was, they’d already have been weighing up the trading of physical blows, but now that each was afraid of the cost of losing, words would have to suffice. Cafferty was gesturing to a corner of the room behind Rebus, where the TV was showing a morning news channel. He’d turned the sound down, so they could see Catherine Bloom but not hear her.

‘She’s enjoying it too much,’ Cafferty commented. ‘All this attention, she thinks it gives her life meaning.’

‘She’s fought for years.’

‘Years she could have been spending on herself. The woman’s hollowed out, John. Don’t tell me you can’t see it.’ Cafferty had pulled out one of the shiny steel chairs from beneath the glass-topped dining table. He perched there, waiting until Rebus took the seat opposite. ‘I’m assuming she’s why you’re here.’

‘Why else?’

Cafferty smiled, pleased to have been proved right. ‘Murder inquiry means looking at the old case. Old case was one of yours. But like I said to you at the time, I had nothing to do with any of it.’

‘I’m wondering what happened to Conor Maloney.’

Cafferty held out a hand. ‘Pass me your phone and I’ll show you how to use Google.’

‘I’ve looked at Google. He seems to have gone walkabout.’

‘Right enough, last I heard, he was taking a lot of cruises. Tax exile sort of thing.’

‘When was that?’

‘Four, five years ago. Conor might have overstepped the mark.’

‘How so?’

‘Trying to make friends in South America. Plenty drugs and money there, but they don’t play games. He wasn’t to their liking.’

‘So he’s on the run?’

‘Taxman might be after him, but I’ve not heard that the Colombians are — or the gardai, come to that. He’s just keeping his head down, enjoying a well-earned retirement.’

‘He severed his links to Adrian Brand?’

‘Conor liked the idea of a golf course, maybe a whole string of them, but it was only a passing notion.’

‘Would he have liked learning that a private investigator was sniffing around?’

‘You asked me that at the time, John.’

‘But now Bloom’s body has turned up...’

‘Not my concern.’

‘The thing I remember about our interview back then is how you tried to deflect attention on to an Aberdeen crime family — the Bartollis. If we’d gone after them, that would have suited you just fine.’

Cafferty smiled at the memory. ‘Can’t blame a man for trying. How’s the coffee?’

‘A bit weak, like your answers.’

‘It’s decaf. Better for the blood pressure. I can add a tot of something stronger, if you like.’

‘I’ll survive.’

‘I don’t doubt that.’ Cafferty ran a hand over his shaven head. It was shaped like a bowling ball, with folds of fat at the nape of the neck. Nicks and bits of scar tissue evidence of the knocks he’d taken, all the way back to childhood. In gangs from his early teens, working his way up, learning and staying lucky and toughening his hide. There were probably points in his life where he could have turned to left or right, but he hadn’t taken them. He’d vanquished his rivals, done some time, and now sat in his penthouse, alone and probably still dissatisfied. Rebus couldn’t help thinking of his own tenement flat, and those night-time walks, and the solitariness, part of his mind always on his shadow self, Morris Gerald Cafferty.

‘Will they want to talk to me, do you think?’ Cafferty was asking.

‘They might.’

‘Who’s in charge, anyone I know?’

‘A DCI called Graham Sutherland.’

‘From Inverness originally?’

‘I don’t know.’

Cafferty was nodding to himself. ‘Pretty sure that’s him. He’s just a name to me though — no run-ins to speak of.’

‘Siobhan Clarke’s on the team, too.’

‘Always a pleasure to do business with Siobhan. Is she still going out with Malcolm Fox?’

‘They were never an item.’

‘I heard otherwise.’

‘If you paid for that, you might want a refund.’

‘And Fox is still at Gartcosh?’

‘Have you tried Google?’

‘Touché, John.’ Cafferty smiled again, scratching at his jawline. ‘They probably will want to talk to me. I told you back then, I put money into one of Jackie Ness’s films.’ Cafferty watched Rebus nod. ‘It was actually Billy Locke who asked me. Billy was Ness’s partner in the business. He was looking for new angels — that was what he called us. You got treated to a good dinner and he gave you his spiel, and you either got out your chequebook or you didn’t.’

‘A chequebook?’ Rebus sounded sceptical.

‘You’re right — I was always strictly cash. Not that I put in much, and I got it back with interest. They asked me if I wanted my name added to the credits, but I said no.’

‘Why?’

‘By the time it came out, Stuart Bloom had gone missing.’

‘You didn’t want anyone making the connection?’

‘There wasn’t any connection, but you’re right — wouldn’t have stopped people trying.’

‘Which film was this?’

‘Some zombie flick with kilts and claymores.’

‘Siobhan Clarke just watched the DVD of that. You know Bloom actually appears in it? Him and his boyfriend both.’

‘News to me. I’ve probably got a copy here somewhere.’

Rebus looked towards the TV. There was no DVD player. ‘Nothing to play it on, though.’

‘Why would I? It was a pile of shite.’

‘Did Ness ever ask you for help other than financial?’

‘Against Adrian Brand, you mean? Like I said back then, I had nothing to do with that.’

‘Doesn’t quite answer my question.’

‘Maybe he asked and maybe I said no.’

‘You were scared of Conor Maloney?’

Cafferty gave a snort. ‘You know me better than that, John.’

‘If that golf course had gone ahead, with Maloney and his paramilitary money involved, wouldn’t that have been seen as the first step?’

‘Towards him pushing into Edinburgh?’ Cafferty brushed the notion aside.

‘How did Maloney get friendly with Brand anyway?’

‘Some golf course in Ireland. They both owned a share. Country club type thing, that’s what Brand wanted to bring to Scotland.’

‘How did it feel when he went to Maloney rather than you?’

‘It’s ancient history, John. An archive’s the place for it.’

‘How did you feel, though? If not threatened exactly, then maybe pissed off at the snub, at the lack of respect it showed?’

Cafferty made a show of yawning. ‘I’m beginning to think it’s too early in the day for decaf, and way too late in the day for this little chat.’ He pushed back his chair and rose slowly to his full height. ‘Besides, I’ve got things to do, and you’ve probably got a dog to walk.’

On the TV, Catherine Bloom was no longer making her speech. Instead, aerial footage of Poretoun Woods was playing, with an old photograph of Stuart Bloom in the top right corner of the screen.

‘Ness wanted me to buy that place, you know,’ Cafferty commented. ‘Sticking point was, I had to carry on with the upgrading of both house and woods. He had it all planned out, and I had to sign up to every last bit of it.’

‘So you’ve been to Poretoun House?’

‘Not since it was sold.’

‘And the woods, too?’

‘Just the one day — I watched a bit of the filming. The acting wasn’t up to much, but give Jackie his due, he always found some very pretty faces to point his camera at.’

‘I know — we interviewed a slew of them.’

‘Not with enough rigour to keep Madam Bloom happy.’ Cafferty’s eyes were on the TV again, though the story had changed to politics. ‘One thing I see the new inquiry’s keeping to itself,’ he mused.

‘What’s that?’

‘Bloom was wearing handcuffs.’

‘And how could you possibly know that?’

Cafferty fixed Rebus with a look. ‘Some of us are still in the game, John. Police issue, were they?’

‘They’re still being tested. Who have you got on the inside?’

‘More to the point, how come you know about the handcuffs? Siobhan been whispering in your ear? That counts as a leak, I’d say, especially when the person she’s leaking to was part of the original case and might yet be a suspect.’

‘Handcuffs could have come from anywhere. I dare say you or your pal Maloney would have known where to find some.’

‘Few quid to the right cop,’ Cafferty agreed. ‘Plenty of them on the take in 2006. Then there are people like your old boss Bill Rawlston — good friend of Adrian Brand’s back in the day, used to be on his table at the odd charity event. Not forgetting the deceased’s boyfriend’s dad — a pal of yours, I seem to remember.’

‘Anyone else you want to add?’

Cafferty pretended to think. Rebus decided not to wait for a reply.

‘Brian Steele and Grant Edwards,’ he stated. ‘They did a bit of work for Brand — and for you.’

‘For me?’

Rebus nodded, his eyes locked on Cafferty’s. ‘Don’t think I don’t know.’

‘And what is it you think you know?’

‘You met with Conor Maloney one time, not long before Stuart Bloom went missing. Took Steele and Edwards along as muscle.’

‘Just Steele, actually.’ Cafferty thought for a moment. ‘Your pal in Glasgow CID? Makes sense they’d have Maloney on their radar.’

‘From the moment his plane touched down in Glasgow,’ Rebus acknowledged. ‘Steele was in uniform back then, which means he’d have carried handcuffs as a matter of course.’

‘The day he was with me, he was in a nice sharp suit — I remember being a bit narked because he almost put my own tailoring to shame.’

‘What did you tell Maloney about Stuart Bloom?’

Cafferty shook his head. ‘You really think this is going to work? Siobhan won’t fall for it, and neither will anyone else. It’s you and yours they’ll be focused on, and rightly so. You’re selling dodgy merch, John — frankly, I’m a bit embarrassed for you. But it does make me wonder how desperate you are... and whose tracks you’re trying to cover. Take a bit of advice — you’re not a well man. It’s time you adjusted to that reality and tried to relax and enjoy yourself rather than knocking your pan out with all this stuff.’

Rebus rose to his feet. ‘Thing is, this is me relaxed and enjoying myself. You, on the other hand...’

‘What?’

Rebus gestured towards Cafferty’s forehead. ‘Vein in your temple there started beating out a tattoo five minutes ago — and that means my work here is done.’

Cafferty stayed seated as Rebus headed for the door. Only after it had closed did he press a finger to his temple. Rebus was right, he could feel the pulse there, and he wasn’t entirely sure any length of gym workout would cure it.

15

Rebus hadn’t been to Poretoun Woods since the early days of the misper inquiry. It seemed to him a bit less managed, its natural wildness taking hold. The track into the woods was easily identified thanks to the many visits by police and other professionals. Deep ruts showed where a tractor had towed the VW to a waiting trailer. One marked police car indicated that some poor sod was still on guard duty — to what end, Rebus couldn’t say. The crunch of twigs and leaves underfoot signalled his arrival, giving the uniform time to lever himself up from the tree he’d been resting against.

‘At ease, son,’ Rebus said. ‘I’m just having a look, that’s all.’

‘Off limits to the public,’ the constable stated.

‘I’m attached to the inquiry.’

‘Then how come I wasn’t told you were coming?’

‘They’ve got too much on their plate at Leith as it is,’ Rebus improvised. ‘Sorry to have to tell you, but you’re not their highest priority.’

His tone seemed to reassure the constable. Rebus reckoned the lad would have been in primary school twelve years back. The acne on both cheeks had probably bothered him since soon after.

‘No point me asking if you’ve seen anything unusual?’

‘A few gawpers from the village,’ the officer confided. ‘Couple of reporters. All they want is a photo of where it happened, even if it didn’t happen here.’

Rebus studied him. ‘You’ve heard, then?’

The uniform nodded. ‘Car might have been transported here with the deceased in it.’

Rebus was peering over the crime-scene tape down into the gully.

‘There’s a rope if you want a closer look.’

‘Son, do I look in any shape to do that?’ Rebus raised a finger. ‘And by the way, don’t feel you need to answer.’

‘Nothing down there anyway,’ the constable conceded.

Rebus was looking around him. All he saw were trees. No way of knowing if he’d walked past here during the search. He’d been CID anyway, a sightseer while the uniforms covered the ground, armed with sticks and keen eyes. He recalled that a flooded quarry a few miles away had also been visited by divers with air tanks and powerful torches. Then there’d been the disused mines just south of Bonnyrigg. Photos of the missing man had been placed in shop windows, tied to lamp posts, pushed through letter boxes, while back in the CID office Bloom’s phone records were being checked, his emails scoured for clues. Dozens upon dozens of interviews, because the longer he stayed missing, the more apparent it became that his vanishing act was not voluntary, and probably no accident. So they’d hauled in both Jackie Ness and Adrian Brand for a proper grilling, then the boyfriend. Hours of questions, all of it leading them in circles. Bill Rawlston had been old school, zeroed straight in on what he called Bloom’s ‘lifestyle’, code for his sexuality. According to Derek Shankley, theirs had been a monogamous relationship, ‘apart from the odd snog, obviously’. Snogs at private parties held in friends’ homes; snogs on the dance floor at Rogues.

‘The partner doesn’t always know, though,’ was all Rawlston said about that.

Brand and Ness had arrived for their meets with CID phalanxed by lawyers; Derek Shankley had taken his dad. Or, more likely, the dad had insisted on tagging along. Of course Rebus had known Alex Shankley. Shankley was an expert on Glasgow gangs and gangsters; Rebus knew more about their Edinburgh equivalents than anyone in the city. Information had been traded down the years. A tip-off about a summit; a request for surveillance; titbits learned from phone taps. Old-school cooperation, at the end of which a bottle of whisky would be sent as thanks and gratefully received.

‘I worked the original case,’ Rebus told the constable, in explanation for his long silence.

‘I heard there were some issues.’

‘If by issues you mean fuck-ups...’ Rebus, hands stuffed into his coat pockets, gave a shrug. ‘Let’s be generous and say we just took a few wrong turns. How much longer are you going to be out here?’

‘This is supposed to be the last day. Tape comes down in the morning.’

The months would pass, Rebus knew, and people would start to forget. Or else they’d walk the woods not having known in the first place. He wondered at the efficacy of dusting off people’s memories, all those individuals interviewed first time round. Details would have evaporated, moments blurred. The human mind wasn’t exactly a reliable witness at the best of times. Taking a final look into the gully, he spotted a green wreath against one of the steep sides, not quite at the bottom.

‘The parents,’ the constable explained. ‘Yesterday morning, before my shift started.’

Rebus nodded slowly and started the long walk back to his car.

He didn’t drive far, coming off the track on to a muddy tarmacked B road. A couple of left turns and he was at the gates to Poretoun House. The gates were closed, no sign of a bell or anything. A padlocked chain. When Rebus pushed, there was just enough give for him to squeeze through the gap — security obviously not much of an issue.

‘That’s what losing a few pounds does for you, John,’ he said to himself. Twenty pounds actually. First time he’d gone to the Oxford Bar after shedding it, they’d asked if he had long to live. He’d been forced to tell them it wasn’t cancer. No, not cancer, but he was buggered if he was going to let COPD have him without a fight. One of the other patients at the respiratory clinic had used a phrase — ‘managed decline’ — and it had stuck with Rebus. To him, it seemed to sum up his whole life since retirement, and maybe even before.

‘Cheery bastard today,’ he muttered as he walked.

The driveway was overgrown, the gravel surface green with weeds and moss. The house itself soon appeared, looking forlorn. He remembered visiting it to question Jackie Ness, in a huge and overly ornate living room. Mary Skelton had been with him; it was one of those rare days when she seemed able to focus on her job rather than her sleeping arrangements. Not that they’d lingered at Poretoun House. It had been a follow-up; they were there to take receipt of printed communications between Ness and the misper. Rebus remembered the film memorabilia, the posters and props. The hallway had become a repository for lighting rigs, rails filled with costumes, camera tripods. Had anyone thought to mention that Stuart Bloom had appeared in one of Ness’s films? Had Ness himself or maybe Derek Shankley said something? If so, whoever they’d told hadn’t thought it worth recording. The family really had earned their eventual begrudged and belated apology.

‘Utter shambles,’ Rebus said to himself.

He did a circuit of the building’s exterior. Lawns that had stopped being tended to. A broken window pane, boarded up. Foliage sprouting from gutters and downpipes. No sign of life. He crouched by the front door, peering through the letter box. The hall was dusty and empty. No sign of any mail on the floor. Most of the windows had been shuttered, upstairs and down. But he found one where the shutters didn’t quite meet and pressed his nose to the glass. The living room was devoid of furniture, cracks appearing in its stuccoed ceiling. Didn’t seem to him that anyone was even bothering to heat the place. Turning away from the house, he had a clear view towards the woods. The last time anyone had seen Stuart Bloom alive, he’d been driving away in his Polo.

‘He was headed home,’ Jackie Ness had told the inquiry.

Yes, because Derek Shankley was preparing an evening meal for them, wine open, music playing, the end of another long week for them both. Of course, they only had Ness’s word for it that Bloom had left the meeting alive. The house had been searched and forensically examined, despite Ness’s complaints. Outbuildings had been checked, as had the woods beyond. Not that there was any good reason to suspect the producer.

It was just that they didn’t have much else.

Rebus returned to his Saab. It spluttered as it started, reminding him that it wasn’t getting any younger. He patted the steering wheel in sympathy, mouthed the phrase ‘managed decline’ and drove the half-mile to the village of Poretoun, which basically consisted, now as then, of a single thoroughfare (imaginatively named Main Street). There had been two pubs, but only one survived. The hardware shop, bank and post office had also gone. The café Rebus remembered dropping into for a memorable black pudding roll still had its signage, but was closed and available to let. There was a convenience store, a solitary shopper emerging from it with a carrier bag. Rebus parked and pushed open its door.

‘Just want some gum,’ he told the Asian woman behind the counter. He found the Airwaves and picked up a pack, then a second for luck.

‘You’re trying to stop smoking,’ she commented. Then, seeing from his look that she was correct: ‘Takes one to know one. Have you tried vaping?’

‘The technology defeated me.’

‘Well, gum will rot your teeth but not your lungs.’ She rang up the items. There was a small pile of that day’s Evening News on the counter, so he took one, looking at the headlines on the front. There was a colour photo of Catherine Bloom and the promise of an exclusive interview inside.

‘I must look up “exclusive” when I get home,’ he said. ‘Can’t be many people she’s not spoken to.’

‘Can you blame her, though? The way the authorities have treated that family is inexcusable.’

‘We’re only human,’ Rebus said, accepting his change and making his exit. He crossed to the pub and stepped inside. It felt welcoming, with a log-burning stove and thick tartan carpet. Spotting the coffee machine, he ordered an Americano and slid on to a bar stool. A middle-aged couple sat at a corner table, conversing quietly. Another regular was engrossed in his crossword. Rebus placed the Evening News on the counter.

‘Hellish, isn’t it?’ the barman said, nodding towards the photo of Catherine Bloom.

‘Aye,’ Rebus agreed.

‘Have you been to the woods, then?’ Rebus met the barman’s eyes. ‘You’re not local and a lot of people have been dropping in here either before or after. They’re taking the tape down tomorrow, I hear.’

‘Reckon that’ll spoil the tourist trade?’ Rebus enquired, stony-faced.

‘A sale is a sale, even if it’s only coffee. I always reckoned that film guy had something to do with it.’

‘Oh aye?’

‘Orgies and everything, he used to film them. That was the rumour anyway.’

‘News to me.’

‘The woods have always had that atmosphere about them — did you not feel it? Back in the day when he owned them, there’d be blood spattered around. People said he was sacrificing chickens or something.’

‘They must have been disappointed when they learned it was food colouring from his horror films.’

The barman studied him. ‘You know a lot about it.’

‘I worked the original inquiry. Even popped in here a few times.’

‘I only started here later. Used to work for the competition.’

‘Why did it close?’

‘Things change, I suppose. Landlord retired and couldn’t find anyone to take it on.’ He looked around him. ‘I give this place six months and it’ll go the same way. Trade’s dying, same as the village.’

‘Christ’s sake, Tam,’ the regular said, looking up from his newspaper. ‘You’re like a broken record.’ Then, eyes turning to Rebus: ‘I remember you, though. You used to drink a pint of heavy.’

‘That’s some memory you’ve got.’

‘To be honest, it was always going to be fifty-fifty. Back then, heavy and lager were what the place sold. Now it’s flavoured vodka and beer in overpriced bottles, to attract a younger crowd that would rather be anywhere but here. As for all that shite about Jackie Ness and Poretoun Woods...’ The man shook his head. ‘My son was an extra on some of his films. An orgy would have been just fine by him, but there was never a whiff of any of that. Long, miserable days, cheese sandwiches and as little pay as Ness thought he could get away with. Girls got a bit extra if they had to do nude, but the lads didn’t.’ He glowered at the barman. ‘You saw one or two of those films, Tam. A flash of tit was as racy as it got.’ He rolled his eyes and focused on his crossword again.

‘What does your son do now?’ Rebus asked.

‘He took over his uncle’s farm. Loved it ever since he was a kid. He’s selling up now, though, getting out before Brexit hits. Whole thing’s a bloody joke at our expense — and some around here even voted for it.’

The barman pursed his lips and busied himself with what few empty glasses there were, while Rebus took a sip of coffee. It was bitter and lukewarm, which seemed to fit in with the way the village was changing.

‘Will someone take on the farm?’ he asked.

‘Not as a going concern. It’s going to be houses. Posh ones for folk with good jobs in Edinburgh or retirees from south of the border.’

‘Wouldn’t be anything to do with Sir Adrian Brand, would it?’

‘It would.’

‘I’ve just been to Poretoun House.’

‘It’s criminal what he’s done to that place.’

‘On the other hand,’ the barman interrupted, ‘all those new houses might be good for business.’

‘Only if you add ciabatta to the bar menu,’ Rebus said, pushing away his cup. ‘And better coffee to go with it.’

16

Graham Sutherland and Callum Reid were in the interview room with Bill Rawlston. When Clarke asked why, George Gamble told her Rawlston had been at the heart of the original inquiry. Maybe he could point them in the right direction, offer shortcuts or share his instinct regarding motives and most likely suspects.

Meantime, the budget would allow for the soil analysis and whatever forensic tests the handcuffs and car interior required. The process was already under way.

Derek Shankley had managed another half-day away from teaching and was seated next to Phil Yeats, going through names and phone numbers. Clarke gave him a little smile of encouragement and headed along the corridor to the room where Fox and Leighton sat surrounded by the contents of the box files.

‘Mind if I have a word, Malcolm?’ she asked.

‘Sure.’ He got up and followed her back into the under-lit corridor with its flaking cream-painted walls.

‘Making progress?’ she asked. He shrugged a response. ‘Is your deal with Steele and Edwards that you share it with them first? I know you talked to them yesterday.’

‘I wondered how John knew. You saw them from the window?’

‘Something like that.’

‘You’re lying. If you’d been watching, you’d know it was only Steele I spoke to — Edwards stayed in the car. And to answer your question, I told him precisely nothing.’

‘Best keep it that way.’

‘You think they might be up to their necks?’

‘Anyone who could lay their hands on a pair of handcuffs is a suspect.’

‘Always supposing the two are connected.’

She stared at him. ‘Can we agree that it’s at least highly likely?’

‘I’m just trying to keep an open mind, Siobhan. That’s something the original inquiry seemed to lack. From early on, there were just the two options — it was because he was gay, or it was because of his job.’ Fox nodded towards the MIT room. ‘You’ve got one of the chief suspects in there right now. He’s either helping, or else pretending to.’

‘We’ve actually got two witnesses in the building, Malcolm. Which one is it you’re marking as a suspect?’

‘The boyfriend. Not that I think he did it.’

Clarke folded her arms. ‘What did Steele want with you?’

Fox took a deep breath. ‘Just as you said, to be kept apprised.’

‘You know you can’t help them.’

Fox nodded slowly. ‘But I need to appear to be. They reckon they can stick John’s head in a noose otherwise.’

‘You think you can convince them you’re on their side?’

‘I’ll do my best. They played the Complaints and ACU card — joined at the hip as we fight the good fight.’ He paused. ‘I know you have a bit of history with them.’

‘So I know what utter bastards they can be. Be careful, Malcolm.’

‘I get the feeling there’s something you’re not telling me.’

She gave a thin smile by way of reply, patted the lapel of his suit jacket and returned to the MIT room. Derek Shankley was taking a break, standing with a mug of tea by one of the windows. She walked over to him.

‘How’s it going?’

He managed a half-smile. ‘Okay.’

‘I’m assuming you’d managed to move on with your life. Now this comes crashing down on you.’

He had removed his leather jacket — it was draped over the chair at Yeats’s desk. Different T-shirt from the previous day, black this time, tight-fitting. His body was toned, his stone-washed denims low-slung.

‘You’re right,’ he said quietly. ‘Instead of sleeping, I keep replaying our time together. We were friends as much as lovers; liked the same things, the same food...’

‘When I watched the two of you in that zombie film, I could tell — you definitely looked like you had fun together, could hardly keep the grins off your faces.’

His smile broadened at the memory. ‘That might have been the hash, mind you.’ He froze, fixing her with a look.

‘Relax,’ she reassured him. ‘What’s said at the kettle stays at the kettle.’

‘Temperature was zero that day,’ he went on. ‘You could see your breath in the air. One of the crew said as much, asked if zombies breathed. Said how could they when their lungs would be shrivelled up. And there we were painted blue and trying to dodge them.’ He paused. ‘Actually, I just mentioned it to...’ He nodded towards Phil Yeats, who was checking texts on his phone.

‘DC Yeats,’ Clarke reminded him.

‘I was telling him a few of us from Rogues worked as extras, but so did the teenagers from the local village. Talk about a culture clash — they saw us as some exotic species. One or two might even have wanted us extinct.’

‘It came to blows?’

‘Just a bit of name-calling, usually to our backs.’ Shankley paused, rubbing one hand tentatively up and down a bare arm. ‘It’s not why Stuart was killed.’

‘Sure about that?’

‘Fairly sure.’

‘Well then, speaking of Rogues...’ Clarke lowered her voice, moving a couple of inches closer to him. ‘We know your dad tipped you off if a raid was coming. Do you know who it was that told him?’

Shankley shook his head.

‘Sure about that?’ She watched him nod. ‘Well, let’s keep all that to ourselves, eh? It’s definitely got nothing to do with what happened to Stuart.’ She waited for her words to sink in, then lightened her tone. ‘Pretty dreadful films, weren’t they?’

‘Made by good people, though. The sound guy, the make-up girl, all that lot. They were lovely. Stuart and me used to go for a drink with the director of photography. He knew a hell of a lot more about filming than Jackie Ness. Told us stories about people he’d worked with, big names some of them. Plenty of gossip, too. Stuart learned a lot from him.’

‘In what way?’

‘How to photograph certain situations. You know, like if the light’s poor or from a distance.’

‘Useful in Stuart’s line of work.’

‘Same with the sound engineer — Stuart talked to him about taping stuff.’

‘Eavesdropping, you mean?’

‘Phone calls and stuff, yes. Plus meetings where there’s a lot of background noise.’

‘Have you given DC Yeats their names?’

‘He hasn’t asked.’

‘Maybe you could give them to me, then. Are you still in touch?’

Shankley wrinkled his face. ‘Not since Stuart vanished. I mean, they phoned to say how sorry they were and all that.’

‘And their names...?’

‘Colin and Joe. I don’t remember their surnames.’

Clarke led him to her desk, hitting play on the DVD and fast-forwarding to the end credits.

‘Colin Speke and Joseph Madden,’ she said, reading from the screen.

‘Must be,’ he agreed.

‘They’d have been questioned during the original inquiry?’

‘I guess.’ She looked at him and he shrugged. ‘Nobody asked me about them specifically.’

‘Well I’m asking now: could Stuart have used their expertise on the job he was doing for Jackie Ness?’

Shankley furrowed his brow as if straining to remember. ‘The three of them put their heads together a few times,’ he conceded. ‘Do you think it’s important?’

‘Probably not,’ Clarke said with a reassuring smile, having realised she was talking to a civilian — and a witness at that — rather than a colleague. ‘We just need to make sure we’ve covered everything we can. You still got their phone numbers or any way of contacting them?’

‘Not really.’

‘You’re not Facebook friends with them or anything?’

Shankley shook his head, crestfallen that he was disappointing her.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ she said. From behind his desk, Yeats was staring at them. ‘Break time’s over, I think, Derek. But remember what I said about those tip-offs.’

Leith police station had no car park, so Clarke had been forced to leave her Astra next to Leith Links. She got in behind the steering wheel and took out her phone. Gayfield Square was probably a five-minute drive at most, and she’d been considering it right up until the moment she made the call. DC Christine Esson picked up straight away.

‘Hello, stranger,’ Esson said by way of greeting.

‘Are you in the office, Christine?’

‘Somehow we’re coping without you.’

‘Sorry I’ve not been in touch. It’s all been slightly hectic. Everything okay?’

‘Sat in court four hours yesterday only for the trial to be postponed. Thank God for Candy Crush.’

‘Are you busy today?’

‘What do you need?’

‘The Ellis Meikle case.’

‘What about it?’

‘Do you remember the uncle’s name?’

‘The one with the tattoos?’

‘Yes.’

‘It was Darian or Damian or something, wasn’t it?’

‘Dallas,’ Clarke stated. ‘That’s what it was.’

‘Why do you want to know?’

‘He had a record, right?’

‘He’d been in a few scraps.’

‘Would his details be on file?’

‘What’s going on, Siobhan?’

‘I’m sure it’s nothing. I just wanted a word with him.’

‘It’ll all have been archived. Want me to retrieve it?’

‘Only if you have time.’ A car had drawn up alongside Clarke’s. ‘I’ll talk to you later, Christine,’ she said, ending the call. She lowered her window; Rebus was doing the same.

‘Fancy bumping into you,’ he called out across the gap.

‘What are you doing here, John?’

‘I was just going to blag a mug of tea. How about you?’

‘I work here, remember?’

But Rebus gestured with his head towards the station. ‘In actual fact, you work over there. But for some reason you’ve had to squirrel yourself away in your car to make or take a phone call. All very mysterious.’

‘Maybe I was about to drive somewhere.’

Rebus gave a look that told her the lie was a disappointment to him.

‘Okay,’ she admitted. ‘It’s to do with the phone calls.’

‘The ones from the call box?’

‘It’s opposite a bar on Canongate called McKenzie’s. Ellis Meikle’s uncle works there.’

‘Ellis Meikle being...?’

‘A couple of months back he was found guilty of killing his girlfriend.’

Rebus nodded. ‘Teenager? Restalrig?’

‘Chaotic family life, et cetera, et cetera. Drink and drugs and hormones and jealousy.’

Rebus nodded again. ‘And now his family are hassling the lead detective? Want me to have a quiet word — or even a fairly noisy one?’

‘I’ll take care of it. Now why are you really here?’

‘Have you seen Malcolm?’

‘I had a word with him about his little chat with Brian Steele. For what it’s worth, I get the feeling Malcolm only wants to protect you.’

‘Meaning the Chuggabugs have something on me?’

‘John, every officer who ever worked with you has something on you.’

‘Fair point.’ Rebus tried for a look of contrition but failed. ‘You got any means of contacting them?’

‘You’d be wiser to steer clear.’

‘I’ve always valued your advice, Siobhan.’ He paused. ‘Do you, though?’

‘No.’

‘But Malcolm would, right?’

‘Take a telling, John, just this once.’ When he didn’t respond, she gave a deep sigh, rubbing at her temples. ‘I could really do without all this right now.’

‘Because you’ve got other fish to fry?’

‘Stuart Bloom might have had a professional arrangement with a cameraman and sound recordist who worked for Ness.’

‘Meaning what?’

‘They helped him when it came to stuff like taping conversations and filming meetings.’

‘Really?’

‘It’s what Derek Shankley says.’

‘And this was just before Stuart disappeared?’

‘I’m not sure yet. Sounds like it’s coming as a surprise to you.’

‘It is.’

‘Derek says no one on the original inquiry thought to ask.’

‘He could have volunteered the information anyway.’

‘Yes, he could. But he didn’t. I think his feelings were hurt. You had him down as one of the main suspects. Plus you were managing to intimidate any friends of his you questioned.’

‘My heart bleeds.’

‘Do you remember questioning them at all — Colin Speke and Joe Madden?’

‘Not personally. If anyone did, it’ll be in the case notes.’

‘Unless Mary Skelton or Doug Newsome got sloppy...’

‘There is that,’ Rebus conceded. ‘Speke and Madden, you’re going to talk to them?’

‘If I can find them, yes.’

‘Well, in the meantime, maybe I can cheer you up.’

She looked at him. ‘How?’

‘By telling you something you don’t know.’

‘Try me.’

‘Big Ger Cafferty put some money into that zombies film.’

‘Old news.’

‘But he also spent a day watching it being made — at Poretoun Woods. What’s more, Ness tried selling those woods to him later on.’

‘You’ve been speaking to Cafferty.’ It was statement rather than question.

‘He passes along his regards.’

‘You’d love to tie him into this, wouldn’t you?’

‘Of course.’

‘You don’t think it’ll happen, though?’

‘A man can dream, can’t he? At the very least you could pull him in for a few questions, steal an hour or two from his day. It’s new information, Siobhan.’

‘I’ll add it to the list.’

‘You sound tired. You should take a break — nice wee drive to Gayfield Square for a look at the Meikle file.’ She saw that he was smiling a teasing smile. ‘I’m good, aren’t I?’ he said. ‘And with you gone, I can have that parking space.’

17

Fox came out into the reception area.

‘What can I do for you, John?’ he asked.

‘Maybe we could go upstairs and discuss it.’ Rebus’s eyes darted to where the officer behind the desk was pretending not to be interested.

‘Best if we don’t — conflict of interest and all that.’

Rebus pretended to consider this. ‘You’re keeping busy, then? No time for any of those old episodes of Wacky Races?’

Fox glared at him and gave a theatrical sigh. ‘On you come, then.’

He led the way up the staircase. ‘The pair of you need to be very careful,’ he said. ‘Only way Siobhan could have known about my meeting with Steele is if one of the media hanging around outside decided to tell her. My guess is, there’s only one candidate who would have been able to put names to faces.’

‘Laura Smith,’ Rebus stated. Then, when Fox nodded: ‘I just need a way to get in touch with Steele and Edwards.’

‘Why?’

‘Don’t worry, Malcolm, collusion hadn’t crossed my mind. Just been a while since I spoke to them.’

‘Aye, right.’ Fox had stopped outside the MIT office. He turned to face Rebus, arms folded. Rebus made a show of peering towards the room.

‘I’m parched, if you’re offering.’

‘There’s a café round the corner.’

Rebus studied him. ‘Found anything in those files, Malcolm, anything I should be worried about?’

‘See, that’s precisely why you can’t be here.’

The door to the interview room opened, three bodies emerging: Sutherland and Reid ushering Bill Rawlston out ahead of them.

‘All right, Bill?’ Rebus asked casually. ‘Did they torture a confession out of you?’

Rawlston shook Rebus’s hand. ‘I believe the phrase is: every courtesy was extended. Have they got you up next, John?’

‘Always happy to help the police with their enquiries.’

‘Maybe once we’re done with Mr Rawlston,’ Sutherland said. ‘This is by way of a tea break. He’s not feeling quite one hundred per cent.’

‘Sorry to hear that.’

‘Just a bit of a cold.’ The look Rawlston gave Rebus indicated that he didn’t want anything said about his cancer.

‘We were headed the same way,’ Rebus commented, opening the door and gesturing for Rawlston to enter the MIT office ahead of him. ‘Might not be enough mugs, mind...’

Sutherland gave Fox a questioning look, to which Fox had no ready answer. Rebus was playing host, adding a tea bag to a mug, switching on the kettle, asking Rawlston how he took it. Derek Shankley watched for a moment before rising to his feet and heading towards the throng of suits.

‘I know you,’ he said to Rebus.

‘I questioned you,’ Rebus agreed. ‘Just the one time, I think. Obviously I made an impression.’

‘Not a great one,’ Shankley commented. ‘But at least you didn’t call me a poof to my face; you just looked like you might.’

‘Different days now, Mr Shankley. I hope you’re finding that out.’

Shankley scanned the room. ‘Maybe,’ he eventually conceded. His eyes went back to Bill Rawlston. ‘You were in charge, weren’t you? I saw you on TV.’

Rawlston nodded. Shankley moved his attention to Rebus and then back to Rawlston again.

‘So two cops from the original inquiry are right here in the middle of the new one?’

‘It’s not how it looks,’ Sutherland felt compelled to say. ‘Mr Rawlston has been helping us with background—’

‘And him?’ Shankley pointed at Rebus.

‘Well, yes...’ Sutherland turned towards Fox. ‘Why is Mr Rebus here?’

‘Don’t go blaming DI Fox,’ Rebus broke in. ‘Front desk let me past. It was actually DI Clarke I was looking to speak to — nothing to do with this inquiry. DI Fox was trying to escort me off the premises when Mr Rawlston stopped to say hello.’

‘Yet somehow,’ Sutherland said, his irritation evident, ‘here you are in MIT, making cups of tea like you own the place.’

‘Guilty as charged.’ Rebus sought out Bill Rawlston. ‘I think they want you making your own brew.’

‘Malcolm,’ Sutherland said, ‘see that Mr Rebus leaves the building, quick as his legs will carry him.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Fox said, placing a hand lightly on Rebus’s forearm.

‘I’m not being grilled today then?’ Rebus made a show of confirming. ‘Well, you know where to find me when you want me.’

He walked slowly back towards the doorway, taking in what he could. He responded to George Gamble’s sneer with a wink, and heard a snatch of the phone call Phil Yeats was having with what sounded like the forensic lab at Howdenhall.

‘No further forward with the handcuffs?’ he asked Fox in a stage whisper.

‘Don’t suppose you lost a pair back then?’

‘You know fine well, Malcolm, plenty cops hang on to at least one set.’

‘Which neatly sidesteps my question.’

They were at the top of the stairs, the door closing behind them. Rebus stopped and turned to face Fox. ‘You can thank me later,’ he said.

‘For what?’

‘Lying about the front desk.’

‘You know Sutherland will give them a roasting? And when they deny letting you in, he’ll want me to explain myself.’

‘You’ve got a bit of breathing space, though — use it wisely.’

‘By concocting a story?’

‘Or just tell him the truth — I wanted to speak to you about ACU and why they were waiting for you outside this very police station.’ Rebus paused. ‘Not sure that would go down too well with your boss, but if that’s the way you want to play it...’ He began to descend the staircase.

After a moment’s pause, Fox followed. ‘Why not just call Gartcosh, ask to be put through to the ACU office?’ he asked.

‘Would my call be logged?’

‘Probably.’

‘There’s your answer then.’

‘John, you have to realise that if you hold any kind of meeting with them, or even just speak on the phone, someone somewhere is going to wonder why.’

‘And they’ll see a conspiracy where none exists.’ Rebus shoved at the door, exiting on to the pavement, Fox following close behind. Seagulls were raucous on the chimneypots opposite.

‘The misper inquiry is riddled with holes,’ Fox was saying. ‘I’ve only had a couple of days with it and even I can see that. Tess Leighton knows, too. Notes were amended, dates and times are erroneous, officers not following up where they should, then covering their arses with more lies and half-truths. Plus, the investigation was far too cosy with the media — and not very sympathetic to Bloom’s family or his circle of friends.’

‘Human failings, Malcolm.’ The two men were facing one another on the pavement, their feet only eighteen inches apart.

‘Added to which,’ Fox ploughed on, ‘knowing their connection to Adrian Brand, your friends Steele and Edwards should never have been within fifty miles of that inquiry.’

‘Ah, but we didn’t know, not at the start.’ Rebus slid a lozenge of gum from its packet and popped it into his mouth.

‘It was up to them to come forward.’

‘They did that, didn’t they?’

‘Not nearly soon enough. Jesus, John, this isn’t rocket science.’ Fox shook his head at Rebus’s offer of gum. ‘If I can see it, so can others. They won’t all be on your side.’

‘Do what you have to do, Malcolm. We’re all grown-ups, we can deal with the consequences.’

‘You’re retired, though, John. You’ve not got as much to lose as some.’

Rebus nodded. ‘Which is why the Chuggabugs are desperate to know where you’re going with it. They’ve spent year after dirty year climbing to the giddy heights of ACU.’ He puffed out his cheeks and exhaled menthol. ‘I’d help if I could, you know that. If I had anything from back then, anything I could prove...’

‘Is that the whole truth, John?’

Rebus gave a thin smile. ‘Just keep digging, Malcolm. Maybe what you need is somewhere in those boxes, buried deep.’ He paused. ‘Now, I did say you owed me a favour.’

‘Did you?’

‘For covering your arse with Sutherland. Just Steele’s number will do. I get the feeling Edwards has yet to progress to joined-up sentences, never mind joined-up thinking.’

Fox sighed, dug out his phone and got busy on the screen. Rebus’s own phone let him know the information had been received. ‘Buy you that mug of tea?’ he asked, gesturing towards the café on the opposite corner.

‘I’d better get back in.’ Fox seemed to hesitate. ‘Is there any point in my warning you to tread carefully?’

‘I always do, Malcolm. Plenty dog shit on the pavements around here.’ Rebus gave a wave of the hand as he started walking towards his Saab.

18

Cafferty had several mobile phones on the go at any one time. He ditched numbers regularly, added and deleted accounts and providers. Same went for his email. The broadband in his duplex was extra-secure and checked fortnightly for attempted breaches. Even so, he preferred the old ways — face-to-face meetings in public places with plenty of background noise. The new technologies were fine — in many ways they had aided his various businesses — but you didn’t learn about people from them, not the way you did when your eyes drilled into theirs, your senses alive to their gestures and tics. A bead of sweat; a quickening of the breathing; a nervous sniffle; the crossing and uncrossing of legs. He had never played poker but he knew he’d be good at it. His chief fear was there would always be someone better. He would end up annoyed, and needing some sort of payback.

When one of his phones rang, he checked to see which, and knew straight away who the caller was. He had only met Conor Maloney once, a summit of sorts held at a hotel near Glasgow airport. Maloney had booked the meeting room for a whole day. The receptionist had checked on her list to confirm that Cafferty — aka Mr Coleman — was there at the correct hour. Other appointments were listed, though Cafferty had no way of knowing whether they were merely a smokescreen. All he knew was, Maloney was booked on a flight back to Dublin that same afternoon.

Cafferty lifted the phone. ‘You’re a hard man to speak to,’ he said by way of greeting.

‘I’m a hard man full stop. What can I do for you, Morris?’

No one but his mother and a few school teachers had ever called Cafferty that; he suspected Maloney knew it, and used it to try to get a reaction from him.

‘Where are you?’ he asked.

‘Now why would you want to know that?’ The accent would always retain its soft Irish lilt, but there was gravel in there too. ‘Let’s just say I’m some place that requires a cold beer, and that beer’s getting warm as we speak.’

‘Stuart Bloom has turned up.’

‘Fighting fit, I trust.’

‘Dead in his car and wearing a set of handcuffs.’

‘Handcuffs? So the boys in blue did away with him after all.’ Cafferty stayed silent. ‘Ah, come on now, Morris. Are we still playing that game? I told you twenty dozen times I had nothing to do with it.’

‘Same as I told you it wasn’t me. Doesn’t mean one of us wasn’t lying.’

‘It’s history, Morris. Leave it to the coppers.’

‘They’re dusting off the original missing person case.’

‘And the best of Irish luck to them.’

‘We both get a mention.’

‘So bloody what?’ Maloney held the phone away from his face while he spoke to someone in what sounded like French. He was back a few seconds later. ‘You and me did well to stay out of that little skirmish — end of.’

‘Do you ever hear from your old friend Sir Adrian?’

‘Not in a long time.’

‘The story’s all over the media; you know what that means.’

‘It means we keep our heads down. Easier for me than you — I hear you came out of retirement.’

‘I suppose that’s true.’

‘Hotels is where you want to be, not bars. Plenty money sloshing around.’

‘Thanks for the advice.’

‘Morris, I’m telling you, there’s nothing to worry your pretty little head over. Everyone had an alibi that night, didn’t they?’

‘An alibi used to be an easy thing to arrange.’

‘You’re right about that. Bloody phones and CCTV these days, a man never knows who’s watching him. Here, do you still use a computer?’

‘On occasion.’

‘And that advice I gave you?’

Cafferty glanced at the notebook sitting open on his desk. ‘Sticky tape over the camera, don’t worry.’

‘Can’t be too careful. And remember: the only way to ensure your phone can’t be hacked is not to have a phone in the first place. Speaking of which, they’ve almost had enough time to trace this.’

‘Who’s they?’

‘I’d be here all day if I started. Take good care of yourself, Morris. We’re none of us getting any younger.’

The phone went dead. Number withheld, naturally. It had taken Cafferty five calls to get the message out that he wanted to speak. He wondered if Maloney had changed much from the stocky, bull-necked man he’d met. The demeanour had been cheery enough — the professional Irishman bit — but the eyes had remained serious as a stroke. Despite searching online, Cafferty hadn’t found any photos of the man taken less than five years ago. When they’d met at the hotel, there’d just been the two of them, Maloney’s two ‘associates’ waiting outside with Cafferty’s own man. Then again, Cafferty’s man had been an off-duty cop, so that evened things up a bit. There had been coffee and water and some biscuits and pastries, and a quiet chat about the feud between Brand and Ness, and how choosing sides might lead to ‘awkwardness’. Wasn’t it better to call a truce of sorts and focus on cooperation — Maloney and Cafferty seeking joint ventures rather than rivalry?

‘Anything in particular?’ Maloney had asked.

‘There’s a certain organisation in Aberdeen that’s ripe to be put out to pasture...’

And Maloney had smiled, indicating that he’d known all along this was where their talk would lead.

Not that much had come of it; Aberdeen had dug in too deep, and Maloney hadn’t liked it that there’d been bad drugs sold on Cafferty’s patch, meaning increased police surveillance. Cafferty had protested that the drugs hadn’t come from any of his guys, but it had been a hard story to sell to the Irishman. Either Cafferty bore the responsibility, or else he had competition in what was supposed to be a trade he controlled.

But there had been some dealings and exchanges with Maloney down the years, the two men remaining wary, never quite able to trust one another. One thing Cafferty felt confident about was that if Maloney had sensed the private eye as a threat, he wouldn’t have blinked. And Bloom had begun to pose a threat, no doubt about that. His own reading at the time was that Bloom had been put under lock and key, maybe a safe house in Ireland — plenty of those left over from the Troubles. He’d be let go once the hint had been taken by Jackie Ness.

But no release had come.

And without a further face-to-face with Maloney, there was no way to know.

19

‘I managed to condense it to thirty sheets of A4,’ DC Christine Esson said as Clarke walked into the CID office in Gayfield Square. ‘If you want more, I’ll have to rustle everything up from storage. Mind telling me why it’s suddenly bugging you?’

The office was small, just the four desks, one of them permanently vacant. Through the door was the even smaller inner sanctum belonging to DCI James Page. Clarke turned from that door to Esson.

‘He’s in a meeting at the Big House.’

‘Which one?’

‘Fettes.’

‘I thought we’d stopped calling it that.’ Clarke picked up the large manila envelope and eased the printed sheets from it. ‘Where’s Ronnie?’

‘Called in sick.’

‘You’re home alone?’

‘And somehow still managing to survive.’

Clarke sat down at her own desk, ignoring the pile of messages waiting there for her, the files rising to half the height of her computer.

‘The last three days?’ she complained.

‘That’s what happens if you’re not here to flush it away.’

‘A lovely image, thanks, Christine.’

‘Any more flak from ACU?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘Meaning?’

Clarke looked up at her colleague. ‘I’m just going to read this lot, if that’s okay. Maybe chat later?’

Esson made a face and got back to work.

Ellis Meikle, aged seventeen, had been found guilty of the murder of his girlfriend. Her name was Kristen Halliday. They’d been an item since high school. Ellis had left at sixteen, no job, no prospects. Kristen had stayed on. Their social groups had begun to diverge. There were shouting matches, fuelled by cheap drink and whatever drugs were available.

Kristen had gone missing on a Wednesday afternoon. That night, her parents had turned up at the house Ellis shared with his mother and uncle. Kristen wasn’t answering her phone. Had Ellis seen her? He had shaken his head, seemingly irritated at being dragged from his computer game. His mother and uncle had been drinking. The uncle wanted to round up a search party. Kristen’s father said it wasn’t his call to make. Tempers had flared. Kristen’s mother wanted to phone the police. But Kristen had only been absent a few hours — nobody thought the police would be interested. They’d started ringing round her friends instead. One said that Kristen had been headed to the golf course to meet Ellis. Ellis was asked again: had he seen Kristen? Kristen’s mother had made a lurch towards him, physically restrained by Ellis’s mother, who had then been grabbed by Kristen’s father, which brought the uncle back into the melee. The neighbours, alerted by all the noise, had started to arrive.

Things calmed down and a further bottle of vodka was opened. More phone calls, friends’ doors knocked on. Just after dawn, a dog-walker had found the body on the golf course. Kristen lay in a bunker, lazily hidden beneath scooped sand, a single knife wound to her neck the cause of death. The police search team turned up the weapon sixteen hours later, in a patch of rough on a route leading from the bunker to the main road. It was an ordinary kitchen knife, four-inch blade, not particularly sharp. The wound was deep; it would have taken force, taken a certain rage.

The fingerprints on the handle were a match for Ellis Meikle. The last text received on Kristen’s phone had been from Ellis, wanting her to meet him at the golf course.

The initial interviews were handled with sensitivity — Clarke knew because she’d been in attendance at three of them. It was her case. Her and Esson and Ronnie Ogilvie. The forensics were irrefutable: Kristen’s blood on the knife and Meikle’s prints. One thing they couldn’t prove was where the knife had come from. Uncle Dallas was adamant none were missing from the kitchen in Restalrig. And how could he be so sure? Because he lived in the house, the house his brother Charles had moved out of, the house Ellis and his mother Seona shared. Charles Meikle meantime had got himself a flat in Causewayside, his daughter Billie going with him. Had the break-up been amicable? It had, mostly. No one was talking about a divorce. They’d asked the kids who wanted to stay with who, and the kids had made up their own minds. Uncle Dallas had then begun calling round, and had eventually started staying over. He slept on the sofa apparently, Billie reluctant to let him have her room, even though it was vacant.

No funny business between Seona and her brother-in-law? The one time DC Ronnie Ogilvie had raised the notion with Uncle Dallas, they’d almost had to set phasers to stun. Dallas Meikle was ex-army; diagnosed with PTSD after a spell in Afghanistan. Electricity crackled just below his surface.

‘You tried to organise a search?’ Clarke had asked him.

‘Ellis’s lass was missing, of course I did.’

‘It didn’t strike you as odd that Ellis himself seemed quite relaxed?’

‘We deal with stress in different ways — one thing I learned after the army.’ He had run a hand down the tattoos on his neck. Clarke wondered if it was a tell of some kind, but she couldn’t be sure.

The procurator fiscal’s office saw nothing complex in the case. The source of the knife wasn’t germane. The lack of blood on Ellis Meikle’s clothing and shoes just meant he’d disposed of the ones he’d been wearing.

‘He made a better job of it than he did with the knife,’ Clarke had commented in one meeting, her words met with silence.

Trial. Guilty verdict. Murder rather than culpable homicide, though the defence counsel had pushed hard for the latter, love being a kind of madness, a rash act in the heat of a heightened moment.

No youth incarceration for Ellis Meikle — straight to HM Prison Edinburgh, meaning Saughton, not far from the Hearts ground where his dad had taken him to fortnightly football games, a tradition carried on since the separation.

Seona Meikle in tears as the trial ended. Dallas in a black leather waistcoat wrapping a protective arm around her, while her husband comforted their dumbstruck daughter. Clarke had bought the drinks for her team that evening. DCI Page had added fifty quid to the pot, meaning for them to have a meal, but in the end they’d made do with nachos — and a few more rounds of drinks.

What else were they supposed to do, sit in silence, their thoughts on the Halliday family and the Meikles? Plenty more work would be waiting for them the next morning. Ellis Meikle and the other players in the drama could be filed away and forgotten.

Now, seated at her desk in Gayfield Square, Clarke wondered about that. You couldn’t let cases get to you. Yes, you had to treat everyone as a fellow human being, but you had to draw the line, not dwell on the suffering, the repercussions. You wouldn’t be able to do the job otherwise. She’d seen colleagues weep on occasion — of course she had — and she’d seen them frustrated when a result failed to materialise. But you had to move on. You had to.

But that wasn’t always what the families did.

There were copies of photos among the pages, and Clarke studied them. Ellis and Kristen together, shot with a phone at a party. Kristen sitting down to Christmas dinner with her family. Clarke remembered her parents, but had forgotten their names. Quietly distraught, shunning Dallas Meikle when he approached them outside the courtroom. More photos: the bunker, body in situ; the discarded knife; Ellis’s cramped bedroom, its walls covered in posters advertising computer games; various items of his clothing.

No blood.

He had stayed silent throughout the majority of the interviews, answering ‘yes’ when asked if he’d done it. He wouldn’t say why, wouldn’t answer any of their other questions. Christine Esson got him talking about Scottish football, but hit a wall when she tried changing the subject.

When Clarke looked up from the file, Esson herself was standing there, arms folded, a defiant look on her face.

‘Tell me,’ she demanded.

‘Ellis’s uncle has been hassling me.’

‘Hassling you how?’

‘Phone calls for one thing.’

‘What does he say?’

‘Nothing — the phone goes dead every time I answer.’

‘You sure it’s him?’

‘As near as can be. He works behind the bar at McKenzie’s. It’s across the street from the phone boxes where the calls originate.’ Clarke offered a shrug. ‘There was a car outside my flat, too. And stuff scrawled on the tenement door.’

‘Make of car? Registration?’

‘I’m a hopeless detective.’

‘And you’ve not spoken to him?’

‘I will. I just wanted to refresh my memory first.’ She picked up the paperwork and let it fall again on to the desk.

‘Families are never thrilled when you lock up their loved ones. Nephew and uncle were pretty close, as I recall.’

‘The trial ended two months ago, though. Why’s it taken him so long?’

‘He’s been festering?’ Esson offered. ‘Why did you give him your phone number?’

‘I’m pretty sure I didn’t.’

‘You gave it to Seona, then?’

Clarke was shaking her head. ‘I don’t think so. More than likely I handed a card to Kristen’s parents, but I can’t see them passing it on to Ellis’s uncle.’

‘Probably not,’ Esson agreed. ‘Want me to come with you?’

‘To see Dallas Meikle?’ Clarke shook her head again. ‘I think I can handle it.’

‘Doesn’t he have certain anger management issues?’

‘I can handle it,’ Clarke repeated with a little more force. ‘Thanks for this, though.’ She pressed a hand against the paperwork.

‘At least it’s a break from the body in the woods, eh?’

‘Definitely,’ Clarke agreed, hoping she sounded more confident than she felt.

‘You don’t need to go see him, you know. You could just report it.’

‘I could.’

‘But you’d rather do it all by yourself? That’s a bad habit you’ve picked up, Siobhan — almost as if your old sparring partner is still at your shoulder.’

‘John’s been retired a long time, Christine.’

‘So how come I still feel his presence?’ Esson’s eyes were drilling into Clarke’s. ‘How long since you last saw him?’ she enquired.

Clarke thought for a moment, then checked her wristwatch.

‘Thought so,’ Esson said, returning to her desk with a weary shake of her head.

20

Harthill service station, just off the M8, almost equidistant between Edinburgh and Glasgow. Only time Rebus had used it was when visiting the nearby Shotts prison. He stayed on the access road, ignoring the petrol pumps and parking bays, and pulled in behind the black Audi. As he got out, he could hear the motorway traffic. There was an artic parked up not far away, its driver checking the tyres. Rebus stood beside the Audi. Steele was in the driver’s seat, Edwards in the rear. They obviously wanted Rebus in the passenger seat but he slid in next to Edwards instead. That way he could keep an eye on both ACU officers.

‘Relax, John,’ Steele told him, ‘this isn’t Goodfellas.’ His window had been lowered a couple of inches so he could flick ash from his cigarette out of it.

‘It’s been a while, Brian.’

‘Thought we’d leave you in peace, now you’re retired.’ Steele met Rebus’s eyes in the rear-view mirror. ‘At least, I thought you’d retired. But you seem to hang around like the same bad smell.’

‘Speaking of which, any chance of lowering that window a bit more?’

‘You given up the coffin nails, John? Grant told me you had but I found it hard to believe.’

Out of the corner of his eye, Rebus saw that Edwards was smiling, not that that meant anything. Meantime, to make a point, Steele closed the window and kept smoking.

‘I’ve got to ask,’ Rebus said. ‘When they culled CCU and rebranded it, how did you two manage to survive?’

‘Aye, it was an ugly time,’ Steele responded. ‘All the complaints against CCU were made anonymously. Anonymously, John. Cowardly bastards wouldn’t even put their heads above the parapet. Cops grassing up cops is ugly. We’re supposed to be kin.’

‘You didn’t maybe join in, just to save your skins?’

Steele gave the slightest of snorts. ‘Think what you want to think, John. All that matters is we’re still standing.’

‘You’re quoting Elton John at me?’

‘Thought it was apt — I hear Deborah Quant calls your prick “Tiny Dancer”.’

There was a wheeze of laughter from Edwards. Rebus turned his head to face him. ‘The only wee dancer around here is that brain cell of yours, birling around with no one to partner it.’

In the silence that followed, Rebus stuck a piece of gum in his mouth and started chewing, while Edwards just glowered.

‘Bit of a surprise,’ Steele eventually said, ‘Stuart Bloom turning up like that.’

‘Makes me wonder why he did,’ Rebus replied. ‘I mean, why now? The boffins don’t think he was in that gully all those years, meaning at some point he was moved there.’

‘Aye, that got us thinking, too.’

‘I’m sure Grant here put the full force of his intellect into it.’ Rebus glanced towards Edwards again.

‘So what have you told them at MIT, John?’ Steele asked, flicking ash into an empty cigarette packet. ‘I assume that’s why you wanted to meet.’

‘I’ve told them precisely nothing they didn’t already know. For example, I’ve not mentioned your little jaunt playing bodyguard to Big Ger Cafferty.’

‘I wasn’t sure you knew about that. It was in my own time, if that matters at all.’

‘Well remunerated, I’m sure. And he wanted you for your unique talents, I dare say, rather than so he could pump you for any gossip on Adrian Brand.’

‘Mr Brand’s name never came up.’

‘But that’s how he knew about you in the first place, the Brand connection?’

‘None of this has anything to do with the Bloom case. I might as easily ask you about Cafferty; the two of you were pretty snug for a while. In fact, I hear you still see him, despite him never being far from Serious Crime’s attention.’ Steele turned his head to look at Rebus. ‘You wouldn’t have loaned him a pair of handcuffs, would you?’

‘I was CID at the time, Brian; handcuffs were mostly used by uniforms, which is what both of you were.’ Rebus watched as Steele reached into the glove box, pulling out a pair of old-fashioned metal cuffs.

‘Still come in useful,’ Steele said, trying to pass them to Rebus. Rebus kept his hands by his sides, and Steele laughed. ‘You’re scared I want your prints on them — we’ve gone from Mafia flick to conspiracy thriller. In fact, you might well have a point there — doesn’t it strike you as a bit OTT? Not just the cuffs, but putting them round the ankles? It’s like we’re all supposed to take route one to the goal mouth — cops did it, and cops will take the fall. Me and Grant here, you and your boss Bill Rawlston. Not to mention Skelton, Newsome and the rest.

‘But here’s the thing, John.’ He stubbed out his cigarette and twisted further in his seat so he was facing Rebus as directly as possible without doing himself an injury. ‘Me and Grant, we always had that reputation, didn’t we? Sailing a bit close to the wind. Skelton and Newsome were inept but not really players. Rawlston was lazy, just wanted a result he knew he wasn’t going to get. As the weeks passed, it was all the same old ground being covered again. But you, John, well, you had a bit of a reputation, too. You’d worked some dirty cases, in Edinburgh and Glasgow both. That’s how you got friendly with DI Alex Shankley, the father who didn’t exactly agree with his son’s sexuality, and wasn’t keen on that son’s partner being a private eye. All kinds of tensions there that were never explored because you kept putting up the barricades, all for the sake of your pal in Glasgow.’ Steele paused. ‘The same pal who probably kept you in the loop when Cafferty had that meeting with Conor Maloney. Think any of that’ll stay unmentioned this time round? Think those tip-offs about raids on Rogues won’t piss off your old comrades when they learn they came from you? Me and Grant here were on one or two of those raids, you know. You were setting us up to fall on our arses.’

‘Is this ACU I’m talking to, or just two bent cops?’

‘All I’m saying is, none of us has anything to gain by any of this getting out. I fully expect that Grant and me will end up at MIT, telling our side of the story. There are things we could tell, if we felt it was going badly for us. There’d maybe be a few good names and pensions lost along the way, even a prosecution or two. All those reports Newsome typed up of interviews that didn’t actually happen... We might even find out who it was Mary Skelton was shagging. She died, by the way, three years back. You and her were pretty close, weren’t you?’

‘Not nearly close enough for an affair.’

‘Maybe just a one-nighter, eh?’ Steele returned to his original position, eyes on the rear-view. ‘Then there’s our old boss Rawlston — I hear he’s not keeping well. Last thing he needs is to have all this dragged up again.’

‘He’s already been interviewed.’

‘Doesn’t mean they won’t want to talk to him again. All those mistakes he presided over, all those cops under him who weren’t doing their jobs.’ Steele paused once more. ‘I’ve always been the observant type. Grant, too. People underestimate him because he doesn’t say much, but he sees and hears plenty.’

Rebus watched Edwards nod his agreement.

‘We’ve worked our way up, John,’ Steele went on. ‘Took a long time to get to ACU. Not too many more years and we’ll be getting those pensions and heading off elsewhere. That’s something we’ll do our utmost to protect. Seems to me everyone who worked the case has something they want to keep safe or hidden. So tell me something, John — and I promise it won’t go further than this car.’

‘What?’

‘Did you help Alex Shankley kill his son’s boyfriend, or was it all his own work?’

‘You’ll have to do better than that, Steele.’ Rebus pushed open the rear door and stepped out, leaning back into the car again. ‘The most likely candidates haven’t changed. I suspected it then and I’m thinking it now. In fact, I’m looking right at them.’

He slammed the door closed and stalked back to his Saab. He had almost reached it when he heard footsteps behind him. Edwards spun him round, slamming him into the Saab’s bodywork, holding him there by his lapels while Steele took his own sweet time arriving. Rebus tried wrestling his way free, but the smiling grizzly was always going to win that bout. When he tried bringing his knee up into Edwards’s groin, Edwards was prepared, twisting so Rebus connected with his upper thigh, then pressing his bulk harder against Rebus, until breathing became difficult. The driver of the articulated lorry leaned out of his window and called across to them; Steele brandished his warrant card and waved away the complaint. Something was hanging from his other hand. The handcuffs, Rebus realised. One of them snapped around his left wrist.

‘No...’ he started to say, but too late. The other had been attached to the Saab’s door handle.

‘It’s easy to hang on to old sets of cuffs,’ Steele said. ‘Problem is, the key’s so fucking small you end up losing it.’ His mouth was close to Rebus’s left ear. ‘You and your lot never had any time for us, back when we were in uniform. I heard the things you said, saw the gestures you made when you thought our backs were turned. I’ve never forgotten that. Never...’

Flecks of spittle hit Rebus’s ear. Steele’s leather heels ground against the asphalt as he turned and began to walk back to the Audi, Edwards following with a smirk. Rebus aimed a kick at his retreating leg but missed, swiping at air. He watched as the Audi headed off slowly in the direction of the carriageway. Waited a few minutes, in case it returned. Studied the ground, but Steele hadn’t left the key there. The lorry driver was leaving too, without so much as a look in Rebus’s direction. The metal was cutting into Rebus’s wrist. He tried squeezing but was never going to spring himself that way. Instead, he lifted his phone from his pocket and eventually found the number he needed. Pressed the phone to his ear and listened as it was answered.

‘Alex,’ he said, ‘I need a bit of a favour...’

After Alex Shankley had freed him, the two men headed into the cafeteria, bought a pot of tea and a couple of caramel wafers and found a table by the window.

‘Lucky the key fitted,’ Shankley said.

‘Don’t you remember? Same key fitted most models.’ Rebus rubbed at his reddened wrist. He had pocketed the cuffs.

‘Why did they do it?’

‘Steele and Edwards?’ Rebus shook his head. ‘You don’t want to know.’

‘Maybe I do, though. Is it tied to Stuart Bloom?’

‘Sort of. Have you heard anything about the body?’

‘Such as?’

‘The ankles?’ Rebus watched Shankley nod.

‘It was mentioned at the interview. I notice it’s not public knowledge.’

‘Despite which, seems every bugger knows.’ Rebus paused. ‘Steele reckons you and me did it.’

‘You and me?’

‘He’s got it into his head that we might have killed Bloom.’

‘Steele’s the one I warned you about? The one at the meeting between Cafferty and Maloney?’

‘That’s him.’

‘He sounds like a shitbag.’

‘No argument here.’ Rebus slurped at his tea. ‘You didn’t, though, did you?’

‘I didn’t like the lad, John, but that’s as far as it went. Christ, it was bad enough when Derek came out as gay. Looking back, I can see the guts that took, but you know yourself, cops weren’t quite as touchy-feely back then. I knew I’d take some stick, and that was the problem right there — it was me I was thinking of rather than Derek. Even so, it’s one thing when your son tells you he’s gay, but when you see them holding hands, a peck on the cheek...’ Shankley took a deep breath and released it. ‘I wasn’t comfortable, John, not at all comfortable. Then when Stuart turned out to be a private investigator...’

‘You got more stick.’

‘Boss had a few sharp words — if he got wind that I’d ever leaked anything to Stuart...’ Shankley made show of running a finger across his throat.

‘You never did, though,’ Rebus stated.

‘I never did,’ Shankley confirmed.

‘Apart from the occasional warnings about Rogues, obviously.’

‘Those were to Derek rather than Stuart.’

Rebus tilted his head in a show of agreement. ‘Derek’s going to be back under the microscope again — our lot and the media. Think he’ll handle it okay?’

Shankley gave a confident nod. ‘He’s stronger these days — and he wants whoever did it caught. That’s how I know he’s got nothing to hide. For years he’s mulled over what could have happened.’

‘You’re certain he doesn’t know?’

‘Same names keep coming up.’

‘Brand and Ness?’

‘I almost got tired of hearing them.’ Shankley looked at Rebus. ‘He didn’t have anything good to say about the investigation either.’

‘Our bedside manner could have been better,’ Rebus agreed. ‘Having said which, you know yourself that we had to treat him as a suspect as well as a witness.’

‘And now?’

‘I don’t sense any pointing of fingers.’

‘Will you get into trouble, John?’

‘Why should I?’

‘Telling me about those raids; buying drinks for reporters so they’d lay off Derek...’

‘All part of the service, Alex.’

‘Will it come to light, though?’

‘I doubt Police Scotland will want to make anything of it. They’ve got plenty wildfires they’re busy fighting.’

‘Seems the wrong word or look gets you accused of bullying. Wouldn’t have happened in our day, John.’

‘Might have been better if it had,’ Rebus said ruefully, draining his cup.

21

The team briefing took place in the MIT room, Bill Rawlston and Derek Shankley both on their way home. Reid, Gamble, Leighton, Yeats and Crowther were seated. Clarke, having just made her report, was standing in front of Graham Sutherland’s desk. Fox had slipped into the room and positioned himself just inside the door.

Sutherland was digesting what Clarke had just told them.

‘Do we know the whereabouts of Madden and Speke?’ he asked.

‘If they’re still working, it shouldn’t be difficult,’ Clarke said. ‘Place to start would be Jackie Ness.’

‘Except then we’d be tipping him off,’ Callum Reid cautioned. Clarke noticed that he had been busy with his wall and whiteboard: thumbnail crime-scene photos added to the map; more details of players in the drama; even a small copy of the promotional poster for Zombies v Bravehearts. Now that the civilians had left, photos of the handcuffs had been brought out of hiding. Phil Yeats had circulated the list of names he’d compiled with Derek Shankley’s help. It was lengthy and incomplete, and would tie up Yeats and maybe even Gamble for the next day or two. Fox and Leighton meantime had made progress with the case files without having much to add by way of new information or supposition. Madden and Speke, however, were new information, which was why Clarke sensed their boss was excited by it. The long working day was drawing to a close with too little otherwise to show for it.

‘I want you to run with this, Siobhan’ he announced. ‘Emily can help. Find them and talk to them.’ He turned towards Tess Leighton. ‘They don’t feature at all in the original inquiry?’

Leighton checked with Fox before shaking her head.

‘One more screw-up to add to the growing list.’ Sutherland rubbed his eyes.

‘Any further news on the car or the handcuffs?’ Fox asked from the back of the room.

‘Hopefully tomorrow.’ Sutherland checked the time on his phone. ‘Let’s give it another half-hour before calling it a day. If anyone wants to stay later, that’s fine, too. But tired minds aren’t much use to me, so make sure you take breaks as necessary. I’ll be heading to the same pub as before. There’ll be a drink behind the bar for each of you.’ He picked up his phone and placed a call. ‘But before all that, I’d better update DCS Mollison. He’s planned a press conference in the morning, and an email update to go to media outlets tonight.’ Pressing the phone to his ear, he turned away from the room, which was their cue to get back to work. Tess Leighton wandered over to the door and opened it, Fox following.

‘She’s taking the babysitting role seriously,’ Crowther whispered to Clarke.

‘More to it than that, you think?’

‘I’d say he’s her type.’

‘And what type does Tess go for usually?’

‘Sentient,’ Crowther answered with a smile.

Clarke stayed for just the one drink with the team. Whenever cops got together, it was the usual slew of stories and anecdotes about stupid criminals, ineffective fiscals, cases won and lost. Then there were their fellow officers, the daft ones, the savvy ones, the ones who’d got locked out of their cars or inside a cell. Clarke kept the smile pinned to her face. She didn’t mind really; such stories signalled their shared past and cemented their current status as a group, a gang. Fox told his fair share, and they accepted that he’d earned his place. Clarke wondered if Leighton had maybe dropped a hint to the others: he’s okay, we can trust him. She definitely seemed to have relaxed around Fox, even leaning in towards his ear now and again to tell him something. They remonstrated when Clarke said she had to go. George Gamble was readying to get another round in.

‘You’ll be witnessing history, Siobhan,’ Emily Crowther teased. ‘George’s wallet probably needs WD-40, it opens so seldom.’

‘Just for that, I’m only getting you a half,’ Gamble retorted.

But Clarke was already on her feet, sliding her arms into her coat. ‘Please,’ she said, ‘nobody get breathalysed. If you need a designated driver, Malcolm’s your man...’

Fox was starting to remonstrate as Clarke left the pub. She walked back to her car and drove up Leith Walk, stopping and heading into an Italian restaurant just around the corner from Gayfield Square. Some stage musical was playing later at the Playhouse across the street and the place was busy, but the staff knew her and found the quietest table they could. She checked her phone while she ate: texts and emails, social media and news. She was trying to remember when she’d last read a book; time was, she’d have carried one with her. These days she was as likely to read them on a screen.

She paid up and got back in her car, continuing up the slope. The diversion was still in place as work continued on flattening the St James Centre and the offices around it. She remembered when it had been a shopping destination. Clothes and gifts and CDs. But she didn’t recall a bookshop. As she crossed North Bridge, she looked to her right, admiring the view towards Castle Rock, illuminated against the night sky. Turning left at the lights, she was on Canongate and considering her options. It wasn’t too cold out there, and parked cars were thin on the ground, meaning she might stand out if she stayed in the car. So she turned into a side street and found a space.

She had her phone in her hand as she walked past the two empty phone boxes. Twenty paces on, she paused to study a shop window. Then she crossed the road and passed McKenzie’s, keeping on until she had reached the junction. Across the road and back down towards the phone boxes. It suddenly struck her: he might not even be working tonight. She could go in and see, but that might entail being recognised and scaring him off. So she ambled to the same shop window, then across the road and past the pub once more. Not too cold out? Had she really thought that? The chill was finding chinks in her armour at neck and wrist and ankle. Her breath clouded the air in front of her as she walked. A few more minutes and she would resort to plan B: her parked car.

She was crossing at the lights again when she saw a figure emerge from McKenzie’s, making for the call boxes. She had her own phone in her hand as she picked up the pace. She was making as if to pass the figure in the first box when her phone vibrated. She placed it against the glass, causing him to turn his head towards her. It was Dallas Meikle, tattoos and all. He looked startled for a moment before regaining his equilibrium, replacing the receiver in its cradle and pushing open the door.

‘Something you wanted to talk to me about, Mr Meikle?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Stalking is a criminal offence, if you didn’t know. Stalking a police officer can get you in even more trouble.’

‘I was just calling a mate.’ His eyes were everywhere but on hers.

‘I just filmed you making that call,’ she improvised. ‘It went straight to my phone. I’ve got logs of all the other times, too. Well over a dozen of them, all made while you were working your shift. Then there are your visits to my flat, the graffiti on my door — your car was caught on CCTV.’ She watched him accept the lie. ‘No way you’re not going to court,’ she stressed.

Suddenly his eyes met hers. There was a fire in them. ‘So how come you’re not arresting me?’

‘Maybe because I know who you are, which means I think you’re hurting.’

‘Hurt? You don’t know the first thing about it.’

‘This is because of Ellis, yes?’

‘It’s because you put a young kid in Saughton! Christ knows how he’ll survive!’

‘I wasn’t the only detective who worked that case.’

‘You’re the one I remember, though. It was always your name in the papers.’

‘Doesn’t explain how you got your hands on my number.’

A humourless grin spread across Dallas Meikle’s face. ‘Maybe you’re not as well-liked as you think, even among your own kind.’

Suddenly Clarke knew. ‘A couple of ACU officers called Steele and Edwards?’

Who had just failed to get the result they wanted, and needed to feel they’d come away with something, no matter how petty.

‘Phone number and address — I see you wiped the door clean.’ The grin was still in place. ‘Might need another visit.’

‘Just try it.’ The grin slipped slowly from Meikle’s face. ‘What did you hope to gain?’ Clarke asked into the silence.

He considered for a moment before answering. ‘I watched you lot in court. I saw what goes on behind the scenes. Little chats with the lawyers, because it’s just a job to you. Going through the motions with a tidy salary at the end of each month and fuck the consequences. Ellis is a good kid; you treated him like he was something you’d stepped in.’

‘I don’t agree with that. Besides which, he confessed.’

Meikle was shaking his head. ‘He told you he did it, but that’s not the same thing. He couldn’t lie to me when I asked him, so he just said nothing.’

‘The evidence was put to the jury...’

‘Fuck all of them, too. Let me tell you what they saw — they saw a kid from a broken home, no job and no college degree. They saw the picture your fiscal painted for them. They didn’t see Ellis.’ He seemed to be studying her, as if seeing her for the first time. ‘I’m not saying you didn’t do your job, any of you — I’m saying that was all you did.’

They were silent for a few moments. ‘So what happens now?’ Clarke asked. ‘Do I have to change my phone number and move house?’

‘Tell me this, do you ever give them a minute’s thought, Ellis and all the others you’ve put inside?’

‘It’s not really...’ Clarke broke off. ‘Maybe not as much as I could,’ she conceded.

He took this in, nodding slowly, looking her up and down, his face softening. ‘I really don’t think he stands a chance in there, and I’m positive he didn’t do it.’

Clarke had heard the words so many times from loved ones, friends, colleagues. She nodded slowly as an idea formed. ‘Say I got someone to take another look — a fresh pair of eyes. Just to convince you we played fair.’

‘But I don’t think you did play fair, Inspector.’

She held up a finger. ‘But if someone took another look...’

‘What?’

‘Would you go on the record with those names, the ones who gave you my number?’

‘I suppose I might.’

‘That’s not quite good enough.’

He fixed her with a look. ‘I’ll have to think.’

‘You do that — while I think about having you arrested.’

His mouth twitched. ‘All right then, yes, as long as you convince me you’ve been thorough.’

‘And meantime you’ll stop the calls and visits and I won’t press charges.’

She was waiting for him to nod his head in agreement, so he did, and when he looked down, he saw that her hand was waiting for him. He took it and shook, slow to release his grip.

‘How do I know I can trust you?’

‘You don’t,’ she answered, wresting her fingers free.

22

Rebus was in his kitchen when the call came: Bill Rawlston.

‘Hiya, Bill,’ he said, answering. ‘How did the rest of the interview go?’

‘Nothing I wasn’t expecting.’

‘Is that you done, do you think?’

‘Unless you’ve heard anything to the contrary.’

‘Maybe if you got your doctor to have a word, they wouldn’t bother you any further.’

‘I don’t want anyone’s pity, John. Sutherland phrased it perfectly — a result after all these years would taste all the sweeter.’

‘He’s got a way with words.’

‘So you’ve nothing new to tell me?’

Rebus had placed the handcuffs on the worktop in front of him. He pushed them around with a finger as he spoke. ‘Not really, Bill. It’s been one of those days where not much happens.’

Apart from Cafferty, Poretoun Woods, house and village, Steele and Edwards, Alex Shankley...

‘Well, keep me posted, eh?’

‘Will do, Bill. And look after yourself.’

He ended the call only for another to replace it.

‘Not interrupting anything?’ Clarke asked him.

‘Just my dinner.’

‘Cordon bleu, I don’t doubt.’

‘Does microwaved stovies count?’

‘Probably not.’

‘Even with the addition of a coulis of brown sauce?’

‘Listen, John, you’ve got cold case experience...’

‘I’ve worked a few.’

‘If I got you to do some digging on one that’s still fairly fresh, it might give us some leverage with Steele and Edwards.’

‘How?’

‘They’re the ones who gave my number to Ellis Meikle’s uncle. My number and my home address.’

‘No end to the spite in those bastards, is there?’

‘They might end up getting their jotters if we make this work.’

‘And all I have to do is take a look at the Meikle case.’

‘Better still if you prove we put an innocent young man away.’

‘Doesn’t seem to me that would play too well for you. Funny thing is, when I read about how the uncle tried to start a search party, know what went through my mind?’

‘What?’

‘That’s who did it — the uncle.’

‘Bit odd that he’d want the case looked at again, if that were true.’

‘I suppose. Then again, isn’t he a short-fuse merchant? Could be he’s not thinking straight.’

‘He blames PTSD for the short fuse.’

‘And Steele and Edwards gave Mr PTSD your address?’

‘Yes.’

‘He came to see you?’

‘He scoped the place out, put up some graffiti so the neighbours would know they had a farmyard animal in the vicinity.’

‘Bastard needs a kicking.’

‘Maybe back in your day.’

‘Don’t piss about, Siobhan — you know how these things work. They always escalate.’ He paused. ‘Why don’t you want to report it?’

‘How do you think they’ve survived in ACU, John? They hear every rumour and bit of dirt...’

Rebus lifted the handcuffs, clutching them in his free hand. ‘Meaning whoever you took it to, Steele would most likely have something on them?’

‘It has to be more than my word against theirs. I need Dallas Meikle to tell his story.’

‘And for that to happen, I have to take a look at the nephew’s case?’ Rebus thought for a moment. ‘He really reckons the kid’s innocent?’

‘Seems that way.’

‘He thinks or he knows? Is there something he’s not telling you?’

‘I don’t know.’ He listened to the pause as she considered this. ‘Maybe,’ she eventually conceded.

‘We should take him out of the game, Shiv. He sounds dangerous.’

‘I can handle him.’

‘Got a taser tucked under your pillow?’

‘Pepper spray,’ she corrected him.

‘Might help explain your love life.’

‘Will you do it, John?’

‘Of course I will. But if I don’t get anywhere...?’

‘Then we won’t have much choice, will we?’

‘You mean we’ll take Uncle Dallas out of the game?’

‘Exactly.’

‘I’ll get started in the morning then.’

‘Will it mean juggling your diary?’

‘Don’t worry about it. Just you concentrate on finding who killed Stuart Bloom.’

‘Enjoy your stovies, John. I hope there’s a helping left over for Brillo.’

‘Night, Siobhan. And keep your hand on that pepper spray.’