In a House of Lies

23

Clarke and Crowther chose to work through the weekend, with the promise of at least one day’s rest the following week. Not that they achieved very much, since both Joseph Madden and Colin Speke were out of the country, Madden finishing work on a TV documentary in Italy and Speke holidaying in Corfu. They’d be back by Tuesday, and both were based in Glasgow.

‘That’ll be our Tuesday evening then,’ Clarke told her colleague.

‘Oh, the glamour.’

With the office quiet — Callum Reid the only other masochist — they drank a lot of coffee and ate too many filled baguettes and chocolate digestives. Sutherland had a nephew’s wedding in Dingwall, but phoned and texted half a dozen times both days for updates. Clarke, too, was keen for updates of her own. Christine Esson and Ronnie Ogilvie, the latter back from sick leave, had dropped off the Meikle case files at Rebus’s flat. She’d told them everything — well, almost everything — and they’d been keen to help.

‘Fair warning,’ she’d told them. ‘Could get you into trouble.’

But they’d insisted. ‘If anyone asks,’ Esson had joked, ‘we’ll pin the blame on you.’

‘You better,’ Clarke had replied in all seriousness.

Rebus had then phoned to say he’d commenced digging. ‘Though half the stuff is on memory sticks — whatever happened to paper, ink and cassette tape?’

‘Give us time, it’ll all be kept in the Cloud, whatever that is. Good luck, John.’

‘I should be thanking you — when you get to my age, the brain needs a bit of a workout...’

It had taken four messages from her before he’d told her to stop bugging him.

When I know, you’ll know.

So she waited. Neither the soil expert nor the forensic lab was working a weekend shift. Crowther kept talking about what she’d do with her free Monday. Laundry and shopping, maybe a film or drinks with pals.

‘How about you?’

‘Much the same.’ Clarke was trying to remember the last time she’d been to the cinema. The latest Star Wars instalment at the end of the previous year? Her phone pinged: incoming text. It was Fox, wondering how everything was going.

Personally or professionally? she texted back, though she already knew the answer.

I keep waiting for your boss to tell me I’m done and can go back to Gartcosh.

Clarke got busy on her screen: Not his call, though, your boss’s, no? If you want to hang with us, tell your boss there’s more to find.

There probably IS more to find. I’m just not sure I want to find it.

It’s the weekend, Malcolm. Try to relax.

Buy you dinner?

Not this weekend. Thanks for the thought. Why not ask Tess?

Maybe I will. You off Monday?

Feet well and truly up.

Which was a lie. She knew precisely what she’d be doing with her day off.

She’d be working.

Sunday late afternoon in Restalrig. Rebus didn’t know this part of town well. He found the Meikle house easily enough, though, and the unloved park where the local teens hung out, when they weren’t trying to procure cigarettes and booze from the grocer’s nearby. Charles Meikle, Ellis’s dad, had piqued Rebus’s interest. Nobody had given him too much thought. He’d split up with his wife after a series of escalating arguments, arguments that had got physical, with Seona seeming to give back almost as good as she got — no police involved, no thought of pressing charges. He’d found himself a flat in Causewayside, his daughter Billie opting to go live with him. Meantime, Charles’s brother Dallas, who had often had to keep the peace when things flared up between husband and wife — and between father and son — had moved into the family home.

From photos, Charles had got the looks and Dallas the muscles. Ex-army, PTSD — Rebus knew a bit about both, though he’d served in Northern Ireland in the days before PTSD was a thing the forces recognised. He’d lain awake plenty nights in the barracks, though, listening to the nightmares his fellow squaddies were suffering, knowing those same dreams might well be waiting for him if he allowed himself to relax. Coiled springs, the whole lot of them, overwound mechanisms constantly on the very edge of snapping. So yes, he reckoned he knew what Dallas Meikle was capable of — but what about his brother? They had evidence from the wife that Charles wasn’t above raising his hand to his son, though never his daughter. In a city of short tempers, Restalrig made for a pretty good proving ground.

Rebus had stepped past a posse of kids and their bikes to get into the grocer’s, where he bought more gum and tried to ask a few questions that weren’t too obvious. The kids outside were just about to enter their teens. One or two of them had probably already driven a stolen car or trail bike at speed. It had become both sport and rite of passage in Edinburgh’s poorer enclaves. You stole keys from a house and went for a drive, blood pumping. When you got bored or ran out of petrol, you wrote the car off or dumped the bike. Job done till tedium set in again.

Once upon a time, Cafferty and his men would have come along looking to recruit. They would cherry-pick the best, the sharpest, the most agile. These foot soldiers would transport drugs, learning the trade until they could afford to buy the cars and bikes they’d previously stolen. For all Rebus knew, it still worked that way. With Darryl Christie in jail, his network gone, there was no way of knowing how much Cafferty had taken over. Fox’s lot at Serious Crimes didn’t know, but then they were based half the country away. Police Scotland’s process of centralisation meant a lot of local information-gathering either didn’t happen or went ignored.

There were more bikes in the play park, and two kids kicking around a glass bottle that would shatter eventually. Seona Meikle’s house was part of a terrace that had been given a facelift: freshly harled walls and new door and windows. Not too many keen gardeners, though, and a dumped car with four flat tyres and a notice on it that said POLICE AWARE. Rebus smiled at that. Back in the day, there would have been a beat cop who would have known every face, able to put a name to each. Not these days, not outside the Oor Wullie cartoon in the Sunday Post Rebus had just bought at the shop. The car being washed outside Seona Meikle’s house looked nearly new. Rebus recognised the man soaping it. He walked over and gave a nod of greeting.

‘All right?’ Dallas Meikle responded.

‘Nice car.’

‘My brother’s a mechanic — he’d give me pelters if I didn’t treat it right.’

‘That’ll be your brother Charles? The one who used to live here?’ Rebus watched for a reaction. There was a slight tensing of the forearms, but nothing else. ‘My name’s John Rebus,’ he went on. I used to be CID. I’m giving DI Clarke a hand.’

‘Oh aye?’ Meikle was dressed in a white vest and oily denims.

‘You like the odd tattoo then,’ Rebus commented. ‘Did you start when you were a soldier? I was army myself — never could stand needles, though.’

‘This us forming a bond?’ Meikle asked, pausing in his work. ‘Old troopers together? I met more arseholes than amigos in my time in the forces.’

‘I’ve no interest in us becoming pals,’ Rebus shot back. ‘You tried putting the frighteners on a good friend of mine. I had my way, you’d be facing a doing followed by a good long bit of jail time. Only thing you’d be soaping then would be your cellmate’s hairy arse.’

‘That right?’

‘The bastards who gave you her number and address are just that — bastards. But they’re clever with it. Tried huckling her, and when they got nowhere, they turned to you. Didn’t really matter to them whether you just gave her a scare or a thumping. They knew damned well you’d do something.’

‘This you telling me to back off? Bit late for that.’

‘It’s me telling you that I’m the one looking at Ellis’s trial. If you want to have a go at anyone, I’m the one you want.’

Meikle was squeezing foamy water from the grey sponge. He gave a thin smile. ‘Bet you thought you were a bit tasty back in the day, eh, old-timer? Nowadays I’d have you on the canvas before you could blink.’

‘Try me.’ Rebus pulled back his shoulders. ‘I’ll tear your head from your shoulders and use it to sponge off that graffiti you wrote.’

Meikle seemed to make up his mind, ignoring Rebus as he tossed the sponge back into the bucket. ‘Ellis did this, you know,’ he said. ‘Cleaned the car, I mean. I’d give him a couple of quid. He’d save up to buy stuff for his computer. Time he spent on shoot-’em-ups, I was worried he might enlist.’ He turned towards Rebus. ‘Clarke told you what I think?’

‘You don’t think he did it, despite all those violent video games.’

Meikle gave a snort. ‘Defence lawyer used that in her summing-up: a young man made momentarily violent by a world of violence. She mentioned me and my PTSD, Ellis’s dad and his outbursts, even Seona, for standing up for herself. She was looking for a culpable homicide verdict, but the judge had other ideas.’

‘Say for the sake of argument Ellis didn’t do it, who else would you be looking at?’

Meikle stared at Rebus. ‘Well, me, obviously — seems everyone thinks that’s why I wanted to head the search party, so I could lead them anywhere but the right direction.’

‘And why did you?’

‘I can organise; I can get things started. Kristen’s family were happy to wait for your lot to do something. Fuck that.’

‘How did Ellis’s prints get on the knife?’

‘Maybe it was his knife; or he found it and tossed it.’

‘Or he was there,’ Rebus added. ‘And he at least played a role.’

Dallas was shaking his head as the door behind him opened and Seona Meikle stepped out.

‘Who’s this?’ she called, her voice hoarse, a cigarette dangling from her fingers. Dyed blonde hair and too much make-up around the eyes; knee-length dress slightly too tight at the stomach.

‘Nobody,’ Dallas told her. ‘He just drinks in McKenzie’s.’

‘You wanting a coffee or anything?’

‘I’m nearly finished, and this bawheid’s just leaving.’ He lifted the pail and poured its contents over the bonnet of the car. ‘I’m not as good at this as Ellis,’ he told Rebus. ‘Sorry I splashed your shoes.’

Rebus looked down at them, then back up at Meikle. ‘Anything you think I should know?’

Meikle shrugged. ‘Something happened at that bunker. Maybe Ellis was there and maybe he wasn’t. Look a bit closer at Kristen and her family.’ He took a step towards Rebus, the pail hanging from one hand. ‘When they came to the house... well, what parent wouldn’t want a search party? Your kid goes missing, you do anything and everything, no?’

Rebus found himself nodding.

‘Something’s not right. All the way through the trial, I could feel it.’

‘I’m in the middle of going through the transcripts,’ Rebus said.

‘No you’re not — you’re pissing about in Restalrig, getting right up my fucking nose.’ Dallas began to walk back towards the house. Watching him retreat, Rebus lifted his foot and scraped some dirt from the sole on to the nearest gleaming chrome wheel rim. Then decided to continue his tour.

He checked no one had been at his Saab. Not that he thought it an obvious target: too old and unglamorous. He was chewing a fresh piece of gum as he headed to the park. Some people he’d passed — walking their dogs or fetching milk and papers — had nodded a greeting. It wasn’t a bad area, he decided; it had just elements. That was the way they phrased it these days in Police Scotland.

Elements. Meaning a combination of feckless parenting, lack of opportunity, boredom and disenfranchisement. Rebus knew all the buzz words and he didn’t necessarily disagree. But knowledge was one thing and politicians’ words came cheap.

‘Paedo.’ The insult carried to him from across the park. He’d found a bench and settled with his Sunday Post. There were empty cans and takeaway cartons strewn around an overfilled bin next to him. A gull was pecking a hole in one of the cartons, seeking whatever was within.

Three kids were watching him. No way of knowing which one had called out. He gestured towards the three. Only one of them took up the challenge, pushing his bike with him as he approached.

‘Fuck are you after?’ the boy demanded to know.

‘Ellis Meikle.’

‘They put him away.’

‘Did you know him?’

‘Knew who he was.’ The boy sniffed. His head was closely shaved, his teeth uneven.

‘I wouldn’t mind a chat with one or two of his mates. Reckon you could track them down?’

‘What’s it worth?’

‘A fiver minimum.’

The boy gave a scowl. ‘Fuck am I supposed to buy with that?’

‘Name your price then.’

‘Bottle of voddy. Payment up front.’

It was Rebus’s turn to scowl. ‘This is the gig economy, son. You get paid for results. Now what do you say...?’

Three of them turned up, all older than Rebus’s gofer. One stayed just long enough to tell Rebus he could ‘get fucked’, but the other two were happy to talk. Afterwards, Rebus paid off his gofer and both chatterboxes and headed towards the golf course. He kicked himself for not thinking to bring Brillo. Maybe he’d give him a long walk later, up to the grounds of the Astley Ainslie hospital. The bunker belonged to the seventh hole, just behind the green. Two bunkers sat side by side, but the steepest was the one where she’d been killed.

People were still out playing in the fading light, but Rebus knew he wasn’t trespassing. This whole golf course was a magnet for Restalrig’s young people, as he’d just been informed. There were copses where they could do drugs and have sex. They could ride their bikes — motorised and pedal — across the fairways at night when no one was around. Ellis and Kristen used to come here, with other friends or on their own. Ellis wasn’t quite the loner he had seemed from the case files. He went to parties, drank and smoked dope. There were plenty of girlfriends in his past. Kristen had come as a surprise, though. She was loud and full of energy, and headed a coterie of other girls at her school. The feeling was, she could have done better than Ellis. Not that she was above getting into scrapes — playground fights; detentions; fallings-out with her parents. But for Ellis to do what he did... the boys told the same story: she must have driven him to it. Was she seeing anyone else behind his back? They didn’t know. Did Ellis carry a knife? If so, he’d never shown it to anyone.

She must have driven him to it...

Ellis had texted her to meet him at the golf course. She had gone. And something had happened, Dallas Meikle was right about that — argument, confrontation or ambush? Rebus had asked the two boys about Kristen’s parents. They were said to be quiet, weird, protective. Weird because they were churchgoers, though Kristen herself was lapsed. Protective because they often turned up in their car at parties and gatherings, ready to chauffeur their daughter home even when she’d not requested it.

‘Gie’d her a total riddy,’ one of the boys had told Rebus. ‘One minute she’s in a dark corner with Ellis, the next her maw’s standing ower them shouting and yelling.’

Rebus wondered what a couple of God-fearing folk had made of the arrangements at the Meikle household. Estranged parents, the uncle settling in, booze flowing, Ellis glued to his gaming screen. Did Rebus need to speak to them? Would they tell him anything? What would his excuse be for contacting them? He considered all this as he walked.

Bunches of flowers had been placed around the rim of the bunker. Those that had wilted had been repositioned at a distance and replaced by fresh ones. There were messages and photos, too, protected by plastic and polythene from the elements. Candles, an empty bottle of alcopop, a couple of small teddy bears. Rebus studied one of the photos of Kristen. It had been taken at the park. She had screwed up her face and was lifting her middle finger to the camera. Come on then, world, she seemed to be saying, let’s see what you’ve got.

Several people had left copies of another photo, taken by the official school photographer. Kristen’s long fair hair had been scooped up across her head, so that it draped down one shoulder. She was giving a pout and her lips were glossy. The top button of her blouse had been undone, her tie hanging loose. It looked recent, and Rebus guessed there’d be another copy in her parents’ living room, even though they probably didn’t approve of the way she’d chosen to present herself.

The case file had contained information on Kristen’s various social media activities, Facebook and Snapchat and the rest. He’d read through the printout of her phone texts and emails. Her last text had been sent to a friend: C u l8er E needs me, accompanied by a winking emoji, its tongue protruding. E for Ellis, waiting for her at the golf course.

Some of her friends had given evidence in court. She had gone willingly, they’d said. No way she could have known what was to happen. No, she hadn’t fallen out with Ellis. No, she wasn’t seeing anyone else. No, nothing had happened at school of late, nothing out of the ordinary.

Ellis’s day, too, had been as routine as any other, according to his mother: woke up late, went to the supermarket for her. Took his time, after running into some pals. In the meantime Billie had come to visit, sitting with her mum in the kitchen while Ellis retreated to his bedroom — with a couple of those same pals to start with. After they headed elsewhere, he stayed put, playing on his computer, headphones on, until he went out just after five. He said he was catching up with another friend, one with a brand-new console, but this was a lie — he had already texted Kristen.

‘Why did he lie?’ his mother had been asked.

She hadn’t had an answer.

‘Did he often keep secrets from you?’

‘I don’t think so.’

Rebus thought of Ellis Meikle, his side of the story yet to be told, sitting in a shared cell at Saughton, taking in the smells and sounds, wary and watchful. He stared down into the bunker and managed not to feel sorry for him.

24

Tess Leighton had put some make-up on, which ended up emphasising just how pale her skin’s natural tone was. Fox had been relieved to see her order a starter and a main — polishing off both with the accompaniment of a large glass of Merlot. Not anorexic then. Just slender and maybe a touch anaemic. The restaurant was really more of a pub — the posher places he had tried to book were closed Sunday evenings. But the food had been fine, as predicted by the reviews he’d checked on TripAdvisor. He wore a jacket and chinos rather than a suit. No tie, shirt open at the neck. They’d discussed their neighbourhoods — Oxgangs in his case, Livingston in hers — and their upbringings. Both had been married once; neither had children. Leighton had two brothers, Fox a sister. He hadn’t mentioned Jude’s various problems, while Leighton had eventually admitted that one brother had had a bit of a breakdown. They both enjoyed reading, and country walks, and being police officers. She’d listened intently as he spoke of his days in the Complaints, then confessed that she’d always managed to stay out of trouble.

‘No reports, no misdemeanours, no rebukes.’

‘Probably makes you unique, Tess.’

She gave a small, non-committal shrug. ‘Even Graham’s had a run-in, you know,’ she confided.

‘With Professional Standards?’

‘I think it went as far as ACU, except maybe it was CCU back then.’

‘What did he do?’ Fox placed his knife and fork on his plate, unable to finish the potatoes and carrots.

‘I think it was his boss’s retirement party — this was in his Inverness days. The boss accused Graham of getting him drunk, maybe even spiking his drinks, then getting Traffic to pull him over. Ended up banned from driving and blamed Graham for it.’

‘The complaint was taken seriously?’

‘All I know is he got a reprimand of some kind. Don’t think he’s been in trouble since.’ She paused. ‘Small beer compared to what went on in the Stuart Bloom case.’

Fox nodded, watching her.

‘If you really wanted to,’ she went on, ‘you could do some damage to a lot of reputations.’

‘I’m not Professional Standards these days, though, and I doubt ACU will want it when two of their own are front and centre.’

‘I suppose not, though Steele and Edwards don’t seem to have done much wrong. Rebus, Skelton and Newsome on the other hand...’

He nodded again. ‘Listen to us,’ he said with a smile that was only slightly forced. ‘Even on a weekend we can’t help talking shop.’ They lapsed into silence as their plates were cleared. Neither had room for dessert, but they ordered coffee. Leighton watched their server head to the bar with their order, then turned her attention back to Fox.

‘Was that your way of telling me to drop the subject, Malcolm?’

‘I just don’t want the mistakes of the past to interfere with the current inquiry.’

‘That’s it, is it? Rather than you trying to protect a friend?’

Fox considered his response. ‘I’ve known John for a few years now. At one time, I wanted him kicked off the force.’

‘But something changed your mind?’

Fox shrugged. ‘It became academic when he retired.’

‘For someone who’s retired, he seems to spend a lot of time in police stations.’

‘Only when there’s a chance to cause maximum disruption.’

Her face broke into a smile. ‘You do like him, don’t you?’

He shrugged again. ‘He’s the kind of cop I could never be. He gets a kick out of taking risks.’

‘You’re not above taking risks yourself.’ She leaned across the table on her elbows. ‘You invited me out for dinner, after all.’

‘The only risk there was that you’d say no.’

‘Why would I have done that?’ She leaned back again, plucking her napkin from her lap and announcing that she was going to ‘the little girls’ room’. He half rose from his chair as she left, then settled again. The server was hovering, having forgotten to ask if they’d be wanting a digestif, and how was the evening going?

‘Just fine, thank you,’ Fox said. He took his phone out, half minded to send Siobhan Clarke a text. But then he thought better of it. Instead, he googled Livingston. When Leighton returned, he turned the screen towards her.

‘You told me nothing much happens there,’ he chided her. ‘How could you forget you’ve got one of the biggest shopping malls in Scotland?’

Leighton pressed a finger to her lips. ‘Don’t want everyone knowing,’ she stage-whispered. ‘Bad enough as it is finding a parking space...’

The pair of them were laughing as their coffees arrived.

The sleek black Audi was blocking the driveway next to Fox’s bungalow. Fox parked on the roadway behind it. As he got out, Grant Edwards emerged from the driver’s side. Fox’s first thought was: Good job I didn’t invite Tess back. His second: Would she have said yes?

‘Should you be out on your own?’ he asked Edwards, making show of peering into the empty car. Edwards was dressed in a three-quarter-length black woollen coat. He slid his hands into his pockets. Fox was reminded of funeral personnel, the kind who came with fake solemnity.

‘Brian’s busy elsewhere.’

‘It talks!’

Edwards’s mouth twitched. ‘Only when there are no third-party witnesses.’

‘How long you been waiting here?’

‘Long enough to get annoyed. Our intelligence is you don’t go out much — being a recovering alcoholic and everything.’

‘Sorry to disappoint you.’ Fox’s hands went into his own pockets. He didn’t have the other man’s heft, but he was by no means insubstantial. He puffed out his chest a little and leaned back on his heels.

‘Brian reckons he’s due a report.’

‘Brian is mistaken. He gets a report when there’s something worth telling him.’

‘How are you getting on with Sutherland’s team?’

‘Just dandy.’

‘You sure about that? They know you were Complaints — I reckon they’ll be sharpening the knives. You won’t feel a thing till the first one slips in.’ Edwards’s grin spread a little wider.

‘I’m not ashamed of having been Complaints.’

‘Always hard to go back to CID, though. You know ACU’s an option, once this is over — if it’s over cleanly, I mean.’

‘Your own names kept out of the story?’ Fox nodded slowly. ‘Steele made sure I understood.’

Edwards took a step nearer and dropped his voice. ‘I’m not sure Brian really appreciates how close you and Siobhan Clarke were. But you’d be wise not to take her side against ours.’

‘Do I need to take sides?’

‘You might feel you do. I know you’re not an item these days.’

‘We never were.’

Edwards gave a slow shrug. ‘How’s she doing anyway?’

‘DI Clarke?’

‘Fitted into MIT okay? Giving it a hundred per cent?’

‘What’s it to you?’

‘Sutherland needs a team that’s focused — no distractions.’

‘She’s a good cop, Edwards.’

‘Maybe, maybe not. Bit of a mouth on her, though.’ Edwards’s eyes narrowed to the merest slits. ‘Do the right thing, DI Fox. Keep us happy.’ He started to lower himself back into the driving seat, but paused halfway. ‘Something tells me we wouldn’t have to dig down very far to start uncovering your skeletons.’

Fox stood his ground until the Audi’s rear lights vanished into the night. He got into his own car and sat there for a couple of minutes, hands wrapped around the steering wheel. Then he took several deep breaths, turned on the ignition and manoeuvred the vehicle into the driveway. It was only when he had locked it and was standing on his doorstep that he noticed he had a text waiting for him on his phone. It was from Tess Leighton, thanking him for a lovely evening. She had added a small x after her name. His smile was fleeting. What the hell had Edwards meant about Siobhan not giving it a hundred per cent?