In a House of Lies

25

On Monday morning, Clarke was on Rebus’s doorstep at 8 a.m.

‘I bring coffee and croissants,’ she said into the intercom.

‘That’s the only reason I’m letting you in.’

She climbed the two flights. He had left the door ajar for her so she headed for the living room. The case files had been gutted. Sheets were stacked in a dozen separate piles, while Rebus’s various jottings and notes were laid out next to his computer.

‘You’ve been busy,’ she said.

‘Just don’t touch anything.’

‘You mean there’s a system here?’ She handed him a croissant and a Styrofoam cup.

‘A system that makes perfect sense to me.’ He dunked the croissant and sucked the coffee from it. ‘Why aren’t you at work?’

‘Day off.’

‘Then you should be in bed.’

‘Whereas you look like you’ve been up for hours.’ She tore off a chunk of croissant and gave it to Brillo.

‘I reckon Dallas and Seona have to be an item,’ Rebus stated.

‘They say not.’

‘But if they are, Ellis is bound to have known. The three of them under the same roof? Dallas tiptoeing up the creaky stairs of a night?’

‘You’ve been in the house?’

Rebus shook his head. ‘But I’ve visited plenty like it.’

‘And if they are sleeping together?’

‘Ellis might not have been happy about it. Maybe he sees his mum cheating on his dad, and gets the notion his own girlfriend might not be all sugar and spice.’ Rebus lowered himself on to his armchair, still holding both coffee and croissant. ‘He’d been hanging out with his mates that day; maybe one of them said something. He lied to his mum about where he was going. Seems to me that might not be the only lie coming out of that house. Then there’s Kristen. Her pals say she hadn’t said anything about splitting up from Ellis, but maybe she’d made up her mind. Her parents had told her often enough they thought she could do better. I’m wondering if she took up with Ellis specifically to piss off her God-fearing parents — hardly the basis for a strong and stable romance.’

Clarke frowned in concentration. ‘Was any of that in the files?’

‘Some of it I was told.’

‘Who by?’

‘A couple of lads who know Ellis.’

‘So you have been to Restalrig?’

‘Never said I hadn’t. Bumped into the uncle while I was there. Another thing about Kristen, she liked to flirt — again, according to the word on the street. And when she was round at Ellis’s house...’

‘Her and Dallas?’

‘He told her there was a drink waiting behind the bar at McKenzie’s for her.’

‘He said that in front of Ellis?’

‘According to the two lads.’

‘She was only seventeen; she’d never have been served.’

‘Sure.’ Rebus bit into the croissant and chewed. Clarke had pulled out one of the dining table chairs and sat down. She sipped her coffee and gazed towards the piles of paper.

‘So now we have Ellis jealous of his uncle?’

‘Maybe.’

‘I’m not sure this is what Dallas wants to hear.’

‘He’s come to the wrong place for fairy tales and happy endings.’

She nodded. ‘So is that what I tell him?’

‘He won’t be thrilled.’

‘Which means he won’t give me Steele and Edwards.’ She looked at Rebus. ‘You’ve had no time at all, John. Maybe another few days?’

Rebus offered a shrug. ‘I’m not sure how many more spadefuls are there, Shiv. Unless...’

She put her cup down. ‘What?’

‘A visit to the prisoner.’

‘He won’t talk to you.’

‘A risk I’m willing to take.’

‘Maybe if you took Dallas with you...?’

But Rebus was shaking his head. ‘Could mean me getting a story rather than the story.’

‘Worth a shot,’ Clarke eventually conceded. Her phone was vibrating. She dug it from her pocket. ‘Got to take this,’ she said. Then, pressing the phone to her ear: ‘Yes, Graham?’

She listened for a moment. ‘No, that’s fine. Absolutely. Yes, of course I’ll come in. I can be there in twenty minutes.’ After ending the call, she stared at the screen.

‘I’m all for a bit of suspense,’ Rebus nudged her.

‘A potential break. Looks like my day off is buggered.’

‘Spit it out then.’

‘A fingerprint on the handcuffs. Well, a partial. It’s fragile but it’s there.’

‘And do we know who it belongs to?’

She looked at him but didn’t answer.

‘Christ’s sake, Siobhan, you can trust me not to blab!’

‘I know I can. And it’s Jackie Ness. The print seems a good match for Jackie Ness.’

‘Well, well,’ Rebus muttered, staring towards the window. ‘Don’t let me keep you then — not when you’ve justice to dispense.’

In the MIT office, Graham Sutherland was in conference with a fiscal depute. Clarke recognised the woman. Her name was Gillian Ramsay and Clarke had worked several previous cases with her. She was questioning Sutherland about the tests on the handcuffs. The partial had been identified because Ness had been fingerprinted during the original inquiry. Why? Because he had visited Bloom’s flat, and even been given a lift in his car once. When they dusted the flat, and if they tracked down the car... well, the prints were useful. Weren’t prints supposed to be expunged from the records after a time, though? It seemed these weren’t.

‘Defence counsel won’t like that,’ Ramsay said, making a note to herself.

‘We’re looking to see what else might be in the car; maybe a hair or something.’

‘But DCI Sutherland, we already know that Mr Bloom gave Mr Ness a ride home one night. A hair left behind doesn’t prove anything. Say the cuffs belonged to the victim, say they were lying there on the passenger seat and Mr Ness merely moved them?’

‘Why would Bloom keep handcuffs in his car?’

‘Wasn’t his partner the son of a serving police officer? Could the partner have acquired them, perhaps to be used during role play in the bedroom?’

‘I doubt it, but we can ask.’

‘You certainly will ask. Meantime, I’m minded to advise that there’s precious little here to form a serious criminal charge.’

‘But we can still bring him in?’

‘Of course. Accompanied by his solicitor and then asked some serious questions under caution, to be recorded for posterity.’

‘But not charged?’ Some of the air had escaped from Clarke’s boss. He’d sounded elated on the phone. Now, the balloon had sunk back to earth. Ramsay was gathering together her things.

‘Not quite yet,’ she answered, rising to her feet.

After she’d left, there was silence in the room until Sutherland collected himself, clearing his throat. ‘Forensic lab had the fingerprint by close of play Friday. Sat on it all bloody weekend while they swanned off to watch the football or rugby and go for long afternoon rambles. Don’t think I won’t be taking that to DCS Mollison. But meantime, we do have a positive ID. It’s not nothing — don’t go thinking it is. Procurator fiscal needs everything to be watertight pre-trial. Means they’re always sceptical. But this is something, and we need to run with it.’ He looked to Clarke. ‘What time do you think Ness gets to the office?’

‘Probably not before ten.’

‘So he’ll be at home until nine thirty, nine forty? It’s just gone nine now...’ He sought out Callum Reid. ‘Take George with you. Go wait at his office.’ To Clarke again: ‘Is there a receptionist?’ She nodded. ‘If she gets in first, don’t let her warn him. In fact, stay in the car till you see him.’

‘What does he look like?’ Gamble asked.

‘Like that photo there.’ Sutherland pointed to where Reid was standing, next to the map and the headshots. Reid tapped Ness’s.

‘He’s actually changed a bit since then,’ Clarke felt it necessary to qualify.

‘Fine,’ Sutherland said. ‘George, you stay. Siobhan, go with Callum.’ He saw the disappointment on Gamble’s face. ‘No need to be glum — if you’re a good boy, I might let you sit in on the interview.’ Then, switching his attention between Reid and Clarke: ‘Why in God’s name are you two still here?’

‘We’re not,’ Reid said, grabbing his coat on his way to the door.

Detective Constable Christine Esson made her way out of Gayfield Square police station and looked both ways before crossing the road and climbing into Rebus’s Saab.

‘Still got this old thing, I see,’ she said, closing the door.

‘Are you talking to me or the car?’

Esson decided this was worth a smile. Her hair was short and dark; Rebus had always seen a resemblance to Audrey Hepburn, though Siobhan Clarke had never agreed.

‘You didn’t want to come in?’ she asked him.

‘Better if people don’t start joining the dots.’

‘You’re making progress on Ellis Meikle?’

‘There’s a bit of expertise I’m lacking, Christine. I’ve looked at all the social media stuff, but it’s really only Ellis’s and Kristen’s. I wouldn’t mind knowing what was being said among their various friends — before the murder and after.’

‘Just friends, or family members too?’

‘The more the merrier.’

She puffed out her cheeks and expelled some air. ‘It’s a big ask.’

‘Complicated, you mean?’

‘Time-consuming,’ she corrected him. ‘In a perfect world, I’d maybe start a few fake accounts, friend all and sundry, wait for them to friend back, chat with them...’ She looked at him. ‘It’s weird, but people online will share stuff with strangers that they wouldn’t say to their nearest and dearest.’

‘Sounds like that might take a while.’

‘It definitely would — weeks, maybe a lot longer.’

‘So if that’s not an option...?’

‘I’d just trawl where I can, butt into threads, add my tuppence worth. Might end up blocked or muted here and there, though. Plus a lot of kids use Snapchat, and those messages get wiped. And bear in mind they’ll keep things private if they think it’s sensitive...’ She paused, eyes still on him. ‘Whereabouts in all of that did I start to lose you?’

‘A sentence or two back.’

She smiled again. ‘The good news is, this is something I can be doing in my free time. But it’d help if you gave me what you’ve got — accounts and user names for killer and victim; names of their various friends and family members...’

‘I can email you all of that.’

‘Not to my official account.’ She took out her phone. ‘I’m sending you my email address.’ They waited until his own phone buzzed. ‘Job done.’

‘Thanks, Christine. Drinks on me when this is finished.’

She nodded slowly, her face darkening a little. ‘We all worked damned hard on that case, John. We got the right result.’

‘I don’t doubt it.’

‘Yet here you are looking for holes the family can take to an appeal. If you find any, there’s omelette all over our faces.’ She paused. ‘On the other hand, I saw how ugly everything got between Siobhan and ACU. It’s just funny that to get at them, we end up messy too.’

‘I’ll help you clean up the kitchen after.’

‘Oh aye? Bit of a speciality of yours?’

‘I get the feeling someone’s been talking.’

‘Spilling the beans, you might say,’ Esson commented, pushing open the door of the Saab and getting out.

26

All the way to the police station, Ness had asked what was going on. They’d been waiting for him outside the main entrance to Locke Ness Productions. In the car, they’d let him phone his PA. He’d said simply that he was held up and might not be in until the afternoon. Then he’d asked the two detectives again: what was going on?

‘You got a solicitor?’ Reid had answered. ‘If not, one will be provided for you.’

They’d left him to stew in the interview room while his lawyer was summoned. Emily Crowther had taken him a weak cup of tea.

‘Still thinks I could be in films,’ she reported back. Sutherland meantime was as good as his word. Despite pleading looks from Clarke and Callum Reid, it was George Gamble who accompanied him into the interview room once the solicitor turned up. Phil Yeats had fetched the A/V equipment.

‘Won’t be new to you, Mr Ness,’ he had commented.

‘I’m happier on the other side of a camera, son,’ Ness had replied. The room was stuffy, the heating having been turned up to maximum. Ness’s jacket was over the back of his chair, and he had loosened an extra button on his shirt. The lawyer, Kelvin Brodie, was wise to such strategies, however, and asked them to either turn the radiator down or leave the door open.

‘Don’t want to abandon the interview over health and safety concerns, do we?’

Clarke knew Brodie from court appearances. She had expected Ness’s solicitor to be the sort that specialised in business contracts, but Brodie was criminal law through and through. She was about to alert Sutherland to this when the door was closed from within, leaving her in the corridor along with the rest of the team.

Nothing much to do after that but wait.

Crowther had dug up a little more background on the DP and sound recordist, so they put their heads together in preparation for the following day. Fox and Leighton were in their own little empire, appearing in the MIT room only for coffee and tea top-ups.

‘Heard from the Chuggabugs?’ Clarke asked Fox when he approached her desk.

‘No.’

‘Going to tell them about the fingerprint?’

‘I doubt I’ll need to — they don’t seem to lack sources.’

‘Which is precisely why you should get in first. That way, you look keen. As you say, they’ll find out sooner or later anyway.’

Fox nodded at the sense of this and went out to make the call while Clarke checked her own phone. Rebus had texted her to ask for an update, but she was ignoring him. Same went for Laura Smith, who was, in her own words, ‘hearing jungle drums’. Which meant someone at the forensic lab had to have blabbed. Or maybe the fiscal’s office. Or DCS Mollison had started spreading the news at Fettes or St Leonard’s. No point really speculating, except that these days by the time a whisper reached the internet it had become an ill-intentioned and half-formed yelp, a yelp capable of spreading like the most virulent flu bug.

She thought of the pile of paper on Rebus’s dining table, the one comprising social media messages to and from Ellis Meikle’s various accounts, filled with young men’s bravado. She knew there were porn clips and GIFs mixed in with it all, and demeaning commentary about local girls and their mothers. One of Ellis’s friends had let Ellis know his mother Seona was ‘pure MILF’, leading others to chip in with thumbs up and thumbs down. How toxic would this culture eventually become? Clarke hoped she’d never find out, but as a detective, she feared she probably would.

Dallas Meikle’s anonymous phone calls and graffiti had been innocent by comparison with some of the online abuse she had encountered. She wondered about that. Dallas could have sent anything to her mobile: images, texts, the lot. She reckoned he had known, however, that these would involve either a computer or a mobile phone on his part, and that those could always be traced back to their source. Maybe Steele and Edwards had given him the benefit of their wisdom.

‘Wouldn’t put it past them,’ she muttered to herself.

After an hour and a half, Sutherland and Gamble emerged from the interview room and headed for the kettle, followed by the MIT team. Sutherland asked Yeats to go do guard duty outside the interview room door. Not that it was needed, but it would keep Ness on edge.

‘He’s having a confab with his lawyer,’ Sutherland explained. ‘And he’s admitting nothing, says he’s no idea how his print could have got on the cuffs, never seen them before.’

‘Brodie meantime,’ Gamble added, spooning coffee into a mug, ‘wants to know how reliable the print can be after all this time. He went straight for the car and the fact Ness has never hidden that he was given a lift in it. So we’d expect to find his prints there for a start. His line is: Ness could have reached a hand down the side of his seat and touched the cuffs without realising.’

‘He also,’ Sutherland broke in, ‘wants to know why we’ve kept an innocent man’s prints on the database all these years.’

‘Pretty much as the fiscal anticipated,’ Clarke commented. ‘Interesting that Ness went for a criminal lawyer, though — not everyone knows one.’

‘Not everyone’s been in a war with Sir Adrian Brand,’ Sutherland said, stiffening his spine. ‘Anyway, we’re not done with him yet, not by a long chalk.’

‘Juries love a bit of forensic evidence,’ Emily Crowther stated. ‘Let’s not forget that.’

‘Be nice to have something more than a partial fingerprint, though — I don’t suppose the lab have come back to us in my absence?’

There were shakes of the head.

‘I hope the soil expert’s earning her fee,’ Sutherland sighed.

There was a knock at the door. They turned to see Brodie standing there. ‘Could my client trouble you for a sandwich or something? He’s not had any breakfast.’

‘The café does a reasonable BLT,’ Clarke offered.

‘My client is vegetarian.’

‘LT it is then, always supposing they’ll stoop to it.’

Jackie Ness was eventually released at 2.45 p.m. From around noon, Brodie had been complaining that they were going over the same old ground. A copy of the recording was handed over, while those in MIT who were keen got the chance to watch the interview courtesy of the copy they’d retained. Clarke studied Ness’s body language; not that it was such a big deal these days. A lot of people knew the tricks, and she reckoned someone who had worked all his life with actors would know them better than most. Once the room had cooled down, he had buttoned his shirt and slipped his jacket back on, then sat without moving, hands clasped in his lap, face a mask, answering questions with the briefest possible responses and letting his solicitor do the bulk of the talking.

Sutherland was updating the fiscal’s office by phone, while George Gamble stared into space. Clarke got the feeling he was rueing modern policing methods and would have liked nothing better than to have beaten a confession out of the producer.

‘We should take another look at the original interviews with Ness,’ Callum Reid was telling Emily Crowther. ‘We’ve only got his word for it that Stuart Bloom left Poretoun House alive. I know the place was checked over, but how thoroughly? Plus, crime-scene technology has moved on. I’m sure Sir Adrian would be happy to let us scope the place out. The story’s beginning to come together.’ He counted off on his fingers. ‘Prints on the cuffs; Bloom last seen alive heading to a meet with Ness...’ He paused.

‘I make that a total of two fingers, Callum,’ Clarke interrupted.

‘The car found in woodland owned by Ness at the time,’ Crowther added. Clarke watched Reid hold up a third finger.

‘Okay,’ she conceded, ‘but tell me this: what was Ness’s motive?’

‘Maybe they argued over Bloom’s fee or something. Again, we only have Ness’s word for it that everything was amicable between them. Could be he felt Bloom wasn’t making enough progress, or was ripping him off. Come on, we’ve all seen it. People who’ve just killed someone don’t exactly think rationally.’

‘Which might also explain the handcuffs around the ankles,’ Crowther added, earning a smile from Reid, as if this was an argument he could win with a show of hands.

‘I’m not saying none of it happened that way,’ Clarke said. ‘But proving it is something else.’

‘We’re missing a trick, though, if we don’t factor in Poretoun House as the probable scene of crime.’

‘Maybe.’

Reid was looking towards his boss, who was still on the phone. ‘I’m going to press the case. If there’s money in the pot for someone in a white coat to plop some mud under a microscope, surely we can get Scene of Crime to take their kit to Poretoun House.’

‘Knock yourself out,’ Clarke said.

The Evening News’s front page splashed on Jackie Ness’s visit to Leith police station. There was a nice big photo of the producer as he made his way to a waiting taxi, Kelvin Brodie trying to hold a briefcase up to make the photographer’s job more difficult. Rebus read the story — such as it was — through twice as he sat at a table in McKenzie’s. If the media knew about the handcuffs, they weren’t saying. The story was thin, but it would still shake Ness up. Rebus guessed there’d be reporters outside his home tonight, and his office in the morning. If there was guilt there, the cracks would start to appear, just so long as the media didn’t tire of teasing their prey.

Rebus guessed that Fettes HQ had tipped the media off, or maybe it had been one of the MIT team. It had always been a game played between the cops and the journos. Yes, reporters could be a pain in the arse, but they were also immensely useful conduits. It saddened him that so much these days happened online, with every keyboard warrior suddenly a ‘commentator’ or ‘pundit’ or ‘news-gatherer’. There was a lack of quality control. Anyone and everyone felt they had something to say and they weren’t about to hold back. The public probably reckoned they were better informed than ever. They were, but not always by the truth.

Then again, had it been so different in Rebus’s heyday? He’d tipped off journalists, fed them lies and half-truths when hoping to agitate a particular wasps’ nest or unsettle a suspect or a witness. Stories had been planted and others suppressed. With the ear of as few as half a dozen reporters, you could control the story, or at least have a bloody good go at shaping it. When lied to, the media might snarl and spit, but they always came back for more. Nowadays, commentators lied to your face, feeding you pap from a spoon as if you were an infant. Twenty-four-hour news meant everyone wanted to be first with a story, even if it turned out to be wonky. A few of Rebus’s old musical heroes had been reported online as having died, only for an apology to be issued later. He took nothing at face value now and required corroboration. Two sources, maybe even three before he believed anything the virtual world told him.

‘What do you want?’

Rebus looked up from his paper. Dallas Meikle was standing there, having just arrived to start his shift.

‘A minute of your time?’ Rebus gestured to a free chair, but Meikle remained standing.

‘Say what you have to say.’

‘I need to talk with Ellis.’

‘Why?’

‘I just do.’

‘He won’t tell you anything.’

‘But he’ll see me if you ask him.’

‘I suppose he might.’

‘Will you do it?’

‘He’s no fan of the police.’

‘In Saughton, I doubt that puts him in the minority. Besides, I’m just an old age pensioner.’

‘I can’t promise.’

‘But you’ll at least try?’

Dallas Meikle nodded, his eyes on Rebus. ‘You’re having doubts, aren’t you? You’re not as sure as you were that he did it?’

‘He most likely did — that’s something you might have to come to terms with. I’ll have a better idea once I’ve seen him.’

‘Even if he doesn’t speak?’

‘Things unsaid can still be important. Tell me, has he ever mentioned how he really felt about you moving in with him and his mum?’

‘We talked it through.’

‘You went there to make sure your brother behaved himself? Ever say to Ellis that it should have been his job?’

‘I don’t particularly mind if I fall out with Charles.’

‘Better that than his son falling out with him?’ Rebus nodded his understanding.

‘We done here then?’

Rebus closed his newspaper. ‘How well did you really know Kristen, Mr Meikle?’ A small flame started to smoulder in Meikle’s eyes. His lips stayed pursed. ‘From what I’ve heard, she wasn’t above flirting. Maybe it was just her nature, or to keep Ellis on his toes.’

‘She never did with me.’

‘But you knew the stories?’

‘Kids these days aren’t like my generation — or yours.’

‘In some ways that’s true, in others not so much.’ Rebus got to his feet, folding the newspaper and stuffing it into his coat pocket. He handed Meikle a scrap of paper with his phone number on it. ‘I’m going to visit Saughton tomorrow — if you can get word to Ellis, it would help. Get back to me after, and use your mobile rather than one of those phone boxes, eh?’

He exited the bar without looking back.

27

Brian Steele walked into the Devil’s Dram with his girlfriend Rebecca on his arm. She had probably overdone it for this part of town — clinging floor-length emerald-green dress, slit up the side almost to her navel, and with a plunging neckline to boot. Her blonde hair fell in thick waves around her shoulders, and she wore three-inch stilettos. Not too much make-up — she really didn’t need it — and just the right amount of high-end jewellery. As they had stepped from the cab, jaws had dropped, eyes lingering. The doormen knew Steele and held the door open for Rebecca.

‘Everything okay, Shug?’ he asked one of them, slipping a twenty into his palm.

‘Fairly quiet, Brian.’

And then they were in. They’d been a couple of times before, including once under Darryl Christie’s ownership. Steele liked all the theme stuff — devils and demons and imps scaling the walls and peering down from the dark red ceiling. There was usually a good DJ if you wanted to dance, and quiet booths if you’d rather sit and drink and eat. Steele had booked a table upstairs, overlooking the dance floor. Rebecca swayed to the rhythm as they climbed the glass staircase.

Once seated, Steele perused the whisky menu. It ran to eight pages, but he saw that more than a few offerings now had been scored through in black pen. Looking around, the place didn’t seem quite as upmarket as it had once been: a corner of fraying carpet here, a broken light bulb there. There were fingerprints on the glossy table and the food menus were tacky to the touch.

After a long wait, a waiter dressed in red appeared, a bellboy’s hat strapped to his head.

‘No scallops tonight, I’m sorry to say,’ he began. ‘And no lobster or sea bass.’

Another waiter appeared behind him with a tray balanced on one outstretched hand.

‘Compliments of the management,’ he explained, placing flutes of champagne in front of them. Rebecca cooed, her eyes sparkling.

‘And would management happen to be on the premises this evening?’ Steele asked, receiving a nod in reply.

He sat back and studied the menu. After they’d ordered, Rebecca got busy on her phone, pouting for a selfie she could share with her circle. She began sending out texts with a dexterity that always amazed Steele, bearing in mind the length of her elaborate fingernails.

Rebecca owned a couple of nail bars in the city. Steele had helped with the seed money, but business was good. She complained sometimes that she had to pay higher wages than her competition, most of whom seemed to use labour from Vietnam or the Philippines. But she had plans for a third branch and a redesign of her flagship. Brains as well as beauty — about the only thing Steele didn’t like about her was the incessant need to be on her bloody phone.

After their starters, a new waiter arrived at the top of the stairs and gestured towards Steele. He dabbed at his mouth with the napkin and told Rebecca he wouldn’t be long.

Cafferty was waiting for him in a cordoned-off section of the basement bar. No music down here, other than piped lounge-style piano. Cafferty was on his own, arms stretched out along the back of a banquette.

‘Take a pew, Brian,’ he said.

‘Rebecca’s waiting upstairs,’ Steele said as he sat opposite.

‘I saw her. Christ knows what she sees in you, son.’ Cafferty shook his head ruefully.

‘Someone who shows her a good time, maybe.’

‘Plenty of us could do that.’ There was a whisky in front of Cafferty, and another waiting for Steele. He lifted the glass and sniffed.

‘Highland Park 18,’ Cafferty announced, lifting his own glass in a toast. Steele sipped and savoured, then nodded his appreciation.

‘You do a good impression of a man who likes his malt,’ Cafferty told him. ‘But we know you prefer cooking lager, don’t we?’

‘I was brought up on cooking lager,’ Steele confirmed.

‘We all were, son, and look at us now.’ Cafferty smiled and drained his glass, exhaling noisily as he replaced it on the table. ‘But let’s not keep the delightful Rebecca waiting, eh?’

Steele checked that the room was still empty. Even so, he leaned forward, lowering his voice a notch. ‘Those cuffs I told you about? Turns out Jackie Ness left his prints on them.’

‘That wasn’t very clever of him. Who was it told you?’

‘Malcolm Fox.’

‘I know Fox — what’s he got to do with anything?’

‘Gartcosh have got him looking for fuck-ups in the original inquiry.’

‘So he’s at Leith, and feeding the juicy stuff back to you?’ Cafferty digested this information. ‘Do we know why Sutherland let Ness go?’

‘Fiscal’s yet to be convinced there’s enough for a trial.’

‘I’d say a fingerprint isn’t a bad start, though.’

‘Agreed.’

‘A quick conviction would be nice for all concerned.’

‘Trial’s a trial — lot of stuff’s bound to bubble to the surface.’

‘Don’t tell me you’ve got the jitters?’ Cafferty’s eyes were all but invisible in the dim light. He seemed to be made almost entirely of shadow.

‘Nothing in the Bloom case to make me jittery,’ Steele countered. He began to rise to his feet. ‘Best get back upstairs...’

Cafferty’s right hand descended like a guillotine and clamped around his wrist. ‘You go when I say you can, Brian. Don’t go getting above yourself. A fancy girlfriend and expensive threads don’t hide the fact that you’re just a cog — understood? Remember who’s been your helping hand all these years, hauling you out of uniform and all the way to ACU.’ He enunciated each letter slowly, showing teeth.

‘I’m grateful, you know I am. When have I ever let you down?’

‘Trust me, that’s something you don’t want to happen.’ Cafferty slowly released his grip. ‘You’ve not been interviewed yet?’

‘No.’

‘It’ll happen, though. Make sure you’ve got your story straight — you and Edwards both.’

‘No story to tell.’

‘Rebus knows I took you with me to that meeting with Maloney.’

‘So?’

‘So what else do you think he might be keeping locked away inside that impressively thick skull of his?’

‘The night Bloom disappeared, I was at the Police Club with my wife.’

‘Remind me: your second wife or your third?’

‘Second. We were there all evening, surrounded by dozens of witnesses.’

‘And Edwards was there with you.’ Cafferty sounded bored, having heard the story several times before. ‘Adrian Brand was being driven to some golfing weekend at Gleneagles, and I was sitting on my arse at home with a couple of old chums. Alibis galore, in other words.’

‘Not Ness, though — he didn’t see another soul once Bloom had left. Made a few phone calls to do with his latest project, but that’s about it. Bloom’s boyfriend was back in Bloom’s flat, allegedly, all by himself, getting the supper ready, and the boyfriend’s murder squad father was at some amateur boxing bout in Glasgow.’

‘Not everyone’s covered,’ Cafferty agreed. ‘Just most of us — so there’s nothing for us to worry about, no skeletons keeking out of closets.’ He paused. ‘Meaning we can all relax and enjoy ourselves. Now off you go before someone with a better suit and watch swoops down on Miss Nail Bar. What have you ordered anyway?’

‘Pork belly.’

‘Good choice. It’s from my own piggery in Fife. Maybe we’ll take a wee trip there some day.’

With a wave of one hand, Brian Steele was dismissed. Climbing back towards the light and the noise, he felt able to breathe again. Rebecca was holding her phone close to her face.

‘Guess,’ she said without looking up, ‘how many men have tried buying me a drink in the last five minutes?’

‘Lots,’ Steele answered. Having placed the napkin back on his lap, the main courses arrived. But he was shaking his head. ‘I’ve changed my mind,’ he said. ‘Bring me something else.’

The waiter looked startled. ‘Anything in particular, sir?’

Steele picked up his flute and emptied it. ‘Just so long as it hasn’t come from one of Big Ger Cafferty’s pigs,’ he said.

Cafferty’s office at the Devil’s Dram was behind an inch-thick steel door with three locks and an alarm system. Only Cafferty himself had the means of opening the safe where the takings were kept. On nights when he wasn’t around, his deputy would be driven to Quartermile accompanied by at least one of the doormen. The cash would be handed to Cafferty at his front door, along with the relevant paperwork. Of course, it was mostly credit and debit cards these days, plus contactless. Drinkers even paid using their smart watches. Cafferty preferred cash — it left less of a trail for HM Revenue and Customs to follow.

Most nights, he turned up at the club just before it closed, fixing the staff with a look that told them not to get up to any of the usual tricks. Not so much as a filched bottle of spirits or finessed tenner was going to leave the premises if Cafferty could help it. He also frowned on assignations with punters — next thing you knew, drinks were being offered on the house to people of no consequence. Only people he might have a use for merited the occasional freebie, people like Brian Steele. Cafferty knew that Steele loathed him and the feeling was entirely mutual. What the ACU man hated was that he belonged to Cafferty. As always, it had started with a few tiny tottering steps, but those steps had led Steele from a path that he was never going to find again.

Seated at his desk, Cafferty had started to replay the security footage from earlier in the evening. She was a looker, Rebecca. Cafferty knew her to speak to, of course; even had her phone number. He had paused the footage, zoomed in on the table. Steele had swapped the pork belly for a steak. Rebecca’s choice was the salmon fillet. She’d be watching her weight, wanting always to look her very best. Cafferty thought about texting her to ask if she’d liked it, but by now she was probably in bed with Steele. So instead he turned from CCTV to internet, typing in Conor Maloney’s name.

Maloney had remained a hobby. It irritated Cafferty that they could have become partners, had it not been for the private eye’s disappearance and that bloody kid OD’ing on an Edinburgh street. With Maloney on board, Cafferty could probably have taken Aberdeen and Glasgow. Christ, maybe even Newcastle. And from there... who knew? Maloney probably hadn’t been a paramilitary himself, content to negotiate with both sides. But the men around him had all come from that direction — sharp-witted and deadly. Yes, Cafferty could have used that, a whole trajectory lost to him. Instead of which, he had these meagre winnings from small-timers like Darryl Christie. It was nowhere near enough. Events had robbed him of the larger prize.

He kept clicking and searching. He knew Maloney’s known aliases by heart, tried the same series of keywords. He had spent a small fortune down the years attempting to keep tabs on the bastard. He needed to know about Maloney. How much richer was he? What circles did he move in? Who did he rub shoulders with? Where in the world did he call home?

After a largely fruitless half-hour, he returned to the security footage, watching as Rebecca got to her feet, adjusting her tight dress. Steele was leading the way as the pair headed for the exit. He didn’t wait for her, didn’t take her arm or hand as Cafferty would have done. He stopped for a word with the doormen, leaving her to wave down a taxi.

There was a knock at the door, so Cafferty closed the screen.

‘What?’ he barked.

The manager’s head appeared around the door. ‘About ready to lock up,’ he explained. ‘Want your car fetched?’

‘I’ll probably walk.’ Cafferty checked one final time that the safe was locked, remembering for a moment another safe a long time back, one whose contents he had been keen to examine.

‘Want me to tell Shug to hang around?’

‘I’m not an invalid — I don’t need a fucking carer!’

The manager’s head disappeared again, the door closing. Cafferty had scared him. Cafferty could always scare him. And he liked that.

Rebus’s eyes were stinging, reminding him of the days when he’d smoked, a stray puff catching him unawares. No smoking tonight, though, just too much time spent on the Meikle files. A desk lamp would have helped, but he didn’t have one. He’d had the same CD on repeat, Van Morrison’s Moondance, the volume turned down low. When he got up to switch it off, he felt his vertebrae click. Placed his fists either side of his spine and pushed. More clicks.

‘Like a shagged-out record, John,’ he told himself. He’d allowed himself two beers, in between half a packet of gum. He had half a mind to call Deborah Quant for a chat, but it was gone midnight and she would be asleep. Peering from his window, he saw that a couple of flats opposite his still had their lights on; students probably. Marchmont had always been a student area, even back in the mists of time when his wife Rhona had persuaded him to buy there. She’d been a teacher and her feeling was that being around so many students would ‘keep us young’.

Aye, right.

Not that he would have said that — not then. Or maybe he would; it was hard to remember the person he’d been, new to the city and new to the job.

He turned from the window and looked at the paperwork piled high on his dining table. He’d made pages of notes, each word capitalised so he’d be able to read it. His handwriting these days was a mess. But he knew the Meikle case now, knew it probably as well as anyone on Siobhan Clarke’s original team. His phone had pinged earlier with a text from Dallas Meikle. Word had been got to Ellis that there was a visitor coming. A good night’s sleep was now required; not that Rebus would get it. His mind was revved up as a result of all the reading. It would take more than another play of Moondance to switch off the motor. Meaning he might as well sit down at the table again for one last read-through. It was either that or wake up Brillo for an unneeded walk.

Switching from Moondance to Solid Air, Rebus went back to work.