In a House of Lies

28

At 11 a.m. on Tuesday, Emily Crowther phoned Clarke from Poretoun House. She was there with the scene-of-crime team, watching as they went about their business.

‘You won’t believe it,’ she told Clarke. ‘I’ll send you a couple of pics, hang on...’

The line went dead and Clarke waited. She was in the MIT office, seated at her desk, on which sat a putter, nine iron, two tees and two golf balls. They’d been waiting for her that morning, a gift from Graham Sutherland. Across the room, the list Derek Shankley had helped compile was being gone through name by name, phone calls made, interviews arranged. Within a few seconds her phone pinged, alerting her to the photos. There were three of them. The SOCOs in their white overalls were taking the place apart, floorboards removed, plaster scraped from the walls for analysis. Brand had insisted on being in attendance. In one photograph he had his own camera out, leaning down as Haj Atwal studied a section of floorboard. Clarke called Crowther.

‘It’s almost like he’s enjoying it,’ she commented. ‘But have they found anything?’

‘Not as far as I know. With a civilian in the room, Haj is being tight-lipped. What time do we leave for Glasgow?’

‘Let’s wait till after the rush hour. Six thirty should do it.’

‘Might not be finished here by then. There are about twenty rooms covering three floors. The house is shagged but gorgeous. Why do you think he’s letting us rip it up?’

‘Because it’s not really a house. It’s two fingers raised in Jackie Ness’s direction.’

‘So the photos...?’

‘Doubtless winging their way to Ness as we speak.’

‘Speaking of whom, any progress?’

‘The car is being searched again, just in case we missed something.’ Clarke saw that Graham Sutherland was getting to his feet. He was approaching the TV, seeking the remote so he could turn up the volume. ‘Emily, I’m going to have to go...’ She ended the call. Sutherland was blocking her view of the screen. The volume was audible by the time she reached his side. The reporter was standing on the edge of Poretoun Woods.

‘And after the questioning of film producer Jackie Ness and this morning’s renewed search of his old home just the other side of these woods behind me, now comes the revelation that the victim, private investigator Stuart Bloom, was handcuffed at the ankles inside his recovered Volkswagen Polo. This was reported only moments ago by an internet-based news agency and has yet to be verified by ourselves, though police have made no denial.’

Sutherland made eye contact with Clarke. ‘Because we’ve not been asked,’ he growled.

‘Press office should have warned us,’ Clarke said. ‘They must surely have known.’

Sutherland held out a hand towards her. ‘Pass me that nine iron, would you? I want to put it through this bloody screen.’

Mobile phones had started ringing: her own and Sutherland’s, plus the landlines not currently being used by Reid and Gamble. Tess Leighton appeared in the doorway, her own mobile pressed to her ear. Clarke nodded, then gestured towards the TV. Sutherland was muting the sound again. Fox had joined Leighton in the doorway. He raised an eyebrow in Clarke’s direction: managed to blag one more day, he seemed to be telling her.

‘Okay, people,’ Sutherland intoned, ‘we knew this moment would come. There’s a press conference due this afternoon anyway, so we can deal with all the questions then. Or let DCS Mollison deal with them, at any rate...’

As if summoned by Sutherland’s words, leather shoes could be heard climbing the stairs, Mollison’s head appearing at the top. He strode into the room, face thunderous.

‘We’re just hearing it for ourselves right now, sir,’ Sutherland said, raising a hand in apology.

‘The family will be up to high doh,’ Mollison snapped. ‘As if they didn’t have enough ammo against us as it is!’

And sure enough, the TV had switched from Poretoun Woods to Fettes HQ, Catherine Bloom positioned on the pavement just outside the gates, behind which stood a stern-looking uniformed officer, as if fearing invasion. As the camera moved position, Dougal Kelly sidled into view at Catherine’s shoulder. Sutherland pressed the volume button again.

‘We’ve always known,’ Stuart Bloom’s mother was saying, her voice trembling with emotion, ‘that the police acted irresponsibly, lazily and almost certainly corruptly, protecting those who have against those who have not, and looking down on Stuart’s family and circle of friends.’ She paused for breath. If Clarke hadn’t known better, she’d have said the woman had had media training. Then again, with Dougal Kelly in her corner, maybe she had. ‘But now,’ Catherine Bloom continued, ‘we have evidence of potential involvement by the police in the crime itself and not just the cover-up. There needs to be an inquiry into the handling of this case, carried out by a police force from outside Scotland, and questions need to be asked at the highest level of government about what was known, what was brushed under the carpet, and who knew what.’ She focused her gaze on the camera lens, speaking directly to the viewer. ‘My son’s callous murder must not have been in vain. I want justice; I want change; I want the guilty to be named, shamed and put behind bars — each and every one of them!’

The interview ended, cutting back to the studio and a visibly shaken newsreader. Sutherland cut the sound once more, hardly daring to meet Mollison’s eyes.

‘We need a chat in private,’ Mollison said solemnly. Sutherland nodded and sought out Tess Leighton.

‘Our room’s at your disposal,’ she quickly agreed. Sutherland led the way, Mollison at his heels. The office was quiet for a few moments, until George Gamble whistled softly.

‘What happens now?’ Phil Yeats asked.

‘In public, not much,’ Clarke guessed. ‘Plenty of private bollockings, I dare say, and maybe additional staff and resources for us. But we still have a murder to solve, and stringing us up isn’t going to help with that.’

‘But everyone will expect us to focus on the investigating officers from the time.’

‘And we’re doing that anyway, aren’t we?’

‘What if we give the press Ness’s fingerprint? Would that take the heat off?’

‘The handcuffs are still handcuffs. We need to know how the hell they got there and whose they were to begin with.’ Clarke ran a hand through her hair.

‘It keeps getting messier, doesn’t it?’ Callum Reid asked. He was straightening his tie, as if in readiness — Sutherland dismissed to the changing room, him promoted to captain. Clarke gave him a stern look.

‘I’ve survived messier,’ she told him. ‘This has a way to go yet.’ More texts had started arriving on her phone. There was one from Laura Smith, so she opened it.

Buy you a bite? Usual spot 12.30?

Clarke tapped a one-word reply: Fine.

The café was on Leith Walk, almost equidistant between Leith and Gayfield Square police stations. It was run by an Italian family and specialised in toasted sandwiches so overfilled no one could finish them. The booths were cramped and the music cheesy. Clarke squeezed in across from Laura Smith and stared at the third member of their party.

‘I’ve known Dougal a while,’ Smith explained. ‘We worked a night desk together some years back.’

Clarke gave Dougal Kelly a tight smile. ‘Could you give us a minute? Maybe fetch a jug of water?’

He waited until Smith had nodded her agreement before heading for the counter.

‘The handcuffs?’ Clarke said quietly.

‘I told you I’d give you a day or two. It was out there, Siobhan. Too many tongues had started wagging on your side of the fence.’

‘How well do you really know this guy?’ Clarke was staring at Kelly’s back.

‘The book he’s writing won’t be published till next year. And he definitely protects his sources.’

‘He knows about the run-in we had with ACU?’

Smith nodded.

‘And you brought him with you today because...?’

‘Just listen to what he has to say, okay?’

Kelly was returning with the pitcher and three glasses. ‘All right if I sit down?’ he asked. Clarke nodded, without managing to look welcoming. The owner was fetching his notepad. They ordered and he left, yelling instructions in the direction of the kitchen.

‘Shouldn’t you be stuck like glue to the grieving mother?’ Clarke asked Kelly.

‘She’s back in the hotel bedroom, digesting the news.’

‘We still don’t know where the cuffs came from,’ Clarke stressed. Kelly just shrugged.

‘One more piece of the jigsaw,’ he commented. ‘You have to admit, there’s a picture emerging.’

‘Unlike some, I don’t jump to conclusions.’ Clarke took a sip of water while Kelly sighed, gripping the rim of the table with both hands.

‘I’ll just say what I have to say, okay? The officers involved in the original inquiry — people like John Rebus, Mary Skelton, Douglas Newsome — they all fell down on the job. More than that; in some cases they broke the very laws they were honour-bound to uphold. I’ve got information on every single one of them.’

‘Including a couple of uniforms called Steele and Edwards?’

Kelly couldn’t meet her eyes. ‘Not so much, no.’

Clarke gave a snort. ‘That’s because they’re your source for all of this, yes? Happy to land everyone else in it just so long as they’re protected?’

‘I’m not saying they’re whiter than white.’

‘Trust me, that would be a tough sell around this table.’

‘But Rawlston with his lazy assumption that there had to be a gay angle; Skelton bunking off half the time; Newsome altering statements; Rebus doing favours for Derek Shankley...’ He paused. ‘You’ve not even started interviewing them, have you?’

‘In Mary Skelton’s case, that would require a spiritualist,’ Clarke replied icily. ‘In point of fact, we’ve already spoken with Rawlston and Rebus. And I’m sure Laura’s let you know we’ve had a visit from Derek Shankley and his father, too. So if you’re looking for evidence of sloppy policing or a cover-up, you need to try harder. And while you’re doing that, we’ll be doing our job, despite all the grief we’re getting.’

‘Can you really blame the family, after the way they’ve been treated?’

‘All I know is, everyone on the team in Leith is working their damnedest, and media attention just gets in the way.’

‘Catherine’s hurting — her and Martin both.’ Kelly paused and sighed. ‘You know, all the time he was missing, they never once considered having Stuart declared dead. There was always that sliver of hope. For a while, Martin started drinking. He managed to kick it, but it nearly ended the marriage.’

‘This’ll all be going in your book, will it?’

‘The family decide what goes in.’

‘So it might not be the full story.’ Clarke nodded to herself. ‘Just another version.’ She began to manoeuvre her way out of the booth and tossed a ten-pound note on to the tabletop. ‘That should cover mine. Don’t seem to have any appetite.’

‘The Blooms could be useful to you, you know,’ Kelly was saying. ‘They have the ear of the media. Someone out there knows who killed Stuart and why. The longer this plays on TV and elsewhere, the more it might get to them.’

Clarke ignored him, waved an apology towards the frowning proprietor and yanked open the door. She was halfway across the pavement when Laura Smith emerged, clattering towards her on wedge heels.

‘Siobhan...’

Clarke paused and waited. Smith glanced back at the window, where Kelly was watching.

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I thought I was helping.’

‘Me or him?’

The journalist tried for a look suggesting penitence. ‘Let me make it up to you.’

‘I’m listening.’

‘A heads-up on a story we’re running in the morning. It’s about Sir Adrian Brand.’

‘Yes?’

‘You’re out at Poretoun House, aren’t you? Ripping the place apart from what I hear.’

‘What’s the story, Laura?’

‘Just that Sir Adrian is friends with DCS Mollison. We’ve got pics of them at charity galas and out on the golf course.’

‘So?’ Clarke managed not to show that her heart had sunk a little. ‘Have you asked DCS Mollison for a quote?’

‘He’s been hard to get hold of.’

‘Since news of the handcuffs broke? Wonder why that could be, Laura.’

Smith scowled at Clarke’s sarcasm. ‘I’m a reporter, Siobhan. This is my job.’

‘And did you find the story all on your own, or did you have a bit of help?’ Clarke looked towards the window. Kelly was dabbing at his phone with both thumbs. ‘He wants a friend inside MIT, and can give you something in return if you make an introduction?’

‘A story’s a story.’

‘Not when it’s being skewed. A game of golf? A charity night? Whoopee-fucking-do, Laura. You know as well as I do, it says everything and nothing, but that won’t stop the conspiracy theorists lapping it up, especially when you add as a last line that DCS Mollison could not be reached for comment.’

‘I couldn’t get to him, but you can.’

Clarke raised both eyebrows. ‘So you want me to do your job for you? Get him to talk to you? Dream on, sister.’ She spun away and unlocked her car. She had already started the engine when Smith’s fingernails tapped at the window. Clarke lowered it and Smith leaned in so they were face to face.

‘Know how few of us are left out here in the wild, Siobhan? Journalists like me, we’re an endangered species. It’s all bloggers and social justice warriors and gossip hounds. How many of them can you put a name to? Maybe you better start trying, because soon they’re going to be all that’s left.’

Clarke watched her turn and head back inside, where her overfilled sandwich was waiting. Kelly had picked his up and was wondering where to start. Smith sat across from him. He spoke, she listened, then they both turned in Clarke’s direction. She fixed her gaze on the windscreen in front of her and signalled to join the stream of traffic, ignoring the blaring horn of the taxi behind her.

29

Rebus hadn’t been inside Saughton for a few years. His phone was confiscated and he had to go through an airport-style scanner. They even swabbed him to check for drugs. He explained about the inhaler and they asked upstairs before allowing him to hang on to it. And then he was in. The visitors’ room was large and poorly heated, the tables busy with family members. Rebus was led towards Ellis Meikle. The young man sat rigid as a statue, jaw clenched, eyes fixed to the whitewashed stone wall over Rebus’s shoulder after Rebus had seated himself on the red moulded-plastic chair.

‘Thanks for seeing me,’ he said.

‘Thank Uncle Dallas,’ Meikle muttered.

‘You know why I’m here?’

‘No.’

‘Your uncle sort of asked me to take a look at the case. He says you shouldn’t be in here.’

Meikle’s eyes met Rebus’s. ‘They’ve got me in with the sex cases,’ he stated. ‘Say it’s for my own protection.’

‘They may be right. Won’t have escaped your attention that this place is a jungle. Survival of the fittest and all that. Sex cases tend to be quieter, better-mannered.’

‘I can look after myself.’

‘Helps that you’re a killer,’ Rebus agreed. ‘Killers always get a bit more respect.’

‘I’m not a sex case, though. I shouldn’t be in with them — it’s embarrassing.’

‘I can try to have a word...’ Rebus had been studying the young man. He was not yet quite an adult, his face a combination of the kid he had been and the man he was becoming. He still probably only needed a shave twice a week or so. He had defined cheekbones and thin shoulders, his prison-issue sweatshirt a size or two too large. He clasped his hands, pressing them across the top of his head, elbows jutting.

‘Tell Uncle Dallas I did it. He knows I did.’

‘If that’s your story, there’s not much anyone can do.’ Rebus shrugged as if it meant very little to him one way or the other. ‘But you know yourself that there are still questions and loose ends. The one thing that mystifies me is why you did it in the first place. Wasn’t Kristen the love of your life?’

‘What do you think?’

‘I’ve seen the trial reports. She comes over like Princess Diana.’ Rebus paused. ‘Sorry, that’s way before your time.’

‘I know who you’re talking about. Kristen wasn’t exactly a princess, though.’

‘No?’

Meikle shook his head slowly. Rebus waited, but no more words came.

‘You finding your feet okay?’ he enquired.

‘Workshops and stuff, they keep us as busy as they can.’

‘Not enough warders though; hours spent in your cell?’

The young man nodded again, slowly lowering his arms and folding them.

‘Do you see your mum and sister?’

‘Once a week.’

‘They doing okay?’

‘What do you think?’

Rebus folded his own arms. An old trick. Copy the actions of the person opposite and they might begin to sense similarities rather than differences.

‘You got kids?’ Meikle asked into the silence.

‘Grown-up daughter. I’m a grandad these days. Do you see your dad?’

‘Not got a lot to say to him.’

‘I hear you two used to like a bit of a dust-up.’

‘Now and again,’ the young man conceded.

‘I’d have thought taking you to watch Hearts would have been punishment enough.’

This elicited a thin smile. ‘You a Hibbie?’

‘I’m agnostic.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘I try not to take sides.’

‘So are you a cop or what?’

‘Used to be. Retired now.’

‘How do you know Uncle Dallas?’

‘I’m not sure I really do. We’re both ex-army, so there’s that in common if nothing else. I’ve not met your dad yet, or your sister.’

‘They’ve got fuck all to do with this!’ Meikle’s voice had risen a notch, his throat tightening.

‘Easy, son,’ Rebus cautioned. One of the warders was moving in their direction. Rebus waved him away. Ellis Meikle angled his body forward, elbows on the table. Rebus did the same.

‘What’s done is done,’ Meikle said hoarsely.

‘That why you were okay with me visiting?’

‘Nobody can change what happened. I’m in here and that’s all there is to it. Best you go tell Dallas that.’

‘You wouldn’t rather be outside, though? There might be something that could help you, something you’ve not told anyone. Mitigating factors, we call them.’

‘Lawyer said the same thing — didn’t do any good.’

‘Keeping your mouth shut didn’t exactly help your case, Ellis. Did something happen that day at home? Something that got your dander up, kept you seething all the way to the golf course? Did Kristen tell you something? Or your mum or Uncle Dallas? Had to be to your face — your phone was checked and there was nothing there. But this Jekyll and Hyde thing sometimes happens; a person’s fine until they’re not. Something changes them, and they go and do something, and then they’re back to normal again.’

‘Normal? You don’t know us at all, do you?’

‘Your family, you mean?’ Rebus shook his head. ‘I’ve talked to some of your mates, though, and they all gave me pretty much the same answer.’

‘What?’

‘She made you do it.’

‘Kristen?’

Rebus nodded, maintaining eye contact. ‘The not-quite-princess we didn’t hear about at the trial.’

‘I heard they made a shrine for her. Have you seen it?’

‘At the bunker?’ Rebus nodded again.

‘It’s still there after all these months...’ The young man nodded to himself. ‘That’s who she is then. It’s all over the net so it must be true.’

‘Plenty of shite on the internet, Ellis. I hardly ever use it and even I know that.’ Rebus paused. ‘Just do one thing for me — look me in the eye and tell me you did it.’

Meikle focused on him, unblinking. ‘I did it,’ he said.

Rebus found himself nodding once more, and puckering his lips as he did so.

‘I think you’re lying,’ he commented.

‘I stabbed her in the neck. She bled out on to the sand, her knees going from under her.’

‘Then tell me why.’

Meikle blinked twice. ‘What else was I going to do?’ he said, rising to his feet as the warder appeared behind him.

‘Time’s up,’ the warder announced.

Rebus got up from the table, watching as Ellis Meikle was led away. What else was I going to do? What the hell did that mean? The other visitors were saying their goodbyes to loved ones. As the prisoners headed one way, the visitors were escorted back down the corridor. A warder was waiting halfway, resting against a door. He stopped Rebus with a gesture.

‘Got a minute?’ he asked. Rebus watched as the corridor emptied.

‘What’s up?’

‘Someone wants a word.’ The warder pulled open the door and Rebus stepped inside the prison library, a small room with half-filled shelves of well-used books. The door closed behind him, the warder staying outside. Rebus didn’t see anyone at first. There was no one behind the desk. But then he heard a noise and half turned as a familiar face appeared from behind a stack. Darryl Christie had changed since his trial, his face puffy, skin sallow and with an unhealthy sheen to it. Warders as well as prisoners took on the same complexion eventually. A prison tan, it was called.

‘Mr Rebus,’ Christie said, holding out a hand for Rebus to shake.

‘Thought you were in Barlinnie, Darryl.’

‘They moved me. Closer to my family here. I can still pull a string or two when I want.’

‘That how you knew I was here?’

Christie just smiled. ‘Keeping out of mischief yourself?’

‘Just barely.’

‘I’ve been reading about the Bloom case. Going to be a few spankings there, eh?’

‘You’re well informed.’

Christie stretched his arms wide. ‘The university of life.’

Rebus glanced towards the door. It remained closed. ‘You seem to have made friends.’

‘A few quid here and there keeps people sweet. So what brings you to this neck of the swamp?’

‘Just visiting someone.’

‘Ellis Meikle.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Why, though?’

‘I’m a friend of the family.’

‘No you’re not.’

‘His uncle Dallas and me were in the army together.’

‘Dallas Meikle? You’re old enough to be his dad. Want to try spinning me another?’

Rebus thought for a moment. ‘They’ve got him in with the sex offenders — would you be able to pull a string or two there?’

‘I might.’

‘Or keep an eye on the lad at least, make sure trouble doesn’t find him?’

Christie took his time answering, pulling a book from a shelf and studying its jacket before returning it.

‘Answer me this first — is Cafferty your bestie or your enemy?’

The scene played out suddenly in Rebus’s memory: Cafferty’s flat; Christie with a gun pointed at Rebus’s face; knocked cold by the hammer Cafferty swung at him.

‘He tried visiting you,’ Rebus answered.

‘To rub it in my face. He goes to my club every night, sits in my chair, orders my people around.’ Christie’s anger was growing, his whole body tensing. Rebus had shuffled back a few steps so he was close to the door. Christie had noticed.

‘I’m not going to do anything to you! It’s him I want.’ He gestured towards a computer behind the reception desk. ‘They let me use it for research. I know as much about Morris Gerald Cafferty as anyone — except maybe you, John. So tell me what I need to know — are you two bosom buddies or what?’

‘I’d stick him in here if I could.’

Christie stabbed a finger in Rebus’s direction, eyes glowing. ‘You promise that? On your daughter’s life?’

‘You taking anything, Darryl?’

Christie snorted. ‘Everyone in here’s taking something. It’s almost as rife as Barlinnie. The only thing you’ll see more of than drugs is wagging tongues. Not much else to do but gossip. Plenty old-timers who’ve had dealings with Cafferty down the years. I maybe know things you don’t.’ He paused to lick his lips. ‘Your lot have stopped targeting him, haven’t they? No investigations, surveillance, phone taps? Nobody’s paying a blind bit of attention, because Police Scotland has become one giant fucking psychiatric case.’

‘DI Fox works at Gartcosh. I can ask him if Cafferty’s being—’

‘I’m telling you, Cafferty’s been let off the hook. He’s running the drugs, the brothels, the fences, the illegal immigrants. He’s taking a cut from everyone and everywhere and nobody’s doing anything to stop him.’

Rebus saw it in Christie’s sunken eyes: Cafferty had become an obsession, an infatuation, almost to the point of madness.

‘I’m out of the game, Darryl,’ he reasoned. ‘If you want Police Scotland to target Cafferty, give them what you’ve got.’

Christie shook his head. There was sweat beading on his forehead and he wiped it away. ‘There’s not enough — not in the here and now. But then along comes Stuart Bloom...’

Rebus stared at him. ‘You can tie Cafferty to Bloom?’

‘There was a guy in here, one-time safe-breaker. Past it now, of course. He’s back outside. Used to do jobs for Cafferty from the eighties on, was still with him in 2006. He knows a lot of what Cafferty was up to back then.’ Christie was nodding to himself, eyes never leaving Rebus. ‘You knew Cafferty then too, John — Larry mentioned you once or twice to people. Larry Huston. Name mean anything?’

‘I think I remember it.’

‘Get Larry to tell you what he knows.’

‘Why don’t I just hear it from you?’

Christie seemed to admit the reasonableness of this. ‘Huston was out of here before I arrived, so it’s all second- and third-hand — that’s why it’s better for him to tell you.’ He took a step forward, then another, leaning in so his mouth was close to Rebus’s ear. Rebus caught a blast of halitosis when he spoke.

‘They’re looking at pinning Bloom on you and yours. Wouldn’t it be better all round if Cafferty took the fall?’

His fist passed Rebus’s head and thumped once on the door. It opened immediately, the same warder standing there.

‘Thanks, Bobby,’ Christie said.

‘No problem, Darryl.’ Then, to Rebus: ‘Let’s go get you your phone.’

30

The team watched the press conference on the monitor in the MIT office. Mollison looked and sounded the part, parrying questions with professional aplomb while Graham Sutherland sat next to him, wriggling and twitching as if he would never get comfortable. When the cameras cut to the press pack, Clarke saw that Dougal Kelly had been allowed in and was seated next to Laura Smith, both of them recording the audio on their phones. More than one journalist wanted to know if the handcuffs were standard police issue and whether there were identifiers on them. Others asked about the questioning of Jackie Ness and the forensic team at Poretoun House. Mollison managed not to give much away while sounding as if he were being frank and open.

‘It’s a definite skill,’ George Gamble commented.

‘That’s why he earns the big bucks,’ Callum Reid added. Reid was watching like an avid student in a lecture theatre, Mollison the professor he wanted one day to become. Clarke shuffled further back to where Malcolm Fox was standing, at his favoured spot just by the door.

‘I hear you took my advice,’ she said in an undertone.

‘Dinner with Tess, you mean?’ He watched her nod. ‘How did you know?’

‘Word got around. So how did it go?’

‘It was fine.’

‘Did you happen to mention she was on the bench till I turned you down?’ She saw his look and shook her head. ‘Your secret’s safe with me. But tell me, was it just dinner, or did things...?’

‘Just dinner,’ Fox stated, giving her another look.

‘You’ll miss her when you’re sent back to Gartcosh — any news on that front?’

‘No.’

They watched as the press conference began to wind down. The media liaison office got busy handing out briefing notes, but there was sudden movement, Dougal Kelly confronting Sutherland and Mollison, phone held out in front of him like a microphone.

‘You wouldn’t take my question but I’m asking it anyway,’ Kelly was shouting. ‘Is it true that a fingerprint on the handcuffs has been identified as belonging to Jackie Ness? Why has this information been withheld from the family?’

‘We’re not at liberty to discuss—’

Mollison’s words were drowned out by a barrage of questions from the room. Was that why Ness had been brought in for questioning and why his former home was being examined by a forensic team? Mollison’s face had turned crimson, a mix of rage and embarrassment. He was waving away the questions with one hand and guiding Sutherland towards the exit with the other. The journalists were asking Kelly for more details, their recording devices thrust in his direction. Was he sure? How did he know? Tess Leighton had turned away from the monitor and was making for Fox and Clarke.

‘It was all going so well,’ she commented.

‘Mollison’s going to be raging,’ Fox added.

‘With Graham bearing the brunt of it.’

‘I dare say he’ll share it around when he gets back.’

‘Or before,’ Callum Reid said, answering his phone. ‘Yes, we saw,’ he told Sutherland. ‘All of us, yes.’ He listened for a moment. ‘We’re wondering that ourselves. Should we pull Kelly in and ask him?’ He listened again, shaking his head for the benefit of the room. ‘You’re right, probably wouldn’t play well. But does that mean we shouldn’t do it?’ Another shake of the head. ‘So when the phones start ringing, what do we say? “Not a bloody thing”,’ he quoted, eyes on Clarke. ‘Understood.’ Clarke’s own phone vibrated. An incoming text from Laura Smith: I had no idea. Well, of course. Kelly hadn’t got the info from Laura. It had to be Steele and Edwards again. But could she say as much without it sounding as if she just wanted them stitched up?

Reid’s call with Sutherland had finished. ‘Ten minutes he’ll be here,’ he said.

‘What should we do about Ness?’ Fox enquired.

‘How do you mean?’

‘Press are going to be all over him again.’

‘Not forgetting the Bloom family,’ Leighton added. ‘He’s got a lot of grief coming his way.’

‘Might be easier all round for him just to confess,’ George Gamble said from behind his desk while cracking his knuckles.

‘Is protective custody an option?’ Leighton asked. Callum Reid offered a shrug.

‘Boss’s decision rather than ours. I’d say he’s going to have something else at the forefront of his mind, though.’

‘Who leaked,’ Fox said with a slow nod.

‘Who leaked,’ Callum Reid agreed.

There was still colour in Graham Sutherland’s cheeks when he entered the office. His team waited in silence for him to speak. He eased himself on to the corner of his desk and folded his arms.

‘Mollison is rightly furious. That was a hijacking, pure and simple. But like the best stunts, it got a result. That doesn’t mean anything’s changed. We still have plenty of work to do and that’s what we need to focus on. Siobhan, you’ve got Glasgow this evening, yes?’ He watched as she nodded. ‘And you’re taking Emily?’

‘Once she’s finished at Poretoun House, yes.’

‘I dare say she’ll have to barge her way through a few TV crews. Meantime, the line we’re putting out is that enquiries are ongoing. No need to explain to the media that the fiscal doesn’t reckon the fingerprint evidence will fly in court. Mrs Bloom wants a meeting with the chief constable. Mollison is what she’ll get and he’ll tell her as little as he can. The reporters will be champing at the bit, but again, that’s not going to bother us unduly.’ He paused for effect. ‘What does bother me is that this was leaked in the first place. I know leaks can come from anywhere and plenty of people can be bought cheaply. I just hope to hell nobody points the finger our way.’ His eyes met those of each of his team in turn, Fox included. ‘And if they do, I trust I can say with hand on heart that I have every confidence in my officers.’

Having said his piece, he looked suddenly weary. Raising himself up, he rounded the desk and sat down.

‘Mollison’s going to be reporting directly to the chief. I doubt we’ll be replaced — inquiry’s too far along the tracks — but he raised it as a possibility, so I’m letting you know. Any questions?’

Fox cleared his throat. ‘What do we do about Jackie Ness?’

Sutherland stared back at Fox. ‘Jackie Ness?’ he said. ‘Quite frankly, Malcolm, and I say this with all sincerity — fuck him.’

31

The meeting was scheduled for a wine bar called the Savannah, off Sauchiehall Street. Clarke and Crowther arrived early — lighter traffic on the M8 than they’d feared, and the sat nav had proved equal to Glasgow’s one-way system — and ordered food.

‘What’s quickest?’ had been Clarke’s question to their server. The answer had been Glasgow tapas. The large wooden platter took up half the table: haggis balls, potato wedges with tomato dip, gobbets of crusty bread, and miniature glazed sausages. They didn’t talk much while they ate. On the drive west, Crowther had filled Clarke in on the search of Poretoun House. She’d arrived back in Leith just before five, the SOCOs having finished for the day at four. Attic and basement levels still to do.

‘He seemed almost gleeful,’ she had said, showing Clarke more photos on her phone of the search and Sir Adrian Brand.

‘Was Glenn Hazard with him?’

‘For about half an hour, mostly spent making calls and checking messages. Low boredom threshold, I think. He kept pestering me with questions about Jackie Ness.’

‘You going back tomorrow?’

‘Think I need to?’

‘It’s Graham’s call. Maybe you could swap with Phil.’

It had then been Clarke’s turn to give an update on the aftermath of the news conference. The press were camped outside Ness’s home and office, but the man himself had wisely gone to ground.

‘What about the family?’

‘Madam Bloom’s all over the news. Social media is a feeding frenzy.’

‘We should charge Ness, don’t you think?’

Clarke offered a shrug. ‘Graham’s having another word with the fiscal while the lab are trying to see if they can isolate any more partials on the cuffs.’

‘And all while we ask ourselves the same question — who was it spilled the beans to Dougal Kelly?’

Clarke nodded without saying anything. Their plates had been cleared by the time the two men arrived. They looked around, spotted Clarke and Crowther and wandered over.

‘I’m Joe Madden,’ the taller of the two said.

‘Colin Speke,’ his companion added. Clarke and Crowther introduced themselves. Madden and Speke pulled out chairs and got comfortable. The bar was midweek quiet and Clarke had showed her ID when asking for the music to be turned down. Madden and Speke took off their identical quilted jackets.

‘You know one another quite well?’ Clarke asked.

‘Aye, we’ve worked together a slew of times,’ Madden said in a local accent.

‘Live not too far apart either,’ Speke added. ‘So I offered Joe a lift here.’

‘Explains why you walked in together,’ Clarke said with a nod. Speke ordered an espresso and Madden a glass of red wine, Clarke and Crowther sticking to tap water.

‘How was the holiday?’ Clarke asked Speke.

‘Fine, aye. My partner likes the heat; I go crispy after an hour.’ He tugged up one sleeve of his jumper to show a reddened arm speckled with freckles.

‘And Italy?’ Clarke asked Madden.

‘Sunshine can be a curse when you’re filming,’ he informed her. ‘Getting the lighting right is a nightmare, and that’s before the presenter starts squinting.’

‘Well, we appreciate you taking the time to see us.’

‘It’s only taken you twelve years,’ Speke said with a smile.

‘Any reason you didn’t come forward of your own volition?’

‘To tell you what exactly?’ Madden interrupted. ‘That Stuart Bloom was an extra on a zombie film?’

Clarke sat back, mouth closed, running her tongue along her teeth.

Speke looked to his friend. ‘The inspector here knows better, Joe.’

Madden’s eyes were on Clarke. ‘Well maybe if she tells us what it is she knows...’

The silence lay between them as the drinks order arrived. Madden’s eyes stayed fixed on Clarke’s throughout.

‘I think we need to do this properly,’ Emily Crowther interrupted, earning a slow nod of agreement from Clarke.

‘Meaning what?’ Speke asked, the slightest of tremors appearing in his voice. He had started to lift his espresso cup but placed it back in its saucer untouched.

‘Interview room at Leith police station, Edinburgh,’ Clarke informed him. ‘Questioned separately so we can make sure your versions add up. See, you’ve had a bit of time to think this over. Tonight you probably put your heads together for an hour or so, deciding how little you could get away with telling us. That wasn’t terribly wise, as you’re finding out. So: do we start again from the beginning, or do we have a patrol car take you to Edinburgh? Plenty cameras waiting for you there, Mr Madden, and you’ll be the one squinting as you’re led past them into the station.’

Clarke sat back and waited. Eventually Madden smiled.

‘Can’t blame us for trying, can you? Nobody wants mixed up in a murder.’

‘That’s not what it was, though. Stuart Bloom was a missing person in 2006. You knew him yet you didn’t come forward.’

‘We were waiting for the phone to ring,’ Speke blurted out. ‘You’re right, we knew Stuart. We reckoned you’d be coming to talk to us.’

‘But you never did,’ Madden added. ‘And the longer we waited, the more we wondered why not. If you’d found any mention of us, you’d have picked up the phone or knocked on our door. Reason that didn’t happen was Stuart hadn’t kept any record of us. Why? Because he was meticulous that way.’ Madden tapped his forehead. ‘He kept pretty much everything up here. That way, there was nothing for anyone to find if they came snooping — I don’t mean the police, but people he was investigating. If they got wind of what he was up to, and sent their own investigator along for a nosy, or tried bugging his phone or getting into his computer...’ He tapped his forehead again, then raised his glass to his lips and sipped.

‘We were scared,’ Speke broke in.

‘Not scared, Colin,’ Madden corrected him. ‘Just cautious.’

‘So when he vanished, what did you think?’ Clarke asked.

‘That maybe someone had put the frighteners on him,’ Madden speculated.

‘There were dozens of possibilities,’ Speke added. ‘We heard the same rumours as everyone else.’

‘Even wondered about the boyfriend,’ Madden agreed. ‘Say he’d killed him, maybe in a jealous rage. Well... son of a cop, his dad would have had a way of getting rid of the evidence.’

‘And tonight,’ Speke said, ‘they’re saying Stuart was handcuffed.’

‘But with the only verifiable print that of Jackie Ness,’ Clarke felt it necessary to qualify.

‘I dare say your lot know how to make that happen, eh?’ Madden drained his glass and smacked his lips, signalling towards the bar for a refill.

‘You have a pretty jaundiced view of us,’ Crowther stated. Madden looked towards Speke.

‘Tell them.’

Speke shook his head furiously. Madden turned his attention back to the two detectives. ‘Colin here used to go to Rogues. He saw exactly how jaundiced your lot are.’

Clarke was studying Speke. ‘You’re gay, Mr Speke?’

‘I keep telling him that things have changed,’ Madden continued, ‘but he’s still got one foot in the closet.’ Speke had lifted the espresso cup and was trying to hide behind it. ‘I blame the parents myself.’

‘For what?’ Clarke enquired.

‘Dying before Colin could pluck up the courage to tell them.’ He saw the look Crowther was giving him. ‘Hetero as they come,’ he told her, patting his chest with a palm.

‘Were you at Rogues any of the times it was busted?’ Clarke asked Speke. He shook his head and took a deep breath.

‘Stuart always seemed to know in advance. He’d warn me off.’

‘How do you think he knew?’

‘I thought Derek was probably telling him.’

‘And how did Derek know?’

‘Well...’ Speke shrugged. ‘His dad, no?’

‘I wasn’t so sure about that,’ Madden offered. ‘The guy who owned Rogues...’ He looked to his friend.

‘Ralph Hanratty,’ Speke obliged.

‘I reckoned he had a cop or two in his pocket and they’d tip him the wink.’

Crowther and Clarke shared a look. They were trying to remember if Hanratty’s name was on the list Alex Shankley had helped compile. When Crowther slid her phone from her pocket, Clarke knew she’d be texting Phil Yeats.

‘Can we move on,’ Clarke said, ‘to a few questions about your involvement in Stuart Bloom’s business?’

Madden’s fresh glass had arrived. He took a slurp. ‘Is this because you don’t like us asking you about cops in people’s pockets and faking fingerprint evidence?’

‘It’s the reason we’re having this meeting, Mr Madden,’ Clarke corrected him. ‘We’ve been told that you advised him in regard to surveillance techniques—’

‘That’s a bit of a stretch,’ Colin Speke interrupted. ‘Stuart just wanted to know what gear we used in certain situations.’

‘He actually knew almost as much as we did,’ Madden added.

‘So you never went out with him on a job?’

‘Maybe once or twice.’

Clarke looked at Madden. ‘Go on,’ she prompted him.

‘Are we going to be in trouble?’

‘Did you break the law?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Me neither, till I hear what you’ve got to say.’

Madden glanced at his friend, who put up no objection. He swallowed another mouthful of wine, almost finishing the glass; Clarke was beginning to wonder if he had a problem.

‘We went out with him a few times so he could test bits and pieces of kit. A night-vision scope; special camera lenses; a few long-range mics.’

‘Any location in particular?’

‘There was a house in Murrayfield...’

‘Owned by Sir Adrian Brand?’ Clarke guessed. ‘Surrounded by a high wall.’

Madden was nodding. ‘That was the thing. Stuart was sure there’d be motion sensors that would floodlight the grounds, so the wall was as close as we could get. But that was only thirty feet or so from the back of the house.’

‘With a clear view of the garden room?’

‘You know the place?’ Madden watched as Clarke nodded.

Speke cleared his throat. ‘Stuart wanted to know about bugs, too, but I couldn’t help him with that. He went to the internet instead, I think.’

‘He bugged Brand’s house?’

‘House and office both was the plan.’

‘Never carried out?’

Speke looked to Madden, who shrugged.

‘How about computer hacking?’ Clarke asked.

‘Again, Stuart was a lot savvier than us.’

‘But you knew he was hacking into Brand’s computer?’

‘I don’t think he’d had any success. The tech wasn’t as readily available. There was some software he needed but couldn’t get his hands on.’

‘Any other jaunts apart from Murrayfield?’

‘Just Poretoun House.’

Clarke stared at Speke. ‘Why there?’ Speke shrugged and turned to Madden.

‘I’m not sure Stuart trusted Jackie Ness,’ Madden answered. ‘With good cause, too — the man had tried stiffing us for money we were owed; he did it to everybody if he thought he stood half a chance of getting away with it.’

‘Was it the same procedure as Murrayfield?’

‘Night vision; long-range mic,’ Madden confirmed.

‘What about bugs and computer hacking?’

‘Of Jackie Ness?’ Madden pondered this. ‘Stuart never said anything.’

‘Could money have become an issue between Stuart and his employer?’ Clarke asked, receiving shrugs from both men in response.

‘These little surveillance trips,’ Crowther interrupted, having sent her text, ‘did they throw up anything?’

This time the two men shook their heads simultaneously.

‘You’ve wrung every last drop from us,’ Madden said, draining his glass and waving it towards the bar.

Clarke handed over a business card to either man. ‘We may have some follow-up questions. Any more foreign trips planned?’

They shook their heads again. Clarke got to her feet, Crowther following suit.

‘Let me just...’ Clarke was reaching into her bag for some money but Madden waved her offer aside.

‘You only drank tap water. This is on us.’

She thanked him and made for the door. ‘They’re paying,’ she told the waitress, who was already on her way to the table with Madden’s wine.

‘Wish I’d had the steak now,’ Crowther said as they stepped outside.

32

‘This is nice,’ Rebus said. He meant it, too. His own flat was usually scruffy, filled with accumulations of clutter. Deborah Quant’s, on the other hand, was the epitome of order, each item carefully chosen and positioned, just a few books, a few knick-knacks. Each spacious wall held a solitary painting, which drew the eye towards the art. Her music came from an all-but-invisible Sonos system, and even her choices were tasteful. There were plenty of gadgets in her kitchen, but she had found cupboard space for them all, leaving the worktop largely empty. The flat was in a modern block in the Grange, walking distance from Rebus’s home. Just the one niggle — Quant didn’t want Brillo visiting. The dog’s tail had started wagging, eyes at their most appealing, as he’d watched Rebus shrug into his good coat.

‘Basket,’ Rebus had ordered, trying not to feel guilty.

Quant had summoned him for a supper of pasta and fish, washed down with Pinot Grigio. Just a short interrogation about his health over the dining table, then the pristine white sofa for decaf coffee, a drop more wine, and music. The wall-mounted TV stayed off while they talked.

‘Any news of the Bloom case?’ Rebus enquired.

She made show of checking her watch. ‘Only took you seventy-five minutes, John — good going.’

‘Is there, though?’

‘The wheels of forensic anthropology grind slow, and apparently you can’t hurry soil analysis. The lab in Aberdeen has a lot on its plate, so to speak, and a cold case murder isn’t a top priority.’ She lifted a finger. ‘And if anyone asks, you didn’t hear that from me.’

‘Who’s going to ask?’

‘Have you not been questioned yet?’

‘Not as such.’

‘You will be, though.’

‘If they get round to me. You know they got a fingerprint match from the cuffs?’

She nodded. ‘The film producer.’

‘He was questioned under caution.’

‘And then released. I do watch the news, John.’

Rebus was thoughtful for a moment. Quant had tucked her legs under her and was holding her wine glass while cradling her head in her free hand, elbow propped on the arm of the sofa. Her long red hair had been drawn back from her face and was held by an elasticated band. She wore no make-up, well aware that she didn’t need it. She looked a decade younger than her actual age and never seemed particularly fatigued despite her workload.

‘I forget,’ he asked casually. ‘Did you do the autopsy on Kristen Halliday?’

‘What’s Kristen got to do with anything?’

‘I was asked to dust off the case.’

‘So you’ve looked at the files?’ She watched him nod. ‘Therefore you know fine well I did the autopsy. What’s this all about, John?’

‘Ellis’s uncle harbours a few doubts. He managed to persuade Siobhan that it was worth a fresh pair of eyes.’

‘Every murderer’s family doubts they could have done it.’

‘But when you examined her...’

‘She was stabbed in the neck. She bled out. Cause of death is all that was required from me.’

‘You didn’t pick up anything else from the body?’

‘No recent intercourse. Traces of cannabis and vodka in her system. Not enough to make her incapable. No other marks such as bruising. Her clothes were bloodstained but otherwise clean.’

‘No defensive wounds to the hands?’

‘She knew her attacker, John. She was stabbed from the front by someone right-handed. They didn’t creep up behind her or anything.’

‘Just the one incision?’

‘By a blade matching the one found discarded nearby with Ellis Meikle’s prints on it.’ Quant lifted her head, leaning towards him. ‘Which might explain why he was found guilty.’

‘We got prints from the handcuffs around Stuart Bloom’s ankles too, yet Jackie Ness is still a free man.’

‘Ness hasn’t admitted anything; Meikle did.’

Rebus nodded distractedly. ‘I went to see him this afternoon. He’s in Saughton.’

‘How’s he doing?’

‘A bit more talkative than at the trial.’

‘I remember him when I was giving my evidence. He kept his head bowed. I’m not sure he was really taking any of it in. We know he used drugs, drank too much, no job, broken family...’

‘Just another statistic, eh?’

‘You’re beginning to have doubts,’ Quant stated.

‘I’m looking for the motive, Deb, and not really seeing one.’

‘You know as well as I do, we don’t always get that sort of closure. Plenty of killers don’t know why they did it or else won’t say.’ She reached over and placed a hand on his knee. ‘Cases are seldom a hundred per cent watertight. Ninety usually does it for the jury. Do you think Jackie Ness is going to get away with it?’

Rebus shrugged. ‘If your forensic pals got a move on, I might know the answer to that.’

‘Why did Siobhan bring the Meikle case to you?’

‘She’s snowed under.’

‘And maybe she did it to keep you active?’

‘Either that or out of her hair.’

‘She must have dozens of cases like Meikle, though — does she have links to the uncle or something?’

‘Sort of.’

‘It’s not just altruism then?’

‘It seldom is.’

He watched as Quant tugged the band from her hair, shaking it loose so it fell across her shoulders and forehead.

‘Are you staying?’ she asked.

‘I’d like to, but there’s Brillo to think of.’

‘You could walk him, then come back after.’

‘I could.’ His eyes scanned the room. ‘I like it here.’

‘The decor, the furnishings...?’

‘I think it’s the fact you have a lift,’ he joked, earning a cushion in the face.

33

Sir Adrian Brand and his wife Cordelia had been out for the evening — La Traviata, courtesy of Scottish Opera at the Festival Theatre. Parking was always problematic so they had taken a black cab. Afterwards, they managed a late supper at Ondine before heading home to Murrayfield. The cab dropped them at the gates.

‘We’ll walk,’ Brand instructed the driver, handing over a twenty and telling him to keep the change. The cab started to move off as his wife glowered at him.

‘It’s only fifty yards,’ he chided her, punching the code into the panel on the gatepost.

‘But in heels,’ she complained, lifting one leg for him to see.

‘I’ll carry you then,’ he said with a smile as the gates began to swing open.

Neither of them had noticed the car parked across the street, or that someone had emerged from it and was striding towards them. Cordelia Brand caught a glimpse of the figure from the corner of her eye, and clutched her evening bag close to her chest.

‘Adrian...’ she said.

Brand turned just as the fist was swinging towards him. It connected with the meat of his nose, blood splashing down his shirt front. A knee to the groin doubled him over, and a kick to the stomach put him on all fours. His wife was yelling for help, swiping at the assailant with her bag. He didn’t seem to register her blows. Instead, he leaned down, grabbing Brand by the hair and pulling until his face angled upwards, tears streaming from the eyes.

‘A man can only take so much,’ Jackie Ness hissed, showing both rows of teeth. ‘A lesson you should have learned by now.’ He slammed Brand’s forehead against the pavement, then straightened up and began walking back to his car. Cordelia Brand was torn between stopping him and helping her husband. Decision made, she fumbled in her bag for her phone.

It was 2 a.m. when Clarke got the call. She dressed and picked up her car keys. Jackie Ness’s car had been pulled over on Melville Drive. He’d been placed under arrest and taken to St Leonard’s police station. Sir Adrian Brand was at the Royal Infirmary, awaiting a scan. He seemed okay, but the doctors in A&E wanted to be sure. His wife had given a statement, along with a photo she had snapped with her phone of Ness’s car leaving the scene, its number plate clearly visible. A statement had also been taken from Brand himself. Graham Sutherland was reading it as Clarke entered the MIT room in Leith. Callum Reid turned away from the kettle and handed Clarke a mug of instant.

‘No milk, sorry,’ he said. His hair was uncombed and his eyes were bleary. He wore a shirt and jacket but no tie. Sutherland, on the other hand, looked immaculate. Clarke wondered if he slept upright in his clothes.

‘I didn’t bother disturbing anyone else’s beauty sleep,’ Sutherland said. ‘Just thought my two DIs should be in the loop.’

‘This is because of the Poretoun House search?’ Clarke asked. Stupid question, but she was still half asleep.

‘Mr Ness has been questioned by officers at St Leonard’s, and that’s the story he gave. Even showed them his phone. Over two dozen photos, sent to him by Sir Adrian Brand over a four-hour period. One of them is a selfie, Brand grinning while the work goes on behind him.’

‘I’d probably have gone tonto myself,’ Reid commented. ‘On top of the prints on the handcuffs and the media attention.’

‘I dare say Professional Standards will want a word with us.’

‘Not our fault he snapped,’ Clarke felt it necessary to state. ‘Has Ness put in a complaint?’

‘He might, if his solicitor suggests it. Mitigating circumstances and all that.’

‘Solicitor will say we should have known the reason Brand was on hand to take all those photos was to torment his old adversary.’

Callum Reid nodded his agreement and took a sip from his mug, wincing at its bitter contents.

‘So what now?’ Clarke asked.

‘Lady Brand is at the hospital with her husband. I’d like you to go have a word, see what was said between the two men.’

‘And then a chat with Ness?’

Sutherland looked at Clarke. ‘Maybe tomorrow. He’s being kept in the cells overnight. Chances are it’ll be a sheriff’s court appearance in the morning, a fine and another walk past the cameras and microphones.’

‘After which we bring him back into custody?’

‘Maybe. Meantime, go see what you can glean at A&E.’

Clarke’s windscreen had already started frosting over again. They sat together and waited for the heater to do its job. Reid yawned and checked his phone for news. Clarke’s own phone let her know she had a text. It was from Laura Smith.

Is it true about Ness and Brand?

Clarke texted back: I’m not talking to you. A reply came immediately.

Dougal didn’t get the fingerprint story from me! My editor’s raging I missed it! Can I phone you?

Instead of responding, Clarke released the handbrake and they headed to the hospital. No traffic on the roads apart from cabs. Clarke decided it was safe to ignore the odd red light, though Reid tutted theatrically every time she did it. He had brought his mug with him and she wished she had done the same.

‘Professional Standards would be the icing on the cake,’ he commented.

‘That’s the problem with this cake, Callum — it’s all icing and no bloody filling.’

They made good time and parked near the doors to A&E, making sure emergency vehicles could get past. Two ambulances stood under the canopy, doors open. It was a busy night. There were eight or nine patients seated in reception and a couple of others on trolleys. Paramedics in green overalls chatted among themselves to the side of the reception desk. Clarke and Reid showed ID to the receptionist and were given a ward number. When they got there, Cordelia Brand was seated alone on a row of chairs, her bag on her knees, face ghostly, eyes staring. Clarke and Reid introduced themselves.

‘He’ll be admitted when they’re done examining him,’ Lady Brand said. ‘There’s a bed waiting, I think. But right now they’re doing some sort of brain test. I’m sure he’s fine. He’s talking and everything, just hellish shaken.’

‘You recognised the assailant?’ Reid asked.

‘Oh, it was Jackie Ness all right. Adrian had been laughing about him earlier in the evening. Sending him those photos — I told him it was childish behaviour. But how could we know where it would lead?’

‘Had Ness contacted your husband at all? After the photos started arriving, I mean?’

‘Not that I know of. There were just a couple of them, weren’t there?’

‘A couple of dozen actually,’ Clarke corrected her. The woman’s face tightened.

‘Childish, as I say. But that doesn’t excuse what happened.’

‘Not at all,’ Reid agreed.

‘What did happen exactly?’ Clarke enquired. ‘Can you talk us through it?’

‘If Adrian had let the driver take us up to the door, we’d have been safely inside before that man could reach us. But no, we had to walk the length of the drive.’ She showed them her shoes. ‘In these, I ask you. But Adrian’s mind was made up, so that was that. He was opening the gates when Ness walked over. He’d obviously been waiting in his car; for how long I can’t say, but probably stewing all that time. I was warning Adrian — I thought it was a mugger — when the punch came. Adrian’s nose was bleeding, and then a knee caught him in the groin area. There was another punch to the stomach, I think — no, a kick, a kick to the stomach. He was on the ground by then, but Ness yanked on his hair so Adrian was looking up at him. That’s when he said it.’

‘Said what?’

‘“A man can only take so much. You should know that by now.”’

‘Those exact words?’

‘“You should know that” or “you should have learned that” — something along those lines.’

Clarke jotted it down in her notebook.

‘What do you think he meant?’ Reid was asking. Cordelia Brand offered a shrug.

‘The man’s clearly lost his mind, wouldn’t you say?’

A nurse had arrived through a set of swing doors. ‘Another hour or so, I’m afraid,’ she explained.

‘Any chance we can talk to him?’ Clarke asked, holding open her warrant card.

‘Doubtful until morning. You’d have to ask the doctor.’

‘Please don’t go upsetting him,’ Lady Brand begged the two detectives. ‘This will have bruised his ego as well as his face. He spars with his personal trainer, you know.’

‘We can all get caught by a sucker punch,’ Reid reassured her. The nurse was leaving. Lady Brand took her phone from her bag and showed them the photo of Ness’s car.

‘He should go to jail, but he won’t,’ she said.

‘What makes you think that?’

‘They’re overcrowded as it is — all an assault merits these days is a slap on the wrist. I’m a prison visitor, so I know.’

‘Saughton prison?’ Clarke asked casually. Reid was giving her a questioning look, but she ignored him.

‘Yes.’

‘Ever encountered a teenager called Ellis Meikle?’

‘He should be somewhere else, somewhere for younger prisoners. But then again, he is a murderer.’

‘So you know him to speak to?’

The woman shook her head. ‘Only by reputation — which is that he never says much, except to ask when he can have a games console. I don’t think human life means as much to him as that other world he inhabits. Now if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll go find a mirror so I can brush my hair and tidy my face. Need to look my best for Adrian when I see him.’

The two detectives watched her leave. She had good posture, her back ramrod straight. Clarke imagined her as a girl, books balanced on her head as she learned the necessary poise and refinement.

‘What was all that about?’ Reid asked as he checked his phone for messages.

‘Just a case I worked on.’

‘Do you keep tabs on all of them?’

Clarke didn’t bother answering. She stared at the words she had jotted on her notepad. ‘What do you make of Ness’s outburst?’

‘I’m not sure.’ He put his phone away and stifled a yawn. ‘So do we hang around here on the off chance of a word with the patient?’

‘Depends how keen you are.’

‘Bit of shut-eye wouldn’t go amiss.’

‘Hard to disagree. Bright and early at Leith, though?’

‘Last one in buys elevenses.’

‘You’re on.’

Malcolm Fox was in his kitchen, hands wrapped around a mug of instant hot chocolate. He had slept fitfully, a couple of hours at most. Before bed, he had peered through his curtains, half expecting to see the black Audi parked across his driveway. Either that or Rebus’s Saab. The further down he dug into the Bloom case, the more he found. Not hard facts as such, but hints and trails and links. Trace evidence, in a way. You looked for it at the scene of a crime, but that wasn’t the only place you could find it. Rebus had been good, of course, one of the best — it was the reason Complaints had never been able to kick him off the force. But in covering up the flaws, mistakes and misdemeanours of others, he had left the faintest trace evidence of his own.

The question in Fox’s mind was, what was he going to do about what he had found? In presenting his case, he would be showing himself at his best. Jennifer Lyon would take note; bosses even higher up the ladder would take note. He’d have established himself on a fast track to further promotion. That was what he wanted, wasn’t it? Alternatively, he could take it to Steele and Edwards. They’d see to it he joined them at ACU. He’d spent some of his best years chasing down corruption within the force. At ACU he’d be using those skills again. And maybe in time he would even have enough evidence to send Steele and Edwards to court.

Which future awaited him? He stared at the skin forming on the surface of his drink and couldn’t say.