In a House of Lies

42

‘This is beginning to look a lot like harassment,’ Kelvin Brodie said as he sat down with his client in the interview room. Sutherland and Clarke sat opposite, Clarke fiddling with the recording equipment. She reckoned her presence in the room was a message from the DCI to the rest of the team. Kelly had been as good as his word, according to Sutherland.

‘So you believe me?’ she had demanded to know, but all she’d got in return was a thin smile, no way of really reading it.

Jackie Ness looked pale and drawn, eyes bloodshot. His solicitor meantime wore an even more expensive-looking suit than previously and had a nervous energy about him, a parasite successfully locked on to its host. Ness had become big news, lifting Brodie’s profile. The eventual outcome probably didn’t matter — no such thing as bad publicity, as they said.

Not that the media interest seemed to be having that effect on Ness.

All four identified themselves for the record, and Clarke nodded to her boss that the gear was behaving itself. She then passed a set of photographs across the table. They’d been shot on her phone from the DVD and printed on to A4 paper. A bit grainier than she’d like, but fit for purpose.

‘Do you recognise these, Mr Ness?’

It took a moment for the producer to rouse himself. ‘They’re handcuffs,’ he eventually said.

‘As used in your film Cops v Demons. I watched a copy last night.’

‘If you say so.’

‘The sound recordist on that film was Colin Speke, yes?’

‘If you say so,’ Ness repeated.

‘Well, it’s his name on the closing credits. You asked Mr Speke if he knew anyone who could lend you handcuffs for a couple of scenes. He fetched some from Rogues nightclub, courtesy of Ralph Hanratty. You weren’t happy with them, though — does that ring any bells?’

‘Maybe.’

‘But these handcuffs...’ Clarke gestured towards the photos, which the solicitor was busying himself studying. ‘These look like the real deal; very similar — maybe even identical — to the ones found attached to Stuart Bloom’s ankles.’ She paused to let that sink in. ‘So what we’re wondering is, what happened to them after you’d finished the shoot?’

Ness gave her the bleary look of someone who’d spent a night in a cell and not managed home since. ‘Know how many plates I have to spin to get a film in the can? How am I supposed to remember a detail like that?’

‘Even if it was to lead us to whoever killed Mr Bloom?’

‘I’d help you if I could.’ The producer shrugged. His shoulders were slouched, but Clarke wasn’t completely convinced. She had to keep remembering that this was a man who’d spent his life around actors.

‘Who sourced them then? You’d been asking around the crew and actors; someone must have come up with the goods?’

‘Joe Madden maybe? No, not Joe...’ He arched his neck, staring towards the ceiling for inspiration. ‘You’re right about Colin — he brought along these flimsy bloody things, looked like they should have had pink fur wrapped around them. Sex shop crap...’

‘Take your time,’ Clarke said, as Kelvin Brodie checked his watch.

‘I think we can take it that my client doesn’t remember. Shall we move on?’

‘Well then, there’s the little matter of the break-in.’ Clarke’s eyes drilled into Ness’s.

‘Break-in where?’ Brodie asked.

‘At Adrian Brand’s private office. Just a couple of nights before Stuart Bloom vanished.’

Sutherland had removed a typed sheet from a manila folder, studying it as though to refresh his memory without bothering to show it to either Brodie or his client.

‘You had asked Morris Gerald Cafferty for help in finding a safe-breaker,’ Clarke told Ness. ‘I’m curious: was it your idea or Bloom’s? Opening the safe, I mean? I don’t suppose it matters. What’s pertinent is that you put a man called Larry Huston in touch with Bloom, and the pair of them broke in and emptied the safe.’

‘That’s an extraordinary claim to make, DI Clarke.’ Brodie was holding his hand out, but Sutherland wasn’t about to relinquish the report. ‘I’d be grateful to see your evidence.’

‘We have a full statement from Mr Huston.’

‘And a list of the items taken? Did this Huston fellow actually meet with my client, or only with Bloom? Is he perhaps a fantasist persuaded by you to concoct this frankly far-fetched tale?’

‘He’s a credible witness, Mr Brodie.’

Brodie turned towards Jackie Ness.

‘Never happened,’ Ness responded.

Clarke made show of raising an eyebrow. ‘Cafferty says it did. Larry Huston says it did.’

‘I’ve never heard of anyone called Huston and I only ever met Cafferty a couple of times, and only then because Billy Locke had got him to invest in one of my films.’

‘Zombies v Bravehearts?’

‘Yes.’

‘He even watched you filming some of it in Poretoun Woods.’

‘Did he?’

‘He says he did.’

Ness offered another shrug. ‘Know how many hangers-on there are on a film set? Everybody from the executive producer’s nephew to some extra’s boyfriend or girlfriend.’ A light seemed to switch on behind his eyes. ‘That’s where the cuffs came from! I remember now. One of the extras had a mate who always seemed to be kicking around the place. Everybody liked him because he...’ He broke off, eyes on his lawyer, then leaned in and whispered something.

‘Unwise to hold anything back that could be germane to this inquiry,’ Clarke said in warning. Brodie mulled over what his client had just told him, then nodded. Ness turned his attention back to Clarke.

‘He always had a bit of powder on him — powder and pills. I never touch the stuff, and I don’t condone its use.’

Clarke thought back to her conversation with Hanratty, and the glittering onscreen eyes of Stuart Bloom and Derek Shankley. ‘We already know there were drugs on set, Mr Ness. You’re saying this individual was a dealer?’

‘I never saw money change hands.’

‘Presumably he wasn’t giving them away for free, though?’

Sutherland cleared his throat. ‘Do you happen to remember his name, Mr Ness?’

Ness puffed out his cheeks and expelled air noisily.

‘Maybe you kept a list of everyone who visited the set?’

‘I’m not Paramount Pictures. Security consisted of a question or two to anyone hanging around I didn’t recognise.’

‘But this man attended regularly, and you knew he was distributing drugs.’ Clarke leaned forward a little. ‘I find it hard to believe his name has slipped your memory. Did he ever play a role in one of your productions?’

‘Might’ve been an extra, I suppose. I’ve an idea his mate was one of the zombies on Bravehearts, so he might’ve been too.’

‘And his mate was...?’

Another shrug. ‘One of the locals.’

‘Maybe a name for him, then?’

A slow shake of the head. ‘I really am trying to help you here.’

‘Did you ask him where he found the handcuffs?’

‘I think I was just delighted they had a bit of heft to them. Sounded right, too — Colin said as much when we did this shot.’ He tapped a finger against one of the photos, showing the cuffs around the actor’s wrists.

‘And after you’d finished with them...?’

‘Inspector,’ Brodie said, fussing with his watch’s leather wristband, ‘are you going to present any evidence that the handcuffs photographed here are actually the ones used in the crime?’

‘We’re gathering information, Mr Brodie.’

‘Admirable, I’m sure. But if they are the same, you must see that their appearance in one of my client’s films would explain precisely why his partial fingerprint ended up on them.’

‘I’m well aware of that.’ Clarke’s eyes were on Ness. ‘If we could prove they’re the same, it might save you from going to trial, Mr Ness.’

Ness snapped his fingers as if suddenly remembering. ‘His first name was Gram.’

‘Gram?’

‘You know, like a gram of cocaine.’

‘And Gram was the dealer rather than his friend the extra?’

Ness nodded.

‘But you don’t know the friend’s name?’

‘Mr Ness is doing his level best here, Inspector,’ Brodie interjected.

Clarke ignored him. ‘This friend was an extra, Mr Ness? In Bravehearts? Cops v Demons? And Gram might have been onscreen too?’

‘I can’t be sure.’

‘It so happens I have both films here with me. Would you be willing to watch them and see if you can spot either man?’

Ness considered for a moment, then nodded slowly. ‘Probably safer here than outside — if it’s not the media stalking me, it’s Stuart’s bloody mother.’

‘You’ll want your solicitor present, of course.’ Clarke turned her attention to Kelvin Brodie. Three hours of B movies played on a laptop with Jackie Ness for company. The look the lawyer gave her would, Clarke knew, warm her during many a long dark night.

43

Rebus sat in his Saab, watching the Meikle house, radio playing softly. After twenty minutes and half a pack of gum, Dallas Meikle emerged, getting into his car and driving off. Rebus locked the Saab, walked to the front door and rang the bell. Seona Meikle opened up, cigarette in hand. The look she gave him was the opposite of welcoming.

‘Do I know you?’ she rasped.

‘I was here a few days back. You saw me chatting to Dallas.’

‘He said you drank at McKenzie’s, but that was pish. I can tell every time he lies.’

‘Had a bit of experience, then?’

‘Who are you and what do you want?’

‘I’m ex-CID. I’ve been given the job of looking at your son’s conviction. I’m assuming Dallas hasn’t said anything.’

She took her time folding her arms, the cigarette hanging from a corner of her mouth. ‘No,’ she finally admitted.

‘Well, Dallas was harassing one of the detectives on the case. She brought me in to help.’

‘Help what?’

‘Examine the evidence; dig down a bit deeper than maybe happened at the trial.’

‘Trying to get him off, you mean?’ Her eyes narrowed as the smoke hit them.

‘Trying to establish what actually happened, and why.’

She shook her head. ‘Bloody Dallas. I knew he couldn’t let it rest.’

‘You think your son did it, Mrs Meikle?’

‘Who else?’

A fair question, but not one Rebus felt like answering. Instead, he slipped his hands into his pockets, keeping his stance casual. ‘I’ve been studying some of the family’s social media,’ he said. ‘Just working out relationships, stuff like that.’

‘Is that legal?’

Rebus fixed her with a stare. ‘I’m wondering why you call yourself Chizzy, Mrs Meikle.’

‘Eh?’

‘When you’re pretending to be a pal of your daughter’s. When you’re having a bit of a snipe at her.’

‘Go fuck yourself.’ She had unfolded her arms and plucked the cigarette from her mouth.

‘She won’t be too happy when she finds out, I dare say.’

The woman had taken a step back and was starting to close the door on him.

‘It’s because she chose her father over you, isn’t it? That’s what’s pisses you off.’

‘Go fuck yourself,’ she repeated.

‘And now you don’t even have Ellis,’ Rebus pushed on. ‘Just you and your brother-in-law, all nice and cosy. But not really cosy at all...’

His last words were called out to a door that had clicked shut. He leaned down and prised the letter box open, withdrawing his fingers rapidly as the cigarette was stubbed down towards them.

‘Attempted assault, Mrs Meikle,’ he called out, receiving in response the familiar refrain, this time from deeper inside the house. Seona Meikle was done with him.

‘That went well,’ Sutherland told Clarke when they returned to the MIT room. Clarke just nodded and told Phil Yeats to take a laptop and the two DVDs to the interview room. Seated behind her desk, she remembered a call she had to make. She found Derek Shankley’s mobile number on the list next to her computer.

‘Yes?’ he answered.

‘It’s DI Clarke, phoning from Leith. I hope I’m not disturbing you?’

‘I’m marking coursework.’

‘I won’t keep you. I was just wondering if the name Larry Huston meant anything to you?’

‘Afraid not.’

‘We think he helped Stuart break into Adrian Brand’s office and steal from the safe there.’

‘Really?’ Shankley sounded bemused.

‘Stuart probably met or spoke with Huston sometime before the break-in. The break-in itself happened just a couple of nights before his disappearance.’

‘Stuart never really talked about work.’

‘No?’

‘He always said what I didn’t know couldn’t hurt me.’

‘Two nights prior to his disappearance, were you maybe waiting for him at his flat?’

‘Let me think... Yes, probably.’

‘He wouldn’t have got back till late.’

‘His line of work often took him out at night.’

‘Having got the contents of the safe, I’d think he might be elated, a bit more than usual even?’

There was silence on the line while Shankley thought back. ‘Yes, that’s right,’ he eventually said. ‘He was quivering all over. Poured himself a whisky, which was unusual. I remember now. I thought he was feverish or something.’

‘And he had a carrier bag with him?’

‘Nothing out of the ordinary in that.’

‘Not shopping, though; maybe something he was reluctant to show you?’

‘Could be, I don’t really recall. I know he stayed up late. I woke up when he came to bed. He seemed... a bit cast down. Maybe just tired, I thought. He was okay in the morning.’

‘Did you see the bag after that time?’

‘I don’t think so... Is it important? Maybe it got taken in the break-in.’

Clarke felt her stomach lurch. ‘What break-in?’

‘A week after Stuart vanished, I got a call from a neighbour. Someone had kicked in his door.’

‘What did they take?’

‘Actually, I’m not sure they took anything. I mean, nothing I could identify as missing.’

‘The bag?’

‘I don’t know if it was still there.’

‘Why didn’t you report this, Derek?’

‘The neighbours beat me to it. Police were there by the time I arrived.’

‘Which police?’

‘The kind who wear uniforms and ask to see your ID.’

‘Would that information have been passed to the squad investigating Stuart’s disappearance?’

‘How am I supposed to know that?’

‘You’re not,’ Clarke conceded.

‘Was there anything else, Inspector?’

‘Just one thing. Stuart and you were extras in Zombies v Bravehearts. I saw you on the DVD, remember?’

‘Yes.’

‘I don’t suppose the pair of you had taken anything? You seemed a bit... glassy.’

‘Better that than wooden.’

‘You’re not going to get in trouble, Derek. I just need to know.’

‘There was plenty of stuff on set, if that’s what you’re asking. Pills and weed mostly — coke for those who could afford it.’

‘Supplied by a man called Gram?’

‘Now that you mention it.’

‘Ever know his surname?’

‘Don’t think so.’

‘Could you describe him?’

‘Just... really ordinary.’

‘Local accent?’

‘I think so.’

‘Apparently he had a friend who might have been an extra alongside you.’

‘I can’t help. It was a few days, a long time ago, in a haze of whatever was on offer. Then when Stuart went missing...’ Shankley sighed. ‘I’m sorry, I just don’t remember.’

‘If you do, you know where to find me.’

‘Can you tell me what this has to do with Stuart’s death?’

‘Not at this exact moment. Goodbye, Mr Shankley.’

‘Inspector?’

‘Yes?

‘Would it help to take a look at Stuart’s flat?’

‘What?’

‘His parents hung on to it. I was allowed to clear out my stuff, but after that...’

‘They’ve still got it?’

‘According to Dougal Kelly.’

Clarke paused. ‘I didn’t realise you two knew each other.’

‘He interviewed me for the book he’s writing. Told me the place hasn’t been touched in twelve years. Family never wanted Stuart declared dead — maybe Catherine thought he’d come back to it one day.’

‘Could you get me the key?’

‘Best if it’s someone else who asks. I’ve been persona non grata ever since Stuart vanished.’

‘Yet you’ll be in the book?’

‘Not if Catherine gets the final say. I really think the only reason she keeps Kelly around is that he’s become a surrogate.’

‘For Stuart, you mean?’

‘You’ve noticed they look similar?’

‘Maybe.’

‘It’s the eyes, the mannerisms...’

‘I’ll ask Kelly if he can get me the key.’

‘I wouldn’t mind tagging along — if that’s okay. Just to refresh my memory.’

Kelvin Brodie was standing in the doorway, clearing his throat to announce his presence. ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ Clarke told Shankley, ending the call. She walked towards the lawyer.

‘Might have something for you,’ he said.

Through in the interview room, the film had been paused. Jackie Ness was on his feet, leaning over the laptop screen, palms pressed to the desk.

‘I’m pretty sure,’ he said. ‘Pretty sure.’ He lifted one hand and touched first one face and then another. ‘Those two there.’

Clarke peered at the screen. ‘The zombies with their faces caked in mud and gore?’

‘Real mud, fake gore.’

The eyes were just about discernible, but little else. Height and hair colour were almost impossible to guess.

‘Will they be in other scenes?’ Clarke asked.

‘Look,’ Brodie said impatiently, ‘you’ve got your identification. I’m not sure what further gains will be made by—’

‘It’s a good film,’ Jackie Ness broke in. ‘I’d forgotten that. Still an hour to run.’

‘And Cops v Demons after that,’ Clarke reminded him. ‘Another classic. So, please, do keep watching. Both of you.’ And with a fixed smile for the benefit of the solicitor, she made her exit.

Next stop: Malcolm Fox’s room. If anything, the mounds of paperwork around him had multiplied. He had loosened his tie and the top button of his shirt.

‘Still here, then?’ Clarke said.

‘Managed to convince ACC Lyon I wasn’t quite finished.’

‘Murder inquiry, Malcolm. Got to be more exciting than pushing paperwork around a desk at Gartcosh.’ She saw him sweep his eyes across the contents of the room and gave a smile. ‘Different then,’ she corrected herself. ‘But tell me, with that big forensic brain of yours, anything in this lot about a break-in at Stuart Bloom’s flat?’

‘When?’

‘Week after he disappeared. Neighbours phoned it in; our lot went out to have a look.’

Fox gave a frown of concentration. ‘I’m pretty sure there’s nothing here.’

‘So much for joined-up thinking.’

‘Nobody put two and two together?’

‘Probably reckoned it was opportunist — guy’s not at home, so the place is unguarded.’

‘What did they take?’

‘Derek Shankley reckons very little, if anything.’

‘Any idea what it means?’

‘Maybe that whatever they wanted wasn’t there. Or it was there and they took it.’

‘The contents of the safe?’

Clarke shrugged. ‘From what Derek says, whatever was in that safe didn’t exactly fire Stuart up.’

‘But someone still wanted it back?’

‘Or else didn’t know it was worthless.’ Clarke scanned the room again. ‘Always supposing he didn’t hand it over to Jackie Ness at their final meeting.’

‘What does Ness say?’

‘No break-in, ergo nothing to hand over. Where’s your babysitter?’

‘Tess reckons I’m one of you lot now.’

‘Just the one dinner date so far?’

‘We had a drink last night. It was meant to be a film, but nothing took our fancy.’

‘I should have invited you round to mine for a DVD.’

‘Cops v Demons?’

‘The very same.’

‘Did you glean anything?’

‘Handcuffs very like the ones used on Stuart Bloom.’

‘And?’

‘We may have a lead on their supplier.’

‘A cop?’

‘No.’

‘But they are police issue?’

‘Of a certain vintage. Guy who provided them was a dope dealer.’

‘Cafferty?’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘He ran the trade back then.’

‘Except he’d gone quiet after those overdoses.’ Clarke paused. ‘So things are pretty hunky-dory with Tess, eh?’

‘I’d say so.’

‘She said anything about me?’

‘I’ve reassured her you’re one of the good guys.’

‘What about the rest of the team?’

‘They know that you and I go way back.’

‘Meaning they’re unlikely to open up to you?’ Clarke nodded her understanding.

‘Sutherland’s had a private word with each of them, though, according to Tess. He’s on your side.’

‘Might end up not being his call.’

Fox caught her meaning. ‘ACU?’

‘Heard anything from them lately?’

‘Steele wanted to know how his interview had gone down with MIT.’

‘Hope you told him: like a cup of cold sick.’

‘I was maybe a bit more diplomatic.’

Clarke pressed her hand against the nearest tower of paper. ‘Is there enough in here to see someone put on a charge?’

‘Almost certainly.’

‘But not Steele and Edwards?’

‘Probably not.’

‘Skelton and Newsome?’ She watched him nod slowly. ‘Bill Rawlston?’ He let his hand waver in front of him, meaning maybe. ‘John Rebus?’

‘Oh, John for definite.’

‘Alerting Shankley to the raids on Rogues?’

‘For starters, yes.’

‘You mean there’s a main course?’

‘With cheese and petit fours to follow.’

‘Going to let me peruse the menu?’

‘I don’t think you can afford the prices, DI Clarke.’

‘My credit’s no good?’

Fox sighed. ‘John was trying his damnedest to tie Cafferty to Bloom’s disappearance, even if it meant feeding lies and half-truths to a friendly journalist or two. He was hoping to flush Cafferty out, I think. It didn’t work, but one of the journalists ended up in hospital.’

‘Cafferty’s doing?’

‘A street mugging. But reading between the lines, yes, Cafferty’s doing. The reporter made a complaint about John. John denied everything.’

Clarke digested this. ‘Cops and journalists, eh?’ Her eyes were fixed on Fox’s. ‘It can lead to all manner of complications.’

The silence lay between them until Fox broke it. ‘You know, don’t you?’

‘That it was you leaking to Laura Smith? Of course I know.’

‘She told you?’

Clarke shook her head. ‘Laura always protects her sources — we both know that. But you’re forgetting that it was me who introduced you to her. Who the hell else was it going to be?’

Colour had risen to Fox’s cheeks. ‘I was so sorry ACU went after you.’

‘Not sorry enough to own up.’

‘No.’

Clarke shrugged. ‘Steele and Edwards saw what they wanted to see. They knew I had a relationship with Laura. You were canny enough to keep yours well camouflaged. Then there was my history with John.’

‘They were trying to get to him through you?’

She shook her head again. ‘They want me because they’ve never managed to hook him.’

There was a further silence until Fox cleared his throat. ‘We still pals, Shiv?’

‘Unless you’re bumping me for Tess Leighton — then again, maybe you see her as more than just a pal.’

‘Time will tell. And meanwhile, if you need my help holding anyone’s feet to the fire...’

‘Flames are getting closer to Steele and Edwards,’ Clarke stated, nodding slowly.

‘Their kind usually has an extinguisher to hand.’

‘They might find they’ve all been emptied.’

‘By you?’

‘By John and me,’ she corrected him. ‘I just hope we get to them before they get to me.’ She fixed him with a stare. ‘Remember to keep all this to yourself — just for a change.’

She was watching the colour rise to Malcolm Fox’s cheeks once more when Graham Sutherland put his head round the door.

‘Our presence is requested at St Leonard’s,’ he said.

‘Mollison?’ Clarke guessed.

‘Mollison,’ Sutherland confirmed.

44

DCS Mark Mollison was seated behind the world’s tidiest desk in his office at St Leonard’s police station. There were awards arranged on the windowsill behind him and others on the walls. Siobhan reckoned some probably dated back to schooldays. He’d even framed what looked like his university degree. He offered a seat to neither her nor Graham Sutherland. He’d had time to prepare the frown on his face and the hundred-yard stare.

‘You had a meeting with this Kelly scumbag just before his outburst,’ he said without preamble. ‘A little warning would have been nice.’

‘DI Clarke has assured me—’ Sutherland began, but Clarke took half a step forward, not quite shouldering him aside.

‘Would I be wide of the mark if I guessed it was ACU who told you?’ He didn’t seem inclined to answer. ‘With respect, think about how they could possibly know.’

‘What is it you’re saying?’

‘I’m saying they’re the ones who leaked to Dougal Kelly.’

‘As part of a continuing vendetta against you?’ Mollison smiled with half his mouth.

‘I know it was them,’ Clarke continued. ‘And they knew I’d call them out on it, so they got their defence in first.’

‘Did you or did you not meet with Kelly?’

‘I didn’t know he was going to be there.’

‘So you just thought it would be you and Laura Smith — the same reporter who saw you become the focus of an ACU investigation lasting much of last year?’

‘I didn’t realise she was on some sort of blacklist — anyone else I’m not supposed to consort with?’

‘Siobhan...’ Sutherland was giving her a warning.

‘I note,’ Mollison broke in, eyes on Sutherland, ‘that none of this seems to be coming as a surprise to you, Graham.’

‘DI Clarke volunteered the information, sir. She knew how it might look and wanted me to know.’

‘You didn’t see fit to pass the news along?’

‘Apologies for that.’

‘Our media office are apoplectic. They’ve got reporters demanding to know why we would talk to an incomer like Kelly and keep them in the dark.’

That figured, Clarke thought. With Mollison it was all about the public image.

‘All I can say, sir,’ Sutherland went on, ‘is that I’m minded to accept DI Clarke’s version of events. Someone leaked, but not her.’

‘And keeping her on the case won’t poison the atmosphere within MIT?’

‘DI Clarke has earned our trust, sir.’

Clarke kept her eyes on the wall behind Mollison, her face betraying nothing.

Mollison stayed silent, then gave a sigh. ‘ACU are champing at the bit to open an investigation.’

‘Surprise, surprise,’ Clarke couldn’t help muttering, earning her another hard stare.

‘From what I’ve heard,’ Mollison said icily, ‘I can’t see any reason for that investigation not to happen.’

‘Except,’ Sutherland broke in, ‘that it would interfere with the inquiry, just as we’ve reached a critical point. And hasn’t Police Scotland aired enough of its dirty laundry in public of late? Surely ACU can wait till the case is wrapped up?’

‘When someone is drip-feeding evidence to outside parties?’

‘No one from inside my team, sir.’

‘Who else then? Who else does Kelly know? Who has he met with?’ Mollison held up a thumb. ‘He knows Laura Smith — and who is it she knows?’ His eyes were on Clarke again.

‘He knows ACU too,’ she stated. ‘They’ve been giving him titbits from the original inquiry, covering their arses by grassing up everyone else.’

‘You can prove that, can you?’

‘My word against theirs,’ Clarke conceded. ‘Right up to the point Dougal Kelly goes public with it.’

Mollison grew thoughtful again. ‘Maybe ACU should be having a chat with Mr Kelly.’

‘Oh aye, that’ll go well.’ Clarke just about succeeded in not rolling her eyes. Sutherland was squeezing her elbow with his fingers.

‘Is there anything else, sir?’ he enquired.

Mollison considered this, then made a brushing motion with one hand.

‘Thank you, sir,’ Sutherland said. He gave Clarke the chance to say the same, but all she did was free herself from his grasp and open the door.

Outside, he puffed out his cheeks and exhaled.

‘Thanks for sticking up for me,’ Clarke said. ‘Even if it did mean telling a few untruths.’

‘I dare say it’s not the first time Mollison’s been lied to.’

‘I don’t want you getting in trouble on my account.’

‘I’m only protecting that game of pitch ’n’ putt you promised me. Besides, ACU do seem badly to want another crack at you.’

They had exited the station and were in its rear car park, where Clarke’s Astra waited. Another unmarked car sat at the end of a line of patrol vehicles — the black Audi, its driver’s-side window lowered, giving a view of Brian Steele.

‘Speak of the devil,’ Clarke commented. Then, to Sutherland: ‘I need a word with him, and I’d rather you weren’t a witness.’

‘I’m a big boy, Siobhan.’

‘Even so...’ She began to walk purposefully towards the Audi, leaning in towards it so she was face to face with Steele.

‘DI Clarke,’ he said with a sneer. ‘What brings you here?’

‘There’s one thing you need to know,’ she told him, her voice quiet but firm. ‘When you come for me — if you try coming for me — don’t think I won’t be yelling from the rooftops who it really was who spoke to Dougal Kelly.’

‘Would that be just before you jump?’

‘Think I’d give you the satisfaction?’

‘Your phone’s ringing,’ he said, gesturing towards her jacket pocket. Clarke dug the phone out and held it to her face. Her dentist. She waited for the call to ring out.

‘Nothing urgent?’

‘Just a wrong number.’

He tried for a solicitous look. ‘Often get those, do you? Annoying, I’d guess.’

Clarke tried not to let her sense of satisfaction show. He’d fallen for it. As far as he was concerned, she was still being harassed by Dallas Meikle.

‘You’d better go see your pal Mollison,’ she told Steele. ‘Press your case again.’ She leaned further into the window. ‘I’m ready for anything you bring, you smug, bent-as-a-paper-clip cock.’

She walked back to where Graham Sutherland was waiting. Behind her, she could hear Steele chuckling.

‘Must have been a good joke,’ Sutherland commented as she unlocked the car.

‘An absolute killer,’ Clarke agreed.

45

Rebus was parked outside the gates of Billie’s school. He’d arrived early, which was just as well. Soon after, parents had started turning up, meaning the street was now lined with cars waiting to give lifts home. He was thinking about families and the lies they told each other. From the outside, it was hard to know what was happening behind their walls and curtained windows. Even once you’d crossed the threshold, there’d be secrets unshared. In an age of the internet and mobile phones, kids and their parents lived ever more separate lives, sharing confidences but also hiding bits of their true selves behind masks. It had been hard enough in the past to read people, but these days you had to push your way through so much that was fake and misleading. Modern policing fell into that trap, heading straight for technology — computers and CCTV — to replace old skills and the occasional inspired guess or piece of intuition.

A CD was playing quietly on the Saab’s antiquated sound system, not Arvo Pärt this time but Brian Eno, another gift from Deborah Quant to help his ‘mindfulness’. When she’d explained the concept to him, he’d argued that it was something he’d always done, that it used to be known simply as ‘thinking’. He realised he needed to call her, fix another supper date — maybe even a sleepover. But meantime his phone was buzzing.

‘Hiya, Siobhan,’ he said, answering. ‘Any more flak to report?’

‘Did you know that Stuart Bloom’s flat was broken into a week after he disappeared?’

‘No.’

‘Another balls-up by the investigation. How about a drug dealer called Gram?’

‘As in Gram Parsons?’

‘What?’

‘He was a musician, died young.’

‘So it might have been a nickname?’

‘Maybe this Gram guy was a fan of the original. He was a dealer?’

‘To most of the people working on Jackie Ness’s films.’

‘I’d remember if that name had come up.’

‘He’s the one who supplied the handcuffs.’

Rebus thought for a moment. ‘Cafferty’s gang were in charge of the east coast back then. I doubt he’d have countenanced competition, no matter how minor-league.’

‘I’ve been discussing that with Malcolm. It got me thinking. A deadly overdose practically on the doorstep of Rogues. We go in hard on the club, cracking down but finding nothing, because the club’s been tipped off by you.’

‘I’ll deny that, of course,’ Rebus broke in.

‘But did you do it to save Stuart and Derek’s bacon, or were you goading Cafferty? I mean, anybody those raids flushed out would likely have been selling on Cafferty’s behalf.’

‘You’re over-thinking things, Shiv — remember the still centre?’

‘You got a journalist put in hospital, John.’

Rebus gave his bottom lip a bit of a gnaw. ‘Collateral damage,’ he eventually said. ‘Malcolm’s good at digging, isn’t he?’

‘Yes, he is. Should I ask Cafferty about this Gram guy?’

Rebus thought for a moment. ‘There’s no other way of identifying him?’

‘I suppose we could re-interview everyone who ever played a role behind or in front of the cameras in one of Ness’s flicks.’

‘I’m hearing a lack of enthusiasm.’

‘I’m beginning to think this could have been wrapped up back in the day.’

‘If we hadn’t been such a bunch of lazy, useless, conniving bastards, you mean?’

‘Something like that.’

‘You’re forgetting — we didn’t have a body.’

‘What you did have were two powerful businessmen, neither of whom you landed a glove on.’

‘We lacked that little thing called evidence, Siobhan.’

He heard her give a long sigh. ‘That was by no means the only thing you lacked, John,’ she said, ending the call.

Rebus couldn’t find it in him to feel slighted. She was right, after all. He had lied about not passing information to Alex Shankley. He’d lied, too, to cover Skelton and Rawlston’s arses. He’d turned a blind eye to the manifest shortcomings of Newsome and the likes of Steele and Edwards. Instead, he’d made more frequent visits to various pubs, using alcohol to blur everything and make it all right. Less than a year till his retirement, he’d begun to fear that the job was just that — a job rather than a vocation. He couldn’t solve every crime, and even if he did, crime would keep happening, so what was the point? Cafferty and the other bosses — the Starks in Glasgow, the Bartollis in Aberdeen — would go on and on. There would always be drugs and stabbings and domestics, and the odd person whose wiring wasn’t right. People would always be rapacious and lustful, envious and angry. He had forgotten about the journalist, the one he’d zeroed in on because the kid was hungry and easy to manipulate, one of those reporters who got a buzz from hanging out with cops. After the beating, the kid had slunk off home to his parents. Rebus hoped he had flourished. Then again, so what if he hadn’t? Rebus couldn’t even put a name to him.

He chewed some gum and watched through the windscreen as the school began to disgorge its cargo at the end of another day. A trickle at first — the keenest to escape — and then a mass of gossiping, shrieking teenagers. Boys nudged and shoved each other, showing off for the girls, who tried their best to look bored or unimpressed. They were busy on their phones, or talking among themselves. So many of them, Rebus worried he might not see Billie.

But then she was there, to one side of a line of four. All girls, all her age. She carried the same backpack they all did. Short, tight skirts, black tights on spindly legs. She was animated, turning with a half-smile towards a lad who had flicked her curls. Her friends huddled as if to mark his effort out of ten. He didn’t say anything, just returned to two of his own friends. There was so much energy emanating from the various groupings, Rebus could feel it as a physical force, pushing against him. He knew he was looking at the future, but also that the futures these various young people imagined for themselves might not work out the way they hoped. There’d be tears and traumas along the way, mistakes made, promises broken. Some would marry their sweethearts and live to regret it. Others would break apart. A few would trouble the police in later years. There’d be early deaths from disease and maybe even a suicide or two. Right now, none of that would seem feasible to them. They were alive in and of the moment — and that was all that mattered.

Watching Billie, he saw a girl who was relaxed and bright, and who had made friends. He thought of her father’s words back in their kitchen: Best thing I ever did was ask if she wanted to come live with me. Her old school was rubbish, grades dropping... Yes, if your kid was unhappy, you’d want to change it. If their grades were falling and they were becoming sullen and withdrawn. Hard to imagine Billie like that now. She seemed almost to glow. They all did.

Having seen enough, Rebus picked up his phone and called Cafferty.

‘You again,’ Cafferty said.

‘Me again,’ Rebus confirmed.

‘It was Christie, wasn’t it? He’s the one who gave you Larry Huston?’

‘What makes you think that?’

‘I hear I’ve become a bit of an obsession. Plus, Christie’s just been moved to Saughton, and that was Huston’s home from home. Lot of chat goes on in prisons, Rebus.’

‘I wouldn’t know.’

‘Yes you fucking would. I hear you went to Saughton yourself. To see Ellis Meikle, I’m guessing. But along the way you had a little one-to-one with Mr Darryl Christie. If he can’t get to me, he wants you to have a go. Fucking good luck with that.’

‘I hope you’re not threatening Larry Huston. Anything happens to him, there’d be no one but you in the frame.’

‘Huston’s a nobody. There was no break-in — go ask Sir Adrian.’

‘You know damned fine that’s already been done. Tell me this then: whatever happened to Gram?’

‘Gram?’

Rebus spelled it for him. ‘He was a drug dealer, so there’s a better than even chance he was one of yours or on your radar.’

‘I’m drawing a blank.’

‘He sold to Jackie Ness’s crew. I thought you visited the set?’

‘Nobody was doing drugs while I was there.’

‘No?’

‘I think I’d have noticed. Got a description for this Gram?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Could you have heard wrong? Maybe Graeme with an e?’

‘Spill.’

It took Cafferty all of ten seconds to make his mind up. ‘The kid who OD’d, I looked into it. The name I kept hearing was Graeme. Used to deal a bit in places like Rogues. Made himself scarce after the kid died.’

‘Where was he sourcing the stuff?’

‘Aberdeen maybe.’

‘I remember you trying that line with us at the time so we’d go after the Bartollis for you.’

‘Aberdeen, Glasgow... wherever he got the stuff, it wasn’t from me.’

‘Didn’t really matter, did it? It cost you Conor Maloney’s friendship anyway.’

‘How come you always know where to stick your pins in me?’

‘Oh aye, you’re hurting.’

There was a chuckle on the other end of the phone. Then it went dead.

46

Late afternoon in Leith. The MIT office had made room for two visitors. Aubrey Hamilton had brought the soil specialist from the James Hutton Institute in Aberdeen. The specialist’s name was Professor Lee-Anne Inglis. She was in her early forties, with long brown hair, parted and tucked behind one ear. She had come armed with data. There were charts and the results of chemical analyses. She explained to the room about ‘soil fingerprints’ and the records she had compiled from hundreds upon hundreds of samples. A few crumbs on the sole of a shoe or embedded in a tyre could pinpoint where that shoe or tyre had recently been. Soil, vegetation, pollen — all were crucial. Something the size of a grain of rice could be as unique as a fingerprint.

‘I used cross-matching first,’ she explained, holding up one of her charts. ‘Then gas chromatography and other tests.’

Chairs for her and Hamilton had been placed in the centre of the room, so that they were ringed by the MIT officers. Fox, with the rapt attention of a school swot, was studying the stapled sheets that had been handed out. Gamble, in contrast, had barely glanced at his before scratching his head and shrugging his shoulders in Phil Yeats’s direction.

Graham Sutherland was perched on one corner of his desk, Callum Reid on another, while Leighton and Crowther stayed behind their own desks and Siobhan Clarke stood by the map on the far wall, arms folded, listening intently. Ness and Brodie were long gone. The initial spotting of the two extras had been the only one. She didn’t know why the lawyer had looked so furious — he was bound to be billing Ness by the hour.

‘You’ve got us a location for the car?’ Sutherland nudged.

‘Not a precise one, no,’ Inglis intoned. ‘That was why I was keen to give you the information in person. It’s not for lack of effort.’ She held up her own copy of the handout in support of this. ‘But what I can say is that before it was in those woods, the car was on farmland of some kind.’

‘Farmland?’

‘The deposits show straw and animal manure below the loam and nettles picked up when it rolled down into the gully, the loam itself a good deal fresher. I’d say the car sat where you found it for no more than three years, and before that was in a field or a farm or a byre — the faecal matter is bovine. The soil type is from the Scottish lowlands, probably east coast rather than west. The sample was at least ten years old, maybe more.’

Clarke studied the map. ‘So all you’re asking us to do is search every farm in lowland Scotland?’

‘For a car that’s no longer even there,’ Sutherland added.

‘I’d suggest,’ Inglis went on, ignoring their tone, ‘the car was driven from the farmland to the woods. The tyres had picked up bits of grit and stone found on tarmacked roads, but without the earlier deposits becoming dislodged.’

‘Driven rather than transported there on the back of a flatbed?’ Yeats asked. He looked around the room. ‘Say it sat in a field for nine or ten years — battery would be flat; tyres, too. Oil, spark plugs...’ He shrugged.

‘Someone from a garage would have had to get it going,’ Gamble agreed.

‘Someone with a bit of know-how anyway,’ Yeats said.

Inglis had risen from her seat and approached the map, standing the other side of it from Clarke so they could all see. She found Poretoun Woods with her forefinger. ‘Maybe a twenty-mile radius. A longer drive would have dislodged the deposits.’

‘We can probably discount Edinburgh,’ Clarke mused.

‘I wouldn’t,’ Aubrey Hamilton piped up. ‘Plenty green belt around the edges of the city, meaning farmland.’

‘Am I allowed to say it’s needle-in-a-haystack stuff?’ George Gamble announced gruffly. ‘What does it matter if the car was stuck in a field all those years?’

‘Think that could happen without someone knowing?’ Clarke enquired. ‘We find where the car was kept, we’ve got ourselves someone who can tell us who put it there and who moved it again.’ She looked to Sutherland for confirmation. He was nodding to himself slowly as he sifted through the handout.

‘This is very useful, very useful,’ he intoned quietly. To Clarke’s ears, it sounded as if he was trying to convince himself.

By 5.50 p.m. they were back in what had become their usual bar, minus Reid and Yeats, who had appointments elsewhere. Between the departure of the two professors and knocking-off time, they had managed, by dint of an internet search, to find the name and phone number of the person they needed at the National Farmers’ Union Scotland. But that person had gone home for the day, as had everyone else in the office.

‘It can wait till morning,’ Sutherland had said. ‘I don’t suppose the farms will have gone anywhere, and it’s not as if we’re going to be visiting any of them at dead of night.’

When Rebus texted, asking Clarke’s whereabouts, she texted back. Not fifteen minutes later, he walked in.

‘Perfect timing,’ Sutherland said. ‘I was just about to get in another round.’

‘My shout,’ Rebus insisted, pointing at each of them in turn until he’d amassed the order.

‘I’ll help carry,’ Sutherland said, accompanying Rebus to the bar. He had removed his tie and loosened his shirt collar.

‘How’s it going?’ Rebus asked him.

‘Slow but steady.’

‘Charges imminent?’

‘Hope springs eternal. What brings you here anyway?’

‘Just need a word with Siobhan.’

‘And maybe with DI Fox too, eh? See if he’s finished finding all the dirt from first time round.’

Rebus looked over to where Fox and Clarke were pretending to be chatting while actually much more interested in what might be being said at the bar.

‘Fox has tried taking me down in the past,’ Rebus commented. ‘He never got very far.’

‘How about Steele and Edwards — ever had any run-ins with them?’

‘I have a sneaking suspicion they saw me as one of their own. If we got too close, no way of knowing who would leave the grubbier marks.’

‘They seem to have led charmed lives.’

‘Maybe not for much longer.’ Rebus paused. ‘Siobhan and I both know why you brought her in to MIT. She won’t thank you for the knight-rescues-damsel scenario, but I do. It sent ACU a message, reinforced by the way you’ve stuck up for her since.’

‘I get the feeling you think you might be about to send them another.’

Rebus handed two twenties to the barman.

‘You think of her like a daughter, don’t you?’ Sutherland asked.

‘I’ve got a daughter.’

‘Maybe a favourite niece, then?’

‘Another scenario she wouldn’t thank you for,’ Rebus said, hoisting two of the glasses and making his way to the table.

Eventually people started to drift off — homeward bound or in search of food — until only Rebus, Clarke and Fox were left.

‘Here we are again,’ Rebus commented, raising his glass in a toast. ‘Almost like the old days.’

‘But without the pints and nicotine,’ Fox said. He was drinking sparkling apple juice, same as Rebus.

‘I can appreciate,’ Rebus went on, ‘that while a civilian was present, nobody was ready to open up about the case. But now it’s just the three of us...’

‘How much do you know?’ Fox asked.

‘John’s pretty well up to speed,’ Clarke answered quickly.

‘I won’t ask whose doing that is.’ Fox gave her an arch look. ‘Does he know about the field, though?’

‘What field?’ Rebus enquired.

‘The one where the VW Polo sat for the best part of a decade. It was only moved to the gully two or three years back.’

‘Around the time Ness sold up to Jeff Sellers,’ Clarke clarified. ‘Who in short order sold to Brand.’

‘It sat in a field?’ Rebus didn’t sound as if he quite believed it. ‘With the body inside?’

‘From the condition of the bodywork, Professor Hamilton reckons it had a tarpaulin over it. But nothing underneath, which is why weeds and the like pushed their way up from ground level. They were uprooted when the car was moved, but were still all twisted round the exhaust and had even invaded the interior floor.’

‘Sitting in a field and no one noticed?’

She shook her head slowly. ‘I know.’

‘So now,’ Fox said, ‘we have to look at farms and fields within a twenty-mile radius of Poretoun, which means asking the NFU for help.’

‘You talk like it’s your inquiry, Malcolm,’ Clarke said.

‘I can’t help myself.’ Fox gave a thin smile, staring at the surface of his drink.

‘Almost finished your report?’ Rebus asked him.

‘A result this time round would help shift the focus from previous failings.’

Rebus nodded. He was thinking back to another bar, another conversation.

‘I visited Poretoun,’ he began. ‘Got talking to a local whose son has a farm there. Guess what that farmer did when he was young?’

‘Enlighten us.’

‘Acted as an extra in one of Jackie Ness’s flicks.’

Clarke stared at him. ‘You’re winding us up.’

Rebus lifted a hand. ‘Cross my heart.’

Fox was busy on his phone. He held it up so they could see the screen. ‘Poretoun Glen Farm?’ he said.

‘Maybe,’ Rebus conceded. ‘We could all jump in a car and go see.’

‘Not without Sutherland’s blessing,’ Clarke stated.

‘And what would we see in the dark anyway?’ Fox added.

‘Spoilsports,’ Rebus said. Then, eyes on Fox: ‘Mind if I have a quick word with Siobhan?’

‘For her ears only?’ Fox nodded his understanding. ‘Anyone want another?’

They shook their heads, but he went and stood by the bar anyway, half-filled glass in hand. Clarke moved a little closer to Rebus.

‘I think,’ Rebus explained in an undertone, ‘I’ve got just about enough for us to take to Dallas Meikle.’

‘You know why Ellis did it?’ Her eyes had widened a fraction.

‘Why it happened, yes.’

‘So tell me!’

But he was shaking his head. ‘There’s something I have to do first.’

‘What?’

‘Go see Ellis again.’ She looked to him for an explanation, but he shook his head again. ‘Later,’ he said. ‘Meantime, Cafferty dropped me a name — Graeme with an e. That’s who sold the tainted dope to those ODs.’

‘Graeme was a sole trader?’

‘According to Cafferty. Seems he got out of Dodge when Cafferty started looking for him.’

‘But only as far as Jackie Ness’s film set, by which time he was Gram?’

Rebus shrugged. Fox was looking impatient. ‘If it turns out to be useful,’ Rebus told Clarke quietly, ‘just remember that you didn’t get it from me.’

‘Because that would mean admitting Cafferty confides in you?’

‘That’s not what he does — he plays games, some of them long-term.’

‘You think he’s still playing one that started in 2006?’

‘Maybe.’

Fox was nearing the table. ‘Finished gossiping about me?’

‘I was just telling Siobhan it’s good news Cafferty is cooperating with the inquiry.’

‘He is?’

‘Steele won’t know any different when you tell him.’

‘Why would I tell him when it’s not true?’

‘To shake the kaleidoscope,’ Rebus said with a smile.

‘The two of them know one another?’

‘Cafferty used him as muscle on at least one occasion, that occasion being a meeting with Irish gangster Conor Maloney.’

‘Why are we only hearing this now?’ Clarke asked.

‘Because — surprise, surprise — everyone concerned will doubtless deny it.’

‘So how come you know?’ Fox asked.

‘Grant Edwards got drunk and mouthy one night, couldn’t help telling me. I think he thought I’d be peeved Cafferty hadn’t picked me for the job.’

‘And what does this achieve, kaleidoscope aside?’ Fox wanted to know. It was Clarke who answered.

‘Driving a wedge between Steele and Edwards?’ she guessed.

‘The start of one maybe,’ Rebus acknowledged. ‘Now, if anyone’s hungry, I’m in the mood for a curry.’

Fox shook his head. ‘I’m supposed to be meeting someone for a drink,’ he apologised. His eyes met Clarke’s. Her look confirmed that she hadn’t told Rebus about Tess Leighton.

‘How about you, Shiv?’

‘Sorry, John. I’ve got an appointment too.’

‘I’m being stood up,’ Rebus said, trying to sound as if he could hardly believe it. ‘Don’t think I won’t remember this when you two are old and on your lonesome.’

‘We can’t help it if we’re young and in demand,’ Clarke said, finishing her drink and rising to leave.

47

A second-floor flat in a tenement on Comely Bank Avenue. Dougal Kelly and Derek Shankley were waiting for Clarke at the main door. Kelly slid the key into the lock and they entered the stairwell. It was well maintained, a couple of children’s bikes chained to the bottom rail of the stone stairs. Clarke had noticed that the name BLOOM was still on one of the buzzers beside the main door. Having climbed the two flights, they stopped at a red-painted door. Just below the spyhole was a brass plaque, again with the name BLOOM on it. It had been polished in recent memory. Derek Shankley ran a finger across it.

‘Catherine?’ Clarke asked Kelly. The journalist nodded.

‘She comes fortnightly,’ he explained, unlocking the door and ushering them into the flat.

‘Thanks for doing this,’ Clarke said, trying not to sound too grudging. Kelly just shrugged.

Derek Shankley stood with his palms to his cheeks. ‘It’s exactly the same,’ he whispered, studying the hallway.

Clarke flicked a switch and the lights came on.

‘Bills get paid on time,’ Kelly confirmed.

‘Explains why the place is warm.’ Clarke touched a radiator.

‘Heating’s on a timer, an hour each day.’

‘That must still add up — never mind the council tax and what have you.’

‘Martin’s tried more than once to convince her to sell.’ Kelly offered a shrug. They had moved from the hall into the living room. Shankley’s palms were still pressed to his cheeks as he took it all in. Books on shelves; a venerable typewriter in a carrying case; a hi-fi with CDs stacked next to it; newspapers and current affairs magazines dating back to 2005 and 2006.

‘It’s a time capsule,’ Clarke said.

‘Or maybe a mausoleum.’

She looked at Kelly. ‘And once the burial’s got the go-ahead...?’

‘I doubt it’ll change anything. She’ll still want to be able to visit. She sits on his bed, I think she even talks to him.’

Shankley had settled on an arm of the sofa, removing his hands from his face and using a finger to wipe a single tear from his eye.

‘The door was repaired after the break-in?’ Clarke asked.

‘Must have been,’ Shankley said. Clarke looked to Kelly.

‘You knew about it?’

‘Not until Derek told me. Catherine confirmed it, though, and yes, she had the door fixed afterwards.’

Clarke studied the room. ‘Where would the papers have been?’ she asked. ‘The ones taken from the safe?’

Shankley didn’t seem sure. ‘On his writing desk maybe,’ he offered.

The desk itself was a dining table with just the one leaf unfolded. It had been positioned near the room’s bay window, where there was plenty of natural light.

‘He always took his laptop with him?’ Clarke asked.

‘Always.’

She had noticed a camera case sitting on one of the bookshelves. It was a Canon.

‘This was here when the place got turned over?’ She watched as Shankley nodded.

‘Odd kind of break-in,’ Kelly agreed. ‘TV left behind; camera equipment and hi-fi untouched; ditto Stuart’s passport and chequebook.’

‘Have you got a theory?’ Clarke asked him.

‘They got exactly what they wanted or else they left empty-handed.’

She nodded her agreement and watched as Shankley left the room, crossing the hall.

‘Bedroom,’ Kelly explained.

‘He feels the family have written him out of Stuart’s story,’ Clarke said quietly.

‘He’s not wrong about that. Catherine doesn’t want him at the funeral either.’

‘Seems unnecessarily cruel.’

‘I don’t disagree.’ He had walked to within a few feet of Clarke. ‘How are things with you?’

‘Your chums Steele and Edwards are determined to have me for dinner.’

‘How about your boss and his team?’

‘I’ll cope.’

‘A drink when we’re finished here?’

‘Not tonight.’ She looked at him, all business. ‘The break-in at Brand’s office — you’ve not given it to the media?’

He shook his head. ‘I convinced Catherine it was in nobody’s interest.’

Clarke nodded, showing she understood. She studied the room again.

‘You think it’s weird,’ he asked, ‘them keeping this place as it is?’

‘I think I can understand it.’ They heard muffled sobbing from the room across the hall. ‘Should we...?’

Kelly shook his head again. ‘Derek had a hell of a time of it, you know — from the very start, I mean. Dad a big macho copper in big macho Glasgow. He lived a lie for a long time; coming out was hard.’

‘How did his dad take it?’

‘Denial to start with. Then whisky and shouting. Just the two of them in the house, hardly speaking, the one hoping and praying the other would start to understand.’

‘Nicely put,’ Clarke said. ‘I hope he does make it into your story — it’s probably the least he deserves.’

Kelly nodded distractedly, watching the doorway as Derek Shankley appeared there.

‘I don’t think I can stay any longer,’ Shankley said, voice trembling. ‘I thought it’d be okay, but it’s really not. I’ll wait outside till you’re done.’

When he was gone, Kelly looked towards Clarke, wondering if she’d seen enough. In answer, she checked the bedroom, kitchen and shower room, lingering in none of them. The bed had been made up, a slight indentation where Shankley had rested for a moment. Clarke brushed the surface flat, so Catherine Bloom wouldn’t suspect.

‘Good thinking,’ Kelly said from the doorway, ready to lead her back to the outside world.