Midnight and Blue

1

Rebus sensed that something was wrong even before the alarm sounded. He was in the queue for breakfast, listening to the Wizard coughing up half a lung as usual. Nobody ever mentioned the hierarchy; it just happened naturally. Those liable to throw their weight around or go off on one ended up closest to the food while everyone else gathered behind in a ragged line. The Wizard was two places ahead of Rebus, which was fine. He probably wasn’t any older, but he looked it, and he’d been in prison longer than just about anyone else on the hall. His real name was Gareth Wallace, the nickname stemming from his long grey locks and longer beard. He arched forward as he coughed, not bothering to cover his mouth. New arrivals would make COVID jokes until they realised none were being heard for the first time. When Rebus turned to look behind him, he found Ratty there, seemingly more shrunken with each passing day. Ratty’s eyes, narrower even than usual, were for once not focused on the progress of the queue. He gave a slight nod when he realised he had Rebus’s attention.

There was a blur of movement as one of the white-shirted officers hit the alarm. The ringing was sudden and piercing, accompanied by other officers arriving, milling, conferring. Then the order — back to cells — followed by complaints and questions.

‘Room service today,’ an officer called Eddie Graves announced, beginning the process of shepherding the reluctant flock. ‘Wish I was as lucky.’ Graves had a complaint for every occasion, as if fortune was forever favouring the inmates.

‘How long but?’ someone asked.

‘Soon as we get you indoors,’ Graves answered.

Though Ratty was a good eight inches shorter than Rebus, he had the knack of seeing and knowing everything. ‘It’s Jackie,’ he told Rebus. Sure enough, two officers — Novak and Watts — filled Jackie Simpson’s doorway, faces close together, conversing in an undertone. Though other officers were forming a makeshift cordon, Rebus and several others had to pass this cell to get to their own.

‘Keep moving,’ came the order, hands flapping, arms outstretched. But as with a motorway crash, traffic inevitably slowed for a gawp. There were two more officers inside the cell. On the lower bunk Rebus could make out a prone and bloodied figure. Another man lay on the upper bunk and seemed in slightly better shape, in that the officers were trying to rouse him while ignoring his cellmate. Rebus remembered the name of the upper bunk — Mark Jamieson. He’d known him briefly on the outside. Not that he’d ever mentioned as much in here; Jamieson wouldn’t have thanked him.

‘Come on, John,’ Graves said, pressing a hand to his shoulder. ‘Don’t make things difficult.’ They locked eyes for a moment. Graves’s jaw was tensed and some of the colour had drained from his face.

‘It’s not in my nature to make things difficult,’ Rebus assured him. ‘Unlike some.’ He gestured over Graves’s shoulder to where Darryl Christie sat at one of the circular tables near the food station. Two officers were flanking him while he finished his breakfast, taking his time, savouring each drop. Neither officer seemed minded to interrupt.

‘Darryl!’ Graves called out. ‘Back to your cell, please!’

Turning his head slowly, Christie took in both Graves and Rebus. ‘Right you are, Michelle,’ he called out. Michelle for Michelle Mone. Graves, the serial moaner, tried as ever not to show that the name irritated him. Rebus sensed that the grin Christie threw in Graves’s direction was meant not for the officer but for him.

John Rebus had a cell all to himself. It consisted of a narrow bed, toilet and sink. The toilet had no door but was in an alcove, allowing a modicum of privacy. There was a small desk and some storage space, plus a shelf for personal effects. He had piled here all the books he had promised himself he would read. Inside one of them he kept photos of his daughter and granddaughter. He wasn’t sure why he wanted them to remain private, but he did. A wall-mounted flat-screen TV had a slot at the side for DVDs, and there was also a landline telephone, again fixed to the wall. Calls had to be prearranged and paid for, and of course were monitored if there were any staff available. Beneath the bed was a small safe for valuables, which Rebus never bothered to lock.

This was his home now, and had been for the past six months. When he’d first arrived at HMP Edinburgh, they’d assessed him and put him in an overnight cell. Because he was ex-police, it was then decided that he should transfer not to one of the general halls but to the Separation and Reintegration Unit. This was where they kept the prisoners who were either in danger or were a danger to themselves. Some of them Rebus never saw. They remained in their cells, occasionally yelling a complaint but mostly staying silent. There was an enclosed yard where exercise was taken, its walls heavily graffitied with names, sometimes with the word ‘paedo’ or ‘nonce’ added.

Rebus felt hemmed in, not only by walls but by the same daily faces too. He had visited the prison many times during his detective years — he recalled being shown the Hanging Shed, now long demolished — but this was different. The various smells were never going to be showered away. Testosterone and wariness filled what air there was. Drug use was hard to miss. He had always known the place simply as Saughton, though the branding on the officers’ shirts these days declared it HMP Edinburgh. Prison, nick, jail, chokey, inside — many names but only one game: incarceration.

There were four general halls — Gyle, Swanston, Trinity and Whitecraig. Gyle was for women prisoners while Whitecraig housed the sex offenders. Trinity and Swanston were a mix of those awaiting trial on remand and those already convicted. One day, three months into his life sentence, the governor, Howard Tennent, had summoned Rebus to his office. It was large and modern and had a table and chairs for meetings. Tea was offered and there was even some shortbread.

‘How would you feel about joining the general population in Trinity?’ Tennent had asked while Rebus bit into a biscuit.

‘What’s happened?’ Rebus had asked back.

‘Two things. For one, we’re short of accommodation in the SRU, so we could do with your bed.’

‘And?’

The governor had shifted slightly in his chair. ‘Darryl Christie is ready to vouch for you, meaning you’ll be protected. He seems to think you did him some sort of favour a while back.’

‘He means getting rid of the competition — not that I did. My lawyers are busy with the appeal.’

‘You were there when Cafferty died, though.’

‘Again, not true. The coronary came after.’ Rebus had paused. ‘Is Trinity Christie’s patch?’

Tennent swept a few crumbs from the table in front of him. ‘He’s guaranteeing your safety, John, and we have a single cell that’s just been vacated. You’ve been off the force a good few years — I doubt you’ll come across too many guys you put in here. In fact, I’ve had a look. Just a few minor habituals, none of them minded to get on the wrong side of Darryl and his lads.’ He had fixed Rebus with a look. ‘So what do you say?’

‘I say that if someone does me in, I want you grieving at the graveside.’

Tennent had given a thin smile before rising to his feet, Rebus snatching a final biscuit as he was ushered from the room.

Well, it’ll make a change, he had thought to himself, while all too aware that ex-cops were unlikely to be welcomed with open arms. Aware, too, that Darryl Christie might at any time change his mind, leaving him wide open to attack.

It was an hour before his cell door was unlocked long enough for cold toast and a mug of stewed tea to be handed over. The officer’s name was Kyle Jacobs — nicknamed Kylie by the men on the hall. Rebus had made friends with him over the past weeks, Jacobs eager to hear tales from Rebus’s CID days. He was in his late twenties with short, well-groomed hair and heavily tattooed arms. He had two uncles who’d been Lothian and Borders Police and Rebus had pretended to know the names.

‘This looks appetising,’ Rebus said as he took the plate.

‘Best we could do. The eggs would have walked in here by themselves.’

‘So what’s happening out there?’

‘Someone stabbed Jackie in the neck. He’s done for.’

‘How about Jamieson?’

‘Doped to the eyeballs. A nasty gash on his forehead.’

‘Taken out of the game, basically. Found the weapon?’

Jacobs looked around. ‘I’ve already said more than I should.’

Rebus had edged forward, hoping for a glimpse down the hall, but the young officer crowded in on him. A raised voice came from behind the door of the next cell along.

‘Will you hurry the fuck up, Kylie! My belly thinks my throat’s been cut!’

Jacobs started closing Rebus’s door.

‘Don’t be a stranger,’ Rebus told him.

He settled on the edge of his bed, listening to the door locking. The normal routine would have had him helping at the library. He’d been offered floor polishing or the kitchens, but being around books had appealed more. The library wasn’t far from the NHS unit and its nursing staff. Rebus got his regular supply of COPD inhalers there, always with the warning that he shouldn’t pass them on — ‘Some users tweak them to make bongs,’ he’d been told. Not that cannabis was the biggest problem inside. Spice and its chums had been causing havoc for several years. Ketamine, nitazene, etizolam, bromazolam — Rebus couldn’t keep up, which didn’t matter as most of the prisoners just called them ‘benzos’ and didn’t seem to mind exactly which doses and combinations they were being offered. The drugs were easy to hide and there was no giveaway aroma. From noon onwards you could see the benzos taking their toll, slack faces atop immobile frames. There were ketamine users whose addiction had led to bladder problems and colostomies. They were known as Pissbag One, Two and Three. Nursing staff carried oranges with them because they diluted the effects of spice. Rebus had also seen plenty evidence of self-harm, prisoners whose arms bore scarring, some of it fresh and raw from the razor blade’s work. No one ever discussed it; it was just another fact of life behind bars.

Tennent had been right about one thing: Rebus hadn’t become aware of any real grudges against him. There was one guy, JoJo Peters, three murders to his name, who’d been put away after a cold-case trawl that Rebus had been involved in. But he was suffering from dementia these days and barely left his cell. The other prisoners made regular checks on him and took him treats. Rebus had stopped by one day and Peters had stared straight through him while chewing a toffee with the few teeth he’d managed to keep.

‘Shouldn’t be here,’ a younger prisoner had commented, arriving with another handful of sweets. ‘Home or a hospice if they had any heart.’

Word had obviously filtered down to Darryl Christie, who had stopped Rebus in the hall later.

‘Reckon JoJo could pose a problem?’ he’d asked.

‘Definitely not.’

Christie had nodded slowly and turned away, watched by a couple of officers. Rebus doubted they’d have been quick to respond even if Christie had launched himself at him. The place was short-staffed — all prisons were — and it was at near-capacity. Other jails were even more crowded, but life here was made easier for all concerned if someone like Christie exerted a level of control.

The day Rebus had moved into his permanent cell, Christie had come calling. He’d gained some weight and wore his hair long, swept back from his forehead. He’d wanted to thank Rebus for getting rid of Morris Gerald Cafferty. But Rebus had been convicted of attempted murder rather than murder proper. Even so, the judge had handed down the mandatory life sentence, despite Rebus’s protestations that he’d only meant to scare Big Ger by putting a cushion over his face. The prosecution hadn’t liked that, presenting Cafferty as a wheelchair-bound Mother Teresa rather than a thuggish career criminal. Rebus’s past run-ins with the man had been dusted off and held up to the jury for their consideration and condemnation. Still, Cafferty had died, leaving a vacuum of sorts — once his cocky lieutenant, Andrew Downs, had been scared off and run out of town. Christie’s town, controlled at a distance, while inside HMP Edinburgh he sat on his throne — or at least the chair at Rebus’s desk.

‘Settling in? Anything I can get you? I know you had a bit of a thirst on the outside — harder to source in here. Pills, on the other hand — uppers and downers — you’ll soon forget you’ve got four walls around you. You’ll forget everything bad.’

‘No chance of any Sanatogen then?’ Christie looked blank. ‘Forget it,’ Rebus said. Then: ‘Am I supposed to thank you for this?’

Rebus had known him since Christie was in his late teens, keening for retribution after his sister’s murder. Paths were open to him back then and he’d chosen the one leading here. Rebus had been in the room the night Christie had shot and killed an enemy. He’d seen a madness behind the young man’s eyes and had assumed he’d end up in the secure unit at Carstairs. But the law dictated otherwise.

‘One thing you can do for me, lifer to lifer,’ Christie had said that day in the cell, rising to his feet so he was eye to eye with the standing Rebus.

‘What?’

‘Run me through it. Help me picture the scene.’ His voice had dropped, but his eyes glittered. ‘Was he scared? Did he show it? Did he beg?’ He ran his tongue across his lips. His breath was bad and his skin sallow. ‘Come to think of it, how did you feel? It was a long time coming. Too long for many...’

‘I actually had a bit of respect for the guy,’ Rebus had eventually replied. ‘He had a code of sorts, things that were beyond the pale. Not every toerag can say the same.’

Then he’d sat down on his bed, picked up a book and pretended to start losing himself in it, leaving Christie to stand his ground, dragging a hand through his hair before walking out.

A few of the prisoners referred to Christie as ‘the Don’. The first few times it had happened, Rebus had felt it necessary to respond that he was no Vito Corleone. But it kept happening anyway. Rebus knew all too well that Christie’s protection was a mixed blessing; it didn’t do to rile the guy unnecessarily. So he kept himself to himself, worked all the hours he could in the small but well-stocked library, and got to know a few of his companions, finding out who could be trusted to any extent and who should be avoided. He thought of Cafferty sometimes, not quite with remorse. The life sentence felt like Cafferty having one last laugh at Rebus’s expense.

The level of noise rose as the morning progressed, complaints from behind the locked doors. Rebus’s neighbours on both sides — Billy Groam and Everett Harrison — gave occasional kicks and thumps. Harrison had music playing as usual. Rebus had given up asking him to turn it down. Harrison was of Caribbean descent and had a Liverpudlian accent. He worked for a Merseyside-based trafficker of drugs and people, and had been caught in Edinburgh with a consignment of the former. Rebus had asked him once if encroaching on Christie’s turf meant he had to watch his back.

‘Anyone comes at me, they better have nuclear capability,’ Harrison had retorted. And it was true that he seemed to get on well with Christie, the two men playing pool together and sometimes even sharing a console game. Smiles and laughs, pats on the back and handshakes. Rebus was almost convinced.

His door was unlocked at one o’clock. An officer he didn’t recognise told him that food was being served in Swanston Hall, so he’d need to get changed. On your own hall, you could wear what you liked, but when visiting elsewhere, prison-issue polo shirts and sweatshirts were required, their colours indicating what level of inmate you were. Blue for short-term, brown for those not yet tried in court, maroon for sex offenders. The long-termers like Rebus wore dark green. He’d been told it was so the officers watching on CCTV could keep tabs. Last thing they wanted was lifers meeting kiddie-fiddlers during free flow.

Having swapped his faded red polo for green, Rebus stepped out of his cell and saw that a cordon had been set up around the crime scene, courtesy of blue-and-white-striped POLICE tape draped between some parking cones. A scene-of-crime team was still busy, those inside the cell covered head to toe to prevent trace contamination. The governor meantime was in conversation with a cop Rebus recognised — Detective Sergeant Christine Esson. Spotting Rebus, she raised an eyebrow before turning her attention back to Howard Tennent.

‘We all know what happened,’ Billy Groam muttered, walking a few paces ahead of Rebus. ‘Bad blood between Jackie and that bawbag Chris Novak. You saw him this morning same as I did, standing outside the cell making sure all his mates had their stories straight.’

Yes, Rebus remembered the two officers, faces almost touching as they talked. Novak and Valerie Watts. Rumour was they were more than just colleagues. But then rumours were like oxygen in a place like this, keeping the heart pumping and the mind active.

The line had slowed to a shuffle, giving Rebus time to check out who else he might know from the old days. He couldn’t see Haj Atwal, who usually ran scene-of-crimes, but then he could be outside, busy at his well-equipped van. Rebus wondered if any of the crew had their phones on them, or had they been locked away as they would be for normal visitors? Whatever had been brought in would be taken out again, the prison staff would make sure of that.

Speculation and information ran up and down the line as it moved. Mark Jamieson had been taken to hospital to be checked over. Chris Novak had been on the overnight shift, which meant he was pulling a double, since he’d still been on duty at breakfast. Same went for Valerie Watts — and wasn’t that a happy coincidence? The lads in the cells either side of the crime scene hadn’t heard raised voices or anything, though Billy Groam across the way swore he’d heard a cell being unlocked at some point before dawn.

‘Jackie’s cell?’ Rebus checked.

‘Who else’s?’ Groam muttered.

Rebus had known Jackie Simpson. He would visit the library for DVDs while boasting that he’d never read a book in his life.

‘The streets were my school,’ he’d told Rebus once. ‘And now I’m the teacher!’

By which he meant that he taught other prisoners how to get through a locked door, any door. He’d even offered to show Rebus.

‘What makes you think I don’t already know?’ Rebus had replied.

He’d also told Rebus about his feud with Officer Novak. ‘Bastard grabbed me by the throat one time. Inside my cell so it wasn’t on camera. Told me my boy was a deadbeat like his dad. It’ll be a different story when I get out of here.’

‘In which case you’ll be paying this place a return visit pronto,’ Rebus had warned him.

As the line moved closer to lunch, Rebus asked Groam how he reckoned Novak had killed Simpson.

‘Smuggled in a shank, didn’t he? Or maybe he confiscated it, kept it tucked away for future use. Cell door was locked, John — you reckon one of us magicked our way in there?’

‘Simpson got on okay with his cellmate?’

‘Mark’s a pussycat, barely out of his teens. Plus the size of him, you could fit him in Jackie’s back pocket. Jackie would have ripped his head off if he’d tried anything.’

‘Benzos can make a man act out of character.’

‘Tends not to turn them into the Hulk, though. Plus, aye, Mark was zonked as usual. Zonked and whacked across the head with something. You’ve seen the batons Novak and his gang carry. Way he sees it, cops aren’t going to break sweat. Jackie’s just another con to them. One less to worry about.’

There were some wolf-whistles and whoops as they trooped into Swanston, the prisoners there letting them know what they thought of the incursion. But they were curious, too, wanting to know what had happened and why, so there was a charm offensive of sorts. Rebus studied each and every face, recognising none, for which he was grateful. On his home turf, Darryl Christie reigned, but Rebus didn’t know how far his kingdom stretched. Christie himself settled with his food, seemingly unconcerned, but his eyes remained wary and he made sure he was flanked by two of the bigger bastards from Trinity, one of them Everett Harrison. Rebus watched as a prisoner approached and tapped Harrison on the shoulder. Harrison got up, all grins, and the two men hugged, then patted each other’s upper arms, checking the musculature. Rebus realised they must have known one another on the outside, and he felt his gut clench.

‘His name’s Bobby Briggs,’ Groam confided. ‘From the west coast.’

‘I know him,’ Rebus admitted in an undertone.

Groam fixed him with a look. ‘From your days in the filth?’

‘Where else?’

‘Half Trinity thinks you were moved in because Tennent wants someone on the inside.’

‘Wasn’t like that.’ Rebus scooped up more potato. The food was lukewarm at best, but anything tasted better than confinement. It reminded him of fare from a primary school or some second-rate holiday camp. One day a week they got burgers. After that, a lot of prisoners started counting down the days till next time. Everybody liked burgers. But today it was chicken in a white sauce, plus mushy potatoes. Rebus didn’t finish his, and Groam angled his head towards the plate.

‘Fill your boots,’ Rebus said.

He was thinking of Christine Esson. In days past, he might have known her phone number. He assumed she was still based at Gayfield Square. Time was, she worked under DI Siobhan Clarke, but Clarke had moved on. Esson hadn’t looked at all fazed by her surroundings, every inch the professional. Whatever mentoring Clarke had done, it had paid off.

He realised that someone was staring at him from the far side of the hall, that someone being Bobby Briggs. Then Briggs was on his feet and lumbering in Rebus’s direction. Rebus got up and backed towards the nearest officer.

‘Trouble’s coming,’ he informed him.

‘Easy, Bobby,’ the officer cautioned, holding up a hand in warning. Briggs stopped a couple of feet short of Rebus, jabbing a finger as he spoke.

‘Bastard stitched me up,’ he snarled, eyes glowing, teeth showing. Spittle flew from his mouth, flecks of it hitting Rebus’s face.

‘That was in another century, Bobby,’ Rebus argued. ‘And it’s not why you’re in here now.’

Everett Harrison had approached, pressing a palm to Briggs’s shoulder. ‘Everything all right, Bobby?’

Briggs didn’t take his eyes off Rebus. ‘Lied through their teeth in the witness box, him and his lot. I got five years.’

‘That’s right, Bobby,’ Rebus offered. ‘The victim kicked his own ribs till they broke — I keep forgetting.’

‘Maybe you forget, but I never will. Your card’s marked, Rebus.’

‘Whatever you say, Bobby.’

Briggs looked ready to pounce, but Harrison’s grip on him had strengthened and the officer’s hand was half an inch from the alarm. With effort, Harrison turned the man around and began leading him back into the body of the hall, his arm draped around his shoulders.

‘Might take the rest of my meals in my cell,’ Rebus told the officer, on whose forehead a sheen of sweat had appeared.

‘I’ll make a note of it,’ he said. ‘Bobby’s not someone you want to get on the wrong side of.’

‘Maybe I’ll send him a box of Quality Street as a peace offering...’

Twenty minutes later, they were on their way again, being waved off and blown kisses by some of their hosts. Outside the deceased’s cell, Esson and her colleagues had been replaced by the governor and another man, the latter smart-suited, hair immaculate, tie crisply knotted. It took Rebus the briefest moment to place him — Malcolm Fox, formerly Professional Standards and now Organised Crime. Fox was happiest behind a neat desk, inbox empty and a boss’s arse waiting to be peppered with kisses. Rebus almost blurted aloud what he was thinking:

Fuck are you doing here?

Fox clocked him, almost as if he’d been expecting him. While the governor kept talking, Fox’s attention was all on Rebus. Rebus in turn narrowed his eyes, letting Fox know he had questions. Fatalities were the preserve of a major incident team, and Fox was not and never would be MIT. Rebus turned his head by degrees as he walked, maintaining eye contact. An officer was gesturing for him to enter his cell.

‘We’re being cooped up again?’ Rebus complained.

‘Afraid so.’

‘Whatever happened to human rights?’ Groam piped up. ‘We’ve hardly been out today.’

‘A mate of ours is dead, Billy,’ Everett Harrison shot back. ‘A few extra hours banged up is fuck all.’

‘I’ve nothing to do, though.’

‘Haven’t you got a toy you can play with?’ Harrison cupped his own groin, grinning.

Rebus waited until he had the man’s attention. ‘I want to thank you for saving my neck back there.’

‘Bobby holds his grudges. He wants to see you turning on a spit.’

‘I thought I was under Darryl Christie’s protection.’

‘In here you are, but this is just one hall.’

‘Everybody in!’ the governor called out.

Everyone went in.

Rebus sat on his bed, rubbing a hand across his jaw and occasionally glancing towards the wall-mounted landline. He was aware of a dull cacophony — more complaints about the lockdown, shouted responses from the officers on duty. Eventually, around four, his door rattled open.

‘Stretch your legs,’ Graves said. ‘There’s already a queue for the showers if you feel the need.’

‘I’ll manage,’ Rebus said. The temporary cordon had gone from in front of the murder scene, but there was tape stretched across the closed door. Prisoners mingled, chatted, set up games of cards, trying to avoid looking at that tape. Two of them headed for the pool table and picked up cues. No one was being allowed out of the hall for activities, but freedom was relative and they were determined to savour it, while trying for the solemnity they felt the day required. No jokes for a change, no teasing or gentle bullying.

‘You’re not due to see the nurse or anything?’ Graves checked. ‘Enough meds?’

‘Plenty meds,’ Rebus confirmed.

‘Lucky you. I could do with some myself. Back’s been giving me gyp.’

‘I’m sure Darryl can sort you out. You only have to ask.’

Rebus walked past Graves’s scowl, shaking his legs as if loosening them. He tried to look as if he was just circling the hall, no real destination in mind. He’d done four circuits before the queue at Darryl Christie’s table was cleared. Rebus took the seat opposite him.

‘What’s with you and Bobby Briggs?’ Christie asked.

‘He thinks I lied in court.’

‘And did you?’

‘Pious perjury, we called it.’

‘In other words, you did fit him up?’

Rebus shook his head. ‘He’d done the crime. We just couldn’t quite prove it.’

‘So you gave the jury a version they’d fall for?’ Christie nodded his understanding.

‘He was about to rip my head from my shoulders back there.’

‘Everett had you covered,’ Christie said with a shrug. ‘So if you’ve come looking for an apology...’

Rebus shook his head again. ‘I need a phone for an hour.’

Christie took his time folding his arms. ‘What makes you think I have a phone?’

‘You’ve probably got a dozen of them. Either smuggled in up someone’s arse or brought in by one of the staff for a bung. If there’s a choice, I’d prefer something from the latter batch.’ Rebus watched a thin smile spread across Christie’s face. ‘I can pay the going rate, if that’s what you’re wondering.’

‘You don’t know what the current rate is.’

‘So enlighten me.’

Christie unfolded his arms and pressed his palms flat against the table. ‘What’s wrong with the landline in your cell? Let me guess — you need to make sure no one’s listening in. But that still begs the question. My guess is it’s to do with what happened to Jackie Simpson.’

‘So what did happen to Jackie?’

‘How would I know?’

‘By pressing a few pills into the right hands.’

‘I’d be wasting good product. Even the uniforms know it was one of them, maybe more than one. They’re going to have trouble keeping a lid on it, too. Jackie was well liked. Lot of the guys want to do the right thing by him.’

‘Start a riot, you mean?’

‘Do I?’ Christie leaned across the table, eyes level with Rebus’s. ‘My office in five minutes,’ he stated, getting to his feet and turning away.

Rebus stayed where he was and counted the seconds. There were plenty of looks from those who wondered what was going on.

‘Just getting my Special K order in,’ he told the nearest of them, raising his voice for the benefit of everyone else.

Eventually he took the short stroll to Christie’s cell. The door was ajar a few inches. Rebus nudged it further open with his foot and stepped inside. It was comfortable enough — TV and music player and a pile of recent car and bike mags. There were photos on one wall, including several of Christie’s murdered sister and one of him astride a Harley-Davidson.

‘They won’t let me carpet the place,’ Christie pretended to complain. He was standing under the high window, legs parted, hands behind his back. ‘Do you mind shutting it?’ He nodded towards the door. Rebus did as he was told.

‘So how much?’ he asked into the silence.

‘A grand,’ Christie informed him. Then, having watched Rebus take this in, he gave a snort. ‘Just this one time then.’ He held out his right hand. There was a small, basic-looking mobile phone sitting in it. ‘Passcode is four zeroes. Reception can be dodgy, so try clambering onto your toilet seat. Bonus is, they can’t see you from the peephole. They can hear you, though, so keep your voice down, and best phone while things are lively. At dead of night sound carries even further, and your neighbours will have their ears pressed to the wall.’

Rebus reached out for the device, but Christie had wrapped his hand around it again.

‘Something to consider: you take this, you’re not on their side any more, you’re on ours. If you’re found with it, you’ll be locked down solid for a while. You get that, right?’

Rebus gave a slow nod. ‘I get it.’

‘And if the boss finds out you’ve been naughty, there’ll be no more tea and biscuits in his office. So you need to be really sure.’

‘I’m sure.’

‘And it is to do with Jackie Simpson?’

‘Maybe,’ Rebus confessed. As Christie’s fist relaxed, he plucked the phone from it and slipped it into his pocket. ‘How do I get it back to you?’

‘It’s yours till breakfast. Hand it over then. Fair warning — it’s got about twenty minutes’ battery left on it. Call it a free taste. If you decide you need to up the dosage, we can talk numbers.’ Christie held out his hand and Rebus took it, returning the grip as best he could while they shook.

‘One last thing,’ Rebus said. ‘How come you’re so pally with a guy who plays for another team?’

‘Harrison, you mean?’ Christie considered for a moment. ‘His manager’s a Scouse wanker called Hanlon. But maybe there’s a transfer window opening. Could be he’ll change strips...’ He gave a slow wink before turning his back on Rebus, angling his head to gaze at the high window. It was open as far as it would go — a scant few inches — but air was air. Christie seemed to be appreciating it as he clasped his hands behind his back again.

Meeting over.

As soon as he was back in his cell, Rebus headed to the toilet pan and stepped onto it. But nobody was being locked up yet, meaning anyone could yank his door open and catch him in the act. So he bided his time, and after twenty minutes a couple of prison officers arrived accompanying two detectives, presumably from the MIT. One male and one female, late twenties or early thirties, the male looking the more senior. Rebus couldn’t put names to either of them. This was the signal for the prisoners to be herded back into their cells, amidst the usual volley of complaints, bluster and cursing, plus queries as to whether they’d be allowed out in time for their next meal. As soon as Rebus’s door was locked, he climbed onto the lavatory again and made the call. A female voice answered.

‘Yes?’

He remained silent, wondering how long it would take her. The answer: eight seconds. Then a sigh.

‘John?’

‘Hello, Siobhan.’ He cupped one hand around his mouth and the phone.

‘There was no voice telling me the call’s being monitored.’ Again Rebus waited. Again Siobhan Clarke sighed. ‘Oh Jesus, John, what if you’re caught?’

‘You thought I’d be phoning, though, didn’t you?’

‘It’s Christine Esson you need to speak to, not me.’

‘Yes, I saw her earlier. She looked the part.’

‘That’s because she is the part.’

‘Do I detect a note of jealousy?’

‘Sod off.’

‘It’s good to hear your voice, Siobhan. How’ve things been?’

‘Sammy and I went to check your flat a few days back. Starting to smell a bit damp, so we’re putting the heating on an hour a day. Is that all right?’

‘Did Sammy have Brillo with her?’

‘He was looking all over for you. We gave him a run on the Meadows and he was looking there, too.’

‘Give him a scratch behind the ears for me.’

‘Will do.’ Clarke paused. ‘Carrie wants to see you. She’s gotten good at drawing. There’s one of Brillo she wants you to have.’

‘I can’t have her seeing me in here, Shiv. You know that.’

‘She’d be fine, John.’

‘She might, but I wouldn’t.’ He paused. ‘How about you — you doing okay, all things considered?’

‘How long have you got?’

‘Maybe ten more minutes.’ Rebus held the phone away from him. The battery indicator was already flashing. ‘Can you get me Christine’s number?’

‘Not a good idea.’

‘How about Malcolm Fox? Is he speaking to you?’

‘What’s Fox got to do with anything?’

‘He was at the crime scene, getting the lowdown from the governor by the look of it.’

‘Bit odd.’

‘That’s what I thought. Reckon you can shed any light?’

‘I’ll do what I can. No promises. But you’ll owe me, and you know what I want.’

It was Rebus’s turn to exhale. ‘I’ll think about it.’

‘She’s missing you rotten.’

‘I said I’ll think about it. Nice talking to you, Shiv. Don’t be a stranger.’ He ended the call but stayed where he was. The battery light was still flashing red. How many minutes did he have? He tried to think who else to call. His solicitor? They’d have clocked off for the day, or be out of the office — the receptionist would have her excuses ready as per. There was always Deborah Quant, but then she’d done the autopsy on Cafferty and given evidence at Rebus’s trial, and somehow that had cooled whatever ardour there had still been. He could talk to Sammy, but he’d be seeing her at the next visit. The Oxford Bar? He smiled at the thought — the sounds of the regulars in the background as Kirsty picked up. But then what? No, there really wasn’t anyone. Besides, the light was no longer flashing. The burner phone was dead.

2

Cammy Colson opened the car door and started climbing into the passenger seat.

‘Sorry to keep you waiting,’ he said.

Siobhan Clarke obliged with the briefest of smiles. Detective Sergeant Cameron Colson moved through life at the pace of a snail. Even now, having seated himself, his hand was creeping with painful slowness towards the handle. Watching him pull the door shut was like watching tectonic plates shifting. Clarke couldn’t bear the thought of his seat-belt manoeuvres, so she pressed the ignition button and got going.

‘Who were you on the phone to?’ he asked, pulling the belt across his chest.

Slow-moving, yes, but little escaped his attention.

‘Personal,’ was all she said, pulling out of the car park at St Leonard’s police station.

She hadn’t been in position long, didn’t really know her colleagues well enough as yet to think of them as a team. She knew anything she let slip to Cammy Colson was bound to get back to the others. They were all curious, of course — and wary. Curious because Clarke had been promoted to Professional Standards (the feared and infamous ‘Complaints’) but had then jumped ship and returned to CID. Too late, however, to return to her old station at Gayfield Square, where she’d already been replaced. St Leonard’s was not new to her — she’d worked there with John Rebus before his retirement — but she was new to it. The faces had changed, and those faces were wary precisely because she was linked, however tenuously, to Professional Standards. As a result, colleagues were careful how much they divulged. When she walked into a room, the small talk ceased. She could have told them the simple truth — that she hadn’t lasted at Professional Standards because she didn’t like it and felt it a waste of whatever talent she possessed. But would they believe her? Never apologise, never explain. She wasn’t sure who it was who first said that, but she was content to abide by it.

Maybe one night over drinks it would all come out. Except that none of them drank. Or if they did, they did it quietly at home. At the end of each shift, as jackets and coats went on, there was never mention of stopping for a quick one across the road. Then again, maybe everything was arranged by text message, keeping her in the dark. She didn’t think so, though; had even wandered into two or three pubs in the vicinity, finding no one she knew lurking there. It was a different generation, that was all. Younger than her; taking better care of themselves. Pete Swinton ran half-marathons for fun. Colson, despite his heft, was ‘vegetarian verging on vegan’. Trisha Singh did yoga and Pilates. And all of them worked under Detective Chief Inspector Bryan Carmichael, who, as well as looking young enough still to be at college, swam every morning in the nearby Commonwealth Pool, having been on the national team as a schoolboy. Though she tried not to feel nostalgic, she missed the old days with John Rebus, crossing the occasional line to get results. ‘The bad old days’, Carmichael would no doubt call them, but they’d been good days too.

She thought about Rebus often, between the weekly visits and the occasional monitored catch-up by phone. His weight had been dropping, the skin loose around his jaw and neck, and he’d lost what little colour his face had once had. He managed to joke about his incarceration, but they both knew Saughton would always be a dangerous place for an ex-cop, even one with the guile and instincts of John Rebus. His imprisonment had brought Clarke closer to his daughter, Sammy, and granddaughter, Carrie. They often walked Rebus’s mutt Brillo together, finding things to talk about that didn’t always involve the man himself.

By the time Clarke stopped at the first set of red lights, Colson had got his seat belt fastened.

‘So what do you reckon?’ he asked.

She took a moment to gather herself. ‘Met someone at a party or in town, head over heels for forty-eight hours, rest of the world just disappears.’

‘So she’ll be back any time?’

‘Here’s hoping.’

They were talking about a fourteen-year-old schoolgirl, Jasmine Andrews, who had left school for home the previous afternoon but not arrived. By 6.30 p.m., wondering where she was, her mother had phoned Jasmine’s best friend, Carla, who’d told her Jasmine wasn’t there and wasn’t picking up texts or answering her phone. Nor had she been active on social media.

Jasmine’s mother had ended the call and made another to her husband, a business developer who was on a job down south. He hadn’t answered and she’d left no message. Instead, she’d headed out in her car to trawl the streets around the neighbourhood and beyond. She’d paused at some point and texted Carla, asking her to keep trying to track Jasmine down. When her husband phoned her an hour or two later, she’d burst into tears and then, on his advice, called the police.

That had been last night. Jasmine still hadn’t come home, and her disappearance was out of character. If she was with someone, it wasn’t any of her gang of friends. Either that or someone was covering for her. She’d left no note, taken no obvious clothes. It would take time for them to check whether she was using her bank card for purchases or withdrawals. Time, too, for them to scour CCTV footage from street cameras, public transport and shops. Jasmine’s mother, Helena, had been asked if they’d fallen out, or whether Jasmine had seemed herself recently. Did she have a boyfriend? (No.) Any ex-boyfriends? (Just the one, never very serious.) Her bedroom had been visited, a few photographs borrowed, her contact details noted. Service providers would be asked for their help. Jasmine’s friends had already alerted the online world, and their concern had been picked up by the media. The Evening News had run the story on their website, and Jasmine’s picture would be in the next physical edition of the newspaper. She was a fresh-faced teenager with a winning smile and long blonde hair. Everyone was interested.

Clarke and Colson were on their way to Jasmine’s school in Marchmont, where the head teacher was rounding up all the pupils who knew her. Though Clarke had told Colson she reckoned Jasmine had just met someone and was hanging out with them, she wasn’t sure she believed it. It was a best-case scenario, something to say to the worried parents so they wouldn’t lose their minds. She had visited the Andrews home, a Victorian semi-detached on a leafy street in the Grange. She had watched Helena Andrews just about fail to raise a mug of tea to her mouth without spilling it, due to the tremble in both hands. She owned and ran a designer shop in nearby Bruntsfield. Her sister was due to arrive soon from Glasgow to be with her. Her husband probably couldn’t get home until late evening or even the next day.

‘Jas is only fourteen,’ she kept saying between sniffles. ‘You’ve got to bring her back.’

‘Of course we’ll do that,’ Cammy Colson had said, beginning the onerous process of reaching across the table for his own mug.

A member of staff was waiting for them at the gates to the car park, indicating the bay for visitors. She guided them into the modern building and up a flight of stairs to the only other floor, where she opened a classroom door and signalled for them to enter. The head was waiting and shook hands, introducing herself as Tara Lindsay.

‘Do you want me to stay, or...’

Clarke looked at the thirty or so pupils, seated behind desks, dressed in a uniform of white shirt, yellow-and-red-striped tie, dark blazer with the school’s crest on the left breast. Charcoal-coloured trousers for the boys, clingy black skirts and dark tights for the girls. Knowing they were in the presence of authority figures, they all wore looks Clarke had seen before, frightened that their minds could be read and their secrets revealed, desperate that their body language or a slip of the tongue didn’t give them away.

‘Sit yourself down,’ she told the head. Colson was resting his backside against the edge of what would be the teacher’s desk and had started folding his arms. Clarke placed herself in front of the group of teenagers and took a deep breath.

‘My name’s Detective Inspector Clarke and this is Detective Sergeant Colson. I want to thank you for coming along. As you know, your friend Jasmine hasn’t been seen since yesterday afternoon and we all want to see her back here safe and sound. You probably knew her better than anyone, and that’s why we need your help. Anything you can tell us, no matter how trivial you might think it, could be of help.’ She broke off as a hand went up.

‘Is Jas in trouble? When she’s found, I mean.’

Clarke focused on the girl. ‘That’s a good point. She needs to know she’s not in any kind of trouble. I can’t stress that enough. Her mum and dad just want to give her a hug. Whatever the reason might be for her leaving, there’s going to be no punishment. Can any of you think why she might’ve wanted to disappear, even for a short time?’

The pupils looked at each other, some of them offering shrugs.

‘Anybody she might’ve gone to visit, out of town maybe? Someone she knew online?’ Above the sea of shaking heads, Clarke saw two girls at the back share a look.

‘You’re all keeping a lookout for her on TikTok, Snapchat and whatever, aye?’ Colson piped up.

‘She uses WhatsApp too,’ one girl replied.

‘Everybody online knows she’s gone,’ another added, ‘but nobody knows where.’

‘Can any of you think of places she might have headed? Maybe somewhere you all congregate that none of your parents know about?’

The room shared a variety of glances, twitches and shrugs. The silence stretched until Clarke broke it.

‘Is there a Craig Fielding in the room?’ she asked.

‘He’s the year above, but he’s not in today,’ a boy answered, his voice much deeper than his skinny frame would suggest. There were wisps of a nascent moustache either side of his upper lip.

‘Is he off sick or what?’ Clarke addressed this to Tara Lindsay, who said she would check, taking out her phone and starting to text.

‘Craig and Jasmine split ages back,’ one of the girls at the back announced.

‘Were they both okay about that?’ Clarke enquired, receiving a shrug in response.

‘You think someone’s taken her?’ another girl interrupted, voice shaking slightly. ‘Do we need to be extra careful?’

‘There’s nothing to suggest that,’ Colson drawled. ‘But it always pays to keep your wits about you — cars or strangers following you, maybe tailing you home...’

Seeing the fearful looks on a few faces, Clarke butted in. ‘I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about, but we all want to know that she’s safe and not in any sort of bother.’

Lindsay was reading an incoming text. ‘Feeling a bit off-colour. His mother phoned the office this morning.’

‘We’ll need his contact details,’ Clarke stated. She turned to the whiteboard, picked up the marker pen next to it and wrote down a phone number and email address. ‘Keep a note of these,’ she said to the pupils. ‘You can talk to us confidentially, any time day or night.’ They all got out their phones and started entering the details, mostly by dint of photographing the board. Clarke turned to Tara Lindsay. ‘Maybe you can make sure the staff get the same message?’

‘Absolutely.’

She turned again and addressed the classroom. ‘Thank you for coming. I think that’s enough for now.’ She watched them start to gather up their bags. ‘Oh, one thing — is there someone here called Carla?’

The two girls at the back shared another look. One of them raised her hand with some reluctance.

‘If you could maybe stay behind a couple of minutes,’ Clarke told her.

Tara Lindsay was entering the information from the whiteboard into her own phone. She came and stood next to Clarke as the teenagers filed from the room. When she spoke, she kept her voice low.

‘I wouldn’t say Jasmine’s super-bright or super-confident. She’s one of the quiet ones. A camp follower, you might say. Never gives us any trouble or cause for concern, unlike some others I could name.’ Clarke got the feeling those ‘others’ might include Carla and her confidante, who were having a whispered conversation as they dawdled. The eyes of those making their exit were on them both, and some colour had risen to Carla’s cheeks.

‘We’ll talk to Carla in private,’ Clarke told the head, ‘if that’s okay with you. We can find our own way out when we’re done.’

Lindsay seemed reluctant, but eventually nodded her agreement. She left the room just ahead of Carla’s pal, Carla herself sitting back down in the same spot on the back row of desks. Clarke didn’t mind letting the girl win that one. She walked from the front of the classroom, Colson a few steps behind. When the pair of them came to a stop, they loomed over the seated figure.

‘What’s your last name, Carla?’ Clarke asked.

‘Morris.’

‘Where’s that accent from?’

‘Bradford. We moved here four years ago.’

‘Is that how long you’ve known Jasmine?’

‘Pretty much.’

‘We hear from her mum that you’re her best friend — is she yours?’

‘Jas is all right. A good laugh. We like the same music.’

‘If she wanted to confide in anyone, it would be you, though, yes?’

‘Maybe.’

Clarke studied the girl. She was clear-skinned, still carrying some puppy fat but readying for adulthood. Her eyes were filled with a degree of knowledge but maybe even more bravado. Shoulder-length dark hair and a bit of eyeliner. Her school tie boasted an oversized knot, the top button of her white shirt undone. Clarke tried to think back to her own schooldays and to girls like Carla, but too much time had passed.

‘Who was that next to you?’ Colson asked, pointing towards the vacated chair.

‘Stephanie.’

‘Would she be your best friend, Carla?’

The girl looked at him for a brief second. ‘I wish I could help you, but I can’t.’

‘No clue as to what Jasmine might be doing? Where she could be hiding?’

‘She was fine last time I saw her. We shared YouTube clips two nights back. She didn’t say anything about...’ She twirled a finger in the air, indicating anything and everything.

‘What sort of clips?’

‘Music videos... funny animals... just things she thought I’d like.’

‘Did she do that a lot?’

‘Most nights.’

‘Things she thought you’d like — so it was mostly one-way traffic? Would you say she’s a needy sort of friend?’

When Carla met Colson’s eyes, it was as if she were pulling up a drawbridge. ‘I’ve told you everything I can.’ Her voice was low but determined.

Clarke held up her phone and waved it. ‘Can we have your contact details, Carla? I’m not saying there’ll be more questions, but just to be on the safe side.’

The girl considered for a moment, then reeled off her number.

‘Thanks for that,’ Clarke said.

‘So I can go?’

‘You can go,’ Colson agreed.

Carla lost no time grabbing her bag and making for the door.

‘No current boyfriend?’ Clarke called out to her.

‘Me or Jas?’

‘Jasmine.’

‘Not that I know of.’

‘And how about you — you’re not seeing Craig Fielding, are you?’

The girl answered with a roll of her eyes as she left.

‘Craig Fielding?’ Colson asked when the door had closed.

‘Just something about Carla and her mate Stephanie. Something they didn’t want us to know.’ Clarke gave a twitch of the mouth and approached the whiteboard. ‘I think I’ll leave that up,’ she said.

‘When you started writing, I could sense you enjoying it. Ever plan to go into teaching when you were younger?’

‘I don’t think so.’ She turned towards him. ‘We need to speak with Craig Fielding at some point.’

‘I suppose.’

Clarke glared at him. ‘You suppose?’

‘Case is neither one thing nor the other just now. If she waltzes back home later today, we’ve been wasting our time.’

‘You’re saying you can’t really get motivated until she’s lying on a slab in the autopsy suite?’

‘Christ, Shiv, nobody wants that.’

‘It’s Siobhan, DS Colson.’

He started to hold up his hands in a show of surrender. ‘Just answer me this, then — do you think she’s been abducted, or do you think she’s a hormonal teen who’s gone off in some kind of strop?’

Clarke thought for a moment. ‘You’ve got a point — we need someone to start going through the register of sex offenders. Anyone local we should know about, maybe only recently back on the streets.’ She saw the look he was giving her. ‘We need to cover every contingency. That way we’re better prepared if bad news comes.’ Her tone became more conciliatory. ‘Maybe you’re right and she’s gone walkabout. Maybe she really is about to waltz back home. But if she hasn’t, our boss is going to want to know that we were on top of it from the get-go.’ She paused. ‘Yes or no?’

The fight seemed to drain out of Colson. ‘Fine, yes, of course you’re right. So the ex-boyfriend and then the paedophiles?’

‘Not forgetting Strawberry Switchblade.’ Colson looked blank. ‘I mean Carla and Stephanie.’

‘Strawberry Switchblade?’

‘Before your time, Cammy,’ Clarke said, trying not to show how painful it was to admit that.

Malcolm Fox’s office in the Scottish Crime Campus’s modern building at Gartcosh was a glass box, identical to the others either side of it. He’d just had a rare visit from his boss, Detective Chief Superintendent Phil Pratchett. Pratchett’s whole demeanour had changed in the past year. Retirement was coming for him and he had yielded to its inevitability. Fox had the notion that Pratchett had at one time reckoned him a potential successor, but Fox’s judgement had been called into question by the farce with Siobhan Clarke. She’d been his enthusiastic pick for Professional Standards and she hadn’t lasted two minutes. Fox was all too aware that he needed a result that would plaster over the resulting cracks.

Which was why Jackie Simpson’s death was such a blow.

Simpson had been Fox’s eyes and ears inside Trinity Hall, as he had been on the outside. Darryl Christie continued to be a malign presence in Scotland’s capital. New drugs were being parachuted onto the city’s streets. Nobody in Police Scotland wanted the country to appear too welcoming to suppliers. Fox’s department had been charged with stopping the flow and identifying the main players. Those players, however, were not all home-grown, which was why Fox had been introduced to a DI in London called Thomas Glaze. (Always Thomas, never Tom — Fox had made that mistake only once.) The two had not yet met, only ever speaking by phone, but Fox liked to think a rapport had been established.

Glaze worked for SO15 and had a special interest in drugs and people-trafficking. A year back he had given Fox the name Shay Hanlon. Hanlon was suspected of smuggling refugees through Europe and then selling them into a sort of slavery where they worked menial jobs in order to pay off a debt that kept rising exponentially. One of these operations was a nail bar in Edinburgh. Could Fox’s team glean anything that might prove helpful? Fox didn’t bother telling Glaze that he had no team as such. There were few enough officers working within the Organised Crime and Counter-Terrorism Unit, and the budget had just been slashed yet again. So he had undertaken the work himself, often on his own time. Then one night, sitting in a quietly anonymous bar with Jackie Simpson, a plan had been conjured up. Say the nail bar was broken into. Police would then have reason to enter the premises and have a good look around. Something might well turn up.

And something had. Street drugs. Lots of them. Delivered by one Everett Harrison, and with his prints and DNA smeared across the packages. Charged, found guilty and sent to HMP Edinburgh.

But then Jackie Simpson had slipped up and found himself there too.

‘Bit of a bonus,’ Glaze had commented. ‘Harrison’s a good catch, but it’s his boss we really want. If the two are in touch, maybe your man can learn something. How long is he in for?’

‘Just a few months.’

‘Better get busy then, eh, Malcolm? Don’t think we’re not grateful, by the way. Your name’s getting mentioned down here in ways that would make you blush.’

Which was the point at which Fox had decided he’d better talk to his boss and apprise him of most of what he’d been doing and what had been achieved.

But time had passed and all Fox really had to show was a deceased snitch — which was what had led the chief super to his door.

‘This better not be about to get messy, Malcolm,’ had been the message.

‘It won’t,’ Fox had assured him, maintaining eye contact.

But that meant depending on Edinburgh CID to solve the case satisfactorily. And Fox had no confidence at all in that scenario — hence his visit to HMP Edinburgh with the governor as his tour guide. He had left with the promise that he would be kept up to date with developments.

‘Good man,’ he had said, his smile genuine for once.

Clarke stayed in the office at St Leonard’s after everyone else had gone home. She liked the place when it was quiet like this. She had space to think. Mostly she was thinking about Colson and Swinton and Singh. Colson never offered up much about his private life. She knew Swinton and Singh were both married, Swinton to someone who worked in finance and Singh to a doctor. The boss, Bryan Carmichael, was gay and in a relationship, though again he never brought it up.

If asked about her own circumstances, she would have told the truth — that she was on a sabbatical from all that. There had been a brief thing a while back with Fox, but it had been awkward and unsustainable. Before that there had been names, faces and dates she barely recalled. She picked up one of the photos of Jasmine Andrews and studied it. They hadn’t bothered pinning anything to a corkboard yet. No one was discussing search parties or river dredging. Officers had sourced the available footage from bus and train stations, ignoring the airport for now. Cab drivers had been alerted. A family liaison officer was visiting Jasmine’s parents this evening, the father having travelled north.

The father’s name was James. He’d met Helena at work when he’d been lower in the pecking order and she’d been a secretary. She’d quit the job when she became pregnant. With James’s career going well, they’d decided she needn’t go back to her old position. What she’d always fancied was running her own retail business. Clarke had taken a detour from the school in order to drive past the shop. It looked cheerful, even under lock and key, its window filled with knick-knacks, tweed and cashmere.

‘Quality tat,’ Colson had commented, leaving it at that.

The liaison visit was a formality; Clarke doubted much would be gleaned. Though as they’d not yet had the chance to size up the father, she’d asked for an evaluation.

‘If the hair on your neck starts to prickle,’ she’d told the officer, ‘I want to know.’

St Leonard’s was one of the city’s more modern cop shops, but it still felt jaded, its surfaces chipped and scuffed, windows ill-fitting and heating reduced to a game of chance. In purely aesthetic terms it could be considered a step up from Gayfield Square, but it managed to feel like a demotion. She missed her old crew. She missed being able to walk to work from her tenement flat just off Broughton Street. Placing the photograph to one side, she lifted her phone and called Christine Esson.

‘You’ve heard, then,’ Esson said.

‘First decent murder case in a while,’ Clarke responded. ‘Everyone’s green with envy.’

‘I doubt they’d be jealous if they had to spend all day in the place. I only got out half an hour ago and the smell is clinging to me.’

Clarke listened to a car horn sound. ‘You’re stuck in traffic,’ she speculated.

‘The joys of rush hour. Where are you?’

‘St Leonard’s. You live just down the road, don’t you?’

‘You know damned well I do. Want me to pick you up?’

‘You’ve read my mind, girl.’

‘I’m only staying for one, though. Can’t risk a breathalyser.’

‘One will do the job,’ Clarke assured her.

‘We used to tell ourselves that, but it never quite turned out that way.’

‘Thank God we’re older and so much wiser.’

‘I’ll be there in ten, fifteen at most.’

‘I’ll be waiting out front,’ Clarke said.

The bar they ended up in was a neighbourhood place on the edge of Newington, no tourists to speak of, and quiet, as most post-COVID pubs tended to be outside of weekends and the city centre. They ordered G and Ts with a spare bottle of tonic apiece and settled at a corner table with a view of the door. When their eyes met, they smiled — it was a cop thing; you always wanted to know who might be coming in, just in case you didn’t want to meet them.

Having clinked glasses, they sipped in silence for a moment. Esson stretched her neck to left and right, loosening it.

‘So what’s keeping you busy just now?’ she asked.

‘Teenage girl gone AWOL.’

‘I heard about that.’

Clarke held up her phone, showing Esson a picture of Jasmine.

‘How old?’ Esson asked.

‘Fourteen.’

‘Looks older, but then they always do, or so predatory men keep telling me.’

‘It’ll either be something or nothing.’ Clarke spoke over the rim of her glass. ‘So how’s it going with my replacement?’

‘I thought you said you never wanted to talk about him?’

‘I don’t. I just need to hear that he’s a bitter disappointment with the charisma of a tin of paint.’

Esson pretended to consider this. ‘What colour paint?’

‘Battleship grey.’

‘He’s okay really. I think you might even like him.’

‘Personable? Hard-working? Collegiate?’

‘All that and more.’

‘You’ve taken a shine to him?’

‘“Taken a shine”? Remind me what century we’re in.’

‘But you’re working well together?’

‘So far.’

‘Including in the nick.’

‘He’s actually on less sure ground there. I think maybe he’s claustrophobic.’

‘Remind me of his name.’

‘Jason Mulgrew.’

Clarke rolled the words around in her mouth.

‘We did some interviews on site today, but a slew more are due tomorrow.’

‘It’s not like anyone’s going anywhere.’

‘The guards go home occasionally.’ Esson dribbled some more tonic into her glass. ‘We’ve been checking the CCTV. This is a prison, right? Surveillance an absolute must. Yet one of the cameras has been on the blink for over a week.’

‘The one pointed at the cell where the murder happened?’

‘How did you guess?’

‘You’d have had it solved by now otherwise. Quite the coincidence, though...’

‘That’s what we’re thinking.’

‘How many suspects?’

‘There were only a dozen staff on that particular night shift for north of eight hundred prisoners — can you credit that? Cell door locked, nobody saw or heard anything — nothing they’re willing to divulge to us, at any rate. Well, apart from a single solitary inmate who says he heard a key rattling at some point in the night.’

‘Pity about that camera.’

‘We’ve got the lab looking at all the other footage. Plenty of comings and goings, but nothing showing anyone heading for the locus until the morning shift.’

‘The victim had enemies?’

‘There are stories of a bit of needle between him and one of the officers.’

‘And this officer was on duty that night?’

‘Alibied by his co-workers, never alone for more than five minutes at a stretch.’

‘How convenient. What about the cellmate?’

‘Outside the high walls we might term him a habitual user. They ran tests at the hospital and the story that he was out of it rings true. He was cracked over the skull, too. They’ve had to staple his forehead back together.’

‘So the killing happened while he was crashed out?’

‘Like everyone else, he didn’t hear or see anything.’

‘Nothing he’s going to divulge at any rate.’ Clarke followed Esson in adding more tonic to her drink.

‘No blood on him anywhere. He was top bunk, victim bottom. Plenty of blood on the bedding, wall and floor.’

‘Footprints heading back to the door?’

Esson shook her head. ‘No footprints, no fingerprints, no weapon.’

‘A knife, though, yes?’

‘Bladed weapon, serrated edge. We might know more after the autopsy — it’s due in the morning.’

They were silent for a moment. ‘Has to be someone with a key,’ Clarke commented.

‘Bringing us back to the night shift,’ Esson agreed. ‘And here’s another thing — a couple of staff cars have been torched in their parking bays over the past month and a half. It’s not the only jail it’s happened at and no one’s been caught as yet.’

‘The officer who didn’t get along with the deceased...?’

‘His car was targeted.’ Esson was nodding slowly.

‘What was our victim inside for?’

‘Entering lockfast premises. This wasn’t his first time at the rodeo. Only had another month or so to serve. Governor reckoned he wouldn’t be out for long before he reoffended.’ Esson half turned her head towards Clarke. ‘Fancy some crisps?’

‘I’d prefer nuts.’

‘They do salt-and-pepper ones. Back in a tick.’ Having got to her feet, Esson paused. The first round had been bought by Clarke. ‘I assume we might manage just one more?’

‘Entirely at your discretion, Officer.’

While Esson waited to be served, Clarke felt herself relax. This was what she missed: the unwinding that came with each day’s post-match discussion. Rebus had taught her the trick in the Oxford Bar’s back room. They would talk tactics and angles, find things they’d potentially missed. It was as if everything got filed away in the right place, so that you were better organised for the next day. Esson returned to the table with two little plastic pots of peanuts, the lids already removed. She sat back down and waited for Clarke to say something, but Clarke had already seen the barman making his approach, carrying their fresh gins.

‘Thanks, Gerry,’ Esson said. She tipped the measure into her original glass, a second slice of lime joining the first. ‘That’s how you keep tabs on how many you’ve had,’ she told Clarke.

‘What about your car?’

‘I’ll leave it out front. Ten-minute walk and I’m home. Pick it up again in the morning before the wardens get busy. Cheers.’

Their glasses met again.

‘So,’ Clarke said eventually, ‘you’ve started interviewing the inmates? Have you got as far as our friend yet?’

Esson smiled into her glass. ‘I wondered when you’d get round to him. I saw him this morning, actually, though not to talk to. Couldn’t quite believe he’s in with the general population.’

‘Darryl Christie vouched for him.’

‘Really?’ Esson puffed out her cheeks and blew.

‘So what do you think’s got Malcolm Fox so interested?’ Clarke tried to make the question sound casual, but Esson was having none of it.

‘Who mentioned Malcolm Fox?’ She exhaled loudly. ‘You’ve been talking to JR.’ Her voice had risen slightly.

‘Guilty as charged. He clocked Fox and it got him wondering. And now it’s got me wondering too.’

‘Welcome to the club. He breezed in without anyone clearing it with us.’

‘So he’s attached to the team?’

‘Not as such — just wanted briefing, plus the promise of regular updates.’ Esson broke off and leaned back as far as her seat would allow. ‘That’s what this is all about? Pumping me for gen on Fox that you can feed back to John Rebus? You can’t ask him yourself because he’s still angry at you for ducking out of the Complaints — you were his pick and you left him in the lurch.’

‘It just wasn’t for me, Christine.’

‘I told you that before you went — didn’t stop you, though.’

‘Look on the bright side. Now you’ve got hunky Jason Mulgrew.’

‘I never said he was hunky.’

‘Is he, though?’

Esson considered the question. ‘Maybe a bit,’ she conceded. Then: ‘Why do you think Fox is sniffing around?’

‘He’s got a bit of history with Darryl Christie,’ Clarke speculated. ‘This gives him a chance to see what Christie’s up to on the inside.’

‘Not exactly a reformed character, the way I hear it.’

‘He runs more of the city than ever before.’

‘That might be it then.’ Esson scooped up a few more nuts. ‘We do miss you, you know,’ she said as she chewed.

‘Thanks, Christine. I appreciate that.’

‘How’s John doing, anyway? I thought his lawyers would have had him out by now.’

‘That’s pretty much what they’ve been telling him since day one — but now they’ve gone quiet and it’s driving him crazy. On the other hand, there are aspects of prison life I think he quite likes — suddenly there’s a shape to his days.’

‘A shape that doesn’t include visits to the pub.’ Esson moved her chair an inch closer to Clarke. ‘He didn’t drop any hints, did he?’

‘Hints?’

‘As to who did it and why?’ Esson watched Clarke shake her head. ‘Well, we’ll be questioning him sooner or later. I’ll ask him myself when I see him.’ She pushed the last few nuts towards Clarke and drained her glass. ‘You sticking around?’

‘On my own? What do you take me for?’

‘We both know,’ Esson said with a wink. ‘Plenty cabs go past if you want to pick one up. Or Gerry can call one for you. Busy day for some of us tomorrow.’ She lifted her scarf and wrapped it around her neck, then leaned across to give Clarke a hug. ‘Good to see you, Siobhan — even if you did need an ulterior motive.’

And with that she was gone, phone in hand, checking the screen for messages. Clarke picked up the empties and carried them to the bar. The background music wasn’t bad. Burt Bacharach or similar. Gerry nodded his thanks as she placed the glasses in front of him.

‘Apparently you can arrange a taxi,’ Clarke said.

‘I certainly can. And one for the road, too, if you like?’

‘Go on then,’ Clarke said, resting her elbows on the bar.

‘Fresh tumbler?’ her new best friend enquired.

Clarke studied the two slices of lime resting atop melting ice cubes in front of her. ‘Fresh tumbler,’ she confirmed.