Midnight and Blue

3

Esson and Mulgrew went to the prison straight after the autopsy. Both were sombre during the twenty-minute drive. It always took time to adjust, time for those sights, sounds and smells to dissipate. Esson was grateful that Mulgrew seemed to feel the same, steering his sleek silver Audi as though it were a hearse. He had switched on some music, which they listened to in silence for the first five or so minutes.

‘So who is this?’ Esson eventually enquired.

‘Pentangle.’

‘Is it recent?’

He took his eyes off the road briefly. ‘Late sixties. Seriously, you’ve never heard of them?’ She shook her head. ‘How about the Fairports then — Sandy Denny and Richard Thompson?’

‘Sorry.’

‘Incredible String Band? They were from Edinburgh.’

‘But then so were the Bay City Rollers.’ She watched a sliver of a smile appear on Mulgrew’s face. A handsome face — Siobhan Clarke had used the term ‘hunky’, and that wasn’t far off the mark. He was fair-haired, broad-chested, with just a bit of excess weight around the middle. And he was single. ‘You’d get on great guns with John Rebus,’ she told him. ‘He has a lot of stuff from back then.’

‘I hope someone’s looking after it for him while he’s inside.’

‘You can probably ask him.’ Esson stared out of the passenger-side window. ‘So what did you get up to last night? Anything exciting?’

‘Not much. What about you?’

‘Much the same.’

They had stopped at a red light and he was fussing with his phone. The music broke off, a new tune replacing it.

‘This is Bert Jansch,’ he said.

‘Not easy to dance to,’ she commented. Mulgrew started drumming his fingers against the steering wheel.

‘We could do with finding the weapon,’ he said after a couple of minutes, and suddenly they were back in the autopsy suite, being shown the ragged two-inch gash. Would the wound have gushed? It was the pathologist’s opinion that it would. So blood on the attacker’s clothing? Almost certainly, though the towel pressed into the victim’s mouth had caught a lot of it. Staff lockers would be checked again — forensically this time. And every bin on the prison grounds, the prison whose main car park they were already approaching.

They parked next to the other visitors, the music ceasing.

‘I liked it,’ Esson offered.

‘I can lend you some CDs.’

‘And something to play them on?’

Mulgrew shook his head, almost pityingly, as he locked the car. The pair of them stood for a moment studying the prison’s high walls. They shared a look and pulled back their shoulders. It was time.

Being part of a major incident team didn’t make for shortcuts here, though they did have a special dispensation to hang on to their phones — everyone else’s got locked in a box in the reception area. They signed in and took their temporary passes, then went through the airport-style screener. An officer had been assigned to them. She wore more make-up than Esson and moved casually, sure of herself in these surroundings. Door after door unlocked then locked again behind them, corridors and stairs, cameras watching from the ceilings. A couple of prisoners were running a cleaning machine over one of the floors. They greeted the officer by her first name.

‘Bit casual,’ Mulgrew commented.

‘I get ma’am sometimes,’ she replied. ‘Beats being called slag or rug-muncher.’

‘I suppose it does,’ he agreed.

They were being led to the pastoral care office, which had been set aside for them for the duration. There were positivity posters on the walls and stacks of pamphlets and feel-good books with titles like Living Your Best Life. The desk drawers and filing cabinet were locked, but there was a tea and coffee station, supplemented by a variety box of biscuits with a note attached inviting them to ‘Help yourselves!’

Instead of bringing in cumbersome recording equipment, they were relying on their phones for audio and video. Mulgrew had brought his charger and a small tripod. The tripod had been checked over by the officer manning the X-ray machine.

‘I want to see it again when you come out,’ he had warned, adding it to his list. His tone hadn’t been friendly. Esson reckoned she knew why. They were here to ask questions of his colleagues — because those colleagues had become their chief suspects.

Pastoral Care was in a large modern extension to the original jail. The adjacent offices housed the further education unit, which, the signage made clear, was run by staff from Fife College. They’d passed the medical unit too, which was NHS. A large meeting room, meantime, was where charities could run workshops and open houses, dealing with topics such as drug addiction, alcoholism and self-harm.

A third chair had been added to the furnishings in Pastoral Care, which made for cramped conditions. Esson got busy brewing up while Mulgrew set up his phone. Hers would be used for audio backup. They’d had a meeting with the fiscal depute, who had advised on protocols. Normally witnesses would be interviewed in a room at St Leonard’s. The fiscal had warned them to keep things as similar to that format as possible. Nobody wanted to aid and abet a mistrial, or — worse — make a mistake that led to no trial at all.

‘We’re not bloody kids,’ had been Mulgrew’s remark afterwards. And yes, the talk had seemed at times more like a lecture given by a sceptical teacher. All the same, they were doing as they were told. By the time Chris Novak arrived, giving three solid raps on the door and waiting to be invited in, they were settled behind the desk, arms and thighs almost touching.

‘Officer Novak,’ Esson said, ‘please take a seat.’ She introduced herself and Mulgrew. The offer of a drink was turned down.

Novak had heavy-set features and cropped hair stiffened with product. Tattoos covered both arms, and he seemed almost ready to burst from his tight white shirt.

‘No rest for the wicked,’ Esson commented, studying a sheet of paper in front of her. ‘You worked the night shift when the incident happened, and then the day shift straight after — and here you are on duty again.’

‘I got plenty of kip last night.’

‘Do you do a lot of double shifts?’ Mulgrew asked, adjusting the tripod slightly.

‘We’re short of staff. Plus the extra cash is useful.’

‘What do you spend your money on?’

Novak glared at Mulgrew. ‘How is that any of your business?’

‘Just making conversation. Maybe you like cars, or holidays, or nights out...’

‘You know about my car,’ Novak stated. He sat with his legs apart, meaty hands clamped to his knees.

‘Any idea why someone wanted to turn it into a bonfire?’

‘Wasn’t just me.’

‘Yes, it’s been happening at other jails. Targeted, do you think?’

‘More likely random.’

‘So no specific grudges against you in here?’ Esson asked, watching Novak give a slow shake of the head. ‘Sure about that?’

‘I know where this is going. Okay, some prisoners I get on with better than others. Every officer in here will tell you the same. Clashes of personality, bams who want to prove themselves, guys who should be in a psych ward rather than the nick.’

‘Which was it with Jackie Simpson?’

‘He kept trying to get my goat up. Said he knew where I lived, and he’d be paying a visit when he got out.’

‘You’ve probably heard similar before?’

‘Plenty of times.’

‘And did Mr Simpson manage to get your goat up?’

Novak locked eyes with Esson. ‘Not even close. There was plenty of verbal between us, but it never went further than that.’ He leaned in towards the desk, chair creaking under the strain. ‘I know how it must look from the outside, but no way any of the officers in here did what was done. Must’ve happened just before the cells were locked for the night. A quick in-and-out.’

‘You lock up without checking?’ Mulgrew asked. Novak turned his attention to him.

‘Not usually, but sometimes maybe someone gets sloppy, or they’re distracted by something.’

‘Who locked Mr Simpson’s cell.’

Novak shook his head. ‘Can’t remember.’

Esson checked her notes. ‘Witnesses say it was an officer called Valerie Watts.’

Novak’s eyes remained blank. ‘If you say so.’

‘It would be hard to miss a bloodied figure on the lower bunk.’

‘Not if they were covered with a blanket or something.’ Novak shifted slightly in his seat.

‘Pity about that one wonky camera,’ Mulgrew said.

‘We reported it over a week ago.’

‘Who would know it wasn’t functioning?’

‘Everyone.’

‘Prisoners as well as staff?’

‘They had a guy up a ladder trying to fix it. That sort of thing doesn’t go unnoticed.’

‘I suppose not.’

‘Funny, though, isn’t it,’ Esson added, ‘that a single row of cells was left without surveillance, and someone turns up dead in one of them?’

‘Depends on your sense of humour.’

‘But there was nothing else unusual about that night, no feeling that anything was about to happen?’

‘Same old same old — after bang-up and lights-out, you do a bit of patrolling, and when you’re not doing that, you tend to bounce between the control room and the break room.’

‘We noticed checks on a few of the cells during the night.’

Novak nodded. ‘Sometimes a prisoner can’t sleep. They get restless and noisy, and out of boredom they might call for us.’

‘Nothing like that from the deceased’s cell, though?’

Novak shook his head, sat back and folded his arms, biceps bulging.

‘Someone will talk,’ Esson went on with calm certainty. ‘Someone always does.’

Novak turned his attention to Mulgrew’s phone, speaking directly towards it. ‘This is a waste of time, and whenever you march one of us in here, you’re leaving us short elsewhere. Anything kicks off, it’s your fault.’ He shifted his gaze to Mulgrew and Esson. ‘We’re done here, aye?’ He pressed his hands against the chair arms, readying to rise.

Esson studied another sheet of paper. ‘Is Valerie Watts on duty today, do you know?’

‘Day off.’

‘That’s unusual.’

Halfway to his feet, Novak stopped.

‘It’s just,’ Esson went on, ‘the days she’s on duty seem to match yours, even the same double shifts.’

‘So what?’

She just shrugged, waiting for him to say something else. But instead he straightened up and marched out, while Mulgrew ended the recording.

‘Is Novak married?’ he asked Esson.

‘Two kids.’

‘And Watts?’

‘Not so much.’

There was a gentle knocking at the door. It opened far enough for Howard Tennent’s head to appear around it.

‘Everything all right?’ he enquired.

‘Fine, sir, thank you,’ Mulgrew said.

‘I just passed Chris Novak; he didn’t look exactly full of the joys. A prison only works when the staff are engaged and focused. Otherwise you’re inviting trouble.’

‘Mr Novak told us much the same. But we still have a job to do.’

‘Of course, of course.’

‘And normally we’d be dragging your staff to our own station for interview...’

The governor held up his hands. ‘I appreciate you’re trying to minimise the disruption, but everyone knows you’re questioning my POs, and they’re starting to put two and two together.’

‘Sooner we find out what happened, sooner things will start to calm down.’

‘Only if it turns out a fellow resident is to blame,’ Tennent cautioned.

‘I can see how you’d like that to be the case,’ Esson said, ‘despite the odds being against it.’

The governor’s face fell a little further. He made a noise at the back of his throat and retreated into the hallway.

‘Reckon we should be questioning him?’ Mulgrew asked.

‘He’s going to take his officers’ side, whatever happens.’

‘So what now?’

‘Biscuits,’ Christine Esson replied.

Rebus was visiting the Wizard in his cell. Or rather, he was standing in the doorway while they talked. Proximity to the Wizard meant you took him back to your own cell with you. It wasn’t body odour or decay, but every prisoner commented on it. A particular aroma that lingered. The Wizard liked to do puzzles — crosswords and Sudoku especially. There were books of them piled high on his desk, along with a pencil and eraser.

‘You were in the police,’ he was saying between coughing fits. ‘You know nobody’s going to be punished for what happened. People out there don’t give a shit who topped him or why. He just stops being a drain on the public purse.’ He looked up from his puzzle, meeting Rebus’s eyes. ‘When you were on the outside, you always saw it as Us and Them — you being the good guys and us the bad. But you’ve been here a while now, John, so tell me — wouldn’t you say we’re all pretty much the same at the end of the day?’

‘You mean apart from the small fact that I didn’t ram a screwdriver into a pal’s eye socket?’

The Wizard’s face darkened a little. ‘He was asking for it, John. And when the red mist descends, all bets are off. Don’t tell me it was any different with you and Cafferty.’

Rebus thought for a moment. ‘I didn’t kill him, though,’ he said.

‘Ah, pure as the driven — plenty more like you in here.’ The Wizard gave a chuckle, breaking off to listen as someone in the hall shouted something about a cover-up.

‘Despite what you say,’ Rebus began, ‘the guys in here seem to give a shit who killed Jackie. Any ideas of your own, Wizard?’

‘Who put you in charge of the case?’

‘I’m just naturally nosy.’

‘Not always a good thing in a place like this.’

Rebus glanced in both directions along the hall. He’d been keeping an eye open for Christine Esson or Malcolm Fox but so far had caught sight of neither. He knew an incident room had been set up elsewhere. The scene-of-crime team had done all they could. The tape was still stretched across the door of the locked cell. At one end of the hall, Darryl Christie was seated at one of the round tables, the calm centre of a swirl of activity, prisoners circling him, their complaints rising and falling and rising again. There were two officers keeping watch, neither of them too far from a panic button. Their jaws were tense, arms folded, all too aware of the waves of enmity directed at them. Loud music was coming from one of the cells, a soundtrack ranging from The Killers to ‘Killer Queen’ via NWA. Rebus felt sure the officers would glean the theme behind the selections.

When the governor appeared, flanked by two more POs, things calmed slightly, though the music remained loud. He made straight for the Wizard’s cell, nodding a greeting in Rebus’s direction before starting to speak. Rebus noted that he too stayed just the right side of the threshold.

‘Sorry about this, Gareth,’ he told the Wizard, ‘but we need to switch your single bed for a bunk. Probably only for a week or so.’

‘I’m getting the kid?’ the Wizard guessed.

‘He has to go somewhere.’

‘How is he doing?’ Rebus asked.

‘Doctors are finished with him. He’ll be back here later today.’

‘Nobody else can take him?’ the Wizard was asking.

‘Thing is, you’ll look after him, Gareth. And if he wants peace and quiet, you won’t keep jabbing away at him.’ The Wizard nodded his understanding. ‘The officers here will help you shift your bedding and stuff. Someone’ll be along shortly to unbolt the bed and move it out.’ Rebus noticed that the governor was looking not at the Wizard but at him. ‘A quiet word, John?’ Then he was walking in the direction of Rebus’s cell.

Rebus knew everyone was watching, especially Darryl Christie. As he followed Howard Tennent into his cell, the governor told him to pull the door to. Once inside, some of the man’s public show of bravado fell away, his cheeks sagging.

‘Can’t have this place erupting, John. Can’t have it.’

‘Absolutely,’ Rebus agreed, fairly sure he knew what was coming.

‘Police are only doing their job, of course, and that’s fine as far as it goes. But they’re not in here.’ He jabbed at the air with a finger. ‘They can’t see or hear the things you do.’

‘There’s plenty I don’t get to know about.’

‘You had a name in your day, though. You got things done.’

‘If I start acting like a detective, the whole hall will know, and pretty soon after that I’d be as useful in solitary.’

‘I’m not asking for much, John. But anything you hear, any inkling...’

‘I bring it to you? And if the only inklings I get are that a PO did it?’

The governor looked more doleful still. ‘Will you do it, though? As a favour to me?’

‘I suppose it might help pass the time.’

Tennent held out his hand for Rebus to shake. ‘One other thing. You and Bobby Briggs?’

‘Best kept separated by a locked gate or six.’

‘Understood.’

When the two men emerged from the cell, Darryl Christie was standing directly opposite, back to the wall, hands in pockets. His eyes said he knew exactly what had just finished being discussed. When the governor moved off, he took a couple of steps in Rebus’s direction until his attention was diverted by cheers and clapping. Mark Jamieson, stapled forehead swathed in a bandage, had returned to Trinity. He was immediately mobbed, hand after hand patting him on the back. His injuries were examined and someone offered to make him a hot drink.

‘And if you’ve any medication surplus to requirements...’

Jamieson laughed along with them, right up until the moment he saw the cell door and the crime-scene tape. Then he dry-gulped, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and had to be helped to a seat.

‘Just tell us it was Novak,’ someone demanded. ‘That’s all we need to hear.’

But Jamieson started to shake his head. ‘I don’t know,’ he said in a voice not much above a whisper. ‘I was out for the count.’

‘Bastards, the lot of them,’ someone spat. Stares were once more directed towards the white-shirted officers, one of whom whispered something in Howard Tennent’s ear, receiving a nodded reply. The governor was then ushered briskly towards the nearest exit.

‘Run all you like!’ a prisoner yelled after him. ‘The truth’s coming for you!’

There were roars of agreement. Darryl Christie, having decided that Rebus could wait, approached the gathering around Mark Jamieson. He stretched his arms out in front of him, palms down, gesturing for calm. More officers were arriving. Eddie Graves paused alongside Rebus.

‘Be just my luck to end up taken hostage,’ he muttered before moving away.

Billy Groam was standing in the doorway of the neighbouring cell. ‘No way that guy’s becoming a hostage,’ he commented for Rebus’s benefit. ‘Way he moans, we’d end the siege in ten minutes tops.’

‘How close are things to kicking off, Billy?’ Rebus enquired.

‘That depends on Darryl,’ Groam answered with a shrug. ‘What Darryl wants, Darryl usually gets...’

The men around Jamieson had formed a huddle, shoulder to shoulder, Christie leaning in to talk tactics like a football coach. Rebus took a couple of steps forward.

‘I wouldn’t,’ Groam warned him. And it was true that a couple of the prisoners were giving Rebus a good hard look. ‘Cell might be the best place for you right now, John.’

‘I’m not so sure about that, Billy,’ Rebus said quietly, his eyes on the crime-scene tape opposite...

4

Clarke and Colson sat in the car outside the Andrews house. DCI Carmichael had gathered the team together first thing. Time had passed and Jasmine still hadn’t shown herself. The case was therefore being upgraded. A media briefing had taken place and enough uniforms had been mobilised to enable a sweep of the local area. Jasmine’s phone provider and bank were being pressured to hurry up with details of recent usage. A press photographer had stopped his car just long enough to take a few shots of the family home from the pavement. Spotting the two detectives, he’d had the good grace to look slightly sheepish as he dived back into his car and drove off.

Clarke and Colson were sitting there digesting what they’d just been told during a phone call from family liaison.

‘I sensed a bit of friction,’ the liaison officer had said. ‘Not the most obviously loving and close of couples. She sat on a chair, him the other side of the room on the arm of the sofa, as if there was somewhere else he needed to be. Bit of sniping and snark back and forth. I’d say he blames her for whatever Jasmine’s done. She had a go at him for the amount of time he spends away...’

Colson shifted in the passenger seat. ‘So we don’t put them in front of any journalists just yet,’ he suggested.

Clarke was still staring at her blank phone screen when she heard the sound of raised voices coming from the direction of the house. No one was visible behind the living-room window, but Colson had already made his decision and was out of the car. It was the fastest she had ever seen him move. Helena Andrews’ Nissan Leaf was plugged into a charger on the driveway. Behind it was her husband’s Mercedes, its interior a riot of sandwich wrappers, paperwork and crushed coffee cups. Clarke passed both vehicles and caught up with Colson as he was trying the front door, which rattled but stayed locked. He was raising his fist to give it a thump when the door flew open.

James Andrews was tall and looked in decent shape for his age, despite the exhausted eyes and stubble. His shirt was untucked, and he wore socks but no shoes.

‘What?’ he growled.

In answer, Colson held up his ID. The air went out of Andrews, and he scraped a hand through unruly salt-and-pepper hair.

‘It’s the police,’ he called over his shoulder to his wife.

‘Everything all right here, sir?’ Colson enquired.

‘Apart from our missing daughter, you mean?’

‘We thought we heard voices.’

Helena Andrews had appeared by her husband’s side, curling a hand around his arm in a show of apparent solidarity.

‘We were in different rooms,’ she tried by way of explanation. ‘I think maybe the pair of us should get our hearing checked — we’re always needing to shout.’ Her smile would have convinced some, though her heart didn’t really seem to be in the deception.

‘Mind if we come in?’ Clarke asked.

‘I forget your names,’ Helena said, cocking her head.

‘DI Clarke and DS Colson,’ Clarke reminded her.

‘Is there any news?’

‘We’d like to take another look at Jasmine’s bedroom, if that’s all right.’

‘Don’t you need a search warrant or something?’ James Andrews asked.

‘Would you like us to fetch one? It’ll take time, and in cases like this, time is the one thing that’s often against us.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Just that if she wants to disappear, the longer she’s given for that to happen, the less chance we have of finding her.’ Clarke paused. They still weren’t inside the house and she directed her gaze to the doorstep, hoping they’d take the hint. Helena tugged on her husband’s arm.

‘Whatever we can do to help,’ she said.

‘That all right with you, Mr Andrews?’ Colson demanded.

‘Of course,’ Andrews mumbled, taking a step back.

Clarke and Colson brushed past him and entered the living room. An open bottle of wine, mostly gone, sat on the coffee table.

‘Last night,’ Helena Andrews explained. ‘Shouldn’t have, but, well, you know...’

‘You think there might be some clue in her bedroom?’ her husband interrupted. ‘You’ve already got her computer and iPad.’

‘But no passwords as yet. I don’t suppose you can help with that, Mr Andrews?’

Andrews shrugged and shook his head, then began to tuck his shirt in.

‘Maybe we could just sit down for a minute,’ Clarke added. She watched as Helena settled into her regular chair and James perched on the edge of the sofa across the room, maximum distance attained.

‘How often do you talk to Jasmine when you’re away from home, Mr Andrews?’ Colson asked.

‘Call me James, please. We FaceTime once a week.’

‘Most weeks,’ his wife corrected him. ‘Sometimes you’re too busy.’

‘I work long days,’ James explained to the two detectives. ‘Whatever it takes to put food on the table and clothes on my family’s backs.’

‘You’re a business developer?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning I help companies grow, develop, modernise.’

‘And how long do these trips last?’ Clarke asked.

‘Four to six weeks, sometimes longer. I get weekends off, mostly, but the thought of the drive north...’

‘You poor thing.’ Helena had folded her arms and crossed her legs, one foot wagging furiously.

‘I’ve learned my lesson, though.’ Her husband’s voice had hardened. ‘Seems I can’t depend on things not to fall apart here when I’m elsewhere.’

Clarke watched as husband and wife continued to refuse to make eye contact with one another. ‘You told us your sister was coming to stay?’ she said to Helena.

‘Yes, well... once James came back...’ Helena glanced in his direction. Clarke got the feeling husband and sister-in-law did not get on.

‘Why do you think Jasmine might have wanted to go off somewhere?’ Clarke asked him.

‘Her mum would know better than me.’

‘Because you don’t know much of anything at all, do you?’ Helena shot back.

‘None of this is really helping,’ Clarke stated quietly but firmly, causing the pair to try for a look of contrition.

‘Jas has become a bit of a closed book to me,’ James eventually admitted with a sigh. ‘Maybe all girls are like that in their teens. I’ll ask what she’s up to and she won’t have an answer. What she does with her friends, how work’s going at school — replies of one syllable and the feeling she’d rather be left alone. I thought she’d open up to her mum, maybe, female solidarity and all that...’

‘She knows I’m there if she needs me,’ Helena said quietly. Whatever rage had existed in the room had been earthed, at least temporarily.

‘I’ve always been told that parenting is teamwork,’ Clarke said into the silence. ‘Sometimes one takes the strain, sometimes the other. There’s got to be give and take.’

Helena expelled air. Her eyes were on the wine bottle, hopeful of a glass in her near future. ‘Tea!’ she said suddenly. ‘I should have made you some.’ She started to get up, but Clarke waved away the offer.

‘Maybe if we could just go look at Jasmine’s room again?’

‘Of course.’ She ran a hand across her forehead, trying to wipe away the fatigue.

‘We know the way,’ Siobhan Clarke said.

There were three bedrooms upstairs, one turned into an office with a sofa that looked as if it would unfold into a bed. Jasmine’s room was tidy, with pictures on its walls of K-pop groups and anime characters. The only books looked like school texts, and a Bluetooth speaker meant there was no need for a music collection. There was a gap on the desk where her computer had sat until bagged and removed by CID. The view from the window was of a biggish back garden, wooden fencing separating it from near-identical neighbours. The barbecue looked to be gathering rust, as did a Swingball set-up that stood in the middle of what lawn there was, most of it having been sacrificed for a patio. Jasmine’s bed was a double, its base including drawers, which Colson pulled open. There was nothing inside other than a spare duvet and pillow plus a rolled-up yoga mat.

‘For sleepovers?’ he suggested.

Clarke couldn’t disagree. Wardrobe and chest of drawers contained nothing out of the ordinary, and certainly nothing hinting at any interesting or quirky facet of Jasmine’s personality. An ordinary girl growing up in an ordinary street among ordinary friends but with two warring parents she needed to sidestep as much as possible.

After a few more minutes, Colson shook his head. Clarke was staring at the pop-star posters. The performers were young, the girls dressed in short skirts, the boys immaculately coiffured. She had read stories in the press about the stresses imposed by the lifestyle — crack-ups and suicides. The glamour was only ever two-dimensional, but it served its purpose, decorating the dreams of teenagers like Jasmine Andrews.

Downstairs, thoughts of wine had been replaced by the brewing of coffee. The aroma filled the hallway.

‘Can’t tempt you?’ James Andrews said, hoisting an oversized mug. It had writing on it — World’s Best Dad — and was showing its age. Clarke wondered if he’d chosen it in the hope of making some kind of statement.

‘We’d best be off,’ she told him.

‘You’ll let us know when there’s news?’ He tried not to let the desperation in his voice show too much. Helena stood in the doorway between kitchen and living area. No mug for her but a china cup and saucer, decorated with roses. Another statement of sorts?

‘Promise,’ Siobhan Clarke said, while Colson opened the door behind her.

But instead of heading directly to the car, she took the path around the side of the house to the back garden. Three bins sat in a line just around the corner. She raised the lid of the recycling bin and looked in. Half a dozen wine bottles, some of them green glass and some clear.

‘You were expecting to find it filled to the brim?’ Colson guessed.

As she turned towards him, she caught a glimpse of something — a figure darting away from an upstairs window in the house the other side of the fence. Young and male, she thought. She stood her ground until Colson looked quizzical. He followed her back to the car. Rather than start the engine, however, she sat with her hands on the steering wheel, peering into space.

‘Do me a favour, Cammy,’ she eventually said. ‘Find me the address we were given for Craig Fielding.’

Having switched on the power in the car, Clarke waited for Colson to recite the address from his phone, tapping it into her satnav. They then both watched as the map appeared, Clarke magnifying it until there could be no doubt.

‘One street over,’ Colson remarked.

‘With a view right into her bedroom,’ Clarke added, starting the engine.

They turned left and left again, into Craig Fielding’s street. A figure was walking along the pavement towards them, hood up, hands tucked into the front of his jacket.

‘What do you reckon?’ Colson said, sliding down his window.

They had their answer when the figure dashed in front of the car and then ran.

‘You’ve got to be kidding,’ Colson said.

‘Not so stupid,’ Clarke retorted. ‘Plenty of footpaths we can’t take the car down.’

‘Then we just come back to the house later. What’s he going to do — hide in the woods?’

Clarke was studying the satnav as she drove. They caught sight of him a couple of minutes later. He disappeared down the side of a house, but then came back.

‘Fence must’ve been too high,’ Colson commented. ‘He doesn’t run like an athlete.’

‘Fancy our chances against him on foot, do you?’

‘I’d rather not have to try.’

They were drawing alongside him when he darted left across a patch of grass and flower beds, almost tripping. He was limping as he rejoined the pavement, and after another thirty seconds he gave up altogether, stopping with his hands on his thighs, head lowered, breathing hard. Colson rested his forearm against the sill of the passenger window as Clarke pulled to a stop.

‘Get in the back, Craig,’ he ordered.

‘That’s not my name. You’ve got the wrong person.’

‘Show us some ID then and we’ll be on our merry way.’ Colson’s hand stretched out towards the boy, who looked at it, sweat trickling down either temple. Then he took a couple of steps towards the car and got in.

‘Not too bad for someone who’s off sick from school,’ Clarke commented, twisting in her seat to face him, while Colson adjusted the rear-view mirror, content to make eye contact that way.

‘That was yesterday. A bit better today.’

‘Odd coincidence, though, eh?’ Colson added. ‘Your old girlfriend goes missing and suddenly you need to stay in the house?’

‘Maybe you’ve seen her,’ Clarke chimed in, ‘or you know what she’s up to?’

‘I’m in the dark, same as everybody else,’ he said, still trying to get his breathing under control. Clarke studied him. A boyish face, ready to grow handsome, was hidden beneath the acne. He looked gawky enough, but there was intelligence there too. He might have just stepped out of Gregory’s Girl and be about to lecture her on Caracas or choux pastry.

‘How long since the two of you split up?’

‘Couple of months.’

‘Who dumped who?’

‘She dumped me, I suppose.’ He was looking at the floor as he spoke. ‘Not for anybody else, she said. She just...’ His voice trailed off.

‘You’re the year above her, aye?’ Colson checked. ‘So you’re fifteen? Leaving school next year or sticking around for uni?’

‘Uni if I get the grades.’

‘What plans did Jasmine have?’ Clarke asked.

‘She never really said.’

‘Any idea what’s happened to her, Craig?’

A vigorous head-shake.

‘And you’ve definitely not heard from her?’

‘I’ve tried phoning and texting. We’ve all been trying.’

‘And this came out of the blue? She’d not seemed different recently?’

The boy thought for a moment. ‘She’d sort of stopped hanging around with any of us. Soon as school was done for the day, she was off.’

‘Off home, you mean?’

‘Not necessarily. She’d take the bus into town or head off in the opposite direction from her house.’

‘Going where?’

‘She never said. I wondered if she did have somebody else.’

‘From a different school, you mean?’

‘Maybe.’ He shifted in his seat.

‘Would that have made you jealous?’ Colson asked.

‘No.’

‘You sure about that?’

‘You can see into her bedroom from yours,’ Clarke added. ‘Ever see anyone in there with her?’

‘Just her mum sometimes.’ He met Clarke’s eyes. ‘How’s Helena doing? She must be worried sick.’

‘She wants Jasmine home, same as the rest of us.’

‘I saw her dad’s car. He won’t stick around.’

‘Why would you say that?’

‘Because he never does.’

‘And Jasmine didn’t like that?’

Craig shrugged.

‘You’re not hiding her in your bedroom, are you, Craig?’ Colson asked.

Another shake of the head.

‘So you wouldn’t mind if we took a peek?’

‘You won’t find her — I don’t know where she is!’

Colson and Clarke shared a look.

‘Off you go then,’ Clarke told the boy. ‘Unless you want us to give you a lift?’

But Craig Fielding was already out of the car. He’d taken a couple of steps when he paused, returning to the open window.

‘She had money,’ he said. ‘Notes, I mean. Suddenly everything was cash. And she wanted us to notice, wanted us asking about it.’

‘I’m assuming you did just that?’ Colson enquired.

‘But then all she did was...’ Craig made show of zipping his lips shut. ‘She seemed to get a kick out of that.’

‘Bank of Mum and Dad, maybe?’

‘Maybe,’ he said, but he didn’t sound convinced.

5

Rebus tried to make his next visit to the Wizard’s cell seem casual, though he doubted anyone paying attention would be fooled, not least when he sauntered in rather than stopping on the threshold. The bunk had been installed and Mark Jamieson was lying on the top one while the Wizard sat at his desk with a Sudoku, trying to look like he was fine with this new arrangement. Jamieson had one arm flung across his eyes, but he was awake.

‘You okay, son?’ Rebus asked.

‘Everyone keeps asking him that,’ the Wizard answered. ‘Answer’s always the same — he’s fine, so far as it goes.’

Rebus took a couple more steps towards the bunk. ‘I knew him on the outside, you know,’ he said, making show of addressing the Wizard. ‘This was years back, mind, when he was a teenage tearaway. Running with the wrong crowd and doing too much blaw. I tried to warn him... even thought some of it might have seeped in.’

Jamieson had removed his arm, turning his head and levering himself upright, his face only inches from Rebus’s.

‘I often wonder what happened,’ Rebus finished, voice dropping a fraction.

‘I never moved on from that wrong crowd,’ the young man said by way of explanation. ‘I know your face now. Never knew your name back then.’

‘You had a lot going on. My name probably didn’t seem important.’

‘Money was what I was interested in.’

‘Money and drugs,’ Rebus corrected him. He studied Jamieson’s pupils. ‘And at least one of those is still the case.’

‘They gave me painkillers at the hospital.’

‘But who was it dosed you the night your cellmate died? Do I have to guess?’

‘It’s hard to sleep without a bit of something.’

‘You were comatose, Mark. You either did that to yourself or someone did it to you.’

‘Tea tasted funny.’

‘Tea?’

‘That night. When we were eating. Actually, maybe the food, too...’

‘Who was it served you?’

‘Christ knows.’

‘Maybe so, but he’s a hard guy to reach.’

‘Usual evening crew,’ the Wizard stated. ‘Ratty, Devo and Malachi.’

‘Which one, though?’ Rebus persisted.

‘What’s it to do with you?’ Jamieson demanded, eyes suddenly lucid, voice sharp-edged.

‘Officers are always there too, mind,’ the Wizard mused, stroking his beard. ‘Valerie Watts and Blair Samms.’ He nodded slowly to himself.

‘You were asleep when you got hit,’ Rebus continued, eyes on Jamieson. ‘So you were in bed when the cell was unlocked. And you didn’t hear it happening?’

The arm had gone back over the eyes. ‘Can you just leave me the fuck alone? Can every fucking one of you just give me peace?’

‘Everything all right here?’

Rebus turned towards the voice, expecting to see an officer. Instead, he found himself face to face with Darryl Christie.

‘Just passing the time,’ he told him.

‘Plenty of it to go around,’ Christie countered. ‘Maybe you’d like to pass some with me instead?’

‘And maybe not.’

‘But you’ve got something for me, John. Something you borrowed and forgot to give back.’

‘Aye, right enough. It’s in my cell — go help yourself.’

‘Where in your cell, though?’

‘Lying on the bed.’

Christie’s eyes smouldered. ‘On the bed?’ he echoed. Then he spun around and was gone.

The Wizard had risen from his chair and was patting Jamieson’s shoulder. ‘The lad’s been through a lot, John. Bit of rest would do him no harm.’

‘Neither would speaking to me.’

Voices were rising again in the hall. ‘Slain in your bed and nobody to blame!’ someone cried out. ‘Which one of us is next?’

There were roars of agreement. The Wizard held up a finger.

‘Hear that?’

‘I hear them all right.’

But the Wizard was shaking his head, eyes turned upwards towards the cell’s small window. ‘I mean the church bells. You can’t always make them out for all the noise in here. It drowns them. Eight hundred angry men will do that. But they’re there.’ He broke off and began one of his hacking coughs.

Jamieson looked towards Rebus from beneath his arm. Rebus gave a slight shake of the head, indicating that the Wizard was harmless. He turned towards the sudden movement in the doorway. Christie was back, glaring at him.

‘Under your pillow, like that isn’t the first place they’d look!’ he seethed, the shape of the phone obvious in his tracksuit pocket. Then he was gone again.

‘You might just have lost a fan,’ the Wizard informed Rebus, catching a breath between coughs.

‘I reckon I can live with that.’

‘The decision might be out of your hands, though.’

Rebus pressed a finger to Mark Jamieson’s chest. ‘I’m just along the hall. And I’m a good listener.’

‘A listener who can’t even hear the church bells,’ the Wizard countered.

‘Maybe I’ll only hear them when they want me to,’ Rebus said, making his exit.

Out in the hall, he realised why the complaints had grown vociferous. The door to the murder cell stood open. There were a couple of figures inside, and plenty of POs making sure no prisoners got in the way. The cell had been stripped of its movable contents. Rebus realised that there was nothing belonging to Mark Jamieson in the cell he now shared with the Wizard. Probably bagged as potential evidence. The two suited men in the cell turned to look at him. The governor and Malcolm Fox. Fox then turned back to the governor and said something, receiving a nodded reply.

Rebus returned to his cell and lay on the bed. His feeling was, Fox would want to come and gloat. Years back he’d tried hard to put Rebus inside, regarding him as a cop too bent ever to be straightened. An uneasy truce had eventually come to pass, yet here Rebus was. As he lay staring at the ceiling, the walls seemed to close in. It happened a few times a week, the realisation that he was stuck here. Some nights he’d open his eyes in the darkness, heart pounding, wondering if he might be about to breathe his last. No final words, no bedside gathering. He turned his head now to look towards the doorway, but it was Kyle ‘Kylie’ Jacobs who stood there.

‘Governor’s office,’ he said. Rebus heaved himself off the thin mattress, pulled a green sweatshirt over his tee and followed.

Fox was seated at the table with the plate of shortbread biscuits, the governor handing him a mug of tea as Rebus arrived. Fox was chewing while sucking crumbs of sugar from his fingers. He then pulled out a crisp white handkerchief and proceeded to wipe them clean. A nod told the governor that he could make himself scarce.

‘I’m fine, honestly,’ Rebus said, unnecessarily — there was to be no offer of a drink. No biscuits either, as Fox lifted the depleted plate and shifted it to a shelf behind him. Having seated himself, Rebus waited for the door to close. Fox stared at it, as if trying to ascertain whether the governor might be listening from the other side.

‘Hello, John,’ he eventually said, cupping his hands around the mug.

‘Long way from your desk, Malcolm. How are things at Gartcosh?’

Fox blew across the surface of the mug. ‘Settling in all right?’

‘It’s not like I’m at a new job.’

‘I was surprised to see you, you know. Didn’t think they’d let an ex-cop out among the general scumbag population.’

‘Those are my friends you’re talking about.’

‘Friends like Darryl Christie?’ Fox gave a thin smile. Always big, he seemed to have put on more weight of late, as if physical heft could make up for other shortcomings. Rebus, who had lost almost a stone inside, sat up a little straighter in his chair. ‘Anything you want to tell me?’ Fox asked.

Rebus made show of considering the question. ‘I could tell you the system’s broken, that there are men in here who should be elsewhere — but I doubt any of that would register with your tiny brain, so why bother?’

Fox’s face hadn’t changed; he hadn’t really been listening. ‘Mr Tennent told me you’re under Christie’s protection. That’s interesting.’

‘Is it?’

‘You see much of him?’

‘We’re in the same hall — what do you think?’

‘Plenty to talk about, I suppose.’

‘You were always shit at doing interviews, Malcolm. Why don’t you just tell me why the Specialist Crime Division is interested in the death of a small-time criminal?’

‘It’s called OCCTU these days — Organised Crime and Counter-Terrorism.’

‘I’m guessing some graduate gets paid a decent wedge for coming up with all these names. Still doesn’t explain your interest.’

‘Murder is always interesting, John, and especially when it takes place in the vicinity of someone like Darryl Christie. I can’t imagine much happens here without a nod from your new best buddy. You’ll be shocked to learn that he continues to ply his trade even from inside these four walls, so of course I’m interested.’

‘Nobody in here thinks Darryl Christie sanctioned what happened.’

‘Of course not — they reckon it was one of the staff. Seems obvious, doesn’t it? Those same staff who’ve been receiving anonymous threats and had their cars attacked with petrol bombs and acid.’ Fox rested his elbows against the table. ‘Why do you reckon that’s been happening, John?’

‘Not doing what’s been asked of them,’ Rebus surmised.

‘And who do you think might have been doing that asking?’

‘Darryl Christie.’

‘Noticed a drop in the amount of drugs getting in here? The phones and other illicit goods?’

‘I know it’s hard to find a decent malt.’ The two men stared at one another. ‘I’ve not heard about these threats, though.’

‘Not the sort of thing you want to publicise — makes inmates think their guards might be fallible.’

‘Just here, or other jails too?’

‘Not just here.’

‘Any names?’

‘That’s not something I can divulge.’

‘Chris Novak?’

‘Not something I can divulge,’ Fox echoed, his body language betraying him. ‘But here’s one name I can give you — Shay Hanlon.’

‘Liverpool gangster.’

‘You’ve got one of his team in a neighbouring cell. Does he ever talk about his boss?’

‘No, but Harrison’s chummy with a Neanderthal on another wing, name of Bobby Briggs.’

‘I don’t know him.’

‘He’s Glasgow.’

‘Connected to anyone?’

Rebus offered a shrug. ‘You’re the detective here, Malcolm. I’m just a con. But even I can see that nothing you’ve said explains why Christie or anyone else would want Jackie Simpson dead.’

Fox grew a little less animated. ‘True enough,’ he admitted. ‘But then we’ve barely started digging.’

‘We? You’re not asking me to...?’

‘Christ, no. I meant the MIT. With additional assistance from OCCTU as required.’

Which told Rebus that Howard Tennent hadn’t revealed anything to Fox about the mission he’d handed him.

‘Your days in the sun are long gone, John,’ Fox went on, relishing the sound of the words.

Rebus turned his head momentarily towards the window and the overcast sky beyond. ‘So dragging me in here was just by way of rubbing it in?’

‘I felt a bit bad that I’ve never had the chance to visit. I know Siobhan sees you regularly...’

‘How did that go down at Gartcosh, by the way?’ Rebus asked casually.

‘What?’

‘You’d groomed her for Professional Standards... vouched for her. And after a few weeks she tells you to stuff it. Bet your bosses were thrilled.’

‘Siobhan’s loss, not ours.’ Fox’s cheek muscles were moving, and Rebus knew he’d got to him.

‘Tell you what,’ Rebus added. ‘Give me a number I can reach you on. If I do hear or see anything, I’ll give you a bell.’

‘Really?’

He nodded slowly, watching Fox start to dig into his inside pocket for a card. ‘I’ll do it on one of Darryl’s burners if you like.’

Fox froze, realising he’d been had. Rebus got to his feet, reached past Fox to grab a biscuit from the plate and left the room, almost bumping into the governor, who was loitering in the outer office. With a wink and a smile, Rebus was gone.

Kyle Jacobs was waiting for him in the outer hall. ‘What was that all about?’ he asked.

‘Nothing much.’

‘It wasn’t one of us, you know.’ Jacobs was speaking out of the side of his mouth as they walked. He clammed up as they passed a couple of prisoners who were cleaning the floor. Then, once he and Rebus were through yet another of the locked doors: ‘Morale’s bad enough. Staff calling in sick, new recruits thin on the ground, you lot ready to kick off... And now Gartcosh arrive and start sniffing around. I’m not saying we’re all angels, but the bad ones don’t last long. And I know for a fact none of us did for Jackie Simpson.’ As he unlocked the barred gate leading to Rebus’s hall, he made eye contact for the first time, looking suddenly all too human. ‘We’re sick and tired, John, and that’s not a good state of mind for a job like this.’

‘It’s not just the residents who might kick off, is that what you’re saying?’

‘I’m saying we need calm heads and I’m seeing precious few. Maybe a quiet word with Darryl Christie would—’

‘Everybody seems to think we’re bosom buddies,’ Rebus interrupted. ‘We definitely aren’t.’

‘He listens to you, though. Just have a word, that’s all I’m saying.’

‘Can I ask you something in return?’

‘What?’

‘The night of the murder, Mark Jamieson reckons his dinner tasted funny. Your colleagues Watts and Samms were on duty while it was served up. How easy would it have been to slip him something?’

Jacobs gave Rebus a hard stare.

‘I’m not saying one of them did it necessarily, but could—’

‘Get through that gate!’ Jacobs snarled.

Rebus did as he was told, Jacobs staying the other side, locking it again. Rebus tried meeting his eye, but Jacobs had already turned away.

He hadn’t been in his cell more than two minutes when he sensed Darryl Christie in the doorway, waiting to be told. Rebus gave a heavy sigh. ‘Malcolm Fox wants your head delivered to him,’ he confessed.

‘And he thinks you’re the man for the job?’

‘He knows better than that. But it’s why he’s scratching around. Meantime, the staff reckon we’re on the verge of anarchy and only you can calm things down.’

‘Hard to do when I’ve had my head cut off. Looks like you’re stuck in the middle, eh, John? Good luck in no man’s land. You won’t know a thing until you step on a mine.’

Christie turned and left Rebus to his thoughts. Something Jacobs had said stayed with him. I’m not saying we’re all angels... Maybe Jacobs thought that was what had brought Fox to the prison — not gangsters, but bent prison officers. Bent POs, however, only came into Fox’s orbit if they connected to organised crime. Fox had mentioned threats and attacks. Chris Novak’s car had been targeted — Rebus wondered if Jacobs had been on the receiving end, too. And what did it mean if he had? Yes, such an attack could imply that the victim was refusing to go along with whatever was being asked of them. But it could just as easily be an attempt to make someone look like a victim if they were in danger of being investigated.

Rebus closed his eyes and played the conversation through again. But it was Malcolm Fox he kept seeing.

Your days in the sun are long gone, John...

Well, they’d have to see about that.

Clarke and Colson sat side by side at Clarke’s desk. They were calling it a ‘brainstorming session’, but progress had so far been limited, which hadn’t stopped them eating half a multipack of KitKats washed down with several double-strength coffees from a local café.

Clarke had typed up a list on her screen, which they’d been staring at for several minutes without any bright ideas emerging from the exercise.

‘Okay,’ Colson said, ‘so her bank tells us Jasmine hasn’t withdrawn any cash or used her debit card since her disappearance. On the other hand, she might not need to if her ex is to be believed about the cash she was suddenly parading.’

‘And her parents say they’d not been dishing out any more than usual.’

‘Nicking it from her mum’s purse?’

Clarke offered a shrug.

‘Dad handing it over because he feels guilty at not being around?’

She tapped the screen with her ballpoint pen, next to the name James Andrews. A background check had revealed that Jasmine’s father had been in a bit of trouble back in his twenties — drunken brawls, fights with nightclub security. Seventeen years ago now, but even so...

‘A good woman can soothe the savage beast,’ had been Colson’s response. Clarke hadn’t bothered to correct him. She had tried playing out the scenario — father grabs daughter from wife he sees as unfit — but dismissed it. Nothing on the screen added very much to the sum of their current knowledge. But then, just as she was about to give in to the lure of yet another KitKat, her phone vibrated against the desk.

She picked it up and answered. She listened for a moment, a crease forming above her nose as she concentrated.

‘Hang on,’ she eventually said to the handset, ‘I’m putting you on speakerphone.’ She did so, laying the device flat on the desk halfway between her and Colson.

‘Okay, PC Galvin,’ she said, raising her voice slightly to compensate. ‘Repeat what you just told me.’

‘We’re outside the home of Kevin and Martha Fielding. They’re the parents of Craig Fielding. They’ve made a complaint about a neighbour called James Andrews. Apparently he attacked their son.’ The constable paused. ‘Well, between the address and the name Andrews, I realised the connection and thought I better call it in.’

‘You did the right thing,’ Clarke told him. ‘Is Craig injured?’

‘Mr Andrews shook him about a bit and gave him a slap, but nothing that needs medical attention.’

Clarke saw that Colson was already starting the process of putting his arms into the sleeves of his jacket. She’d been about to tell the constable that they’d be there in fifteen minutes.

‘Stay there,’ she said instead. ‘We’ll be with you in the next half hour.’

Colson had grabbed another biscuit, which he gnawed at while Clarke drove.

‘What do you reckon?’ he asked between bites.

‘I reckon you better not get chocolate on my seats.’

The traffic was in a good mood and they made it to the Fielding house quicker than expected. The patrol car was parked kerbside, and Clarke pulled to a stop next to it. A dog-walker had paused across the street, keen for some drama and ignorant of the fact that his dog had done its business on the pavement behind him. Colson pointed a warning finger and advised him to clean it up.

The door to the house was being opened by PC Galvin, who didn’t yet look out of his teens. His partner was the same age and only half an inch taller. They told their story a final time in the hallway, the door to the living room closed, keeping their voices low. Then Clarke dismissed both officers while adding her thanks. They replaced their caps on their heads as they walked down the path. Colson closed the front door behind them. Clarke was already in the living room.

Craig Fielding sat on the sofa, hands squeezed between his knees, while his agitated parents stayed on their feet. Clarke started introducing herself and Colson, but Kevin Fielding interrupted.

‘We want him charged,’ he said, voice quavering. His hair was thinning and he wore round, thick-framed glasses, his movements reminding Clarke of nothing so much as a marionette.

She crouched in front of Craig, seeking eye contact. ‘You okay?’ she asked.

‘Of course he’s not okay, he’s been attacked!’

‘This isn’t doing any good, Kevin,’ Martha Fielding said, her voice strained. Clarke had the feeling she was one of those people who would always try to do the right thing and see the best in people. The room was cluttered with little glass ornaments. A pipe lay forgotten in a large ashtray by the fireplace, a pouch of tobacco alongside.

Clarke got back to her feet. ‘Maybe if you just tell me what happened.’

‘Jasmine’s father beat up my son, that’s what happened!’

‘Would you like to sit down, Mr Fielding?’ She looked from husband to wife and back again. ‘Both of you.’ As if to help them come to a decision, she settled on the sofa next to their son. His left cheek was still red from the slap and he looked like he’d shed a few tears.

‘He was in such a state when he came back,’ Martha Fielding said, sitting down on one of the two chairs. ‘And all he’d wanted to do was offer sympathy.’ Colson was resting on the arm of the sofa, next to Clarke. When he took all of this in, Kevin Fielding decided to give up the fight, throwing himself onto the one empty armchair.

Clarke turned towards Craig. ‘You went to Jasmine’s house?’ she coaxed. ‘To show sympathy?’

‘I just wanted them to know that we all care about Jas.’

‘So thoughtful,’ his mother added quietly.

‘And what happened?’ Clarke asked.

Craig stared at his hands, still pressed between his knees. ‘Helena was pleased to see me,’ he began. ‘She went to the kitchen to pour me a glass of water.’ He paused to take a breath. ‘But then he came home. Pulled me to my feet, shouting at me, asking me where she was.’ Fresh tears were forming at the corners of his eyes. ‘He kept shaking me...’

‘Just a boy,’ Martha stated.

‘Helena told him to stop, and that’s when he slapped me. Then he let me go. I ran for it, ran all the way back here.’

‘He was in such a state,’ his mother added.

‘The man’s clearly out of control,’ Kevin Fielding muttered, though much of the fight seemed to have gone out of him.

‘I doubt you’d be in your right mind, sir,’ Colson advised, ‘if your child had gone missing.’

‘Doesn’t excuse it.’

‘Maybe it does a bit,’ Martha piped up.

‘How about if we go speak to Mr Andrews?’ Clarke suggested. ‘We’ll give him a warning and get him to apologise.’

‘I don’t want to see him,’ Craig blurted out.

‘A written apology, then — and a promise not to fly off the handle again. If he can’t stick to that, he’ll find himself in custody.’ Clarke broke off and made eye contact with both parents. ‘Do we all think that would suffice?’

Eventually there were nods from husband and wife. Clarke turned her attention to their son. ‘That okay with you, Craig?’

‘Suppose,’ he said.

‘Right then,’ she said, rising to her feet, followed by Colson.

‘Thank you,’ Martha Fielding said, as though they’d just made a donation to a cause close to her heart.

‘I bloody knew they’d call the cops. That wanker was never going to show his face himself.’

James Andrews turned and strode back into his living room, Clarke and Colson following. There was a bottle of red on the coffee table, three-quarters drained, flanked by two emptied wine glasses. There was also a crystal tumbler with some whisky still in it. Andrews wasn’t quite drunk, but his eyes were glassy.

‘Do you mean Craig or his father?’ Colson asked.

‘The dad, obviously. Smug streak of piss that he is.’

Helena Andrews had appeared silently in the doorway from elsewhere in the house. She nodded a greeting towards the detectives and sat down, looking almost ghostly.

‘How is Craig?’ she asked.

Her husband flung out an arm to indicate the two detectives. ‘Called the cops on us, sweetheart — that’s how he is!’

Clarke and Colson had already decided to remain on their feet, their faces stern. Andrews waited for them to say something, then started to shake his head when they stayed silent.

‘I’m not about to say sorry, if that’s what you’re asking.’

‘He’s a child, Mr Andrews,’ Colson stated.

‘He’s fifteen,’ Andrews countered. ‘A year from now he could be in the army. We’re not talking about a toddler here. At fifteen I was smoking and sneaking a drink—’

‘And fighting?’ Colson enquired. ‘A lifestyle choice that ended up getting you in a bit of bother.’

‘Half a lifetime back.’

‘Still quick to anger, though, sir, wouldn’t you say?’

Andrews took a step towards Colson, so they were face to face. ‘I walk in and he’s sitting there like he owns the place.’ He gestured towards the chair his wife was now occupying. ‘Calls me “James” like we’re old pals. Cocky little git at the best of times — there was only ever one thing he wanted from our Jas.’ He broke off, eyes flitting towards his wife.

‘Sex, you mean?’ Clarke asked.

‘What else?’

‘Even if that were true,’ Helena broke in, ‘he didn’t get it. She’d have said.’

Her husband looked unconvinced. ‘The kid was a leech, coming here at all hours uninvited. When I walked in and he was sitting there... where she should have been...’ He exhaled loudly, anger spent for now.

‘Is James in trouble?’ Helena asked, eyes on Clarke.

‘A written apology would help.’

‘He’ll do that.’

Andrews stared at her but didn’t say no.

‘We’re on tenterhooks,’ she went on. ‘Neither of us sleeping, worried sick. We just want her to walk through that door...’ She bowed her head so the tears would remain hers and hers alone.

‘You’ll write something down?’ Colson nudged James Andrews. Andrews nodded, but his attention was on his wife. For a moment, Clarke thought he was ready to go to her and wrap her in his arms. But instead he started heading towards the front door.

‘I’ll let you out,’ he said.

6

DCI Mae McGovern had gathered the major incident team at Gayfield Square police station. It had been decided to move the base from HMP Edinburgh because there were too many restrictions inside the prison and it took too long for the team to get in and out. Besides, they had all they needed in terms of the crime scene. There were some interviews still to be carried out, but those did not require everyone’s presence. Two team members — DCs Allbright and Tilley — were absent, one at an emergency dental appointment and the other with COVID, leaving what could best be described as a skeleton crew.

They had listened to selected recordings from the interviewees, focusing on the night-shift POs and the deceased’s cellmate. The autopsy report had been discussed and photos of the locus projected onto a screen so they could discuss theories. The lack of the murder weapon was proving a major frustration. Forensics had picked up no blood traces on the floor outside the cell. CCTV footage showed no POs looking agitated or attempting to hide stained clothing. Nothing had come of a search of staff lockers and rubbish bins. And yet the pathologist, Deborah Quant, had been clear — there would have been blood.

‘So we’re going to have to come at this from an angle,’ DCI McGovern was telling her team. She stood at the front of the room with arms folded. She had removed the jacket of her trouser suit and rolled up the sleeves of her olive-green blouse. Her hair was auburn and Christine Esson reckoned it had to be dyed. McGovern was in her late forties, not far off qualifying for a full police pension. Two grown-up kids, each with a child of their own. The windowsill behind her desk was festooned with framed photos of her family. Her husband was a senior civil servant. Like him, she had grown up in Glasgow and attended university there before joining the police. She was never going to lose the accent and often made fun of herself when playing to an east-coast audience. But she had a sharp mind that belied her apparently easy-going nature, and when she rolled her sleeves up you knew she meant business.

‘We need to focus on motive,’ she went on, eyes scanning the room, making sure she had every officer’s full attention. ‘Who wanted Jackie Simpson dead? We know he had a lengthy criminal record, but never for anything violent. He’d been breaking into premises since he was at school — jail had become an occupational hazard. He was due to be released shortly and had behaved impeccably while serving his sentence.’

‘Not exactly impeccably,’ Jason Mulgrew interrupted, ‘if you speak to Chris Novak.’

‘Agreed, a fair bit of niggle there, but enough to merit murder?’

‘There was a threat to pay the officer’s house a visit,’ DC Zara Shah piped up. McGovern nodded slowly, allowing this.

‘Once Simpson was out, Novak couldn’t get to him so easily,’ Mulgrew added, meriting a smile from Shah for backing her up.

‘I’d say just the opposite,’ Esson couldn’t help arguing. ‘If Novak really wanted to harm Simpson, why not wait until he was released? Much more chance of getting away with it. Attacking him in his cell brings the list of suspects down to a handful.’

‘Heat of the moment, who’s to say?’ Shah argued back. McGovern held up a hand, silencing them.

‘We need to know all there is to know about the victim, the officers on duty and the prisoners on that wing. If Chris Novak continues to be the main suspect, then we can zero in on him, but I want to be confident that we’re not missing something. Did the deceased have a beef with anyone else — prisoner or staff? Could one of Novak’s colleagues have decided to do him a favour by taking matters into their own hands?’

‘Let’s not forget his good friend Valerie Watts,’ Mulgrew added. ‘The night-shift team all say the same thing — they pretty much knew where everyone was from minute to minute. But CCTV shows Novak leaving the control room, and two minutes later, so does Watts. It’s a good ten minutes before they pop up again. Loo break apparently, but there’s no sign of either of them on the tapes.’

‘What do we make of the broken camera?’ Shah asked.

‘It had been reported and there had already been one attempt to repair it,’ McGovern stated.

‘On the other hand,’ Shah continued, ‘someone could have decided that with it out of action, the timing was right for the assault.’

Mulgrew lifted his laptop from his desk and turned its screen to face the room at large. ‘Couple of other cameras were still working. They show sections of the hall, officers patrolling, but nobody particularly lingering.’ He had speeded up the footage. They’d all watched it more than once, knew every single frame. ‘Patrols aren’t frequent — they don’t have the staffing level. Unless an alarm’s hit or a con requests a visit.’

‘The governor would rather we used the term “resident”,’ Esson reminded him.

‘How about the prisoner who heard a key in a lock?’ Shah asked.

‘His name’s Billy Groam,’ Mulgrew answered. ‘Seemed pretty confident when we talked to him, but maybe he was high on something that night.’ He turned his screen back towards him and worked away at the touchpad. ‘There are blind spots throughout the prison — and the POs would know them. Mostly officers stick to two rooms away from Trinity Hall. One houses the CCTV screens and comms with the cells, the other is for downtime. Usual kettle, microwave, fridge and sink, plus a corkboard where they pin up photos of recent weapon finds and the like.’

‘I also want us to think a bit more about the cellmate,’ McGovern added. ‘He was high as a kite, but was that voluntary? Had someone slipped him a much bigger dose than he was used to? Had he been more or less ordered to take enough spice or whatever to put himself out of the game? Was he really unconscious when he got hit on the head or did he maybe hear or see something or somebody? Could be he’s blocking it out and it’ll come back with a bit of nudging. Plenty for us to be considering and a lot of work ahead. Anything you need from me, you only have to ask.’

‘Does that include a few more pairs of hands?’ Esson asked.

‘You know what budgets are like these days, Christine.’ McGovern’s tone was cold, but her eyes were sympathetic. Nobody blamed her for the fact they lacked bodies, funds and sometimes the equipment to do the job.

Once McGovern had left for her own office down the hallway, Esson settled at her computer, trying to get it to do something, anything. Not for the first time, it wasn’t minded to oblige. An arm suddenly reached down past her shoulder, Mulgrew’s fingers busying themselves on her keyboard. The screen sprang to life.

‘I could have done it,’ Esson commented.

‘A simple “thanks” will suffice, Christine.’

Over by the tea bags, Shah was shaking an empty half-litre milk carton.

‘Whose job was it to bring fresh?’

‘Allbright’s,’ Mulgrew said, walking towards her. ‘Probably curdling in the dental surgery as we speak.’

‘You mean the milk or Allbright?’

Mulgrew snorted at the joke, Esson refusing to join in even though Allbright’s name really did sometimes seem to be in itself a joke on nominative determinism. She got up and joined them as the kettle came to a boil.

‘If you followed my example, it wouldn’t bother you,’ she said, pouring the boiled water into her empty mug.

‘Don’t know how you can do that,’ Shah said, wrinkling her nose.

‘I like it,’ Esson replied. She watched Mulgrew offer Shah the last peppermint tea bag, which Shah accepted with a look not unadjacent to a simper. Esson tried to remember if the DC was attached right now. She thought not. She was about four inches shorter than Mulgrew and eight years younger. Her family had moved to Scotland from the Middle East a generation back. Esson envied her flawless skin and those huge hazel eyes, currently fixed on Jason Mulgrew. When Mulgrew passed Esson’s desk on his way to his own and half raised an eyebrow, she wondered if something had been showing in her face.

‘Do we have the victim’s file?’ Shah asked the room.

Esson hoisted it and let it fall with a thump back onto her desk. ‘Like the boss says, he’s been on our radar most of his adult life.’

‘We’ve not really talked to the family yet, have we?’

Esson made show of opening the file. They’d been through this more than once. ‘Divorced, one son, Marcus. His ex moved south, the son stayed here. He’s been in a bit of bother too, the past few years. Driving under the influence with no insurance, couple of scuffles outside pubs and clubs, possession of hash and speed...’

‘Does he have a job?’ Mulgrew asked.

Esson dug a little deeper into the file. ‘Don’t know if you’d call it a job or not, but he hangs out with Zak Campbell.’

‘The footballer?’

‘Ex-footballer,’ she corrected him. ‘Injury did for him.’

‘Hell of a player he was turning into, too,’ Mulgrew mused.

‘He was at the same school as Marcus. Few years above him, but they became pally.’

‘Didn’t Campbell go into acting or something?’

Shah had been busy on her phone. ‘Bit parts in a couple of TV dramas and films I’ve never heard of. Tried his hand at modelling and singing. Info dries up after that.’

‘Who was it that spoke to the son?’ Mulgrew asked.

‘Me and Allbright,’ Shah said, dumping her tea bag into a bin. ‘He’s still living at the family home — out Edinburgh Park way. Didn’t seem that shocked by his dad’s killing, but that could’ve been bravado. Shared precisely no useful information regarding the deceased. It was Allbright who noticed a few photos in the house showing Marcus with Zak Campbell — I had no idea who he was. From the way Marcus then spoke, we got the idea he maybe worked for Campbell in some capacity, or at least was taking money from him.’ Shah broke off, watching as Esson held up the report of the interview.

‘Allbright’s spelling is all over the place,’ Esson said.

‘Poor guy was mainlining ibuprofen for his toothache,’ Shah reminded her.

‘How about the deceased’s ex-wife?’ Mulgrew enquired.

‘Using her black-widow charms to persuade one of the other prisoners into doing her dirty work?’ Esson sifted the paperwork again. ‘Split was amicable. No cheating on either side. She got the cash for her half of the marital home and has hitched her wagon to a car mechanic in Nottingham.’

She closed the file and they sat in silence, drinking their drinks while the seconds passed.

‘Stands to reason it was Novak,’ Shah eventually offered.

‘It does,’ Mulgrew agreed.

‘We should bring him in here,’ Shah went on. ‘Proper grilling in an interview room. Then do the same for every colleague who’s covering for him. My guess is, they either knew he was going to do it, or they helped him carry it out — getting rid of the evidence, cleaning up, handing him a fresh uniform.’

‘That being the case, why would they help us?’ Esson asked. ‘They’d be putting themselves in the frame. Only way this works is if they all stick together.’

Shah held up a finger. ‘One link in the chain is always weaker than the rest. Some hard questioning will show us who that is.’

‘These people work in a prison, Zara. I doubt we’ve got anything that won’t just bounce off them.’ Esson broke off as her phone buzzed with an incoming text.

It’s Malcolm F. Can we meet?

She started tapping her response. Busy.

Seconds later, Fox replied. At Gayfield? I’m in my car outside. Need 5 mins max.

‘Anything interesting?’ Mulgrew enquired.

‘A huge break in the case.’ She watched him crack a smile. ‘I just need to pop out for five. Is that okay?’

‘I suppose so,’ he said, ‘but only if you make it ten rather than five.’ He saw the quizzical look on her face. ‘Nip into a shop and fetch us some milk,’ he explained.

Fox’s car was big and black. The interior smelled and looked brand new. Esson climbed in and closed the door, checking she couldn’t be seen from the CID windows across the street.

‘Interesting,’ she said.

‘How so?’

‘Well, for one thing, I’d no idea you had my mobile number. And for another, if it’s an official visit, why are we down here and not upstairs?’

The smile took a long time spreading across Fox’s face, and lacked a certain amount of sincerity. Esson noted that he kept his hands on the steering wheel, as though he might abduct her at any moment. It didn’t help that those hands were sheathed in black leather gloves.

‘I just thought maybe I could offer you something — trust me, it’s something you definitely want.’

‘Okay, I’m listening.’

‘There’s an inmate who’s in the same hall as the victim — in fact, their cells are pretty much across from one another. His name’s Everett Harrison. I don’t think you’ve got round to questioning him yet. When you do, it might help to have some background. Harrison’s an enforcer for a Liverpool crime boss called Shay Hanlon. Our colleagues south of the border got a bit too close to prosecuting Hanlon, and off he went to Brazil — no easy extradition. Hanlon’s specialisms are dope and people-trafficking. That was how we got lucky. There was a break-in at a nail bar. The culprit ran off when the alarm sounded, but that same alarm sent a patrol car looking. In the back office they found a chunky consignment of drugs with Harrison’s dabs all over it.’

‘I’m with you so far, for what it’s worth.’

‘The intruder cut himself during the break-in,’ Fox went on, keeping his voice level as he surveyed the roadway and pavement. ‘Took a while — you know what the labs are like with low-level stuff — but we finally got a match.’ He turned towards her. ‘Jackie Simpson.’

Esson was silent for a moment as she digested this. ‘So in a way, Simpson’s responsible for this guy Harrison being put inside?’

Fox nodded slowly, his eyes turning towards her as she gnawed her bottom lip, deep in thought.

‘Do we have any reason to believe Harrison knows who Jackie Simpson is?’ she eventually asked. Fox just shrugged. ‘And your interest isn’t so much in the victim as this guy Harrison — but Harrison’s already doing time, so what’s in it for you?’

It was Fox’s turn to think for a moment. He drew in a breath, a sign that he had made his mind up. ‘We think Hanlon might be on his way back to the UK.’

‘“Think”?’

‘He uses EncroChat — makes it impossible for us to intercept his phone calls — so as of now it’s just a strong suspicion. Doubtful he’d get in touch with Harrison, but not impossible. His gang is almost clannish, and money’s been making its way to Harrison’s family to tide them over. SO15 asked me to keep an ear to the ground...’

‘And of course, you’d want to suck up to London.’ Esson managed a wry smile. ‘Same old Malcom Fox.’ She gestured towards his hands. ‘Do those gloves help you climb the greasy pole?’

‘I didn’t need to come to you, Christine. I could have taken this to Mae McGovern.’

‘But you didn’t.’ She narrowed her eyes slightly. ‘And why is that, Malcolm? Siobhan escaped your clutches, so you’re on the hunt for a new pet project? Maybe you see yourself as Sir Galahad.’ She made show of checking her surroundings. ‘No damsels needing saving here, mister.’

Fox’s face had grown stony. ‘I’ve told you what I thought you should know. What you do with it is up to you. All I’m asking is to be kept in the loop.’ He pressed the ignition button and sat there, hands ready on the steering wheel, staring through the windscreen as Esson wrenched open the door.

She was about to walk back into the station, but changed her mind and headed off in the direction of Leith Walk. There was no point taking the information straight back to MIT when she could add something else of value to the basket.

Milk...

Fox watched her in his rear-view mirror. She was right, of course, but only partially. Becoming her ally, her confidant, would have annoyed Siobhan Clarke, and perhaps driven a wedge between the two women. Maybe he had miscalculated, but maybe not. She would take the information to her boss, of course she would, and would be praised for it. Which might cause her to reflect and come round to thinking of him as useful, maybe even eventually thanking him. There was more he could have told her, but some secrets had to remain locked away. No need for her to know about his relationship with the deceased or his role in the break-in that had led to Everett Harrison’s prosecution. And after all, a result had been secured — drugs taken off the street, a criminal put behind bars. Plus Jackie Simpson had kept quiet throughout, never mentioning Fox or the plan the two of them had conjured up. That in itself should have kept him safe during his incarceration. Well, relatively safe. Yes, it should have.

Oh well.

As he drove west out of the city, headed for his office at Gartcosh, he thought again of John Rebus, locked up and guilty, yet neither as troubled nor as changed as Fox had expected. He knew Rebus couldn’t ignore Jackie Simpson’s murder — it wasn’t in the man’s nature. Then there was Darryl Christie to consider. The consignment found in the nail bar pointed to one thing — Hanlon was barging into Christie’s territory. His first foray into Scotland, Glaze had said on the phone. Perhaps a taster of things to come.

‘See, Malcolm,’ Glaze had purred, ‘one strong reason for Hanlon to come back from Brazil would be to improve his chances of taking a grip on the Scottish market. With Christie inside, what’s to stop him?’

‘Christie might be inside, but his men aren’t,’ Fox had countered.

‘Maybe so, but I’ll bet they’ve never encountered someone like Shay Hanlon before. I’ll send you a few stories.’

And so he had, stories of violence meted out and territories gained. Photographs, too, including a couple of shots of Hanlon himself, ruddy-cheeked and curly-haired, freckles covering an almost boyish face — Fox would have taken him for a farmer, or maybe a builder. Six murders at the very least, SO15 reckoned he’d got away with. Old ties with Republican hitmen in Belfast, arms bought and sold, killers given safe passage and new identities. Fox had put feelers out, but had yet to find solid evidence that, Harrison apart, Hanlon had shifted any of his troops to Scotland. He’d also, after speaking to Rebus, done a search on Bobby Briggs, headcase for hire. Briggs had been in trouble all his days, but without straying too far from his Glaswegian orbit. He’d been transferred to Edinburgh because he was judged to have too many enemies with scores to settle in the local prison, Barlinnie. Had he known Everett Harrison on the outside? If so, how? And what was in it for either man?

Fox knew he had many more questions than answers, nor could he rely, it seemed, on Christine Esson to do his bidding, and that meant only one thing: he had to attach himself to the investigation. Using hands-free, he called his boss’s office. Then he sat up a little bit straighter at the steering wheel and took a deep breath.

Time to turn on the charm, Malcolm, he told himself, waiting for the call to be answered.

7

Siobhan Clarke opened a bottle of wine, promising herself she only needed the one glass to accompany the dinner she’d cooked. Gnocchi with fried onion, garlic and mushrooms added, then a heaped spoonful of pesto stirred in. She’d even grated some pecorino. Surely that merited a smallish helping of cold white wine. She had the central heating on, the lighting turned low and Chet Baker singing from her Bluetooth speaker. With the curtains closed, the rest of the world could perhaps be persuaded to melt away. Her flat had two bedrooms (one used for storage, since no one ever stayed) and was a couple of storeys above ground level in a traditional tenement. If she wanted nightlife, Broughton Street was around the corner. Plenty of bars where a single woman could sit for a while without being hassled; a decent spread of restaurants; and during the day there were cafés and local shops. There was even an auction house where she sometimes browsed on viewing days. She hadn’t bought anything yet, but she was on their mailing list.

Yes, the furnishings in her flat were tired, but she couldn’t quite muster the energy to spend her free time changing things. She liked her sofa and she liked her armchair. The mattress on her bed got turned every few months. The in-bath shower was haphazard, but she could do without the bother of plumbers who never turned up. At weekends she caught up with Samantha and Carrie, plus Brillo, of course. They might go check on John’s flat and pick up his mail. If Christine Esson didn’t have a new guy on the go, they sometimes walked the seafront at Portobello before hitting a wine bar. Fox... well, Fox had been around for a short time, but that was long past. It often struck her that she was nearer to retirement than to the day she’d joined the force. Much nearer, truth be told. Had CID robbed her of a personal life? No, that had been her choice. But she was beginning to feel that the job no longer wanted her around. Wasn’t it more fun a decade or two back, when a few rules could be bent or broken? Rebus and his contemporaries hadn’t had to worry about internet warriors, the brandishing of mobile phone cameras or being ‘cancelled’. Livelier times; or, as Rebus himself sometimes termed it, ‘the wild east’.

Mood dipping, Clarke stared at the speaker. ‘It’s you, isn’t it?’ she chided the crooning Chet Baker. Then she scrolled on her phone until she found some Talking Heads, a more upbeat soundtrack to her last few mouthfuls of food. She was just starting to consider a second glass of wine — a smaller helping than the first, naturally — when her phone rang. She saw that it was Laura Smith. Smith was a journalist, ex-crime correspondent of the Scotsman newspaper. She now ran a website, podcast and blog and was happier outside the mainstream — and better off financially, too. She had stopped inviting Siobhan to join her as co-presenter, or at least appear on an episode or two (anonymity preserved), but was a good companion, who phoned when she was at a loose end and thirsty.

‘Not tonight, Josephine,’ Clarke said, answering the call.

‘This is business rather than social. I’m parked downstairs — any chance I can come up?’

Five minutes later, Clarke was placing a clean glass in front of her guest. Smith was dressed casually — jeans and an oversized jumper, her hair unbrushed. Something had brought her here in a hurry, so Clarke poured, sat down and waited. After a couple of sips of wine, Smith put the glass down and pressed her fingers against the base of the stem.

‘I got a call tonight. Some bloke who wouldn’t give his name. He said it was about the missing girl.’

‘Meaning Jasmine Andrews?’

She gave a brisk nod and reached into her shoulder bag for her MacBook. She slid the wine glass to one side and opened the screen.

‘He said he saw her photo — the one you released to the media — and she looked familiar.’ Smith stopped tapping at the keys long enough to make eye contact with Clarke. ‘From a porn site.’

‘What?’ Clarke lifted her chair and carried it around the table, settling alongside Smith.

‘That was my first thought, too. Some weirdo trying to wind me up. The site is called Young Fresh East Coast. Sounds innocent enough, but after a couple of clicks you find yourself here...’ Smith sat back and angled the screen slightly towards Clarke. There were a couple of dozen posed photos there. Young people, male and female, semi-clad, their faces digitally distorted. They all seemed to be positioned on the same bed in the same room. Smith slid the cursor to the top right photo and enlarged it.

‘What do you think?’ she asked. ‘Jasmine Andrews?’

‘Hard to tell without seeing the face. Can we do anything about that?’

‘I can’t, but I’m guessing your lab techs might. I’ve tried getting further into the site, but it’s impossible. You have to apply online to join “the community”.’

Clarke enlarged the photo a little more. The girl was wearing thong and bra, plus white ankle socks. Her arms were stretched out behind her to support her as she sat, legs bent at the knees and open more than a few inches. The other girls were similarly positioned or else were up on all fours, sometimes photographed from behind, heads angled back towards the camera. The boys wore bulging underpants and sometimes flexed a bicep or knelt with a finger hooked into a waistband.

‘There’s no video,’ Smith said, ‘but there is sound.’ She clicked on one of the icons and listened alongside Clarke.

‘I’m horny as hell. Please choose me. I’ll do anything your heart desires.’ It was a girl speaking, breathy, trying to act older. There was almost a trace of a giggle at the end.

‘They all parrot the same line,’ Smith explained. ‘And they mostly sound Scottish.’

‘Different voices for each photo?’ Clarke watched as Smith nodded. She tried navigating further into the site without success. ‘The guy who phoned?’ she prompted.

‘Also Scottish. When he hung up, I checked, but he’d blocked his number. He wants money, though.’

Clarke looked at her. ‘Money?’

‘A hundred to start with. And if I cough up, he promises another phone call.’

‘So you’ve some way of contacting him?’

‘It’s a pub called the Mallaig Inn.’

‘In Mallaig?’

Smith shook her head. ‘The badlands of Restalrig. Five twenties in an envelope and the name Pedro on the front. Hand it to the barman and walk away.’ She paused. ‘Instead of which, here I am, because I know you’ll give me the exclusive — and you’ve done me plenty of favours in the past.’

‘Did he say when you were to hand the money over?’

‘Sooner the better or he might go elsewhere. You do think it’s her then? I mean, if it is, and somebody was getting ready to out her — maybe a boy in her year who put two and two together — that’s a pretty good reason for getting out of Dodge, wouldn’t you say?’

Clarke didn’t answer, too focused on the screen and her own thoughts. Smith, knowing that look of old, reached for her wine and waited. Clarke eventually got up without saying anything and left the room, returning with a multipack of envelopes. She placed it on the table and slid one out, fetching a pen from her bag.

‘Pedro, wasn’t it?’ she asked.

‘Pedro it was,’ Laura Smith confirmed.

The Mallaig Inn sat on a prominent corner site in the middle of a housing scheme. The area looked tired and so did the pub. Its pebble-dashed walls hadn’t seen paint in a while (other than graffiti tags) and the M had disappeared from its signage. But it was well lit, and a sandwich board by the door promised real ales and bar food.

When Clarke walked in, the place was moderately busy. A man sat at a corner table, strumming a guitar and singing a Paul Simon song. She wasn’t sure if he was hired or just a punter, but the half-dozen whiskies in front of him spoke of an appreciative audience. She ordered a gin and tonic from the barmaid. The girl was young, just out of her teens, and had dyed her hair purple. Nose, ear and eyebrow piercings, round-rimmed spectacles, violet lipstick. There was no sign of anyone more senior, so Clarke placed the envelope on the bar top. It stayed there, ignored by the barmaid, as Clarke handed over a ten-pound note. Taking her change, she tapped the envelope with a fingernail.

‘For Pedro,’ she said. The girl met her eyes for the merest second before lifting the envelope and placing it beneath the bar.

‘I’ll see he gets it.’

‘Is he due in?’

The barmaid ignored the question and moved off to serve the next customer. Clarke took her drink to a far corner, but there was no real hiding place here. The barmaid turned her back while she made a call on her mobile, but angled her head briefly in Clarke’s direction while talking. So Clarke returned to the bar with her untouched drink, thanking the girl as she left. She crossed the road and got into her car, starting the ignition and driving off. In the rear-view, she could see the barmaid in the doorway, checking the visitor had gone. Her phone was in her hand, illuminating her face as she started to make another call.

Clarke drove around the block, found a kerbside parking space and walked back in the direction of the Mallaig Inn. She kept her distance and made sure she wasn’t near any street lighting. One or two cars passed her, but she had her phone up to her face as though texting a friend. Then a man sauntered around the corner, exchanging greetings with a smoker in the pub’s doorway before stepping inside. He was out again less than a minute later, hadn’t even bothered to unzip his thin, pale-coloured jerkin. Clarke caught up with him just as he came to a stop. He had been in the act of opening the envelope, surprised by its contents — a few torn-up pieces of newspaper.

‘Sorry to disappoint you, Pedro,’ she said.

‘You’ve got the wrong guy, sweetheart.’

He was in his forties, overweight and with thinning hair. There was a wedding ring on his left hand. The shirt below the jerkin was open at the neck but looked as though it might normally sport a tie. An ordinary married man with a job, the quiet type. Clarke had met his ilk a hundred times and knew her line of attack.

‘Does your wife know about Young Fresh East Coast? Should we maybe go chat with her?’ She had her ID open, held up in front of his nose.

His Adam’s apple bobbed as he studied it. ‘You’re not the reporter.’ He looked disappointed rather than angry, used to the world being an unjust place.

‘My car’s not far. We can talk there or down the station.’

‘I haven’t done anything.’

‘You recognised Jasmine Andrews from her media photo. But on the site’s home page her face is obscured. That tells me you’ve paid for certain privileges. So do we talk here or at the station?’ His silence told her all she needed to know, and he followed her meekly to her car, climbing into the passenger seat as though ascending a scaffold. She left him to stew in his juices for a moment while she opened her laptop, accessing the website.

‘Won’t do you any good,’ he said.

‘How so?’

‘You only get the access code once payment’s gone through. And nothing’s been going through for a few days.’

‘You’re a regular customer then?’

‘Not really.’

She allowed him this. ‘So talk me through it,’ she said. ‘Payment’s accepted, and then what?’

‘Then you click on your choice.’ He gestured towards the display of photos. ‘If they’re active, that is.’

‘Active?’

‘Usually only one or two at a time are. It’s live-streamed.’

‘From this location?’ Clarke tapped a finger against the bedroom and watched Pedro nod.

‘Then you type in what you want them to do.’ He was beginning to perspire and ran a hand across his forehead and cheeks. ‘I didn’t know she was underage, not until the news broke.’

‘Got any kids yourself?’ Clarke asked.

‘They’re twelve and eight.’ His eyes were glistening. ‘I’m not... I just sometimes like to watch...’

‘What does she call herself?’ Clarke interrupted, her finger resting against the photo of Jasmine.

‘She’s Jazz, like the music. All she does is strip off and maybe feel herself up.’

‘And you’re talking to her while she does this?’

He shook his head. ‘You type it in. But there’s a microphone somewhere close to her — you can hear what she’s saying.’

‘I’m assuming there’s someone behind the camera?’

‘Never see or hear anyone.’ He thought for a moment. ‘But yes, sometimes the models look to one side of the lens, as if there’s someone there.’

‘Do they ever seem scared to you, like they don’t want to be doing this?’

He gave a vehement shake of the head. ‘They’re relaxed, happy.’ Something else came to him. ‘They want whoever’s behind the camera to be pleased with them.’

‘Does it ever go further? One-to-one phone calls or meets?’

‘No. Nothing like that. You pay and you watch and when your time’s up the screen goes black.’

‘You said “one or two”...’

‘Sometimes there’s a double act, but those cost too much, so I never—’

Clarke slapped shut the laptop. ‘What’s your real name?’ she demanded.

‘Just Pedro will do.’

‘It won’t really, though, will it? See, here’s the thing — you held back vital information from an ongoing police inquiry. On top of which, you tried to cash in on that information rather than bring it to us the way a respectable, upstanding citizen would. So I need to know your name, address and a contact number before I send you back to play happy families.’

‘I’m Peter. Peter Cowan.’ He managed to mumble his address, which Clarke duly tapped into her phone, along with his mobile number. She then asked to see proof. He dug out a driving licence, and she scrutinised it.

‘You can’t get in trouble for looking,’ he stated as she handed it back.

‘Oh, but you can. Because those weren’t “models”, Mr Cowan, they were and are children, kids being exploited for money by you and men like you.’ She paused, her eyes drilling into his. ‘I’ll be in touch.’

He placed his hand against the door handle but then paused. Clarke sensed what was coming — further excuses, denials and justifications.

‘Get out of my car,’ she commanded. Cowan did so, but stood unmoving on the pavement, hands rising slowly and shakily to clutch at his head. Clarke drove off into the night and never looked back.