Midnight and Blue

8

After breakfast, there was a chance for fresh air in the exercise yard. Some prisoners took the word ‘exercise’ literally, jogging a circuit or doing push-ups and squats. These were the ones who spent as much time as possible in the gym, pumping themselves up. Others kicked a ball around. But mostly people just ambled. SRU had an adjoining space, a high wall separating the two. A few of the prisoners on Rebus’s side sent up yelled threats, just in case any rapists or kiddie-fiddlers were listening. Rebus had encountered one or two paedophiles during his short time in the unit. They’d tended to be docile and eager to follow orders, but keen also to keep to their cells, the door locked. There was one rapist, too, nicknamed Hair Trigger for his sudden violent outbursts. He’d been locked in solitary throughout Rebus’s stay, his shouts echoing down the hall.

The Wizard leaned against a wall, head angled towards the slate-grey sky. Maybe he was listening for those church bells. There was a well-thumbed Bible in his cell and he attended the chapel on a Sunday. Rebus knew that a few prisoners — white, working-class Scots — had converted to Islam during their time inside. They had their prayer times and their assemblies, with Jumah on a Friday. They borrowed religious texts from the library. If Rebus was helping out, he always studied their faces for signs that this was all a front of some kind, but as yet he’d caught no one out.

As Rebus walked, he overheard snatches of growled conversations. Cells and shared spaces were still in the process of being given a methodical search by police officers. The guards were not immune from this, but the prisoners didn’t care about that. They had to open the safes beneath their beds and allow cops to rifle through their stuff. Classes were cancelled while meeting rooms were searched. Rebus’s own cell had been gone over a second time by two young officers, one male and one female, neither looking thrilled about the task they’d been assigned.

‘Didn’t teach you this in training, did they?’ Rebus had teased, receiving no reply, the officers doubtless having been told to avoid interaction with the cons.

One of the nursing staff had complained to him while refilling his inhaler that even the NHS office had been searched.

‘As if we wouldn’t notice a bloodstained knife lying about the place.’

‘No way it’s still on site,’ Rebus had replied. She’d looked at him.

‘Smuggled out?’ she’d guessed. ‘Not easy for a resident to arrange that, I’d have thought.’

‘I see you got the governor’s memo. But to answer your question with another — who says it has to be a “resident” doing the smuggling?’

The library was Rebus’s next port of call after exercise. It wasn’t a large room, but it was well stocked with books, magazines and DVDs. The librarian was provided by Edinburgh Council. She was a meticulous young woman called Megan Keighley, who hailed from Northumbria and had told Rebus that her name derived from a word for a woodland clearing. She wore a small crucifix around her neck, which she quickly tucked away if it escaped from below her neckline. Rebus had impressed her by knowing so many authors’ names. He didn’t admit that though in the past he’d amassed a solid collection of books, he’d got to the end of precious few of them.

Keighley was sorting through the latest batch of requests when Rebus arrived. The prisoners were free to order just about anything, but with certain restrictions — no terrorism handbooks or true crime, and nothing involving children. Additionally, none of the DVDs carried an 18 certificate. The most popular book loans tended to be legal texts, whose readership was on the lookout for loopholes and get-out clauses. One of the older lags had become so knowledgeable that other prisoners consulted him. He took his fee in cigarettes, which as he said himself made him quite the bargain compared to his ‘colleagues’ on the outside.

Rebus was reminded that his own legal team seemed to have forgotten about him. In the weeks following his imprisonment, there had been a flurry of meetings, either in person or via the video-call facility, a row of cubicles where prisoners could also connect with their families if those families lived too far away for physical visits to be practicable. His defence had stayed the same throughout: he hadn’t intended to kill the man, just put the fear of God into him. If he’d wanted him dead, he would have made sure. His actions might or might not have had some bearing on the heart attack Cafferty then suffered. That was the whole point: no one could say for certain, so how could he be guilty of attempted murder? When he’d entered HMP Edinburgh the first day, straight after sentencing, the officers in the first-night centre had given him a round of applause, all agreed that the world was better off without Big Ger Cafferty.

Rebus, however, wasn’t so sure, because he knew damned well that someone else would replace Cafferty, that someone being Darryl Christie. Siobhan Clarke, on her first visit to him, had sat across the table and cocked her head.

‘I actually thought you quite liked him, you know.’

Rebus had replied with a twitch of the mouth, without voicing any denial.

‘Managed to get a couple of novels in Polish and Romanian,’ Keighley was saying as Rebus stood next to her. ‘Thomas Harris and Michael Connelly. Should keep the troops happy.’ She glanced at him. ‘Do you read any languages, John?’

‘At a pinch I can manage English.’

‘Not even Gaelic?’

‘I know how to say “kiss my arse”, but in Irish rather than Scots.’

Keighley tucked a stray hair behind one ear. He knew she was good-looking enough that some men would pretend to browse the stacks just so they could drink her in. There was a nurse in the healthcare unit who had a similar effect. No one had ever tried anything, though, not as far as he knew. An officer was always close by when prisoners who weren’t trusted were in the room.

‘Pogue mahone, right?’ she said. Then: ‘Such a shame about Mr Simpson. You know he offered to show me how to pick a lock?’

‘Jackie was generous that way.’

‘He always had a twinkle in his eye.’

‘Probably on the lookout for anything worth nicking.’

Rebus got to work sorting out the books. He’d hardly started when Chris Novak arrived, accompanied by a prisoner whose face Rebus knew but not his name.

‘You’re wanted elsewhere,’ Novak informed Rebus. ‘Jimbo here will swap with you.’

Rebus pretended to check with Keighley, but of course she had no say in the matter. Jimbo was looking around the library like a kid on his first visit to a zoo — so many exotic creatures, all of them new to him.

‘Colouring books are over there,’ Rebus told him with a nod, following Novak out of the room.

‘What’s going on?’ he asked as they walked along the corridor, unlocking and locking doors after them.

‘Who the fuck knows?’ Novak shot back. He looked as if sixteen hours’ sleep would go at least some way towards easing his many troubles. ‘I just do what I’m told, as per.’

‘How many times have you been interviewed by CID?’ Rebus enquired.

Novak shot him a look, but then relented. ‘Twice so far. Same questions over and over.’

‘As long as you’re stating the truth, just stick to that. And never give more detail than you’ve been asked.’

‘Someone told me I should just keep saying “no comment”. But that’d make me look guilty, right?’

‘It also annoys the people questioning you, which makes them inclined to dig deeper and wider.’

Novak nodded at the sense of this. ‘I’ve a cousin who’s CID. He’s the one who suggested “no comment”.’

‘Would I know him?’

‘I doubt it — Cammy would have been joining the force around the time you retired. Big lump of a guy, gives the lie to the idea CID is the preserve of the brightest and best.’

‘You know I’m standing right here?’

Novak managed a thin smile. They had come to a stop in front of the door to the pastoral care office. He met Rebus’s eyes.

‘I appreciate the advice, John.’ He knocked and pushed the door open, ushering Rebus in. ‘I’ll be out here when you’re done...’

Christine Esson sat behind the desk. The other two chairs were empty. Rebus took the one opposite her.

‘Thanks for coming, John,’ Esson said. The desk in front of her was bare, no paperwork of any kind. The room hadn’t quite warmed up, and she was keeping her jacket on. Even so, she looked cold. When she exhaled, it was as if she were checking whether her breath was visible.

‘And that’s with the heating working,’ Rebus commented. ‘Cells can get a mite chillier.’

‘Do you want a hot drink or anything?’

‘What is it I can do for you, Christine?’

‘Jackie Simpson was murdered inside a cell on your hall.’

‘So I’ve heard.’

‘And what else have you heard?’

‘That the man posted outside this room, possibly with his ear pressed to the door, is the likeliest suspect.’

Esson turned her attention from the door back to Rebus, lowering her voice so that at first he strained to hear her. ‘Something else has come to our attention,’ she said. ‘The deceased broke into a nail bar that was a front for drug- and people-trafficking. As a consequence, a man called Everett Harrison was charged and sent here.’

‘I know Harrison.’

‘I expect you do — he’s in the cell next to yours. He works for a Liverpool gangster called Shay Hanlon, currently thought to be sunning himself in Brazil.’ She gave Rebus another look. ‘This doesn’t seem to be coming as a surprise to you either.’

‘I know a bit of what goes on around here.’

Esson had noticed that she was rubbing her hands together to warm them and tried to stop herself. ‘How does Harrison get on with Darryl Christie?’ she asked.

‘I’d say a truce had been agreed at some point — on the surface everything’s hunky and dory.’

‘Doesn’t that strike you as odd? Harrison works for the competition, no?’

‘Maybe “ceasefire” would be a better word than “truce” — doesn’t mean the situation can’t change.’ Rebus clasped his hands around the back of his head as he leaned back in the chair. ‘Malcolm Fox gave you this,’ he stated matter-of-factly.

‘What makes you think that?’

‘He’s here, he’s Organised Crime, and there are organised criminals in the vicinity.’

‘His theory is that maybe Harrison found out who Jackie Simpson was and decided to take revenge before Simpson was released.’

‘And what does MIT think?’

‘We’re exploring it.’

‘Harrison would need to have an officer in his pocket, someone to spring him after lights-out and take him over to Simpson’s cell.’

‘Or carry out the killing on his behalf.’

‘In either case there’ll be a big deposit in that same officer’s bank account.’

‘I’m not sure these are the sort of people who depend on the banking system, John.’

‘What, then? A new house or car? A cryptocurrency wallet?’

‘We’ll be checking.’

‘I assume you’ll be asking Harrison himself about all of this?’

‘Think that would get us anywhere?’

‘Not a chance.’

‘Which is why we’d like a bit of evidence first.’

‘Like footage showing him tiptoeing out of his cell at dead of night, shank in hand?’

‘Listen to you with your prison lingo.’ She gave a tired smile. ‘CCTV isn’t proving particularly helpful.’

‘The broken camera,’ Rebus stated.

‘Coincidence, you think?’

‘It’s been bust a while. If you’re thinking it was tampered with, why didn’t the killer take out Jackie a week ago?’

‘Then there’s the unlocking of a cell door...’

‘Which only Billy Groam seems to have heard.’

‘Is he just having some fun at our expense?’

‘I don’t think he’s the type. But one door or gate sounds much like any other, and POs were coming and going...’ He stared at her. ‘The fact that you’ve got teams searching places that have already been searched tells me you’re not exactly making progress.’

‘Fiscal was adamant it had to be done.’

‘Forensics?’ She shook her head. He studied her as she rubbed at her eyes. ‘Fox came to you specifically, didn’t he?’

‘Yes.’

‘Have you told Siobhan? Because a pound to a penny that’s why he did it — to let her know she’s no longer his blue-eyed girl.’

‘I realise that.’

‘Tell me you went straight to your team with it?’

‘I did.’

‘Because otherwise you’re giving him a hold over you. He tells your boss you held it back even for one day...’

‘I took it to my team,’ she assured him. Then: ‘We’re not all like you, John.’

He gave a short laugh, Esson joining in. Then he lowered his arms again and placed his hands on the desk, inches from hers.

‘I think I know why you’ve brought me this, Christine, but I’d like to hear you say it.’

‘It’s just... you’re in here and we’re out there, and we could use all the help we can get.’

‘I doubt Harrison’s going to open up to me. I mean, I see him all the time, but if I start asking obvious questions...’

‘Then forget I said anything. Last thing I want is you on my conscience.’ She tried for a half-joking tone but didn’t pull it off.

Rebus kept his eyes on her. ‘Give me a number I can reach you on,’ he said.

‘You’ve got phones in here?’

‘Didn’t you see the landline in the victim’s cell?’

‘I think I was preoccupied.’

Rebus waited while she tore a sheet from a notebook and jotted down a mobile number.

When he tried to take it from her, she held on to it for a moment. ‘Nothing more you can tell me just now? Nothing that would help me get a fix on this?’

‘Sorry, Christine.’ Her grip on the sheet of paper loosened and he folded it into his pocket.

‘And you will share anything you find?’

‘Why wouldn’t I?’

‘Because you’re you, and that means you might well want to present us with a fait accompli.’

‘I’m not even sure I could spell it, never mind present it.’

‘Just play nice, John. Do the right thing.’

He patted his pocket. ‘You’ll have heard the rumour, I take it?’

‘Which one?’

He gestured towards the door. ‘That Chris Novak and Valerie Watts are an item?’

‘I’d heard a whisper — you’re saying it’s true?’

‘I’m not one for tittle-tattle. But if I were you, I’d want to know one way or the other...’

The door opened and a man stood there, staring at them. ‘Started the interviews without me?’ he said, sounding unhappy.

‘I’m ex-CID,’ Rebus explained, rising to his feet. ‘DS Esson and me go back a ways. We were just catching up.’

The man’s eyes drilled into Rebus’s. ‘You’re on our list, though.’

‘And all I’ll tell you is, I know as little as anyone else.’

‘This is DI Mulgrew,’ Esson said by way of introduction. Rebus held out a hand, which Mulgrew ignored.

‘This isn’t exactly following procedures, Christine,’ Mulgrew stated.

‘I was just passing,’ Rebus improvised. ‘Happened to see DS Esson, so we sat down for a chat. There was no discussion of the case, if that’s what’s squeezing your nuts.’

Mulgrew looked unconvinced. Rebus glanced in Esson’s direction: I’ve done what I can. Mulgrew was still holding the door open, so Rebus had to negotiate his way around him and out into the corridor, where Novak was waiting.

‘Reckon she’s in trouble?’ Novak asked as they started to walk.

Rebus turned his head long enough to watch Mulgrew close the door. ‘She’s a big girl, she’ll deal with it,’ he said.

Though they walked in silence for the next few yards, Rebus knew Novak was on the verge of saying something. Eventually, as they stopped at one of the barred gates, he cleared his throat. He kept his eyes on his chain of keys, took his time finding the right one. A camera was watching, but there was no way of listening in. Nevertheless, he spoke in an undertone.

‘When you were a cop, you stuck up for your mates, right? Never grassed them up even when they’d been a bit naughty? Same rules apply here. But you need to know that some of us might be more honest than others. It’s easy to get recruited — short spell of training and you’re in. But the past few months and years, some have been resigning almost before the ink’s dry on their contract. A matter of weeks and they’re done.’

‘And why’s that?’ Rebus asked.

‘Because ultimately they’ve been placed in the system by the scumbags they work for. They smuggle stuff in until they’re rumbled or they start to lose their nerve. If you’ve got a head on your shoulders, you soon start to spot them. Not much you can do about it, though, unless you catch them in the act. Even then, another one steps into their shoes and it all starts again.’ Novak broke off, raising his head so that his eyes met Rebus’s. ‘If told to, it’s likely one of them would have done Jackie Simpson...’

He unlocked the gate and both men passed through. While he was locking it again, Rebus spoke.

‘They’d have to have been on the night shift, though. So who on your team don’t you trust?’

Novak seemed to be wrestling with whether to answer. He had started walking before he made up his mind. ‘Samms,’ he eventually intoned. ‘Blair Samms.’

Rebus pulled up an image of Samms: early twenties, tall and skinny, cropped black hair, never seeming fully present, as though ticking down the minutes till each shift’s end.

And he’d worked the supper service alongside Valerie Watts.

‘Have you given him to MIT?’ Rebus watched Novak shake his head. ‘Why not?’

‘Things are bad enough without it coming out that officers are on the take.’

‘Was your car firebombed to warn you off?’

‘They don’t like me because I want security and surveillance ramped up — no more smuggled phones and drugs. More cameras — ones that work — inside the jail and on the exterior walls.’

‘So why tell me?’ Rebus continued. ‘What makes you think I won’t take it straight back to DS Esson?’

‘That’s up to you — but it can’t have come from me, understood?’ Novak was ushering him through the last door before the library.

‘And this isn’t just you covering your own arse?’ Rebus risked asking. But Novak wasn’t about to answer that. He called out to Jimbo, and the prisoner scurried gratefully from the strange new world into which he’d been hurled. Rebus watched the two men walk away, Novak upright as ever, not a man to be messed with, Jimbo chattering away to him without ever seeming to expect it to turn into a dialogue.

A group of three prisoners plus one guard were inside the library. Books were being borrowed, Megan Keighley noting each one down while the borrowers admired her surreptitiously. Rebus’s glower in their general direction seemed to have no effect, so he went back to his task and got on with it. When one group left and another arrived, he paid them no heed, until he realised someone was hovering by his shoulder. Turning, he found himself face to face with the scarred and nicked face of Bobby Briggs. Briggs made show of reaching past him to pluck a book from a shelf, his mouth a couple of inches from Rebus’s ear, his breath a mix of nicotine and onion.

‘Everett tells me it’s too soon to do you in — one murder’s enough to be going on with. But I can bide my time, and you’re not going anywhere. Christie might say he’s got your back, but that means nothing to me. Got that?’

‘It’s not just Darryl you’d be pissing off, though, Bobby,’ Rebus improvised. ‘It’s Shay Hanlon, too.’

‘Bullshit.’

‘Ask your good pal Everett next time you see him. Better still, borrow a burner and call Shay yourself.’

‘Come on then, you lot,’ the officer was saying. Briggs looked ready to ignore the request, his eyes bolted on to Rebus. But with a final low growl, he turned away. He was the last to leave, throwing a baleful look at Rebus as he went.

Megan Keighley was clutching an oversized tome to her chest. ‘Not too many people in here give me the heebie-jeebies,’ she told Rebus. ‘but he’s right at the top of my list.’

‘Mine too,’ Rebus said, realising his heart was pounding and nerves jangling.

After a calmer hour, his time was up and an officer arrived to escort him back to Trinity Hall. It was Blair Samms, Mr Nonchalance himself.

‘Having a good day so far?’ Rebus asked conversationally as they walked.

‘Same old same old.’

‘You’re far too young to sound so jaded.’

‘Is that right?’

‘You’re in a paying job — you’ve a lot to be grateful for.’

‘You sound like my grandad.’

‘What did he do for a living?’

‘Lived off benefits.’

‘Well, it’s a career, I suppose. I hope you treat him right — a few quid now and then for a bet on the horses or a couple of pints.’

‘What’s it to you?’

‘I’m just saying, I hope you appreciate the life you’re living. Good career to be had in the prison service.’

‘You’re joking, aren’t you? Soon as I can, I’m out of here.’

‘To do what?’

‘Anything.’

‘All that training wasted.’ Rebus made show of shaking his head. ‘How many times have you been questioned?’

‘That’s none of your business.’

‘It’s just that you were on shift that night.’

‘So?’

‘So chances are—’

‘Chances are, you know fuck all about it.’

‘Hence my interest,’ Rebus persisted. ‘The kid reckons his dinner might have been spiked — I don’t suppose you saw anything?’

‘He’s spinning you a yarn. Whoever it was killed Simpson, it wasn’t a PO.’

‘Spontaneous bleeding then, maybe — should we be phoning for an exorcist?’ Rebus waited for Samms to say something, but he stayed silent. ‘If it wasn’t one of yours, stands to reason it was one of mine. Who would your money be on? Darryl Christie? Everett Harrison?’

Samms glanced towards him. ‘Why those names specifically?’

Rebus just shrugged.

They had reached the gate leading to Rebus’s hall. As Samms unlocked it, Rebus studied him, trying to imagine him slashing another man’s throat. He couldn’t see it. But on the other hand... unlocking a door and sending the likes of Everett Harrison through it, knife gripped in his paw? Rebus reckoned Samms might have been just fine with that.

And Harrison, Rebus’s next-door neighbour, was the first person he saw as he approached his cell. Harrison gave him a little wave as he headed towards the shower cubicles, a towel draped over one shoulder. A wave and a smile, actually. It wasn’t often that Everett Harrison smiled.

Walking into his cell, Rebus had the immediate feeling that someone had paid a visit in his absence — nothing was quite where it had been when he’d left. But nothing obvious was missing either. A third CID search? He didn’t think so. He sat on the edge of his bed, facing the doorway. Bobby Briggs’s ape-like face morphed into Chris Novak’s then Blair Samms’s and eventually the smiling Everett Harrison — Shay Hanlon’s man. His surroundings began to lose their density, becoming a milky swirl. He placed his hands either side of him on the bed to steady himself, waiting for the feeling to pass. His mouth felt dry, but he lacked the energy to go to the sink for some water. After a while, everything began to stabilise, everything but his heart rate. When Samms passed his doorway, Rebus called to him and said he wanted to book a phone call.

‘It’ll be tomorrow now,’ Samms warned him, but Rebus shook his head.

‘Tell the governor it has to be today.’

‘The governor’s a busy man.’

‘Just tell him, will you?’ Rebus tried to sound less irritated than he felt. He could sense a headache starting behind both temples.

Samms headed off, giving no indication of whether he’d do as Rebus asked. Rebus knew he could always beg Christie for another burner, but he was damned if he’d do that, especially with Christie pissed off about the last one. Could Esson wait to hear what Novak had told him? She was probably still in the building. He could always demand to be taken to her, but then that would get everybody interested. Interested and curious. There was a killer somewhere in this place, almost certainly someone Rebus knew. The governor had come to his cell to talk to him, Malcolm Fox of OCCTU had summoned him to the governor’s office for a cosy chat, and Christine Esson had welcomed him to Pastoral Care. Rebus’s head was already well above the parapet. He would be patient, wait for word that he could make the phone call, play it safe.

Aye, John. Safe as any sitting duck. He forced himself to his feet, feeling the sudden need to be anywhere but this cell. He walked down the hall towards the body of the kirk. Darryl Christie was there, as were Mark Jamieson — still not looking a hundred per cent — and the Wizard and Ratty and Billy Groam. They all seemed interested in Rebus as he approached. So too did Valerie Watts, who was chewing gum as she patrolled, one hand on the two-way clipped to her shoulder. Someone was whistling the Amy Winehouse song, as they always did when Watts was on duty.

Any one of you, Rebus said silently to himself. Any one of you...

An hour later, he had his phone call. He unfolded the slip of paper and tapped in Esson’s mobile number. The usual recorded voice warned that calls would be monitored.

‘I’m driving,’ Esson said when she answered.

‘But not with your DI in the passenger seat?’

‘How can you tell?’

‘You’ve got me on speakerphone. Are you on your way back to the station?’

‘Yes.’

‘Tell me, have you interviewed Blair Samms yet?’

‘Twice.’

‘Get any sort of a feeling from him?’

‘What sort of feeling?’

‘You’ve got antennae, Christine, same as Siobhan, same as me. They didn’t twitch at all?’

‘Tell me why they should.’

He listened to the clicking as she signalled to turn at a junction. He wondered how his old Saab was doing, garaged at a specialist place in Wardie. ‘It’s just, I heard he might be on the take.’

‘Who told you that?’

‘I’m not at liberty to say.’

‘You’re not at liberty full stop, John.’ She was beginning to sound annoyed. ‘What did I tell you about keeping stuff back from the investigation?’

‘You said it was a fine and noble tradition? Besides, here I am doing exactly as asked, sharing information.’

She was silent for a moment, then gave an audible sigh. ‘Blair Samms?’ she checked.

‘That’s the one,’ Rebus confirmed.

‘I’ll add him to the mix.’

‘Oh, I meant to say — I like your new partner. Total ray of sunshine, he is.’

‘He’s a good detective.’

‘He’ll be wondering if he can say the same about you after he walked in on us.’

‘Already forgotten. Listen, I have to go.’

‘Best of luck, Christine. I mean that.’

‘Thanks, John,’ she said, ending the call.

Ten minutes later, when Esson walked into MIT, she saw Malcolm Fox standing in the middle of the floor, Mae McGovern facing him with arms folded. Esson walked over to them.

‘Hello, Christine,’ Fox said.

‘DI Fox has just been telling me that the two of you have worked together in the past,’ McGovern said stonily.

‘Only at arm’s length,’ Esson felt it necessary to qualify.

‘Well,’ McGovern went on, ‘he’s here today to give us the benefit of his expertise.’

‘And what expertise is that?’ Esson enquired, eliciting a forced laugh from Fox.

‘Same old Christine,’ he said, while the two women exchanged a look.

Esson could tell McGovern wasn’t entirely thrilled by Fox’s presence. Easy to perceive it as a hint that Police Scotland’s upper echelons felt MIT needed their hands holding. Shah and Allbright were all but hiding behind their computer screens.

‘I’ve just been explaining to DI Fox,’ McGovern said, ‘that progress is being made in the case at a rate we’re satisfied with.’

‘Absolutely,’ Esson said.

‘Please, call me Malcolm,’ Fox told McGovern.

‘But he’s keen to be taken through the various stages so far — maybe you could facilitate that, Christine?’

‘I could, but I do think my time would be better spent on the case itself.’ Esson glanced in the direction of the two DCs in the room, but McGovern wasn’t minded to take the hint.

‘That’s settled then,’ she said, turning away.

Left alone with Fox, Esson was relieved when Jason Mulgrew walked through the door.

‘This is my DI,’ she told Fox. ‘Jason, Malcolm here’s from Gartcosh.’

‘We met briefly at the locus,’ Fox said, holding out a hand for Mulgrew to shake.

‘Good to see you again,’ Mulgrew said. ‘What is it we can do for you?’

‘Just walk me through the investigation,’ Fox replied.

‘That won’t take long — we’ve not made much headway.’

‘Actually,’ Esson said, ‘that’s not strictly true. Less than an hour ago, I got word that one of the night shift, an officer called Samms, might be worth an additional check.’

‘Oh?’ Fox nudged.

‘He could be on the take.’

‘Interesting,’ he drawled. ‘Money from Darryl Christie, you mean?’

Esson gave a shrug.

‘Christie manages to run the city from a jail cell,’ Fox went on. ‘Much easier to do that if he can rely on messenger boys — either a prison officer or civilian staff.’

‘This is the first I’m hearing of Officer Samms,’ Mulgrew said. ‘Did it come from your chum Rebus?’

‘It might have.’

‘And when were you going to tell me?’

‘I just did,’ Esson said, hackles rising.

‘So you’ve been talking to our old friend John?’ Fox’s eyes were on her.

‘Bumped into one another, apparently,’ Mulgrew stated. ‘Supposedly had a chat about things in general but specifically not the murder.’

Fox was still staring at Esson. ‘So this man Samms was mentioned, but not Darryl Christie or Everett Harrison?’

‘You’re interested in Harrison, aren’t you?’ Mulgrew asked Fox. ‘Christine mentioned the connection between him and the victim.’

‘She told you the information came from me?’

‘I don’t keep secrets, Malcolm,’ Esson said darkly. ‘Always better when things are out in the open, don’t you agree?’

‘Absolutely.’ He paused. ‘Most of the time, at least.’ When he smiled, Mulgrew did the same.

‘Jason,’ Esson said, ‘maybe you’d like to show Malcolm the CCTV footage?’

‘You might find it interesting,’ Mulgrew told Fox. ‘Two of the POs go walkabout — allegedly to the loo.’

‘Is Samms one of them?’

Mulgrew shook his head. ‘Timeline is proving interesting, though — they’re AWOL for a good long while.’

‘I have another possible name for you,’ Fox added. ‘Bobby Briggs. He’s in another hall, but he’s friends with Harrison and has a notably short fuse.’

‘I doubt anyone from outside Trinity Hall could have done this,’ Esson felt it necessary to say. ‘But then the murder’s not really what interests you, is it?’

Fox decided not to rise to her bait. Instead, he pressed his hand lightly to Mulgrew’s forearm. ‘Lead the way to this camera footage,’ he said. ‘And please, do call me Malcolm...’

9

In the days before Police Scotland, the country had been served by eight regional forces, Lothian and Borders being one. Its headquarters was a tall concrete and glass box located on Fettes Avenue. Back then, this building had housed CEOP, the Child Exploitation and Online Protection division, but now Fettes was little more than a warehouse, and one with crumbling walls. There was talk of razing it to the ground and replacing it with housing, but nothing had happened as yet. CEOP no longer lived there; in fact, as far as Siobhan Clarke could ascertain, it was no longer a Scottish concern, falling instead under the jurisdiction of the National Crime Agency in London. Eventually she’d been connected to a single officer in the Scottish Crime Campus at Gartcosh, Lanarkshire. Detective Sergeant Louise Hird had given her a twenty-minute window, starting at 11.30 a.m.

Traffic west out of Edinburgh was the usual crawl, spray from other vehicles meaning she spent every other minute clearing the windscreen. She didn’t relish the prospect of a visit to Malcolm Fox’s domain and the HQ of Professional Standards. No happy memories there, but at least she was used to the protocols at the well-guarded gatehouse — not at all dissimilar to those at Rebus’s prison. She waited in the airy atrium, refusing eye contact and hoping not to be recognised by colleagues she had effectively snubbed.

DS Hird looked to be no older than her mid twenties. Only the set of her jaw and the slight glaze to her eyes hinted at the things she probably saw each and every day. She was dressed fashionably — a red skirt that ended above her knees, sheer black tights, olive-green blouse. Around her neck dangled all the electronic passes she needed to gain access to the inner core of the building. Her hair was cropped and reddish-gold. Her freckled face didn’t quite manage a smile as she held out a hand for Clarke to shake.

‘The prodigal returns,’ she said.

‘I was hoping I might have been airbrushed out of the picture.’

‘Gartcosh never forgets.’ Hird gestured towards the stairs and led Clarke up a level. ‘I know you’re probably thinking we could have done this on the phone, but I prefer face-to-face.’

‘What I’m actually thinking is that we used to have a whole office at Fettes dedicated to kids at risk.’

‘And now all the poor mites have is me.’ Hird turned her head to meet Clarke’s eyes. ‘Efficiency savings.’

‘So you work for the NCA?’

‘I work for the victims.’ Hird was taking brisk strides towards a door, Clarke just about keeping up. She risked a glance across the expansive stairwell to where Internal Affairs had its suite of offices.

‘You’re quite safe with me,’ Hird commented. ‘Besides, I’ve not seen Malcolm today.’

Clarke followed her into a small room, its glass walls covered by blinds that were probably kept closed at all times. There was nothing on display — no photos of predators or victims; no notes or lists of names. A single locked cabinet stood in one corner and a solitary desk in the middle of the room. There was a printer, a cable straggling from it, but nothing else, other than a biro and a blank pad of paper. Hird sat down and gestured for Clarke to take the only other chair.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘we should have stopped at the coffee counter.’

‘I had something on the way here,’ Clarke said.

Hird nodded, seeming satisfied, and unlocked her desk drawer, sliding out a slim notebook computer and opening it up. Clarke noticed that she locked the drawer again afterwards. She tried not to think about what might be lurking within, just out of sight.

‘The bad news is,’ Hird was saying as she typed, ‘it’s a new one to me so there’s not much I can tell you.’ She paused for a moment before turning the screen towards Clarke. It was displaying the homepage of Young Fresh East Coast. ‘They come and they go. The set-up is usually very similar. Sometimes it’s even a boyfriend behind the camera.’

‘Jasmine’s friends think she might have been seeing someone after school. Nobody knows who.’

But Hird was shaking her head. ‘Too many on the roster, and both sexes. A bit more organisation required. Therefore not just a persuasive boyfriend with a money-making idea.’ She gnawed at her lip as she played with the homepage.

‘I’ve been able to track down one punter,’ Clarke explained. ‘He couldn’t tell me much either. Seems to think the site’s gone dead.’

Hird peered over the screen towards Clarke. ‘Easier if you bring your chair here.’ While Clarke moved it, Hird shifted along a little. She circled the cursor on Jazz’s thumbnail. ‘This is your misper?’

‘That’s her,’ Clarke stated.

‘Wild child, is she?’

‘I don’t get a sense of that.’

‘A quiet one then, easily led?’

‘Maybe. Family life is... Well, the father spends a good deal of time elsewhere, and his relationship with Jasmine’s mother could be described as feisty.’ Clarke leaned forward, pointing towards the photos. ‘I really need to know where this is. What are the chances of making that happen?’

Hird puffed out her cheeks. ‘Slim,’ she eventually conceded. ‘I’ll give it to London, but it might take a while. They can definitely decrypt the facial features. But as for following the trail back from the IP address... You don’t know any teenage hackers, do you? They’d probably have about as much luck. The thing about the online world is, the scrotes are cleverer than us and at least three steps ahead. As soon as the internet was born, porn was right there astride it, every taste catered for and no questions asked.’

‘But to get ordinary teenagers to do this sort of thing...’

‘I assume you don’t know many teenagers? They’ve grown up exhibiting themselves for the benefit of a screen, craving all those heart emojis. Most of them will have seen worse than this after a couple of clicks.’ Hird looked at Clarke. ‘I’m assuming all they’re doing is stripping and touching themselves?’

‘The punter mentioned twosomes.’

‘So far, so low-level.’

‘He also said the performers never meet the clients — but I’m guessing that sometimes occurs?’

‘You think that’s what’s happened to Jasmine? Found herself a sugar daddy?’

‘Is it likely?’ Clarke’s throat felt dry.

‘Probably not without the agreement of whoever’s behind the camera. If we can access the clips, we can maybe hear him speak. Doubtful, though — it shatters the illusion that it’s just the paying customer and the performer.’

Hird clicked on the speaker icon and turned up the volume.

‘I’m horny as hell. Please choose me. I’ll do anything your heart desires.’

‘They all say the same thing,’ Clarke commented.

‘It’s definitely her voice?’

‘I’ve yet to check.’

Hird nodded. ‘Not the easiest conversation to have with the parents.’

‘I know.’ Clarke leaned forward a little. ‘You’ve come across this set-up before — can you think of people with previous who might be who I’m looking for?’

Hird shrugged. ‘Jasmine is in Edinburgh, but what about the others? I mean, could she have travelled to Fife or Glasgow, maybe even Newcastle?’

‘It says it’s East Coast.’

‘Doesn’t really mean anything. I once saw a porn film with the word Swedish in the title. First thing I noticed was a car with a German number plate. Ruined the whole thing.’

Clarke managed a weak smile. ‘The voices all sound fairly local.’

Hird listened to a couple of them, then lifted the pen and tapped it against her cheek. ‘We do have a roll-call of past and present offenders. I can pull it up and see if anyone looks likely. But I know for a fact none of them are Edinburgh-based. Sure you don’t want a coffee? I could do with one.’

‘Okay then.’

She slapped shut her computer and locked it back in its drawer. ‘I’m glad you brought me this. It’s actually refreshing.’

‘Refreshing?’

‘They’re usually a lot younger — sorry to be so blunt.’

‘I don’t know how you can do it.’

‘The usual answer is: someone has to.’ Hird gestured for Clarke to exit the room in front of her, turning to lock the door after them. ‘I get sessions with a counsellor — and the posting only lasts a year or so, with a promotion soon after.’ She sucked in some air as she walked towards the coffee counter, where a male barista was busy at the gleaming machine. ‘But the first answer I gave you,’ she said, ‘that gets to the nub of it really, even though it sometimes seems we’re trying to push back a tsunami with a handful of sweeping brushes. Will cappuccino do you?’

‘Cappuccino is fine,’ Clarke said quietly.

They took their drinks to one of the breakout booths, where they wouldn’t be overheard. A few passing officers nodded or waved a greeting in Hird’s direction. Both women concentrated on their drinks for the best part of a minute, then Hird sniffed and cleared her throat.

‘The internet has normalised stuff that would have been off limits two generations back. Girls like Jasmine are bombarded with it. Boys at her school won’t have any problem with choking, anal, spitting. And if a girl complains...’ She gave a shrug. ‘You’ve accessed her phone and computer, checked her socials?’

‘It’s under way.’

‘Guy operating the camera could have met her that way — cajoled her and flattered her.’

‘Paid her, too — friends say she’s been flush of late.’

‘No radical mood changes? Absences noticed by her parents?’ It was Clarke’s turn to shrug. ‘It’s just that drugs are often part of the equation, keep the performers docile.’ Hird took another sip of coffee. ‘What have you done about this punter you identified?’

‘He basically identified himself — went to a reporter and wanted money for his story.’

‘Nice.’

‘But to answer your question, I’ve left him dangling.’

‘And sweating, too, I hope?’

‘What’s the best I should be hoping for here, Louise?’

‘Best case, she comes waltzing home unharmed. Like you say, a client could have whisked her off to the south of France for a good pampering.’

‘Ever known that to happen?’

‘No.’

‘I really need to get to whoever’s running the operation.’

‘I promise I’ll talk to London. I wish I could say it’ll be a high priority, but...’

Another passing detective nodded towards Hird, but then seemed to place Clarke and did a double-take before heading in the direction of Professional Standards.

‘That’s you been clocked,’ Hird said.

Clarke drained her cardboard cup. ‘I need to be going anyway. Thanks again for seeing me.’

‘But you hope we never have reason to meet again — right?’

‘Professionally anyway.’ The two women shook hands. As Clarke was descending the staircase, she glanced back and saw Louise Hird making her way to her locked office and its drawers filled with nightmares.

Silently she wished the young woman well.

Music kept her mind off things as she left Gartcosh and headed towards the motorway. But her mood remained solemn, not helped by a phone call from the station, Cammy Colson filling her in on the lack of discernible progress in her absence, his funereal pace of delivery adding to the gloom.

‘We’ve cracked her computer password,’ he said, ‘but there’s not a lot for us in there. All her social media must be on her phone. Mobile provider tells us she still hasn’t used it. I’d say that’s ominous. There’s no tracker on the phone either — another dead end. Hope you had better luck at Gartcosh.’

‘Not really, Cammy, not really...’

The sky above was a bruised layer of low, heavy cloud. It seemed to press down on the car, meaning that even with her foot down, she seemed to have the most sluggish possible acceleration. She’d considered phoning ahead to alert Jasmine’s parents to her visit but had decided against it. It was always more interesting to catch people unprepared. When her phone rang again, she saw Christine Esson’s name on the screen.

‘I hope you’re going to cheer me up,’ Clarke said, answering.

‘Depends whether you think Malcolm Fox is a laughing matter or not.’

‘What’s happened?’

‘He’s right here in the MIT room, cosying up to Jason Mulgrew.’

‘Wondered why you were keeping your voice down. Have you tried telling him to piss off?’

‘From the look on Mae McGovern’s face, someone above her pay grade has okayed it.’

‘Meaning Fox’s bosses at Gartcosh. Funnily enough, I’ve just been there.’

‘Oh?’

‘Jasmine was modelling on a porn site.’

‘That complicates matters. You took it to CEOP?’

‘If by that you mean did I take it to a single solitary overworked officer, the answer is yes.’

‘Helpful?’

‘Too early to tell.’

‘Are you going to go public with it?’

‘Not yet. Don’t want those involved scurrying back under their various rocks.’

‘What’s the site called?’

‘Young Fresh East Coast.’

‘Hang on...’ Clarke listened as Esson tapped at her keyboard. ‘Yeah, I’m looking at it.’

‘Her photo’s top row right.’

‘None of the other models have come forward?’

‘Would you?’

‘If she was my friend, too right.’ Esson paused. ‘God’s sake...’

‘What is it?’

‘I think Fox and Jason are discussing “going for a jar”. It’s like I’ve tuned in to The Likely Lads or something.’

‘I can’t unsee that image.’ Clarke began to laugh, sloughing off some of the tension.

‘Or maybe Steptoe and Son would be more accurate,’ Esson added.

‘You’re not old enough to have lived through either of those, Christine.’

‘They’ve been huddled at Jason’s computer for almost an hour. Fox probably knows more about the case right now than I do.’

‘I very much doubt that. But I take it there’ve been no breakthroughs to report?’

‘The square root of nada. I suppose I better go try to earn my keep. Another drink soon?’

‘Going for a jar, you mean? Yes, let’s do that. Bye, Christine.’

‘Ciao.’

Clarke ended the call and put the music back on. The satnav told her she’d be at the Andrews house in under twenty minutes, but then the satnav didn’t know Edinburgh and its roadworks like she did.

Both cars were still in the driveway. It was lunchtime, and James Andrews was chewing a mouthful of sandwich as he answered the door. He stared at her for a moment, then swallowed.

‘They don’t give up, do they? I’ll get the apology done when my head’s back in the game.’

‘This isn’t about Craig Fielding, Mr Andrews.’

Her tone alerted him that there was news, and not the good kind.

‘I’ll fetch Helena. She’s in the kitchen...’

Clarke was seated in the living room by the time husband and wife returned. Helena Andrews was brushing crumbs from her loose-knit jumper. Clarke gestured towards the sofa, and they complied, settling side by side.

‘So?’ James asked nervously.

‘Nothing bad’s happened,’ Clarke reassured them, ‘but there’s something I need to share with you and I want you to be prepared.’ She slid the computer from her shoulder bag and opened it. Without saying anything, she played the recording while keeping the screen hidden from view. Afterwards, husband and wife shared a look. Helena’s mouth fell open and she placed her fingertips to her lips.

‘I don’t...’

James Andrews had risen to his feet, heading towards Clarke with the intention of viewing the screen. She folded it shut.

‘Is it Jasmine’s voice?’ she asked.

‘I think so,’ Helena blurted out. ‘But those words... I don’t...’

‘AI,’ her husband growled. ‘You can fake anything these days. Someone’s idea of a joke.’

‘It’s a website.’ Clarke kept her voice level. ‘People pay to watch teenagers perform.’

Helena Andrews’ face folded in on itself. ‘You’re saying Jasmine was...? That’s ridiculous. Why would she do something like that?’

‘Spite,’ her husband answered. ‘One way to get back at you.’ He turned his attention to Clarke, looming over her. ‘Is this why she’s done a runner? Someone was about to shame her or blackmail her?’

‘We don’t know as yet.’

‘It’s a bloody good motive, though.’ He gripped at his hair for a moment, as if about to yank some out. ‘Who’s behind it? Just give me a name.’

‘James,’ his wife cautioned, but Andrews waved this aside.

‘Because if I catch them before you do...’ He stabbed a finger directly in Clarke’s face.

‘You’re already on a warning, Mr Andrews.’

‘Just because they used her voice,’ Helena persisted, ‘it doesn’t mean it goes any further than that.’

‘One of the site’s users identified Jasmine,’ Clarke explained.

‘I hope you’ve got him in the cells,’ James Andrews snarled.

‘Look,’ she ploughed on, ‘this has come as a shock to you — of course it has — but I need you to think it over carefully. Maybe there were times Jasmine went out and wouldn’t say where she was going, maybe messages she received or calls she took in her room, a name or address she let slip...’

‘That slippery little bastard across the fence,’ Andrews said. ‘Filming her in her bedroom, I’ll bet. Tells her it’s just between them, then goes and sticks it online!’

‘It’s not her bedroom,’ Clarke corrected him.

‘His, then!’

She shook her head slowly. ‘We’ve spoken to Craig. He’s currently not suspected of anything. And if you’re thinking of confronting him, I’d strongly advise against it.’

‘Of course it’s not Craig,’ Helena stated. ‘He’s a good kid.’ She had risen to her feet and was walking to the window that faced the rear garden and the houses beyond.

‘Someone obviously talked her into it, persuaded her — maybe for a dare or something.’ James Andrews was staring at the back of his wife’s head. ‘What’s that girl called? The cocky one?’

‘Carla,’ his wife responded.

‘Yes, Carla. Right little madam, as we used to say.’ He turned towards Clarke’s computer. ‘Is she on that thing?’

Clarke ignored the question. ‘When we get pertinent information, we will of course share it with you.’

‘Jas must have known she couldn’t keep it secret for ever — porn’s everywhere online and teenage boys probably hoover up more of it than most.’

‘You seem well informed,’ his wife muttered, half turning her head in his direction.

‘Common knowledge, that’s all.’

But Clarke noted the colour creeping up his face.

‘What’s the site called?’ Helena was asking, turning away from the window, arms folded.

‘That has to remain confidential for now,’ Clarke told her.

‘But it has photos... videos of Jasmine?’

‘We’ll know more in due course. Right now, all anyone scrolling can see is a pixelated face.’

‘But the voice is clear enough,’ Helena said quietly, tears forming in her eyes.

‘Whoever controls the site...’ her husband began, ‘say she decided not to do any more... say she told them she was going to the authorities...’

‘Christ, James.’ Helena squeezed her eyes shut and pinched the bridge of her nose between finger and thumb.

‘She’s underage — they must have known that. How many more on that bloody contraption of yours? How many more kids like Jasmine?’ His voice was shaking.

Clarke placed the computer back in her bag and stood up. She made show of checking her phone, as though some urgent message had just appeared on its blank screen.

‘If you can think of anything that might be of help...’ The sentence drifted off. She began to make for the front door and the safer world beyond.

‘A fucking kid,’ James Andrews was telling her. ‘Taken advantage of. Abused. And your lot do fuck all about it. I swear I don’t know how you can sleep at night.’

Clarke knew there were things she could say, things that would include CEOP and the National Crime Agency and the haunted face of Louise Hird. But she knew too that none of it would help in this moment, to this parent. But Andrews wasn’t quite done with her. He stood in the doorway, one arm outstretched, finger pointed in her direction as she unlocked her car, pulled her seat belt around her and started the engine. When she risked a glance from the window, he was shaking his head slowly, judging her with absolute finality.

She switched the music back on and drove.

After a few hours at Gayfield Square, Fox felt he was beginning to be accepted. DC Paul Allbright had made him a mug of tea — terrible, weak tea, but Fox had sipped it as though he’d never tasted anything better — and DC Zara Shah had talked him through the search of the prison buildings and grounds. The night-shift officers were the focus of another investigative strand, but there were no signs as yet of sudden windfalls or big-ticket purchases. The interview transcripts and recordings told their own stories, each one leading to a brick wall. Fox had concentrated on officers Novak, Watts and Samms, but also on the chats with Darryl Christie and Everett Harrison. Those had been perfunctory at best, and he wished he could have been there to spice things up. He noted that Rebus had yet to be formally questioned and reckoned that was because he’d already said his piece to Christine Esson in private.

He had also found out a little more about Bobby Briggs. Briggs had done a bit of work down the years for a Govan-based criminal called Mickey Mason — security, mostly. Time was, Mason had been a boxing promoter, Briggs paid to keep order at ringside or on the door. To Fox, the interesting thing was that Mickey Mason had recently been released from HMP Barlinnie after a short stretch for benefit fraud. According to intelligence, he was quickly settling back into his old ways, including ensuring a steady supply of drugs on the streets of suburban Glasgow. Fox didn’t know what to do with this, but he could see possible links in a chain — a chain that might end with Shay Hanlon hanging from it like a precious stone.

When his phone rang, it was a colleague at OCCTU, a detective sergeant called Stevie Hodge. Fox leaned back in his borrowed chair.

‘What can I do for you, Stevie?’

While he listened, he tried to keep his face neutral, aware that Shah and Allbright were nearby, Esson and Mulgrew having gone to their boss’s office for a powwow — or, much more likely, to tell her everything Fox had been up to since arriving at MIT. Having ended the call, he rose to his feet and began to put his jacket on, without looking as though he was in any particular hurry.

‘Tell the parents not to wait up,’ he informed Shah and Allbright, gesturing in the vague direction of Mae McGovern’s office. Once in the corridor, his pace increased. He exited to the car park, got into his car, stuck an address into the satnav and hit the accelerator.

Stevie Hodge was waiting for him, parked kerbside on a quiet street of semi-detached Victorian houses in Mayfield. Fox climbed out of his own car and into Hodge’s BMW. Hodge was in his early thirties, stocky and crop-haired, sporting a recent moustache, which he had taken to stroking as if it were a pet.

‘Tell me again,’ Fox commanded.

‘Witness is out shopping. Supermarket car park. There’s a car leaving, but a motorbike stops in front of it, blocking it. Rider gets off, pulls a pistol from his leathers and points it at the driver’s-side window. Indicates for the driver to lower the window, which he does. Biker says something, then walks back to the bike and hoofs it. Our witness — a Mrs Clarkson, age fifty-three — didn’t get much of a description of the bike or the rider, but when the car left its parking bay, she clocked the licence plate. Racing-green Jaguar F-Pace, registered to a certain Jake Morris at this address.’ Hodge gestured through the windscreen. ‘It’s parked four cars further along.’

‘And as we both know,’ Fox drawled, ‘Jake Morris is one of Darryl Christie’s lads.’

‘Very much a senior lieutenant,’ Hodge confirmed.

‘Are we getting CCTV from the car park?’

‘For what it’s worth — biker kept his helmet on throughout.’

‘And Mrs Clarkson didn’t hear what was said?’

‘She did not.’

‘Well, I suppose we better go and ask, then...’

When they rang the bell, a chain slid across the door before it was opened from within, a woman’s eyes visible through the gap. Fox showed her his ID.

‘Could we have a word with Mr Morris, please?’

‘He’s not here.’ The woman’s eyes were heavily made-up, the hair jet-black and piled atop her head. She sounded English.

‘When will he be back?’

‘He’s gone to visit family. In Yorkshire.’

‘Sudden decision, was it? We notice his car’s parked just along there.’

‘Look, what do you want?’

‘It’d be easier to speak inside.’

‘I’ve only got your word for it that you’re police.’ She nodded towards Fox’s ID. ‘Anyone can fake a thing like that these days.’

Fox was digging into his wallet. He held a business card into the gap below the door chain. As she made to take it, he pulled it back. ‘What are you scared of, Mrs Morris?’

‘Who said I was scared?’

‘Please tell Jake we want to help if we can.’

She took the card from him and studied it for a moment.

‘At first I thought it was to do with Jasmine,’ she said. ‘When you said you were police.’

‘Jasmine Andrews?’

He watched the woman nod. ‘My daughter Carla’s her best friend. She’s worried sick.’

Fox tried for a sympathetic look. ‘And now this...’

Her face was giving nothing away. ‘This what?’

‘Jake having to scarper.’

‘I told you, he’s visiting family.’

‘Maybe you could give me their address?’

But she was already closing the door on the two detectives.

‘Remember, we want to help,’ Fox said, raising his voice so she’d be sure to hear. He left the doorstep and took a couple of paces onto the lawn, but the living-room window had a net curtain across it, and there was no sign of movement within. So he headed to the pavement and approached the Jaguar. Its interior was giving nothing away.

‘Taxed and insured,’ Hodge commented.

‘A nice law-abiding family,’ Fox said quietly. He was thinking of the daughter, best friends with the missing girl. Could be something or nothing. He reckoned Siobhan Clarke might well find it of at least some interest.

But then again — why should he tell her?

Why indeed? he said to himself.

‘So what do you reckon?’ Hodge was asking.

‘A falling-out among thieves?’ Fox speculated. ‘Or else a new player emerging.’

Which was why, though he wouldn’t be sharing it with Siobhan Clarke any time soon, he would definitely be calling Thomas Glaze in London.

Glaze, he knew, would be interested. Interested and grateful...

10

Rebus had been watching Blair Samms as best he could while the officer worked the day shift. This hadn’t escaped Ratty’s attention — very little did. He sidled over to Rebus and stood beside him as Rebus rested against the wall near his cell.

‘Has he done something?’ he asked in an undertone, scratching his nose to further muffle his words.

‘What makes you think that?’ Rebus kept his eyes on Samms as he spoke.

‘You’ve got a sniper’s look about you.’

‘Is it that obvious?’

‘You’re actually doing a good job of acting casual. Proof of that is that Samms hasn’t noticed you scoping him out.’

‘What do you hear about him, Ratty?’

‘Samms? No particular beef with anybody. Clocks on and clocks off. Bit of a closed book.’

‘Doesn’t do favours for anyone?’

‘Bringing stuff in, you mean?’ Ratty watched Rebus give an almost imperceptible nod. He rubbed at his nose again, thoughtfully this time. ‘We all know it goes on.’

‘But do we know who’s doing it?’

‘The good ones keep it well hidden.’

‘I’ve heard the stories — get recruited, do the training, spend a while working for both sides, then skedaddle.’

‘That’s what you think Samms’s game is?’

Rebus’s mouth twitched. ‘You heard anything new about Jackie?’

‘Just that forensics found plenty fingerprints and DNA in his cell, belonging to cons and POs both. Stands to reason: Jackie was a popular guy, people liked to hang out with him.’

‘And how do you come to know all this?’

‘I keep in with the cleaning crew. They happened to be passing the governor’s office...’

Rebus nodded his understanding. ‘A word with you in private,’ he said, heading for his cell. He positioned himself by his desk, Ratty arriving a few moments later. ‘Best leave the door open. Looks less suspicious that way.’

‘You’ve got me worried.’ Ratty gave a nervous grin.

‘Any particular reason for that?’

‘What’s going on, John? Am I in trouble here?’

‘You tell me.’

Ratty looked like he was thinking about it. Then he shook his head. ‘Thought we were pals,’ he commented.

‘We are. But you work the kitchen and the serving-up.’

‘You not getting enough? Want me to sneak you some rations? Watts and Samms keep tabs on everything, but I can see if—’

‘And there’s nothing you can tell me about either of them?’

‘Not that I can think of.’

‘How about the rest of the team — Devo and Malachi?’

‘Fuck’s going on here, John?’

‘Mark Jamieson reckons he might’ve been slipped something the night he was KO’d. Either in his meal or his tea.’

Ratty gave a snort. ‘He’s covering his arse. Guy was self-medicated to the max and he knows how that’s going to look in dispatches.’ His eyes narrowed, making him appear more rat-like than ever. ‘Maybe it was me, eh, John? That the way your thinking’s headed? Why not just ask me flat out?’

‘Because I’ve no real reason not to trust you. You’ve been decent to me. So I’m asking — Watts, Samms, Devo and Malachi. If one of them was spiking someone, who would your money be on?’

Ratty fell silent, moving to the chair and slumping down on it, elbows on knees, hands clasped. Samms passed outside, walking with the usual studied determination. He saw Ratty and his eyes moved to Rebus. Rebus pinched the fingers of one hand together and made an extravagant sign of the cross, as if he were taking Ratty’s confession. Samms got the reference and grinned, moving on. Rebus hoped he’d continue to take it as a joke, or better still forget about it altogether.

Ratty looked up but saw only the empty doorway. ‘Devo,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m not saying he did it, I can’t for the life of me think he did. But if I had to choose.’

‘And why him?’

‘Partly because he was serving up that night. Serving the meat and gravy, I mean. Easier to plant something in that gloop without it being noticed by the person eating it. Potatoes and carrots — you’d notice, wouldn’t you? Pudding was tinned fruit and ice cream — again, hard to spike without it being obvious.’

‘How about the mugs of tea?’

‘Well, you couldn’t do the whole urn, could you?’

‘Fair point,’ Rebus conceded. ‘The officers couldn’t have intervened at any point?’

Ratty answered with a shrug.

‘Tell me about Devo,’ Rebus went on.

‘What’s to tell? Stole blind from everyone he ever met, including his gran and grandad. Been inside more than he’s been out. Caught on CCTV lifting the charity tin from an Oxfam counter.’

‘Who’s he pals with?’

‘Everybody and nobody.’

‘Everett Harrison?’

‘Most of us like to keep a respectful distance from Big H.’ Ratty stared at Rebus. ‘Why are you breaking your back on this?’

‘It’s what I do.’

‘Trying to shift suspicion from Novak and his mates?’

‘If that was the plan, you’ve just been a big help.’

‘How?’

‘By not fingering Watts or Samms.’

Ratty thought about this. ‘Aye, right enough,’ he conceded.

‘Which is why I know I can trust you — you told the truth as you saw it, didn’t try to frame a PO.’

‘I’m a fool to myself,’ Ratty said with a thin smile.

‘Think you could maybe have a quiet word with Malachi, see if he saw anything during service that day? Without making it too obvious, I mean.’

‘Might not be easy. Malachi’s pretty bright. He’ll soon suss the whys and the wherefores.’

Rebus had moved closer to the door, signalling that the meeting was over. ‘I’d appreciate it,’ he said. As Ratty made to pass him, he placed a hand against his shoulder. ‘One last thing,’ he said. ‘If you do ever get hold of those extra rations...’

‘One Tunnock’s equals two ciggies,’ Ratty explained.

‘I don’t smoke, though.’

He swept the cell’s interior with his eyes. ‘Maybe a nebuliser, then. I can always find a use for a nebuliser...’

After Ratty had gone, Rebus lay on his bed for a while with his forearm across his eyes. It was something you never thought about on the outside — the control you had over such simple everyday things as switching a light on or off. In here, someone else held sway. He reckoned that was one reason why ex-cons sometimes found life afterwards hard to adjust to. How the hell did you plan meals or do the shopping required — all those shelves, all those choices to be made?

Others, of course, took to prison life as if born to it, a simple extension of the schools or other institutions they’d known throughout the course of their lives. Rebus himself had gone straight from school to the army and from there to police training, but always with questions and never quite happy to blindly follow the rules and regs. He’d survived his share of disciplinaries and reckoned he’d managed never to become just a cog, serving a function dictated from elsewhere in the machinery. If he’d wanted a quiet life he’d have refused the move to the general prison population, but the quiet life wasn’t really his thing, never had been. All the same, he knew he wasn’t the man he had been. More aches and pains, less likely to win any physical contest. Which was why, even with eyes closed, his ears remained alert to danger. Briggs would have been checking. Soon enough he’d be ready to call Rebus out on his spurious relationship with Shay Hanlon. That meant being watchful during free flow. But even here in Trinity Hall, there was Everett Harrison to consider. He was close to Briggs. So far he’d taken Rebus’s side, but that might change at any moment — and he was only a cell away, a cell directly across from Jackie Simpson’s. Jackie Simpson, whose misadventures had led to Harrison’s sentencing.

Rebus could see it. An officer on the take; the unlocking of Harrison’s cell; padding across the floor to where the same officer was opening Simpson’s door; Mark Jamieson out for the count; a towel stuffed into Simpson’s mouth and his throat cut.

How long would the whole thing have taken? Two or three minutes tops. Then the clean-up — bloodied clothing placed in a bag, to be carried out of the prison at shift’s end, along with the murder weapon. Rebus knew that ceramic knives could be smuggled in, no metal detectors triggered. CCTV would have caught someone leaving Harrison’s cell, but then CCTV could be wiped or altered, couldn’t it?

Neat and tidy, and with the night-shift POs firmly in the frame...

‘A penny for them.’

He flinched at the voice, swinging his legs off the bed.

‘Easy there,’ Novak said from the doorway. ‘Didn’t mean to scare you.’

‘Who said I was scared?’

‘Just a convincing impression then.’ He took a couple of steps into the cell, pulling the door until it was open only a few inches. He dropped his voice a level when he spoke. ‘Blair Samms tells me you had Ratty in here earlier. Got him working for you?’

‘I was just taking confession.’

‘Aye, that tickled Samms.’ Novak turned the chair towards him and settled on it.

‘Say Samms was in somebody’s pocket,’ Rebus said, ‘who would your bet be?’

‘Darryl’s the obvious answer. But then there’s always Shay Hanlon’s buddy.’

‘Meaning Harrison?’

‘Meaning Big H,’ Novak confirmed. ‘But there are probably others, too.’

‘I’ve been hearing of threats against officers — not just here, but other jails. Your car went up in flames, but has there been anything else?’

Novak considered for a moment before replying. ‘Drive-bys in the middle of the night, horns blaring. A dead cat lobbed over the garden fence. My wife even found a note in her trolley when she reached the supermarket till.’

‘What did it say?’

‘“Play nice.”’

‘Just that?’

‘Just that.’ Novak shifted on the chair. ‘Could be something or nothing.’

‘No notes since that one?’ Rebus watched Novak shake his head. ‘What do you think it meant?’

‘Turn a blind eye; if you’re asked to do something, do it.’

‘You’re sure it was meant for you?’

‘Not really.’

‘And have you been asked to turn a blind eye?’

‘Not as yet.’

‘Told Esson and her team any of this?’

‘What’s the point? If anything, it just makes me the more likely suspect.’

‘How about your CID cousin?’

‘Cammy? He’s a bit busy working crimes he’s got half a chance of solving.’

‘If I was playing devil’s advocate,’ Rebus said after a moment, ‘I’d now be saying that there’s only your word for it about these threats. Whole thing could be made up to make you look either innocent or a scapegoat.’

‘You’re a hard man to please.’

‘Mark Jamieson reckons his supper that night could’ve been spiked. Ratty, Devo and Malachi were on duty, supervised by Watts and Samms — the man you reckon might be on the take.’

‘Is that what you were asking Ratty about?’

‘He more or less vouched for Watts and Samms.’

‘Leaving Malachi and Devo — if you’re ruling out Ratty himself.’

‘Either of them look likely to you?’

‘It’s easily done, a bit of powder or a pill. If asked by the right person, I’d say neither of them would say no.’

‘Can’t say I’ve noticed them looking any different since that night.’

‘It’s not like the person asking would suddenly be filling their cell with strippers and booze.’

‘No, but they’d probably find themselves part of that person’s charmed circle.’

‘I’ve seen no sign of it, but I’ll definitely be keeping watch.’

‘For what it’s worth, Ratty reckons Devo is the most obvious candidate.’

Both men became aware of voices rising down the hall, their heads turning towards the disturbance. Novak sprinted from Rebus’s cell and turned sharp left. Rebus wasn’t far behind. Prisoners had huddled around the figure of Darryl Christie, their shouts blurring with his. Officers were wading in. It looked to Rebus as though some prisoners were bent on protecting Christie while others were trying to get to him. There was a stick of some kind, jutting up above the various heads. Rebus recognised it as a pool cue.

As he got closer, he saw that one end of the cue had been forced into Everett Harrison’s mouth. Harrison was gagging on it, face almost purple. He’d been forced to his knees and was trying to dislodge the cue with one hand while beating against Christie’s forearm with the other. Two of Christie’s lieutenants were pressing down on Harrison’s shoulders. When someone threw a punch at an officer, the alarm sounded, more bodies arriving. There was a look on Christie’s face that Rebus had witnessed once before; an intense, vibrant madness. Aided by the fresh slew of white shirts, Harrison managed to free himself of the pool cue, retching and holding a hand to his throat as he stumbled to safety. Rebus had no idea what had lit the actual fuse, but he knew something like it had been in the offing — all that anger and resentment at Jackie Simpson’s death, all the uncertainty and the feeling that to the outside world none of it — and none of them — mattered very much.

Order was being restored, Christie dragged away towards the gate and the corridor beyond. He locked eyes with Rebus and smiled with his teeth. Harrison sat, knees pulled up to his chin, back against the wall near the pool table. He was being checked over by Samms and Novak. The gathered prisoners now looked hesitant — whose side should they take? Some turned towards the gate through which Darryl Christie had been led. Christie was a local and Christie had power, but Harrison worked for Shay Hanlon, and Hanlon, being a lesser-known quantity, had a touch of the mythic about him. Everyone knew what Darryl Christie could do, but Hanlon’s capabilities were all in the realm of the imagination. The uncertainty loomed large on several faces. Men who had been spoiling for a fight — any fight — now seemed bewildered and lost. They returned to their cells without fuss while Harrison was helped to his feet. He didn’t argue when it was suggested he be taken to the nurses’ station. He seemed unwilling or unable to speak, and kept one hand cupped around his throat.

‘What was that all about then?’ one officer asked, but Harrison just shook his head. Billy Groam, Rebus’s neighbour, wondered aloud if the pool cues would now be put into cold storage.

‘Happened with the dartboard after that one time,’ he muttered, more to himself than anyone.

‘Let’s all go back in our cells,’ Novak was advising. ‘Leave things to settle down.’ He had his arms outstretched, ushering his charges into their quarters. Rebus stayed put on the threshold, and when Novak approached, he told him he needed to speak to Christie.

‘Way beyond my pay grade, John,’ Novak informed him.

‘That’s why I need you to take it to the governor.’

Novak stared at him. ‘Governor’s probably got more pressing concerns.’

‘Despite which, I need you to ask him.’

‘Owe you a favour, does he?’

Rather than answer, Rebus retreated to his bed, lying down again, but this time without shading his eyes. He kept them open, unblinking, as he stared towards and beyond the ceiling.

It was a further hour before Graves arrived at his door and announced that the boss needed to see him. As they crossed the hall, Rebus noted that the pool cues and balls had indeed been removed. As they neared Howard Tennent’s office, the man himself emerged, locking the door after him.

‘I’ll take it from here,’ he said to Graves. Then, watching the officer retreat the way he’d just come: ‘Is this absolutely necessary, John?’

‘Afraid so.’

‘Am I allowed to ask why?’

‘Maybe later.’

They began to walk. ‘Making any headway?’ Tennent eventually asked.

‘Of sorts — mostly ruling stuff out, but that can be useful in itself.’

‘What just happened with Darryl and Everett?’

‘Search me.’

‘Are you about to ask?’ Tennent watched Rebus angle his head slightly. He looked around, but there was no one within earshot. ‘The police inquiry has stalled — no one’s saying as much, but it’s obvious. Only DI Fox seems still to have some fire in his belly.’

‘Probably a curry disagreeing with him.’

‘You don’t rate him?’

‘One-star reviews across the board.’

‘Well, I like what I’ve seen of the man.’

‘Stick with it, he’ll soon disappoint you.’ Rebus paused. ‘Can I ask you something?’

Tennent glanced at him. ‘What?’

‘Do you ever hear anything about my appeal?’

The governor shook his head.

‘You’d tell me if you did?’ Rebus pressed on.

‘Look, John, I don’t think you should be in here any more than you do. But no one’s going to tell me before they tell you.’

Tennent focused on unlocking yet another solid metal door. They were headed to SRU, where Rebus had spent his first three months. Solitary was part of this complex — two cells, neither of them roomy, each with a sink and toilet with no privacy, every ablution visible from the spyhole. No phones or TVs here, no kettles or bookshelves. A solid concrete ledge for a bed, with only a thin mattress and blanket. Plus a sliver of window so high up the wall it was rendered all but meaningless.

The officer in charge of the unit was waiting for them. He nodded a curt greeting to Rebus as he unlocked the door and pulled it open. Darryl Christie sat on the ledge, head bowed.

‘You need to wait out here,’ Rebus told Tennent as he stepped inside, pulling the door closed after him.

‘You sound like you own the place,’ Christie commented without raising his head.

‘That would mean filling your shoes, Darryl. I’m not sure they’d fit.’

‘I own the square root of fuck all, that’s the truth of it.’ Christie couldn’t contain the bitterness spilling out of him.

‘What’s happened?’

Rebus waited, but all he received was a slow shake of the head. After half a minute, Christie’s head shot up, his eyes fixing on to Rebus’s. ‘You and Malcolm Fox go back a ways, aye?’

‘We’ve had our moments.’

‘He’s Organised Crime — wankers crawled all over me back in the day, phone taps, the lot. Far as I know, their hard-on’s not gone away just because I have.’

‘What’s Organised Crime got to do with this?’

There was that smile again, that dangerous smile. ‘Everything,’ Christie stated.

‘How long do I have to wait for you to bring up his name?’

‘Whose?’

‘Shay Hanlon.’

‘That bastard,’ Christie snarled.

‘Harrison works for Hanlon. The two of you have always seemed amicable, but something’s changed. You can’t get to Hanlon, but you can have a go at the next best thing — so you did.’

‘Were you this smart in school? Arm always shooting up to answer the teacher’s question?’

‘Actually, I was pretty average. Bunked off a lot. I’ve tried making up for it since.’

Christie had made his mind up. He checked over Rebus’s shoulder that the door was closed, but even so he rose to his feet, leaning his mouth in towards Rebus’s left ear.

‘A couple of my guys have been got at. Shooters pointed at them, told to leave the city or else. The attackers ride motorbikes and have Scouse accents.’

‘Scouse means Hanlon,’ Rebus agreed.

‘The lads he’s threatened are top of the class. When they walk, all that’s left are the narrow passes and dunces.’

‘Hanlon’s making his play,’ Rebus surmised.

‘I need to know what Fox knows. Do you think he’d tell you?’

The only credible answer to this being ‘not a chance in hell’, Rebus kept his mouth shut. Not that Christie seemed to be paying attention, his head filled with fizzing energy.

‘If Hanlon’s back on UK soil, I can plan a hit. Even if he’s not, I need to know who he’s got in charge up here.’

‘Pity you didn’t ask Harrison.’

Christie considered for a moment. ‘Aye, well... that’d been on my mind, but then when I started walking towards him, he had a big smarmy grin on his coupon and I just wanted it gone — because that grin told me he knew that I knew. He reckons his boss can just waltz into my city, after all the sweat I’ve broken. I needed to show him, and there was Mark Jamieson lining up a shot, the cue almost winking at me as I made to pass him...’

‘I reckon that’s a bridge burned then.’

‘Which is why I need access to Fox and his shiny-suited brethren.’

Rebus pretended to be thinking. ‘I’ll need a phone.’

‘Easiest thing in the world.’

‘Not with you stuck in here for the foreseeable.’

Christie shook his head at Rebus’s naivety. ‘Third shower stall from the left. Reach down into the drain. It should have plenty of charge and credit. You can hang on to it after — call it your reward.’ He stood back a little so Rebus could see the finger he was wagging at him. ‘But I want that info, John. If I don’t get it, I won’t be a very happy monkey.’

‘Lucky for me there are no pool cues left for you to use.’

‘Don’t you worry about that — I’ve been known to improvise. I’m sure I’ll think of something to hurt you with.’

‘Noted.’ Rebus stepped past Christie and pushed open the door. Tennent was just the other side, his face giving nothing away. Either he’d heard or he hadn’t. Rebus wasn’t sure it mattered.

‘We’ll talk later, Darryl,’ the governor said sternly.

‘And to think they call it solitary,’ Christie shot back. ‘A man can’t get five minutes’ peace...’

Rebus waited until late afternoon to roll up his towel and head for the showers. The younger guys, the ones who worked out, thought nothing of stripping off in their cell and walking there in flip-flops or trainers, a towel wrapped around their waist. But that wasn’t Rebus’s way. He undressed in the shower cubicle itself, stepping out to lay aside his clothes before going back in, hanging the towel over the chest-high door. The floor and walls were damp from the previous occupant. He turned on the water — it was never more than tepid at this time of day — and peered over the top of the door to check no one was in the vicinity. Then he crouched and worked his fingernails under the edge of the grating covering the run-off. Whatever screws it had once held had been removed, the fact disguised by thick dollops of soap pushed into each screw hole. The whole thing was prised off with ease.

Rebus stared into the drain, seeing nothing at first. But there was a thin wire hooked over the rim just below floor level, and when he pulled on it, he felt resistance. The clear polythene bag it was tied to eventually emerged. He could make out the small, dark lozenge inside. He unwound the wire and placed it back in the drain, then slid the grating into place. Turning off the water, he started drying himself. Had the police search neglected the showers? Or had it just not been thorough enough? He supposed the phone could have been placed in the drain after any search had taken place, but it must have been secreted somewhere. Furthermore, the drain could just as easily have concealed a weapon — maybe even a knife with a serrated edge.

The other stalls were empty, so he inspected them, but the drain covers were screwed down tight. His heart was beating a little faster than usual as he got dressed and, the phone wrapped in his towel, walked back to his cell, trying hard not to quicken his usual pace. The phone went into the little safe beneath his bed. For once, he locked it afterwards.

That evening, after bang-up, he clambered onto the toilet seat and fired up the phone, calling Christine Esson’s number. She took her time answering.

‘It’s John,’ Rebus whispered to the handset. There was no immediate reply as he listened to the background sounds. ‘You’re in a pub?’ he guessed. He heard her hold the phone away from her as she explained to someone that she’d be back in two minutes.

‘Which bar is it?’ Rebus enquired.

‘Jeremiah’s Taproom,’ Esson eventually said. ‘It’s near Gayfield Square.’

‘Siobhan with you?’

‘No.’ She was out on the street now, low-level conversation replaced by traffic noise.

‘Sounds like it’s raining,’ Rebus said.

‘It has been. Stopped now. What is it you want, John?’

‘What I want is to smell the grass on the Meadows after the rain’s been. But what I need is to talk to Fox — have you got his number?’

‘In more ways than one. What is it you plan to talk to him about?’

‘Need-to-know basis, Christine. But nothing to do with your case, I promise.’

‘Hang on a sec, then.’ After a moment she began to recite a string of numbers, which Rebus copied with his pen on the back of his hand.

‘Thanks,’ he said. Then: ‘How is the case progressing anyway?’

‘Have you got something for me?’

‘Mark Jamieson thinks his dinner could’ve been spiked. That’s one thing. Chris Novak says he’s one of the POs who’s being targeted by people on the outside — not just his car getting torched but threatening notes and the like. So that’s two things you probably didn’t know. Oh, and Darryl Christie just rammed a pool cue down Everett Harrison’s throat, apparently in retaliation for Harrison’s boss targeting Christie’s team on the outside. How about you — managed to dig up anything on Blair Samms?’

‘Nothing of note. I listened again to the interviews we did with him. Seems like a team player, parroting the same script the others on night duty gave us. And CCTV only shows him doing the one quick tour of Trinity Hall. In fact, he spends exactly seventy-three seconds there as opposed to two and a half hours on his backside drinking hot chocolate and reading a newspaper.’

‘Okay, so you’re being methodical.’

‘Methodical and meticulous.’

‘Without actually getting anywhere.’

‘While you meantime have doubtless worked out who poisoned Simpson’s cellmate?’

‘I’m looking at likely candidates, though I’d much rather be looking at a fresh pint in this pub of yours.’

‘They do a decent hamburger, too.’

‘When I get out, first thing I’m doing is booking a table at Prestonfield House.’

‘Am I invited?’

‘As long as you’re happy to go Dutch.’

‘Is Christie the reason you want to speak to Fox?’

‘If Darryl’s gang are being targeted, he’d be the one who’d know.’

‘He’s attached himself to the inquiry, you know.’

‘You have my sympathies.’ Rebus paused. ‘While I remember, do you know anyone in CID called Cammy?’

‘Only Cammy Colson. He’s currently partnering Siobhan. Why?’

‘Nothing really. I’d better let you get back to the festivities.’ Rebus’s hips were aching from crouching on the toilet seat. ‘If and when you have news, you know where to find me.’

He hung up and walked to his cell door, testing it. Of course it was locked, the sounds from outside muffled: coughs; someone still whistling ‘Valerie’; a dull bass thump from one cell, which the POs would soon put a stop to. He could hear the gate to the hall being unlocked and then locked again — an officer coming or going. One of the things that drove Rebus near-demented was the constant unlocking and locking. A door or gate needed to be unlocked, yet beyond it was only a corridor with nothing at the end but another locked door or gate. So why did the first need to be locked? It never seemed to bother the officers or his fellow inmates, but it bothered Rebus. He thought of Billy Groam — had he really heard a cell door opening? He gave his own a kick, hard enough to stub a toe.

‘That’ll teach you,’ he muttered, retreating to his cot and thoughts of warm and inviting pubs and juicy steak dinners.

Esson stared at her phone’s screen as Rebus ended the call. When it went blank, she pushed open the door and walked back to her table, shivering a little and brushing raindrops from her arms.

‘Is that it starting again?’ Malcolm Fox asked, blowing his nose. Across the table, Jason Mulgrew was rotating his pint glass, adding some foam to the surface. The initial arrangement had been between Fox and Mulgrew, but Esson wasn’t going to let Fox get away with that, so had invited herself along.

‘Sorry about that,’ she said. ‘Had to take it.’

‘Work-related?’ Fox asked.

‘A source.’ She paused, looking down at what remained of her vodka tonic with its three slices of lemon. ‘They tell me members of Darryl Christie’s network are running scared.’ She looked up, meeting Fox’s eyes.

‘Is that right?’ Fox reached for his water glass.

‘You tell me.’

He offered a shrug. ‘I didn’t realise you had an interest.’

‘You told me yourself Everett Harrison could well have had a grudge against the victim, and Harrison works for Shay Hanlon. Hanlon has his eyes on Edinburgh, but that can’t happen until he deals with Darryl’s team.’ She rested her elbows against the table. ‘Is Hanlon back in the country, Malcolm? Is that what’s got London so rattled?’

‘I’ve no idea if Hanlon is still in Brazil or not. But it’s true that Christie’s team is being picked off. Latest was a guy called Jake Morris. A biker shoved a gun in his face and now Jake’s in hiding.’

As Fox spoke, Esson noted that he had Jason’s rapt attention — Fox sensed it, too, and was playing to his audience for all he was worth, gesticulating as he repeated the story, adding details that Esson soon realised were almost certainly fabricated. He spoke about his ‘close relationship’ with SO15 — ‘You might have heard it called Special Branch, Jason, but it changed names a while back.’ Then he moved on to Gartcosh and the various ‘high-level’ agencies based there. ‘I’ll show you round the place sometime if you like.’

Mulgrew bowed his head in a show of gratitude.

Eventually Fox ran out of steam and shifted his focus to Esson. ‘I’m interested in this source of yours, Christine. They seem to know things that aren’t exactly common knowledge.’

‘I promised them anonymity. I can’t go back on that.’

‘I thought we were a team here.’

‘Did you now, Malcolm?’

‘I appreciate that you and I got off on the wrong foot...’ Esson knew he was talking about the meeting in his car. He was about to add something, but then noticed that his phone was buzzing. Esson guessed that his screen would be showing something like No Caller ID, Rebus on the other end of the line. Fox didn’t bother answering, switching the phone off and pocketing it instead.

‘My round, I think,’ Mulgrew said, draining his glass.

‘I think three’s plenty,’ Fox chided him. ‘Nice clear heads tomorrow. But it’s been useful, don’t you think? A bit of bonding away from the office?’

‘Absolutely. It was good of you to invite us, wasn’t it, Christine?’

‘Wouldn’t have missed it for the world,’ Esson replied, knowing her fake smile would fool only one of the men at the table.

‘It’s Rebus, isn’t it?’ Fox’s smile was every bit the equal of hers. ‘This source who knows what’s happening around Darryl Christie. You need to be careful, Christine.’

‘No lectures, please, Malcolm — not from you of all people.’

‘But I’m right, aren’t I? What else did he tell you?’

‘Only that Chris Novak has been receiving threats and Mark Jamieson’s meal could have been spiked the night of the murder.’

‘Plenty Brownie points when you tell Mae McGovern all of that.’

‘Yes, bloody well done, Christine,’ Mulgrew added, sounding only slightly irritated.

‘You’ll get your moment in the sun, Jason, never fear,’ Fox told him, reaching across to grip him by the arm.

‘Calling it a night then?’ Esson announced, keen for a break from the bromance.

‘Until next time,’ Fox said, his hand still on Mulgrew’s arm, as if reluctant to let go.

‘I’ve still got a couple of mouthfuls left, though,’ Mulgrew complained, tapping his glass.

With a sigh, Esson got to her feet and left them to it.