Midnight and Blue

11

Jason Mulgrew was waiting for Esson on the busy pavement. She reckoned this part of the city would normally be sleepy and well ordered. A few school runs and early-morning grocery deliveries. Neighbours had emerged from their homes to watch the commotion. Two scene-of-crime vans were parked up, alongside four marked police cars.

‘I was hoping you’d be the bearer of coffee,’ Mulgrew said as he opened the door of Esson’s car for her.

‘Three pints a bit much for you, Jason?’

‘It felt like the right thing to do. Malcolm seems a good guy, no bullshit about him.’

‘You suffering from long COVID? Lost your sense of smell?’

His mouth twitched. ‘At least I know now why you and John Rebus were having that little chat in Pastoral Care.’

‘John wants a result, same as the rest of us.’

They had arrived at one of the vans, its rear doors open, an officer dispatching overalls, gloves and shoe coverings. Esson glanced in the direction of the two-storey house they were about to enter. ‘Who was it told you?’ she asked.

‘The DCI got wind of it first thing, recognised the victim’s name.’

The street was tree-lined and the branches above Esson were dripping on her. She gave them a stern look as she tugged the hood over her head. Barnton to most Edinburgh residents was a neighbourhood they drove past on their way north and west. It tended to house professionals and those who’d done well for themselves. One middle-aged woman was complaining to the young constable who was setting up the cordon.

‘Probably worried it’ll affect the value of her house,’ Esson commented. ‘Who found the body?’

‘Victim’s mother. She hadn’t heard from him for a few days — thought it unusual. Came for a look-see and let herself in. Soon after, she was phoning 999.’

‘Where is she now?’

‘They took her back home. Hoping to interview her properly as soon as she calms down.’

They had reached the front door, where they gave their details to an officer holding a clipboard. Then they were in. The living area was large, open-plan and lurid, the art on the walls apparently chosen for its screaming contrasts of colours. A TV projector was aimed at the one vacant wall. Two cream leather sofas were arranged in a V shape and shelving held an array of bottles, glasses, video games and football magazines. Zebra-patterned rugs partially covered the parquet floor.

‘He was found in the kitchen,’ Mulgrew stated, so that was where they headed next. The body was in situ but about to be removed. A camera technician was checking his footage, making sure he hadn’t missed anything. The kitchen boasted a central island, topped with speckled white marble. Two of the forensics team were paying it particularly close attention. Even from a couple of metres away, Esson recognised the smear of liquid on one corner as blood. She hadn’t known Zak Campbell in life — Siobhan Clarke was the football fan. But here he was, growing cold on his kitchen floor.

Haj Atwal, the scene-of-crime boss, recognised Esson and nodded a greeting. But then he saw Mulgrew and gave a growl.

‘Hood, for pity’s sake, man!’

Mulgrew, who had been giving his head a scratch, looked mortified and quickly tugged the elasticated material over his head.

‘I assume he didn’t just slip and fall?’ Esson asked from behind her face mask.

‘Damage to his forehead was probably done by the worktop,’ Atwal answered. ‘As to why he toppled over...’ He nodded towards one of the evidence bags arranged on a nearby worktop. The detectives walked towards it. There was a six-inch kitchen knife inside, its blade smeared with blood, the handle showing traces of fingerprint powder. Esson looked to where, further along, a knife block exhibited one empty slot.

‘Just the single puncture wound, delivered from behind,’ Atwal went on. ‘Knife was dropped on the floor afterwards.’

‘Tell me we have prints,’ Mulgrew said, staring at the body.

They watched Atwal shake his head.

Esson dragged her eyes away from the evidence bag. ‘Who’s running the show?’ she asked.

‘Gillian Reeves’s team.’

‘So where are they?’

‘Upstairs maybe,’ Atwal said. Esson turned and left the kitchen, heading for the hallway.

‘What do you reckon?’ Mulgrew asked as they climbed.

‘All we know right now is Zak Campbell was good friends with Marcus Simpson and Marcus’s father just happens to be our case.’

The walls of the upstairs corridor were covered in framed football jerseys and press cuttings from Zak Campbell’s glory years. Every door stood open and voices were coming from the far end. Esson passed a bathroom, and what looked to be the main bedroom, plus a room turned into a home office. The final bedroom was where the gathering was taking place. Its curtains were closed, illumination provided by a pink light bulb in the ceiling. A digital camera stood atop a tripod, pointed towards the bed.

‘Looks like he filmed his conquests,’ one officer commented for the benefit of Esson and Mulgrew. Esson ignored him, her gaze fixed on the bed and the wall behind it. She had seen that pale striped wallpaper before.

‘Oh crap,’ she eventually said. Detective Inspector Gillian Reeves turned to look at her.

‘What is it, Christine?’

‘I know this room, Gillian.’ Esson was trying to dig her phone out of her overalls, but it was proving impossible. ‘And what Zak Campbell was doing here goes way beyond collecting notches on his bedpost...’

The meeting took place in DCI Bryan Carmichael’s office at St Leonard’s, with its array of swimming medals and framed photos of his parents and long-term partner, Adam. By the time Esson, Mulgrew, Siobhan Clarke and Gillian Reeves had packed themselves in, there wasn’t much space left and, it felt to Esson, almost as little oxygen. A line of sweat trickled down her back. She had explained the situation to Clarke in her phone call, and now both women had just finished telling their tale to Clarke’s boss, while Esson’s own boss had joined them via speakerphone. Clarke was holding her laptop open, the home page for Young Fresh East Coast visible, every model posed on the same bed against the same striped wallpaper. Reeves stood in stony silence to one side, hands clasped behind her back, eyes begging Carmichael not to take her case away from her.

‘All right,’ Carmichael said, focusing his attention on the phone in front of him. ‘Seems to me, Mae, that there’s a stronger connection to the misper case than the prison death, and seeing how Jason and Christine already have a murder to occupy them...’

‘I don’t disagree,’ the voice from the phone crackled. ‘But I’d still like my team to have a foot in your camp. There’s a tenuous connection to Jackie Simpson, but a connection nevertheless. I need to feel comfortable that it has no relevance.’

‘That’s fine by me. Christine and Siobhan have worked together in the past, making Christine the obvious candidate.’

Jason Mulgrew bristled conspicuously.

‘I sense a difference of opinion in the ranks,’ Carmichael commented.

‘With respect, ma’am,’ Mulgrew began for the phone’s benefit, ‘shouldn’t the more senior officer be given the responsibility?’

‘I think it’s already been decided, Jason,’ McGovern stated icily from the speaker. ‘And Christine, you’ll be straddling two horses, but I don’t want you to forget which mount is your favourite.’

‘Understood.’

‘We’ll need you here at Gayfield Square as much as possible. And if it turns out that this incident has nothing to do with our own inquiry...’

‘Also understood.’

Carmichael leaned a little closer to the phone. ‘We’re a bit short of hands over here, Mae.’

McGovern’s reply was preceded by a loud snort. ‘Join the bloody club, Bryan.’

‘So I’ll be kept on?’ Gillian Reeves interrupted.

‘Of course,’ Carmichael replied. ‘And feel free to bring a friend or six...’ He paused. ‘Is that everything, do we think?’

There were nods around the room, Mulgrew the only obvious dissenter. He was still scowling as the four of them filed out, leaving the two DCIs to talk tactics. In the corridor, he turned to face his three colleagues, eyes fixed on Christine Esson.

‘I suppose that’s me back to Siberia then,’ he said. ‘Will you be gracing us with your presence before the end of play?’

‘Cheer up, Jason. Means you get to spend more time with your new pal Malcolm.’

He glowered at her before heading for the exit.

‘I hope you don’t think you’re being shafted, Gillian,’ Clarke said to Reeves.

‘Not nearly as much as DI Mulgrew.’

‘Boys and their feelings,’ Clarke said.

‘So what’s the plan?’ Reeves asked, folding her arms.

‘I’m the only one who’s not seen the locus,’ Clarke answered after a moment’s thought. ‘Maybe Christine could show me once I’ve introduced you both to the team here. They need to be briefed so we can start the doorstepping and interviews. We’ll rendezvous back here in a couple of hours and get that particular ball rolling.’ She kept her eyes on Reeves, who nodded eventually.

‘Then we’re good to go,’ Esson said, with what she hoped was a collegiate smile.

The forensics crew were still busy at Zak Campbell’s house. The autopsy had been scheduled for the following morning. Campbell’s mother — his father was long dead — had formally identified the body, going to pieces again afterwards. She was being comforted by a neighbour who was also her closest friend. The crime-scene tape stretched across one lane of the road outside Campbell’s house. A queue of cars had built up to use the lane left available. Siobhan Clarke reckoned most would be the usual ghouls. Phones were being held out of driver’s-side windows, filming and snapping, ready to feed the social media maw. She’d already had a text from Laura Smith. Just three words — Quid pro quo — but their meaning was clear: Clarke was in the journalist’s debt and wouldn’t be allowed to forget.

Meantime, the media had arrived, radio and TV vans parked up, narrowing the road still further. Questions were lobbed towards the two detectives as they passed through the cordon and got suited up. Someone had unlocked the door to the garage that sat attached to one side of the house. The car inside was a Maserati — bright red, naturally. Behind it could be glimpsed a motorbike of the same hue. Both were being checked for trace evidence. Inside, pretty much everything from Campbell’s home office had been bagged and tagged and was in the process of being removed. Clarke stopped one of the officers and took a closer look at the evidence bag he was carrying. It contained an A4-sized piece of white card with capitalised writing on it, done in black marker pen.

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

‘I know,’ Esson said, when Clarke looked at her.

‘Computer’s going to be crucial,’ Clarke stated a minute later, moving towards the spare bedroom. Campbell’s recording equipment was already gone. There was a metal-framed kitchen stool placed just behind where the tripod would have been. Clarke sat down on it, facing the bed. This, she knew, would have been Zak Campbell’s perch.

‘I need to talk to Louise Hird,’ she said.

‘Who’s that?’

‘The CEOP officer I told you about.’

‘You reckon this is all Campbell’s work?’

‘Looks likely, wouldn’t you say?’

‘But could he have done it without help? Technical help, I mean?’

‘I’m hoping we’ll find out.’

‘Police doctor reckoned he’d been lying on the floor for several days. Maybe from around the time Jasmine did her runner.’

‘Yes.’

Esson was studying Clarke. ‘It’s a heck of a motive, Siobhan.’

‘No question about that.’

‘Do I sense a “but”?’

‘Campbell could have made any number of enemies.’

‘His minder might know.’

‘Marcus Simpson,’ Clarke agreed. ‘That’s another chat we need to have.’ She walked to the side of the bed, whose sheets and pillowcases were on their way to the lab. The mattress looked new and pristine. She lifted it, but there was nothing beneath except the slatted wooden base. Dust balls were visible on the floor. Even if Campbell had employed a cleaner, he wouldn’t have wanted them intruding. A glance towards the bedroom door showed that a lock had been fitted. She opened the curtains and peered out. ‘Comings and goings can’t have escaped the neighbours’ attention. I wonder what the hell they thought was happening.’

‘They knew him as a footballer,’ Esson speculated. ‘Young and good-looking with money to burn. I think the phrase is “babe magnet”.’

‘There’d have been tuts of disapproval behind all those windows, though — this is Edinburgh, after all. We’re going to be knocking on a lot of doors.’

‘Let’s hope our DCIs find us those extra bodies.’

‘Let’s hope,’ Clarke echoed, moving towards the door.

The main bedroom didn’t detain them long. Fitted wardrobes filled with designer clothes, a drawer containing women’s underwear, almost certainly for use in the room next door. There was a TV on the wall opposite the bed. No reading matter of any kind.

‘The team found a quantity of drugs — coke and grass and bags of pills.’ Esson gestured towards the bedside table. ‘Enough to give a group of people a good time. Traces in the living room, too.’

Downstairs in the kitchen they took out their phones and looked at the footage forwarded from the crime-scene photographer. Numbered Post-it notes had been placed in relevant spots.

‘We can get prints from a granite surface, right?’ Clarke checked with one of the team as they walked past.

‘Shouldn’t be a problem,’ the officer said. ‘Tell you what might be, though — the sheer quantity. Not on the murder weapon, but around the house; pretty much every room shows multiples.’

‘Oh joy,’ Esson muttered.

Five minutes later they were back at Clarke’s car. Passing the media, Clarke spotted Laura Smith. They exchanged a look. When Clarke started driving, Esson probably wondered why she wasn’t putting her foot down, until she saw that her attention was on the rear-view mirror. A few streets further on, Clarke pulled into a side road and waited.

‘I think I know what’s coming,’ Esson said. Moments later, the rear door opened and Laura Smith climbed in, having parked her own car directly behind them. ‘Bingo,’ Esson said.

‘You know Laura?’ Clarke asked her.

‘I know DS Esson,’ Smith replied, reaching a hand into the gap between the front seats. Esson shook it. It was swiftly replaced by the journalist’s flushed face. ‘So what can you tell me?’

‘As of now, not a whole lot.’ Clarke was measuring each and every word. ‘Zak Campbell seems to have been the brains behind Young Fresh East Coast.’

‘And now he’s dead and one of his girls has done a disappearing act.’

‘Don’t try to second-guess, Laura. We’re not tying the cases together yet.’

‘You are, though, otherwise you wouldn’t be here. And how about you, DS Esson? I thought you were being kept busy with the Jackie Simpson murder? What’s the connection?’

Esson said nothing.

‘You wouldn’t have got here without me,’ Smith persisted, her attention shifting to Clarke. ‘Surely I’m owed something for that.’

‘I’ll do what I can,’ Clarke said. ‘You know I will. But right now there’s a lot that can’t be made public. We have to think of the kids Campbell was exploiting. They have families. There are going to be awkward conversations. Best that those happen before the feeding frenzy.’

‘You know this’ll leak, right?’ Smith pushed on. ‘You lot are like a sieve. Only takes one set of loose lips to call it in to a news desk and I’ll be left in the dust.’

‘Laura...’ Clarke, hands clamped to the steering wheel, twisted her head as far as was possible, making eye contact with the journalist. ‘I’ll do everything I can. You’ll be the first person I talk to. You’ve got my word.’

Smith turned this over in her mind, then leaned back against her seat. ‘When’s the press conference?’

‘There’s stuff to be done first.’

‘Who’s heading the MIT?’

‘That would be me,’ Clarke stated.

‘Not Gillian Reeves? Her team was first on the scene — how does she feel about that?’

‘We really need to be elsewhere, Laura.’

Smith took the hint, pausing for a moment before shoving open the door and making her exit. Clarke started the car and pressed down hard on the accelerator.

‘Thanks for letting me do the running,’ she said to Esson. ‘Doesn’t do to underestimate Laura. She’s all on her own out there, no news organisation to back her up.’

‘Meaning she needs views and clicks — and what better way to generate those than teen porn and a celebrity murder?’

‘Something like that,’ Clarke muttered. They were nearing a traffic light that was about to turn red. She sped up and flew across the intersection.

‘All right, Lewis Hamilton,’ Esson commented.

Clarke managed a brief laugh, releasing at least some of the tension. For the rest of the journey, she stayed just the right side of the speed limit.

12

Malcolm Fox was at the office in Gayfield Square. He’d asked where Esson and Mulgrew were, but no one seemed to know. He was studying the footage from the prison for the umpteenth time, but focusing on the cells of Harrison and Christie from before lock-up on the night of the killing. He was looking for interactions with officers or signs that either prisoner was more nervous or excited than usual. There was nothing obvious. Same went for the aftermath of the body’s discovery. No officer looked unsurprised, while Harrison and Christie were their usual selves. Then again, whoever had been involved would have known they were being watched and recorded. They’d have been primed to act naturally. When he looked at the queue for supper the previous evening, he was pleased to see Rebus so low in the pecking order, over a dozen inmates ahead of him. Darryl Christie was, of course, first in line. The victim, Jackie Simpson, looked relaxed, three ahead of Rebus. When he was served, Fox could see nothing amiss, no tells from any officer or fellow con.

Fox stretched and cracked his vertebrae back into place. Next to his computer sat a printout detailing every recorded minute of the night shift, gaps marked where officers’ whereabouts could not be verified. The toilet break taken by Novak and Watts was the most conspicuous, since there was no evidence of either officer entering or leaving the lavatory. But as the interview transcripts showed, they were sticking to their story. Fox’s eyes felt gritty from time spent peering at the camera footage, looking for any signs of shadow play, indicating activity just out of shot. He checked the printout again, its granular level of detail impressive without being in the least bit helpful.

When Jason Mulgrew walked in, hauling off his coat as if intending to do it actual physical harm, Fox got to his feet.

‘What’s happened?’ he asked.

Mulgrew had come to a halt between the desks of Zara Shah and Paul Allbright.

‘Our victim’s son Marcus was pally with a local celeb called Zak Campbell. Campbell’s just turned up dead and it seems he might be connected to that schoolgirl who disappeared. They’ve swiped Christine from us until further notice.’ He looked at the two seated figures. ‘They’ll probably want to talk to you about your interview with Marcus Simpson. Make sure you’re happy with whatever notes you took.’

He waited until Shah and Allbright had nodded their understanding, then went to the kettle and switched it on. Fox joined him.

‘You’re angry,’ Fox stated.

‘Should have been me, not Christine,’ Mulgrew muttered, spooning coffee into a mug.

‘I can see that — you’re the senior officer. But you’re in charge of this case, Jason, and I’m glad you are. You’re a proper detective, and Christ knows this place could do with one of those. Judging by last night, Christine might’ve picked up too many bad habits from the likes of Siobhan Clarke.’

‘Christine’s a decent cop too, you know.’

‘If you say so.’

Mulgrew seemed to be calming a little. He looked towards the desk Fox had been using. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve found anything?’

‘Not much, no. I’m wondering about Valerie Watts, though. On duty during the meal service, then locking Simpson’s door at lights-out...’

‘Not forgetting that gap in the camera footage.’

‘The famous loo break, yes.’

‘You think we should talk to her again?’

‘If we do, I wouldn’t mind it happening away from her place of work. You can tell a lot from a person’s home life and how they act there.’

‘Out of uniform, as it were?’

Fox nodded slowly while Mulgrew added milk to his drink.

‘Should have asked if you wanted one, Malcolm.’

‘I’m fine,’ Fox assured him. His eyes swept across the near-empty office. ‘But with Christine out of the picture, I reckon I’m definitely needed here, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Absolutely,’ Mulgrew confirmed. ‘Wouldn’t have it any other way...’

The prison’s visiting area was as light, airy and welcoming as it could be. There was even a corner with toys for inmates’ children to play with while meetings took place. Right now, however, it was deserted, visiting time over for the day. Deserted apart from Siobhan Clarke, who was seated at one of the tables near the exit. Rebus was led in by an officer, who then stayed put by the far wall, giving them privacy. Rebus gave Clarke a questioning look as he drew near.

‘I pulled a few strings,’ she explained.

‘A nice surprise, all the same.’ Rebus pulled out the chair opposite and sat down.

‘Who’s she?’ Clarke asked in a near-whisper, indicating the officer, who was looking interested.

‘Her name’s Valerie Watts.’

‘She looks... glamorous.’

‘Just a bit of make-up and hair dye, Shiv. So why the burning need to see me?’

‘You know Zak Campbell? The ex-footballer?’

‘I know somebody topped him.’ He saw the look she was giving. ‘We’re not completely cut off from the news agenda in here.’

‘Marcus Simpson was one of his closest friends.’

‘Son of Jackie?’ He watched her give a slow nod. Glancing towards Watts, he saw that the PO was craning her head as far as possible while not quite edging her whole body forward from the wall.

‘Join us if you like,’ he called out to her. Her head snapped back to its original position.

‘Word is,’ Rebus continued in an undertone, ‘she’s Chris Novak’s squeeze, him being the officer we’re all supposed to think did for Jackie Simpson.’

‘You’re not buying it?’

‘Never fall for the hype, Siobhan. Didn’t I teach you that lesson?’

‘Most of what you taught me I had to unlearn so they didn’t kick me off the force.’

‘Fair point. So who killed Zak Campbell?’

‘He was running a porn website. Jasmine Andrews was one of the girls on it.’

‘The runaway? You fancy her for his murder?’

‘It’s a scenario.’

‘And yet?’

‘You said it yourself, John — don’t trust the hype. She did vanish around the same time, though.’

‘A kindly knight came along and took revenge on her behalf?’

‘And if she knew that was going to happen...’

‘Would that have caused her to run? And who would this knight be anyway?’

‘It’s early days.’

‘A case like this, you do it by numbers — the interviews, the doorstepping, the lab and autopsy reports...’ Rebus broke off. ‘Will the pathologist be Deborah Quant?’

‘Want me to pass along your regards?’

‘I doubt she’d accept them.’

‘Maybe once that appeal of yours bears fruit. No word?’

‘Christ knows what I’m paying them for. Luckily I have plenty to keep my mind occupied. Darryl Christie is fretting. He says Hanlon’s lot are picking off his team. He had a go at Hanlon’s right-hand man. I doubt that can end well.’

‘Best keep your head down, then.’

‘I’m famous for it. So if Zak Campbell connects to the murder here through Jackie’s son...’

Clarke gave a slow nod. ‘Three inquiries become one.’

‘Meaning you’re teamed with Christine? Any noise from Malcolm Fox?’

Clarke’s eyes narrowed. ‘Should there be?’

‘Not many pies go unfingered if Fox gets his way.’

‘Charmingly put.’

‘You need to keep your wits about you, Siobhan. With you having snubbed him, he might well see Christine as a ready replacement. At any rate, he’s never going to have your best interests at heart.’ He paused, weighing up his next words. ‘I happened to be speaking to Christine last night. She was in a bar. She didn’t say she was with Fox, but...’

‘Malcolm’s interested in what happened here — stands to reason he might want a catch-up with Christine. And what were you phoning her for anyway? I assume it was on one of your illicit mobiles?’

‘Maybe I just fancied a catch-up too. And unlike Fox, I can’t offer drinks as a bribe.’

‘Well, Christine’s been seconded to my case now, leaving Fox twiddling his thumbs at Gayfield Square.’

‘Then he’ll just latch on to somebody else — most likely Jason Mulgrew.’

‘You know Jason?’

‘A brief encounter. But he struck me as hungry. Fox will sense that and try to use it.’ Rebus sat back a little, resting his hands on his knees. ‘Feel free to bounce ideas off me as often as necessary. But I doubt there’s anything I can suggest that won’t already be on your to-do list.’

‘Are things going to be okay in here, John?’ Rebus considered for a moment before shaking his head. ‘And you won’t be digging yourself a foxhole?’

‘Smuggle me in a shovel and who knows?’

Clarke’s mouth opened a fraction. ‘Stupid of me — I didn’t think to bring any wee treats.’

‘The big kids would just take them off me anyway. You heading home or working a late shift?’

‘The latter.’ She’d been about to add something, but swallowed it back.

‘What?’ Rebus said.

‘I was about to ask if you had plans.’ She looked around at their surroundings. ‘Sometimes I forget where we are.’

‘Lucky you,’ Rebus said, reaching out to pat the back of her hand. ‘Oh, by the way, how’s your own partner?’ She looked puzzled. ‘Cammy Colson, right?’ he added.

‘That’s right.’

‘Turns out he’s cousins with Chris Novak, suspect number one.’

‘And?’

‘And nothing. I just wondered if he’d mentioned it.’

‘He hasn’t.’

Valerie Watts had taken a couple of loud steps forward, indicating that time was up. ‘Back into battle,’ Rebus announced, rising slowly to his feet.

‘I’m hoping that’s just a metaphor.’

‘It hasn’t kicked off in here yet, but it still might, and there’s an ogre who wants a taste of my blood — I’m doing my best to keep out of his way.’

‘Maybe I will smuggle in that shovel after all.’

‘Make it a sharp one,’ Rebus said.

He turned his head in Valerie Watts’ direction as they strode back along the corridor.

‘I know you’re dying to ask,’ he said.

She kept her eyes on the route in front. ‘You’ll tell me if you want to,’ she said.

‘It wasn’t to do with in here, if that’s what’s bothering you.’

‘Chris didn’t do it,’ she said firmly.

‘Well, someone did, and there were only twelve of you on duty that whole night. CID are simple souls at heart. Give them an obvious conclusion and they’ll leap to it. Chris Novak didn’t much like Jackie Simpson. He’d already had a go at him once when they were alone in that cell.’

‘Only according to your pal Jackie, who seldom told the truth when a lie would suffice. He was the one who’d been threatening to pay Chris and his family a visit once he got out.’

‘And what would you do in that situation, Officer Watts? What might you be driven to do? Chris Novak had the means and opportunity to go with the motive.’

Watts stopped abruptly and turned towards Rebus, her eyes fiery. ‘Those minutes that aren’t accounted for,’ she began. ‘CID seem to think that’s the “opportunity” you’re talking about. But we weren’t heading for anybody’s cell.’

‘Where, then?’

She paused, drawing in a deep breath. ‘We were in the store cupboard along from the breakout room. That’s all there is to it. There’s a blind spot between the two doors — makes it easy. Some people go there for a smoke. Others...’ Her voice drifted off.

Rebus studied her face. ‘Why are you telling me?’

‘Because Chris seems to think you might be on his side.’

‘So if not you and him — who?’

‘He’s already told you about Samms.’

‘Samms didn’t go off-piste for ten minutes that night, though.’

Watts took another deep breath and then exhaled. ‘I’m going to defend him all the way, you know that? Even if it means his family finding out about us.’

‘Because you’re in love with him?’

‘Because I know he’s innocent,’ she corrected him. She started walking again, Rebus falling into step beside her. ‘What was all that about earlier today with Darryl Christie?’ she asked.

‘He hates anyone who cheats at pool.’

This raised the vestige of a smile. ‘Nobody seems ready to talk.’

‘It’s a territory thing.’

‘Shay Hanlon, right?’

‘Right.’

‘Meaning we have to keep Christie and Everett Harrison a bargepole apart?’ She watched him nod. ‘Well, Darryl’s going to be in solitary for a while anyway. Time enough for things to cool down.’

‘I doubt he’ll see it that way. The city’s being prised away from him. He’s only going to get keener to even the odds.’

‘Fun times.’ Watts unlocked the gate to Rebus’s hall, ushering him through.

‘Twelve of you on duty,’ he reminded her. ‘If not the two of you, that leaves ten.’

‘Always supposing he wasn’t already dead by lock-up.’

‘You turned the key — I’m assuming you took a look inside at the same time?’

‘I can’t swear that I did.’

‘Well, his cellmate says he was still breathing at lights-out.’

‘This is Mark Jamieson we’re talking about — guy’s practically a zombie. Half his day’s spent gouching — you reckon you can trust his memory?’

Rebus made show of considering the question. ‘In here,’ he told Watts, ‘I’m not sure it’s wise to trust anyone or anything.’

‘Me included?’

‘You’ve got more to lose than some,’ he said, walking away from her towards his cell.

13

By the time Clarke got back to St Leonard’s, Esson and Reeves had finished making their introductions. Space was tight and desks were being shared. Clarke couldn’t help but think again of the few formative years she’d spent here alongside John Rebus, years when she’d seemed part of the fabric of the place.

These days she felt more like a visitor.

Esson was chatting with Cammy Colson, eyes already glazing over as he treated her to his full-bore drawl. Pete Swinton and Trisha Singh were keeping their distance, pretending to be busy with computer cables and extension leads.

Spotting Clarke, Esson excused herself from Colson, who carried on talking for a further few moments before realising he’d lost his audience.

‘Is he always like that?’ she said, leaning in towards Clarke.

‘This is him on a good day. Everything all right otherwise?’

‘Where did you disappear to?’ Esson asked, ignoring the question.

‘Visiting an old friend. How did you enjoy your drink with Malcolm Fox?’

Esson gave her a look. ‘The drink was Malcolm and Jason; I just sort of invited myself along.’

‘So Fox has dumped the pair of us for Jason Mulgrew?’

‘I think you’ll find we dumped Fox, remember?’

‘Good point.’ Clarke paused. ‘Why did John phone you, though?’

‘He didn’t confide in you? Then maybe I shouldn’t either.’

‘You’re not his lawyer, Christine — you’re allowed to talk.’

‘He had some info.’

‘About the Simpson murder?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did he also mention Darryl Christie kicking off?’

‘He did. He wanted me to talk to Malcolm about it, see if he knew what was happening with Christie’s gang.’

‘And since Malcolm was right there alongside—’

Clarke broke off as DCI Bryan Carmichael made his entrance, clapping his hands together to attract everyone’s attention.

‘As you can see,’ he began, ‘I’ve got my coat on. Alas, not on my way home to a log fire and a glass of malt, but a tedious bloody dinner I can’t get out of. But I want to thank you all for staying late and putting in the hours. Someone needs to be chivvying forensics for their findings from the crime scene. Between us, DCI McGovern and I have managed to round up a football squad’s worth of uniforms to start knocking on doors in the morning. Autopsy needs someone present who’s not likely to faint, and the deceased’s mother needs to be questioned again, plus any and all friends and associates.’ He paused. ‘And that’s before we get to CCTV and doorbell footage. Plenty to keep you on the path of righteousness.’ His eyes flitted between Clarke and Reeves — the two DIs in the room. ‘Happy with everything so far?’

‘Absolutely,’ Reeves responded.

His attention shifted to Esson. ‘I know you’ve got other plates to keep spinning, and if it starts getting too much, feel free to keep that to yourself and soldier on regardless — just don’t tell Mae McGovern I said that.’ He tightened the red cashmere scarf around his neck, trying to think if he’d forgotten anything. Then, with a final businesslike nod, he was gone. The room relaxed a little.

‘Get a brew on then,’ someone said.

Gillian Reeves manoeuvred between the desks, heading for Clarke and Esson.

‘We’ve had a call from a woman the victim was seeing. I’ve invited her in for a chat.’

‘A girlfriend, you mean?’ Esson checked. Reeves gave a nod.

‘When is she coming?’

Reeves made show of checking the time on her phone. ‘In about twenty minutes. Oh, and we sent a couple of uniforms to Marcus Simpson’s address, but there was no answer. They’ll have another go in the morning.’

Cammy Colson joined the group. ‘Any takers for the mortuary tomorrow?’

‘Isn’t that a man’s job, Cammy?’ Clarke said slyly.

‘I’ll do it if no one else will,’ he eventually conceded.

‘Knew we girls could rely on you.’

Colson rolled his eyes and readied to move away.

‘By the way,’ Clarke commented, ‘you never mentioned you were Chris Novak’s cousin.’ She glanced at Esson, whose eyebrows had slid upwards a fraction.

‘Is there a conflict of interest?’ It was Colson’s turn to look at Esson.

‘I don’t think so. Do you, Christine?’

Esson took a moment before shaking her head.

‘Chris is a diamond,’ Colson stated. ‘I don’t see him often, but he’s solid — a family man, you know?’

‘Has he spoken to you about what’s happening at the prison?’ Esson enquired.

‘Like I said, we don’t see much of each other.’ He looked from Esson to Clarke. ‘We done here? I’ve got stuff waiting for me on my desk.’ Without waiting for a reply, he turned and began ambling across the room.

The team had settled to their tasks, having finally sourced enough chairs. The murder wall — a large whiteboard on wheels — had been set up and the pick of the crime-scene photos were being added to it along with a professionally posed shot of Zak Campbell, lifted from his living room. Clarke stared at his face for a moment. Once it became public knowledge that he’d groomed and exploited a multitude of young teenagers, a lot of the sympathy for him would drain away, and with it the desire to aid the inquiry. They had to work quickly — and without any leaks. She remembered again that she needed to tell Louise Hird at CEOP, but it was too late in the day now. Trisha Singh was explaining to the room at large that there weren’t enough mugs to go round, so they’d either need to bring their own or else rinse and return as soon as they’d finished their drink. Swinton added that there seemed to be only one working printer — and it was low on cyan.

‘They always are,’ Reeves answered. ‘And do any of us even know what cyan is?’

There were a few chuckles as they got to work. Clarke gave a slow nod in Esson’s direction: it wasn’t a bad start. Then again, the room was high on adrenalin, as always happened at the start of a big case. The problem was maintaining momentum — which entailed making decent progress over the next day or two.

The desk sergeant appeared in the doorway, spotting Clarke and making for her.

‘Young woman downstairs says it’s about Zak Campbell.’

Clarke sought out Gillian Reeves, but she was busy with a phone call, so she looked at Christine Esson instead.

‘Might as well,’ Esson said, following her out of the room.

The new-build apartment block stood alongside the Union Canal, near Fountainbridge. There was a video entry system, so Fox pushed the buzzer and waited. He assumed he was on camera so held up his ID.

‘Yes?’ a female voice crackled.

‘Ms Watts,’ he said. ‘My name’s Fox. I’m here with DI Jason Mulgrew — I think the two of you met during your first interview. We just have a couple of follow-up questions.’

‘So ask me at the prison.’

‘We can certainly do that, but we felt maybe a bit more privacy...’ He tailed off, leaving her to read into his words what she would.

‘The place is a tip.’

‘I have a couple of pairs of blinkers in my pocket — we’d be happy to wear those.’

There was silence for a moment. Then: ‘Give me two minutes.’ The speaker went dead. Fox stepped away from the camera and studied his surroundings. A few canal boats had tied up and a pair of swans were gliding past.

‘They’ve done a good job along here. Used to be a dump.’

‘So is she busy getting her story straight or phoning Novak to ask him how to play it?’ Mulgrew speculated.

‘We just have to wait and see,’ Fox said, rubbing his hands together and wishing he hadn’t left his gloves in the car.

In the end, they waited more than two minutes, more even than five. Fox was readying to press the bell again when a buzzer indicated that the door had been unlocked. They took the lift to the second floor. Valerie Watts was standing in her doorway, barefoot and dressed as if for a gym session.

‘You carry blinkers?’ she asked Fox.

‘Two pairs.’ He patted one of his pockets.

She gestured for both men to follow her into a smallish open-plan living space. Nicely furnished, but with evidence of clutter having been shoved just out of sight. Watts pushed a hand through her hair. Fox had already settled himself on the narrow sofa, leaving just about enough room for Mulgrew. Watts hesitated, then perched on the arm of the only chair.

‘So?’ she said.

Fox gave her a reassuring smile and held up his phone. ‘Mind if I record some audio — just in case I forget something?’

Watts fidgeted but didn’t say no, so Fox hit record and placed the phone on his knee. ‘Most of the weapons found in jails are actually made there, right?’ he began.

‘Sure,’ she said. ‘Soften the head of a toothbrush and jam a razor blade into it.’

‘Creating a “shank”, yes?’ He watched her nod. ‘But that isn’t what we’re dealing with here. The pathologist reckons a serrated blade, the sort of thing you’d only find in a kitchen...’

‘And all the staff and trusties who work on food prep have been asked about it.’ She looked at Mulgrew. ‘I explained it to you, didn’t I? Knives are kept locked away—’

‘Away from prisoners, yes,’ Fox interrupted, ‘but what about staff?’

‘If they’re taken out and used, they’re counted at the end of the shift. Nothing is missing from the kitchen. We’ve checked and you’ve checked.’ She looked at Mulgrew again. He nodded his confirmation.

‘On the day of the killing,’ Fox continued, ‘the kitchen crew consisted of three trusties plus yourself and Officer Samms?’

‘That’s right.’

‘What can you tell us about him?’

She blinked. ‘Samms?’

‘We know there’s talk he might be for sale to the highest bidder — you’ll have heard those stories?’

‘I’ve heard them.’

‘He worked the night shift too, alongside you and Chris Novak.’

‘He did.’

‘Was he there when you locked Jackie Simpson’s cell that night?’

‘He was in the vicinity.’ Her voice had hardened, her spine stiffening.

‘We can’t actually see the cell, of course — that handily broken camera again.’ Fox paused. ‘And you really did lock it?’

‘I think I’ve had just about enough of this.’

‘Could another officer have unlocked it again?’ Fox pressed on. ‘An officer such as Blair Samms?’

She gave a slow shake of the head.

‘Has Mark Jamieson’s theory reached you yet?’ Mulgrew broke in.

‘What theory?’

‘That his meal was spiked.’

‘Give me a break.’

‘That’s what we’re trying to do,’ Fox stated softly. ‘It’s why this conversation is happening away from prying eyes and sharp ears.’

‘I don’t know anything about food being doped or a knife being lifted from the kitchen or Blair Samms being in anybody’s pocket.’

‘Contraband does get into the prison, though, doesn’t it? To be sold on by Darryl Christie. That can’t happen without someone from the outside world being involved, a PO or similar.’ He paused. ‘Anything you can tell us about Everett Harrison?’

‘What’s he got to do with it?’

‘You know he works for a Liverpudlian called Shay Hanlon?’

‘So?’

‘Harrison might have had reason to want Jackie Simpson dead.’ He watched her shrug. ‘Well, if you can’t help with that, maybe we should move on to the toilet break you and Chris Novak took.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it’s ten minutes where neither of you seems to be anywhere. We know there are blind spots around the prison. We also know that staff would know them better than most. It might even be possible to get from the breakout room to Trinity Hall without appearing on a single camera.’

Watts was shaking her head again. ‘I know you want Chris for this, but he was never out of my sight that whole shift.’

‘Even when you went to the toilet?’

She considered for a moment, then indicated Fox’s phone. ‘Turn that thing off,’ she said. He did as he was told, holding the screen up for her to check. She closed her eyes for a moment before opening them again and speaking.

‘You’re right about those blind spots. One of them is the store cupboard next to the toilets. We went there for some private time.’

‘Private time?’ Fox echoed. ‘Lasting how long?’

‘Ten minutes or so.’

‘You reckon your fellow officers remained clueless?’

She gave a twitch of her mouth. ‘Nobody ever says anything out loud.’

‘But it was a regular occurrence? It’s why you work the same shifts so often?’

‘It’s also why I know Chris had nothing to do with Simpson’s death.’

‘He’s being set up?’

‘Looks like.’

‘To protect who, though?’

‘Isn’t it your job to find out?’

‘Hard to do when we’re being fed a diet of half-truths and lies,’ Mulgrew commented.

She ignored him, pulling her own phone from a pocket and checking the screen.

‘Chris getting back to you?’ Fox guessed. He saw the look on her face and gave a thin smile. ‘He’s married with kids, therefore stuck at home. You couldn’t risk phoning to tell him we were here, so you texted instead.’

‘He says I shouldn’t even open the door to you.’

‘Maybe you should message back that you’ve just helped save his neck.’

Watts tucked the phone away again and rose to her feet. Fox took the hint. He reckoned he had just about everything he wanted anyway.

‘What do you think of the threats against Chris?’ he asked, trying to make the question sound casual.

‘Part and parcel of the job.’

‘You haven’t been on the receiving end of any?’

‘I don’t stick my head above the trench the way Chris does.’

‘Meaning?’

‘He wants more checks, better surveillance.’

‘To stop the drugs getting in?’

‘The drugs, the phones, the weapons...’ Her eyes locked on to Fox’s. ‘I’m telling you, Chris isn’t the bad guy here. I wouldn’t be with him if he was.’

Fox took a moment to consider this. ‘Thanks for your time,’ he told her. ‘Enjoy what’s left of the evening.’

‘Just as soon as you two arseholes are gone,’ Valerie Watts said, opening the door.

The two men sat in Fox’s car for a moment, engine running, heating on. Fox had checked that the recording was audible.

‘I’ll send it over to you,’ he told Mulgrew. ‘Even though the best stuff came afterwards.’ He angled his body towards the passenger seat. ‘Did you notice how she closed her eyes, like she was about to repeat a piece she’d memorised? I reckon we’re not the first people she’s owned up to.’

‘Who else?’

‘I don’t know. I told you, though, didn’t I? It’s always interesting to check out a suspect’s home life. Little lesson for you there, Jason.’

‘You know I’m the same rank as you, Malcolm? I’m not exactly fresh out of college.’

Fox knew he needed to backtrack. ‘Same rank, but you’re a lot younger. That speaks volumes. Sorry if I sounded patronising.’

‘You called her a suspect — is that still your thinking?’

‘Maybe not so much. So what now — fancy a quick one before home?’

‘Not especially.’ Mulgrew was scrolling down his phone’s screen. ‘I asked Christine for an update,’ he explained. ‘All she says is, Jackie Simpson’s son is nowhere to be found.’

‘Interesting. So that makes two people who’ve done a runner.’

‘One single sodding sentence.’ Mulgrew was still studying his phone.

‘She’s a busy woman,’ Fox said, readying to set off. ‘Are you sure I can’t tempt you to that drink?’

‘Ach, go on then,’ Mulgrew said, putting his phone away.

Her name was Tamsin Oakley and she was busy on her mobile when Clarke and Esson entered the interview room, her elongated painted nails proving no hindrance as her fingers flitted across the screen.

Clarke saw that the spare chairs in the MIT office had been sourced from this room. Tamsin Oakley was seated, but nothing had been left for anyone else. There was also no video camera, but Esson had brought a couple of fresh tapes for the audio recording. Oakley broke off what she was doing and aimed her phone at the two detectives. Clarke placed her hand in front of it.

‘Not allowed,’ she said.

‘It’s just for the socials,’ Oakley argued. Her accent was local. Her hair boasted highlights and extensions, her face was bronzed, eyelashes long and thick, lips painted dark red. Her outfit was loud but didn’t look cheap. The Louis Vuitton bag on her lap might have been authentic or knock-off — Clarke had no way of knowing.

Esson had got the tape rolling, so the two detectives introduced themselves, adding place, date and time of recording.

‘I’m Tamsin Oakley,’ Oakley said, leaning towards the mic.

‘We’re sorry about Zak,’ Clarke said, watching for a reaction. Oakley straightened up and her face dropped dutifully. She even produced a paper tissue from the depths of her bag.

‘He was lovely. What happened exactly?’

‘That’s what we’re trying to find out, and we’re grateful you’ve come forward.’

‘Theresa and Katie said I had to — they reckon I’m going to be famous.’ She paused. ‘They’re my besties. I promised them pics of some detectives.’ She studied the two women. ‘Not sure you’re what they had in mind, though.’

Clarke ignored this. ‘How well would you say you knew Zak, Tamsin?’

‘We were pretty steady.’

‘“Pretty”?’

‘I’m not saying he didn’t see other people, but it was me he always came back to.’

‘So you were close, then? Friends with benefits?’

‘Maybe he saw it that way...’

‘You wanted more of a commitment?’

‘Maybe.’ Oakley produced some gum and held it up. Clarke nodded to let her know it was allowed, so she slid a piece into her mouth.

‘What do you do for a living, Tamsin?’

‘Hair stylist. Wilhelm’s in Stockbridge.’ Clarke and Esson felt her momentary appraisal of their own cuts.

‘Is that how you met Zak?’

She shook her head. ‘Bar on George Street. Theresa knew who he was — she had her eye on him, but it was me he bought a drink for. Back of the net.’ She smiled at the punchline, one she’d obviously used before.

‘How long ago was this?’

‘Maybe three months.’

‘And he treated you well?’

‘I wouldn’t have stuck around otherwise.’

‘Ever visit his house?’ Clarke watched Oakley nod. ‘Often?’

‘Stayed over a few nights. Zak wasn’t always keen on that.’

‘Why not?’

Oakley offered a shrug. ‘Somebody killed him, yeah?’ she enquired, eyes hungry.

‘Looks like. Did he have any enemies?’

‘Not one.’

‘So why did he need a minder?’

She thought for a moment. ‘You mean Marcus? He was just a pal from the old days who liked hanging around.’

‘So you never saw any trouble when you were out with Zak?’

‘Quite the opposite — VIP areas and cocktails on the house.’

‘To get back to Zak’s home life, were there others present when you visited his house?’

‘Just me. He never really had parties — liked the place to himself.’

‘You said he might’ve been seeing other people — any particular names?’

Oakley shook her head again, but then thought of something. ‘He was in the kitchen once and a message popped up on his phone. It was lying there on the sofa so I took a look. It was a girl. Younger than me, judging by her photo — not that you can trust those.’

‘How young, would you say?’

She looked at both detectives in turn. ‘What’s going on?’ she asked.

‘Ever take a look inside the spare bedroom upstairs, Tamsin?’ This came from Esson, who was pretending to check that the tape was working. As if the question didn’t really mean very much.

‘No.’

‘Because it was kept locked? Zak ever tell you why that was?’

‘No.’ Her voice had grown slightly fainter.

‘To get back to his phone,’ Clarke interrupted, ‘you wouldn’t happen to know the access code?’

‘His birthday — he told me that once. He was useless with passwords.’

‘You never thought to open it and check up on him?’

‘Why the hell would I do that? We were too busy having a good time. Was he in trouble, is that it? Got that girl pregnant or something?’

Esson and Clarke shared a look, Clarke giving the slightest shake of her head — anything they revealed to Oakley would be internet currency within five minutes.

Oakley kept glancing down at her phone, its screen illuminating every few seconds.

‘Theresa and Katie wanting to know how the meeting’s going?’ Clarke guessed.

‘Just notifications.’ Oakley turned the screen away from her so that it rested against her thigh.

‘Is there anything else you want to tell us, Tamsin?’ Esson asked.

‘Just that you need to catch whoever did it. Zak was a bit special.’

‘We’ll catch them,’ Esson said. ‘And to that end, before you leave we’ll need your address and contact number, just so we can keep in touch.’

‘Plus a swab and fingerprints,’ Esson added, ‘for purposes of elimination. We’re doing the same for everyone who visited Zak’s house.’

Oakley seemed reassured, nodding her wary agreement. ‘We were due to go to Prestonfield this weekend, staying overnight. He liked treating me to nice things.’

Finally the tears came. She dabbed at her eyes, trying not to interfere with her make-up.

They walked her as far as the front entrance. There were windows to the sides of the door, and they watched through the glass as she took a selfie in front of the Police Scotland sign, flicking her hair back and crossing one foot in front of the other.

‘She’s been told it makes you look thinner,’ Esson commented.

‘I might need just a bit more help than that,’ Clarke replied. ‘Didn’t seem overly upset, did she?’

‘Plenty more fish in Tamsin’s particular sea,’ Esson said. ‘But if we check her socials later, I dare say we’ll see waterworks.’

‘Newspapers will tuck into her like she’s sirloin.’

‘Funny you should say that, Siobhan. John was telling me that when he gets out, his first appointment is going to be at Prestonfield — I think he has a notion for a steak.’

‘It’s a popular spot,’ Clarke said, turning back towards the MIT office. She started composing a text to the lab at Howdenhall, telling them to check the victim’s date of birth against his phone.

‘She’s going to blab about the locked bedroom, isn’t she?’ Esson guessed. ‘I maybe shouldn’t have brought it up.’

‘It’s fine,’ Clarke reassured her. ‘Thing is, she hasn’t a clue what he was up to. And she’s proof of one thing...’

‘What?’

‘His clientele might have wanted their meat on the raw side, but Zak liked his to be that bit more dry-aged.’