Midnight and Blue

14

As they queued for breakfast, a couple of prisoners asked Rebus for news of Darryl Christie.

‘Why not speak to one of his team?’ Rebus asked back.

‘They don’t seem to have your privileges.’

‘Privileges or not, I know hee-fucking-haw,’ Rebus stated, lifting his tray.

He settled on a seat across from Ratty. For once, Ratty had his back to the servers. Rebus looked over Ratty’s shoulder towards them. ‘The looks Devo’s giving you are so filthy I could probably sell them on Pornhub.’

‘That’s because I asked Malachi about him, and Malachi grassed me up.’

Rebus understood now not only why Ratty had his back to Devo but also why he was pushing the food around on his plate rather than tucking in. ‘You should eat it,’ he nudged him. ‘If you start feeling funny, we’ll know we’ve got our man.’

‘It’s not doping I’m worried about.’

Rebus shrugged and scooped a forkful of Ratty’s eggs into his mouth. Ratty watched his jaw moving.

‘For what it’s worth, Ratty, I don’t think anyone slipped Jamieson anything. Whatever he took, it was him doing the taking.’

Rebus sought Mark Jamieson out with his eyes. He was seated with the Wizard. His fame had lasted almost as long as the compress that had been removed from his stapled forehead. Nobody was paying him the slightest heed. Rebus slid his tray towards Ratty. ‘Have mine if you like,’ he said. ‘I don’t seem to have much appetite.’

Ratty didn’t need telling twice.

Rebus got up and walked over to Jamieson’s table. ‘All right?’ he said by way of greeting, squeezing in next to Jamieson, who had to shuffle along to make room. ‘Just need a word,’ he told the Wizard. Jamieson had stopped chewing and was reaching for his tea instead.

‘Let’s say nobody spiked you that night,’ Rebus began, his voice not much above a whisper — the other prisoners might have shown minimal interest in Jamieson, but the addition of Rebus to the equation was something else again. ‘And you’re sure that your cellmate was alive and well at lights-out...’ He waited until Jamieson nodded. ‘But you were starting to feel out of it — more so than usual?’ Jamieson continued to nod. ‘So maybe whoever supplied you with your junk that day had added a little extra to the dosage. Is that a possible scenario?’

Jamieson stared at him, eventually giving a slow shake of the head.

‘You hadn’t been given a few more pills than usual?’ Another shake. ‘And you’re sure they’re the same pills you always got?’

This time Jamieson nodded.

‘Had anyone palmed you anything that day, Mark. A little treat? Something new to try?’

‘No.’ Jamieson slurped at his tea.

‘Then there’s no reason why you were zonked the way you were.’

‘Someone thumped me.’

‘Yes, but you say you weren’t conscious when that happened — you’d surely have heard them coming in if you had been. Which brings us back to the reason you were out of it. Something you’d been given, obviously.’

‘Spiked,’ Jamieson said, glancing in Devo’s direction.

‘I’m assuming you get your regular supply from Darryl Christie, yes? Him or one of his guys?’

‘Darryl’s not the only game in town,’ the Wizard interjected. ‘Plenty of stuff in here before he came on the scene.’

‘But now he’s here — you’re telling me he’d allow competition?’

‘Maybe he’d have no choice.’ The Wizard held Rebus’s gaze.

‘Are you talking about Everett Harrison?’

He just shrugged and cleaned the last of his plate.

‘Everything all right here?’

Rebus looked up towards the speaker. It was Blair Samms.

‘Just dandy,’ he told him.

‘You’re looking a bit pale, Mark,’ Samms went on, ignoring Rebus. ‘Need to see a nurse?’

‘I’m okay,’ Jamieson answered.

‘I’ll look after him,’ the Wizard assured the officer. But Samms’s eyes were on Rebus.

‘See that you do,’ he said, moving away.

Rebus watched him go, reminded that Samms had been on the meal shift that evening too. He turned his attention back to the Wizard.

‘I suppose,’ he began slowly, ‘it’s feasible the supplier wouldn’t need to be a prisoner at all...’

‘We’re banged up here, John. That goes for Darryl just as surely as it does you, me and Mark. But some people have the freedom to come and go. It would only take one.’

Rebus turned his attention back towards Jamieson. ‘How about it, Mark? You ready to give me a name?’

‘Why would he do that?’ the Wizard demanded, voice stiffening. ‘The boy’s got enough shite to deal with without turning grass.’

‘I’m trying to get justice for Jackie Simpson,’ Rebus stated.

‘A man you barely knew? All because the governor asked you to?’ The Wizard gave a snort. ‘Makes me wonder what’s in it for you — other than your precious sense of “justice”.’ He waved his fork at Rebus. ‘We all know who did it — the one person Jackie said he’d be looking for when he got out. And nothing’s going to happen to him. Your lot have already put the brakes on — any sign of them recently? Any POs suddenly scuttling off to be questioned?’

Rebus turned towards Jamieson again. ‘It would help if somebody opened up.’

‘And pointed the finger towards a fellow inmate, you mean?’ The Wizard gave a cold chuckle. ‘Just give it up, John. You’re not going to—’ He broke off as Blair Samms, having circled the hall, approached again.

‘All getting a bit heated here, gents,’ he commented. ‘Maybe time for you to step away, John.’

But it was Mark Jamieson who bounded to his feet, grabbing his tray. ‘I’m done anyway,’ he muttered.

‘Aye, me too,’ the Wizard added, rising with his usual studied slowness. Rebus watched him dump his tray and follow Jamieson back to their shared cell.

‘You seem to be good at getting up people’s noses,’ Samms said.

‘Speaking of which — you wouldn’t be bringing dope into the jail, would you, Officer Samms?’

Samms’s eyes burned. ‘Now why would you go making an accusation like that?’

Rebus considered his answer. ‘Maybe because I’m at the end of my tether.’

‘Then you need to step back a little, before that tether ends up choking you.’

Samms began to make another circuit. Rebus felt every eye on him as he sat alone at the table.

‘Sod the lot of you,’ he muttered to himself, squeezing his eyes shut and rubbing a hand across his brow.

Clarke sat at her desk, having finally managed to reach Louise Hird. She held a cup of takeaway coffee in her free hand, taking occasional sips.

‘Just calling to give you an update,’ she said.

‘I was beginning to feel snubbed.’

‘You’ve heard, then?’

‘Have you got into his hard drive yet?’

‘We’re getting there. Both his phones are already unlocked, not that there’s much on them. Almost as if he were trying to keep his two lives separate.’

‘He wouldn’t be the first. London will be interested in any data — and if your lab isn’t up to the task of extracting it...’

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘So are you any nearer to identifying the scumbag who killed the scumbag?’

‘There’s a mate of his who’s gone walkies.’

‘Not to mention a certain schoolgirl — can I come see what you’ve got?’

A buzzing told Clarke that someone else was calling. A mobile number, not one she recognised. ‘I have to go,’ she told Hird, picking up the incoming call.

‘What the hell?’ The man’s voice was distorted with rage. In the background, a woman was adding to the complaint. It took Clarke a moment, but only a moment.

‘Mr Andrews, is there a problem?’

‘Yeah, you could call it a problem,’ James Andrews growled. ‘Since we’ve just found out our daughter was being used by that paedophile bastard. When were you going to tell us?’

Clarke put her coffee down and lowered her eyelids for a moment. ‘You shouldn’t have heard the news like this. I’m assuming the media called you?’

‘Laura, her name was — wanted a comment. She said she thought we’d have been alerted by you lot. Why weren’t we?’ There was the sound of the phone being wrenched from Andrews’ hand.

‘I hope he rots in hell,’ Helena told Clarke, voice trembling. ‘And I’d give a bloody medal to whoever did for him.’ She handed the phone back to her husband.

‘What else did this journalist tell you?’ Clarke asked. The look on her face had made Christine Esson curious, and she was closing in on Clarke’s desk.

‘Wanted to know if we’d ever met this sleazebag,’ James Andrews was saying.

‘And had you?’

‘No. Helena’s sure Jas never mentioned him or brought him here.’

Clarke’s eyes were on Esson as she spoke. ‘Laura Smith was totally out of order contacting you. To answer your question, I intended breaking the news to you today in person.’

‘Is Jasmine a suspect?’

Clarke tried to think of a diplomatic answer.

‘You can’t be fucking serious,’ she heard Andrews snarl.

Esson had accessed Laura Smith’s blog on Clarke’s computer, but there was no update on the case.

‘Other journalists will start pestering you,’ Clarke was telling Andrews. ‘It’s up to you whether you talk to them or not, but it might not make our job any easier.’

‘We just want her found. We need her back here with us.’

‘I understand that. Would it help if we sat down and talked about it?’

‘I doubt it. Just don’t keep us in the dark.’ Much of the anger had drained out of him.

‘Again, I’m so sorry you had to find out like this...’ Clarke broke off when she realised Jasmine’s father had ended the call.

‘Unbelievable,’ she muttered as she phoned Laura Smith’s number. Esson stayed put, resting against the edge of the desk. Clarke kept her eyes on the homepage of Smith’s blog. It changed just as she was being connected. She nodded towards the screen and Esson leaned in to look. There was a photo of Zak Campbell’s house, taken from the police cordon. Champagne Footballer’s Secret House of Vice, yelled the headline.

‘I know it’s not subtle,’ Smith said when she answered. ‘But then nuance doesn’t pay the bills.’

‘What the hell were you thinking?’ Clarke was having trouble controlling her temper.

‘You should have told them, Siobhan. I was genuinely gobsmacked you hadn’t.’

‘You know we wanted this kept under wraps.’

‘But that was never going to last, was it? I had to get ahead of the pack. It’s my story, remember — I’m the one who found you Pedro. You’d have been floundering otherwise.’

‘In point of fact, he found you.’

‘It’s still my story.’

‘For a few more minutes maybe — after which it’s everyone’s, so congratulations.’

‘I’ve got London dailies bidding for me to write them the exclusive. Radio and TV interest, too. I can’t give that up, Siobhan. This is what I have to do.’

‘You’ve jeopardised our case.’

But Smith’s mind was elsewhere. ‘Jesus, do you see how many hits I’m getting? My phone’s going nuts, too. I have to go, Siobhan. You’ll still keep me in the loop, right? A promise is a—’

It was Clarke’s turn to end a call while the speaker was still talking.

‘What now?’ Esson asked. Clarke gnawed away at her bottom lip for a moment, then rose to her feet, clapping her hands together much as DCI Carmichael had done the previous day.

‘Heads up, people,’ she said, voice raised above the hubbub. ‘The story is out there — online for now, but everywhere else pretty bloody soon.’ She saw officers look at each other. ‘It wasn’t a leak,’ she assured them. ‘Just one journalist who put two and two together and then jumped the gun. But it means we need to get a rush on, because everyone connected to Zak Campbell and his website will be deciding what stories to tell us and how much they can hold back.’

‘I might be able to help there,’ Gillian Reeves announced, holding up her phone and waggling it. ‘Lab got into the deceased’s computer using a password stored on one of his phones. Once inside, seems his security was woeful. They’re sending us everything they’ve got. Should be on your screens any minute now.’

The whole room fell silent as they stared at their monitors, during which time Cammy Colson slouched into the office.

‘Mortuary’s livelier than this,’ he commented.

‘Anything to tell us?’ Clarke asked with her eyes still on her screen.

‘Single stab wound, punctured a lung. Probably rendered unconscious when his head connected with the kitchen island. Pathologist reckons he might’ve survived if he’d made it to A&E. But he lay there for three days, judging by rigor mortis and lividity. Fair bit of coke in his system and a last meal of Thai hot spice crisps — crinkle-cut, if you’re interested.’ He walked over to the kettle and started making himself a brew, looking in vain for an unused mug.

‘No milk either,’ someone piped up.

‘Why does it always happen to me?’

No one answered, because the promised dump of data suddenly started to arrive.

‘There’s a ton of it,’ Esson commented. She was peering over Clarke’s shoulder towards her screen. Clarke got to her feet again, gesturing with a stretched arm.

‘This side of the room, focus on the clients — their IDs and contact details. The other side, concentrate on the models — and feel free to call them victims if you prefer, because to my mind that’s what they all are. Again, names and contact info. Then we start making phone calls. I want the punters brought here for questioning; the victims can be interviewed at home, parents present as necessary.’

‘Some of the users are overseas,’ Trisha Singh said, scouring the list.

‘Those ones we email if we can’t reach them by phone. This has to be done in a hurry. Mainstream media will soon be all over the story. I’m going to have Uber drop us off supplies of sugar and caffeine.’

‘And milk,’ Colson reminded her.

‘All life’s little luxuries, Cammy,’ Clarke assured him. ‘And we can add your report to the file once you’ve typed it up.’

‘That might take a while,’ Esson said in an undertone, watching Colson trudge towards his chair with all the easy grace of a Sasquatch. Her phone pinged with another text from Mulgrew. He had upped the ante to three question marks.

‘Remind me,’ Clarke said, looking from one side of the room to the other. ‘Who’s on clients and who’s on kids?’

‘I’ve already forgotten,’ Esson admitted, shutting down her phone and returning to her desk.

Fox having been called in to a meeting of OCCTU, Mulgrew and Zara Shah had gone to HMP Edinburgh to question Chris Novak. Having driven post-meeting to Gayfield Square, Fox was given a copy of the recording, which he listened to on headphones. When asked, Novak denied any relationship, improper or otherwise, with Valerie Watts. There was no assignation in a store cupboard, and during those ten minutes, all he’d done was take a dump. Fox wasn’t particularly surprised by the denials. Novak was married with kids.

‘Whatever is said in here stays in here,’ Mulgrew had stated.

‘That why you’re taping me?’ Novak had responded.

‘You’re not really helping yourself, Chris,’ Mulgrew had persisted. ‘Think about it — if you were with Valerie, you’ve got an alibi.’

‘I don’t need an alibi.’ Novak’s words had been accompanied by a sound Fox guessed was the single definitive thump of a fist on a tabletop. The session had started going in circles not too long after. Novak was prepared to bad-mouth neither Valerie Watts nor Blair Samms. He didn’t know anything about POs on the take, and why were they spending so much time harassing officers and so little quizzing the prisoners? If POs could be bought, why not detectives? And now could he please get back to the work the hard-pressed Scottish taxpayer was employing him to do?

Fox removed the headphones and took them back to Mulgrew’s desk.

‘Good job,’ he said. ‘If I’m allowed to say that without sounding condescending.’

Mulgrew had his phone in his hand. Fox had noticed him checking it every few minutes.

‘Christine?’ he guessed.

‘Maintaining radio silence.’ Mulgrew looked around the office. ‘We could do with her back here. We’re stretched and tired and getting nowhere.’

‘We got somewhere last night with Valerie Watts,’ Fox stated.

‘Ruling stuff out isn’t the same as ruling it in.’

He shook his head. ‘I’m not ruling Watts out — or her lover, come to that. The more I think it over, the more a cell left unlocked at lights-out makes sense. Then all Novak has to do is head there instead of the storeroom.’

‘Without any other officers seeing him?’

‘Who says they didn’t? Cover-up could be bigger than we think. Thing is, did he do it for his own reasons, or did someone else maybe grease his palm?’

‘Bringing us back to Everett Harrison again...’ Mulgrew ran his fingernails along his chin. ‘I don’t know, Malcolm.’

‘Just give it some thought, Jason.’ Fox patted Mulgrew’s shoulder and walked over to the murder wall. Zara Shah was standing in front of it, staring at the photos from the cell.

‘What are you working on?’ Fox asked.

‘The blood,’ she said. ‘Specifically, what happened to it.’

‘Vampire,’ Paul Allbright piped up.

‘There you go,’ Fox told Shah. ‘Every question has an answer.’

‘In this case, a really stupid answer.’ She gave Allbright a look.

‘Bite me,’ he said.

15

Everett Harrison was lying on his bed reading a legal textbook.

‘Reckon you’ve got a chance?’ Rebus asked from the doorway.

‘Fuck do you want?’ Harrison’s voice was still croaky.

‘Just wondering if you fancied shooting some pool.’

‘It’s not pool I fancy shooting, it’s your bestie Darryl.’

‘Everyone seems to assume we’re friends.’

‘He’s been looking after you in here, hasn’t he?’

‘I didn’t ask for it.’

Harrison placed the book aside and sat up, swivelling his feet onto the floor. He gave Rebus a good hard look. He had the usual sleeves of tattoos, most of them companion pieces to the Liverpool FC pictures covering his walls. Rebus had moved to within a few inches of the cell’s only chair. He gave a questioning tilt of the head and Harrison eventually acquiesced. Rebus sat down, but not too comfortably.

‘Is it true your boss is going after Christie’s gang?’

‘Christie seems to think he is.’

‘Is he, though?’

Harrison gave a humourless grin. ‘Got him rattled, eh?’ He stroked his throat with a finger. ‘That’s what matters.’

‘Are you saying Hanlon’s not back in the UK?’

‘Not back in the UK, not particularly interested in a minnow like Darryl Christie, and doesn’t know you from Adam.’ He pointed the same finger at Rebus. ‘Despite what you told Bobby Briggs in the library. Bobby’s not happy with you about that, and neither am I.’

Rebus was not to be deflected. ‘So why are Christie’s men running scared?’

‘Running full stop from what I’ve heard.’ Harrison paused to consider the question. ‘Maybe they recognise a sinking ship when they see one.’

‘Is trouble coming when Darryl gets out of solitary?’

‘That’ll be up to him. I can handle whatever he brings.’

‘You seem fairly normal, though, if you don’t mind me saying.’

‘And he’s not?’

‘I once watched him shoot a man in the face. When that switch gets flipped, no telling what he’ll do.’

‘Maybe I should get my retaliation in first, then.’

‘Or you could ask to be transferred to another hall.’

‘For all the good that would do.’

‘Funny, the two of you seemed pretty matey for a while.’

‘He thought he could turn me. That’s not the Scousers’ code.’ Harrison lay back down again and picked up his book. Rebus got up.

‘I’m glad we could have this little chat, Everett. It’s good to talk.’

‘Off you fuck now,’ Harrison growled. Regular service had been resumed.

Back in his own cell, Rebus decided to take a risk, pulling his door closed and climbing onto the lavatory with the burner phone. He’d jotted the number on his hand but then washed it off, confident that he had it memorised. He ended up speaking to a stressed-sounding woman, a toddler bawling in the close vicinity. So he thought for a moment and tried again, this time connecting to an MOT garage.

Third time’s a charm, he told himself as he started over.

‘Who’s this?’ Fox answered.

‘Trading Standards, sir. We have reason to believe a Mr Malcolm Fox has been falsely presenting himself as a functioning detective.’

‘Reduced to prank calls, John? Unless of course you’ve got something for me.’

‘You’re not very good at answering your phone, Malcolm.’

‘Not when it’s a number I don’t recognise.’

‘Do you really think Christie’s men are being targeted?’

‘Definitely. Latest was a gun shoved through a car window. Happened in broad daylight. A witness got the car’s number plate. Belonged to one of Christie’s gang, but the guy had skedaddled by the time we got to his house.’

‘No luck ID’ing the attacker?’

‘Crash helmet with the visor down.’

‘What if I told you he had a Liverpool accent?’

‘Did he?’

‘Darryl Christie says so.’

‘Meaning Shay Hanlon’s gang.’

‘Yet I’ve just been chatting to Everett Harrison and he says Hanlon’s still overseas and not particularly interested in Darryl.’

‘Well of course he’d say that! But Darryl seems to think otherwise, judging from the fact he tried screwing a snooker shot around Harrison’s tonsils. Or am I being dim?’

‘Of course you’re being dim — dim is Malcolm Fox’s whole brand.’ Rebus listened to the growing silence on the other side of the line. ‘I hope I’ve not hurt your feelings?’

‘Esson’s lot aren’t making much progress, are they? But then she’s got other fish to fry now.’

‘Has she?’

‘See, John, there’s stuff I know that you don’t.’

‘You mean the Zak Campbell murder? Everyone and their dog knows about that. I’m serious, though, Malcolm. You need to think who else stands to benefit as Christie’s empire crumbles.’

‘I would have thought we all benefit.’ Fox paused. Rebus could almost hear the cogs turning. ‘Hang on, you mean Mickey Mason?’

‘Do I?’

‘Recently released from the Bar-L and needing to get back into the game.’

‘That’s the fellow,’ Rebus improvised.

‘Has Bobby Briggs told you anything about him?’

‘Keeping tight-lipped. The two of them were pretty close at one time.’ Rebus tried to make it sound like statement rather than guess.

‘And as you said yourself, Briggs and Harrison are chummy. Links in a chain, John, links in a chain.’

Rebus was looking in the direction of his cell door. He couldn’t risk much longer. ‘Maybe you’re smarter than I give you credit for, Malcolm. Will you keep me posted? And in return, I’ll keep my ears open here.’

‘I’ll think about it.’

‘Oh, and Malcolm? Next time you don’t recognise a number, answer the phone anyway.’ Rebus ended the call and climbed down from the lavatory, smiling at the thought of all the sales cold-calls Fox might be opening himself up to.

After hiding the phone, he settled at his desk. He’d been there barely thirty seconds when Blair Samms yanked open his door.

‘You all right in there?’

‘Something I can do for you, Officer?’

‘Just checking. With Darryl Christie elsewhere, could be that some of the prisoners will start getting ideas.’

‘But I’m universally admired,’ Rebus argued.

‘You including Bobby Briggs in that list? Our lives would be a lot quieter if you went back to SRU. Boss says he’s considering it.’

‘Which boss?’ Rebus tried to make it sound like an innocent question.

‘Our boss — Mr Tennent. Who did you think I meant?’

‘A man can sometimes have two masters. There was a stage play a few years back.’

‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’

But Rebus could see in the young officer’s eyes that he did. ‘Why would you personally want me moved?’ he asked.

‘It’s not personal.’

‘Am I becoming a thorn in your side, Officer Samms? Asking too many awkward questions?’

Samms’s face remained a mask. ‘Governor’s thinking over my suggestion,’ he underscored, turning to leave. Rebus shifted in his chair so he was facing the wall, with its scratched graffiti and smudges and stains.

‘If not Hanlon, then who?’ he mused aloud in a quiet voice. Who stood to gain from the detonation of Darryl Christie’s empire?

I would have thought we all benefit.

‘You might have a point there, Malcolm,’ he added. ‘Though I doubt you’re quite bright enough to see it...’

He put in a request to speak to the governor, and was surprised when the man himself turned up at his cell door.

‘I was looking forward to those biscuits,’ Rebus said wistfully.

Howard Tennent was dressed in a winter coat that reached down past his knees. He was also carrying his briefcase. Rebus guessed that the combination lock would have been engaged before it left his office.

‘I’m in a bit of a rush here, John,’ Tennent said.

‘Off somewhere nice?’

‘I was presuming you’ve got something for me?’

Rebus was seated at his desk and saw no reason not to stay there. ‘I don’t want to be moved,’ he stated.

‘Who says you’re being moved?’

‘Blair Samms might have dropped a hint.’

‘Blair Samms is not in charge of this prison.’

‘His notion is, with Darryl elsewhere, knives might be out for me.’

‘Well, he’s got a point, hasn’t he?’

‘I’m not sure that’s the reason he wants me moved. Could be he’s more interested in the digging I’ve been doing.’

Tennent’s eyes narrowed. ‘And why would that interest him particularly?’

‘You know there are rumours he’s on the take?’

The governor bristled. ‘Those have been looked into and dismissed.’

‘Was he reckoned to be Darryl Christie’s stooge or Everett Harrison’s?’

‘I’ve really not got time for this, John.’

‘I want to visit Darryl again.’

‘Why?’

‘Couple of things I need to ask him.’

Tennent stared at him, wanting more, but all Rebus offered was his silence.

‘To do with Jackie Simpson’s death?’

‘What else?’

‘It seems to me you’ve not been great shakes in that department so far.’

‘I don’t see anyone doing better.’

‘DI Fox provides me with regular updates — interviews are still being conducted, forensic evidence analysed...’

‘I’m ex-CID, Howard. All you’re getting from Fox is the usual fluff. I’d be doing the exact same if I was making so little progress. You might think I’m being slow, but it’s the way I work.’ Rebus spun a finger around in the air. ‘In circles, slowly inwards.’

‘So there is news?’

‘There might well be — once I’ve talked to Darryl.’

The governor gave a sigh. ‘You’re a pain in the hole, John — did anyone ever tell you that?’

‘It gets a chapter in my autobiography.’

‘You’ll tell me the outcome tomorrow, okay?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Rebus held two fingers to one of his temples and gave a little flick, as if in salute.

Forty minutes later, he was on his way to SRU, accompanied by Eddie Graves.

‘How are tricks with you?’ Rebus asked.

‘Back’s playing up again. Sleep’s not great either. Son dinged his car the other day. He’s fine, but it’s the third time. He’s going to be uninsurable at this rate.’

‘Could be worse, though, eh?’

Graves glanced at him. ‘How?’

‘Well, you might have to spend your days surrounded by the dregs of society.’

‘Retirement can’t come soon enough.’

‘You’ll miss us when you’re gone.’

‘I won’t miss being called Michelle, though.’

‘It’s meant affectionately,’ Rebus said. ‘But to get back to my original question, I was actually meaning in here — with the murder and Darryl Christie kicking off and everyone’s springs ready to snap...’

Graves gave a shrug. ‘It’s like the old saying — what’s for ye won’t go by ye.’

‘I always thought that was a bit bleak myself.’

‘Your point being?’

Rebus found he had no answer to that, none that would offer consolation to Graves or change his worldview. So they walked the rest of the route in silence, all the way to Darryl Christie’s cell.

The door was unlocked by one of the faces Rebus knew from his time in the unit. Both officers stood guard, door ajar, as Rebus entered the room’s tight confines.

‘I need to look up the word solitary in the dictionary,’ Darryl Christie muttered.

He was lying on his bed, hands clasped together on his stomach. He half turned his head to make eye contact with his visitor.

‘How’s it going out there?’ he asked.

‘Everett Harrison’s taken to sounding like a chain-smoking Fenella Fielding and Blair Samms wants me moved back here. The first of those was your doing, but what about the second?’

‘He’s got a point, though — up to now you’ve been tolerated, but you’re still an ex-cop, and ex-cops tend not to thrive in the general prison population. Plus you’re a marked man.’

‘Meaning Bobby Briggs?’

‘For one.’

‘Who else?’

‘How long have you got?’ Christie drummed the fingers of one hand against the knuckles of the other. ‘Anyway, what brings you to my throne room? Managed to speak to Malcolm Fox yet?’

‘He knows I need a word,’ Rebus improvised. Then: ‘You’re Mark Jamieson’s supplier, right?’

‘No comment.’

‘See, he ended up KO’d. As a regular user, he’d know how much to take and the effect it would have. This went above and beyond.’

‘You’re saying the merch was tampered with?’

‘Either that or switched.’

‘By whoever it was who did for poor Jackie?’ Christie nodded his understanding. ‘They still had to unlock the cell, though, didn’t they? And the one thing in here I have trouble laying my hands on is a magic key. I doubt any of us could get hold of one without taking an officer hostage — and that didn’t happen, did it?’

‘No hostage-taking required if the price was right. Who brings all the dope in? Blair Samms?’

‘I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.’ Christie offered a wink. It struck Rebus that he was a lot more relaxed than previously, a bit more pleased with himself.

‘You sure it’s Hanlon who’s gunning for your boys? No other candidates you can think of?’

‘I’m sure.’

‘Why are you smiling?’

‘I just got word we’re fighting back. Scouse bastard stuck his gun through another car window, but this time my boy wrenched it out of his hand, near broke the shooter’s wrist in the process. Roared off on his motorbike, tool and dignity left behind. That’s the message my lot needed — these wankers can be beaten. Want to know the best bit?’

‘What?’

‘It was an air pistol. No threat whatsoever. You could maybe pass that on to Everett Harrison — no threat whatsoever.’ Christie stared at the ceiling again, the smile spreading across his face.

‘Unless Hanlon decides to escalate,’ Rebus speculated.

‘He’d better be quick then, now there’s a bounty on his head.’

Rebus took a moment to digest this. ‘How much?’

‘Enough.’

‘Plane fares included?’

‘Hanlon reckons he’s protected in Brazil — but that protection disappears in a puff of smoke if the offer’s right.’ Christie glanced in Rebus’s direction. ‘No plane fares needed.’

‘I’m guessing this is something I shouldn’t share with Harrison.’

‘Maybe I’m testing your loyalty.’

‘And maybe you’re spinning me another of your lines. How many more days are you in here?’

‘Out tomorrow, probably.’

‘Back to Trinity Hall alongside Harrison?’

‘That’s up to the governor.’ Christie paused and yawned, wetting his lips with his tongue. ‘So is that the sum total of your progress on Jackie’s murder? Mr Tennent must be disappointed.’

‘A bit more cooperation would help.’

‘You’re telling me I should cooperate with an ex-cop who’s been tasked with pushing the blame onto a con rather than a uniform? Jog the fuck on, John. Now if you don’t mind, I could do with some shut-eye.’ He yawned again. ‘Waiting till after lights-out to start making business calls means I lose out on my eight hours.’ He raised a hand and waved it towards Rebus, then turned on his side, face towards the wall. Rebus stood there for a moment before pushing open the cell door.

‘You sent him to sleep,’ Graves said, staring at the prone figure. He sounded almost envious.

16

Clarke and Esson were seated side by side in the office, going through a printout of names, email addresses and, in some cases, phone numbers.

It helped that Zak Campbell hadn’t been versed in the ways of the dark web and had left behind plenty of instructions to himself on which passwords he needed to access the various domains. Subs and fees were paid by bitcoin to an offshore account, outwith the UK’s jurisdiction. Still, by dint of having all the instructions they needed, they had accessed his balance and found that it was in the hundreds of thousands — at current rates of exchange.

He paid the models mostly by cash or with gifts of electronics and vouchers for online retailers. The twenty-three teenagers on his books were now real names and faces. Most of them had turned eighteen, but four could be classified as children. Jasmine was the only one from her school. Those awkward phone calls and visits to parents and family homes had already begun. So far, only Jasmine was AWOL. Swabs and fingerprints were being taken, so that they could be matched to the crime scene. Each step in the investigation had to be meticulous and defence-lawyer-proof. The Procurator Fiscal’s office was in close touch with DCI Carmichael, and he in turn was checking regularly that things were being done in accordance with procedures and protocols.

The users they’d identified so far — there were almost a thousand regulars, with thousands more one-time payers — were men ranging from their twenties to their seventies, from all corners of the UK and beyond, stretching as far as Australia and Bermuda. So far only one woman, based in Hong Kong but Scots-born.

A few pseudonymous accounts were proving difficult to break down. Mae McGovern had been persuaded to accept CEOP’s offer of help from the National Crime Agency, whose opinion was that these individuals were well used to covering their tracks and therefore probably breaking the law in other ways — either that or they were IT professionals. Clarke and Esson scoured the list again. One Glasgow councillor, a probation service officer in Derby, a company director in Aberdeen, a teacher in North Wales. Some had already been contacted. Peter ‘Pedro’ Cowan was there too, which made Clarke think of Laura Smith and the breaking of the story. The major incident team had been fielding requests ever since, the mainstream media hungry for a feed. Bryan Carmichael had hosted a hastily arranged press conference at which he shared the bare minimum of information, to the irritation of those gathered before him. The office had watched on their phones or computers, giving shrugs afterwards. The media would be far from satisfied and the usual keyboard warriors would be dusting off their pitchforks. Someone had already thrown paint at the downstairs window of Zak Campbell’s home and sprayed the word PAEDO on his garage door.

‘At least they can spell,’ Esson had commented when shown a photo of the damage.

Someone had opened a window in the office to let out the smells of the various fast-food offerings delivered to the desks of officers who didn’t have time or inclination to take a proper break. Clarke’s last meal had been a sandwich, as had the meal before that. Not that she had much of an appetite. Coffee was keeping her going. Esson, as usual, drank only mugs of hot water — couldn’t stand tea or coffee. As a result, she looked a lot less wired than Clarke felt.

‘An awful lot of suspects,’ Gillian Reeves commented, waving the same list of names in the air as she passed the shared desk. ‘And still no sign of Marcus Simpson. One of our patrols checked again an hour ago.’

‘What do his neighbours say?’

‘Apparently it’s not that unusual.’

‘His car reg is out there, right?’

Reeves nodded. ‘Everyone’s on the alert.’

Clarke and Esson shared a look. Jasmine Andrews and Marcus Simpson: both known to the victim, both whereabouts currently unknown. The Jasmine inquiry was now a hunt for a murder suspect, DCI Carmichael convinced that the timing of her disappearance was no coincidence. But he had also stressed that no one outside of MIT — her parents included — were to be told this. Cammy Colson had been a bit more blunt in his summation: She either did it or she got someone to do it for her...

‘A lot of these we can probably put a line through, right?’ Esson said, tapping the stapled sheets of paper. ‘The overseas ones, I mean.’

‘We can’t rule anyone out, Christine — Fiscal wouldn’t like that.’

‘If we’re ranking them, though...’

Clarke nodded her agreement. ‘Of course they’re far less likely. We talk to locals first, but that probably includes Glasgow... maybe even as far as our man in Aberdeen.’

‘We’ve already got a few booked in for interview — with the promise of maximum discretion in return for their cooperation.’

‘That room’s going to be getting a lot of use. We’ll have a video camera installed by tomorrow at the latest.’

Esson’s phone buzzed. She checked caller ID and got up, stepping away from the desk. ‘Hi there, Jason,’ she said. ‘Sorry I’ve not been picking up your calls.’

‘I’m feeling decidedly neglected here, Christine.’

‘Are you at the prison or Gayfield Square?’

‘The latter.’

‘Case hitting a wall?’

‘Lucky for us the public’s attention has moved elsewhere. Hasn’t stopped Mae McGovern turning the screws, mind. How are things at St Leonard’s?’

Esson turned from the window and studied her surroundings. ‘Just ever so slightly manic. Campbell’s computer has yielded most of his users.’

‘Well, that’s a huge step. Any interesting names?’

‘Celebs, you mean? None to speak of. One ex-footballer, who’ll have been shocked to know who was taking his money.’

‘So the next stage is giving them all a grilling?’

‘We’re going to be kept busy.’

‘Has Marcus Simpson turned up yet?’

‘No. I don’t suppose you can shed any light?’

‘He still has family in town, that’s about as much as I know. Except that he’s got a burial to plan. Might be worth checking if he’s still in touch with the funeral directors.’

‘That’s a good idea, thanks.’

‘You’ll come and lend a hand in return, yes?’

Esson couldn’t help but smile at his persistence. ‘Give me half an hour,’ she said.

On her way back to the desk, she phoned the mortuary, where Jackie Simpson’s body was being held. She asked about funeral arrangements and got a name and number. As she settled again next to Clarke, she made the call to a parlour in Greenhill. Clarke gave her a questioning look, but Esson was already speaking.

‘Yes, hello there. This is Detective Sergeant Christine Esson. I’m attached to the inquiry regarding Jackie Simpson — he might be John Simpson in your records.’ While she listened, she mouthed the words funeral director to Clarke, who nodded her understanding. ‘Yes, that’s right,’ she continued. ‘What I’m wondering is, are you in touch with his son, Marcus?’ Esson watched Clarke give a silent round of applause. ‘So when is he coming in for that meeting? Today?’ She angled her phone so that she could check the time on its screen. ‘That’s only an hour from now. He hasn’t phoned to cancel or change the arrangement?’ She listened for a moment, shaking her head for Clarke’s benefit. ‘Well, if he does get in touch, I’d be grateful if you didn’t mention that I’ve spoken with you.’ She listened again. ‘Oh, I’m sure discretion goes with the territory. Many thanks again.’

She ended the call, grabbed a notepad and jotted down the details of the funeral parlour, handing them to Clarke.

‘I need to be elsewhere,’ she explained. ‘It’s Jason we have to thank for this, and he wants me to show my face at Gayfield Square.’

‘Has there been a break in the case?’ Clarke asked.

‘Not even a minor fracture. Any chance you can keep Marcus waiting until I get back?’

‘Depends how cooperative he’s feeling — always supposing he turns up in the first place.’

‘Oh ye of little faith,’ Esson said, making for the door.

The first thing Marcus Simpson asked Clarke was whether he needed a solicitor. This was in her car. He had arrived at the funeral home in a minicab, Clarke and Colson intercepting him before he reached the front door. He’d looked resigned to his fate as they led him to the Astra, putting him in the back seat, where Colson joined him, having checked that the child locks were engaged — didn’t want him making a dash for it at the first set of red lights.

‘Do you think you need one?’ Clarke had asked, making eye contact via the rear-view mirror.

‘You tell me.’

‘Well, it’s up to you, Marcus. But all we really want right now is a chat.’

‘So chat.’

‘Once we get to St Leonard’s.’

‘St Leonard’s?’

‘This isn’t about your dad — it’s to do with your pal Zak.’

‘What about him?’ He had turned his head sharply, suddenly interested in the passing scenery.

‘Never play poker, Marcus,’ Clarke advised. ‘Your body right now is one mahoosive tell...’

At the station, he was invited to make himself comfortable in the interview room. Clarke provided a mug of tea and a KitKat.

‘Preferential treatment,’ she said. He had his phone in one hand, both knees bouncing. ‘Who’ve you been calling?’

‘Undertaker — had to apologise, didn’t I?’

‘That was decent of you. We won’t be releasing the body for a while yet anyway.’

‘Why wait? It’s not like you lot are ever going to solve it.’

‘What makes you so sure?’

‘Stands to reason.’ He lifted the mug to his lips.

‘Where’ve you been hiding anyway?’

‘I’ve not been hiding. Just staying at my cousin’s. I do that sometimes. We play games — should see the set-up he’s got: multiple screens, interactive chairs, VR headsets...’

‘You didn’t think we might be wanting a word?’

‘Couldn’t care less one way or the other.’ He took a loud slurp of tea. Clarke got the feeling he was trying to rattle her. She snatched the uneaten KitKat from the table, unwrapped it and took a bite.

‘What happened to “preferential treatment”?’ he asked with a scowl.

‘That was before you started pissing me off.’

He jutted out his jaw and hoisted his phone. ‘Maybe I should talk to your boss.’

‘My boss?’

‘DCI Fox.’

‘How do you know Malcolm Fox?’

‘My dad did him a few favours.’

‘Did he now?’ Clarke pushed the remains of the KitKat back across the table. Simpson just looked at it. ‘What sort of favours?’ She watched the young man shrug. ‘Was he in touch after your dad died?’

‘No. But I phoned him.’

‘When?’

‘I didn’t want fingers pointed at me when Zak died. Fox said there was nothing he could do. Told me never to call him again.’

‘That was the only time you’ve spoken with DCI Fox?’ She watched him nod.

‘Dad gave me his number a while back. He knew I might get in trouble one day and need a friend. Might’ve worked if Dad hadn’t been killed. After that, Fox was done with us.’ He picked up the KitKat, studied it for saliva and then took a bite. Clarke checked the time on her phone. She was hoping she wouldn’t have to bring Colson in.

‘We should probably save this for the interview,’ she said.

‘I thought this was the interview?’

The words were just out of his mouth when the door flew open and Christine Esson manoeuvred her way in, bringing a chair with her. ‘Apologies if I’ve kept you waiting,’ she said, sounding breathless. She started readying the recording equipment before she made herself comfortable, shrugging her way out of her coat and draping it over the back of her chair.

‘Before you turn that on,’ Clarke said, ‘Marcus has just been telling me that his dad used to do favours for a DCI called Malcolm Fox.’

‘Oh?’ Esson stared at Simpson. ‘What sort of favours?’

‘Like an informant, I suppose. And see where it got him...’

With the tape rolling, they identified themselves and told Simpson to do the same.

‘I didn’t do anything to Zak!’ he burst out instead.

‘Name, please,’ Esson repeated. It was more order than question.

‘Marcus Simpson,’ he eventually relented.

‘And what was your relationship to the deceased, Mr Simpson?’

‘We were mates.’

‘Yet you don’t seem to be grieving.’

‘You said the same when you were asking me about my dad. Maybe I just don’t show my emotions.’ He folded his arms, but then, perhaps mindful of Clarke’s crack about poker tells, unfolded them again and stuffed his hands into his pockets instead. He was keeping the hood of his skiing jacket up, same as it had been when he’d stepped out of the cab at the funeral parlour. It didn’t bother Clarke, but Esson asked him if he was feeling the cold.

‘No,’ he said.

‘You were more than mates with Zak, weren’t you?’ Clarke enquired.

‘No,’ he repeated, bristling.

‘I just mean you worked for him — sort of like a minder.’

‘I looked out for him, same as any wingman would.’

‘And he looked after you — financially, I mean?’

‘He sometimes put his hand in his pocket.’

‘But you’ve not seen so much of him lately?’ Esson said. ‘Is that because you found out about Young Fresh East Coast?’

Simpson shifted in his chair and hunched his shoulders, but kept his mouth closed.

‘If anything,’ Clarke added, ‘it makes you more admirable, Marcus — not sticking by him once you knew. Of course, coming to us would have been even better. Could be Zak would still be alive, too—’

‘Then again,’ Esson interrupted, ‘maybe what he did with those kids didn’t bother you at all. Maybe you were even there, aiding and abetting. We’re talking to every single individual he groomed and filmed, so we’ll soon know either way.’

‘I had nothing to do with it!’ Simpson blurted out, face turning crimson. ‘And you’re right, it’s why I walked away.’ He puffed out his cheeks and exhaled. ‘They were young at first, but not that young — eighteen plus. He’d chat them up in pubs and clubs. Seemed to have a sixth sense for the ones who might be willing. Christ knows where he got the idea from, but once it got going, it just snowballed.’ He paused, checking to see if there was anything left in his mug. ‘But the punters kept nagging him, they wanted younger and younger, and they’d pay top whack. Zak started hanging around outside schools and youth clubs. He’d stand next to his Maserati and wait to see who took an interest. I was never there — ask anybody — but then he showed me one night... showed me some of the footage, told me how young the girl was...’

‘Was this Jasmine?’

‘Jas, aye.’

‘You knew her?’

‘Saw her at the house once, just to say hello to.’

‘You didn’t think to warn her off?’

‘I know I should have.’

‘When was the last time you saw her?’

‘That one time in the house — maybe six weeks back.’

‘Did Zak ever talk about his clients?’

‘The punters, you mean?’ Simpson shook his head.

‘Would you be happy for us to take a swab and prints, Marcus?’ Esson asked. He looked from her to Clarke and back again.

‘I keep telling you I didn’t kill him.’

‘But you visited the house, and that means your DNA’s almost certainly there.’

He removed his hood so he could run a hand over his head, growing edgier.

‘We just want to get at the truth, Marcus,’ Esson said quietly.

‘Like with my dad, you mean?’ He glared at her.

‘I’ve actually just come from Gayfield Square,’ she informed him. ‘We’re far from giving up on finding whoever killed your father.’

He lowered his head again.

‘How did you really feel when you heard Zak was dead?’ Clarke asked.

He took a moment to consider. ‘I thought I must be hallucinating — first my dad, now this. My cousin says I’m like some kind of bad-luck charm.’

‘But you were surprised?’

‘Shocked, aye.’

‘So he wasn’t especially worried — in fear of being attacked, I mean? The fact he had you guarding him hints that he had enemies.’

‘He just wanted to look big. Plus, aye, sometimes an arsehole in a pub or club would want a square go — but only because Zak was better off than them and didn’t mind flaunting it. Swear to God, he could pick up any woman he saw — sweep her right out from under her boyfriend’s nose and whisk her off in the Maz. He sometimes filmed them, too — had one of those wee cameras on a shelf by his bed.’

‘We’ve seen some of the footage,’ Clarke stated.

‘Aye, me too. Zak wasn’t the shy retiring sort.’

‘But you’ve no idea who might have wanted him dead?’

‘Not a scooby.’ He slouched a little lower in his chair, knees still going up and down like caffeinated pistons.

‘Something that’s been bothering me,’ Clarke said slowly. ‘From what we’ve learned, Zak wasn’t the savviest when it came to tech. So how come he was able to set up the website and everything around it?’ She watched Simpson’s face fall. ‘He had to have access to someone with that kind of know-how — someone a bit like your game-playing cousin.’ Simpson turned his head towards the far wall, as if there was something fascinating on display there other than scratched and peeling paintwork. Bingo, Clarke thought.

‘Would the guy be in trouble?’ he eventually mumbled.

‘I can’t think why.’

‘Wish I’d never introduced the pair of them. Zak didn’t even pay Tommy what he owed him.’

‘We’re going to need to talk to Tommy about the work he did for Zak,’ Clarke stated with quiet authority. ‘There might be bits and pieces he can help us navigate.’

‘He’ll know I’ve grassed him up.’

‘He’s family. He’ll understand. And if it gets us Zak’s killer, he’ll be helping confirm your innocence. I’d call that a win for you and him both. Now we just need his address...’

Simpson licked his lips while he made up his mind, then recited it into the microphone.

‘Thank you, Marcus,’ Clarke said. When she looked at Esson, Esson raised a single eyebrow. Clarke got the message and nodded her agreement.

‘I think we’re done here — for now.’ She checked the time, adding it to the recording before Esson switched off the machine. The tapes went into evidence bags, Esson handing Simpson his copy.

He stared at the bag and its contents. ‘You said he “groomed” them — it wasn’t like that; nobody got hurt.’

‘He did groom them, though,’ Clarke countered. ‘And you stood by and let him.’

Simpson’s face darkened. ‘I can go, aye?’

‘Soon as we’ve swabbed you and got your dabs,’ Esson said. ‘So stay sitting where you are — might take us a few minutes to rustle up a kit.’

Simpson hoisted his emptied mug. ‘Refill wouldn’t go amiss.’

‘You can stick your refill up your backside,’ Clarke said, getting to her feet and making her exit.

17

A uniform was dispatched to the interview room to keep an eye on Simpson until a testing kit could be found. Clarke and Esson sat together in the office with fresh drinks.

‘Malcolm Fox?’ Esson said. ‘Who didn’t bother to tell me that my prison victim was his snitch?’

‘We should probably have a word with him about that.’

‘And this Tommy Simpson character — is he really not in any trouble?’

‘I wouldn’t go that far, Christine. For starters, Zak didn’t pay him what he owed him. That gives us another possible motive.’

‘So we bring him in?’ Esson was studying an incoming text on her phone.

‘We definitely bring him in,’ Clarke confirmed. Esson was waggling her phone between thumb and forefinger.

‘That was Jason,’ she said. ‘Fox has just landed at Gayfield Square — he was elsewhere when I dropped in. I won’t say Jason was pining, but he couldn’t shut up about him. And he’s definitely still sore that he’s not here instead of me.’ She paused before holding up her car key in her other hand. ‘Yours or mine?’ she asked.

‘Yours,’ Clarke decided.

Gayfield Square police station was a utilitarian concrete eyesore on an otherwise attractive New Town square. The staff car park was at ground level and open to the elements. Fox’s car — his gloss-black pride and joy — was recognisable. With no other spaces free, Esson parked across its nose. She reached into the door pocket of her Skoda and offered Clarke some gum. The two women then sat chewing and thinking their thoughts.

‘We could be here all day,’ Clarke eventually said.

‘It’s nice to switch off, though, isn’t it?’

‘Yeah, like that’s what we’re doing.’

Esson took her phone out and started a text message. She showed Clarke the screen. ‘What do you think?’

The text was addressed to Jason Mulgrew: I’m coming back — got a bone to pick with Fox. Tell him to stay put!

‘Worth a try,’ Clarke said, watching Esson press send. They only had to wait a further couple of minutes before Fox appeared, tugging his driving gloves over his fingers.

‘The man never could stand a confrontation,’ Clarke muttered.

Fox let out an audible complaint as he noticed someone had boxed him in, only recognising Clarke and Esson as he got closer. Clarke had slid her window down. His face appeared at it, saying nothing.

‘Back seat,’ she told him. He looked thunderous, but eventually climbed in.

‘Very clever, Christine,’ he said, teeth showing. The two women turned as best they could to face him.

‘How are things with you, DCI Fox?’ Clarke asked. ‘Congratulations on the promotion, by the way.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Well, Plausible Deniability always has been your middle name.’

After a few seconds of silence, he caved. ‘You’ve been talking to Marcus Simpson.’

‘We have. He tells us his dad was working for you.’

‘He was human intelligence, yes.’

‘And that wasn’t worth sharing with the murder team?’ Esson bristled.

‘I didn’t think it germane.’

‘That wasn’t your decision to make!’

‘I have operations I need to protect, Christine. Things well above your pay grade.’

‘It wasn’t accidental, was it?’ Clarke added. ‘Jackie Simpson breaking into that particular nail bar? He did it at your behest so you’d have a reason to walk in afterwards and take a look around. I can’t believe him ending up in jail was part of the plan.’

‘It wasn’t. But he got sloppy.’

‘Did you try to intervene in the case?’ Clarke saw what the look on his face meant. ‘No, of course not,’ she went on. ‘You said it yourself, you’ve got operations you need to protect. So you probably didn’t go out of your way to help him in prison either?’

Fox twisted a little in his seat. ‘I’m not sure this is getting us anywhere.’

‘You told me about the break-in,’ Esson interrupted. ‘And about how Everett Harrison might go ballistic if he ever found out about the connection to Jackie Simpson.’

‘You see? I was trying to help!’

‘Help how?’

‘By pointing you in the right direction.’ Fox was starting to sound annoyed.

‘After the fact,’ Clarke said. Fox glared at her.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Your man was on the same wing as Harrison.’

‘In a cell directly opposite,’ Esson added. ‘You could have had him moved.’

‘But then he’d have been useless to you,’ Clarke stated quietly. ‘Placed where he was, he could be your eyes and ears. If Harrison or Christie let anything slip, Jackie Simpson might hear it. How did you communicate? Had to be by phone?’ She watched Fox give a shrug. ‘A very dangerous game, as it turned out.’

‘As far as I know,’ Fox said, his voice growing more confident, ‘the inquiry still has no motive for the murder. In other words, you’re getting nowhere, Christine. Possibly because you’re spending so much time in Siobhan’s pocket. It’s Jason who’s doing all the running — he’s smart and he’s a team player. An exemplary officer, in other words.’ He made a show of angling his head towards the windows of the MIT office above the car park. ‘Your colleagues aren’t particularly happy about all the time you’re spending elsewhere. Mae McGovern’s strongly minded to reel you back in. A word from me and she’ll do exactly that.’

‘She might be a bit too busy pondering whether to have you charged with obstructing that same inquiry,’ Esson responded. ‘Goodbye to your dreams of promotion to DCI.’

Fox tried not to look flustered — tried but failed. ‘The break-in was Jackie’s idea, you know.’

‘It’s not us you need to convince,’ Clarke suggested. ‘It’s McGovern, Jason and the rest of the team. You’ll be saving us the bother of grassing you up.’

After a further moment’s thought, he pushed open the door, but then paused. ‘These are ugly people we’re talking about — Harrison and Christie and Hanlon. Thugs who think they can operate with no fear of the likes of you and me. To take men like that down — to be in with even a chance of taking men like that down... Sometimes there’s no nice, clean way of going about it.’ He got out and slammed the door shut. When he stopped by his own car, he seemed to be considering unlocking it and fleeing the scene, but instead he gave Clarke and Esson one final steely glare before heading back into the building.

‘Those sounded like lines stolen from the John Rebus handbook,’ Esson said.

‘Recited by an actor who’s B-list at best.’

Esson turned towards Clarke. ‘Enjoy that?’ she asked.

‘Almost as good as chocolate,’ Clarke replied, returning Esson’s smile.

Having said his piece, Fox stood ramrod-straight in front of Mae McGovern’s desk, hands clasped behind his back, feet slightly parted. Jason Mulgrew stood to one side of him, arms folded and head slightly bowed as though deep in thought. McGovern had been glowering for the past several minutes, Fox failing to match her gaze for more than a few seconds at a time, try as he might.

The silence in the room stretched, though outside noises intruded, the normal sounds of a busy police station. Just for a moment, Fox was reminded of the one time in high school when he’d been summoned to the rector’s office for skipping a class.

‘I’m so very disappointed in you,’ the rector had said solemnly. ‘You of all people, Malcolm...’

He heard DCI McGovern clear her throat. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘this is all a bit of a sorry fucking mess, wouldn’t you agree? You shoulder-charge your way into a murder inquiry without bothering to inform any of us that the victim was a close associate?’

‘Not that close...’

‘Just close enough to jeopardise the prosecution case! Fiscal’s office will be shitting brimstone when I tell them. You’ve compromised this inquiry, DI Fox.’

‘I really don’t think it’s that serious.’

‘Are you suddenly an expert on how the judicial system works in this country?’

‘I’m not exactly unversed in the ways of the courts.’

McGovern cut him off with a glare. ‘You need to be gone from here. I mean, right this minute. Back to Gartcosh while I decide what to do with you.’ She leaned back in her chair. ‘Meeting over. Dismissed.’

Fox stayed put, trying to think what else to say, but then felt Mulgrew’s hand take him by the elbow.

‘Come on, Malcolm,’ he said, guiding him to the door and opening it.

‘I should go say goodbye to the troops,’ Fox muttered, once they were in the corridor.

‘I’ll explain things for you. The boss seemed pretty certain that she wanted you off the premises PDQ. I’m not sure it would do to cross her — any more than you already have, I mean.’ Mulgrew gave a smile, shaking his head slowly. ‘I’ve got to say, though — I do admire you. You’ve got hidden depths. Almost like a spy or something.’

Fox reached out and gripped Mulgrew’s hand in his. ‘Promise me you’ll keep me in the loop, Jason. This case means a lot to me. And when all this is done, I’ll give you the tour of Gartcosh that I promised you — access all areas. You’ll meet a lot of useful people. Deal?’

Mulgrew checked that there was no one in the vicinity. ‘Deal,’ he said, returning Fox’s handshake.

Gillian Reeves looked like she needed her batteries recharging as she rose from her desk, stretching her neck and spine before walking over towards Clarke. Clarke paused with her hands hovering above her keyboard — Reeves’s face said it was not good news.

‘Peter Cowan,’ Reeves said. ‘He was the first client you ID’d?’

‘Aka Pedro,’ Clarke confirmed.

‘Well, he won’t be available for future questioning — jumped from Salisbury Crags this morning. Body found by a jogger.’

‘Poor sod,’ Christine Esson said from the other side of the desk.

‘I wonder if any others will do the same. Respectable married men with careers and kids...’ Reeves was already on her way back to her chair.

Clarke pictured Cowan. Living quietly with his family, a regular at the Mallaig Inn, world suddenly turned upside down, his secret self about to be made public. Her phone was telling her she had an incoming call: Laura Smith. She snatched the handset from her desk and answered.

‘I just heard,’ she said.

‘And there I was hoping to give you the news as an olive branch,’ Smith said.

‘Do you know if he left a note?’

‘I’ve not been to his house yet.’

‘But you will?’

‘I’m driving there right now.’

‘I’m sure the family will be thrilled.’

‘Can’t say I’m enthusiastic myself, Siobhan, but it has to be done.’

‘Why?’

‘So the story I write is as truthful as it can be. I’m not going to apologise for that. You just beat me to the funeral home, you know — I hope Marcus Simpson was talkative.’

‘Goodbye, Laura.’ Clarke listened as Smith attempted a long, weary sigh.

‘Fine then,’ the reporter said, ending the call.

Clarke walked to the kettle, checked the water level and switched it on. While she waited, she approached Cammy Colson’s desk. He was digging into Zak Campbell’s personal life, mostly by dint of studying his social media postings.

‘If it wasn’t for the fact he’s lying in a chiller cabinet at the mortuary, I might be envious,’ Colson said. ‘Booze and glamorous women, nightclubs and fast cars...’

‘The women were all consenting adults, yes?’ Clarke peered over his shoulder at his screen.

‘Seem to be. But in his private messages, the ones between him and his mates, there’s plenty of what you might term misogyny.’

‘Meaning you wouldn’t call it that?’

Colson turned his face towards her. ‘Don’t go pointing that gun at me, Siobhan. When have I ever—’

‘I’m sorry, Cammy.’ She held up her hands in surrender. ‘I know you’re one of the good guys, just like your cousin the prison officer. So many good guys in the world — maybe one of them is sheltering Jasmine.’

‘On that subject...’

‘Yes?’

‘I’ve been thinking about the murder weapon. No prints — so was she wearing gloves, or did she wrap it in a towel or something?’

‘Maybe she wiped it clean.’

‘But it all points to a degree of planning, doesn’t it? Rather than spur of the moment? She’s fourteen, never been in trouble, seems keener on K-pop than Line of Duty...’ He broke off. ‘She didn’t do it, did she? But does that mean she persuaded Marcus?’

‘He says he barely knew her.’

‘So she’s not hiding out at his cousin’s place?’

‘We’ll ask him when we see him...’

Half an hour later, there was scattered applause as a couple of boxes were brought into the office. Clarke could make out the clinking of glass from one of them. Trisha Singh had grabbed the accompanying note.

‘Beers in one, softies in the other,’ she announced. ‘Compliments of DCI Carmichael.’

‘Reckon that makes it knocking-off time,’ Esson said, watching her fellow detectives choosing their favoured drinks. Clarke’s look indicated that she didn’t necessarily agree. ‘We’ve done loads,’ Esson assured her. ‘Don’t want people burning out too soon.’

It was true — energy levels had been dropping for the past hour or so, but now spirits were lifting again. Carmichael knew what he was doing.

‘Race you,’ Clarke told her, rising to her feet.

Rebus had noticed at dinner — the prison officers seeming more frazzled than usual. He focused on his fellow inmates but saw no reason for the examples of short-temperedness and lack of humour coming from the POs. He wondered if something had happened — another targeted threat or attack on an officer’s car. None of the faces he saw seemed in the mood to be asked, so he ate his food and kept his counsel. Ratty had noticed too, of course, his eyes darting around the room. As Rebus met the Wizard’s gaze, the old man gave a slow blink and a nod — he too could sense it. Then Billy Groam tried a bit of gentle teasing with Kyle Jacobs, and whatever Jacobs said back to him had Groam leaping to his feet, instantly combative. Two more officers intervened, while a third rested his hand close by the alarm panel. Everett Harrison just laughed, like this was entertainment he was paying for.

‘We’ve missed the church bells again,’ the Wizard commented.

Mark Jamieson looked to Rebus. ‘Every single day,’ he said.

‘I think only the Wizard really hears them,’ Rebus obliged.

Slowly things settled. Curfew was nearing and prisoners began to focus on last-minute arrangements — books and DVDs to be borrowed or swapped; maybe a cigarette or two handed over, tomorrow’s leisure activities diarised. Sometimes Rebus wondered if a shared cell would be preferable, someone to swap a bit of chat with. Yes, but then they’d be sharing toileting and nightly farts, too.

‘No thanks,’ he said to himself as he stood just inside his open door, waiting for an officer to lock him in. If things were going to come to a head, this was when it would happen. Inmates could get edgy and even slightly psychotic at the thought of that lock turning, the long hours ahead until morning’s release.

‘Who you talking to?’

Rebus realised he had been heard by Billy Groam in the adjoining cell. He peered out into the hall and saw Groam’s head looking back from his own doorway.

‘Just myself,’ he responded. ‘What was that all about earlier?’

‘Kylie can usually take a joke,’ Groam said. ‘But they’ve been stretched thin today — thinner even than usual. It’s definitely got to them. Even Novak’s pulled a sickie. Not like him to miss a shift.’

‘What’s wrong with him?’

Eddie Graves was arriving to shut them up for the night, so Groam decided to risk asking him. ‘Hope Chris Novak hasn’t caught the ’rona,’ he said.

‘DIY accident,’ Graves answered, sounding less happy even than usual. ‘Fell off a ladder and did for his wrist.’

‘No self-abuse for him for a while then, eh? Tell him I’m taking up the slack.’

‘Very decent of you, Billy. Now step back from the door.’

Rebus listened as Groam’s door was closed and locked. Then it was his turn. Fell off a ladder and did for his wrist... By the time Graves checked through the spyhole, Rebus was on his bed, eyes facing the ceiling. Not that he was ready for sleep. His mind was too busy, and would be for a while yet.

Malcolm Fox stayed late at Gartcosh, long after all the offices around him had emptied. The chief super hadn’t asked to see him yet, which was something. Then again, maybe Mae McGovern only wanted to prolong the torture. He had sent a text to Jason Mulgrew — Don’t forget your friends! — but had yet to receive a reply. It was true what he’d said — the break-in had been Jackie Simpson’s idea. And Fox had debated long and hard with himself before agreeing to it. Not that he’d shared any of that with Thomas Glaze and SO15. Would Glaze get to hear about his humiliation? What would London think, now that he was no longer attached to the murder inquiry, meaning even less access to Christie and Harrison?

There was an email on his computer from a CID detective in Glasgow detailing the past exploits of Mickey Mason. The man had been about to flood the city with fentanyl prior to his arrest. Fox found that interesting — the drug was being found more and more in other Scottish cities and towns, including Edinburgh. If Mason was back to his old ways — and why wouldn’t he be? — then he would either become a fresh adversary for Shay Hanlon or a useful ally. Hanlon did need someone on the ground. Everett Harrison was incarcerated, but friendly with Bobby Briggs. Briggs gave him a connection to Mason. Working together would make shorter work of the competition, meaning Darryl Christie. Why send muscle all the way from Merseyside to put the frighteners on Christie’s gang when willing bampots were available just forty-five minutes to the west? The more Fox thought about it, the more sense it made. It was too late in the day to phone Glaze, but he would make contact in the morning. Maybe SO15 could persuade Fox’s boss to free up some manpower for surveillance of Christie’s remaining troops. Hanlon would be sure to strike again. All it needed was for one attacker to be caught and identified.

You need this, Malcolm, Fox told himself. But more than that, you deserve it...