Midnight and Blue

18

It was when Rebus looked like missing breakfast that his neighbours became curious. Groam and Harrison found him on his bed and having trouble catching a breath. They alerted an officer, who got the duty nurse to come and look. Rebus’s nebuliser wasn’t helping. His heart rate was high, as was his blood pressure. His breathing remained laboured and speaking was a problem.

‘Hospital job,’ the nurse told Blair Samms. ‘And I know from experience that an ambulance will take a while.’

‘Do we have a spare van?’ Samms asked Valerie Watts, who had joined the group in Rebus’s cell. Rebus could see fellow inmates crowding around the doorway. Ratty gave him a little wave, but Rebus’s focus was on the discussion Samms and Watts were having. Watts took a step towards him.

‘There’s a fold-up wheelchair in the nurses’ station. We’ll use that to get you to my car. Staffing means it’ll just be me — are you okay with that?’

Rebus squeezed his eyes shut and managed to nod.

The governor arrived and listened to the nurse’s report, his eyes fixed on Rebus, lips clamped. He was still studying the patient as he checked with Watts that her projected course of action was proper and necessary. After which he gave the briefest of nods and turned away.

‘Nice bedside manner,’ Rebus managed to comment, after which the staff got to work hauling him into a pair of joggers and his green sweatshirt.

Ill or not, there were protocols to be followed, bits of paper to be signed at the reception desk next to the first-night centre. Rebus hadn’t been there since he’d arrived and undergone induction. The same lugubrious face was behind the desk. He didn’t so much look at Rebus as through him. And he did enjoy his admin. But eventually they were outside, Samms waiting in the yard with Rebus while Watts fetched her vehicle.

‘You’re white as a ghost,’ Samms said after studying the patient.

‘Thanks for the vote of confidence.’ The words spluttered from Rebus’s mouth. He was clutching his nebuliser in one hand like some version of rosary beads. There hadn’t been time to think of what else he might need to bring. The nurse was going to phone ahead with his details. She had warned Watts that the wait in A&E could stretch for hours.

‘The snack machine will be your friend,’ she’d added.

Watts’s car was a nippy-looking Alfa Romeo. Rebus decided its colour would be called something like ‘midnight blue’ in the sales brochure. Samms tried not to look impressed as he helped Watts guide Rebus into the passenger seat and do up his seat belt.

‘When did you get the wheels?’ he asked her.

‘Last weekend.’

‘You sure we’re on the same pay grade?’

‘I cut a deal.’

Rebus watched as Samms closed the passenger door and started pushing the chair back into the main building.

‘Hope we can snaffle another of those from A&E,’ Watts said, doing up her own seat belt. ‘I don’t fancy carrying you.’ Then, turning towards her passenger before setting off: ‘You’re not going to give me any grief, John, right? Not in my spanking new car?’

‘No grief,’ Rebus assured her.

The Alfa was given a final check at the gatehouse, boot opened, underside examined, then the gates trundled open in front of them and suddenly they were outside the high prison walls. Rebus couldn’t help staring. Such an expanse of sky, so many puffy clouds. Then traffic, and people, and houses and shops and... everything.

‘Comes as a shock,’ Watts commented, reading his mind.

‘It’s been a while,’ he agreed.

She drove with one hand mostly, the other resting on the central console. At the first pedestrian crossing she glanced towards him.

‘Bit more colour to you. Breathing seems steadier, too.’

Rebus turned from his window and stared at her. She wasn’t stupid, far from it. He could see her working it out, trying not to let anything show on her face, eyes on the road ahead.

‘I need to stop somewhere on the way,’ he eventually stated.

‘Jesus, John.’ She gave a sort of embarrassed grin, head angled downwards momentarily. ‘What the hell is this?’

‘I have to see Chris Novak.’

‘No way.’

‘You know I’m on his side — his side and yours. But to help him I really need to see him.’

‘Not going to happen.’

‘A phone call won’t do it — has to be face-to-face.’

‘Why?’

‘Because he’s in trouble. Not too much trouble as yet, but it’s only going to get worse — and it could get a lot worse.’

‘You’re a piece of work, John. This whole thing was a con?’

‘Took a bit more effort than I thought. At one point I reckoned I actually was about to keel over.’

‘And what if you hadn’t had me as your escort? What if we’d found an ambulance?’

‘Plan A was to scarper from the hospital.’

‘And?’

‘Go find Chris’s house.’

‘How would you have done that?’

‘Maybe I’d have phoned you and asked. Then later on I’d hand myself back in, no harm done.’

‘Except that your escort would be getting a rocket for letting you loose in the first place!’

Rebus was still staring at her. ‘It’ll take five or ten minutes max. We both know he’s stuck in the house.’

‘Under the watchful eye of his wife.’

‘I’m just a friend from work who’s come to commiserate.’

‘In a prisoner-issue top?’ Watts was shaking her head slowly, eyes not moving from the road. She was gripping the steering wheel with both hands now, practically throttling it. Rebus was relieved she was taking it out on an inanimate object rather than his own neck.

‘Jesus, John,’ she repeated, with a little less force than before. Then she looked at him. ‘He’s really in trouble?’

‘Yes.’

‘What sort?’

‘Better if he tells you.’

She was still shaking her head as, teeth bared, she executed a sudden U-turn, horns blaring around her. She pushed down on the accelerator and did a quick calculation.

‘Might take us fifteen or twenty minutes. I don’t know if A&E will phone the prison when you don’t show.’

‘Why not call them yourself and tell them I’m a lot better — too well to bother burdening them?’

‘And what do I say when we get back to Saughton?’

‘That we visited A&E and they checked me out and everything’s fine.’ Rebus offered a shrug. ‘I’m improvising here.’

‘It’s only my head on the block,’ Watts muttered, but she ended up making the call anyway. Then they drove on in silence until she turned left into a modern housing estate.

When they passed Novak’s house, she pointed it out to Rebus. But she turned into another street before stopping. ‘Can’t let her see me,’ she said.

‘You’ve been here before?’ Seeing the look on her face, Rebus held up a hand in apology. ‘None of my business,’ he agreed, undoing his seat belt. As he was opening the door, she gripped his forearm.

‘Do not mess me about, because if you do, I will fuck you up — understood?’

He nodded slowly, unable to think how else to respond.

Then he was out of the car, striding along an actual pavement, past pebble-dashed two-storey houses with trimmed lawns and flagged driveways. A Waitrose van was making a delivery. The driver gave a nod and a smile. Rebus nodded back. His skin was tingling and he drew in lungfuls of air. He could hear a plane overhead — and was that a train in the distance? Maybe a school playground, too, ball games and squeals. A red-liveried Royal Mail van crawled past, part and parcel of the rhythm of the day.

All too soon he was outside Novak’s house, but before approaching the door he studied the adjoining garage. It’s up-and-over doors weren’t quite closed, giving him a glimpse of a sleek white BMW and, poking out from behind it, an equally sleek motorbike.

He rang the doorbell and waited. He’d been expecting the wife, but it was Novak himself who answered. The wrist of his right hand was strapped up, but he still raised it as if expecting a blow of some kind.

‘What the fuck?’ he blurted out.

‘I was just passing,’ Rebus said. Novak was looking to right and left along the street.

‘How did you get here?’

‘Not going to invite me in?’

Novak all but hauled him inside with his uninjured hand, slamming the door shut afterwards.

‘Nice place,’ Rebus commented, studying his surroundings. ‘Not too flash — your wife’s taste or yours? Where is she, by the way?’

‘Never mind her.’ They were in the living room, facing one another. Rebus doubted there would be any offer of a seat or a drink, which suited him fine. ‘To repeat the question, John — what the fuck?’

‘I think I’ve worked it out,’ Rebus said casually. ‘But I need you to confirm it.’

‘Confirm what? Christ’s sake, did you just break out? Are you on the news yet?’ Novak dug out his phone, but with only one working hand, a search proved difficult.

‘Hospital appointment,’ Rebus explained. ‘Just stopped off here en route.’

‘Where’s the van... your escort?’ Novak peered out of the window.

‘Not important. But here’s what is — you need to stop, you need to stop right now.’

‘Stop what?’ Novak tried for a puzzled look.

‘Christie told me one of his men wrestled a gunman’s weapon away from him, nearly broke his wrist in the process. The guy was on a motorbike — that’ll be the one in your garage. Leathers, gloves and a crash helmet with the visor down — probably a set of fake plates, too? I can see all of that, and I don’t suppose a Scouse accent is hard to pull off if you’ve practised and you’re not trying it with actual Liverpudlians.’

The air was leaking out of Chris Novak in real time. He kept his eyes averted from Rebus, looking at his phone’s screen saver instead. It showed a boy and a girl not yet in their teens. ‘I’d be worrying about them if I were you, Chris,’ Rebus said softly. ‘Because if this game of yours spirals out of control...’

‘It’s no game, John. They’ve been at me and at me and at me. Torching my car, sending threats — not just me, either. Lots of other officers who refuse to turn a blind eye or do as they’re told. Christie reckons he owns that prison. Well not on my watch he doesn’t.’

‘You learned about Hanlon, heard the rumours he was interested in Christie’s patch. You decided to make it seem like it was really happening — I’m guessing your CID cousin tipped you off regarding movements and addresses. All you then had to do was put the fear of God into Christie’s team, weakening him while making him furious in the process.’

‘Furious and impotent, John.’ Some pride had entered Novak’s voice. ‘Because there are things he can’t do from inside, plenty of things he can’t control, and it’s all starting to dawn on him.’

‘But now he knows you were only using an airgun. Next time you try something, his team won’t be scared. They’ll be ready — maybe tooled up themselves — and they’ll want their pound of flesh.’ Rebus studied Novak’s right hand. ‘How bad is it?’

Novak flexed his fingers. ‘Day or two off’s all I need. I’ll be fine.’ His eyes met Rebus’s. ‘So what’s your next move?’

‘Apart from returning to jail?’ Rebus shrugged. ‘I don’t have a next move — and you shouldn’t have one either. No room for masked vigilantes in this Gotham.’

‘I’m not going to roll over for him, John.’

‘You said it yourself — you’ve already weakened him. Somebody’ll walk into town eventually and take over. And you have given him a fright — I’m not sure he’ll ever get over it. Right now he still thinks his bogeyman is out here.’ Rebus nodded towards the window. ‘And that’s going to keep gnawing away at him. Job done, Chris. Time to call it a day while you still can.’

‘How about your job, John? Have you done anything about Blair Samms?’

‘What do you suggest? I can hardly shine a bulb in his face and sweat him like in the old days. Until someone breaks ranks...’

‘I doubt that’s going to happen.’

‘Then the killer gets away with it.’ Rebus gave another shrug. ‘Until someone breaks ranks,’ he echoed. He drank in his surroundings, the quality furniture, family photos, TV with sound system. ‘You’re a lucky man, Chris. Try to keep it that way.’

Novak offered his left hand, and Rebus clasped it. At the front door, he asked Rebus how he’d managed to track him down.

‘I’ve not lost the old touch,’ Rebus answered. ‘I’ll see you back at the ranch in a couple of days, aye?’

‘Listen... I appreciate you doing this. You took a hell of a risk.’

‘And now I just have to tunnel back into Colditz — wish me luck.’

Novak gave him a little salute and made to close the door. Rebus pushed a hand against it so it stayed open.

‘You did put a choke on Jackie, didn’t you? In his cell that time? He wasn’t lying about that?’

‘Fucker threatened to come after my family, John.’

‘After you’d bad-mouthed his son,’ Rebus stated. ‘If someone’s framing you, you did a pretty good job of climbing into the picture all by yourself.’

‘Tell me this then. Say you’d become a prison officer rather than a cop — how well would you have coped, day in, day out?’

‘Oh, I’d have killed someone long before now,’ Rebus said, turning away.

When he got back to the car, Watts still had a tight grip of the steering wheel. ‘True to my word,’ he told her as he climbed in.

‘I’ve been calculating,’ she said as she started the engine. ‘If we head back now, they’ll never believe we got seen so quickly.’ She glanced at him. ‘There’s a drive-through Burger King not too far away — what do you reckon?’

‘If that’s the only offer on the table.’

‘Pub’s out of the question, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

‘I’d settle for coffee and a bacon roll.’ He saw the look she was giving him. ‘But Burger King’s fine too.’

Their route took them past Novak’s house. He was watching from the living-room window. Watts met his gaze. A minute or so later, music filled the car, Bluetooth telling her she had a call. She let it ring out.

‘Need to think about what I’m going to say to him,’ she explained to Rebus. Then: ‘Is he still in trouble, John?’

‘Not if he heeds my advice.’

‘Did the advice include steering clear of me?’

‘Not in the least.’

She turned her attention back to the road. ‘Thanks.’

‘But if it turns out you’re both killers,’ Rebus added, ‘I want you to know I’ll be very disappointed.’

When she saw the glint in his eye, she gave a little laugh, Rebus joining in.

‘Burgers are my treat,’ she said.

‘They’ll have to be.’ He patted his empty pockets.

‘So you’d have high-tailed it from the hospital with no idea where Chris lived and no money or phone? That was the extent of your plan?’

‘And yet somehow it all worked out. It doesn’t always...’ Rebus rested his head against the back of the seat and watched the big, beautiful world roll by.

19

Louise Hird had made the trip from Gartcosh to see how things were progressing. The DCI had decided that she merited a meeting in his office. He was seated behind his desk, facing Hird and Siobhan Clarke.

‘We’ve interviewed most of Campbell’s victims,’ Clarke said. ‘One of them, she’s nineteen now, had told her parents what was going on. Pitched it to them as a modelling job, not much different from a lingerie shoot. One thing she didn’t say was that Campbell wanted her to dress and act younger than her years.’

‘And the parents were generally okay with it?’ DCI Carmichael asked.

‘Campbell never laid a hand on her. Quite the gentleman, according to their daughter.’

‘Were they ever introduced to him?’ Hird asked, tapping notes into her phone. Clarke shook her head.

‘Nobody ever met Campbell apart from his models.’

‘What angle are you taking as regards his murder?’

Carmichael decided to answer that before Clarke could. ‘We’re keeping a very open mind, Louise.’

‘No sign of forced entry,’ Clarke added. ‘Plenty of security.’

‘Cameras?’ Hird interrupted.

‘Aimed at the doorstep and the garage — but he hadn’t bothered switching them on.’

‘And inside the house?’

Clarke shook her head again. ‘Whoever it was, looks like they were invited in.’

‘Campbell takes them through to the kitchen,’ Carmichael continued, ‘probably to fix a drink or something, turns his back on them and...’

‘They slid a knife from the block,’ Clarke added.

Hird saw what she was getting at. ‘They didn’t arrive tooled up. If this was a falling-out among thieves, they’d have been more professional in their approach. You’re not ruling out one of the victims then — and I’m guessing that puts Jasmine Andrews at the top of the leader board?’

‘We’ve scoured town and country for her,’ Carmichael said. ‘She still hasn’t used her debit card or phone.’

‘So which is she — a very smart and ruthless cookie or locked up in a killer’s cellar?’ Hird held up a hand. ‘Sorry to be frank.’

‘A further complication,’ Carmichael continued, ‘is that there are no prints on the weapon, meaning it was either meticulously wiped afterwards or...’

‘The killer wore gloves,’ Clarke said.

‘Taking us back to malice aforethought,’ Hird commented. ‘DNA?’

‘Not telling us much as yet.’

The three of them sat in silence for a moment. Carmichael lifted his mug without drinking from it. He’d rustled up a plate of digestive biscuits, but they sat untouched on his desk.

‘Well,’ Hird eventually said, ‘London have taken a look at everything they were sent. It doesn’t seem the deceased was part of a wider network. In other words, no one was buying his wares for use in overseas markets. Doesn’t mean there won’t have been piggybacking, of course.’

Carmichael leaned forward. ‘Piggybacking?’

‘A punter records what they’re watching so they can sell or share it elsewhere. You need to make the victims aware that their presence could linger online for some time to come.’ She shifted a little in her chair. ‘From the messages between the clients and Campbell, some definitely wanted the models to go further — and they got angry when Campbell said no, giving another possible motive.’

‘Do we have grounds for a prosecution of any of these men?’ Carmichael enquired.

‘A question for the Procurator Fiscal. I’d say it’s a grey area, but you should definitely be handing out warnings, even if only to give them a fright.’

‘One has already committed suicide,’ Clarke said quietly.

‘Not your fault, Siobhan.’ Hird turned her attention back to Carmichael. ‘Do you have enough family liaison officers for the workload?’

‘We’ve managed to get hold of precisely two,’ Carmichael told her. ‘With a third on the way from Dundee.’

‘Going to be busy then. I’ve found them invaluable in the past — they get the confidence of the family, and that’s when the unsaid starts to be spoken out loud. How about the men who stumped up for the abuse, the ones still breathing? Any likely murderers among them?’

‘Not so far.’ Clarke lifted her own mug, cupping her hands around it. ‘There’s one client we’re having real trouble with,’ she confessed. ‘Calls himself Valerio.’ She spelled the word out. ‘Just that and a string of numbers after. The numbers don’t seem to mean anything, but we googled Valerio and got a couple of shops — we’ve visited both and ruled out any connection. It’s a masculine name, Italian or Spanish, means strong or healthy.’

‘One thing you can be sure of, it won’t be their real name. Local, you think?’

‘We’ve no idea — they seem savvy about security and the dark web. No way for us to get beyond that username.’

‘I can nudge London, see if they can help.’ Hird met Carmichael’s eyes. ‘From my perspective, this could have been much worse. But I acknowledge that from yours, you’ve a lot of work still to do. Did Campbell’s mother have any inkling what her son was up to?’

‘None whatsoever,’ Clarke answered.

‘She’s been told now, though?’

‘And Zak is still her blue-eyed boy. Always will be.’

‘I don’t suppose he vented to her about any enemies or threats?’

‘No, but the list keeps growing. He would hit on women in bars and clubs — their boyfriends didn’t always like that. Had an old school pal acting as his shield. He tells us they parted company because of Zak’s online activities.’

‘Nothing useful so far from forensics?’

‘Twenty-three young people were regular visitors to the house,’ Clarke said. ‘Makes for a lot of matching and checking.’

‘Not that we’ll dismiss a single strand of hair,’ Carmichael said defensively. ‘Everyone’s working flat out.’

‘Never in doubt,’ Hird said. ‘But I wouldn’t mind a tour of your operation anyway, if Siobhan’s willing.’

‘Happy to oblige.’

‘Anything you’re particularly interested in, Louise?’ Carmichael asked.

‘I’m just jealous of all the manpower,’ she answered with the thinnest possible smile.

As Hird was readying to leave, tour complete, a man was being led along the corridor by Gillian Reeves, accompanied by DC Pete Swinton. The man was in his early twenties, overweight and with bad skin and hair. He wore the branded T-shirt of a metal band under a grubby Harrington-style jacket, baggy jeans brushing the floor.

‘Thomas Simpson,’ Reeves said as they passed, as though there were any doubt. Marcus’s cousin was ushered into the interview room.

‘I can see myself out,’ Hird assured Clarke. ‘But keep me posted.’

The chair Esson had deposited in the interview room was still there, though Esson herself had been summoned to Gayfield Square for a meeting with Mae McGovern. Simpson and Reeves were already seated, Swinton fussing with the newly installed video camera. He gestured to let Clarke know she could have his perch, but she shook her head and rested her back against the wall, peripheral to the cousin. It was a lesson learned from Rebus many years back. You remained a presence — and an ominous one at that. The interviewee couldn’t guess what you might be about to do. She crossed one foot over the other as the interview started.

Preliminaries over, Reeves referred to the inch-thick contents of the file in front of her, waiting a few beats before starting.

‘Did Marcus ever tell you why he felt the need to hide from us?’

Tommy Simpson swallowed hard and spoke as though he’d been in the desert for a week. ‘He often kips at mine.’

‘He means his mum’s,’ Reeves said for Clarke’s benefit. ‘He was fast asleep in bed when she let us in. In the end, we all traipsed upstairs to rouse him. Sleeping bag on the floor, presumably for visitors.’

‘And the rest of the bedroom like the bridge of the Enterprise,’ Swinton added. ‘Never seen so many screens and cables.’

‘I’m a games designer,’ Tommy said.

‘Any we’d have heard of?’

‘Not got that far yet,’ he mumbled.

‘But you set up websites on the side, eh? Like you did for Zak Campbell?’

‘If you say so.’

‘It’s your cousin Marcus who says so,’ Clarke chipped in. ‘How much did Zak owe you?’

‘A couple of grand.’

‘That must have rankled.’

Tommy Simpson’s whole face seemed to be in movement as he sat there, a mass of tics and blinks, like organisms were writhing just beneath his flesh. ‘Marcus should have kept his mouth shut.’

‘Are you Valerio, Tommy?’

He half turned to meet Clarke’s eyes. ‘Who?’

‘A username on Zak’s site.’

‘I’ve never visited it.’

‘Never?’

‘Not since I finished building it.’

‘Not even slightly curious?’

‘I don’t get off on that kind of thing.’

‘Did Marcus?’

‘Not while he was with me. Too busy with MMORPGs.’

‘That’s games a whole bunch of you play online?’ Reeves enquired. Tommy answered with a thumbs-up. ‘You knew that wasn’t what Zak wanted, though, right? He wanted to stream porn to paying customers.’

‘Easiest thing in the world.’

‘Despite all the encryption needed?’

Another thumbs-up.

‘Ever visited his house since the site’s been up and running?’

‘Never invited.’

‘He owed you a chunk of cash, though — not tempted to go knock on his door?’

‘I got Marcus to ask a few times, but then him and Zak fell out.’

‘And what did Marcus tell you about that?’ Clarke asked.

‘Just that he didn’t like the way things were going.’ Tommy paused and swallowed again. ‘Age-wise, I mean.’

‘Can’t have been comfortable for you, Tommy,’ Reeves said, trying to add a note of concern to her voice. ‘You must have known then that what he was doing had crossed a line — when we came gunning for him, you’d be in our cross hairs too.’

‘It’s not like I left footprints. You’ve been into the site — I bet you’ve not found any trace of me.’

‘Unless you’re Valerio,’ Clarke said.

He turned his head towards her again. ‘Why’s this Valerio so important?’

‘Because he’s good at not leaving footprints too.’ She paused for effect. ‘Like a pro.’

Tommy was shaking his head. ‘I’ve told you, I’ve no interest in any of that.’

‘It’s your baby, though, you created it — means you might be able to help us dig a little deeper?’

‘Give me a keyboard and some decent bandwidth.’

‘It’d have to be at our lab with one of our tech officers,’ Clarke said. ‘But it would definitely be points in your favour.’ She paused once more to let this sink in. ‘So you’ve not been to Campbell’s house in some time?’

‘Months and months.’

‘Any objection to us taking your prints and a swab? For purposes of elimination.’

‘Do you keep stuff?’

‘Not for any length of time.’

‘Erased from the system?’

‘We’re not Big Brother, Tommy — not yet, at least.’

‘I did ask him why he was bothering with real flesh-and-blood humans when avatars are cheap, almost as lifelike and unlikely to say no.’

‘Did any of Zak’s models say no or start getting reluctant?’

‘How would I know?’

‘Your cousin might have said.’

‘He didn’t, though.’ Tommy started gnawing at the skin next to his right thumbnail.

‘Did Marcus ever mention a girl called Jasmine?’ Clarke asked.

‘No.’

‘You know who I’m talking about, though?’

‘Aye.’

‘And Marcus hasn’t got her hidden away at your place?’

‘Ask them, they’ve been there.’ He gestured towards Reeves and Swinton. The silence stretched as the three detectives realised they had run out of questions. Clarke gestured towards Swinton. ‘Stay with him, Pete. Call the lab and see who’s available to sit at a computer with him.’

Swinton nodded, readying to end the recording while Clarke and Reeves left the room and headed to MIT.

‘Still living at home with his mum,’ Reeves reiterated.

‘And him such a catch.’

‘If he did it, I’m guessing video games will get the blame.’

‘Do you think he did?’

‘I’m past the point of guessing. Far too many suspects; it’d be nice to narrow the field.’

They heard the hubbub before they walked in, the team huddled around Bryan Carmichael and looking agitated. He motioned for Clarke and Reeves to join the fray. It was Trisha Singh who had news to share.

‘A handful of clients paying a lot more than anyone else,’ she said, sounding out of breath. ‘We thought maybe some VIP level of access — even actual physical hook-ups. But the people we’ve interviewed so far ruled that out. Now one of them’s phoned us. He knew we’d be paying him a visit so he decided to take the initiative. Retired businessman, lives in Gullane.’

‘Spit it out, Trisha,’ Clarke said.

But Cammy Colson got there before Singh could.

‘Sextortion,’ he said. Maybe he liked the feel of the word in his mouth, because he repeated it. Clarke looked to DCI Carmichael, who said it too. She asked Singh for the man’s name.

‘Alexander Urquhart.’

‘Time to bring him in for a chat, then.’

‘He’s housebound, apparently,’ Carmichael said. ‘Basically lives in a wheelchair.’

‘So give me his address.’

Carmichael couldn’t help but notice Singh going up and down on her toes, desperate not to be overlooked. He nodded towards her. ‘The two of you go,’ he said.

Clarke turned towards Reeves. ‘Make sure to pair Tommy Simpson with one of the lab’s finest nerds.’

‘Will do,’ Reeves said. Then: ‘Go get him, girls.’

20

Clarke let Trisha Singh do the driving, leaning back against the headrest and even closing her eyes for a bit. Was the investigation spiralling outwards or inwards? She was too dizzied by it to be able to tell.

‘How did he sound when you spoke to him?’ she eventually asked.

‘Calm. Not embarrassed or anything. Posh.’ Singh wasn’t a talkative driver, preferring to focus on the traffic. They’d hit rush hour, though these days much of the city seemed to suffer nothing but. Singh’s car didn’t have a blue light, so there wasn’t much they could do — and it wasn’t as if Urquhart was about to abscond. Once they were out of the city, the vehicles in front sped up, their owners keen to get home to comfortable, middle-class East Lothian. They passed farmland and occasional dwellings, the Firth of Forth to their left. Gullane itself wasn’t much more than a main street with its share of shops and restaurants. The big draw was its golf courses, including Muirfield. Singh’s doctor husband had played many a round there.

‘Are women allowed these days?’ Clarke asked.

‘Yes, but my handicap’s too high.’

‘Maybe don’t use that word in front of our wheelchair user,’ Clarke advised. Singh’s mouth formed a little O. ‘Only teasing, Trisha,’ Clarke said.

‘I’d never thought of it, though.’ Singh checked her dashboard satnav. ‘Nearly there,’ she said.

Urquhart lived in an Edwardian-era house built in the baronial style, with a turret and crow-stepped gables. The gates opened onto an expansive gravelled driveway. As they approached the varnished oak front door, it was opened by an imposing-looking woman dressed in tweeds, thick woollen socks and brown brogues, her hair tied back into a tight silver bun.

‘Mrs Urquhart?’ Clarke guessed.

‘Miss Urquhart,’ the woman corrected her. She had the demeanour of a schoolmistress from decades past, her face gaunt but largely unlined, her eyes hawk-like. ‘You’ll be the police. Alexander said to expect you.’

They were in the large wood-panelled hall by this point. Urquhart’s sister closed the door and examined her guests. ‘He was pretty tight-lipped as to why you’re here.’

‘Care to hazard a guess?’

‘It’s not my place.’

‘Are you his carer, Miss Urquhart?’ Singh asked.

‘Since Julia died,’ the woman confirmed.

‘Julia being his wife?’

‘Who else?’ She paused and lowered her voice a fraction. ‘You know he’s a JP? Was a JP, I should say. I just felt it’s something you should be aware of.’ Neither detective said anything, which seemed to disappoint Miss Urquhart. She led them to a door, knocked and pushed it open. ‘Your guests, Alexander,’ she said, ushering them in. ‘Does anyone require tea?’ Clarke and Singh assured her they were fine, so she closed the door slowly, staying outside.

Alexander Urquhart’s wheelchair was set behind an ornate antique desk, in front of an entire wall of glass-fronted bookcases. The man himself was in his seventies, silver hair sprouting around the base of his bald dome. He wore half-moon glasses and was in the middle of writing in an oversized notebook.

‘Not my confession, you understand,’ he told them, slapping his hand against the open page.

‘Mr Urquhart, I’m DC Singh. We spoke on the phone.’

‘Indeed we did.’ Urquhart bowed his head slightly in greeting. ‘Which region of India do you call home?’

‘Blackhall.’ While Urquhart’s brow furrowed, Singh turned towards Clarke. ‘And this is Detective Inspector Clarke.’

‘Two charming young women — such a pleasure.’

‘From the New Town,’ Clarke pretended to elucidate. Then: ‘Is it really a pleasure, sir? Most people in your position wouldn’t be quite so relaxed.’

‘Am I relaxed?’ He considered the question. ‘I suppose I am.’

‘Is that because you’re no longer in the clutches of the man who was blackmailing you?’

‘They call it sextortion, don’t they? I think he decided I was worth the candle when he looked me up online and found I was a justice of the peace — I bet Marjory told you I was a JP too, didn’t she?’ He gave a smile, no answer required. ‘She thinks you might go easier on me, whatever it is I’ve done.’

‘Will you actually tell her?’

Urquhart stretched out his arms. ‘Well, what have I done?’

‘Watched underage girls stripping off online for starters,’ Singh commented.

‘But I’d no idea they were underage until he tried to wring money from me.’

‘Tried and succeeded,’ Clarke felt it necessary to add.

‘Once or twice, yes. But then I thought: why the hell should I? So I stopped and told him to go hang himself. He could out me to the world if he liked but I wasn’t giving him a sou more, and if he didn’t stop harassing me, I’d go to the police myself.’

‘You didn’t do that, though, sir,’ Singh said, her tone cool. Urquhart was busy manoeuvring his way from behind the desk. He headed to a space near a sofa and gestured for his visitors to be seated. Singh and Clarke followed him but remained standing.

‘Throughout all this,’ Clarke said, ‘did he ever identify himself?’

‘He used an alias. Actually, more than one — he seemed to message me from a different email address every single time.’

‘How was the money transferred?’

‘A digital wallet. He had to take me through it step by step. I still use a chequebook, for God’s sake.’ Urquhart drummed his fingers against the wheelchair’s armrests. ‘I got the inkling he was probably local,’ he eventually conceded. ‘Mainly because the models on the screen were — you could tell from their accents.’

‘They spoke to you and you spoke to them?’

‘The conversation, such as it was, was strictly one-way. I typed in a message and sometimes they typed something back, but they might also say something.’ He paused and rattled the chair’s metal arms. ‘Even if I had discovered his identity, doing away with him wouldn’t have been straightforward in this contraption.’

‘Maybe so, but a man of your means could have paid for the privilege.’

Urquhart fixed Clarke with a look. ‘But that didn’t happen, Inspector.’

‘I’m assuming you must have encountered one or two unsavoury characters during your time as a JP.’

‘It’s not like we kept in touch afterwards.’ The thin smile had returned.

‘The site’s other users, you never knew any of them in real life?’ Clarke watched him shake his head. ‘And you didn’t invite any like-minded friends to join the club?’

‘I did not.’

‘Is there anything else you want to tell us, Mr Urquhart?’ Singh asked.

‘Just that I bitterly regret getting mixed up in the whole sorry business.’

‘Can I ask how you found the site in the first place? Were you just browsing, or did someone recommend it?’

‘The internet is an extraordinary sphere,’ Urquhart said. ‘The most innocent soul is never more than a few clicks away from everything they could ever imagine and much more besides.’

‘Your way of telling us that this was your first foray into online abuse?’

He winced slightly. ‘You’re correct, of course. It can almost certainly be termed abuse, with the benefit of hindsight.’ He looked from one detective to the other, seeking something he wasn’t going to find. ‘So what now?’ he asked.

‘A formal interview,’ Clarke stated. ‘It can be recorded here. Plus we’ll be passing your details to our colleagues at Child Exploitation and the National Crime Agency, obviously.’

Some of the light left Urquhart’s eyes. ‘Of course,’ he mumbled, chin resting on his chest.

Without saying anything else, Clarke headed to the door, Singh following.

‘Enjoy the rest of your day, officers,’ Urquhart said, automatically. Good breeding and all that.

His sister heard the door and emerged from the kitchen, a tea towel in her hands, apron tied around her waist.

‘Everything all right?’ she asked.

‘Someone will be coming back to take a statement.’ Clarke met her gaze. ‘Your brother has a penchant for underage pornography, Miss Urquhart. I hope you find that as troubling as we do.’

The woman gave a sniff. ‘I don’t find it the least bit troubling. Alexander has done a power of good in this world, but no one is without flaws — probably not even you.’ She pulled open the door. ‘My brother is not a criminal, and you’ll have the devil of a job convincing me otherwise. I’ll be contacting his solicitor as soon as I’m done with you.’

No more words were exchanged as Clarke and Singh walked across the gravel to Singh’s car.

‘What a piece of work,’ Singh commented as she unlocked the doors. ‘She knew all along, didn’t she?’

‘I’d say so.’

‘And was fine with it?’

‘Looks that way.’

‘Weird old buggers, the pair of them. And that house gives me the creeps.’ She turned towards Clarke as she started the engine. ‘So what do you want to do now?’

‘Stop in Port Seton for chips,’ Clarke said decisively.

‘You’re the boss, Siobhan. And that’s definitely a strategy I can get on board with.’

Jason Mulgrew was providing an update to the governor in his office at HMP Edinburgh when the door opened and Malcolm Fox walked in.

‘Mind if I join you?’ Fox asked. ‘Howard and I are old friends — I hope I can say that, Howard?’

The governor hesitated for only a moment before nodding.

‘So what have you been chatting about?’ Fox asked Mulgrew, gaze fixed on him.

‘We were just getting started,’ Mulgrew replied.

Fox nodded: nothing had been said as yet about his dismissal. He smoothed his tie and crossed one leg over the other.

‘I was just telling Jason,’ Tennent said, ‘that there’s still some tension on the halls, not exactly helped by Darryl Christie having a go at Everett Harrison.’

‘Christie’s in solitary?’ Fox checked.

‘But due back in Trinity Hall today. I sat him down in here with Harrison.’

‘What was their beef exactly?’

‘These things can come out of nowhere, Malcolm.’

‘Maybe so, but this one came from the fact that Christie’s business is under threat from Harrison’s boss. His men are being targeted. I’m not convinced sitting them down will provide much more than a sticking plaster.’

‘What would really help,’ Tennent said, ‘is a break in the case.’ He turned his eyes towards Mulgrew.

‘I’m sorry to say progress has been limited — not helped by one of my officers being temporarily poached by a rival inquiry. Nevertheless, we aren’t stinting, I can assure you of that. Our current thinking is that, despite the cellmate’s evidence, Jackie Simpson was attacked prior to lock-up.’

‘Meaning it could have been another prisoner?’ Tennent had the look and sound of a man grabbing at a straw.

‘Putting Everett Harrison back at the top of the list,’ Fox said.

‘Only if he knew Simpson was responsible for him being in here in the first place,’ Mulgrew cautioned, ‘and I doubt that’s the sort of thing he’d be likely to admit to us.’

‘Not “us”, no,’ Fox said, ‘but he might well have told someone...’ He turned his attention back to the governor. ‘You’ve an inmate called Bobby Briggs in one of the other halls. He’s pretty close to Harrison, I hear.’

‘And equally unlikely to share with us anything Harrison has said.’

Fox pretended to consider for a moment. ‘Does Briggs ever get visitors?’

‘I would assume so,’ Tennent said.

‘Would there be a list of names? One in particular I’m interested in — Mickey Mason.’

‘I know that name,’ the governor said, eyes narrowing slightly. ‘Comes with a reputation attached.’

Mulgrew was looking at Fox. ‘What’s your thinking, Malcolm?’

‘Just joining the dots, Jason, from inside to outside and back again.’

‘Even supposing Harrison did commit the murder, he still had a knife to get rid of.’

Fox shrugged. ‘Someone smuggled it out for him.’ Tennent looked ready to object, but Fox held up a pacifying hand. ‘Not necessarily a prison officer.’

‘So how do we get to Harrison?’ Mulgrew eventually asked.

‘I’m not sure we can,’ Fox admitted. ‘Anyone who clypes would have a target on their back.’ He turned his attention to the governor. ‘Any chance of a bit of bribery, Howard? Special privileges in exchange for information?’

‘From what you’ve been saying, those privileges would have to include round-the-clock protection from Harrison himself.’

‘You could always request that he be moved to another jail. That might help loosen tongues.’

‘It’s a thought,’ Tennent conceded, folding his arms.

‘The falling-out with Christie gives you the perfect excuse,’ Mulgrew added.

Tennent began to nod his head slowly. ‘Leave it with me,’ he said.

A few minutes later, they wound up the meeting. Fox and Mulgrew walked together towards the exit, led by Tennent’s secretary.

‘Thanks for not saying anything,’ Fox said in an undertone. ‘About me being shipped back to Gartcosh, I mean.’

‘No problem.’

‘And of course there’s no reason for anyone to know I was here.’

‘Did you know about the meeting?’

‘Complete coincidence.’

‘And you were coming to ask about this guy Briggs?’

‘Briggs and Mason, yes.’

‘Not connected to Jackie Simpson’s demise?’

Fox gave another shrug. ‘Is Christine not back in the body of the kirk yet?’

‘It’s imminent.’

‘Any more news from St Leonard’s?’

‘If there is, she’s not been sharing it with me.’

They entered the reception area, the secretary waving them off. Both men retrieved their phones from the lockers.

‘Drink later?’ Fox asked.

‘Aye, maybe,’ Mulgrew said.

They shook hands on it.

As Fox neared his car, he got an incoming text from Stevie Hodge at OCCTU.

Jake Morris is back on our radar. Worth catching up with him?

Leave it with me, Stevie, Fox messaged back.

You sure?

Dead sure. Talk soon.

‘No rest for the wicked,’ he said quietly to himself as he opened the driver’s-side door. Jake Morris: a gun waved in his face, going into hiding, now back in circulation. Worth catching up with him? Most definitely — and without anyone like Stevie Hodge hogging the stage.

21

Having given a promise of best behaviour, Darryl Christie was back on Trinity Hall.

Rebus knew the governor was making a mistake, but two inmates on another hall had had a go at one another with home-made shanks. As a result, Christie’s isolation cell was required. He gave an open-armed grin in Rebus’s direction as he marched into the hall, bouncing on the balls of his feet. There were some whistles and handclaps, none of them appreciated by the scowling Harrison, who had emerged from his cell to watch.

‘Game of pool later, Darryl?’ someone called out.

‘Only if they’ve disinfected that cue,’ Christie shot back. His eyes met Harrison’s and he raised one hand, forming it into a pistol, which he pretended to aim and fire. Harrison stood his ground for a moment before retreating into his cave.

It was a further half hour or so before Christie arrived in Rebus’s doorway. ‘What are you reading?’ he asked.

‘A biography of John Martyn.’

‘He a footballer?’

‘Guitarist.’ Rebus put the book to one side. ‘Bit of a loose cannon in his time, pissed off friends and foes alike. Can’t think who he reminds me of...’

‘Reckon I could pick up some tips?’ Christie’s face grew more serious. ‘How’s the phone? Still plenty of charge?’

‘It’s fine.’

‘That tells me something.’

‘Oh aye?’

‘I might occasionally piss off some of my friends, but at least they’re there to get pissed off. You on the other hand don’t have anyone who’d want to hear from you.’

‘You think you’ve won this round with Hanlon, but there’s a long way to go. If you start getting cocky or complacent—’

‘My guard’s always up,’ Christie interrupted. ‘Same as yours should be. Seen anything of Bobby Briggs lately? He’s always on the lookout for you during free flow.’

Rebus ignored this. ‘It won’t be an airgun next time, Darryl. Hanlon will know he has to ramp things up, especially if you’ve really put a price on his head.’

‘Are you my fucking mum or something?’ Christie was scowling, his good humour all gone.

‘I’m just saying riling Harrison gets you nowhere.’

‘I don’t know about that. Could be I’ve a guardian angel or two looking out for me.’

‘Officers taking your bungs, you mean?’

‘Besides, there’s a recruitment drive under way — out there and in here. If you weren’t such a crock, I might even have asked you.’

‘Gee, thanks.’

Christie gave a twist of his mouth. ‘Better be off — business won’t look after itself.’

‘Who did you put in charge while you were in solitary?’

Rebus’s question was answered when Billy Groam arrived at Christie’s side, Christie resting a hand on his shoulder before leading him away.

Rebus went back to reading his book, but his head wouldn’t let him. It was important to keep up the pretence that the attacks were Shay Hanlon’s work — both to protect Chris Novak and because it kept Christie rattled. But Everett Harrison wouldn’t take much more teasing. He too would be talking to his troops, shoring up their morale and preparing them for a potential war. There were some on the hall who could safely stand on the sidelines, but Rebus knew he wasn’t one of them.

‘Stuck in the middle, John,’ he muttered to himself, ‘just like Gerry Rafferty always said...’

Siobhan Clarke was on the phone to Howdenhall to see how they were getting on with Tommy Simpson, only to be told that Tommy was no longer there.

‘He basically took one look at our set-up and laughed,’ the technician explained.

‘So where is he?’

‘Back at his. Jeff went with him.’

‘Jeff being your computer guy?’

‘Soon as Simpson started detailing his rig, Jeff’s eyes lit up.’

Clarke was resting one elbow on the desk, fingers massaging her forehead. She noticed that Singh and Swinton had their coats on, Swinton carrying a box that she knew would contain recording equipment. Alexander Urquhart was about to be paid a second visit.

‘Have you got a mobile number for Jeff?’

The technician recited it while Clarke copied it onto her writing pad. She ended the call and rang Jeff. When he answered, she could hear explosions in the background.

‘Yes?’ he asked.

‘Jeff, it’s DI Clarke from the Zak Campbell inquiry. Sorry to interrupt your game...’ She listened as Jeff tried to muffle his phone while hissing at Tommy Simpson to turn the volume down. Then he placed the phone back to his ear.

‘Just showing me his system’s capabilities,’ he improvised.

‘I believe there’s a sleeping bag in the vicinity if you’re thinking of pulling a late one.’

‘Sorry,’ he eventually said, sounding sheepish.

‘Pass me over to Tommy, will you?’

Jeff explained who was on the phone and handed it to Tommy, who immediately explained that they’d been working.

‘That’s good,’ Clarke drawled. ‘So what have you got for me?’

‘There’s not a lot you’ve not already accessed.’

‘Well, for a start, there’s Valerio’s real identity.’

‘Whoever they are, they’re pro level. I’d have more luck cracking open MI6. They’re certainly a lot more security-conscious than Zak — he left holes everywhere, despite the lectures I gave him.’

‘So someone could have worked out who he was?’

‘Easy — he had avatars and any number of false names and email accounts, but they all lead back to Zak Campbell.’

‘So our anonymous friend Valerio would have been able to ID him?’

‘Given a few hours’ screen time, yes, definitely.’

‘Anything else before I let you get back to your shoot-’em-up?’

‘I really was just showing Jeff the graphics. He’s putting his jacket on, ready for the off. I’ll pass you back to him.’

But Clarke had already ended the call. She crossed to Esson’s desk. Esson held up a forefinger as she finished typing a message into her phone. Having hit send, she gave Clarke her full attention.

‘I was just going to offer to make you a mug of hot water,’ Clarke said.

‘No spare mugs last time I looked.’

‘Swear to God I’m going to keep a couple locked in my desk drawer.’

Esson’s phone pinged and she checked the screen. ‘Jason Mulgrew again,’ she informed Clarke.

‘Wanting to know when he’ll be seeing you?’

‘He’s after another progress report. You’d think he was in charge of this case rather than his own.’

‘Well, ours has got media traction — gilded footballer, teenage girls...’

‘HMP Edinburgh certainly can’t compete with that. Then again, with Fox out of the game, we really are short of hands. I doubt I’ll be here much longer.’ Esson leaned back in her chair. ‘Are we in danger of getting diverted, do you think?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Tracking down all these clients, checking them out... Jasmine Andrews is still our prime suspect, right? Otherwise why did she run?’

‘We don’t know that she ran,’ Clarke felt it necessary to qualify.

‘What then? She was in the house and the killer took her with him? In which case, we don’t find her until we catch him.’ Esson turned this over in her head, tapping her pen against the edge of her desk.

‘That could get quite annoying after a while,’ Clarke pointed out. Esson clamped the pen in her fist.

‘I wasn’t here at the beginning, back when she was just a misper. You talked to her parents and schoolfriends?’

‘Including her ex, who lives over the back fence.’

‘I can’t believe nobody knew what she’d got herself into.’

‘Someone did mention Jasmine suddenly being flush.’ Clarke paused. ‘Was it Carla?’

‘Carla?’

‘Her bestie.’ But Clarke was shaking her head. ‘No, I think it was the ex. His name’s Craig.’

Esson had transferred the pen to the corner of her mouth. ‘What about this Craig?’

‘An amicable split, instigated by Jasmine.’

‘No resentment?’

‘I think he’s past it.’

‘So she’s not locked away in a cupboard?’

‘Without his parents noticing?’

‘Jasmine’s suddenly got money — we know the source now — and she doesn’t tell anyone, not even her best friend, where it’s coming from?’

Clarke considered this. ‘If she did, Carla wasn’t about to tell us. I did think at the time maybe there was something she was holding back.’

‘You’ve not questioned any of them since the website came to light?’

‘No,’ Clarke admitted. ‘But then nobody else from her school was on Campbell’s books.’ She met Esson’s eyes and narrowed her own. ‘What’s your thinking?’

Esson made show of checking the time on her phone. ‘Schools will be out soon.’

‘Probably best talked to at home, no?’

‘Oh, absolutely. Teenage girls always open up more when their ’rents are in the vicinity.’

‘Sarcasm and pen-tapping? What a catch you are, Christine.’

Esson was smirking as she started shrugging her way into her jacket. Clarke had gone back to her desk to retrieve her bag, phone and keys.

‘You’re never here,’ Cammy Colson complained as she passed him. The rest of the team weren’t about to comment, but they were giving her looks — even Gillian Reeves. Clarke knew what those looks meant: we’re stuck here doing the heavy lifting. She gave the room at large a regal-style wave as she made her exit. Esson went one better, adding a curtsy in the doorway.

22

Rebus was re-shelving books when Megan Keighley appeared at his shoulder and asked a favour.

‘I hope it’s not insensitive,’ she began, ‘but Jackie Simpson had a DVD out on loan. It’s one of those Fast & Furious things with Jason Statham, and there’s a growing waiting list. Mr Statham is very popular.’

‘Can’t say I’ve seen him in anything.’

‘Me neither, yet he seems to earn a crust.’

‘You want me to fetch it?’

‘If it’s still in his cell.’

Rebus thought for a moment. ‘Chances are it’ll have been taken by the scene-of-crime posse, but no reason for them to hang on to it. I’ll see what I can do.’

‘That’s kind of you, John. I did ask Mark Jamieson if he had it, but apparently not.’ A new group of prisoners was arriving, and she went off to serve them. Valerie Watts was the officer in charge. She rewarded Rebus with a slight incline of her chin, after which Rebus’s view of her was blocked by Billy Groam. He was interested in the shelf next to Rebus.

‘Psychology, Billy?’ Rebus commented.

‘Is that what the sign says?’ Groam peered at it. ‘Thought you might have wanted a word with me.’

‘I’ll admit I was surprised. You’re a bit of a dark horse.’

‘I arrived here same time one of his lads was getting out — I suppose that left a vacancy.’

‘So you didn’t know him on the outside?’

Groam shook his head. ‘Though one of his crew drank in one of the places I worked.’ His brow furrowed. ‘I feel a bit bad, actually. There was a guy called Jake Morris used to drink there too. New in town and needed a bit of work, so I introduced him to Darryl’s man. Next thing, he’s doing well for himself — right up until someone stuck a gun in his face. Jake did a runner.’

‘So what’s your deal with Darryl?’

‘While I’m in here, my family’s provided for.’

‘Wife and one kid, right?’

Groam nodded. ‘For the record, I was against you being sprung from SRU. To me, you spelled trouble. But Cafferty was always a thorn in Darryl’s side and you plucked that thorn out. Fair play to you. Just a shame Darryl was locked up in here when it happened — made it harder to capitalise on the fact.’

‘He seems to run his operation pretty well, all things considered.’

‘Until Hanlon came along. City doesn’t have oxygen enough for both of them, John, and Darryl’s team on the outside are short of talent where it counts. Darryl’s itching to have that threat extinguished...’ Groam waited until a prisoner nearby had moved on. ‘Even if it means cooperating with your lot,’ he eventually concluded.

‘Then he should be speaking to Malcolm Fox.’

‘Darryl’s not a grass, though.’

‘Need to hurry it up,’ Valerie Watts called out. ‘Another hall’s on its way.’

‘We’ve hardly been here any time!’ someone complained.

‘Schedule must have got snafu’d.’ It was as much of an apology as Watts was about to issue. Megan Keighley was processing the borrowings as quickly as she could.

‘I need to go help,’ Rebus told Groam.

‘You’ll speak to Fox?’ Groam demanded. ‘You’ve got a phone, so there’s no excuse.’

Rebus moved towards the desk. He was halfway there when the next tranche of prisoners arrived. A figure towards the rear was jostling them, barging them aside. Bobby Briggs’s eyes were wide and staring, flecks of saliva at the corners of his mouth, teeth bared. Rebus looked to left and right, but there was nowhere to go. He had his mouth open, but before he could do any more than that, Briggs was on him. Rebus tried to wrench himself free, but Briggs’s grip was fierce. One of his paws grabbed the back of Rebus’s head, propelling his face into the nearest shelf of books. Tears streamed from Rebus’s eyes and blood from his nose. Briggs’s hand went from Rebus’s head to his throat and started squeezing, while he placed his garlicky mouth next to Rebus’s left ear.

‘Where’s Everett Harrison when you need him, eh?’ he hissed.

Rebus could feel his eyes bulging from their sockets, his heartbeat pounding in his ears. A punch caught him in the kidneys. He clawed at Briggs’s wrist, to no effect whatsoever. Briggs had taken something, and it had given him strength to accompany his rage. Rebus had a sudden flashback to fights he’d had when younger. Christ, he’d even wrestled Big Ger Cafferty when the man had been a mountain. He’d always been a scrapper, but scrapping wasn’t what was required here. This was altogether different. There were voices all around, some egging Briggs on, others warning him to stop. But Briggs was beyond reasoning. The only thing that mattered to him in this moment was Rebus’s ultimate demise. The room started to shimmer at its edges, the figures becoming ghostly.

Groam’s fist caught Briggs squarely on the side of the head. Rebus could almost hear the man’s jaw crack. It took a second identical punch before Briggs relaxed his grip on Rebus and squared up to his new foe.

‘Come on then,’ Groam said, bending slightly at the knees, a boxer’s pose. Watts meantime had sounded the alarm and backup was starting to arrive.

‘Way I hear it, your boy Christie is yesterday’s man!’ Briggs roared at Groam.

‘Enough!’ Watts barked. ‘Unless you like the thought of solitary.’

Briggs stared at her and gave a humourless grin. ‘Those cells are jam-packed, if you didn’t know.’ He was turning back towards Rebus, fists bunching, when Groam dropped him with an uppercut. Briggs buckled and keeled over, his lights extinguished. Rebus watched it all from behind his hands, which were cupped to his nose and filling with bright red blood. His eyesight was still blurry, but he knew a trained fighter when he saw one, and he recalled seeing Groam heading to the showers after gym sessions, T-shirt soaked with sweat, hair dripping. He remembered now: he’d been a doorman rather than bar staff — an enthusiastic doorman at that.

Briggs’s breathing was being checked by a white-shirted officer. Rebus risked a glance in Megan Keighley’s direction, hoping she hadn’t been traumatised, but she looked more excited than anything, one hand at her crucifix, her cheeks flushed as she took shallow gulps of air. She was staring at Billy Groam as if seeing him for the first time. Watts meantime had reached Rebus and was pinching the bridge of his nose between her thumb and forefinger. Someone else produced a clump of paper tissues.

‘We’ve got a gusher,’ a voice called out, as the two groups of prisoners were separated and led out into the hallway. By the time a nurse arrived, Briggs was coming round. Watts had already told Groam to be on his way but prepare for repercussions. He stepped past without Briggs noticing. The nurse was asking Briggs if he was on anything.

‘Adrenalin and stupidity,’ Watts murmured to Rebus by way of answer.

Rebus met her eyes. ‘You talked to Chris yet?’

She just nodded, saying nothing.

‘Everything okay between you?’

A shrug.

A second nurse had arrived. She homed in on Rebus. ‘Let’s have a look at you,’ she said, taking him by his arm. With a prison guard accompanying them, they walked the short distance to the nursing station. Rebus sat on a chair in one of the cubicles while the nurse got gloved up.

‘My prostate’s fine,’ he told her.

‘At your age, I very much doubt that.’ She prodded at his nose and got him to open his mouth wide to check for loose teeth. ‘There’ll be bruising,’ she warned him. ‘Your eyes will probably puff up.’

‘I believe the prescription for that is a juicy steak.’

‘Not so much in here. Your nose isn’t broken and your mouth seems fine.’ She stood back and looked at him. ‘You’re having a day of it — how did it go at the hospital?’

‘Fine, aye.’

‘Funny that, they told me you never arrived. Felt better en route and didn’t want to waste their time — very public-spirited of you.’

‘What can I say?’ Rebus managed a shrug.

‘Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.’

‘What secret?’

‘But you better pray that Chris Novak doesn’t catch on.’

Finally Rebus understood. ‘It wasn’t...’ he started to say, but then realised that a lie might suffice where the truth wouldn’t. ‘That’s very much appreciated,’ he said instead.

‘Valerie’s a good lass. Just maybe that bit too free-and-easy at times.’

‘Could be, aye,’ Rebus said. He got to his feet, somewhat shakily, as the nurse began to peel off the rubber gloves. But then she paused.

‘Maybe you want me to check your...’ She waggled a finger.

‘That’s a smashing offer, but I think I’ll pass.’

‘Would you turn Valerie down as readily, though?’

Rebus felt himself blushing — actually blushing — as he opened the door and made his escape.

23

They waited at the school gates and heard the bell ringing, signalling the end of lessons. A couple of parents waited in their cars for their sons or daughters to emerge.

‘A Volvo and a Range Rover,’ Esson commented. ‘We could do them for sitting on double yellow lines.’

‘These are the people who pay our salaries,’ Clarke reminded her.

The first children to emerge were a boy and a girl, each toting a violin case as well as a backpack. Probably first years, Clarke thought, spindly and awkward and with some way to go before adulthood. When the older ones appeared, they had more surface swagger, the boys keen to be noticed, aiming swipes at each other, chasing and being chased. Several already had their phones out, checking them with urgency. A few of the boys sported the beginnings of facial hair. The girls of similar age huddled and gossiped but looked altogether more grown-up.

‘Can you remember that far back?’ Esson asked, a touch of nostalgia in her voice.

‘I was a swot,’ Clarke answered. ‘Had a few friends but we were all like-minded. Homework before boys. Homework before everything.’

‘My school was party central. Well, the park behind the school was. Even had a bit of woodland you could disappear into with a bottle or a bloke. Had to watch out for the creeps, though — pervs who seemed to be always hanging about. Glad to put it all behind me.’

‘Happiest days of your life, Christine.’

‘I know. It’s such a depressing thought. But at least we didn’t have the internet to deal with — the way it is now, I mean, filled with men like Zak Campbell.’

Clarke watched through the windscreen. ‘Here she comes,’ she announced. Carla was alongside the same friend who’d been seated next to her in the classroom during Clarke’s visit — Stephanie, was it? There was a boy with them, too — Craig Fielding. ‘That’s Jasmine’s ex,’ Clarke told Esson. ‘Lives in a house just behind hers.’

‘Who’s he interested in — Carla or her pal?’

‘The pal, I’d say.’

‘She’s not as bonny, but then he’s hardly catch of the day himself.’

‘Jasmine saw something in him, though her dad’s not a fan.’

‘Fathers and daughters,’ Esson commented. ‘Shall we?’

They unclipped their seat belts in unison, got out of the car and crossed the road. Craig Fielding saw them first and muttered something to the girls. Some kids started making nee-naw noises, mimicking a police siren — they’d obviously been in class that day and remembered Clarke.

‘Lock them up!’ someone yelled from a safe distance, to peals of laughter.

‘Anyone want some weed?’ another joker called out.

Clarke took up position in front of Carla, who averted her eyes. ‘You’re Stephanie, right?’ she asked Carla’s companion. The girl looked to Carla for advice, but none was forthcoming.

‘You don’t have to tell them anything,’ Craig Fielding said in a show of bravado.

‘At least they’re not panicking, Craig,’ Clarke shot back. ‘Did he tell you he tried to outrun a police car? Just a silly wee boy.’ Craig immediately backed down and started shuffling his feet, eyes cast downwards.

‘Yes, I’m Stephanie,’ Carla’s friend admitted.

‘Nice to meet you. Would you mind if we had a word in private with Carla? I’m sure she’ll fill you in later.’

‘What about me?’ Craig asked. Clarke turned towards him.

‘You still here?’ She managed to sound incredulous. Craig took the hint and started walking. Other boys were waiting for him, wanting to know the score. He pulled back his shoulders, ready to put on an act.

‘I’ll message you,’ Carla told Stephanie, who nodded and moved away, albeit with some reluctance.

‘Let’s go sit in the car for a minute, Carla,’ Clarke said. They flanked her as they crossed the street. The nee-naws were rising into the air again. Phones were out, recording the moment for posterity. Clarke opened the rear door and waited till Carla was in before heading around the car and climbing in next to her. Esson got the hint and settled in the driver’s seat, knowing full well that she was really a passenger in this scene.

‘You know what’s interesting, Carla?’ Clarke asked. The girl’s lips were pressed together. She held her backpack on her lap, gripping its handle. ‘What’s interesting — to me at least,’ Clarke continued, ‘is that you never asked us if there’s news or what we’re doing here. That’s what a friend would do, a friend who didn’t know anything.’

‘Is there news?’ Carla blurted out. Clarke eventually smiled.

‘Bit late for that,’ she said.

‘Stephanie and Craig didn’t ask either.’

‘But it’s you we’re talking about here, Carla, Jasmine’s closest friend and confidante, even if she maybe wasn’t yours. We haven’t spoken since news broke of that website. Must have come as a surprise — or maybe not?’

‘Of course it was.’

‘She never said a word, dropped any hints? It’s a hellish big secret to keep.’

Esson had started the car and was moving off. Clarke realised it was because some of Carla’s schoolmates were still filming on their phones.

‘Are we going to the police station?’ Carla asked.

‘We’re just driving,’ Esson informed her. ‘We can drop you home if you like?’

‘We can just drive,’ Carla said.

‘So when you found out what Jasmine was doing online,’ Clarke continued, ‘you must have thought the same as us...’

‘What?’

‘That she killed him and that’s why she ran.’

‘She’s not...’ Carla broke off and bit her bottom lip. Clarke leaned in towards her.

‘You know where she is, don’t you, Carla?’

The girl gave a vigorous shake of the head.

‘She’s a murder suspect, and she’ll remain one until we find her and she talks to us. We will find her, by the way — no one stays hidden for ever. But the sooner we hear her side of the story, the better.’

‘She didn’t do anything.’ The words were spoken so softly, Clarke almost didn’t catch them.

‘You know that for a fact? Because she told you? Meaning you’re in touch with her.’

Now that they were a few streets clear of the school, Esson had pulled over to the side of the road again, watching proceedings on the back seat from the rear-view mirror.

‘Carla,’ Clarke went on, trying to soften her voice, even though a current was coursing through her, ‘the only way we can know for sure that she’s innocent is if she tells us herself.’

‘She could write it all down, no?’

‘Tells us herself,’ Clarke repeated. ‘She’s not been using her debit card for food. We know she had a bit of cash, but that would mean going to a shop or paying a delivery driver. Her photo’s been everywhere for days now — someone would have come forward if they’d seen her. That tells me she’s lying low, protected by a friend or friends.’ She paused. ‘Does Craig know?’

Carla snorted. ‘All Craig knows is that he fancies Steph.’

‘How does Jasmine feel about that?’

‘She’s not bothered. Craig and her were never really...’ She broke off, realising she’d already said too much. ‘I think I’m going to be sick.’

Esson got out of the car and opened the rear door for her. Clarke emerged too, watching as Carla bent forward, hands on her black-stockinged knees, taking gulps of air, producing nothing but some dry heaves. After a few moments she reached into the car and pulled a water bottle from the side pocket of her backpack, taking sips from it.

‘Better?’ Clarke asked. The girl nodded, but there was a sheen of sweat on her forehead.

‘I could tell her to get in touch with you,’ she offered, eyes focused on Clarke.

‘That all takes time, though, and she might say no. You’re her friend, Carla, and she trusts you, but we’re having to depend on you now, too. The running-away has to stop. We have to hear the story from her own mouth. After that, everything will be a lot easier for everybody. So what do you say? I think you know in your heart that it’s time — and it really is time.’ Clarke pressed her palm gently against the shoulder of Carla’s blazer. Carla looked back at her unblinkingly.

‘You offered me a lift home...’

Clarke nodded. ‘And then we’ll go and see Jasmine, yes?’ Carla was still staring at her. Clarke sucked in some breath as the truth struck. ‘She’s at yours? Has been all this time?’ She watched the girl give a slow nod. ‘How did you keep it from your parents, Carla?’

‘You’ll see,’ Carla said, climbing back into the car.

They drove to a semi-detached house in Mayfield. As Esson pulled to the kerb, Clarke was staring at a car already parked there.

‘What the hell?’ she muttered. She started pulling herself out of the back seat, gesturing for Esson to stay with Carla. Fox was out of his car by now, gloved hands clasped in front of him like an undertaker.

‘What the hell’s going on, Malcolm?’

Fox ignored her, looking towards her car. ‘Is that Carla? I wouldn’t mind a word with her.’ He made to move forward, but Clarke pressed her hand solidly against his chest.

‘I asked you what the hell you’re doing here!’

‘Her father works for Christie — didn’t I tell you?’

‘You know damned well you didn’t.’

‘Well he does, and he’s been lying low but now he’s back. Maybe Carla knows where I can find him.’

‘You knew all this and you kept it to yourself, same as you held back from Christine that you knew Jackie Simpson? That’s two big lines you’ve crossed, mister.’

Fox leaned in towards her, holding up one gloved hand, thumb and forefinger almost touching. ‘I’m this close, Siobhan. This close.’

‘And what are we, Malcolm? Your colleagues, I mean — what are we in this great scenario of yours?’

There was no emotion in his eyes as he met hers. ‘Don’t get in my way, Siobhan.’

‘DI Fox,’ she said quietly, ‘if you don’t return to your vehicle and drive away right now, I’m going to have you arrested.’

He gave a snort. ‘For what?’

‘I’ll think of something — obstruction maybe.’

‘You wouldn’t dare.’ But the sneer on his face didn’t stay there long. It was obvious from her eyes that she’d seldom been more serious. To reinforce the point, she was already digging her phone out of her jacket.

‘Right now,’ she repeated, holding it up in front of her.

Fox managed a look of disgust as he backed away, getting into his car and starting the ignition. As his car roared off, Esson and Carla emerged. Clarke looked at Carla.

‘How’s your dad doing?’ she asked.

‘He’s okay.’

‘He’s been away, aye?’

‘For a bit. He’s back now.’

‘Not at home right now, though?’

Carla just shrugged, so Clarke gestured towards the house. Carla led the way, unlocking the door and calling out. There was no answer. The interior was tidy and homely, IKEA furnishings everywhere and a blown-up photograph of the family on one wall.

‘Dad’s idea,’ she explained. ‘Mum and me hate it.’ She sloughed off her blazer and dropped her bag on the floor. Clarke and Esson followed her through the living room and dining area into the kitchen. She seemed distracted, maybe having second thoughts.

‘We’re here now,’ Clarke said quietly. Esson was gazing through the window, her attention on a shed behind the garage. But after a few more seconds, Carla led them back into the front hall and began climbing the stairs to the upper floor. She stopped on the landing and pressed what looked like a light switch. A section of the ceiling began to open with a motorised hum, a ladder descending.

‘Dad cleared it out years ago so I could have it as a playroom,’ she explained. Then she started to climb, Clarke and Esson following.

The attic space had been floored, and large Velux windows installed. There was heating and a thick carpet, plus a sofa, computer desk, games console and TV. The posters on the walls showed Asian pop stars, just as in Jasmine’s bedroom. Clarke noted the duvet draped along the sofa. A waste-paper bin was stuffed with used fast-food cartons, drinks cans and crisp bags. Carla looked around, saying nothing. She turned to Clarke for help, so Clarke cleared her throat.

‘Jasmine,’ she said, ‘my name’s Siobhan. I’m from the police and I really want to help you if you’ll let me.’ They waited, holding their breath, until they heard a noise from behind the sofa. Jasmine Andrews had wedged herself there and was now rising tentatively to her feet.

‘Hi there, Jasmine,’ Clarke said. The smile that accompanied her words was wide and genuine. But Jasmine was looking at her friend. And when tears started falling from her eyes, Carla began bawling too.

24

The child protection officer was called Terence Hayes. He sat alongside Jasmine in the interview room while her parents waited outside. Their reunion had been emotional, though some anger seemed to be simmering just below the surface of both wife and husband. The mood in the MIT office had been buzzy when Clarke and Esson arrived with Jasmine.

‘Long way still to go,’ Clarke warned Gillian Reeves. ‘Make sure everyone gets the message.’

Hayes had asked for a couple of minutes alone with Jasmine. The DCI had offered the parents his office, telling them it was ‘just a bit more comfortable’. Clarke caught his eye and nodded, knowing Helena and James Andrews were being kept out of the way.

When Hayes announced that they were ready, Esson and Clarke entered the interview room and started the recording. Once preliminaries had been dispensed with, Clarke took a moment to clear her head. She hadn’t brought any of the paperwork with her. Esson had a small blank notepad in front of her and was holding a ballpoint pen. Probably nothing was going to put Jasmine at ease, but they were trying their best. Her blonde hair had been washed recently and her clothes were clean, though she looked awkward in them. Clarke guessed they belonged to Carla.

‘You did well to hide for as long as you did,’ Clarke began. ‘Can’t have been easy.’

‘Carla looked after me.’

‘How did you manage to use the bathroom?’

‘Waited till her parents were out.’

‘What made you do it in the first place, Jasmine?’

‘Hide, you mean? Or the other thing?’

Clarke found herself swallowing, her throat dry. ‘What other thing?’

‘Letting Zak film me.’

She gave a slow exhalation. ‘How did you get to know him?’

‘Online. He liked the TikToks that Carla and me did. We started messaging on Snapchat.’

‘Did you know how old he was back then?’ Clarke watched Jasmine nod.

‘First time I went to his house, he took some photos in the living room. On his phone, I mean, some of the two of us and some just of me. He said I was like a model.’ She raised her chin, but then dropped it again. ‘Second time I went, he was busy in his studio.’

‘Meaning the spare bedroom?’

‘When the girl left, he told me all about it. Then he showed me the pictures on his site. Good money, he said. We had a drink and a smoke, but nothing else happened. Third time I went...’ Her voice trailed off and she reached for the glass in front of her. Having swallowed some water, she spoke again. ‘I didn’t want to let him down.’ She used the sleeve of her jumper to wipe a tear from her cheek. Hayes produced an unopened packet of tissues, which she took from him. The room remained silent until she was ready. ‘Then that one time I turned up at the house... He knew I was coming, but he didn’t answer the door. And when I went to see if the back door was maybe unlocked, I saw him through the window... lying there in the kitchen in all that blood. I just freaked.’

‘And ran to Carla’s?’ Clarke asked. ‘Why not go home?’

‘To my mum? Fat chance. Tell her what I’d been doing at Zak’s? Besides, we’d had a falling-out.’

‘Oh?’

‘Over her and Craig.’

‘Craig Fielding?’

‘She couldn’t bear the thought of him fancying me. She was always hovering, getting his attention — at her age. “Mrs Robinson”, Dad calls her — that’s from some old film. Drives him mad as well. And Craig fucking fell for it.’

It suddenly made sense to Clarke — Fielding asking after Jasmine’s mum. She remembered him saying something like Helena must be worried sick. Not just the genuine concern, but the casual use of her first name. She should have seen it at the time. And then Craig visiting the house after Jasmine’s disappearance... She knew now why James Andrews had attacked the boy.

‘Zak would have sent Mum tonto,’ Jasmine went on. ‘And if not her, then Dad.’ She broke off and looked at both detectives in turn. ‘And I couldn’t go to the police, could I? Not without you asking what I was doing there in the first place. Besides, somebody’d killed Zak — maybe I was on their list too. Carla eventually told me I was being stupid, but by then I’d made my little nest at hers. I was happy enough there.’ She had finished her water and shook her head when Hayes suggested a refill.

‘Who do you think killed Zak, Jasmine?’ Clarke asked.

‘No idea.’

‘Did you know any of the people who used his website?’

‘God, no.’

‘So the name Valerio doesn’t mean anything to you? He’s one of Zak’s customers.’

‘I know the name. He... watched me a few times.’

‘No actual interaction, though?’ Clarke watched the girl shake her head. ‘What can you tell us about him?’

‘He always wanted... more. Zak sat at the camera and computer. He’d monitor what was being asked. I’d see him shake his head if he didn’t like it. Valerio was willing to pay, but Zak said no.’ She paused. ‘This Valerio — he’ll be in the black book, won’t he?’

Clarke’s eyes narrowed. ‘What black book?’

‘Zak kept it in his pocket — used to take it out and wave it about, saying my head would melt if I knew who was in it. He kept teasing, but I don’t think he ever showed it to anyone.’

Clarke made eye contact with Esson: no book, black or otherwise, had been found on Zak Campbell’s body, or anywhere else for that matter.

‘You met some of the other models, didn’t you?’ Esson asked Jasmine.

‘Zak threw a few parties. I know some of them did twosomes for him, but I didn’t want that and he never pushed it. That was the thing, he wasn’t pushy. You felt like you were the one in charge.’ She paused. ‘But he was a prick, wasn’t he? A complete fucking scumbag.’

‘Maybe one of the other models came to that realisation a while back,’ Esson commented.

‘And killed him? I can’t think of any of them who’d have done that.’

‘You did confide in Carla, though,’ Clarke said. ‘You know who her dad is?’

‘He’s hardly ever around. I know he has shouting matches with Carla’s mum after a drink — no surprises there.’ Her eyes met Clarke’s. ‘He’s some sort of gangster, isn’t he?’

‘Do you think Carla could have told him about Zak?’

‘She promised not to tell a soul.’

‘How about Marcus Simpson? He had a falling-out with Zak, didn’t he?’

Jasmine shrugged. ‘Zak never said anything about that. I only met Marcus one time, I think...’ She paused again. ‘My mum and dad are raging, aren’t they?’

‘I’ll explain things to them if you like?’

Clarke watched the girl nod. Esson seemed to have nothing to add. Hayes looked from one detective to the other.

‘We’re done here?’ he guessed.

‘For now, though we’ll need prints and a swab.’

A look of alarm flitted across Jasmine’s face. ‘Nothing to worry about,’ Hayes tried to assure her. Jasmine was wiping away more tears as they got to their feet. Clarke reckoned she knew what the girl was seeing and would continue to see for months, maybe even years to come.

A kitchen floor.

A body lying there.

And blood, copious amounts of blood...

Journalists had gathered outside the station, so Jasmine and her parents were taken home in an unmarked van that had benches in the rear but no windows. Esson started whistling ‘Mrs Robinson’ as she watched.

‘Subtle,’ Clarke said as she started checking her phone. She had a dozen missed calls and as many messages from Laura Smith. She walked over to where Esson had just started filling in Reeves and Colson.

‘We need to ask Carla if she told her dad,’ she said to the group.

‘I can do that,’ Esson replied.

‘What about this black book?’ Reeves asked. ‘If the killer took it...’

‘It was to stop anyone else having it,’ Clarke said, nodding. ‘It also means whoever has it has access to the sextortion list. We need to check if anyone’s contacted the likes of Urquhart, trying to restart the scheme.’

‘You think that’s why it was taken?’

‘It’s one scenario.’

‘But not the most obvious.’

‘No,’ Clarke conceded. She stepped away from the huddle and called Marcus Simpson.

‘I need to ask you something,’ she said when he answered. ‘Did you ever see Zak with a little black book?’

‘That thing? Sort of like a diary? Aye, he always had it on him.’

‘Did he say what it was?’

‘Names and numbers, that’s what he told me — not that I ever saw him open it up. Could’ve been blank pages for all I know.’

‘Thanks,’ Clarke said, ending the call. She watched DCI Carmichael walk in her direction.

‘Well, that’s at least one happy ending,’ he said.

‘Maybe.’ Thinking back to what Jasmine had gone through and the home awaiting her, she wasn’t so sure.

‘But I’m here to give you a strong reprimand — you and Christine both.’ He folded his arms. ‘The Fiscal’s not happy at you grabbing a schoolgirl off the street and grilling her in your car.’

‘We just had a couple of casual questions — didn’t feel the need to make it formal.’ Clarke had already rehearsed with Esson what to say when they were asked. ‘Once she was relaxed, she opened up to us, no grilling required. In fact, in an interview room, surrounded by adults, I’m not sure she’d have told us much of anything.’ She paused. ‘Besides, it got us Jasmine, safe and sound, didn’t it?’

‘No denying that.’

‘So the Fiscal might not be happy, but how about you, Bryan?’

Carmichael leaned in towards her and lowered his voice. ‘I’m over the bloody moon, Siobhan — and I couldn’t be prouder of you.’

‘In which case,’ Clarke said, looking past his shoulder, ‘you can do me a favour.’

‘Name it.’

She took a step back and nodded towards the figure who had appeared in the doorway. ‘Get rid of that ghoul.’

Fox had spotted Clarke and was zeroing in on her. ‘I need access to Jasmine,’ he stated. ‘To both girls, actually.’

Clarke held a hand out towards her boss. ‘DCI Carmichael, I think you know DI Malcolm Fox?’

Fox took his eyes off her long enough to grace Carmichael with the curtest of nods.

‘OCCTU have been investigating Darryl Christie’s various dealings for many months — a lot of money and man-hours expended. Carla’s father is part of Christie’s gang and was targeted recently by persons unknown. We need information on who might be behind that attack.’ His words were aimed at Carmichael, but his focus remained fixed on Clarke.

‘So talk to the father,’ Carmichael said.

But Fox was shaking his head. ‘He’s a criminal — he’s hardly likely to tell us anything. When he was safe and secure inside his own home, that’s when he’d have opened up — and those girls could well have heard something. Either the adults talking, or a telephone conversation, maybe another gang member visiting...’

‘This can be dealt with in due course,’ Carmichael stated coldly. ‘But right now we have a murder inquiry on our hands, and Carla and Jasmine are crucial to it. Once things are on an even keel...’

Fox glowered at him. ‘Listen to yourself, man! An even keel? Scotland’s been holed beneath the waterline. Whole communities are in danger of drowning. I tend to think that takes priority over someone whacking a cut-price pimp!’

Carmichael stared at Fox, the silence between the two men lengthening. ‘Your boss at Gartcosh is Phil Pratchett, yes?’

‘Detective Chief Superintendent Pratchett,’ Fox said.

‘Phil and I go back a ways — I assume you have his blessing for this ram raid of yours?’

‘Hardly a ram raid.’ Fox shuffled his feet, eyes on the floor.

‘Does he know or doesn’t he?’

‘In an operation like this, parameters have a way of widening suddenly.’

‘I’m not sure even you know what you mean by that — it just sounds good to your ears.’ Colour was creeping up Fox’s neck. ‘I think the best thing you can do right now, DI Fox, is go back to OCCTU and let us get on with our job without interference. Find another way of tackling Christie and his kind — maybe even try the gloves-off approach.’

Fox was still wearing his leather driving gloves. He flexed a hand, eyes on Clarke.

‘I thought that’s what I was doing,’ he said. ‘With precious little help from my supposed colleagues in this city.’

‘I look forward to reading your complaint,’ Carmichael said. ‘Don’t let me detain you from writing and submitting it. Meantime I’ll be talking to your chief super. Goodbye now.’

He made a sweeping motion with one hand. Realising that the whole office was now watching, Fox sniffed, turned and made his exit.

‘Was that good enough for you, Siobhan?’ Carmichael asked as soon as he was out of sight.

‘Just about perfect, I’d say.’

‘So now we can get back to the main business of solving our case?’

‘Absolutely, sir,’ Clarke said. ‘With pleasure.’

After bang-up that evening, Rebus called Christine Esson. It wasn’t easy seeing the numbers through eyes reduced to slits by the violence earlier. He felt light-headed, and his heart rate was failing to come down. Without Billy Groam, his knight in shining tracksuit, he reckoned he’d have been a goner. He knew too that Bobby Briggs would never be appeased, meaning Rebus would have to be even warier than usual, his guard up until one of them was no longer inside.

‘News travels fast,’ Esson told him when she answered the call.

‘What news?’

‘Jasmine Andrews. She’s back with her family.’

‘I hadn’t heard.’

‘So why are you phoning?’

‘I need Fox’s number.’

‘I already gave it to you.’

‘And I thought I had it memorised — stuff happens.’

‘We found out that Jackie Simpson was Fox’s guy.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Before he got himself arrested, he was Fox’s snitch. Malcolm Fox is the reason he broke into that nail bar in the first place, so Fox had an excuse to go in there looking for anything incriminating to do with Hanlon.’

‘He hit the jackpot.’

‘But Fox couldn’t stop Simpson going to jail.’

‘Where he ended up dangerously close to Everett Harrison.’ Rebus thought for a moment. ‘That reminds me,’ he said eventually, ‘if the lab’s done with the Fast & Furious DVD, any chance of it coming back? I told the librarian I’d ask.’

‘Don’t see why not, but it might be a lowish priority.’

‘How come you’re not out celebrating the misper turning up?’ he asked.

‘Because Zak Campbell’s killer still needs to be caught.’

‘And Jackie Simpson’s too,’ Rebus reminded her.

‘That goes without saying.’

‘Doesn’t sound like you’re getting very far with it.’

‘We do seem to have hit a wall,’ she confessed. ‘I’m hoping our man on the inside might have better luck.’

‘Your man on the inside’s hit a wall too, Christine.’ He probed at his aching nose. ‘So the missing girl didn’t kill the pornographer?’

‘We don’t think so.’

‘That narrows your list of suspects then.’

‘Small mercies, John,’ Esson said, reciting Fox’s number and bringing the call to an end.

He had the same difficulty with Fox’s number. Plus the phone only had about fifteen per cent charge left.

‘What do you want?’ Fox barked.

‘I’m phoning on behalf of the Jackie Simpson Memorial Fund. Thought you might be minded to make a substantial contribution.’

‘You’re a prick, John.’

‘And you sound like you’re still at your desk. Got other lives to ruin, I suppose?’

‘I did what I could for Jackie.’

‘Did you, aye? Because my guess is you were pleased as punch when he ended up in the same hall as Darryl Christie and Everett Harrison. How did he get his reports to you?’

‘Those little booths they have for video calls.’

He was so quick to reveal this, Rebus knew it was because he reckoned it ingenious and therefore worth sharing.

‘Any of the staff here know what was going on?’

‘Far as anyone knew, I was Jackie’s solicitor. Well, obviously the governor had to be in the loop, but no one else. And you’re right — I am still at work, more determined than ever to get some justice for Jackie.’

‘Well, I might have some news for you. Darryl Christie isn’t quite ready to step into the dead man’s shoes, but he says he’ll cooperate with you if it will bring Hanlon crashing down.’

‘I’m not convinced Hanlon has anything to do with it, John — not directly.’

‘Oh?’ Rebus was trying to work out how Fox could have identified Chris Novak.

‘I’m coming around to the idea of Mickey Mason. He got out of the Bar-L a few weeks back — the timing clicks almost exactly.’

‘Mason’s muscling in on Edinburgh?’ Rebus hoped the relief didn’t show in his voice.

‘In cahoots with Hanlon. Think about it: Hanlon needs someone on the ground. Mason is pals with Bobby Briggs. Briggs has regular chinwags with Harrison — that’s how the two bosses communicate. In Glasgow Mason pushed more ketamine than a vets’ school — and right now Edinburgh’s awash with it.’

‘You’ve got it all figured out, Malcolm,’ Rebus said, trying to sound impressed. He was about to muse on why Mason might be using a motorcyclist with a Liverpool accent, but he didn’t want Fox jumping to anything but wrong conclusions. ‘So you’ve got eyes and ears on Mason?’

‘Not yet. I’m trying to convince my boss.’

‘If anyone can do it, you can.’

‘So maybe I won’t have much need of your chum Darryl.’

‘He seems blissfully unaware of Mason’s involvement.’

‘Let’s keep it that way — I’d like to get Mason before Christie does something stupid.’

‘I won’t say a word.’ Rebus pressed an exploratory finger against one of his puffed-up eyelids.

‘But I do appreciate you taking the trouble to call me.’

‘I’ll let you get back to the grindstone, Malcolm.’

‘One last thing, John.’

‘Yes?’

‘I said that I’ve got Mason in my sights, but I’m ruling nothing out. If not Mason, then Hanlon direct, and if not Hanlon...’

‘Who?’ Rebus felt his chest tightening a little.

‘Think about all the enemies Christie’s made. Someone might have thought it was time for a bit of vigilante justice.’

‘I’m not sure I understand,’ Rebus said, understanding only too well.

‘A lone wolf, someone with a grudge.’

‘Unlikely, I’d have thought.’

‘They’d need help, of course — to track Christie’s men. But a few quid slipped to the right people...’

‘I don’t know, Malcolm, the way Everett Harrison acts...’

‘And how exactly is that?’

‘Like he knows precisely what’s going on.’

There was silence on the line. ‘You’re keeping something from me, John — what is it?’

‘I’m telling you everything I know.’

‘And why would that be, when you’ve always hated my guts?’

‘I just think you’re in danger of taking a wrong turning.’

‘Or maybe a right one, eh? Is that what’s worrying you?’

Rebus was still trying to think of some convincing line to spin when he realised Fox had hung up on him. He cursed under his breath as he clambered from the toilet pan. So the governor knew that Jackie Simpson had been reporting to Fox. Rebus speculated about that for a minute or two as he lay on his narrow bed, hands clasped behind his head. And Fox wasn’t ruling out the lone wolf theory — a theory that, taken to its conclusion, would bring Darryl Christie down on Chris Novak’s head. Along the hall, someone was singing behind their cell door. It sounded like ‘Hurt’. Rebus knew Johnny Cash didn’t write it, but it was Cash’s version he liked. He recited the words silently until a mix of pleading and angry voices stilled the singer.

Folsom Prison to San Quentin to Saughton.

Quite the journey.

‘Are you driving?’ Fox asked Jason Mulgrew when his call was connected.

‘I promised Christine a gin and tonic. Everything okay with you, Malcolm?’

‘I don’t suppose there’s any news from the prison?’

‘What do you think?’ Fox heard Mulgrew give a heavy sigh.

‘Can I let you in on a secret?’ he asked.

‘Of course.’

‘I visited Carla’s home — Jasmine’s best friend. Took an OCCTU colleague with me. We were looking to speak to Carla’s dad. He works for Christie, but someone stuck a gun in his face and he went into hiding. But here’s the thing — while Carla’s mum was lying through her teeth about the father’s whereabouts, Jasmine was already ensconced in the attic. How crazy is that?’

‘There was no way you could have known — I assume the mum had no idea?’

‘How am I supposed to answer that when they won’t let me talk to Carla?’

‘Siobhan Clarke’s warned you off?’

‘She got her boss to do her dirty work for her.’

‘What’s your thinking?’

‘Carla’s parents might have let anything slip during their various chats. Anyone in the house could have heard. Could be stuff about Christie, the gunman, Harrison or Hanlon...’

‘Or even Simpson’s murder, if there’s a Christie connection.’

‘See, that’s what I’m thinking, Jason. If the request to interview the girls came from the Simpson inquiry...’

‘You think I’m likely to have any more luck than you?’

‘You could hardly do worse. Maybe pitch it to your DCI, see what she thinks.’

‘You’re tenacious, Malcolm, I’ll give you that. Shall I pass on your best to Christine?’

‘Might be better not to mention me at all.’

‘Understood.’

‘And Jason? Only soft drinks if you’re driving afterwards. Wouldn’t want you failing a breath test...’

Christine Esson had a G and T in front of her when Mulgrew walked into the bar. It was actually her second, but he wasn’t to know that. A pint, with plenty of life still in it, sat on a coaster waiting for him.

‘Thought we agreed this was my shout,’ he said, settling next to her.

‘Second round’s yours.’ She leaned back and exhaled.

‘You’ve had a pretty good day,’ he said, hoisting his glass in a toast.

‘Only because Carla was bursting to tell someone.’

‘Incredible they could keep Jasmine hidden.’

‘It maybe helped that the father was elsewhere.’

‘He works for Darryl Christie, yes?’

Esson nodded and lifted her glass.

‘See, that’s interesting from a Jackie Simpson perspective.’

Esson stared at him. ‘Are you sure you don’t mean a Darryl Christie perspective? This you doing Fox’s work for him, Jason?’

‘Simpson is our case, Christine — maybe you’ve been forgetting that?’

She decided to allow him this. He lifted his own drink and took a sip. She didn’t think he was planning on finishing it. Safety first; clear head — Fox again.

‘So Jasmine is back with her family,’ he commented, ‘but nothing to suggest she’s the killer?’

‘There’s a client called Valerio. We could do with pinning him down.’

‘Like valerian, the plant? Or Valerie Watts?’

‘Or a hundred other permutations. See, Zak Campbell’s blackmail scheme could have backfired on him. There’s a missing book, a sort of diary with names and details.’ Esson paused. ‘Actually, we don’t know what’s in it, if anything.’ She began to deflate a little, compensating with one more mouthful of gin.

‘You want to stick with this to the bitter end, don’t you?’ he asked quietly.

‘If Mae McGovern will let me.’

‘I really doubt she will. You don’t know the pressure she’s under.’

‘Her and every other cop in this city.’

Mulgrew was looking at her. ‘You need an early night, Christine.’

‘Some women would read that as a chat-up.’ She saw his face change. ‘Don’t worry — I know Zara Shah’s more your type.’ He seemed ready to protest, but Esson lifted a hand, palm towards him. ‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘When I came in here, I intended having three or four, but I think I’m done. I was about to apologise, but you’re not really in the mood either, are you?’

They both studied his barely touched pint.

‘Another time, DS Esson?’ he said.

‘Another time, DI Mulgrew,’ she replied.