Midnight and Blue

25

After breakfast, Rebus visited Everett Harrison in his cell.

‘What the hell do you want, Rocky?’ Harrison growled.

‘Just a bit of clarity. Did you know who Jackie Simpson was? Why he was inside, I mean?’

‘Breaking and entering, as per.’

‘It was your nail bar he went into, though, the one with the stash in the back room.’

‘You’re shitting me.’

Rebus shook his head. ‘You didn’t know until now?’

‘No.’

‘And if you had known?’

‘I’d have ripped his throat out.’

‘Exactly.’

‘But I didn’t.’ Harrison scratched a hand across his jawline. ‘So was it a coincidence or what?’

‘No coincidence. Police knew your boss had trafficked stuff to that location. They wanted to search it for proof.’

‘Simpson was working for your lot? That’s what you’re saying? Well they’re not getting me for stiffing him — go tell them that.’

‘So if not you and not Novak...’

‘Who says it wasn’t Novak?’

‘I do.’

‘You sure about that?’

Rebus gave a nod. ‘One more thing,’ he said. ‘Does your boss know Darryl’s put a hit out on him, money no object?’

‘Yeah, right,’ Harrison sneered. ‘You think Christie’s reach stretches more than half a mile beyond the city bypass, never mind halfway round the world?’

‘Hanlon really isn’t interested in Edinburgh, despite the dope haul that put you in here?’

‘Because of the dope haul that put me in here,’ Harrison corrected him. ‘Shay wants cities with a big enough market to make the occasional bust worthwhile — turns out Edinburgh’s not worth the hassle.’

‘Even so, doesn’t do any harm to make Christie think he has competition.’

‘He obviously has got competition — pistol-packing biker’s proof of that. Local scrotes, though, if you ask me. That’s just about the level of threat Darryl Christie merits.’ Harrison broke off as Kyle Jacobs appeared in the doorway.

‘Change your top, John, you’ve got a visitor.’

‘He’s a popular fellow, is our Rocky,’ Harrison commented as Rebus was led away.

Siobhan Clarke was waiting at one of the tables when he arrived. There were other prisoners present, catching up with family. A couple of kids played in the corner set aside for them. Rebus checked out each prisoner’s face. He didn’t know any of them.

‘What happened to you?’ Clarke said, eyes widening.

‘I tripped on the stairs. Remember the good old days when a lot of suspects did that on their way from the interview room to the cells?’

‘Before my time, thankfully.’

‘Anyway, what brings you here?’

She had turned her head towards the visitors’ door. ‘I had a surprise, but now...’ She got to her feet and headed to the exit, opening the door and stepping through. A couple of minutes later she reappeared, bringing Samantha with her. The two women sat down opposite him.

‘What’s going on?’ he demanded.

‘We brought Carrie,’ Samatha explained, studying the damage to his face. ‘Siobhan’s right, though — can’t let her see you in this state. What the hell happened, Dad?’

‘I got in a fight — and yes, you should see the other guy.’ Rebus was peering as best he could in the direction of the door. ‘Where is she?’

‘An officer is keeping an eye on her.’

‘Maybe I should go sit with her?’ Clarke gestured towards the door and Samantha gave a grateful nod. Father and daughter watched her leave.

‘You look as gorgeous as ever,’ he eventually said. He could see that she’d made an effort, while recognising that a prison wasn’t a catwalk. Muted shades but her clothes looked new-bought. ‘How’s Carrie doing?’

‘She misses you.’

‘And Brillo?’

‘Ditto, though he’s fallen big-time for your granddaughter.’

‘You know I don’t want her seeing me in here. Because then she could never unsee it — if that makes sense.’

‘You’re still her grandad. None of this changes that.’ She handed him a folded sheet of paper. Carrie had drawn Brillo and her.

‘She’s got talent,’ Rebus said.

‘She really has. Loves going to galleries, too.’

He nodded towards the door Clarke had exited through. ‘Was this her idea or yours?’

‘Mutually agreed.’ Samantha reached across the table and gave his hand a squeeze. ‘She really does want to see you, and none of this would faze her.’ She swept the room with one hand. ‘Maybe once your face heals, eh?’

‘Maybe,’ Rebus conceded.

‘Fancy a drink or something?’ She nodded towards the row of vending machines.

‘Maybe a Highland Park with a splash.’ He shook his head. ‘No, I’m fine.’

‘Any news from the lawyers?’

Another shake of the head. ‘Bastards are avoiding me. So do me a favour and take my mind off it — tell me about you and Carrie...’

As she spoke, Rebus felt as though a weight was being lifted from him. But with five or so minutes left, Clarke came back and asked if she could have a quick chat with ‘the old man’. With a final hug and kiss, Samantha headed for the door. Clarke sat down and met his eyes.

‘I screwed up, John, and I’m sorry. But I did it with the best of intentions.’

‘What did you tell Carrie?’

‘That you’re not feeling a hundred per cent but you’ll be better soon and she can come see you then. Okay?’

‘Aye, maybe.’

‘Anyway, I forgot to say — Christine told me to tell you that the lab are done with the DVD box, so it’s on its way back.’

‘Box? No actual disc?’

‘Just the box.’

‘Someone nicked a Jason Statham film?’

‘Well, he’s very popular.’

‘So everybody keeps telling me.’ He met her eyes. ‘Good work getting Jasmine back.’

‘I’m not sure it takes us any closer to Zak’s killer. There’s one name we’re having trouble identifying — Valerio.’

‘Like the song?’

She spelled it for him.

Rebus nodded. ‘“The Great Valerio” — I think he’s a tightrope-walker. It’s Richard and Linda Thompson. Are you telling me you don’t know the Bright Lights album?’

‘It’s also a hairdresser’s and a chip shop — none of which have been much help.’

‘I could sing it to you if you like?’

‘What a pity visiting time is up,’ she said with a smile.

He gave her a brief hug as they stood. She leaned back to study his face.

‘Not angry?’ she asked.

‘I’m always angry, Siobhan — it keeps the fire lit.’

‘You’re too old to be fighting, John.’

‘This was more by way of a surprise attack. I’ll be ready for him next time.’

‘That shovel’s looking more and more essential.’

‘Maybe change the order to a sledgehammer.’

‘Carried under my coat?’

‘Why not?’

‘Then it’s a done deal.’ She gave him another hug and was gone.

On the way back to the hall, Jacobs seemed to want to talk, but Rebus stayed quiet until the message got through. When he reached his cell, he decided to risk a daytime phone call, hoping the battery would last. It was to a number he knew by heart, but the secretary told him that his solicitor wasn’t available and would have to get back to him later in the day.

‘Is there a message I can pass on?’ she asked.

‘There certainly is,’ Rebus told her. ‘I want out of here as soon as humanly possible, though quicker than that would be preferable. So if your lazy-arsed boss could take my case off the back burner and get some proper heat under it, I’d be grateful. That’s what I thought I was paying you for, after all.’ He paused. ‘Need me to repeat any of that for you?’

‘I think I caught the gist.’

‘I reckoned you might.’

He ended the call. The battery level had dropped yet again. Well, he was damned if he was going to ask Christie for a top-up. He knew there’d be a price to pay, and that price, whatever it was, would be far too steep.

Clarke was seated at her desk with the lyrics of the song displayed on her computer screen when her phone buzzed: Jason Mulgrew.

‘What can I do for you, Jason?’ she asked, pinching the bridge of her nose.

‘I just thought I’d reach out, Siobhan. Christine’s about to be summoned back to base, but I’m hoping you’ll still feel able to keep us in the loop.’

‘Even though there’s no connection between my case and yours?’

‘I think we can agree there’s some connective tissue.’

‘Well, I’ll keep that in mind. How’s Fox, by the way? I take it he stays in touch from Gartcosh?’

‘He’s a pro, Siobhan. I appreciate that you and Christine might have a different take on him, but we’re all trying to get to the same place.’

‘A word of caution, Jason. Malcolm Fox is your ally only for as long as you have something he needs. He kept crucial intelligence back from your inquiry because he hates to share. Everything he does, he does for himself and himself alone. In my books, that’s the opposite of a pro.’

‘You’re not exactly objective, though, are you?’

‘Because I refused the role of his protégée, you mean? Do I really come across to you as being so small-minded?’

‘I’m not saying that.’

‘Look, I’ve said my piece. You’re a big boy, and if you want to dance with him, feel free. But it’ll be his steps, his tune and him who decides when the music stops.’

‘I’m not much of a dancer, though.’ Mulgrew paused. ‘You’ll keep us posted on any progress? If not for my sake, then for Christine?’

‘Goodbye, Jason,’ Clarke said. Having ended the call, she got the song up on her phone and found her earbuds in a drawer of the desk. Then she hit play and listened.

When Esson walked up behind Clarke, she saw that she had her earbuds in and was staring at what looked like a poem on her computer. Realising she had company, Clarke yanked one of the buds out.

‘It’s a song by Richard and Linda Thompson,’ she started to explain. ‘Valerio is a high-wire act in a circus.’ She offered Esson the free bud and put the song on again, the pair of them studying the lyrics.

‘Mr Thompson,’ Clarke said, ‘was in a band called Fairport Convention. He still plays, as does Linda. They split as a couple a while back.’

‘I’m sure Jason’s mentioned them. He likes all that folkie stuff. I told him once he and Rebus were made for each other.’

‘It was John who put me on to the song.’

Esson was still reading the lyrics. ‘So he has a safety net, but it’s not really needed because he’s so good, and everyone down below is craning their necks in awe of him. Does that get us anywhere?’

‘I’m not sure. Jason was just on the phone, actually — I should have mentioned the song to him.’

‘What did he want?’

‘Kept in the loop, especially once you’re back at Gayfield Square.’

‘Jesus, he never gives up.’

‘He wouldn’t happen to be a whizz with computers too, by any chance?’

Esson thought for a second. ‘He is actually.’

Clarke looked at her. ‘I was joking.’

‘Naturally.’ Esson got up after a moment and paced back to her own desk as though walking a tightrope. She sat there for a while, oblivious to the bustle around her, thinking of the plaintive song and the music Mulgrew always seemed to have on in his car; the way he had reached around her at her desk and with a few keystrokes got her computer working. He’d done the same for Zara Shah, too, impressing her with his command of IT jargon.

Valerio: the high-wire act...

Then there was the way he’d acted at the murder scene, forgetting to put his hood up before they entered the kitchen, adding potential contamination to the locus. Jason: so meticulous and careful, always prepared, getting everything right — except that one time, Haj Atwal chiding him for his mistake.

Valerio: so different from the crowd far below...

She remembered his annoyance at missing out on attachment to the Campbell murder, the way he kept pestering her for updates and news.

And when she’d mentioned the name Valerio to him, he’d blanked it. A name he should have recognised, just as John Rebus had...

No. Nope. Nah. She shook her head as if to wipe the marker board clean.

She tried working for a while but just couldn’t focus. So she switched gears and pulled up the CCTV footage from the major routes around Zak Campbell’s neighbourhood. One of the team had been through it all and added a list of vehicle makes and any legible registration numbers.

It only took her ten minutes to find Jason’s silver Audi, caught on camera half a mile from Campbell’s house on the same evening as the murder. She tapped her pen against the edge of her desk until the looks from her colleagues made her stop. She had pulled up ‘The Great Valerio’ lyrics so she could read them again for herself. Then she googled the musicians. Wikipedia led her into a sixties and seventies music scene filled with artists Mulgrew had mentioned or whose songs he played in the office and car. When her phone trilled, Jason’s name came up. She almost didn’t answer, but eventually relented.

You’re being stupid, she told herself. Working too hard, seeing things that aren’t there...

‘Hey, Jason,’ she said, realising at once how fake her tone sounded — too bright and breezy by far.

‘Been taking the sunshine pills, Christine?’ he enquired.

‘Trying for a positive outlook. Are you at Gayfield?’

‘Just arrived at the prison,’ he informed her. ‘I’ve got Zara with me.’

‘More interviews?’

‘We have to keep trying.’

‘So who’s in the frame today?’

‘Everett Harrison.’

‘I’m surprised Fox hasn’t abducted Zara and taken her place.’

‘Harsh.’

‘But fair, I think you’ll find. Are you expecting Harrison to give you anything?’

‘Not really,’ he conceded.

‘Well, I assume you’re dying to know, but there’s really not much going on here either.’

‘Actually, the reason I’m phoning is to tell you that our boss wants you back here pronto. Skeleton crew’s been noticed by the brass and they’re not best pleased.’ She waited for him to say that he’d just been speaking to Siobhan, but he didn’t. ‘It was only a matter of time,’ he said instead.

‘True,’ she agreed.

‘So I can let Mae know you’re packing up your stuff?’

‘Absolutely. Thanks, Jason.’

‘See you soon, Christine.’

Esson stared at her phone. A look from Pete Swinton told her she was tapping her pen again. She smiled an apology and rose from her chair, shrugging herself back into her jacket. Jason was at the prison. Jason would be there for a while. As she headed to the door, Clarke asked where she was going.

‘Just something I need to check,’ Esson told her. ‘Won’t be long.’

It was a short drive to Gayfield Square, though the usual roadworks in town didn’t help. Esson parked in the car park and strode into the building, making for the CID suite. Paul Allbright was there, which made a change, and Jack Tilley seemed to have survived his latest bout of COVID.

‘Hello, stranger,’ Tilley said in greeting.

‘I could say the same, Jack.’

‘Thanks for the get-well-soon card.’

‘The one I didn’t send?’

‘I’m sure the thought was there.’

She turned her attention to Allbright. ‘Teeth okay, Paul?’

‘Fine, aye, though the dentist says my gums might have to go.’

‘That line’s older than you are.’

‘Jason’s got more interviews at the jail,’ Tilley told her. ‘Took Zara with him — reckon those two have something going?’

‘I wouldn’t put anything past DI Mulgrew.’

The two men were staring at her. ‘You okay, Christine?’ Allbright asked.

‘I’m fine. It’s just, workplace romance never ends well, does it?’ She sat down at her desk, slipping out of her jacket and placing her bag on the floor next to her. After a few moments, she pretended to be sifting paperwork in search of something. Not finding it, she crossed to Mulgrew’s desk and began looking there. The drawers were unlocked and messy, but contained nothing of interest. Tilley asked her what she’d lost.

‘Nothing important,’ she replied. But she checked again before returning to her own chair, where she sat, head in hands, staring at everything and nothing.

‘I’ve got ibuprofen,’ Allbright offered. Esson shook her head slowly.

‘Any news I should know about?’ she eventually enquired, trying to sound interested.

‘Clutching at straws really,’ Allbright stated. ‘Talking to people who’ve already been talked to. Going back over the lab reports, autopsy result, CCTV. Unless someone blabs, I think we’re stuffed.’

‘What was with that DVD?’ Tilley asked.

‘Librarian wanted it back,’ Esson explained.

‘Because nothing ever goes missing from a prison, eh?’

‘Nothing except the odd Jason Statham film,’ Esson responded with a weak smile. She stayed for as long as it took them to share a hot drink. Tilley wanted to know about the Campbell case and Jasmine Andrews’ sudden reappearance.

‘No real connection with Marcus Simpson then?’ Mae McGovern said, entering the room with arms folded. Esson gave a shake of the head. ‘Well, it’s good to have you back with us in a full-time capacity, Christine.’

‘Though I still need to clear my desk at St Leonard’s,’ Esson countered.

‘The work of five minutes, I’m guessing.’

‘Sooner it’s done, sooner I can refocus my energies.’

‘A bit of energy would certainly make a change.’ McGovern’s attention was directed at Allbright and Tilley, who were pretending to be interested in their computer screens. She gave a theatrical sigh and checked the time on her wristwatch. ‘Off you go then, Christine. I’ll expect you back here within the hour — and for keeps this time.’

‘Understood,’ Esson said, reaching for her things.

She had just reached her car when a horn sounded. A moment later, Siobhan Clarke emerged from her own car and walked towards her across the car park.

‘How did you know I’d be here?’ Esson asked.

‘Because we’re sisters from a different mother. Besides, I was watching you before you left, your mind turning and turning. So talk me through it.’

They returned to Clarke’s car. She had two bottles of water in the front, one of which she handed to Esson while she uncapped the other. Esson took her time as she spoke. She didn’t want to sound like a lunatic.

The musical interest.

The IT skills.

Ensuring there was an excuse for his DNA being at the locus.

The traffic-cam footage.

His annoyance at not getting himself attached to the case — where he could be more confident of causing roadblocks along the way.

‘And on top of all that,’ she concluded, ‘just a weird feeling that it all makes sense.’ She took a slug of water and screwed the top back on.

‘Okay,’ Clarke said into the silence, drawing the word out. ‘But you can’t just... I mean, it’s one hell of an accusation.’

‘He phoned me just before I came here,’ Esson ploughed on. ‘And he didn’t even mention that he’d called you half an hour before. This is a man who keeps things locked away, Siobhan — keeps bits of himself locked away. No wonder Fox was so smitten.’

‘And this has nothing to do with that?’

‘With what?’

‘Fox stealing your partner from you, filling his head with empty promises?’

‘Absolutely not.’

Clarke studied her, then turned her attention towards the windows of the MIT office. ‘You were looking for evidence of his involvement.’ It was statement rather than question.

‘Jason’s busy at Saughton, so I took my chance.’

‘But didn’t find anything? Does he know about the diary?’

‘I might have mentioned it last night,’ Esson confessed.

‘Last night?’

‘He wanted to meet for a drink.’

Clarke was still staring at the windows. ‘Well, if he’s Valerio, it’ll have been destroyed — so tell me how we’re going to find any solid connection?’

Esson could only shrug. ‘What about Marcus’s cousin? No progress in ID’ing Valerio?’

‘He seems better at designing safes than unlocking them.’

They sat in silence, concentrating on their bottles of water, trying to find options. ‘Gut instinct isn’t really enough these days,’ Clarke eventually said. ‘In the past, we could’ve fitted him up for some other crime and got him sent down that way.’

Esson managed a smile. ‘Pious perjury, right? It’s what John Rebus would have done.’ She turned towards Clarke. ‘So why can’t we revive a venerable CID tradition?’

Clarke was forming an answer when a silver Audi glided into the car park, finding the final unused bay and slotting into it. Zara Shah was in the passenger seat, looking pleased with herself, as if she had won something — the something being Jason Mulgrew.

Esson had climbed out from Clarke’s car, Clarke herself only a couple of steps behind. Emerging from the Audi, Shah saw her and gave a broad smile.

‘Hey, you,’ she said. ‘Welcome back.’ She made to close the passenger door, but Esson held it open.

‘Would you mind waiting a minute, Zara? I need a quick word with Jason.’

Shah looked quizzical, but gave a nod, Esson climbing in and closing the door after her. Clarke had taken up a position alongside Shah, both women visible from the driver’s seat. Mulgrew, halfway out of his own door, eased himself back in and closed it.

‘What’s with the welcoming committee, Christine?’ he asked. ‘It’s not like Harrison helped us break the case.’ As he locked eyes with the silent Esson, his relaxed demeanour began to change.

‘Tell me you’re not Valerio,’ she said with quiet firmness.

‘What?’

‘I mentioned that name to you and you stonewalled me, yet it’s a song by one of your favourites — why wasn’t that the first thing that sprang to mind?’

‘Valerio?’

‘Richard and Linda Thompson. Is that how you see yourself, Jason — walking your tightrope far above the world? If so, did I just take the net away?’

He gave a bark of laughter, but his eyes had clouded over as he tried to work out which mask to choose. Shah had approached the passenger-side window and was asking what was going on. With Mulgrew distracted, Esson yanked open the glovebox. It was empty. Mulgrew’s left hand was pressing down on the armrest of the car’s central console. She tried prising it off but couldn’t, so she bent down and sank her teeth into his wrist.

‘Fuck!’ he roared, lifting his hand away. She flipped open the console and scrabbled for the small black book wedged there. He grabbed at her wrist with his uninjured hand, squeezing hard.

‘Give that back, you bitch!’ he snarled. Esson got the door open wide enough to toss the book from the car. Mulgrew’s hand went for her throat but eased off as he watched Clarke pick up the diary and open it. He released his grip completely and started the ignition, preparing to drive off with Esson on board.

‘It’s me or the book, Jason,’ she told him, breathing heavily. ‘You can’t have both.’ He changed his mind and cut the engine. But by the time he was out of the car and striding towards Clarke and Shah, Esson was right alongside her colleagues. Mulgrew stopped in front of the three women, hand outstretched. Then he looked over Esson’s shoulder to where Mae McGovern was emerging from the building, knowing something was going on but unsure what. One floor above, Allbright and Tilley had their faces pressed to the glass.

‘You’ve got your audience now, Valerio,’ Esson said. Mulgrew looked ready to explode. His eyes sought out the book, but it had vanished from view, Clarke having tucked it into her clothing.

‘Jason?’ Mae McGovern enquired. But he ignored her, letting out a howl aimed at the world at large as he stalked back to his car and got in, slamming the door shut and roaring out of the car park with a squeal of tyre rubber.

‘We need to put out a call,’ Esson told her boss, trying to control her shaking voice. ‘All vehicles to be alerted to a silver Audi. Suspect in the Zak Campbell murder at the wheel. Unarmed but possibly dangerous.’ She saw the look of disbelief on McGovern’s face. ‘Trust me, ma’am,’ she said. Hearing Esson’s tone, then looking at Siobhan Clarke, McGovern absolutely did.

Zara Shah was staring towards the car park exit, mouth open. Esson gave her shoulder a squeeze — never ends well — and started to lead the way back into the station, ready to explain her thinking to DCI McGovern. Clarke meantime was on the phone to her own boss, but she managed a moment’s eye contact with Esson and gave a slow nod: job well done.

Job bloody well done...

26

Rebus was surprised to see Megan Keighley standing in his cell doorway. He had heard a few whistles but reckoned they were aimed at the TV or some new female officer. Jacobs, who had escorted the librarian to Rebus’s cell, was scowling in the direction of the whistlers. The inmates, undeterred, were already starting to parade past the door, checking Keighley out from behind her back.

‘Megan,’ Rebus said, rising from his bed. She was casting an eye over the interior.

‘You keep it neat,’ she said.

‘Spartans had the right idea,’ he answered. She rewarded him with a smile.

‘I wanted to see how you were doing after yesterday.’

‘Surviving,’ he offered.

‘Looks sore.’ She was studying his face.

‘I’ve had worse.’ He paused. ‘By the way, it’s bad news about your film — police lab only has the case it came in.’

‘Oh.’ She looked over her shoulder towards Jackie Simpson’s cell. It had been unlocked after repainting. Rebus had been told that a couple of cops had visited it earlier while he’d been with his visitors. They’d given the nod for it to get back to being used. ‘It couldn’t still be in the machine, could it?’ she asked.

‘We don’t have DVD players as such.’ Rebus gestured towards his own wall-mounted TV. ‘There’s a slot in the back for DVDs. SOCOs aren’t that sloppy.’

‘SOCOs?’

‘Scene-of-crime,’ Rebus explained. She nodded her understanding as more prisoners sauntered past, Jacobs having given up trying to warn them off.

‘Tidy,’ one of them called out once he was safely past the doorway. ‘I definitely would...’

‘You’re excused library duties,’ Keighley was telling Rebus. ‘If you’re not up to it, I mean.’

‘I’m fine, Megan. The man who went for me is the one you won’t be seeing for a while.’

‘That’s good.’ She noticed the photo lying on his bed, the one he’d been holding when she arrived. ‘Your family?’

‘Daughter and granddaughter.’

She angled her head. ‘A good-looking pair. Did you pass the reading habit on to them?’

‘I’m not sure about that, but my granddaughter’s turned into a bit of an artist.’ He unfolded Carrie’s drawing.

‘Impressive. Will you stick it on the wall?’

‘And spoil the aesthetic?’ He made show of looking around the bare cell.

‘You don’t like to give much of yourself away, John, do you?’

He answered with a shrug.

‘How long till the puffiness goes down?’

‘You don’t think I look good as Jabba the Hutt?’

‘I wouldn’t have taken you for a Star Wars fan.’

‘I saw the DVD case in the library.’

She smiled, but then thought better of it. ‘That man was going to kill you, wasn’t he?’

‘I reckon so.’

‘Until Billy Groam stepped in.’ She was running a finger up and down her crucifix. ‘He’s in the next cell along, isn’t he? Billy, I mean?’

‘But at the gym right now, as far as I know.’

Her face fell a little. ‘Well, I’ll see you back in the library soon.’

‘I really appreciate you dropping by, Megan.’

Jacobs ushered her away, a line of prisoners following in close procession. Rebus lay back down again. He didn’t think he would put Carrie’s drawing on display. It would stay hidden, alongside the photograph. He turned his head towards the doorway. With the entertainment over, the noise level was settling down. A couple of younger prisoners strode past in their underwear, flip-flops clacking, headed for the showers. Rebus thought about the phone hidden in the drain there. Hiding places: prisons were full of them. Hiding places and secrets. He remembered the arrival of Haj Atwal’s SOCOs. They would have stepped into many a crime scene, but none quite as intimidating or as strange and disorientating as a jail. Shouts from the locked cells all around them; doors and gates that had to be opened and closed as they made their way inwards from the reception desk. ID checks and scanners. Uniforms and creeping claustrophobia, the smells and sights, a secret world to which they resolutely did not belong.

No wonder one or two of them had looked unnerved, minds not wholly committed to the job at hand. Wanting out asap.

SOCOs aren’t that sloppy...

But what if...

What if, this one time, they were?

There was a new arrival standing just outside his cell: his neighbour, Billy Groam, fresh from his workout, sweat glistening on his skin.

‘I think your librarian’s taken a shine to me,’ he said. ‘Bit of colour in her cheeks as she passed me just now. Reckon I could be in there?’

‘I’d see you swing first.’

‘They don’t do hangings in here any more, John.’

‘Has peace broken out between your boss and Harrison?’

‘I wouldn’t go that far.’

‘No more of Darryl’s boys have been targeted on the outside, though?’

Groam shook his head. ‘And Jake Morris is back in town. Whether he’ll live down the embarrassment of doing a runner is another thing.’ He paused. ‘You know his girl is friends with the one who went missing? Seems she was keeping her hidden in Jake’s house without him knowing.’

‘He doesn’t exactly sound like the brightest and best.’

‘Jake’s all right. Just not sure he’s cut out for the life.’

‘The life you introduced him to,’ Rebus reminded him. Groam’s face hardened.

‘I’ll see you in the library, John. I think I’m going to become a regular. Just don’t rely on me always being there at the same time as that maniac.’

After Groam had left, Rebus waited a couple of minutes before rising from his bed and leaving the cell. He was crossing the hall when Valerie Watts intercepted him.

‘Off somewhere nice, John?’ she asked.

‘Library is missing one of its DVDs. Jackie Simpson had it last. Just wondered if it might still be inside.’

‘Jackie’s cell’s been stripped, though.’

‘Inside the TV,’ he explained. ‘The slot at the back.’ Watts considered for a moment before nodding.

‘Let’s take a look then.’

She accompanied him into the cell. They stood for a moment smelling the fresh paint, both of them staring towards where Jackie Simpson had spent his last night on earth. Then Rebus walked over to the TV, switched it on and pressed eject. There was a brief whirring noise but nothing else.

‘Slot’s empty,’ Watts said.

But Rebus was peering into it as best he could. ‘No, it’s definitely in there,’ he said. ‘But it looks...’ He tried focusing his swollen eyes.

‘Looks what, John?’ she asked as he straightened up.

‘Looks as though someone from Haj Atwal’s team will be getting a rocket,’ Rebus eventually answered. He fixed her with a look. ‘We need to step back outside. And you need to call the MIT.’

She frowned and brushed past him, staring into the slot for herself.

Without waiting, Rebus was on his way back to his cell. He pulled out his chair and sat down, elbows on the desk. For five or so minutes he didn’t move. When he did exit into the hall, he saw that Simpson’s cell was being locked again, Watts standing some distance away, walkie-talkie pressed to her mouth so she could keep her voice low.

He settled himself at a table, watching a game of pool, and then another, the players pleased to have their cues returned. Watts was a pro, her demeanour giving nothing away. None of the prisoners had taken much notice of the door being locked or the conversation Watts was presumably having with the governor. Someone tried handing Rebus a cue, but he shook his head. The Wizard was seated a few feet away, studying him as though seeing him through fresh eyes. Another prisoner, high on something, was marching up and down, counting as he went. Rebus joined him, remaining a few steps behind. At a certain point, he stopped, rooted to the spot, the other prisoner having eventually to manoeuvre past him. He ran the palm of his hand across his jaw.

‘Yes,’ he said to himself, starting to walk again, this time in the direction of the Wizard’s cell.

Mark Jamieson was seated at the desk, playing patience with a greasy set of cards.

‘No king or queen of diamonds,’ he told Rebus. ‘Probably used for roaches.’

‘Can I show you something, Mark?’

Jamieson looked up from his game. ‘What?’

Rather than say anything, Rebus gestured for the young man to follow him into the hall. ‘I’m going to get the quote wrong,’ he began, ‘but it’s from a Sherlock Holmes story, I think. Did you know Conan Doyle was born here in Edinburgh? Got out as soon as he could, mind.’

‘What are you on about?’

‘The quote’s something to do with ruling out the probable and improbable. Once you’ve done that, even if the solution seems impossible, that’s what it has to be.’

‘You taken some gear, John?’ Jamieson enquired. But Rebus just shook his head and nodded towards Jackie Simpson’s cell, which was being unlocked again while the governor stood by, accompanied by two detectives Rebus didn’t recognise. He watched for a reaction from Jamieson and was about to get one when a hand landed heavily on his shoulder. Darryl Christie had arrived behind both men.

‘A word, please, John,’ he said, plenty of steel beneath the calm.

‘What happens now, Darryl?’ Jamieson stammered, the blood draining from his face.

‘You keep your trap shut, Mark, that’s what happens. I’ve got the best defence lawyer in the country on speed dial. It’s all going to be okay and your mum’s being taken care of — remember that.’ Christie steered Rebus away.

‘His mum?’ Rebus asked.

‘MS — needs a ton of help, and none of it comes cheap.’

‘That was the deal? Easy enough to convince him, I suppose, since you also control the tap that drips out his various fixes. Free highs for life, was it?’ Rebus paused. They had reached a neutral stretch of wall between cells and rec area. ‘Why Simpson, though?’

Christie looked around for potential eavesdroppers. ‘Can’t you guess?’

‘Because Novak would be the obvious suspect, and it was him you were really after. Meaning you’d no actual beef with Jackie?’

‘They call it collateral damage.’ Christie stared at Rebus, his eyes gleaming. There was that madness again, never far from the surface, same as when he’d shot a man, same as when he’d so nearly turned the gun on Rebus. ‘Novak’s a pain in the hole,’ he went on. ‘I’ve enjoyed watching him sweat.’

Rebus swallowed back the temptation to say that Novak had been a bigger pain than Christie knew. ‘Why not get Samms to do it?’

Christie screwed up his face. ‘Samms isn’t my guy. I don’t need any of that these days. A drone can deliver to the exact open window you tell it to. But Novak wants cameras on the outside walls, pointed at the skies rather than the ground.’ He gave a shake of the head. ‘Very bad for business.’

‘And Billy Groam didn’t really hear a cell door being unlocked? That was just another piece of misdirection?’

Christie gave a slow wink.

Rebus turned towards the murder cell. ‘It’s about to come spilling out, Darryl.’

‘Not if Mark does what he’s told. All they know now is the how.’

‘They’ll put together a case whether he talks or not. You robbed a man of his life — that can’t go unpunished.’

‘Listen to yourself! Look at where you are! How exactly are they going to punish me?’ Christie burst out laughing, the laughter so sudden and loud that the governor emerged from Simpson’s cell. Christie lifted his hand in apology.

‘You know I’m going to tell them,’ Rebus stated.

‘You do that. I can help you get onto the roof if you like — you can shout it from there, for all the good it’ll do. Welcome to the real world — and you didn’t even have to choose a pill.’ He paused, leaning in a little closer. ‘Remember when you first arrived here? I told you I could get you anything. I was so hoping you’d say yes. Know why? Control. The idea I could control you was catnip to me. Something I could use to make the walls melt away.’

‘Sorry if I disappointed you.’

‘You seldom disappoint me, John.’ Christie stared in the direction of Jackie Simpson’s cell. ‘Though you can be full of surprises.’ He paused. ‘Not all of them pleasant, and some loaded with repercussions.’

‘How do you mean?’

But Christie had already turned and walked away, accepting a proffered pool cue and lining up his shot.

Fox was at home in Oxgangs, evening meal finished, feet up on the sofa, when he got the call from London. He had been both expecting it and dreading it. He steeled himself as he answered.

‘SO15 never sleeps,’ he said.

‘So after everything,’ Thomas Glaze drawled, ‘looks like a simple spat between cellmates. You got us all worked up over nothing, Malcolm. I think it’s safe to say we’re feeling a bit let down by our colleagues north of the border.’

‘I’m holding a violin the size of a thimble here, Tommy.’

‘I’m not sure I like your tone, Malcolm.’

‘I’ve busted a gut for you over this. I’ve kept fellow officers in the dark and told them lies, all to protect our operation. I got a man sent to jail and he ended up dead, for Christ’s sake.’

‘A good detective is one who gets results — wasted effort is often wasted because it was misjudged in the first place.’

‘That’s easy for you to say, sitting in your cushy office in London while others put themselves on the line. It’s me who has to start picking up the pieces.’

‘I believe the offices at Gartcosh are fairly cushy too, DI Fox. You shouldn’t stray too far from that desk of yours — you’re not very good at the other stuff, the real stuff of policing.’

‘Listen to me, you little—’

But Glaze had already ended the call.

Fox stomped into the kitchen, pacing it from one end to the other, having forgotten why he’d gone there in the first place. He filled the kettle and waited, his anger ceasing to abate. Then he realised he hadn’t flicked the switch on the kettle, so he grabbed a can of Appletiser from the fridge and opened that instead.

‘These bloody shitty people,’ he muttered to himself as he returned to the living room, where his discarded phone was ringing again. Not Glaze this time, but Fox’s boss.

Again, not wholly unexpected, though he’d been hoping to defer the conversation until morning.

‘Good evening, sir,’ he said, resting on the very edge of the sofa.

‘Jason Mulgrew, Malcolm?’ Pratchett began without preliminaries. ‘The officer you reckoned was just about ready for a promotion to Internal Affairs or Organised Crime?’

‘I think it’s come as a shock to all of us, sir.’

Pratchett ignored this. ‘That’s twice you’ve fallen short, which is twice more than I like. And to think some of us reckoned you might be ready for a step up...’

Fox closed his eyelids. ‘I’m assuming that thinking has been somewhat adjusted?’

‘Insofar as you can kiss it goodbye, yes.’

‘And my suggested surveillance of Mickey Mason?’

‘All predicated on those famously reliable instincts of yours? Not a cat in hell’s chance. You’ve two strikes against you, Malcolm. Might not take a third to send you on your way.’

Fox allowed himself a grim smile. Where had he heard that before? Answer: Siobhan Clarke. Strike one: keeping secret from her his connection to Jackie Simpson. Strike two: not mentioning his interest in Carla’s dad or who Jake Morris worked for.

‘I wonder if we could take this up again in the morning, sir, before I say something I’ll probably regret?’

The line was silent for a moment.

‘If you’ve something to say, say it,’ Pratchett eventually said.

Fox stared at the blank television screen in front of him, seeing himself reflected there. ‘I just think I’ve had enough — enough of the thankless job and the budget cuts, enough of the smugness from those at the top who’d struggle to find the cheeks of their arse with both hands, and enough of all the utter fucking fannies I’m surrounded by, fannies up to and including your good, useless self.’ He paused. ‘With respect, sir.’

This time the line was silent for longer. Fox even checked to be certain that the call was ongoing.

‘Nobody at Gartcosh will stand in the way of your resignation, DI Fox, I promise you that.’ A slight but evident tremor had entered Pratchett’s voice. Well, well, Fox thought, I got through to you at last. ‘Many will be glad to see the back of you,’ Pratchett continued, ‘along with your failed instincts and your ludicrous schemes. I’m bound to say I count myself chief among them. Goodbye, Malcolm — and good luck.’

Fox switched off his phone and tossed it across the room.

‘Goodnight, Vienna,’ he said quietly, giving his reflected self a rueful smile.

Rebus went through everything he knew as he lay in bed that evening, staring towards the ceiling. Mark Jamieson had been questioned under oath with a solicitor present. The interview had taken place in the governor’s office, after which the young man was taken to the SRU. Rebus had tried calling Esson to tell her to transfer Jamieson to a cell at Gayfield Square, or St Leonard’s — or anywhere — but his call had gone straight to messaging. He’d asked to speak to the governor, only to be advised that Tennent was up to his eyeballs. Jamieson would be shivering in his cell, more from shock than cold. Did he have anything secreted about his person? Very probably. It would dull the pain, but only so much and for so long.

A DVD, snapped in half to create the necessary jagged edge. Jackie Simpson asleep, vulnerable, unwary. Mark would have stripped naked so there was no blood on his clothing when he carried out the attack. He would wash himself after, towelling himself dry. Blood on the towel now, but he’d been told what to do — stuff it into the dead man’s mouth, giving a plausible reason for it being in the state it was. Rinse off the DVD too, before cajoling it back into the TV slot. Then all he had to do was get dressed again and climb into his bunk, downing a bigger than usual dose of drugs — gratefully received. Finally he would have smashed his head against the wall a number of times — the pain dulled, the damage necessary — before waiting for the blackout to come. The story about his evening meal having been tampered with was yet more misdirection. Everything had to point away from cell and cellmate. And towards the POs, especially Chris Novak.

None of it for Mark himself, of course, not really even for his ailing mother. But all to satisfy the cravings of Darryl Christie, who would remain untouched even if Jamieson sang like a bird.

Besides, that wasn’t going to be allowed to happen. Rebus knew it in his churning gut.

He awoke next morning and was told at breakfast. Mark Jamieson had OD’d in the night. Billy Groam leaned down towards where Rebus sat with his breakfast tray, none of it eaten.

‘He wasn’t supposed to survive the first time,’ he whispered. ‘The boy was tougher than he looked.’

Rebus sprang to his feet, eyes on the figure of Darryl Christie, seated two tables away with a spoon paused halfway to his mouth, watching Rebus.

‘You won’t get within five feet, John,’ Groam warned him. ‘So sit yourself back down and behave.’

Rebus knew he was right. He sat down again, picking up his spoon, holding it tight.