by Ian Rankin
‘He doesn’t actually live there.’
‘So who does?’
‘I think it’s empty. Sir Adrian has a house in Murrayfield.’
‘So what are his plans for Poretoun House?’
Hazard offered a shrug.
‘And just to get back to the subject,’ Sutherland interrupted, ‘why do you think the body was in those woods?’
Another shrug.
‘Does your client have a theory?’
‘From talking to him, I’d say he’s always thought Jackie Ness must have fallen out with the PI and bumped him off. The woods would have been an easy place to hide the body. Half a mile of dirt track and no one around. It’s certainly true that Ness had a temper on him. There are no end of stories about him – you can find most of them online.’ Hazard paused and fixed Clarke with a look. ‘If you do plan to interview Sir Adrian, you’ll have to promise to do the same with Ness. It would look bad otherwise.’
‘Thanks for the advice,’ Sutherland said icily. His phone buzzed: incoming text. He read it and placed the phone on the desk in front of him. ‘We’re grateful to you for filling in a few blanks, Mr Hazard. Phil, will you see Mr Hazard out, please?’
Hazard looked reluctant, but Sutherland was already on his feet, extending a hand for the PR man to shake.
‘If you need me for anything, anything at all …’
‘We all have your card.’ Sutherland nodded brusquely. He stayed on his feet as Yeats and Hazard left, then sought out Emily Crowther. ‘Could you close the door, please, Emily? We should wait for Phil but we can fill him in when he gets back. Best do this right now.’ He was leaning over his phone, dabbing at the screen. When it began to ring, he switched the speaker on.
‘DCI Sutherland.’ Clarke recognised Deborah Quant’s voice. ‘Thanks for getting back to me.’
‘Team’s all here, Professor,’ Sutherland called out. ‘We’re ready to hear what you’ve got for us.’
‘Whoever was babysitting the Blooms should have asked to see in the mother’s bag. She’d packed half her son’s life in there, including a copy of his dental records.’
Sutherland was gazing in Clarke’s direction, but her eyes were fixed to the far wall as she concentrated on not letting colour flood her face.
‘Looks like a positive match,’ Quant was saying. ‘We’ll still do the DNA – belt and braces and all that. But both parents thought the hair sample we showed them was probably Stuart’s. Same goes for the photos of his clothing. No distinguishing features or tattoos, so that’s pretty much what we’ve got.’
‘Did you mention the handcuffs?’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘And cause of death?’
‘Aubrey and I are pretty well agreed on that. Blunt object trauma. Hole in the back of the head is a couple of centimetres wide. Hammer maybe. Crowbar. We’ve taken samples to see if whatever it was has left any traces. After this length of time, I’m not hugely hopeful.’
‘Thank you, Professor. Anything else we should know?’
‘Aubrey wants to see where the car was found. She asked if your forensics team are still working there.’
‘Car’s gone to the lab.’
‘Keep me informed of their progress. The floor of the boot will tell us if he was killed in situ. Professor Hamilton also says some interesting work is being done with soil these days. There’s someone in Aberdeen might be useful.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Mud on and in the car, bits of dirt ingrained in the tyres, that sort of thing. Might help you track where else it had been before it ended up in the gully.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind.’
‘Ah …’
‘What?’
‘I can hear it in your voice – case hasn’t been budgeted yet?’
‘Not yet, no.’
‘Well, I’ve no idea how much a soil expert costs these days, but I know money’s tight. Having said which, I’m telling you the victim was Stuart Bloom, so the chiefs aren’t going to want to be shown stinting.’
‘You’re a hundred per cent sure, Deborah?’ Clarke asked.
‘Hi, Siobhan. Thought I saw you in the viewing room. Let’s say ninety-nine point nine.’ Sutherland’s phone was making a noise. ‘Sounds like another caller trying to get through,’ Deborah Quant said. ‘You better take that. It’s probably whoever’s acting as chief constable this week.’
‘News travels,’ Sutherland said.
‘Doesn’t it just?’
Sutherland had picked up the phone, ending Quant’s call and pressing the appliance to his ear.
‘Yes, sir?’ he said, making for the hallway. As he left the room, Yeats entered.
‘What did I miss?’ he enquired.
‘Stick the kettle on and we’ll tell you,’ Tess Leighton replied.
6
Detective Inspector Malcolm Fox was chewing a pen at his desk. His feeling was, it made him look busy, like he was thinking great thoughts or working out a knotty problem. His computer screen showed that he was halfway through a memo on the reallocation of resources to Police Scotland’s Major Crime Division. Around him, everything still felt new. Gartcosh was the site of the shiny high-tech Scottish Crime Campus, the nerve centre of Police Scotland. Forty miles west of the capital, it would always be another country to the Edinburgh-dwelling Fox.
The quiet hum of activity belied the fact that Police Scotland was in trouble. Then again, you never had to look too far to find a crisis of one sort or another. But the chief constable was on suspension while being investigated for various misdemeanours, as was one of his assistant chief constables, meaning that Fox’s own boss, ACC Jennifer Lyon, was burdened by extra worries and workload. Despite all of which, there was little to keep Fox occupied. He had dropped heavy hints about a larger role, but Lyon had cautioned him to be patient. In relative terms, he’d only just got his feet under the desk. There was time enough ahead.
‘Besides,’ she’d added, ‘climb too far up the ladder just now and you’re liable to come across a rung that’s been sawn through.’
Lyon had reckoned Fox’s current task a promotion of sorts. If done well, it would get him noticed by those at the top. Everyone seemed to agree that policy was his strength. In other words, he was a desk jockey, good in meetings, presentable, happier with subordinate clauses than actual subordinates. Fox wanted to tell them: I’ve seen action, got my hands dirty in the past. He had even angled for a lateral move from Major Crime to Organised Crime and Counter-Terrorism, but Lyon had just given him a look. Lacking a chief constable, the deputy chief constable – who had been on the brink of retiring – was running the show but leaning heavily on Lyon for support, meaning she was often out of reach. Fox knew that big cases were effectively in limbo, awaiting decisions. His colleagues in Major Crime were anxious verging on mutinous, queuing up to gain the okay from Lyon over this or that course of action.
Which was why a couple of them sprang to their feet when Lyon stalked into the large open-plan office. A brushing motion with one hand told them this wasn’t the time. Instead, Lyon was standing just over Fox’s shoulder. Her hair was bottle-blonde and brittle, curving around the sides of her head as if to cocoon her face. In meetings, when she leaned forward, it covered her eyes, making her impossible to read. Now, Fox concentrated on her pale pink lips as she leaned in towards his left ear.
‘A word outside, Malcolm.’
By the time he had got to his feet, she was already at the door. As Fox made to follow, he caught the looks from his colleagues. They wanted him to plead their cases. He gestured with his head, not quite a nod, straightened his tie and buttoned his suit jacket.
One feature of Gartcosh was its ‘breakout areas’. Basically quiet, comfortable nooks where the various disciplines such as specialist crime, forensic science and the procurator fiscal could exc
hange information over a relatively relaxed coffee. The whole interior of the building felt like a high-security further education college. Lyon hadn’t quite made it to her destination without interruption. Someone from HMRC’s fraud unit was bending her ear, Lyon giving grim nods in the hope the man would take the hint.
‘Sorry to interrupt,’ Fox said as he approached. ‘You said it was urgent, ma’am.’
Lyon tried for a disappointed look. ‘Another time, Owen? Sorry about this.’
With a glower in Fox’s direction, the HMRC man started to leave.
‘I’ll email you,’ Lyon called out in assurance. Then, lowering her voice so only Fox could hear, ‘Thanks for that. Let’s sit down.’
They did, watching the ebb and flow of officers. One or two gave more than a passing glance, recognising Lyon and wondering who she was with. Lyon played with the lanyards hanging around her neck. Two passes: one a photo ID, the other giving keyless entry to the building’s more secure sections.
‘Is it something to do with the memo?’ Fox nudged.
She shook her head. ‘It’s this Stuart Bloom thing.’ She saw his blank look. ‘I thought you were in Professional Standards at the time?’
‘When are we talking about?’
‘Two thousand and six.’
‘I joined the following year.’
‘His family were still vocal then, and every year since.’
Fox was nodding. ‘The private eye who went missing? Wasn’t their original complaint dismissed?’
‘And every one after. But now it looks like his body has turned up. Questions are going to be asked about how we missed it first time round. Some of the original team didn’t exactly cover themselves in glory, from what I’ve been told.’ She paused, her eyes finally meeting his. ‘I want you to go take a look. You were in the Complaints, you’ll maybe notice what shortcuts were taken. Anything from general sloppiness up to criminal conspiracy – there were always rumours and I’d like to see them quashed.’
‘Wouldn’t I be treading on the toes of the new inquiry?’
‘Is that going to cause you to lose any sleep?’
‘Not at all.’ Fox reacted to her icy tone by sitting up a bit straighter. ‘So I’d go through the original case files …’
‘There’s a bit more to it than that, Malcolm. The family always talked about it being a conspiracy, our lot colluding with the rich and the powerful, leaking stuff to the press to make sure the public saw only one side of the story.’ She broke off, looking to left and right, checking she could not be overheard. All the same, she lowered her voice a little further. ‘We’re not releasing the information just yet, but the victim was handcuffed.’
‘Police issue?’ He watched as she gave the slightest of shrugs. ‘You think cops were involved?’
‘That’s one of the things I want you to think about. Reporting back directly to me. I’ll clear it with the officer in charge. The last thing we need right now is any more crap being tossed in our direction. Media and politicians have more or less scooped the latrine dry.’ When she stopped speaking, Fox saw it suddenly in her eyes: the fatigue from having fought too many bouts, the hope that someone would deal with this and make it all go away.
‘Leave it to me,’ he said.
There was no nod of acknowledgement or smile of thanks. Lyon just got to her feet and strode off towards the relative safety of her own office. Fox sat for a moment longer, then took his phone out and checked the news. The body had been found in Poretoun Woods, south-east of Edinburgh. That meant the MIT’s base would probably be Leith – there were only so many rooms across the country set aside for such operations. His eyes flickered over the story, taking in names and details. If Complaints had been involved, it would have been under the aegis of his predecessor, Ray Hungerford. Ray was still in the land of the living; Fox saw him at retirement parties and funerals. He checked his list of contacts, but there was no number for him.
Lowering the phone, he found himself staring at the door to the Major Crime office. They would be waiting for him to come back, ready for him to tell them he’d had a word with the boss. Instead of which, Fox stood up, pocketed his phone and headed in the direction of the outside world.
It took Fox only a few phone calls to track down Ray Hungerford. He was driving a black taxi these days, apparently, and Fox ordered the cab company to keep him where he was, on a rank on Lothian Road. The drive back into Edinburgh was slowed by roadworks on the M8 and one accident at the junction with a slip road. Fox kept the radio news on, but the media didn’t have much as yet. He listened as Stuart Bloom’s mother was interviewed. She implored anyone with information to come forward. Fox didn’t doubt many would respond to her plea, the vast majority of them attention-seekers or cranks. Some would do it with the best intentions, swamping the inquiry before it had had a chance to establish itself. He couldn’t see the major incident team welcoming him with anything other than impatience and irritation.
‘Just like the old days in the Complaints,’ he muttered to himself as the congestion ahead began to ease. Edinburgh loomed ahead, the castle on its raised volcanic platform visible for miles. Fox felt himself relax a little; he understood the city better than he did Gartcosh. He knew how it worked.
There were three taxis lined up outside the Sheraton Hotel, but one had reversed to the very back of the rank, its flashers on, hire light switched off. Fox pulled up in front of it and got out of his car. As he neared the cab, its passenger-side window slid down.
‘Keeping busy, Ray?’ he enquired.
‘You’ve put on a bit of weight, Malcolm.’
‘Okay if we talk?’
‘What about.’
‘Maybe join me in the back?’
Hungerford kept the engine running so there’d be some heating inside the cab. He settled next to Fox and the two men exchanged a handshake.
‘I’ve turned down three fares, you know,’ Hungerford complained.
‘I appreciate that. Pension not keeping you afloat?’
‘It’s my son’s cab. I’m just in charge while he’s on holiday. Gets me out of the house. You can’t still be Complaints, surely?’
‘Gartcosh these days, Major Crime.’
‘The new Big House, eh?’
‘They’ve got me looking at the Stuart Bloom case,’ Fox revealed.
‘That old chestnut. So it really is him in those woods?’
‘Looks like. The original inquiry wasn’t without its difficulties.’
Hungerford gave him a hard look. ‘Are you working as a diplomat now or something? I was always a fan of plain speaking myself.’
‘Okay then, the original case was pretty much a fuck-up from the start.’
‘There was a good man in charge,’ Hungerford countered. ‘Never heard a bad word about Bill Rawlston.’
‘The officers under him, though …?’
Hungerford puckered his mouth. ‘A prize collection of pricks, incompetents and chancers.’
‘An assessment included in your report, I don’t doubt?’
‘There wasn’t much of a report; everything was hearsay. A handful of officers probably were homophobic. Christ, it used to almost be mandatory. Friends of Bloom’s from the gay scene were hauled in for questioning and not exactly treated with kid gloves. Meantime, you had a good cop in Glasgow who wanted his son kept out of it, even though that son had to be treated as a suspect.’ Hungerford puffed out his cheeks and exhaled. ‘The two moguls meantime …’
‘Jackie Ness and Adrian Brand?’
Hungerford nodded. ‘Usual cock-measuring going on there. They had lawyers crying foul at every opportunity, journalists eager to buy drinks for anyone who might have a story to tell …’
‘Including officers from the investigation?’
‘Undoubtedly. I dare say you’ve done something similar in your time; I
know I have. Guy stands you a few nice malts, maybe you start to like him and decide he merits something in return. Some cops used to get off on it – the thrill of seeing a piece in the paper that they’d had a hand in.’
‘Any names in particular.’
Hungerford considered for a few seconds. ‘All this archaeology just because the body’s been found?’
‘High hiedyins want to be confident no zombies are going to start appearing among the skeletons.’
‘And they’ve given it to you because you used to be Complaints?’
‘That’s about the size of it.’
Hungerford nodded while he contemplated. ‘All we really did was dig into the case files and then ask a few questions. It was obvious that mistakes had been made, our own lot negligent or obstructive. Not for the first time, and by no means the last.’
‘You made recommendations?’
‘There were a couple of officers we could have come down hard on if we tried. Steele, one of them was called.’
‘Let me guess – the other was Edwards.’
‘You know them?’
‘They work for ACU these days, based at Gartcosh.’
‘Well, they were just uniforms back then, but playing all sorts of games.’
‘Such as?’
‘They had spare-time jobs, mostly as security. They’d even been part of Adrian Brand’s bodyguard detail.’
‘He needed bodyguards?’
‘Rumours he’d taken money from an Irish gangster connected to the paramilitaries. There’d been a falling-out.’
‘Nothing ever came of it?’
‘Not that I know of. There was definitely something about Steele and Edwards, though – they owned top-of-the-line cars, took expensive holidays. Always the best clothes, designer watches …’
‘All on a copper’s salary.’
‘But like I say, we never quite got to them.’
‘Were they being protected?’
Hungerford offered a shrug. ‘Brand bought tables at a lot of charity dinners, wined and dined his fair share of top brass and MPs.’