by Ian Rankin
‘Not really, sir,’ she managed to reply. Mollison stood on his own in the centre of the room, hands clasped behind his back, rocking on his heels. He was well over six feet tall, with a face that was all burst veins leading to a nose that would not have disgraced Rudolph the reindeer.
‘Apparently the spot where the car was found is being examined again this morning, and a team will carry out a detailed search of the woods—’
‘Mr Mollison,’ Sutherland interrupted, ‘wonders if Poretoun Woods might make for an atmospheric backdrop.’
Clarke caught her boss’s tone. ‘I’m not entirely sure,’ she ventured, ‘that we have much to say to the media at this point in the inquiry.’ She watched as Sutherland nodded his head in agreement.
‘We certainly have information we don’t want them getting,’ Callum Reid added.
‘The handcuffs?’ Mollison guessed. ‘Any news of those?’
‘They’re being studied in detail by Forensics today,’ Sutherland informed him. ‘All we know as of now is that they’re an older model – in other words, not police issue at the time of Bloom’s disappearance.’
‘It’ll come out eventually, you know – we need to have a strategy for managing it.’
‘Absolutely.’
‘No press conference today, though?’
‘We could revisit the idea this afternoon, sir.’
Mollison tried not to look disappointed. ‘Might as well get back to St Leonard’s, then. Wouldn’t want to think I’m holding you back.’ As he spoke, he threw a sideways glance towards Clarke. With a gesture of farewell to the rest of the team, he marched out of the office, his leather soles clacking their way back down the stairs. Shoulders began to relax; breaths were exhaled.
‘One of you could have warned me,’ Clarke complained.
‘You’ve not given us your number,’ Emily Crowther informed her.
‘That’s the first thing we should do then,’ Sutherland decided. ‘Everybody’s contact details on a sheet of paper, pinned to the wall and copied into your phones.’
‘Maybe a WhatsApp group, too?’ Crowther suggested.
‘If you think it useful.’ Sutherland saw that Phil Yeats was heading towards the kettle. ‘Coffee can wait, Phil,’ he warned him.
‘In Siobhan’s case,’ George Gamble commented, ‘I’m not sure that’s true. You must have kept her out past her bedtime, Graham.’ There were smiles from behind the desks. Sutherland didn’t join in but Clarke did – last thing she wanted was for the team to split into factions. While they copied their details on to the sheet of paper being passed around, she approached Sutherland. He had returned to his chair and was starting to type at his keyboard.
‘Heard anything from Gartcosh?’ she enquired.
‘How did you know?’
‘Malcolm Fox and me go back a ways. I happened to bump into him last night.’
‘So you were out late then?’
‘Decided I’d better walk the pitch ’n’ putt course, just to see what I’ve let myself in for.’
He gave a half-smile. ‘Fox will be here soon. I informed everyone this morning. I’ve put Tess in charge of babysitting him. So if there’s anything you think she should know in advance …’
Clarke nodded and walked over to Tess Leighton’s desk.
‘I’ve worked with Fox in the past,’ she stated. ‘He’s good on detail, used to be in Complaints. He’s thorough, maybe even a bit plodding.’
‘Is he single, though?’ George Gamble interrupted. ‘That’s what Tess is wondering.’
‘Stick it, George,’ Leighton rasped. Then, to Clarke: ‘Any BO or bad breath? Farts and belches?’
‘I think he’ll pass those tests.’
‘Puts him one up on George, then.’
‘You forgetting something, Tess?’ Gamble retorted. ‘He worked for Complaints, meaning he got his jollies putting the boot into the likes of you and me. He might not smell, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t stink.’
Jackie Ness’s production company had an office in a shiny new glass-fronted development in Fountainbridge. Clarke and Emily Crowther had been dispatched to question him. During the drive, Crowther revealed that she had studied English literature at university, policing far from her first choice of career. She’d grown up in Fife and had a boyfriend who ran a bike shop on the edge of Dunfermline. They shared a house in the town and were planning to get married. She was starting to ask Clarke about herself when Clarke announced that they’d arrived.
Crowther was slim and blonde and probably fifteen years younger than her colleague. Knee-length skirt, sheer black tights, shoes with inch-high heels. She didn’t quite look or act like an officer of the law, and Clarke began to get an inkling as to why Sutherland had chosen her for the task.
The company name was Locke Ness. On the wall behind the reception desk, the logo could be seen rising from the depths of a stretch of water.
‘Clever,’ Crowther said, which seemed to please the young receptionist.
‘Mr Ness will be with you shortly,’ she said.
‘We did arrange a time,’ Clarke told her firmly. ‘If he wants to waste ours, maybe we can do this at the station instead.’
The receptionist’s smile melted away. ‘I’ll ask,’ she said, disappearing through a door. Crowther settled on the leather sofa while Clarke examined the shelf containing a handful of cheap-looking awards, and the wall-mounted posters for films such as Zombies v Bravehearts and The Opium Eater Murders. She had done a bit of reading up on the producer. He’d started by owning a string of video rental shops, then put money into low-budget horror films before moving to more mainstream releases. She wasn’t aware of ever having watched any of his output.
The receptionist was back, followed by a man who was shrugging his arms back into the sleeves of his suit jacket.
‘There’s a restaurant next door,’ he announced. ‘I skipped breakfast, so why don’t we go there? I’m Jackie Ness, by the way, in case you were wondering.’ His eyes fell on Emily Crowther and he wagged a finger in her direction. ‘The light loves you, did you know that? Catches your face just perfectly.’ He turned to the receptionist. ‘You agree, don’t you, Estelle?’ Then, to Clarke: ‘The restaurant won’t be busy, it’s not lunchtime yet. There’s a corner booth they normally keep for me. It’s not like we’re recording this or anything, is it? It’s just background.’
‘A better word might be “preliminary”,’ Clarke told him. ‘You’re not under caution and you don’t need a lawyer.’
‘The amount they cost, praise be for that. And you are …?’
‘Detective Inspector Clarke. This is DC Crowther.’
He turned his attention back to Crowther. ‘Just DC, or is there ever any AC?’ Immediately he held up a hand. ‘I know, I shouldn’t have. Couldn’t help it. Apologies et cetera.’
‘Still living in the Betamax era, I see.’
Ness chose to ignore Clarke’s rebuke. ‘Half an hour,’ he told the receptionist, already halfway to the exit.
‘Longer if need be, Estelle,’ Clarke cautioned, before following suit.
The restaurant served mostly burgers, and that was what Ness ordered – albeit vegetarian – along with an Irn-Bru, while the two detectives stuck to coffee. He’d been right though: they were the only customers, and were directed to his favoured spot. Clarke and Crowther sat across from him and watched as he shrugged his way out of his jacket.
‘Male menopause,’ he explained. ‘I’m always sweating or freezing.’
‘Bit old for the menopause, no?’ Clarke said.
‘I was always told you’re as young as the woman you feel.’ He chuckled to himself. It never ceased to amaze Clarke that such specimens survived. She thought of the Loch Ness monster, the last of its kind.
‘Is there a Locke to go with the Ness?’ she enquired.
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br /> ‘Old business partner. We had a falling-out when he tried stiffing the taxman. The name makes people smile though, so I didn’t bother changing it.’
‘Anything in the pipeline just now?’
‘There’s always something in the pipeline. In fact, the pipeline’s bunged up with treatments and pitches and great scripts that’ll likely never get turned into films. Money just doesn’t materialise most of the time.’
‘Aren’t you the one who supplies the money?’
‘I find the money, and that’s a whole different skill. Goalposts have shifted. In my early days it was DTV – direct to video. Now everything’s digital. You’ve got kids making films on their mobile phones, editing them on their PCs, then chucking them on the internet. You’ve got Amazon and Netflix. Everyone’s streaming; DVDs and Blu-Ray sales are tanking. It’s actually not the goalposts that have shifted. It’s like walking into a completely different game.’
‘But you’re surviving?’
‘What else is there?’
He’d be in his early sixties, Clarke guessed, his hair silver but plentiful, his tan courtesy of a winter cruise or, more likely, a tanning booth. A good haircut, but his last shave had left a few grey hairs dotted about his round and shiny face. His teeth had been fixed, and he maintained the swagger necessary to his job, but his shirt hadn’t been ironed and a button was missing, not quite hidden by the bright crimson tie.
Like his industry, Jackie Ness had seen better days.
‘We’re here to ask you a few questions about Stuart Bloom,’ Clarke said, now the ice had been broken. ‘He was working for you when he went missing.’
‘It’s a hellish thing. My first thought was the same as everybody else – lovers’ tiff.’
‘And when he failed to resurface?’
‘Sometimes people just want to step off the grid. I did a film about it: quiet banking executive walks out on his family and becomes a vigilante.’
‘How about your own relationship with Mr Bloom?’
‘No problems there at all. He wasn’t overcharging, seemed to be getting some good stuff …’
‘Stuff on Adrian Brand?’
‘Aka the Fucker.’ His eyes moved between the two detectives. ‘Pardon my French.’
‘Did you ever suspect Brand might have known what was going on?’
‘You mean did he have Stuart bumped off?’ Ness’s face creased in thought. ‘It was always a possibility. Brand mixed with some ugly people. Stuart was getting close to proving it.’
‘Something that could have put him in danger?’
‘The cops at the time looked into it but didn’t get far.’ Ness broke off as his burger arrived. He picked it up and took a bite. He was still chewing as the drinks appeared. ‘Help yourselves to a sweet potato fry,’ he offered.
‘What did you think,’ Clarke asked, ‘when the car was found in Poretoun Woods?’
He shook his head vigorously. ‘Couldn’t have been there all that time.’
‘Why not?’ Clarke waited while he swallowed and took a sip of the Irn-Bru.
‘I used to film there. Not that exact spot maybe, but we were always in those woods. Anything vaguely medieval; anything to do with zombies or kids getting a scare.’
‘The car was in a pretty deep gully, and well camouflaged.’
‘I’m telling you I’d have noticed it. Added to which, those woods were a pet project of mine – them and the house. I spent a fortune restoring both.’
‘How do you restore woodland?’ Crowther asked, sounding genuinely curious.
‘By planting rare and native species rather than trees you grow as a crop. I had meetings with forestry experts, took on board everything they said.’
‘You’re saying you had a detailed knowledge of Poretoun Woods,’ Clarke commented. Ness locked eyes with her above his burger.
‘I know what you’re getting at – means I’d have known about the gully and that it made a good hiding place. But why would I kill Stuart? He was a great guy, just doing his job and living for the weekend.’
‘Weekends were special to him?’
‘There was a club he liked in the New Town, somewhere just off Leith Street. Rogues, I think it was called. Him and Derek were regulars.’
‘Derek Shankley, you mean? Did you ever meet him?’
‘A couple of times. Never mentioned his dad was one of your lot. Apparently the father was none too happy about his son and Stuart.’
‘How about you, Mr Ness?’
‘I’ve no problem with gay people. Some of the best talent in my films were gay. Maybe not all of them totally out, back in the day, but that’s how it was. Even now, plenty big names are still reluctant to step from the closet. I could give you a few that might surprise you.’
‘Why did you sell Poretoun House?’
Ness’s face darkened a little. ‘Sunk too much of my own money into a film I thought was gold-plated. Then Billy – Billy Locke – had that run-in with HMRC and the company suddenly had penalties to pay.’ He offered a shrug and dropped the remains of the burger back on to the wooden board it had arrived on. The small tin bucket of fries remained untouched. Ness stifled a belch.
‘Why that particular spot, do you think?’ Clarke asked.
‘Maybe to put me in the frame. Stands to reason it was someone who knew my history with the woods.’
‘But they’re owned by your old rival these days.’
Ness’s face darkened further. ‘That was a kick in the teeth. Thought I was safe selling to Jeff Sellers. But then he goes and does a deal with Brand of all people. And you know why Brand did it?’
‘Why?’
‘To fuck with my head – excuse my French one more time. From what I hear, he’s letting the house rot, and the woods too. Any invasive species, he lets it thrive. That’s exactly what him and his kind are – an invasive species.’
‘Meaning what?’
‘Men like him are little more than pillagers and con artists. He’ll say and do anything to get the land he wants, then build any old tat on it. I wanted that patch of green belt for Scotland’s first film studio. It would have brought jobs and prestige. Brand wanted a golf course for his rich pals, and even then he’d have scaled it back to squeeze in more of his ticky-tacky houses.’
‘Do the pair of you still butt heads?’
‘I got tired of the lawyers’ bills; wanted my life back. Plus, the longer Stuart stayed missing, the easier it was to read it as a message – lay off me and my business.’
Clarke took out her notebook and skimmed its pages, making show of finding her next question. ‘Did you ever have dealings with a pair of men called Steele and Edwards?’
Ness gave a snort. ‘They pulled my car over a few times to tell me I was speeding. I knew what was going on, though; Stuart had already warned me they were on Brand’s payroll.’
‘He had proof?’
‘Why would he lie?’
‘This was something he’d discovered in the course of his investigation?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you ever make a formal complaint?’
He stared at her. ‘Are you going to tell me it would have made a blind bit of difference?’
‘Did Stuart Bloom have run-ins with them like you did?’
‘He never said. The club did get busted a few times, though: cops looking for drugs, anyone underage, corrupt and depraved practices … Remember there was a spate of overdoses in the city around that time? That gave your lot the excuse.’
‘Mr Bloom was never arrested in these raids?’
Ness tapped the side of his nose. ‘Said he was smart enough not to be there those nights.’
‘Are you suggesting he was tipped off?’
‘His boyfriend’s dad was a copper – put two and two together.’ Ness poured the dregs of his
can into his glass. Then he smiled. ‘You know I used them in one of my films?’
‘Who?’
‘I had a crowd scene I couldn’t afford, so I asked Stuart. Him and Derek rounded up a few of the guys they knew from Rogues. Now that I think of it, we filmed in the woods.’
‘What was the film called?’
‘Zombies v Bravehearts. Ever tried to make four zombies look like a horde?’
‘Is that who Stuart and Derek played?’
Ness shook his head. ‘They were queuing up to get into a kilt, stripped to the waist and painted blue. It was so cold that day, I could have saved the cost of make-up.’
‘Is the film available anywhere?’
‘I’m told copies fetch a small fortune online. Died a death when we first released it. There are clips on YouTube.’
‘I’m guessing there’ll be one somewhere in your office, though.’
‘The only copy I have.’
‘We’ll bring it back, I promise.’
The low sun had shifted and was catching the side of Emily Crowther’s face again.
‘You really should consider acting,’ Ness told her. ‘Do you mind if I …?’ He produced a phone from his pocket and held it up to take a photo. But Clarke blocked the camera with her hand.
‘No publicity,’ she said. Looking crestfallen, Ness put the phone away again.
As they were leaving, he told the waiter he’d settle up at the end of the week. The waiter’s look suggested he’d expected nothing else. With the DVD retrieved – in a plain black plastic box – Clarke and Crowther headed back to Clarke’s car.
‘He could make you a star,’ Clarke commented.
‘Sleazy fucker that he is,’ Crowther muttered in response. Clarke gave her a sideways glance. DC Emily Crowther had just gone up – way, way up – in her estimation, as had DCI Graham Sutherland. He’d known the way someone from the film world might react to a pretty face – and he’d been right.
‘Why the interest in Steele and Edwards?’ Crowther asked as Clarke signalled into traffic.
‘They’re ACU these days.’
‘And you’ve just escaped ACU’s clutches.’ Crowther nodded her understanding.