by Ian Rankin
‘Thank you for making the effort, sir,’ Sutherland told the retired detective.
‘It was Derek’s idea.’
The slight change in the son’s face gave the lie to this. Derek Shankley wore a black leather biker jacket over a white T-shirt. Fashion, Clarke reckoned, would always win out over comfort. He looked cold, the jacket zipped almost to his neck. He had studs in both earlobes and a shaved head. Though clean-shaven, he had kept traces of his sideburns. His father had a chiselled face, but was slightly stooped, the years having taken their toll.
‘You not recording this?’ Alex Shankley asked.
‘Unless one of you is here to confess?’ Sutherland’s smile told them he was joking.
‘We’re here to save you the trouble of making us come. It’s hellish news about Stuart and we want to give you our thoughts.’
‘Yes, I should have said …’ Sutherland turned his attention to Derek. ‘We really are very sorry about Stuart.’
Derek nodded solemnly. He hadn’t aged much since the days of Zombies v Bravehearts. Clarke wondered what his secret was.
‘I was just watching you, Derek,’ she said conversationally. ‘The film you were in with Stuart.’
He almost snorted. ‘Weren’t we terrible?’
‘You looked to be enjoying yourselves, though.’
‘Well, you know what it’s like on film sets.’
‘Actually, I don’t.’
‘We want to know how we can help the inquiry, DCI Sutherland,’ Derek’s father interrupted, placing his hands flat against the table. ‘We want Stuart’s killer brought to justice.’
Sutherland nodded thoughtfully. ‘Have you had much to do with Stuart’s family, Mr Shankley?’
‘Not much.’
‘Yes, that’s what they said. Sent your condolences?’
Shankley made a show of clearing his throat. ‘I don’t have their address.’
Clarke watched as Derek raised an eyebrow – his father had just lied again.
‘Derek didn’t have much to do with the family after Stuart’s disappearance,’ Sutherland commented.
‘What have they been saying?’ the father snapped.
‘That they tried contacting him but he wasn’t very communicative.’
‘They never really liked me,’ Derek conceded. ‘I thought they blamed me.’
‘Blamed you how?’
‘In their eyes, Stuart might have been running from me.’
‘Why would he have done that?’
‘He wouldn’t.’ Derek’s eyes were glazing with the beginning of tears.
‘No tension between the two of you? No arguments?’
Derek looked to Clarke. ‘You saw us in that film – what do you think?’
‘Like I said, you were enjoying yourselves.’
‘We always did.’ He folded his arms as if to affirm the statement, the leather creaking.
‘How about you, Mr Shankley?’ Sutherland’s focus was still on the older man. ‘Did you have any issues with Stuart?’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘Quite comfortable with Derek’s sexuality?’
‘He’s my son, isn’t he? Of course I am.’ It sounded a line that had been used many times before. Derek turned his head to look at his father. That makes three, Clarke reckoned. Three little white lies.
‘Are you,’ she asked Derek, ‘still in touch with friends from those days? Friends Stuart would have known?’
‘Some, yes.’
‘It’s just that we’re compiling a list of people we need to speak to. If you could help us with addresses or phone numbers …’
‘Sure. I’ve no classes today.’
‘You still teach media studies?’ Clarke watched him nod. ‘And are there jobs waiting for your students at the end of the course?’
‘Not as many as there were, and the ones that are there often don’t pay. They’re supposed to be working for the contacts they’ll make, for the good of their CV, or because the internship’s so wonderful why would they ever want paying to be part of it?’ He rolled his eyes while Clarke turned from son to father.
‘There’s something I need to put to you, Mr Shankley. It concerns Rogues nightclub.’
‘What about it?’
‘It was subject to several visits by police officers. Unscheduled visits. But never when your son and Stuart were there.’
‘What are you trying to say?’
‘Just that you were a detective, sir, with friends everywhere, I’m guessing.’
Alex Shankley shifted his gaze from Clarke to Sutherland. ‘I don’t see what any of this has to do with Stuart’s murder.’ Sutherland seemed to agree, his eyes on Clarke.
‘Perhaps Derek could step outside for a moment,’ she said. The son looked to his father, who nodded his agreement. Clarke waited until Derek was on the other side of the door.
‘There’s something I’d like to share with you, but it would have to be in confidence. It’s something you might well find useful, because it’ll help you prepare yourself.’
‘And in exchange?’ Alex Shankley asked.
‘You’ll answer a question I’m going to put to you.’
Shankley weighed up his response. ‘Very well,’ he eventually said.
Clarke moistened her lips. ‘Stuart’s ankles were handcuffed together. Police-issue handcuffs most probably. We’re keeping that to ourselves at present, so please don’t go sharing, even with Derek.’
Shankley nodded his understanding. ‘Public will think it was a cop, and I was a cop.’
‘Now you’ll be prepared,’ Clarke stated.
Shankley nodded again. ‘So ask me your question.’
‘Did someone let you know whenever a police raid was due to be carried out at Rogues?’
‘How would it have looked, a murder squad man’s son being hauled into the back of a police van?’
‘Is that a yes?’
‘It is.’
‘The person who told you, they had to be on the inside, somebody local.’
‘You’ve already had your question, DI Clarke. You’ve got me feeling like a bloody snitch, but that’s as much of my soul as you’re having.’ He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. For the first time, Clarke saw the son reflected in the father.
‘You didn’t kill Stuart Bloom, did you, Mr Shankley?’ Sutherland asked.
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘And you didn’t order or otherwise facilitate his death?’
‘No.’
‘Happen to keep any old pairs of handcuffs in the house?’ Sutherland watched Shankley nod. ‘Any of them gone AWOL down the years?’
‘Definitely not.’
‘Sure about that?’
Shankley gazed towards the door. ‘It nearly destroyed Derek, you know. For a few months he was almost suicidal. Even now …’ He shook his head and sighed. ‘Took me a long time to understand how much they really cared for one another.’
‘Your wife …?’ Clarke asked.
‘Died when Derek was young.’
‘You brought him up by yourself?’
‘Family helped.’
‘Which is why it’s interesting you’ve never felt able to contact Stuart’s family.’
Shankley glowered at the two detectives across from him. ‘Did you hear the things they said about us? About hard-working cops like you and me? When Stuart went missing, his mum phoned me day and night – CID and home. She never gave it a rest, said I should be shouting from the rooftops, talking to all those bloody journalists.’
‘And now your son is teaching the next generation,’ Clarke commented.
The man snorted. Sutherland shifted on his seat.
‘You will,’ he said, ‘check the situation with those handcuffs, won’t you?’
‘And you’ve no inkling who did?’
‘None.’
‘Then we’re probably done here.’ Sutherland made to rise to his feet.
‘But we may need to talk to you again, sir,’ Clarke cautioned. ‘And in the meantime, while Derek’s here, it would be good to get those contacts from him.’
‘If he’s willing, that’s fine. He might not know everyone, though. If he can’t give you a number or he doesn’t know a name, don’t read anything into it.’ Shankley paused, stabbing a finger into the air between the two detectives. ‘Don’t forget, I know how you think. And I know how wrong that thinking can sometimes be. I’ve always stuck up for the force and I always will – but I know.’
‘Don’t judge us by the past, Mr Shankley,’ Clarke said. ‘Trust me, we’ve learned a lot from the cock-ups and cosy conspiracies of your generation.’
That evening, after just the one drink with Graham Sutherland, Clarke stood in front of Rebus’s tenement and pressed his buzzer, leaning in towards the intercom.
‘Yes?’ his voice crackled.
‘I looked for you on the Meadows.’
‘Already done.’ The door sounded to let her know it had been unlocked. She climbed the two flights. Rebus was waiting on the landing, Brillo at his side, tail wagging. ‘Can I just say, Siobhan, that a woman of your age should have better things to do with her evenings.’
‘Thought I was supposed to keep you in the loop.’
‘A phone call would suffice.’ She followed him down the long hallway into the kitchen.
‘You’ve tidied,’ she commented.
‘Cut to the quick by your critique. Coffee or gin?’
‘Actually I’m fine.’
He lifted a box of tea bags. ‘Turmeric. Guess who from?’
‘A certain pathologist?’
‘She thinks I want to live forever.’ He took a bottle of IPA from the worktop and opened it. They went into the living room, where a CD was playing. Rebus turned it down a notch.
‘Is that classical?’
‘Arvo Pärt.’
‘Our pathologist friend again?’
‘Music to soothe the fevered brow.’ He sank into his chair. ‘How’s it all going, anyway?’
‘Malcolm’s settled in.’
‘He’s good at that.’
‘He had a couple of visitors today – the Chuggabugs.’
‘Sounds about right. They’ll be checking their arses are covered.’
‘You think Malcolm will roll over for them?’
‘It won’t be like that, Shiv. They’ll doubtless have something to offer. Maybe they dug up some dirt on him. Our Malcolm’s not half as shiny as he looks, remember.’ Rebus swallowed a mouthful of beer. ‘Anything else?’
‘I sat and watched one of Ness’s films – Zombies v Bravehearts. Stuart Bloom and Derek Shankley were extras. This was after I’d interviewed both Ness and Brand. Can’t say I was enamoured of either – Ness might stab you in the back, but Brand’s as likely to do it while looking you in the eye. Meantime, the forensic anthropologist reckons the car might not have lain in that spot throughout.’
‘Good news for those of us on the original search team.’
Clarke nodded from her corner of the sofa. Brillo had settled by her feet, curled into a ball. ‘Means there was maybe nothing in those woods for you to miss,’ she agreed.
In the silence that followed, Rebus kept his eyes on her. ‘Any time you’re ready,’ he said.
‘Ready?’
‘To say what you came here to say.’
She stiffened her back. ‘Derek Shankley turned up at Leith along with his father. Definitely the father’s idea, but it got me thinking.’
‘That’s because you’re a detective.’
‘See, Jackie Ness had hinted at something. Police raids on a club Stuart Bloom and Derek Shankley frequented.’
‘Rogues?’
Clarke nodded. ‘Stuart and Derek were never there, which could just be coincidence, of course.’
‘But Ness didn’t think so?’
‘If you ask me, Bloom had maybe bragged about it, or at least let something slip.’
‘That they were forewarned?’ She nodded again, her eyes on his. ‘And you think maybe it was the dad who tipped them the wink?’
‘He admitted as much.’
‘But he was Glasgow-based.’
‘So there had to be someone else right here in Edinburgh.’ She paused for a beat. ‘Did you happen to know Alex Shankley back in the day, John?’
Rebus gave a thin smile. ‘You know what the job’s like, Siobhan. Gangs, drugs, acts of violence … there are webs and connections and chains. Murder squads have always pooled and shared.’
‘Alex Shankley was a friend?’
‘We did one another a few favours, just now and then.’ Rebus had risen again to stand by the uncurtained window. ‘Even before I had Brillo, I’d often walk down to the Meadows of an evening. Late, after the pubs had shut. I’d stand there in the middle of it all, listening to the night. You can hear the city, you know. If you train your ears. But hearing it isn’t always enough.’
‘Did Alex Shankley ask for your help when Stuart Bloom went missing?’
‘You know damned fine he did – he wanted his son’s name kept out of it. I spoke to a few of the seasoned hacks, made my case …’
‘Promised them favours if they complied?’
‘Quid pro quo, Siobhan – just like you and Laura Smith. Not so many laptop warriors back then; it was easier to manage the way news got out, the words used and the ones left unsaid. Christ, was it only twelve years ago? Seems like a different age.’
‘The handcuffs, John.’
Rebus shook his head. ‘It wasn’t Alex Shankley. He’d worked murders half his life. He would know handcuffs were going to scream police involvement.’
‘Would the Chuggabugs have known the same?’
‘Up to a point.’ He returned to his chair and sat down, the bottle clutched in his hand. ‘Isn’t it more likely those cuffs are there to send us on a wild goose chase? The cuffs and the gully both.’
‘Why tie the ankles rather than the wrists?’
‘I refer you to my previous answer.’ Rebus dug a pack of gum from his pocket and held it up. ‘Every time I feel like smoking, I’m supposed to chew one of these little bastards instead. From experience, however, they make the beer taste weird.’ Having said which, he drained the bottle before sliding a lozenge of gum into his mouth.
‘How many are you on?’ Clarke asked, watching him chew.
‘Twenty a day – is that the definition of irony or what?’
‘I’m not sure.’ Clarke’s smile was fleeting. ‘John, if it gets out you were jeopardising police operations …’
‘By warning two young men to stay out of a club?’
‘Nothing was ever found in those raids. Doesn’t that sound to you like word got around?’
‘Or else the club was squeaky clean. There’d been a bad consignment, a few kids OD’ing, one of them dying. That’s what the raids were for – not just at Rogues but across the city. For a while, the dealers kept their heads down, job done.’ Rebus grew thoughtful, his chewing slowing. ‘You think ACU have an inkling about me and Alex Shankley?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘Malcolm hasn’t said?’
‘He doesn’t know I know about the meeting.’
‘And how do you know?’
‘Sources.’
‘Would that be Laura again?’ Rebus gave a half-smile. ‘Steele and Edwards were assigned to at least a couple of the Rogues visits in the months before Bloom disappeared. Then they worked the misper case. Could be they foun
d out I was friends with Alex Shankley, joined the dots and then tucked it away for future use.’
Clarke picked up the thread. ‘They also know that you, me and Malcolm are friends, so they tell him that if he does them a favour, they won’t use the information.’
‘Hearsay rather than information,’ Rebus felt the need to qualify.
‘All the same …’
‘Aye.’ Rebus raised the empty bottle towards her. ‘Well, here’s to you, Siobhan. Your visit’s fair cheered up an old man.’
‘Sorry about that.’ Rebus had picked up his phone and was tapping away at it with one finger. ‘Who are you messaging?’
‘Malcolm, of course. I’m letting him know: if they want to come at me, let them come.’
‘He’ll wonder how you know.’
‘It’ll be more evidence of my almost supernatural powers.’ Rebus pressed send, then gave Clarke an almighty wink.
13
She was on Clerk Street when her phone sounded. The call box again. She pressed her foot to the accelerator. Canongate was only a couple of minutes away. Maybe when she didn’t answer they would stick around and try again. She signalled right, saw the two call boxes in front of her and cursed under her breath – no sign of anyone. She drove on for fifty yards, examining the few pedestrians, not recognising any faces. The street was quiet, so she managed a U-turn, heading back to the call boxes. There were plenty of narrow routes leading off Canongate. Her anonymous caller could have vanished down any one of them. She noticed that her smoking friend was back outside McKenzie’s, so she parked and got out. He recognised her and jutted his chin by way of greeting.
‘All right?’
She sought his name, pointed at him. ‘Robbie, right?’
He pointed back. ‘Siobhan.’
‘I had another call, Robbie, not more than five minutes ago.’
‘I’ve only just stepped out.’
‘I don’t suppose you passed anyone going in?’
‘Didn’t notice.’
‘Meaning they might have?’
He offered a shrug, and then a cigarette.
‘Don’t smoke,’ Clarke told him. ‘I’ll maybe see you inside.’ She yanked open the door.