by Ian Rankin
Rebus was looking around him. All he saw were trees. No way of knowing if he’d walked past here during the search. He’d been CID anyway, a sightseer while the uniforms covered the ground, armed with sticks and keen eyes. He recalled that a flooded quarry a few miles away had also been visited by divers with air tanks and powerful torches. Then there’d been the disused mines just south of Bonnyrigg. Photos of the missing man had been placed in shop windows, tied to lamp posts, pushed through letter boxes, while back in the CID office Bloom’s phone records were being checked, his emails scoured for clues. Dozens upon dozens of interviews, because the longer he stayed missing, the more apparent it became that his vanishing act was not voluntary, and probably no accident. So they’d hauled in both Jackie Ness and Adrian Brand for a proper grilling, then the boyfriend. Hours of questions, all of it leading them in circles. Bill Rawlston had been old school, zeroed straight in on what he called Bloom’s ‘lifestyle’, code for his sexuality. According to Derek Shankley, theirs had been a monogamous relationship, ‘apart from the odd snog, obviously’. Snogs at private parties held in friends’ homes; snogs on the dance floor at Rogues.
‘The partner doesn’t always know, though,’ was all Rawlston said about that.
Brand and Ness had arrived for their meets with CID phalanxed by lawyers; Derek Shankley had taken his dad. Or, more likely, the dad had insisted on tagging along. Of course Rebus had known Alex Shankley. Shankley was an expert on Glasgow gangs and gangsters; Rebus knew more about their Edinburgh equivalents than anyone in the city. Information had been traded down the years. A tip-off about a summit; a request for surveillance; titbits learned from phone taps. Old-school cooperation, at the end of which a bottle of whisky would be sent as thanks and gratefully received.
‘I worked the original case,’ Rebus told the constable, in explanation for his long silence.
‘I heard there were some issues.’
‘If by issues you mean fuck-ups …’ Rebus, hands stuffed into his coat pockets, gave a shrug. ‘Let’s be generous and say we just took a few wrong turns. How much longer are you going to be out here?’
‘This is supposed to be the last day. Tape comes down in the morning.’
The months would pass, Rebus knew, and people would start to forget. Or else they’d walk the woods not having known in the first place. He wondered at the efficacy of dusting off people’s memories, all those individuals interviewed first time round. Details would have evaporated, moments blurred. The human mind wasn’t exactly a reliable witness at the best of times. Taking a final look into the gully, he spotted a green wreath against one of the steep sides, not quite at the bottom.
‘The parents,’ the constable explained. ‘Yesterday morning, before my shift started.’
Rebus nodded slowly and started the long walk back to his car.
He didn’t drive far, coming off the track on to a muddy tarmacked B road. A couple of left turns and he was at the gates to Poretoun House. The gates were closed, no sign of a bell or anything. A padlocked chain. When Rebus pushed, there was just enough give for him to squeeze through the gap – security obviously not much of an issue.
‘That’s what losing a few pounds does for you, John,’ he said to himself. Twenty pounds actually. First time he’d gone to the Oxford Bar after shedding it, they’d asked if he had long to live. He’d been forced to tell them it wasn’t cancer. No, not cancer, but he was buggered if he was going to let COPD have him without a fight. One of the other patients at the respiratory clinic had used a phrase – ‘managed decline’ – and it had stuck with Rebus. To him, it seemed to sum up his whole life since retirement, and maybe even before.
‘Cheery bastard today,’ he muttered as he walked.
The driveway was overgrown, the gravel surface green with weeds and moss. The house itself soon appeared, looking forlorn. He remembered visiting it to question Jackie Ness, in a huge and overly ornate living room. Mary Skelton had been with him; it was one of those rare days when she seemed able to focus on her job rather than her sleeping arrangements. Not that they’d lingered at Poretoun House. It had been a follow-up; they were there to take receipt of printed communications between Ness and the misper. Rebus remembered the film memorabilia, the posters and props. The hallway had become a repository for lighting rigs, rails filled with costumes, camera tripods. Had anyone thought to mention that Stuart Bloom had appeared in one of Ness’s films? Had Ness himself or maybe Derek Shankley said something? If so, whoever they’d told hadn’t thought it worth recording. The family really had earned their eventual begrudged and belated apology.
‘Utter shambles,’ Rebus said to himself.
He did a circuit of the building’s exterior. Lawns that had stopped being tended to. A broken window pane, boarded up. Foliage sprouting from gutters and downpipes. No sign of life. He crouched by the front door, peering through the letter box. The hall was dusty and empty. No sign of any mail on the floor. Most of the windows had been shuttered, upstairs and down. But he found one where the shutters didn’t quite meet and pressed his nose to the glass. The living room was devoid of furniture, cracks appearing in its stuccoed ceiling. Didn’t seem to him that anyone was even bothering to heat the place. Turning away from the house, he had a clear view towards the woods. The last time anyone had seen Stuart Bloom alive, he’d been driving away in his Polo.
‘He was headed home,’ Jackie Ness had told the inquiry.
Yes, because Derek Shankley was preparing an evening meal for them, wine open, music playing, the end of another long week for them both. Of course, they only had Ness’s word for it that Bloom had left the meeting alive. The house had been searched and forensically examined, despite Ness’s complaints. Outbuildings had been checked, as had the woods beyond. Not that there was any good reason to suspect the producer.
It was just that they didn’t have much else.
Rebus returned to his Saab. It spluttered as it started, reminding him that it wasn’t getting any younger. He patted the steering wheel in sympathy, mouthed the phrase ‘managed decline’ and drove the half-mile to the village of Poretoun, which basically consisted, now as then, of a single thoroughfare (imaginatively named Main Street). There had been two pubs, but only one survived. The hardware shop, bank and post office had also gone. The café Rebus remembered dropping into for a memorable black pudding roll still had its signage, but was closed and available to let. There was a convenience store, a solitary shopper emerging from it with a carrier bag. Rebus parked and pushed open its door.
‘Just want some gum,’ he told the Asian woman behind the counter. He found the Airwaves and picked up a pack, then a second for luck.
‘You’re trying to stop smoking,’ she commented. Then, seeing from his look that she was correct: ‘Takes one to know one. Have you tried vaping?’
‘The technology defeated me.’
‘Well, gum will rot your teeth but not your lungs.’ She rang up the items. There was a small pile of that day’s Evening News on the counter, so he took one, looking at the headlines on the front. There was a colour photo of Catherine Bloom and the promise of an exclusive interview inside.
‘I must look up “exclusive” when I get home,’ he said. ‘Can’t be many people she’s not spoken to.’
‘Can you blame her, though? The way the authorities have treated that family is inexcusable.’
‘We’re only human,’ Rebus said, accepting his change and making his exit. He crossed to the pub and stepped inside. It felt welcoming, with a log-burning stove and thick tartan carpet. Spotting the coffee machine, he ordered an Americano and slid on to a bar stool. A middle-aged couple sat at a corner table, conversing quietly. Another regular was engrossed in his crossword. Rebus placed the Evening News on the counter.
‘Hellish, isn’t it?’ the barman said, nodding towards the photo of Catherine Bloom.
‘Aye,’ Rebus agreed.
&
nbsp; ‘Have you been to the woods, then?’ Rebus met the barman’s eyes. ‘You’re not local and a lot of people have been dropping in here either before or after. They’re taking the tape down tomorrow, I hear.’
‘Reckon that’ll spoil the tourist trade?’ Rebus enquired, stony-faced.
‘A sale is a sale, even if it’s only coffee. I always reckoned that film guy had something to do with it.’
‘Oh aye?’
‘Orgies and everything, he used to film them. That was the rumour anyway.’
‘News to me.’
‘The woods have always had that atmosphere about them – did you not feel it? Back in the day when he owned them, there’d be blood spattered around. People said he was sacrificing chickens or something.’
‘They must have been disappointed when they learned it was food colouring from his horror films.’
The barman studied him. ‘You know a lot about it.’
‘I worked the original inquiry. Even popped in here a few times.’
‘I only started here later. Used to work for the competition.’
‘Why did it close?’
‘Things change, I suppose. Landlord retired and couldn’t find anyone to take it on.’ He looked around him. ‘I give this place six months and it’ll go the same way. Trade’s dying, same as the village.’
‘Christ’s sake, Tam,’ the regular said, looking up from his newspaper. ‘You’re like a broken record.’ Then, eyes turning to Rebus: ‘I remember you, though. You used to drink a pint of heavy.’
‘That’s some memory you’ve got.’
‘To be honest, it was always going to be fifty-fifty. Back then, heavy and lager were what the place sold. Now it’s flavoured vodka and beer in overpriced bottles, to attract a younger crowd that would rather be anywhere but here. As for all that shite about Jackie Ness and Poretoun Woods …’ The man shook his head. ‘My son was an extra on some of his films. An orgy would have been just fine by him, but there was never a whiff of any of that. Long, miserable days, cheese sandwiches and as little pay as Ness thought he could get away with. Girls got a bit extra if they had to do nude, but the lads didn’t.’ He glowered at the barman. ‘You saw one or two of those films, Tam. A flash of tit was as racy as it got.’ He rolled his eyes and focused on his crossword again.
‘What does your son do now?’ Rebus asked.
‘He took over his uncle’s farm. Loved it ever since he was a kid. He’s selling up now, though, getting out before Brexit hits. Whole thing’s a bloody joke at our expense – and some around here even voted for it.’
The barman pursed his lips and busied himself with what few empty glasses there were, while Rebus took a sip of coffee. It was bitter and lukewarm, which seemed to fit in with the way the village was changing.
‘Will someone take on the farm?’ he asked.
‘Not as a going concern. It’s going to be houses. Posh ones for folk with good jobs in Edinburgh or retirees from south of the border.’
‘Wouldn’t be anything to do with Sir Adrian Brand, would it?’
‘It would.’
‘I’ve just been to Poretoun House.’
‘It’s criminal what he’s done to that place.’
‘On the other hand,’ the barman interrupted, ‘all those new houses might be good for business.’
‘Only if you add ciabatta to the bar menu,’ Rebus said, pushing away his cup. ‘And better coffee to go with it.’
16
Graham Sutherland and Callum Reid were in the interview room with Bill Rawlston. When Clarke asked why, George Gamble told her Rawlston had been at the heart of the original inquiry. Maybe he could point them in the right direction, offer shortcuts or share his instinct regarding motives and most likely suspects.
Meantime, the budget would allow for the soil analysis and whatever forensic tests the handcuffs and car interior required. The process was already under way.
Derek Shankley had managed another half-day away from teaching and was seated next to Phil Yeats, going through names and phone numbers. Clarke gave him a little smile of encouragement and headed along the corridor to the room where Fox and Leighton sat surrounded by the contents of the box files.
‘Mind if I have a word, Malcolm?’ she asked.
‘Sure.’ He got up and followed her back into the under-lit corridor with its flaking cream-painted walls.
‘Making progress?’ she asked. He shrugged a response. ‘Is your deal with Steele and Edwards that you share it with them first? I know you talked to them yesterday.’
‘I wondered how John knew. You saw them from the window?’
‘Something like that.’
‘You’re lying. If you’d been watching, you’d know it was only Steele I spoke to – Edwards stayed in the car. And to answer your question, I told him precisely nothing.’
‘Best keep it that way.’
‘You think they might be up to their necks?’
‘Anyone who could lay their hands on a pair of handcuffs is a suspect.’
‘Always supposing the two are connected.’
She stared at him. ‘Can we agree that it’s at least highly likely?’
‘I’m just trying to keep an open mind, Siobhan. That’s something the original inquiry seemed to lack. From early on, there were just the two options – it was because he was gay, or it was because of his job.’ Fox nodded towards the MIT room. ‘You’ve got one of the chief suspects in there right now. He’s either helping, or else pretending to.’
‘We’ve actually got two witnesses in the building, Malcolm. Which one is it you’re marking as a suspect?’
‘The boyfriend. Not that I think he did it.’
Clarke folded her arms. ‘What did Steele want with you?’
Fox took a deep breath. ‘Just as you said, to be kept apprised.’
‘You know you can’t help them.’
Fox nodded slowly. ‘But I need to appear to be. They reckon they can stick John’s head in a noose otherwise.’
‘You think you can convince them you’re on their side?’
‘I’ll do my best. They played the Complaints and ACU card – joined at the hip as we fight the good fight.’ He paused. ‘I know you have a bit of history with them.’
‘So I know what utter bastards they can be. Be careful, Malcolm.’
‘I get the feeling there’s something you’re not telling me.’
She gave a thin smile by way of reply, patted the lapel of his suit jacket and returned to the MIT room. Derek Shankley was taking a break, standing with a mug of tea by one of the windows. She walked over to him.
‘How’s it going?’
He managed a half-smile. ‘Okay.’
‘I’m assuming you’d managed to move on with your life. Now this comes crashing down on you.’
He had removed his leather jacket – it was draped over the chair at Yeats’s desk. Different T-shirt from the previous day, black this time, tight-fitting. His body was toned, his stone-washed denims low-slung.
‘You’re right,’ he said quietly. ‘Instead of sleeping, I keep replaying our time together. We were friends as much as lovers; liked the same things, the same food …’
‘When I watched the two of you in that zombie film, I could tell – you definitely looked like you had fun together, could hardly keep the grins off your faces.’
His smile broadened at the memory. ‘That might have been the hash, mind you.’ He froze, fixing her with a look.
‘Relax,’ she reassured him. ‘What’s said at the kettle stays at the kettle.’
‘Temperature was zero that day,’ he went on. ‘You could see your breath in the air. One of the crew said as much, asked if zombies breathed. Said how could they when their lungs would be shrivelled up. And there we were painted blue and trying to dodge them.’ He pa
used. ‘Actually, I just mentioned it to …’ He nodded towards Phil Yeats, who was checking texts on his phone.
‘DC Yeats,’ Clarke reminded him.
‘I was telling him a few of us from Rogues worked as extras, but so did the teenagers from the local village. Talk about a culture clash – they saw us as some exotic species. One or two might even have wanted us extinct.’
‘It came to blows?’
‘Just a bit of name-calling, usually to our backs.’ Shankley paused, rubbing one hand tentatively up and down a bare arm. ‘It’s not why Stuart was killed.’
‘Sure about that?’
‘Fairly sure.’
‘Well then, speaking of Rogues …’ Clarke lowered her voice, moving a couple of inches closer to him. ‘We know your dad tipped you off if a raid was coming. Do you know who it was that told him?’
Shankley shook his head.
‘Sure about that?’ She watched him nod. ‘Well, let’s keep all that to ourselves, eh? It’s definitely got nothing to do with what happened to Stuart.’ She waited for her words to sink in, then lightened her tone. ‘Pretty dreadful films, weren’t they?’
‘Made by good people, though. The sound guy, the make-up girl, all that lot. They were lovely. Stuart and me used to go for a drink with the director of photography. He knew a hell of a lot more about filming than Jackie Ness. Told us stories about people he’d worked with, big names some of them. Plenty of gossip, too. Stuart learned a lot from him.’
‘In what way?’
‘How to photograph certain situations. You know, like if the light’s poor or from a distance.’
‘Useful in Stuart’s line of work.’
‘Same with the sound engineer – Stuart talked to him about taping stuff.’
‘Eavesdropping, you mean?’
‘Phone calls and stuff, yes. Plus meetings where there’s a lot of background noise.’
‘Have you given DC Yeats their names?’
‘He hasn’t asked.’
‘Maybe you could give them to me, then. Are you still in touch?’