by Ian Rankin
In the silence that followed, Rebus stuck a piece of gum in his mouth and started chewing, while Edwards just glowered.
‘Bit of a surprise,’ Steele eventually said, ‘Stuart Bloom turning up like that.’
‘Makes me wonder why he did,’ Rebus replied. ‘I mean, why now? The boffins don’t think he was in that gully all those years, meaning at some point he was moved there.’
‘Aye, that got us thinking, too.’
‘I’m sure Grant here put the full force of his intellect into it.’ Rebus glanced towards Edwards again.
‘So what have you told them at MIT, John?’ Steele asked, flicking ash into an empty cigarette packet. ‘I assume that’s why you wanted to meet.’
‘I’ve told them precisely nothing they didn’t already know. For example, I’ve not mentioned your little jaunt playing bodyguard to Big Ger Cafferty.’
‘I wasn’t sure you knew about that. It was in my own time, if that matters at all.’
‘Well remunerated, I’m sure. And he wanted you for your unique talents, I dare say, rather than so he could pump you for any gossip on Adrian Brand.’
‘Mr Brand’s name never came up.’
‘But that’s how he knew about you in the first place, the Brand connection?’
‘None of this has anything to do with the Bloom case. I might as easily ask you about Cafferty; the two of you were pretty snug for a while. In fact, I hear you still see him, despite him never being far from Serious Crime’s attention.’ Steele turned his head to look at Rebus. ‘You wouldn’t have loaned him a pair of handcuffs, would you?’
‘I was CID at the time, Brian; handcuffs were mostly used by uniforms, which is what both of you were.’ Rebus watched as Steele reached into the glove box, pulling out a pair of old-fashioned metal cuffs.
‘Still come in useful,’ Steele said, trying to pass them to Rebus. Rebus kept his hands by his sides, and Steele laughed. ‘You’re scared I want your prints on them – we’ve gone from Mafia flick to conspiracy thriller. In fact, you might well have a point there – doesn’t it strike you as a bit OTT? Not just the cuffs, but putting them round the ankles? It’s like we’re all supposed to take route one to the goal mouth – cops did it, and cops will take the fall. Me and Grant here, you and your boss Bill Rawlston. Not to mention Skelton, Newsome and the rest.
‘But here’s the thing, John.’ He stubbed out his cigarette and twisted further in his seat so he was facing Rebus as directly as possible without doing himself an injury. ‘Me and Grant, we always had that reputation, didn’t we? Sailing a bit close to the wind. Skelton and Newsome were inept but not really players. Rawlston was lazy, just wanted a result he knew he wasn’t going to get. As the weeks passed, it was all the same old ground being covered again. But you, John, well, you had a bit of a reputation, too. You’d worked some dirty cases, in Edinburgh and Glasgow both. That’s how you got friendly with DI Alex Shankley, the father who didn’t exactly agree with his son’s sexuality, and wasn’t keen on that son’s partner being a private eye. All kinds of tensions there that were never explored because you kept putting up the barricades, all for the sake of your pal in Glasgow.’ Steele paused. ‘The same pal who probably kept you in the loop when Cafferty had that meeting with Conor Maloney. Think any of that’ll stay unmentioned this time round? Think those tip-offs about raids on Rogues won’t piss off your old comrades when they learn they came from you? Me and Grant here were on one or two of those raids, you know. You were setting us up to fall on our arses.’
‘Is this ACU I’m talking to, or just two bent cops?’
‘All I’m saying is, none of us has anything to gain by any of this getting out. I fully expect that Grant and me will end up at MIT, telling our side of the story. There are things we could tell, if we felt it was going badly for us. There’d maybe be a few good names and pensions lost along the way, even a prosecution or two. All those reports Newsome typed up of interviews that didn’t actually happen … We might even find out who it was Mary Skelton was shagging. She died, by the way, three years back. You and her were pretty close, weren’t you?’
‘Not nearly close enough for an affair.’
‘Maybe just a one-nighter, eh?’ Steele returned to his original position, eyes on the rear-view. ‘Then there’s our old boss Rawlston – I hear he’s not keeping well. Last thing he needs is to have all this dragged up again.’
‘He’s already been interviewed.’
‘Doesn’t mean they won’t want to talk to him again. All those mistakes he presided over, all those cops under him who weren’t doing their jobs.’ Steele paused once more. ‘I’ve always been the observant type. Grant, too. People underestimate him because he doesn’t say much, but he sees and hears plenty.’
Rebus watched Edwards nod his agreement.
‘We’ve worked our way up, John,’ Steele went on. ‘Took a long time to get to ACU. Not too many more years and we’ll be getting those pensions and heading off elsewhere. That’s something we’ll do our utmost to protect. Seems to me everyone who worked the case has something they want to keep safe or hidden. So tell me something, John – and I promise it won’t go further than this car.’
‘What?’
‘Did you help Alex Shankley kill his son’s boyfriend, or was it all his own work?’
‘You’ll have to do better than that, Steele.’ Rebus pushed open the rear door and stepped out, leaning back into the car again. ‘The most likely candidates haven’t changed. I suspected it then and I’m thinking it now. In fact, I’m looking right at them.’
He slammed the door closed and stalked back to his Saab. He had almost reached it when he heard footsteps behind him. Edwards spun him round, slamming him into the Saab’s bodywork, holding him there by his lapels while Steele took his own sweet time arriving. Rebus tried wrestling his way free, but the smiling grizzly was always going to win that bout. When he tried bringing his knee up into Edwards’s groin, Edwards was prepared, twisting so Rebus connected with his upper thigh, then pressing his bulk harder against Rebus, until breathing became difficult. The driver of the articulated lorry leaned out of his window and called across to them; Steele brandished his warrant card and waved away the complaint. Something was hanging from his other hand. The handcuffs, Rebus realised. One of them snapped around his left wrist.
‘No …’ he started to say, but too late. The other had been attached to the Saab’s door handle.
‘It’s easy to hang on to old sets of cuffs,’ Steele said. ‘Problem is, the key’s so fucking small you end up losing it.’ His mouth was close to Rebus’s left ear. ‘You and your lot never had any time for us, back when we were in uniform. I heard the things you said, saw the gestures you made when you thought our backs were turned. I’ve never forgotten that. Never …’
Flecks of spittle hit Rebus’s ear. Steele’s leather heels ground against the asphalt as he turned and began to walk back to the Audi, Edwards following with a smirk. Rebus aimed a kick at his retreating leg but missed, swiping at air. He watched as the Audi headed off slowly in the direction of the carriageway. Waited a few minutes, in case it returned. Studied the ground, but Steele hadn’t left the key there. The lorry driver was leaving too, without so much as a look in Rebus’s direction. The metal was cutting into Rebus’s wrist. He tried squeezing but was never going to spring himself that way. Instead, he lifted his phone from his pocket and eventually found the number he needed. Pressed the phone to his ear and listened as it was answered.
‘Alex,’ he said, ‘I need a bit of a favour …’
After Alex Shankley had freed him, the two men headed into the cafeteria, bought a pot of tea and a couple of caramel wafers and found a table by the window.
‘Lucky the key fitted,’ Shankley said.
‘Don’t you remember? Same key fitted most models.’ Rebus rubbed at his reddened wrist. He had pocketed the cuffs.
‘Why did they do it?’
‘Steele and Edwards?’ Rebus shook his head. ‘You don’t want to know.’
‘Maybe I do, though. Is it tied to Stuart Bloom?’
‘Sort of. Have you heard anything about the body?’
‘Such as?’
‘The ankles?’ Rebus watched Shankley nod.
‘It was mentioned at the interview. I notice it’s not public knowledge.’
‘Despite which, seems every bugger knows.’ Rebus paused. ‘Steele reckons you and me did it.’
‘You and me?’
‘He’s got it into his head that we might have killed Bloom.’
‘Steele’s the one I warned you about? The one at the meeting between Cafferty and Maloney?’
‘That’s him.’
‘He sounds like a shitbag.’
‘No argument here.’ Rebus slurped at his tea. ‘You didn’t, though, did you?’
‘I didn’t like the lad, John, but that’s as far as it went. Christ, it was bad enough when Derek came out as gay. Looking back, I can see the guts that took, but you know yourself, cops weren’t quite as touchy-feely back then. I knew I’d take some stick, and that was the problem right there – it was me I was thinking of rather than Derek. Even so, it’s one thing when your son tells you he’s gay, but when you see them holding hands, a peck on the cheek …’ Shankley took a deep breath and released it. ‘I wasn’t comfortable, John, not at all comfortable. Then when Stuart turned out to be a private investigator …’
‘You got more stick.’
‘Boss had a few sharp words – if he got wind that I’d ever leaked anything to Stuart …’ Shankley made show of running a finger across his throat.
‘You never did, though,’ Rebus stated.
‘I never did,’ Shankley confirmed.
‘Apart from the occasional warnings about Rogues, obviously.’
‘Those were to Derek rather than Stuart.’
Rebus tilted his head in a show of agreement. ‘Derek’s going to be back under the microscope again – our lot and the media. Think he’ll handle it okay?’
Shankley gave a confident nod. ‘He’s stronger these days – and he wants whoever did it caught. That’s how I know he’s got nothing to hide. For years he’s mulled over what could have happened.’
‘You’re certain he doesn’t know?’
‘Same names keep coming up.’
‘Brand and Ness?’
‘I almost got tired of hearing them.’ Shankley looked at Rebus. ‘He didn’t have anything good to say about the investigation either.’
‘Our bedside manner could have been better,’ Rebus agreed. ‘Having said which, you know yourself that we had to treat him as a suspect as well as a witness.’
‘And now?’
‘I don’t sense any pointing of fingers.’
‘Will you get into trouble, John?’
‘Why should I?’
‘Telling me about those raids; buying drinks for reporters so they’d lay off Derek …’
‘All part of the service, Alex.’
‘Will it come to light, though?’
‘I doubt Police Scotland will want to make anything of it. They’ve got plenty wildfires they’re busy fighting.’
‘Seems the wrong word or look gets you accused of bullying. Wouldn’t have happened in our day, John.’
‘Might have been better if it had,’ Rebus said ruefully, draining his cup.
21
The team briefing took place in the MIT room, Bill Rawlston and Derek Shankley both on their way home. Reid, Gamble, Leighton, Yeats and Crowther were seated. Clarke, having just made her report, was standing in front of Graham Sutherland’s desk. Fox had slipped into the room and positioned himself just inside the door.
Sutherland was digesting what Clarke had just told them.
‘Do we know the whereabouts of Madden and Speke?’ he asked.
‘If they’re still working, it shouldn’t be difficult,’ Clarke said. ‘Place to start would be Jackie Ness.’
‘Except then we’d be tipping him off,’ Callum Reid cautioned. Clarke noticed that he had been busy with his wall and whiteboard: thumbnail crime-scene photos added to the map; more details of players in the drama; even a small copy of the promotional poster for Zombies v Bravehearts. Now that the civilians had left, photos of the handcuffs had been brought out of hiding. Phil Yeats had circulated the list of names he’d compiled with Derek Shankley’s help. It was lengthy and incomplete, and would tie up Yeats and maybe even Gamble for the next day or two. Fox and Leighton meantime had made progress with the case files without having much to add by way of new information or supposition. Madden and Speke, however, were new information, which was why Clarke sensed their boss was excited by it. The long working day was drawing to a close with too little otherwise to show for it.
‘I want you to run with this, Siobhan’ he announced. ‘Emily can help. Find them and talk to them.’ He turned towards Tess Leighton. ‘They don’t feature at all in the original inquiry?’
Leighton checked with Fox before shaking her head.
‘One more screw-up to add to the growing list.’ Sutherland rubbed his eyes.
‘Any further news on the car or the handcuffs?’ Fox asked from the back of the room.
‘Hopefully tomorrow.’ Sutherland checked the time on his phone. ‘Let’s give it another half-hour before calling it a day. If anyone wants to stay later, that’s fine, too. But tired minds aren’t much use to me, so make sure you take breaks as necessary. I’ll be heading to the same pub as before. There’ll be a drink behind the bar for each of you.’ He picked up his phone and placed a call. ‘But before all that, I’d better update DCS Mollison. He’s planned a press conference in the morning, and an email update to go to media outlets tonight.’ Pressing the phone to his ear, he turned away from the room, which was their cue to get back to work. Tess Leighton wandered over to the door and opened it, Fox following.
‘She’s taking the babysitting role seriously,’ Crowther whispered to Clarke.
‘More to it than that, you think?’
‘I’d say he’s her type.’
‘And what type does Tess go for usually?’
‘Sentient,’ Crowther answered with a smile.
Clarke stayed for just the one drink with the team. Whenever cops got together, it was the usual slew of stories and anecdotes about stupid criminals, ineffective fiscals, cases won and lost. Then there were their fellow officers, the daft ones, the savvy ones, the ones who’d got locked out of their cars or inside a cell. Clarke kept the smile pinned to her face. She didn’t mind really; such stories signalled their shared past and cemented their current status as a group, a gang. Fox told his fair share, and they accepted that he’d earned his place. Clarke wondered if Leighton had maybe dropped a hint to the others: he’s okay, we can trust him. She definitely seemed to have relaxed around Fox, even leaning in towards his ear now and again to tell him something. They remonstrated when Clarke said she had to go. George Gamble was readying to get another round in.
‘You’ll be witnessing history, Siobhan,’ Emily Crowther teased. ‘George’s wallet probably needs WD-40, it opens so seldom.’
‘Just for that, I’m only getting you a half,’ Gamble retorted.
But Clarke was already on her feet, sliding her arms into her coat. ‘Please,’ she said, ‘nobody get breathalysed. If you need a designated driver, Malcolm’s your man …’
Fox was starting to remonstrate as Clarke left the pub. She walked back to her car and drove up Leith Walk, stopping and heading into an Italian restaurant just around the corner from Gayfield Square. Some stage musical was playing later at the Playhouse across the street and the place was busy, but the staff knew her and found the quietest table they could. She checked her phone while she ate:
texts and emails, social media and news. She was trying to remember when she’d last read a book; time was, she’d have carried one with her. These days she was as likely to read them on a screen.
She paid up and got back in her car, continuing up the slope. The diversion was still in place as work continued on flattening the St James Centre and the offices around it. She remembered when it had been a shopping destination. Clothes and gifts and CDs. But she didn’t recall a bookshop. As she crossed North Bridge, she looked to her right, admiring the view towards Castle Rock, illuminated against the night sky. Turning left at the lights, she was on Canongate and considering her options. It wasn’t too cold out there, and parked cars were thin on the ground, meaning she might stand out if she stayed in the car. So she turned into a side street and found a space.
She had her phone in her hand as she walked past the two empty phone boxes. Twenty paces on, she paused to study a shop window. Then she crossed the road and passed McKenzie’s, keeping on until she had reached the junction. Across the road and back down towards the phone boxes. It suddenly struck her: he might not even be working tonight. She could go in and see, but that might entail being recognised and scaring him off. So she ambled to the same shop window, then across the road and past the pub once more. Not too cold out? Had she really thought that? The chill was finding chinks in her armour at neck and wrist and ankle. Her breath clouded the air in front of her as she walked. A few more minutes and she would resort to plan B: her parked car.
She was crossing at the lights again when she saw a figure emerge from McKenzie’s, making for the call boxes. She had her own phone in her hand as she picked up the pace. She was making as if to pass the figure in the first box when her phone vibrated. She placed it against the glass, causing him to turn his head towards her. It was Dallas Meikle, tattoos and all. He looked startled for a moment before regaining his equilibrium, replacing the receiver in its cradle and pushing open the door.
‘Something you wanted to talk to me about, Mr Meikle?’