by Ian Rankin
‘How do you mean?’
‘Stalking is a criminal offence, if you didn’t know. Stalking a police officer can get you in even more trouble.’
‘I was just calling a mate.’ His eyes were everywhere but on hers.
‘I just filmed you making that call,’ she improvised. ‘It went straight to my phone. I’ve got logs of all the other times, too. Well over a dozen of them, all made while you were working your shift. Then there are your visits to my flat, the graffiti on my door – your car was caught on CCTV.’ She watched him accept the lie. ‘No way you’re not going to court,’ she stressed.
Suddenly his eyes met hers. There was a fire in them. ‘So how come you’re not arresting me?’
‘Maybe because I know who you are, which means I think you’re hurting.’
‘Hurt? You don’t know the first thing about it.’
‘This is because of Ellis, yes?’
‘It’s because you put a young kid in Saughton! Christ knows how he’ll survive!’
‘I wasn’t the only detective who worked that case.’
‘You’re the one I remember, though. It was always your name in the papers.’
‘Doesn’t explain how you got your hands on my number.’
A humourless grin spread across Dallas Meikle’s face. ‘Maybe you’re not as well-liked as you think, even among your own kind.’
Suddenly Clarke knew. ‘A couple of ACU officers called Steele and Edwards?’
Who had just failed to get the result they wanted, and needed to feel they’d come away with something, no matter how petty.
‘Phone number and address – I see you wiped the door clean.’ The grin was still in place. ‘Might need another visit.’
‘Just try it.’ The grin slipped slowly from Meikle’s face. ‘What did you hope to gain?’ Clarke asked into the silence.
He considered for a moment before answering. ‘I watched you lot in court. I saw what goes on behind the scenes. Little chats with the lawyers, because it’s just a job to you. Going through the motions with a tidy salary at the end of each month and fuck the consequences. Ellis is a good kid; you treated him like he was something you’d stepped in.’
‘I don’t agree with that. Besides which, he confessed.’
Meikle was shaking his head. ‘He told you he did it, but that’s not the same thing. He couldn’t lie to me when I asked him, so he just said nothing.’
‘The evidence was put to the jury …’
‘Fuck all of them, too. Let me tell you what they saw – they saw a kid from a broken home, no job and no college degree. They saw the picture your fiscal painted for them. They didn’t see Ellis.’ He seemed to be studying her, as if seeing her for the first time. ‘I’m not saying you didn’t do your job, any of you – I’m saying that was all you did.’
They were silent for a few moments. ‘So what happens now?’ Clarke asked. ‘Do I have to change my phone number and move house?’
‘Tell me this, do you ever give them a minute’s thought, Ellis and all the others you’ve put inside?’
‘It’s not really …’ Clarke broke off. ‘Maybe not as much as I could,’ she conceded.
He took this in, nodding slowly, looking her up and down, his face softening. ‘I really don’t think he stands a chance in there, and I’m positive he didn’t do it.’
Clarke had heard the words so many times from loved ones, friends, colleagues. She nodded slowly as an idea formed. ‘Say I got someone to take another look – a fresh pair of eyes. Just to convince you we played fair.’
‘But I don’t think you did play fair, Inspector.’
She held up a finger. ‘But if someone took another look …’
‘What?’
‘Would you go on the record with those names, the ones who gave you my number?’
‘I suppose I might.’
‘That’s not quite good enough.’
He fixed her with a look. ‘I’ll have to think.’
‘You do that – while I think about having you arrested.’
His mouth twitched. ‘All right then, yes, as long as you convince me you’ve been thorough.’
‘And meantime you’ll stop the calls and visits and I won’t press charges.’
She was waiting for him to nod his head in agreement, so he did, and when he looked down, he saw that her hand was waiting for him. He took it and shook, slow to release his grip.
‘How do I know I can trust you?’
‘You don’t,’ she answered, wresting her fingers free.
22
Rebus was in his kitchen when the call came: Bill Rawlston.
‘Hiya, Bill,’ he said, answering. ‘How did the rest of the interview go?’
‘Nothing I wasn’t expecting.’
‘Is that you done, do you think?’
‘Unless you’ve heard anything to the contrary.’
‘Maybe if you got your doctor to have a word, they wouldn’t bother you any further.’
‘I don’t want anyone’s pity, John. Sutherland phrased it perfectly – a result after all these years would taste all the sweeter.’
‘He’s got a way with words.’
‘So you’ve nothing new to tell me?’
Rebus had placed the handcuffs on the worktop in front of him. He pushed them around with a finger as he spoke. ‘Not really, Bill. It’s been one of those days where not much happens.’
Apart from Cafferty, Poretoun Woods, house and village, Steele and Edwards, Alex Shankley …
‘Well, keep me posted, eh?’
‘Will do, Bill. And look after yourself.’
He ended the call only for another to replace it.
‘Not interrupting anything?’ Clarke asked him.
‘Just my dinner.’
‘Cordon bleu, I don’t doubt.’
‘Does microwaved stovies count?’
‘Probably not.’
‘Even with the addition of a coulis of brown sauce?’
‘Listen, John, you’ve got cold case experience …’
‘I’ve worked a few.’
‘If I got you to do some digging on one that’s still fairly fresh, it might give us some leverage with Steele and Edwards.’
‘How?’
‘They’re the ones who gave my number to Ellis Meikle’s uncle. My number and my home address.’
‘No end to the spite in those bastards, is there?’
‘They might end up getting their jotters if we make this work.’
‘And all I have to do is take a look at the Meikle case.’
‘Better still if you prove we put an innocent young man away.’
‘Doesn’t seem to me that would play too well for you. Funny thing is, when I read about how the uncle tried to start a search party, know what went through my mind?’
‘What?’
‘That’s who did it – the uncle.’
‘Bit odd that he’d want the case looked at again, if that were true.’
‘I suppose. Then again, isn’t he a short-fuse merchant? Could be he’s not thinking straight.’
‘He blames PTSD for the short fuse.’
‘And Steele and Edwards gave Mr PTSD your address?’
‘Yes.’
‘He came to see you?’
‘He scoped the place out, put up some graffiti so the neighbours would know they had a farmyard animal in the vicinity.’
‘Bastard needs a kicking.’
‘Maybe back in your day.’
‘Don’t piss about, Siobhan – you know how these things work. They always escalate.’ He paused. ‘Why don’t you want to report it?’
‘How do you think they’ve survived in ACU, John? They hear every rumour and bit of dirt …’
Rebus lifted the h
andcuffs, clutching them in his free hand. ‘Meaning whoever you took it to, Steele would most likely have something on them?’
‘It has to be more than my word against theirs. I need Dallas Meikle to tell his story.’
‘And for that to happen, I have to take a look at the nephew’s case?’ Rebus thought for a moment. ‘He really reckons the kid’s innocent?’
‘Seems that way.’
‘He thinks or he knows? Is there something he’s not telling you?’
‘I don’t know.’ He listened to the pause as she considered this. ‘Maybe,’ she eventually conceded.
‘We should take him out of the game, Shiv. He sounds dangerous.’
‘I can handle him.’
‘Got a taser tucked under your pillow?’
‘Pepper spray,’ she corrected him.
‘Might help explain your love life.’
‘Will you do it, John?’
‘Of course I will. But if I don’t get anywhere …?’
‘Then we won’t have much choice, will we?’
‘You mean we’ll take Uncle Dallas out of the game?’
‘Exactly.’
‘I’ll get started in the morning then.’
‘Will it mean juggling your diary?’
‘Don’t worry about it. Just you concentrate on finding who killed Stuart Bloom.’
‘Enjoy your stovies, John. I hope there’s a helping left over for Brillo.’
‘Night, Siobhan. And keep your hand on that pepper spray.’
Saturday/Sunday
23
Clarke and Crowther chose to work through the weekend, with the promise of at least one day’s rest the following week. Not that they achieved very much, since both Joseph Madden and Colin Speke were out of the country, Madden finishing work on a TV documentary in Italy and Speke holidaying in Corfu. They’d be back by Tuesday, and both were based in Glasgow.
‘That’ll be our Tuesday evening then,’ Clarke told her colleague.
‘Oh, the glamour.’
With the office quiet – Callum Reid the only other masochist – they drank a lot of coffee and ate too many filled baguettes and chocolate digestives. Sutherland had a nephew’s wedding in Dingwall, but phoned and texted half a dozen times both days for updates. Clarke, too, was keen for updates of her own. Christine Esson and Ronnie Ogilvie, the latter back from sick leave, had dropped off the Meikle case files at Rebus’s flat. She’d told them everything – well, almost everything – and they’d been keen to help.
‘Fair warning,’ she’d told them. ‘Could get you into trouble.’
But they’d insisted. ‘If anyone asks,’ Esson had joked, ‘we’ll pin the blame on you.’
‘You better,’ Clarke had replied in all seriousness.
Rebus had then phoned to say he’d commenced digging. ‘Though half the stuff is on memory sticks – whatever happened to paper, ink and cassette tape?’
‘Give us time, it’ll all be kept in the Cloud, whatever that is. Good luck, John.’
‘I should be thanking you – when you get to my age, the brain needs a bit of a workout …’
It had taken four messages from her before he’d told her to stop bugging him.
When I know, you’ll know.
So she waited. Neither the soil expert nor the forensic lab was working a weekend shift. Crowther kept talking about what she’d do with her free Monday. Laundry and shopping, maybe a film or drinks with pals.
‘How about you?’
‘Much the same.’ Clarke was trying to remember the last time she’d been to the cinema. The latest Star Wars instalment at the end of the previous year? Her phone pinged: incoming text. It was Fox, wondering how everything was going.
Personally or professionally? she texted back, though she already knew the answer.
I keep waiting for your boss to tell me I’m done and can go back to Gartcosh.
Clarke got busy on her screen: Not his call, though, your boss’s, no? If you want to hang with us, tell your boss there’s more to find.
There probably IS more to find. I’m just not sure I want to find it.
It’s the weekend, Malcolm. Try to relax.
Buy you dinner?
Not this weekend. Thanks for the thought. Why not ask Tess?
Maybe I will. You off Monday?
Feet well and truly up.
Which was a lie. She knew precisely what she’d be doing with her day off.
She’d be working.
Sunday late afternoon in Restalrig. Rebus didn’t know this part of town well. He found the Meikle house easily enough, though, and the unloved park where the local teens hung out, when they weren’t trying to procure cigarettes and booze from the grocer’s nearby. Charles Meikle, Ellis’s dad, had piqued Rebus’s interest. Nobody had given him too much thought. He’d split up with his wife after a series of escalating arguments, arguments that had got physical, with Seona seeming to give back almost as good as she got – no police involved, no thought of pressing charges. He’d found himself a flat in Causewayside, his daughter Billie opting to go live with him. Meantime, Charles’s brother Dallas, who had often had to keep the peace when things flared up between husband and wife – and between father and son – had moved into the family home.
From photos, Charles had got the looks and Dallas the muscles. Ex-army, PTSD – Rebus knew a bit about both, though he’d served in Northern Ireland in the days before PTSD was a thing the forces recognised. He’d lain awake plenty nights in the barracks, though, listening to the nightmares his fellow squaddies were suffering, knowing those same dreams might well be waiting for him if he allowed himself to relax. Coiled springs, the whole lot of them, overwound mechanisms constantly on the very edge of snapping. So yes, he reckoned he knew what Dallas Meikle was capable of – but what about his brother? They had evidence from the wife that Charles wasn’t above raising his hand to his son, though never his daughter. In a city of short tempers, Restalrig made for a pretty good proving ground.
Rebus had stepped past a posse of kids and their bikes to get into the grocer’s, where he bought more gum and tried to ask a few questions that weren’t too obvious. The kids outside were just about to enter their teens. One or two of them had probably already driven a stolen car or trail bike at speed. It had become both sport and rite of passage in Edinburgh’s poorer enclaves. You stole keys from a house and went for a drive, blood pumping. When you got bored or ran out of petrol, you wrote the car off or dumped the bike. Job done till tedium set in again.
Once upon a time, Cafferty and his men would have come along looking to recruit. They would cherry-pick the best, the sharpest, the most agile. These foot soldiers would transport drugs, learning the trade until they could afford to buy the cars and bikes they’d previously stolen. For all Rebus knew, it still worked that way. With Darryl Christie in jail, his network gone, there was no way of knowing how much Cafferty had taken over. Fox’s lot at Serious Crimes didn’t know, but then they were based half the country away. Police Scotland’s process of centralisation meant a lot of local information-gathering either didn’t happen or went ignored.
There were more bikes in the play park, and two kids kicking around a glass bottle that would shatter eventually. Seona Meikle’s house was part of a terrace that had been given a facelift: freshly harled walls and new door and windows. Not too many keen gardeners, though, and a dumped car with four flat tyres and a notice on it that said POLICE AWARE. Rebus smiled at that. Back in the day, there would have been a beat cop who would have known every face, able to put a name to each. Not these days, not outside the Oor Wullie cartoon in the Sunday Post Rebus had just bought at the shop. The car being washed outside Seona Meikle’s house looked nearly new. Rebus recognised the man soaping it. He walked over and gave a nod of greeting.
‘All right?’ Dallas Meikle resp
onded.
‘Nice car.’
‘My brother’s a mechanic – he’d give me pelters if I didn’t treat it right.’
‘That’ll be your brother Charles? The one who used to live here?’ Rebus watched for a reaction. There was a slight tensing of the forearms, but nothing else. ‘My name’s John Rebus,’ he went on. I used to be CID. I’m giving DI Clarke a hand.’
‘Oh aye?’ Meikle was dressed in a white vest and oily denims.
‘You like the odd tattoo then,’ Rebus commented. ‘Did you start when you were a soldier? I was army myself – never could stand needles, though.’
‘This us forming a bond?’ Meikle asked, pausing in his work. ‘Old troopers together? I met more arseholes than amigos in my time in the forces.’
‘I’ve no interest in us becoming pals,’ Rebus shot back. ‘You tried putting the frighteners on a good friend of mine. I had my way, you’d be facing a doing followed by a good long bit of jail time. Only thing you’d be soaping then would be your cellmate’s hairy arse.’
‘That right?’
‘The bastards who gave you her number and address are just that – bastards. But they’re clever with it. Tried huckling her, and when they got nowhere, they turned to you. Didn’t really matter to them whether you just gave her a scare or a thumping. They knew damned well you’d do something.’
‘This you telling me to back off? Bit late for that.’
‘It’s me telling you that I’m the one looking at Ellis’s trial. If you want to have a go at anyone, I’m the one you want.’
Meikle was squeezing foamy water from the grey sponge. He gave a thin smile. ‘Bet you thought you were a bit tasty back in the day, eh, old-timer? Nowadays I’d have you on the canvas before you could blink.’
‘Try me.’ Rebus pulled back his shoulders. ‘I’ll tear your head from your shoulders and use it to sponge off that graffiti you wrote.’
Meikle seemed to make up his mind, ignoring Rebus as he tossed the sponge back into the bucket. ‘Ellis did this, you know,’ he said. ‘Cleaned the car, I mean. I’d give him a couple of quid. He’d save up to buy stuff for his computer. Time he spent on shoot-’em-ups, I was worried he might enlist.’ He turned towards Rebus. ‘Clarke told you what I think?’