by Ian Rankin
Sutherland was updating the fiscal’s office by phone, while George Gamble stared into space. Clarke got the feeling he was rueing modern policing methods and would have liked nothing better than to have beaten a confession out of the producer.
‘We should take another look at the original interviews with Ness,’ Callum Reid was telling Emily Crowther. ‘We’ve only got his word for it that Stuart Bloom left Poretoun House alive. I know the place was checked over, but how thoroughly? Plus, crime-scene technology has moved on. I’m sure Sir Adrian would be happy to let us scope the place out. The story’s beginning to come together.’ He counted off on his fingers. ‘Prints on the cuffs; Bloom last seen alive heading to a meet with Ness …’ He paused.
‘I make that a total of two fingers, Callum,’ Clarke interrupted.
‘The car found in woodland owned by Ness at the time,’ Crowther added. Clarke watched Reid hold up a third finger.
‘Okay,’ she conceded, ‘but tell me this: what was Ness’s motive?’
‘Maybe they argued over Bloom’s fee or something. Again, we only have Ness’s word for it that everything was amicable between them. Could be he felt Bloom wasn’t making enough progress, or was ripping him off. Come on, we’ve all seen it. People who’ve just killed someone don’t exactly think rationally.’
‘Which might also explain the handcuffs around the ankles,’ Crowther added, earning a smile from Reid, as if this was an argument he could win with a show of hands.
‘I’m not saying none of it happened that way,’ Clarke said. ‘But proving it is something else.’
‘We’re missing a trick, though, if we don’t factor in Poretoun House as the probable scene of crime.’
‘Maybe.’
Reid was looking towards his boss, who was still on the phone. ‘I’m going to press the case. If there’s money in the pot for someone in a white coat to plop some mud under a microscope, surely we can get Scene of Crime to take their kit to Poretoun House.’
‘Knock yourself out,’ Clarke said.
The Evening News’s front page splashed on Jackie Ness’s visit to Leith police station. There was a nice big photo of the producer as he made his way to a waiting taxi, Kelvin Brodie trying to hold a briefcase up to make the photographer’s job more difficult. Rebus read the story – such as it was – through twice as he sat at a table in McKenzie’s. If the media knew about the handcuffs, they weren’t saying. The story was thin, but it would still shake Ness up. Rebus guessed there’d be reporters outside his home tonight, and his office in the morning. If there was guilt there, the cracks would start to appear, just so long as the media didn’t tire of teasing their prey.
Rebus guessed that Fettes HQ had tipped the media off, or maybe it had been one of the MIT team. It had always been a game played between the cops and the journos. Yes, reporters could be a pain in the arse, but they were also immensely useful conduits. It saddened him that so much these days happened online, with every keyboard warrior suddenly a ‘commentator’ or ‘pundit’ or ‘news-gatherer’. There was a lack of quality control. Anyone and everyone felt they had something to say and they weren’t about to hold back. The public probably reckoned they were better informed than ever. They were, but not always by the truth.
Then again, had it been so different in Rebus’s heyday? He’d tipped off journalists, fed them lies and half-truths when hoping to agitate a particular wasps’ nest or unsettle a suspect or a witness. Stories had been planted and others suppressed. With the ear of as few as half a dozen reporters, you could control the story, or at least have a bloody good go at shaping it. When lied to, the media might snarl and spit, but they always came back for more. Nowadays, commentators lied to your face, feeding you pap from a spoon as if you were an infant. Twenty-four-hour news meant everyone wanted to be first with a story, even if it turned out to be wonky. A few of Rebus’s old musical heroes had been reported online as having died, only for an apology to be issued later. He took nothing at face value now and required corroboration. Two sources, maybe even three before he believed anything the virtual world told him.
‘What do you want?’
Rebus looked up from his paper. Dallas Meikle was standing there, having just arrived to start his shift.
‘A minute of your time?’ Rebus gestured to a free chair, but Meikle remained standing.
‘Say what you have to say.’
‘I need to talk with Ellis.’
‘Why?’
‘I just do.’
‘He won’t tell you anything.’
‘But he’ll see me if you ask him.’
‘I suppose he might.’
‘Will you do it?’
‘He’s no fan of the police.’
‘In Saughton, I doubt that puts him in the minority. Besides, I’m just an old age pensioner.’
‘I can’t promise.’
‘But you’ll at least try?’
Dallas Meikle nodded, his eyes on Rebus. ‘You’re having doubts, aren’t you? You’re not as sure as you were that he did it?’
‘He most likely did – that’s something you might have to come to terms with. I’ll have a better idea once I’ve seen him.’
‘Even if he doesn’t speak?’
‘Things unsaid can still be important. Tell me, has he ever mentioned how he really felt about you moving in with him and his mum?’
‘We talked it through.’
‘You went there to make sure your brother behaved himself? Ever say to Ellis that it should have been his job?’
‘I don’t particularly mind if I fall out with Charles.’
‘Better that than his son falling out with him?’ Rebus nodded his understanding.
‘We done here then?’
Rebus closed his newspaper. ‘How well did you really know Kristen, Mr Meikle?’ A small flame started to smoulder in Meikle’s eyes. His lips stayed pursed. ‘From what I’ve heard, she wasn’t above flirting. Maybe it was just her nature, or to keep Ellis on his toes.’
‘She never did with me.’
‘But you knew the stories?’
‘Kids these days aren’t like my generation – or yours.’
‘In some ways that’s true, in others not so much.’ Rebus got to his feet, folding the newspaper and stuffing it into his coat pocket. He handed Meikle a scrap of paper with his phone number on it. ‘I’m going to visit Saughton tomorrow – if you can get word to Ellis, it would help. Get back to me after, and use your mobile rather than one of those phone boxes, eh?’
He exited the bar without looking back.
27
Brian Steele walked into the Devil’s Dram with his girlfriend Rebecca on his arm. She had probably overdone it for this part of town – clinging floor-length emerald-green dress, slit up the side almost to her navel, and with a plunging neckline to boot. Her blonde hair fell in thick waves around her shoulders, and she wore three-inch stilettos. Not too much make-up – she really didn’t need it – and just the right amount of high-end jewellery. As they had stepped from the cab, jaws had dropped, eyes lingering. The doormen knew Steele and held the door open for Rebecca.
‘Everything okay, Shug?’ he asked one of them, slipping a twenty into his palm.
‘Fairly quiet, Brian.’
And then they were in. They’d been a couple of times before, including once under Darryl Christie’s ownership. Steele liked all the theme stuff – devils and demons and imps scaling the walls and peering down from the dark red ceiling. There was usually a good DJ if you wanted to dance, and quiet booths if you’d rather sit and drink and eat. Steele had booked a table upstairs, overlooking the dance floor. Rebecca swayed to the rhythm as they climbed the glass staircase.
Once seated, Steele perused the whisky menu. It ran to eight pages, but he saw that more than a few offerings now had been scored through in black pen. Look
ing around, the place didn’t seem quite as upmarket as it had once been: a corner of fraying carpet here, a broken light bulb there. There were fingerprints on the glossy table and the food menus were tacky to the touch.
After a long wait, a waiter dressed in red appeared, a bellboy’s hat strapped to his head.
‘No scallops tonight, I’m sorry to say,’ he began. ‘And no lobster or sea bass.’
Another waiter appeared behind him with a tray balanced on one outstretched hand.
‘Compliments of the management,’ he explained, placing flutes of champagne in front of them. Rebecca cooed, her eyes sparkling.
‘And would management happen to be on the premises this evening?’ Steele asked, receiving a nod in reply.
He sat back and studied the menu. After they’d ordered, Rebecca got busy on her phone, pouting for a selfie she could share with her circle. She began sending out texts with a dexterity that always amazed Steele, bearing in mind the length of her elaborate fingernails.
Rebecca owned a couple of nail bars in the city. Steele had helped with the seed money, but business was good. She complained sometimes that she had to pay higher wages than her competition, most of whom seemed to use labour from Vietnam or the Philippines. But she had plans for a third branch and a redesign of her flagship. Brains as well as beauty – about the only thing Steele didn’t like about her was the incessant need to be on her bloody phone.
After their starters, a new waiter arrived at the top of the stairs and gestured towards Steele. He dabbed at his mouth with the napkin and told Rebecca he wouldn’t be long.
Cafferty was waiting for him in a cordoned-off section of the basement bar. No music down here, other than piped lounge-style piano. Cafferty was on his own, arms stretched out along the back of a banquette.
‘Take a pew, Brian,’ he said.
‘Rebecca’s waiting upstairs,’ Steele said as he sat opposite.
‘I saw her. Christ knows what she sees in you, son.’ Cafferty shook his head ruefully.
‘Someone who shows her a good time, maybe.’
‘Plenty of us could do that.’ There was a whisky in front of Cafferty, and another waiting for Steele. He lifted the glass and sniffed.
‘Highland Park 18,’ Cafferty announced, lifting his own glass in a toast. Steele sipped and savoured, then nodded his appreciation.
‘You do a good impression of a man who likes his malt,’ Cafferty told him. ‘But we know you prefer cooking lager, don’t we?’
‘I was brought up on cooking lager,’ Steele confirmed.
‘We all were, son, and look at us now.’ Cafferty smiled and drained his glass, exhaling noisily as he replaced it on the table. ‘But let’s not keep the delightful Rebecca waiting, eh?’
Steele checked that the room was still empty. Even so, he leaned forward, lowering his voice a notch. ‘Those cuffs I told you about? Turns out Jackie Ness left his prints on them.’
‘That wasn’t very clever of him. Who was it told you?’
‘Malcolm Fox.’
‘I know Fox – what’s he got to do with anything?’
‘Gartcosh have got him looking for fuck-ups in the original inquiry.’
‘So he’s at Leith, and feeding the juicy stuff back to you?’ Cafferty digested this information. ‘Do we know why Sutherland let Ness go?’
‘Fiscal’s yet to be convinced there’s enough for a trial.’
‘I’d say a fingerprint isn’t a bad start, though.’
‘Agreed.’
‘A quick conviction would be nice for all concerned.’
‘Trial’s a trial – lot of stuff’s bound to bubble to the surface.’
‘Don’t tell me you’ve got the jitters?’ Cafferty’s eyes were all but invisible in the dim light. He seemed to be made almost entirely of shadow.
‘Nothing in the Bloom case to make me jittery,’ Steele countered. He began to rise to his feet. ‘Best get back upstairs …’
Cafferty’s right hand descended like a guillotine and clamped around his wrist. ‘You go when I say you can, Brian. Don’t go getting above yourself. A fancy girlfriend and expensive threads don’t hide the fact that you’re just a cog – understood? Remember who’s been your helping hand all these years, hauling you out of uniform and all the way to ACU.’ He enunciated each letter slowly, showing teeth.
‘I’m grateful, you know I am. When have I ever let you down?’
‘Trust me, that’s something you don’t want to happen.’ Cafferty slowly released his grip. ‘You’ve not been interviewed yet?’
‘No.’
‘It’ll happen, though. Make sure you’ve got your story straight – you and Edwards both.’
‘No story to tell.’
‘Rebus knows I took you with me to that meeting with Maloney.’
‘So?’
‘So what else do you think he might be keeping locked away inside that impressively thick skull of his?’
‘The night Bloom disappeared, I was at the Police Club with my wife.’
‘Remind me: your second wife or your third?’
‘Second. We were there all evening, surrounded by dozens of witnesses.’
‘And Edwards was there with you.’ Cafferty sounded bored, having heard the story several times before. ‘Adrian Brand was being driven to some golfing weekend at Gleneagles, and I was sitting on my arse at home with a couple of old chums. Alibis galore, in other words.’
‘Not Ness, though – he didn’t see another soul once Bloom had left. Made a few phone calls to do with his latest project, but that’s about it. Bloom’s boyfriend was back in Bloom’s flat, allegedly, all by himself, getting the supper ready, and the boyfriend’s murder squad father was at some amateur boxing bout in Glasgow.’
‘Not everyone’s covered,’ Cafferty agreed. ‘Just most of us – so there’s nothing for us to worry about, no skeletons keeking out of closets.’ He paused. ‘Meaning we can all relax and enjoy ourselves. Now off you go before someone with a better suit and watch swoops down on Miss Nail Bar. What have you ordered anyway?’
‘Pork belly.’
‘Good choice. It’s from my own piggery in Fife. Maybe we’ll take a wee trip there some day.’
With a wave of one hand, Brian Steele was dismissed. Climbing back towards the light and the noise, he felt able to breathe again. Rebecca was holding her phone close to her face.
‘Guess,’ she said without looking up, ‘how many men have tried buying me a drink in the last five minutes?’
‘Lots,’ Steele answered. Having placed the napkin back on his lap, the main courses arrived. But he was shaking his head. ‘I’ve changed my mind,’ he said. ‘Bring me something else.’
The waiter looked startled. ‘Anything in particular, sir?’
Steele picked up his flute and emptied it. ‘Just so long as it hasn’t come from one of Big Ger Cafferty’s pigs,’ he said.
Cafferty’s office at the Devil’s Dram was behind an inch-thick steel door with three locks and an alarm system. Only Cafferty himself had the means of opening the safe where the takings were kept. On nights when he wasn’t around, his deputy would be driven to Quartermile accompanied by at least one of the doormen. The cash would be handed to Cafferty at his front door, along with the relevant paperwork. Of course, it was mostly credit and debit cards these days, plus contactless. Drinkers even paid using their smart watches. Cafferty preferred cash – it left less of a trail for HM Revenue and Customs to follow.
Most nights, he turned up at the club just before it closed, fixing the staff with a look that told them not to get up to any of the usual tricks. Not so much as a filched bottle of spirits or finessed tenner was going to leave the premises if Cafferty could help it. He also frowned on assignations with punters – next thing you knew, drinks were being offered on the house to people of no consequ
ence. Only people he might have a use for merited the occasional freebie, people like Brian Steele. Cafferty knew that Steele loathed him and the feeling was entirely mutual. What the ACU man hated was that he belonged to Cafferty. As always, it had started with a few tiny tottering steps, but those steps had led Steele from a path that he was never going to find again.
Seated at his desk, Cafferty had started to replay the security footage from earlier in the evening. She was a looker, Rebecca. Cafferty knew her to speak to, of course; even had her phone number. He had paused the footage, zoomed in on the table. Steele had swapped the pork belly for a steak. Rebecca’s choice was the salmon fillet. She’d be watching her weight, wanting always to look her very best. Cafferty thought about texting her to ask if she’d liked it, but by now she was probably in bed with Steele. So instead he turned from CCTV to internet, typing in Conor Maloney’s name.
Maloney had remained a hobby. It irritated Cafferty that they could have become partners, had it not been for the private eye’s disappearance and that bloody kid OD’ing on an Edinburgh street. With Maloney on board, Cafferty could probably have taken Aberdeen and Glasgow. Christ, maybe even Newcastle. And from there … who knew? Maloney probably hadn’t been a paramilitary himself, content to negotiate with both sides. But the men around him had all come from that direction – sharp-witted and deadly. Yes, Cafferty could have used that, a whole trajectory lost to him. Instead of which, he had these meagre winnings from small-timers like Darryl Christie. It was nowhere near enough. Events had robbed him of the larger prize.
He kept clicking and searching. He knew Maloney’s known aliases by heart, tried the same series of keywords. He had spent a small fortune down the years attempting to keep tabs on the bastard. He needed to know about Maloney. How much richer was he? What circles did he move in? Who did he rub shoulders with? Where in the world did he call home?