by Ian Rankin
Having said his piece, he looked suddenly weary. Raising himself up, he rounded the desk and sat down.
‘Mollison’s going to be reporting directly to the chief. I doubt we’ll be replaced – inquiry’s too far along the tracks – but he raised it as a possibility, so I’m letting you know. Any questions?’
Fox cleared his throat. ‘What do we do about Jackie Ness?’
Sutherland stared back at Fox. ‘Jackie Ness?’ he said. ‘Quite frankly, Malcolm, and I say this with all sincerity – fuck him.’
31
The meeting was scheduled for a wine bar called the Savannah, off Sauchiehall Street. Clarke and Crowther arrived early – lighter traffic on the M8 than they’d feared, and the sat nav had proved equal to Glasgow’s one-way system – and ordered food.
‘What’s quickest?’ had been Clarke’s question to their server. The answer had been Glasgow tapas. The large wooden platter took up half the table: haggis balls, potato wedges with tomato dip, gobbets of crusty bread, and miniature glazed sausages. They didn’t talk much while they ate. On the drive west, Crowther had filled Clarke in on the search of Poretoun House. She’d arrived back in Leith just before five, the SOCOs having finished for the day at four. Attic and basement levels still to do.
‘He seemed almost gleeful,’ she had said, showing Clarke more photos on her phone of the search and Sir Adrian Brand.
‘Was Glenn Hazard with him?’
‘For about half an hour, mostly spent making calls and checking messages. Low boredom threshold, I think. He kept pestering me with questions about Jackie Ness.’
‘You going back tomorrow?’
‘Think I need to?’
‘It’s Graham’s call. Maybe you could swap with Phil.’
It had then been Clarke’s turn to give an update on the aftermath of the news conference. The press were camped outside Ness’s home and office, but the man himself had wisely gone to ground.
‘What about the family?’
‘Madam Bloom’s all over the news. Social media is a feeding frenzy.’
‘We should charge Ness, don’t you think?’
Clarke offered a shrug. ‘Graham’s having another word with the fiscal while the lab are trying to see if they can isolate any more partials on the cuffs.’
‘And all while we ask ourselves the same question – who was it spilled the beans to Dougal Kelly?’
Clarke nodded without saying anything. Their plates had been cleared by the time the two men arrived. They looked around, spotted Clarke and Crowther and wandered over.
‘I’m Joe Madden,’ the taller of the two said.
‘Colin Speke,’ his companion added. Clarke and Crowther introduced themselves. Madden and Speke pulled out chairs and got comfortable. The bar was midweek quiet and Clarke had showed her ID when asking for the music to be turned down. Madden and Speke took off their identical quilted jackets.
‘You know one another quite well?’ Clarke asked.
‘Aye, we’ve worked together a slew of times,’ Madden said in a local accent.
‘Live not too far apart either,’ Speke added. ‘So I offered Joe a lift here.’
‘Explains why you walked in together,’ Clarke said with a nod. Speke ordered an espresso and Madden a glass of red wine, Clarke and Crowther sticking to tap water.
‘How was the holiday?’ Clarke asked Speke.
‘Fine, aye. My partner likes the heat; I go crispy after an hour.’ He tugged up one sleeve of his jumper to show a reddened arm speckled with freckles.
‘And Italy?’ Clarke asked Madden.
‘Sunshine can be a curse when you’re filming,’ he informed her. ‘Getting the lighting right is a nightmare, and that’s before the presenter starts squinting.’
‘Well, we appreciate you taking the time to see us.’
‘It’s only taken you twelve years,’ Speke said with a smile.
‘Any reason you didn’t come forward of your own volition?’
‘To tell you what exactly?’ Madden interrupted. ‘That Stuart Bloom was an extra on a zombie film?’
Clarke sat back, mouth closed, running her tongue along her teeth.
Speke looked to his friend. ‘The inspector here knows better, Joe.’
Madden’s eyes were on Clarke. ‘Well maybe if she tells us what it is she knows …’
The silence lay between them as the drinks order arrived. Madden’s eyes stayed fixed on Clarke’s throughout.
‘I think we need to do this properly,’ Emily Crowther interrupted, earning a slow nod of agreement from Clarke.
‘Meaning what?’ Speke asked, the slightest of tremors appearing in his voice. He had started to lift his espresso cup but placed it back in its saucer untouched.
‘Interview room at Leith police station, Edinburgh,’ Clarke informed him. ‘Questioned separately so we can make sure your versions add up. See, you’ve had a bit of time to think this over. Tonight you probably put your heads together for an hour or so, deciding how little you could get away with telling us. That wasn’t terribly wise, as you’re finding out. So: do we start again from the beginning, or do we have a patrol car take you to Edinburgh? Plenty cameras waiting for you there, Mr Madden, and you’ll be the one squinting as you’re led past them into the station.’
Clarke sat back and waited. Eventually Madden smiled.
‘Can’t blame us for trying, can you? Nobody wants mixed up in a murder.’
‘That’s not what it was, though. Stuart Bloom was a missing person in 2006. You knew him yet you didn’t come forward.’
‘We were waiting for the phone to ring,’ Speke blurted out. ‘You’re right, we knew Stuart. We reckoned you’d be coming to talk to us.’
‘But you never did,’ Madden added. ‘And the longer we waited, the more we wondered why not. If you’d found any mention of us, you’d have picked up the phone or knocked on our door. Reason that didn’t happen was Stuart hadn’t kept any record of us. Why? Because he was meticulous that way.’ Madden tapped his forehead. ‘He kept pretty much everything up here. That way, there was nothing for anyone to find if they came snooping – I don’t mean the police, but people he was investigating. If they got wind of what he was up to, and sent their own investigator along for a nosy, or tried bugging his phone or getting into his computer …’ He tapped his forehead again, then raised his glass to his lips and sipped.
‘We were scared,’ Speke broke in.
‘Not scared, Colin,’ Madden corrected him. ‘Just cautious.’
‘So when he vanished, what did you think?’ Clarke asked.
‘That maybe someone had put the frighteners on him,’ Madden speculated.
‘There were dozens of possibilities,’ Speke added. ‘We heard the same rumours as everyone else.’
‘Even wondered about the boyfriend,’ Madden agreed. ‘Say he’d killed him, maybe in a jealous rage. Well … son of a cop, his dad would have had a way of getting rid of the evidence.’
‘And tonight,’ Speke said, ‘they’re saying Stuart was handcuffed.’
‘But with the only verifiable print that of Jackie Ness,’ Clarke felt it necessary to qualify.
‘I dare say your lot know how to make that happen, eh?’ Madden drained his glass and smacked his lips, signalling towards the bar for a refill.
‘You have a pretty jaundiced view of us,’ Crowther stated. Madden looked towards Speke.
‘Tell them.’
Speke shook his head furiously. Madden turned his attention back to the two detectives. ‘Colin here used to go to Rogues. He saw exactly how jaundiced your lot are.’
Clarke was studying Speke. ‘You’re gay, Mr Speke?’
‘I keep telling him that things have changed,’ Madden continued, ‘but he’s still got one foot in the closet.’ Speke had lifted the espresso cup and w
as trying to hide behind it. ‘I blame the parents myself.’
‘For what?’ Clarke enquired.
‘Dying before Colin could pluck up the courage to tell them.’ He saw the look Crowther was giving him. ‘Hetero as they come,’ he told her, patting his chest with a palm.
‘Were you at Rogues any of the times it was busted?’ Clarke asked Speke. He shook his head and took a deep breath.
‘Stuart always seemed to know in advance. He’d warn me off.’
‘How do you think he knew?’
‘I thought Derek was probably telling him.’
‘And how did Derek know?’
‘Well …’ Speke shrugged. ‘His dad, no?’
‘I wasn’t so sure about that,’ Madden offered. ‘The guy who owned Rogues …’ He looked to his friend.
‘Ralph Hanratty,’ Speke obliged.
‘I reckoned he had a cop or two in his pocket and they’d tip him the wink.’
Crowther and Clarke shared a look. They were trying to remember if Hanratty’s name was on the list Alex Shankley had helped compile. When Crowther slid her phone from her pocket, Clarke knew she’d be texting Phil Yeats.
‘Can we move on,’ Clarke said, ‘to a few questions about your involvement in Stuart Bloom’s business?’
Madden’s fresh glass had arrived. He took a slurp. ‘Is this because you don’t like us asking you about cops in people’s pockets and faking fingerprint evidence?’
‘It’s the reason we’re having this meeting, Mr Madden,’ Clarke corrected him. ‘We’ve been told that you advised him in regard to surveillance techniques—’
‘That’s a bit of a stretch,’ Colin Speke interrupted. ‘Stuart just wanted to know what gear we used in certain situations.’
‘He actually knew almost as much as we did,’ Madden added.
‘So you never went out with him on a job?’
‘Maybe once or twice.’
Clarke looked at Madden. ‘Go on,’ she prompted him.
‘Are we going to be in trouble?’
‘Did you break the law?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Me neither, till I hear what you’ve got to say.’
Madden glanced at his friend, who put up no objection. He swallowed another mouthful of wine, almost finishing the glass; Clarke was beginning to wonder if he had a problem.
‘We went out with him a few times so he could test bits and pieces of kit. A night-vision scope; special camera lenses; a few long-range mics.’
‘Any location in particular?’
‘There was a house in Murrayfield …’
‘Owned by Sir Adrian Brand?’ Clarke guessed. ‘Surrounded by a high wall.’
Madden was nodding. ‘That was the thing. Stuart was sure there’d be motion sensors that would floodlight the grounds, so the wall was as close as we could get. But that was only thirty feet or so from the back of the house.’
‘With a clear view of the garden room?’
‘You know the place?’ Madden watched as Clarke nodded.
Speke cleared his throat. ‘Stuart wanted to know about bugs, too, but I couldn’t help him with that. He went to the internet instead, I think.’
‘He bugged Brand’s house?’
‘House and office both was the plan.’
‘Never carried out?’
Speke looked to Madden, who shrugged.
‘How about computer hacking?’ Clarke asked.
‘Again, Stuart was a lot savvier than us.’
‘But you knew he was hacking into Brand’s computer?’
‘I don’t think he’d had any success. The tech wasn’t as readily available. There was some software he needed but couldn’t get his hands on.’
‘Any other jaunts apart from Murrayfield?’
‘Just Poretoun House.’
Clarke stared at Speke. ‘Why there?’ Speke shrugged and turned to Madden.
‘I’m not sure Stuart trusted Jackie Ness,’ Madden answered. ‘With good cause, too – the man had tried stiffing us for money we were owed; he did it to everybody if he thought he stood half a chance of getting away with it.’
‘Was it the same procedure as Murrayfield?’
‘Night vision; long-range mic,’ Madden confirmed.
‘What about bugs and computer hacking?’
‘Of Jackie Ness?’ Madden pondered this. ‘Stuart never said anything.’
‘Could money have become an issue between Stuart and his employer?’ Clarke asked, receiving shrugs from both men in response.
‘These little surveillance trips,’ Crowther interrupted, having sent her text, ‘did they throw up anything?’
This time the two men shook their heads simultaneously.
‘You’ve wrung every last drop from us,’ Madden said, draining his glass and waving it towards the bar.
Clarke handed over a business card to either man. ‘We may have some follow-up questions. Any more foreign trips planned?’
They shook their heads again. Clarke got to her feet, Crowther following suit.
‘Let me just …’ Clarke was reaching into her bag for some money but Madden waved her offer aside.
‘You only drank tap water. This is on us.’
She thanked him and made for the door. ‘They’re paying,’ she told the waitress, who was already on her way to the table with Madden’s wine.
‘Wish I’d had the steak now,’ Crowther said as they stepped outside.
32
‘This is nice,’ Rebus said. He meant it, too. His own flat was usually scruffy, filled with accumulations of clutter. Deborah Quant’s, on the other hand, was the epitome of order, each item carefully chosen and positioned, just a few books, a few knick-knacks. Each spacious wall held a solitary painting, which drew the eye towards the art. Her music came from an all-but-invisible Sonos system, and even her choices were tasteful. There were plenty of gadgets in her kitchen, but she had found cupboard space for them all, leaving the worktop largely empty. The flat was in a modern block in the Grange, walking distance from Rebus’s home. Just the one niggle – Quant didn’t want Brillo visiting. The dog’s tail had started wagging, eyes at their most appealing, as he’d watched Rebus shrug into his good coat.
‘Basket,’ Rebus had ordered, trying not to feel guilty.
Quant had summoned him for a supper of pasta and fish, washed down with Pinot Grigio. Just a short interrogation about his health over the dining table, then the pristine white sofa for decaf coffee, a drop more wine, and music. The wall-mounted TV stayed off while they talked.
‘Any news of the Bloom case?’ Rebus enquired.
She made show of checking her watch. ‘Only took you seventy-five minutes, John – good going.’
‘Is there, though?’
‘The wheels of forensic anthropology grind slow, and apparently you can’t hurry soil analysis. The lab in Aberdeen has a lot on its plate, so to speak, and a cold case murder isn’t a top priority.’ She lifted a finger. ‘And if anyone asks, you didn’t hear that from me.’
‘Who’s going to ask?’
‘Have you not been questioned yet?’
‘Not as such.’
‘You will be, though.’
‘If they get round to me. You know they got a fingerprint match from the cuffs?’
She nodded. ‘The film producer.’
‘He was questioned under caution.’
‘And then released. I do watch the news, John.’
Rebus was thoughtful for a moment. Quant had tucked her legs under her and was holding her wine glass while cradling her head in her free hand, elbow propped on the arm of the sofa. Her long red hair had been drawn back from her face and was held by an elasticated band. She wore no make-up, well aware that she didn’t need it. She looked a decade young
er than her actual age and never seemed particularly fatigued despite her workload.
‘I forget,’ he asked casually. ‘Did you do the autopsy on Kristen Halliday?’
‘What’s Kristen got to do with anything?’
‘I was asked to dust off the case.’
‘So you’ve looked at the files?’ She watched him nod. ‘Therefore you know fine well I did the autopsy. What’s this all about, John?’
‘Ellis’s uncle harbours a few doubts. He managed to persuade Siobhan that it was worth a fresh pair of eyes.’
‘Every murderer’s family doubts they could have done it.’
‘But when you examined her …’
‘She was stabbed in the neck. She bled out. Cause of death is all that was required from me.’
‘You didn’t pick up anything else from the body?’
‘No recent intercourse. Traces of cannabis and vodka in her system. Not enough to make her incapable. No other marks such as bruising. Her clothes were bloodstained but otherwise clean.’
‘No defensive wounds to the hands?’
‘She knew her attacker, John. She was stabbed from the front by someone right-handed. They didn’t creep up behind her or anything.’
‘Just the one incision?’
‘By a blade matching the one found discarded nearby with Ellis Meikle’s prints on it.’ Quant lifted her head, leaning towards him. ‘Which might explain why he was found guilty.’
‘We got prints from the handcuffs around Stuart Bloom’s ankles too, yet Jackie Ness is still a free man.’
‘Ness hasn’t admitted anything; Meikle did.’
Rebus nodded distractedly. ‘I went to see him this afternoon. He’s in Saughton.’
‘How’s he doing?’
‘A bit more talkative than at the trial.’
‘I remember him when I was giving my evidence. He kept his head bowed. I’m not sure he was really taking any of it in. We know he used drugs, drank too much, no job, broken family …’
‘Just another statistic, eh?’
‘You’re beginning to have doubts,’ Quant stated.