by Ian Rankin
‘Look, I’m switching it off,’ Keith said, at which point the recording ended.
Rebus knew now why Frank Hess hadn’t made it to the pub that evening. Maybe he had been unwell, but it wasn’t just that. What was that quote about the past being another country? There were things in his own past he would rather not linger on, too many skeletons for just the one closet.
‘How’s it all going?’ May Collins asked from the doorway.
‘How long have you been there?’
‘Not long.’ She gestured towards the empty mug. ‘Need a top-up?’
Rebus shook his head. ‘Frank Hess isn’t the talkative sort, is he?’
‘Frank’s a grumpy old sod. By all accounts he was a grumpy young sod, too. His only daughter died in a car crash about ten years back. Her husband was in the car with her. He died too. Been to a party, drinking, not thinking it mattered – roads around here deserted and all that. Off the road and into a tree.’ Collins sighed. ‘Don’t think that improved his general outlook on life.’
‘So it’s just him and Jimmy?’
Collins nodded. ‘Jimmy has two sisters but they’re down south. Either one of them would take Frank, but he won’t budge. They come up sometimes, give Jimmy a bit of respite.’
‘Families, eh?’ Rebus commented, for want of anything else to say.
‘I reckon we all live too long these days, that’s the problem. What’s that film where you only get to reach a certain age? Sci-fi thing.’
‘Michael York,’ Rebus said. ‘I forget the title, but I seem to remember they were culled when they reached forty.’
‘Bad news for both of us,’ May said with a smile. ‘Did you get any joy about Sam?’
‘They’re done and dusted with her. Few questions about Keith and Lord Strathy.’
‘The land buy?’ She watched as he nodded. ‘Joyce told me about the magazines. You reckon Strathy’s vanishing act is connected?’
‘Christ knows, May.’ Rebus ran a hand across his forehead. ‘Maybe I’m not so different from the ghost-hunters who’ve been heading to the camp.’
Collins laughed. ‘I heard about that. They had equipment and everything – wands attached to machines. Waving them around, waiting for a reading.’
‘Pretty much what I’m doing here.’ Rebus nodded towards the computer.
‘You’re doing more than that.’ He sensed her reaching a hand out towards his shoulder again. He stood up and she lowered her arm. He crouched to remove the memory stick. By the time he’d straightened up, she was gone.
28
Siobhan Clarke had been to Gartcosh before, but not often and not for a while. An hour or so’s drive from Edinburgh; probably less than half that from Glasgow. The land surrounding it still had a bleak post-industrial feel. There were no houses, hotels or shops that she could see. Instead, the place sat in splendid isolation, far away from the world it investigated. The Scottish Crime Campus had the look of a modern polytechnic, albeit one protected by a high fence and whose only entry was via a guardroom. Her warrant card had been checked; she had been photographed and a visitor pass printed out.
‘Make sure it’s visible at all times,’ she was told.
Having passed through a set of glass double doors with an airlock, she waited for Fox to do the same. It was a short walk to the complex’s main entrance. During those steps, something happened to Fox. His gait became more confident and his shoulders slackened, his face relaxing. This was a place where his abilities made sense and were recognised. Clarke wondered, had their roles been reversed, whether she’d feel the same. As they crossed the atrium, he couldn’t help playing tour guide, pointing in the vague direction of the HMRC and Procurator Fiscal units. Having climbed the stairs, it was the turn of Counter-Terrorism. But they were headed to the other side of the concourse and Fox’s own domain, Major Crime.
Fox’s staff card, swinging from a lanyard around his neck, was far from a flimsy visitor’s pass and could be used to unlock at least some of the secure doors around them. He ushered Clarke inside one of these and they walked down a narrow corridor. The offices either side were identical glass boxes. His colleagues sat at computers mostly, peering at screens, sometimes speaking quietly into microphone headsets. Others were making phone calls or huddled in discussion. It all looked as exciting as an accountancy firm, the men in shirts and ties, the women wearing unshowy blouses in muted colours. There were a few waves or nods of welcome in Fox’s direction as well as inquisitive looks towards Clarke. She had spoken on the phone many times to Major Crime personnel; knew some of their names from email correspondence. But she didn’t recognise a single face.
Fox entered one of the rooms. Two desks, only one of which was occupied.
‘Where’s Robbie?’ he asked.
‘Getting a coffee,’ the bespectacled young woman said. ‘And good morning to you too, Malcolm.’
‘Sorry, Sheena,’ he apologised. ‘This is DI Clarke.’
‘Siobhan,’ Clarke added with a smile.
‘Post-it note for you on your desk,’ Sheena told Fox. He plucked it from his computer screen and read it.
‘Fraud unit,’ he explained to Clarke. ‘Far as they can tell, Scoular’s clean. Has dealings with offshore banks and corporations, but that’s not unusual in his line of work.’ He crumpled the note and flicked it into a waste-paper bin.
‘Nice to meet you, Sheena,’ Clarke said, following him as he made his purposeful exit.
A coffee cart sat on the far side of the concourse, a small chatty queue in front of it. There were seats nearby and Fox approached one of them.
‘Hiya, Robbie.’
The man looked up. He was in his thirties, head completely shaved. When he stood, Clarke saw that he was well over six feet tall and as lean as a picked bone.
‘Been away, Malcolm?’ he enquired.
‘But keeping busy – how about you?’ Fox realised that Robbie’s eyes were on Clarke, so he made the introductions.
‘Either of you want a coffee?’ Robbie asked, shaking Clarke’s hand.
‘Love one,’ she said before Fox could demur. They joined the queue. Robbie had binned his finished cup.
‘Where do you live, Siobhan?’ he asked.
‘Edinburgh. How about you?’
‘Motherwell.’
‘I go there for the football sometimes. You a fan?’
‘As it happens. What’s your team?’
‘Hibs.’
‘I feel your pain.’ Fox was beginning to look impatient with how slowly the queue was moving. ‘Malcolm’s not got time for football – or much else for that matter.’
‘That’s not true,’ Fox said defensively.
‘Last film you saw?’ Robbie asked him. ‘Last book you finished?’
‘He’s always like this,’ Fox complained to Clarke. ‘Likes nothing better than trying to wind people up.’
Robbie grinned, eyes still on Clarke. ‘Know why I get away with it?’
‘Because people need to keep on your good side?’
‘And why’s that, do you think?’
‘They’re always after some favour or other.’
‘Always after some favour or other,’ Robbie echoed, shifting his attention to Fox. ‘And it has to be done asap, especially if it’s Major Crime asking – does that pretty much sum it up, Malcolm?’
Fox had reached the head of the queue. Without asking Clarke, he ordered two cappuccinos. ‘Robbie?’ he asked.
‘Same for me.’
Having paid, there was then another long wait while the barista got to work.
‘Worth it, trust me,’ Robbie told Clarke. ‘So you get along to a game now and then?’
‘Not as often as I’d like.’
He handed her a business card. ‘If you fancy a drink before or after the next time our teams meet in bat
tle … ’
‘Siobhan’s partner is a DCI,’ Fox said in warning.
‘Can’t blame a man for trying.’
‘A DCI with scant interest in football,’ Clarke qualified, pocketing the card.
They took their coffees back to the seats, finding a quiet spot.
‘They’re supposed to be breakout areas,’ Fox said, prising the lid from his coffee so it would cool more quickly. ‘Theory is, different disciplines can mingle and share intelligence.’
‘Whereas in reality,’ Robbie said, ‘nobody shares a single bloody thing they don’t need to – scared they’ll end up not getting the credit.’
‘Not strictly accurate,’ Fox muttered into his cup.
‘But you’re absolutely right,’ Clarke told Robbie, ‘in assuming we’re just another in that long line of people who need a favour. Malcolm tells me there’s nobody to match you at Gartcosh when it comes to CCTV.’ She hoped she wasn’t laying it on too thick, but he looked the type who liked having his tummy tickled. ‘Tidying up images, turning blurs into identifiable faces and suchlike.’
Robbie gave a shrug that was mock-modest at best. ‘I like to think I’m pretty good,’ he eventually conceded.
‘Which is why we’ve driven all the way from Edinburgh to see you.’
‘The Saudi student?’ he surmised. Clarke nodded slowly. ‘Had to be, I suppose; pretty quiet in Edinburgh otherwise, no?’
‘Drugs, gangs, muggings – pretty quiet, yes.’
‘You’ve got Malcolm helping now, though. He’ll have those cleared up in no time.’
‘Unless you keep us hanging around all day,’ Fox said.
‘I assume it’s night-time footage? Not brilliant lighting? Maybe glare from headlamps making things more difficult still?’
‘That’s about the size of it,’ Clarke said. She hadn’t taken her eyes off Robbie, hoping her look was endearing rather than desperate.
‘It’s a car near the crime scene,’ Fox added. ‘Driving down a road to start with and then parked – we think it’s the same car.’
‘Picked up on council cameras?’
‘Does that make a difference?’ Clarke asked.
‘Speed cameras are built to read number plates. Council ones are more of a general deterrent.’
‘Not as good, in other words.’
‘If they’ve been driving around the city at night, could be they’ve triggered a speed camera anyway – empty streets, drivers often put the foot down without thinking. Red traffic lights are another possibility – road’s clear so you whizz through and the camera clocks you.’ Robbie looked at both detectives. ‘You’ve not checked, have you?’
‘No,’ Fox conceded.
‘I might as well do that too, then, eh?’ Robbie took a sip from his cup.
‘We’d be hugely grateful,’ Clarke told him.
‘You can pay me back by making sure my team gets maximum points from yours next season.’
‘You drive a hard bargain,’ Clarke said with a smile, holding out her hand to seal the deal.
They had almost reached the ground floor when Fox came to a stop, recognising the figure climbing the stairs towards them. Clarke knew the face too: ACC Jennifer Lyon. She was reading from a sheaf of papers while holding a conversation on her phone, a shoulder bag and briefcase making life no easier for her. But she ended the call when she saw Fox. The phone went into her bag along with the papers.
‘Malcolm,’ she said, managing to turn the single word into both statement and question.
‘Potential progress on the bin Mahmoud case,’ he explained. ‘Just need Robbie not to sit on it too long.’
‘I’ll see to it there’s no slacking,’ Lyon assured him.
‘This is DI Siobhan Clarke. She’s helping me today.’
‘From the look she just gave you, I’d say DI Clarke regards that as somewhat of an understatement.’ There was a thin smile for Clarke but no free hand for any more tactile greeting. Then, to Fox: ‘I need a word with you anyway, Malcolm.’ And to Clarke: ‘In private, DI Clarke. Maybe you could get yourself a coffee or something.’
Clarke watched them climb the remaining stairs, Fox gesturing for her to wait in the atrium. Instead of a coffee, she headed to the loos, seating herself and taking out her phone. Rebus had sent her some magazine photos. She studied them casually, then called him.
‘The Chief Constable,’ she said.
‘I know.’
‘I’d seen some photos from the party, but not that one.’
‘Friends with Stewart Scoular, you think?’
‘It’s the first I’m hearing of it.’
‘It’s the party Keith crashed, making no friends and kicking up a fuss about the community buyout of Camp 1033.’
‘Slow down, this is all new to me.’
‘Keith wanted the Meiklejohns to sell some land to the community so they could turn Camp 1033 into a visitor attraction. He wasn’t getting any joy so gatecrashed that party. Remember the gardener?’
‘Colin Belkin?’
‘I reckon he’d be the one who kicked Keith out. I’ve met Angharad Oates, by the way, out at the compound, where she looks after Jess Hawkins’ young kid. There’s a Kawasaki there that someone might have heard on the road the night Keith was killed.’
‘Lot of threads, John. I’m guessing you’re beginning to see a pattern?’
‘Maybe. Meantime your pals Lady Isabella, bin Mahmoud and Morelli were at the selfsame party.’
‘You don’t think Keith could have had dealings with them?’
‘If only I were in a position to ask them that, the ones who’re not murder victims, I mean.’
‘There can’t be a connection … ’
‘Two killings, Siobhan.’
‘Hundreds of miles apart, John.’
‘But can you ask anyway?’
‘I’m a bit busy.’
‘You don’t sound it. In fact, from the echo, I’d guess you’re on the bog.’
‘Must be your phone.’
‘If you say so. But you will talk to Meiklejohn and Morelli?’
‘I’m seeing so much of them, I might suggest a flat-share.’
‘You reckon they’re involved?’
‘We’ve got some CCTV we’re checking.’
‘Robbie Stenhouse is your man for that.’ When she didn’t answer immediately, Rebus spoke again. ‘You’ve already seen him?’
‘How the hell do you know about Robbie Stenhouse?’
‘Guy’s a legend. Did you happen to notice any other faces in those pics I might find interesting?’
‘Not really. You already know Stewart Scoular.’
‘I like how he slithers his way into every other photo. If it’s his consortium behind the golf resort, and the party was a way of buttering up potential investors, he’d be far from happy about Keith shouting the odds. Remember what happened at that Donald Trump place in Aberdeen?’
‘I watched the documentary.’
‘People like Scoular need to feel they’re controlling the story. Keith definitely wasn’t helping with that.’
‘And yet, all the dozens of newspaper profiles and mentions in the business pages, not a single word about Keith and the rest of his group. They hardly had any media presence.’
‘He didn’t pose a danger, is that what you’re saying?’
‘I’m saying he could be safely ignored.’
‘Maybe someone failed to get that message, Siobhan.’ Rebus gave a long and noisy exhalation.
‘Anything else to report?’ she asked. ‘How’s Samantha?’
‘Still not been charged. I think there’s the hint of a thaw between us, too.’
‘That’s good.’
‘You at Gartcosh right now?’
‘Waiting for Malcolm – Jennif
er Lyon needed a word with him.’
‘What about?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Is this you stonewalling me?’
‘Only a bit.’
‘How’s that dog of mine doing?’
‘Not getting as much attention as he needs.’
‘A feeling we all know, eh? You any closer to a result?’
‘I’ll have a better idea once Robbie’s worked his magic.’
‘Good luck then – talk to you later.’
Clarke ended the call. She had a text from Graham Sutherland asking how it was going.
Leaving soon, she texted back.
As she exited the toilets, she saw there was still no sign of Fox. No visibly vacant seats either. A passing officer, white shirt and epaulettes, asked her if she needed help.
‘Just waiting,’ she told him with an exasperated smile. Two more minutes and she’d head back to the car; five after that and she’d be off, let Fox find his own way back to Edinburgh. But she knew she wouldn’t do it.
She needed to share the news about the Chief Constable.
Fox had been abandoned by Jennifer Lyon in her office’s anteroom, seated across from her secretary, who was busy at her computer. Finally she opened the door and crooked a finger. By the time he went in and closed the door, she was seated behind her desk.
‘Anything to report?’ she asked briskly.
‘Making progress on the bin Mahmoud inquiry.’
She dismissed this with the briefest of nods. ‘And Mr Scoular?’
Fox considered his response. ‘If there’s dirt – proper dirt, I mean – it’s well hidden. The Fraud Unit have come up empty-handed. I can show Cafferty we’ve done the work – including surveillance – but that’s about all, unless we opt to go nuclear: phone tap, computer intercept … ’
‘Surveillance?’
‘Just me in my free time.’
‘Explains why you look so bleary.’ She paused. ‘But it’s appreciated.’
‘I don’t mind in the least.’
‘And no one on the team has twigged what you’re up to?’
Fox swallowed. ‘Not as far as I’m aware.’
‘Not even DI Clarke?’