Иэн Рэнкин - In a House of Lies

‘Did you mention the handcuffs?’

‘Absolutely not.’

‘And cause of death?’

‘Aubrey and I are pretty well agreed on that. Blunt object trauma. Hole in the back of the head is a couple of centimetres wide. Hammer maybe. Crowbar. We’ve taken samples to see if whatever it was has left any traces. After this length of time, I’m not hugely hopeful.’

‘Thank you, Professor. Anything else we should know?’

‘Aubrey wants to see where the car was found. She asked if your forensics team are still working there.’

‘Car’s gone to the lab.’

‘Keep me informed of their progress. The floor of the boot will tell us if he was killed in situ . Professor Hamilton also says some interesting work is being done with soil these days. There’s someone in Aberdeen might be useful.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Mud on and in the car, bits of dirt ingrained in the tyres, that sort of thing. Might help you track where else it had been before it ended up in the gully.’

‘I’ll bear that in mind.’

‘Ah...’

‘What?’

‘I can hear it in your voice — case hasn’t been budgeted yet?’

‘Not yet, no.’

‘Well, I’ve no idea how much a soil expert costs these days, but I know money’s tight. Having said which, I’m telling you the victim was Stuart Bloom, so the chiefs aren’t going to want to be shown stinting.’

‘You’re a hundred per cent sure, Deborah?’ Clarke asked.

‘Hi, Siobhan. Thought I saw you in the viewing room. Let’s say ninety-nine point nine.’ Sutherland’s phone was making a noise. ‘Sounds like another caller trying to get through,’ Deborah Quant said. ‘You better take that. It’s probably whoever’s acting as chief constable this week.’

‘News travels,’ Sutherland said.

‘Doesn’t it just?’

Sutherland had picked up the phone, ending Quant’s call and pressing the appliance to his ear.

‘Yes, sir?’ he said, making for the hallway. As he left the room, Yeats entered.

‘What did I miss?’ he enquired.

‘Stick the kettle on and we’ll tell you,’ Tess Leighton replied.

Detective Inspector Malcolm Fox was chewing a pen at his desk. His feeling was, it made him look busy, like he was thinking great thoughts or working out a knotty problem. His computer screen showed that he was halfway through a memo on the reallocation of resources to Police Scotland’s Major Crime Division. Around him, everything still felt new. Gartcosh was the site of the shiny high-tech Scottish Crime Campus, the nerve centre of Police Scotland. Forty miles west of the capital, it would always be another country to the Edinburgh-dwelling Fox.

The quiet hum of activity belied the fact that Police Scotland was in trouble. Then again, you never had to look too far to find a crisis of one sort or another. But the chief constable was on suspension while being investigated for various misdemeanours, as was one of his assistant chief constables, meaning that Fox’s own boss, ACC Jennifer Lyon, was burdened by extra worries and workload. Despite all of which, there was little to keep Fox occupied. He had dropped heavy hints about a larger role, but Lyon had cautioned him to be patient. In relative terms, he’d only just got his feet under the desk. There was time enough ahead.

‘Besides,’ she’d added, ‘climb too far up the ladder just now and you’re liable to come across a rung that’s been sawn through.’

Lyon had reckoned Fox’s current task a promotion of sorts. If done well, it would get him noticed by those at the top. Everyone seemed to agree that policy was his strength. In other words, he was a desk jockey, good in meetings, presentable, happier with subordinate clauses than actual subordinates. Fox wanted to tell them: I’ve seen action, got my hands dirty in the past. He had even angled for a lateral move from Major Crime to Organised Crime and Counter-Terrorism, but Lyon had just given him a look. Lacking a chief constable, the deputy chief constable — who had been on the brink of retiring — was running the show but leaning heavily on Lyon for support, meaning she was often out of reach. Fox knew that big cases were effectively in limbo, awaiting decisions. His colleagues in Major Crime were anxious verging on mutinous, queuing up to gain the okay from Lyon over this or that course of action.

Which was why a couple of them sprang to their feet when Lyon stalked into the large open-plan office. A brushing motion with one hand told them this wasn’t the time. Instead, Lyon was standing just over Fox’s shoulder. Her hair was bottle-blonde and brittle, curving around the sides of her head as if to cocoon her face. In meetings, when she leaned forward, it covered her eyes, making her impossible to read. Now, Fox concentrated on her pale pink lips as she leaned in towards his left ear.

‘A word outside, Malcolm.’

By the time he had got to his feet, she was already at the door. As Fox made to follow, he caught the looks from his colleagues. They wanted him to plead their cases. He gestured with his head, not quite a nod, straightened his tie and buttoned his suit jacket.

One feature of Gartcosh was its ‘breakout areas’. Basically quiet, comfortable nooks where the various disciplines such as specialist crime, forensic science and the procurator fiscal could exchange information over a relatively relaxed coffee. The whole interior of the building felt like a high-security further education college. Lyon hadn’t quite made it to her destination without interruption. Someone from HMRC’s fraud unit was bending her ear, Lyon giving grim nods in the hope the man would take the hint.

‘Sorry to interrupt,’ Fox said as he approached. ‘You said it was urgent, ma’am.’

Lyon tried for a disappointed look. ‘Another time, Owen? Sorry about this.’

With a glower in Fox’s direction, the HMRC man started to leave.

‘I’ll email you,’ Lyon called out in assurance. Then, lowering her voice so only Fox could hear, ‘Thanks for that. Let’s sit down.’

They did, watching the ebb and flow of officers. One or two gave more than a passing glance, recognising Lyon and wondering who she was with. Lyon played with the lanyards hanging around her neck. Two passes: one a photo ID, the other giving keyless entry to the building’s more secure sections.

‘Is it something to do with the memo?’ Fox nudged.

She shook her head. ‘It’s this Stuart Bloom thing.’ She saw his blank look. ‘I thought you were in Professional Standards at the time?’

‘When are we talking about?’

‘Two thousand and six.’

‘I joined the following year.’

‘His family were still vocal then, and every year since.’

Fox was nodding. ‘The private eye who went missing? Wasn’t their original complaint dismissed?’

‘And every one after. But now it looks like his body has turned up. Questions are going to be asked about how we missed it first time round. Some of the original team didn’t exactly cover themselves in glory, from what I’ve been told.’ She paused, her eyes finally meeting his. ‘I want you to go take a look. You were in the Complaints, you’ll maybe notice what shortcuts were taken. Anything from general sloppiness up to criminal conspiracy — there were always rumours and I’d like to see them quashed.’

‘Wouldn’t I be treading on the toes of the new inquiry?’

‘Is that going to cause you to lose any sleep?’

‘Not at all.’ Fox reacted to her icy tone by sitting up a bit straighter. ‘So I’d go through the original case files...’

‘There’s a bit more to it than that, Malcolm. The family always talked about it being a conspiracy, our lot colluding with the rich and the powerful, leaking stuff to the press to make sure the public saw only one side of the story.’ She broke off, looking to left and right, checking she could not be overheard. All the same, she lowered her voice a little further. ‘We’re not releasing the information just yet, but the victim was handcuffed.’