Иэн Рэнкин - In a House of Lies

‘We had a visit today from Brand’s PR man. He wants much the same.’

‘I dare say he’s not undercharging for his services either.’ Rebus produced a lighter from his coat and flicked it until a flame appeared. ‘Christ, I wish I still smoked.’

‘Your lungs probably disagree.’

‘Specialist wanted me to get an exercise bike — can you imagine?’

‘Not really, no.’

‘Me in the flat, pedalling away, going nowhere.’

A car had stopped on Melville Drive. They heard its door close and turned to watch as a dark figure approached.

‘The prodigal returns,’ Rebus announced. ‘Or is it the swine that returns? I’m a bit rusty.’

‘Hello to you too, John.’ Malcolm Fox was gesturing towards the cigarette lighter. ‘Thought you’d stopped.’

‘This is just in case I decide to go out in a blaze of glory.’

Fox had leaned in towards Clarke to peck her on the cheek.

‘Steady on,’ Rebus chided him. ‘We’re not in bloody France.’

‘How are you, Siobhan?’

She nodded in the affirmative. ‘How about you, Malcolm?’

He nodded back before turning towards Rebus. ‘I went to the Oxford Bar first off, but they said they hardly see you these days. I’m at the age where nothing should surprise me, but I’ll admit that nearly took my legs from under me.’

‘Aye, they’ve had to announce a profits warning. Stock Exchange isn’t happy. And speaking of happy ships, how are things at Gartcosh? Lost any more high hiedyins lately?’

‘It’s not exactly been plain sailing.’

‘Latest allegations are all to do with bullying — hope none of that’s been happening to you in the playground, Malc. We all know you’re a sensitive soul. See, in my day we just took it on the chin.’

‘Might explain why you ended up with so many bruises.’

Rebus stretched out his arms. ‘Do you see any?’

Fox tapped a finger to his own head. ‘In here, I mean.’

Rebus screwed his eyes shut. ‘Well, despite the brain damage, let’s see if I can still do a bit of mind-reading.’ He pretended to cogitate. ‘I see a skeleton in a car, a lot of media attention, and the top brass anxious about an old case and those who worked on it.’ He opened his eyes again. ‘And here you are.’

‘You’ve not lost it.’ Fox pretended to clap his hands.

‘You’re working at the Big House, you used to be Complaints, who else are they going to send to do their sniffing?’ Rebus looked down to where Brillo was circling the new arrival. Fox bent at the waist and gave the dog a pat.

‘Your name was mentioned in passing,’ he admitted, straightening up again.

‘How about Brian Steele and Grant Edwards?’ Clarke asked.

‘Them too.’ Fox studied her. ‘What’s your interest, Siobhan?’

‘I’m MIT.’

‘Officer in charge?’

She shook her head. ‘That’s DCI Sutherland.’

‘Siobhan has also,’ Rebus said, ‘had a bit of a run-in with ACU.’

‘Meaning Steele and Edwards?’

‘We used to call them the Chuggabugs,’ Rebus commented.

Fox’s eyes were still on Clarke. ‘You’ve requisitioned the 2006 case notes?’

‘Yes.’

‘I need to take a look at them.’

‘That’s DCI Sutherland’s call.’

‘In point of fact, it’s ACC Lyon’s call, and I’m sure the message is on its way from her to your boss.’

‘Isn’t that nice, Siobhan?’ Rebus drawled. ‘You and Malcolm on a case again.’

‘Actually,’ Clarke parried, ‘what I’m doing is investigating a murder.’

‘That’s true, Malcolm,’ Rebus agreed, with the appearance of a sage nod. ‘Whereas you’re back to your old speciality of stirring the shit prior to slopping it over fellow officers, be they serving, retired or long buried. Must give you a nice warm glow.’ He paused. ‘You live in a bungalow, don’t you?’

Fox frowned at the change of subject. ‘Yes,’ he eventually said.

Rebus nodded to himself. ‘That’s why I could never live in one.’ He had a sudden thought and turned his attention back to Clarke. ‘Mind you, just say Malcolm were to find some dirt on the Chuggabugs — might not be a bad result.’

‘Someone’s going to have to explain that nickname to me,’ Fox said.

‘Cartoon characters,’ Clarke obliged.

‘Who recently had a go at Siobhan here,’ Rebus added. ‘Hence the appetite for a bit of dirt on them.’

‘Thing to remember, John,’ Fox cautioned, ‘is that dirt has a way of spreading itself around.’

‘So does pee,’ Rebus responded, gesturing to where Brillo had cocked his leg against Malcolm Fox’s ankle.

There was a space directly across the street from Clarke’s tenement. Lucky, she thought. Then she wondered if it had maybe been in use until just before she got there. She remembered the car from the previous night. Exact same spot. Having locked the Astra, she looked up and down the street, but all the cars seemed to be empty. No sign of anyone loitering on the pavement either. As she approached the tenement, though, she saw there was something scrawled on the door. Big fat silver letters against the dark-blue paint. She took out her phone and switched on the torch function, though she had already made the words out. But she just wanted to be sure they said what she thought they did.

PIG SCUM LIVES HERE!!!

PIG SCUM OUT!!!

She scanned the rest of the door. It was pristine. But then she noticed the intercom. The same silver pen had been used to cover up her name. She took a paper tissue from her pocket and ran it over the ink. Not quite dry. Another look up and down the street before she slid her key into the lock. Once inside, she stood with her back to the door, waiting. But no one was hiding, no one coming down the stairs towards her. Her heart was racing as she climbed to her landing, checking the door to her flat. The graffiti artist hadn’t come this far. Or if he had...

She unlocked the door and studied the hallway before walking in. Locking the door behind her, she crossed to the living room window, staring at the street and the windows opposite before closing the shutters and beginning to turn on the lights.

There were TV cameras outside the police station on Queen Charlotte Street. Approaching, Siobhan Clarke saw Catherine Bloom giving an interview. Against her chest she held a blown-up photograph of her son. At her shoulder stood Dougal Kelly, making sure his JUSTICE FOR STUART sign was visible. Stuart’s father stood well back from the action, watching his wife with what to Clarke looked like a mixture of pride and resignation. The campaign had been long and apparently tireless, but had taken its toll. Half a dozen print journalists were eavesdropping on the TV interview, holding up their phones to record the exchange. One of them gave a hopeful look towards Clarke, but she shook her head. She was barely inside the building when the text message arrived: Meet later? But cafés and wine bars with Laura Smith had been the start of Clarke’s spot of bother with ACU. Smith was the only crime reporter left at the Scotsman , and the relationship had proved fruitful, Smith never overstepping the mark, never printing anything without first checking that Clarke was okay with it. But when she had started covering the suspensions of various officers at the top of the Police Scotland tree, ACU had come to demand who was leaking.

Truth was, Smith wouldn’t even tell her good friend Siobhan Clarke.

Ignoring the text, Clarke climbed the stairs. She was a bit bleary, having spent half an hour the previous night removing as much of the graffiti on her tenement door as she could. She had checked it this morning — the words were still there, though they were faint. What would her neighbours think? Some knew she was a cop, some didn’t. She would find a painter to cover it up with a couple of fresh coats, just as soon as she could stop yawning. Because that was another thing — around 1a.m., as she’d been drifting off to sleep, there’d been another call from the phone box on the Canongate.