Иэн Рэнкин - In a House of Lies

‘What do you want?’ she’d snarled, listening as the line went dead.

‘Nice of you to join us, DI Clarke.’ The booming Glaswegian voice belonged to Detective Chief Superintendent Mark Mollison, divisional commander for Edinburgh. Clarke realised she should have expected a visit — especially when the media were in the vicinity. ‘We’ve just been discussing when and where to hold the first press conference. Do you have any views?’

Clarke looked around the room. They were all there, making her the late arrival. Sutherland and Reid had positioned themselves next to the wall, with its spreading display of maps, photos and cuttings. The last of the computers had arrived, along with a free-standing printer. She realised that the noises she’d heard from the next door along were those of the final members of the support staff settling in.

‘Not really, sir,’ she managed to reply. Mollison stood on his own in the centre of the room, hands clasped behind his back, rocking on his heels. He was well over six feet tall, with a face that was all burst veins leading to a nose that would not have disgraced Rudolph the reindeer.

‘Apparently the spot where the car was found is being examined again this morning, and a team will carry out a detailed search of the woods—’

‘Mr Mollison,’ Sutherland interrupted, ‘wonders if Poretoun Woods might make for an atmospheric backdrop.’

Clarke caught her boss’s tone. ‘I’m not entirely sure,’ she ventured, ‘that we have much to say to the media at this point in the inquiry.’ She watched as Sutherland nodded his head in agreement.

‘We certainly have information we don’t want them getting,’ Callum Reid added.

‘The handcuffs?’ Mollison guessed. ‘Any news of those?’

‘They’re being studied in detail by Forensics today,’ Sutherland informed him. ‘All we know as of now is that they’re an older model — in other words, not police issue at the time of Bloom’s disappearance.’

‘It’ll come out eventually, you know — we need to have a strategy for managing it.’

‘Absolutely.’

‘No press conference today, though?’

‘We could revisit the idea this afternoon, sir.’

Mollison tried not to look disappointed. ‘Might as well get back to St Leonard’s, then. Wouldn’t want to think I’m holding you back.’ As he spoke, he threw a sideways glance towards Clarke. With a gesture of farewell to the rest of the team, he marched out of the office, his leather soles clacking their way back down the stairs. Shoulders began to relax; breaths were exhaled.

‘One of you could have warned me,’ Clarke complained.

‘You’ve not given us your number,’ Emily Crowther informed her.

‘That’s the first thing we should do then,’ Sutherland decided. ‘Everybody’s contact details on a sheet of paper, pinned to the wall and copied into your phones.’

‘Maybe a WhatsApp group, too?’ Crowther suggested.

‘If you think it useful.’ Sutherland saw that Phil Yeats was heading towards the kettle. ‘Coffee can wait, Phil,’ he warned him.

‘In Siobhan’s case,’ George Gamble commented, ‘I’m not sure that’s true. You must have kept her out past her bedtime, Graham.’ There were smiles from behind the desks. Sutherland didn’t join in but Clarke did — last thing she wanted was for the team to split into factions. While they copied their details on to the sheet of paper being passed around, she approached Sutherland. He had returned to his chair and was starting to type at his keyboard.

‘Heard anything from Gartcosh?’ she enquired.

‘How did you know?’

‘Malcolm Fox and me go back a ways. I happened to bump into him last night.’

‘So you were out late then?’

‘Decided I’d better walk the pitch ’n’ putt course, just to see what I’ve let myself in for.’

He gave a half-smile. ‘Fox will be here soon. I informed everyone this morning. I’ve put Tess in charge of babysitting him. So if there’s anything you think she should know in advance...’

Clarke nodded and walked over to Tess Leighton’s desk.

‘I’ve worked with Fox in the past,’ she stated. ‘He’s good on detail, used to be in Complaints. He’s thorough, maybe even a bit plodding.’

‘Is he single, though?’ George Gamble interrupted. ‘That’s what Tess is wondering.’

‘Stick it, George,’ Leighton rasped. Then, to Clarke: ‘Any BO or bad breath? Farts and belches?’

‘I think he’ll pass those tests.’

‘Puts him one up on George, then.’

‘You forgetting something, Tess?’ Gamble retorted. ‘He worked for Complaints, meaning he got his jollies putting the boot into the likes of you and me. He might not smell, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t stink.’

Jackie Ness’s production company had an office in a shiny new glass-fronted development in Fountainbridge. Clarke and Emily Crowther had been dispatched to question him. During the drive, Crowther revealed that she had studied English literature at university, policing far from her first choice of career. She’d grown up in Fife and had a boyfriend who ran a bike shop on the edge of Dunfermline. They shared a house in the town and were planning to get married. She was starting to ask Clarke about herself when Clarke announced that they’d arrived.

Crowther was slim and blonde and probably fifteen years younger than her colleague. Knee-length skirt, sheer black tights, shoes with inch-high heels. She didn’t quite look or act like an officer of the law, and Clarke began to get an inkling as to why Sutherland had chosen her for the task.

The company name was Locke Ness. On the wall behind the reception desk, the logo could be seen rising from the depths of a stretch of water.

‘Clever,’ Crowther said, which seemed to please the young receptionist.

‘Mr Ness will be with you shortly,’ she said.

‘We did arrange a time,’ Clarke told her firmly. ‘If he wants to waste ours, maybe we can do this at the station instead.’

The receptionist’s smile melted away. ‘I’ll ask,’ she said, disappearing through a door. Crowther settled on the leather sofa while Clarke examined the shelf containing a handful of cheap-looking awards, and the wall-mounted posters for films such as Zombies v Bravehearts and The Opium Eater Murders . She had done a bit of reading up on the producer. He’d started by owning a string of video rental shops, then put money into low-budget horror films before moving to more mainstream releases. She wasn’t aware of ever having watched any of his output.

The receptionist was back, followed by a man who was shrugging his arms back into the sleeves of his suit jacket.

‘There’s a restaurant next door,’ he announced. ‘I skipped breakfast, so why don’t we go there? I’m Jackie Ness, by the way, in case you were wondering.’ His eyes fell on Emily Crowther and he wagged a finger in her direction. ‘The light loves you, did you know that? Catches your face just perfectly.’ He turned to the receptionist. ‘You agree, don’t you, Estelle?’ Then, to Clarke: ‘The restaurant won’t be busy, it’s not lunchtime yet. There’s a corner booth they normally keep for me. It’s not like we’re recording this or anything, is it? It’s just background.’

‘A better word might be “preliminary”,’ Clarke told him. ‘You’re not under caution and you don’t need a lawyer.’

‘The amount they cost, praise be for that. And you are...?’

‘Detective Inspector Clarke. This is DC Crowther.’

He turned his attention back to Crowther. ‘Just DC, or is there ever any AC?’ Immediately he held up a hand. ‘I know, I shouldn’t have. Couldn’t help it. Apologies et cetera.’