Иэн Рэнкин - In a House of Lies

‘Still living in the Betamax era, I see.’

Ness chose to ignore Clarke’s rebuke. ‘Half an hour,’ he told the receptionist, already halfway to the exit.

‘Longer if need be, Estelle,’ Clarke cautioned, before following suit.

The restaurant served mostly burgers, and that was what Ness ordered — albeit vegetarian — along with an Irn-Bru, while the two detectives stuck to coffee. He’d been right though: they were the only customers, and were directed to his favoured spot. Clarke and Crowther sat across from him and watched as he shrugged his way out of his jacket.

‘Male menopause,’ he explained. ‘I’m always sweating or freezing.’

‘Bit old for the menopause, no?’ Clarke said.

‘I was always told you’re as young as the woman you feel.’ He chuckled to himself. It never ceased to amaze Clarke that such specimens survived. She thought of the Loch Ness monster, the last of its kind.

‘Is there a Locke to go with the Ness?’ she enquired.

‘Old business partner. We had a falling-out when he tried stiffing the taxman. The name makes people smile though, so I didn’t bother changing it.’

‘Anything in the pipeline just now?’

‘There’s always something in the pipeline. In fact, the pipeline’s bunged up with treatments and pitches and great scripts that’ll likely never get turned into films. Money just doesn’t materialise most of the time.’

‘Aren’t you the one who supplies the money?’

‘I find the money, and that’s a whole different skill. Goalposts have shifted. In my early days it was DTV — direct to video. Now everything’s digital. You’ve got kids making films on their mobile phones, editing them on their PCs, then chucking them on the internet. You’ve got Amazon and Netflix. Everyone’s streaming; DVDs and Blu-Ray sales are tanking. It’s actually not the goalposts that have shifted. It’s like walking into a completely different game.’

‘But you’re surviving?’

‘What else is there?’

He’d be in his early sixties, Clarke guessed, his hair silver but plentiful, his tan courtesy of a winter cruise or, more likely, a tanning booth. A good haircut, but his last shave had left a few grey hairs dotted about his round and shiny face. His teeth had been fixed, and he maintained the swagger necessary to his job, but his shirt hadn’t been ironed and a button was missing, not quite hidden by the bright crimson tie.

Like his industry, Jackie Ness had seen better days.

‘We’re here to ask you a few questions about Stuart Bloom,’ Clarke said, now the ice had been broken. ‘He was working for you when he went missing.’

‘It’s a hellish thing. My first thought was the same as everybody else — lovers’ tiff.’

‘And when he failed to resurface?’

‘Sometimes people just want to step off the grid. I did a film about it: quiet banking executive walks out on his family and becomes a vigilante.’

‘How about your own relationship with Mr Bloom?’

‘No problems there at all. He wasn’t overcharging, seemed to be getting some good stuff...’

‘Stuff on Adrian Brand?’

‘Aka the Fucker.’ His eyes moved between the two detectives. ‘Pardon my French.’

‘Did you ever suspect Brand might have known what was going on?’

‘You mean did he have Stuart bumped off?’ Ness’s face creased in thought. ‘It was always a possibility. Brand mixed with some ugly people. Stuart was getting close to proving it.’

‘Something that could have put him in danger?’

‘The cops at the time looked into it but didn’t get far.’ Ness broke off as his burger arrived. He picked it up and took a bite. He was still chewing as the drinks appeared. ‘Help yourselves to a sweet potato fry,’ he offered.

‘What did you think,’ Clarke asked, ‘when the car was found in Poretoun Woods?’

He shook his head vigorously. ‘Couldn’t have been there all that time.’

‘Why not?’ Clarke waited while he swallowed and took a sip of the Irn-Bru.

‘I used to film there. Not that exact spot maybe, but we were always in those woods. Anything vaguely medieval; anything to do with zombies or kids getting a scare.’

‘The car was in a pretty deep gully, and well camouflaged.’

‘I’m telling you I’d have noticed it. Added to which, those woods were a pet project of mine — them and the house. I spent a fortune restoring both.’

‘How do you restore woodland?’ Crowther asked, sounding genuinely curious.

‘By planting rare and native species rather than trees you grow as a crop. I had meetings with forestry experts, took on board everything they said.’

‘You’re saying you had a detailed knowledge of Poretoun Woods,’ Clarke commented. Ness locked eyes with her above his burger.

‘I know what you’re getting at — means I’d have known about the gully and that it made a good hiding place. But why would I kill Stuart? He was a great guy, just doing his job and living for the weekend.’

‘Weekends were special to him?’

‘There was a club he liked in the New Town, somewhere just off Leith Street. Rogues, I think it was called. Him and Derek were regulars.’

‘Derek Shankley, you mean? Did you ever meet him?’

‘A couple of times. Never mentioned his dad was one of your lot. Apparently the father was none too happy about his son and Stuart.’

‘How about you, Mr Ness?’

‘I’ve no problem with gay people. Some of the best talent in my films were gay. Maybe not all of them totally out, back in the day, but that’s how it was. Even now, plenty big names are still reluctant to step from the closet. I could give you a few that might surprise you.’

‘Why did you sell Poretoun House?’

Ness’s face darkened a little. ‘Sunk too much of my own money into a film I thought was gold-plated. Then Billy — Billy Locke — had that run-in with HMRC and the company suddenly had penalties to pay.’ He offered a shrug and dropped the remains of the burger back on to the wooden board it had arrived on. The small tin bucket of fries remained untouched. Ness stifled a belch.

‘Why that particular spot, do you think?’ Clarke asked.

‘Maybe to put me in the frame. Stands to reason it was someone who knew my history with the woods.’

‘But they’re owned by your old rival these days.’

Ness’s face darkened further. ‘That was a kick in the teeth. Thought I was safe selling to Jeff Sellers. But then he goes and does a deal with Brand of all people. And you know why Brand did it?’

‘Why?’

‘To fuck with my head — excuse my French one more time. From what I hear, he’s letting the house rot, and the woods too. Any invasive species, he lets it thrive. That’s exactly what him and his kind are — an invasive species.’

‘Meaning what?’

‘Men like him are little more than pillagers and con artists. He’ll say and do anything to get the land he wants, then build any old tat on it. I wanted that patch of green belt for Scotland’s first film studio. It would have brought jobs and prestige. Brand wanted a golf course for his rich pals, and even then he’d have scaled it back to squeeze in more of his ticky-tacky houses.’

‘Do the pair of you still butt heads?’

‘I got tired of the lawyers’ bills; wanted my life back. Plus, the longer Stuart stayed missing, the easier it was to read it as a message — lay off me and my business.’

Clarke took out her notebook and skimmed its pages, making show of finding her next question. ‘Did you ever have dealings with a pair of men called Steele and Edwards?’

Ness gave a snort. ‘They pulled my car over a few times to tell me I was speeding. I knew what was going on, though; Stuart had already warned me they were on Brand’s payroll.’