Иэн Рэнкин: In a House of Lies

‘How old is the car?’

‘Not sure yet. Number plates have been removed. No sign of a tax disc, nothing in the glove box or the clothing. We’ll give it to the lab and see what they say.’

‘It’s not some weird suicide?’

Sutherland shrugged. ‘Deborah doesn’t think the skull damage came from the crash. It’s to the back of the head and points to a weapon rather than any other type of impact.’

‘You said he was trussed?’

‘Well, not exactly.’ He got busy on his phone, turning the screen towards her. The photo showed the inside of the boot, a close-up of a pair of legs and feet. Grubby jeans, looking brittle with age, and white trainers that had begun to perish. The ankles were shackled by a pair of handcuffs. Clarke looked to Sutherland for an explanation, but all he could offer was a shrug.

The major incident team’s office was based at Leith police station. Sutherland had said he would meet Clarke there.

‘You know the place?’ he had asked.

‘I know it.’

She called her own office at Gayfield Square and explained that she would be elsewhere.

‘Seconded to MIT,’ DC Christine Esson commented. ‘Don’t think I’m not jealous.’

‘I’ll let you know how it goes.’

‘Probably just need you to show them where they can get hot food and a drink.’

‘Thanks for the vote of confidence, Christine.’ Clarke hoped Esson could hear the smile. She ended the call and entered the MIT room. It was empty apart from some desks and chairs. This was the way things were now, thanks to the changes at Police Scotland — local CID reduced to a secondary role, a dedicated team parachuted in to run the show, a couple of rooms set aside for their use. Clarke didn’t know Graham Sutherland but she had heard of him. She wondered why she was on his radar.

There was a noise behind her and she turned. Sutherland entered the room, eyes on her. He was tall, with an athletic build. Early fifties maybe. Short fair hair, a face that had caught the sun not too long ago, a gaze that said it wouldn’t miss much. His charcoal two-button suit looked almost new, crisp white shirt, dark blue tie.

‘Same as usual,’ he commented, studying his surroundings. ‘I’m betting the windows are stuck shut and half the sockets don’t work.’

‘Plus some of the desk drawers can be problematic.’

He offered her a quick smile. ‘Rest of the team will be here soon. Not sure you’ll know any of them.’

‘Which sort of begs a question, sir...’

‘I said to call me Graham.’

‘I mean, if you don’t know the city, there are guides better qualified than me.’ She had folded her arms. He met her gaze.

‘I’ve heard good things about you, Siobhan. I can find my way around Edinburgh on my own, but I’m hoping you can help me find my way around this case. And besides...’ He broke off, swallowing what he’d been about to add.

‘Besides?’ she nudged him.

‘I know you had a run-in with ACU. You’re not the first and you won’t be the last.’ He took a step towards her, angling his head slightly. ‘Way I look at it, cops are like family. ACU need reminding of that.’

‘I’m not a charity case, Graham.’

He nodded slowly. Voices could be heard climbing the stairs. ‘The real charity cases are about to walk through that door. We’ll get the introductions out of the way and then start work — okay?’

‘Okay.’

Clarke locked the lavatory door and sat down, tapping the names into her phone so she would remember them. There was another DI–Callum Reid. He had red hair and freckles and looked young enough to be Clarke’s son. He’d come into the room holding a map, which he had unfolded and pinned to the wall. It showed the woods and the villages and towns around them.

‘This’ll have to do till we can get hold of a whiteboard,’ he had announced.

Sutherland had given Clarke a look to say this was entirely expected of Reid. Mr Efficiency , she typed into her phone next to his name. The two detective sergeants had the vague look of a comedy duo from 1970s TV. George Gamble was a portly figure in a three-piece check suit, all of it topped by a ruddy face and an unruly mop of hair. Tess Leighton was a good three inches taller than him and so thin Clarke wondered about anorexia. Her complexion was almost bleached, with dark hollows beneath her eyes. The two DCs on the other hand seemed like brother and sister. They were both fair-haired and of similar height and age, probably still in their mid-twenties. Phil Yeats introduced himself by specifying that his name was ‘like the poet, not the wine lodge’.

‘He never tires of explaining,’ DC Emily Crowther added, shaking Clarke’s hand.

The team had only recently come together, hand-picked by Sutherland, who himself hadn’t led more than a handful of major investigations. As he’d explained this to Clarke, she had caught a subtext: So don’t let me down . Then they had all gathered in front of the map, Callum Reid circling the woods with a thick black marker.

Having finished listing the names of her new colleagues as she sat in the toilet stall, Clarke tapped the edge of her phone against her chin. At least now she knew why she had been brought in: to show ACU that cops stuck together. ACU: Police Scotland’s Anti-Corruption Unit. They’d spent the best part of half a year trying to pin something on Clarke. They were finished with her now, but she reckoned they’d be back. She knew it rankled with them that they’d not got the result they wanted. You’re not the first and you won’t be the last . Sutherland had been telling her that he too had fallen foul of ACU at some point in the past. Was her secondment merely his way of sticking two fingers up at his old tormentors? She hoped not. He’d said he had heard good things about her. Bloody right, too — she was a good cop, a good detective, most of it learned the hard way.

Her phone started to thrum. Incoming call. This time a name came up instead of a number. She was half smiling as she answered.

‘I was just thinking about you,’ she said.

‘Was it a Polo?’ John Rebus sounded agitated.

‘What?’

‘The car in the woods. You need to check if it was a red Volkswagen Polo.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Radio says there was a body inside.’

Clarke’s eyes narrowed. ‘Are you telling me you think you know who it is?’

‘I’m not saying it is, I’m saying it might be.’

‘And you’re going to tell me?’

There was a moment’s silence. ‘They’ve given you the case?’

‘I’m attached to MIT.’

‘Good for you. So you’re down in Leith?’ She couldn’t help but smile, and he seemed to sense it. ‘See, I might be long retired, but the brain’s still active.’

‘The brain might be active, but you’re not.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Only one of us is the detective these days. So give me a name and I’ll check it out.’

‘I blame modern technology, you know.’

‘For what?’

‘The short memories your generation have. You’ve forgotten how to store information.’

‘John...’ She sighed. ‘Just tell me the name.’

‘You’ve not even asked how I’m keeping.’

‘I saw you last month.’

‘Maybe my situation’s deteriorated.’

‘Has it?’

‘Not so you’d notice.’

‘That’s good to hear.’ She paused. ‘John? You still there?’

‘I’m on my way.’

‘That’s not how it—’ But Rebus had ended the call.

Clarke got up and unlocked the cubicle door, rinsing her hands before making her way back to the office. The team were trying to look busy while waiting for equipment and ancillary staff to arrive. Reid was stressing the need for a TV or monitor of some kind so they could keep an eye on the media’s treatment of the story. Leighton was adding that someone should check social media, as a source of information and rumour. They were one desk short, so Yeats and Crowther were sharing. They didn’t seem to mind, chatting among themselves until they noticed that Graham Sutherland had finished the phone call he’d been on.