Иэн Рэнкин - In a House of Lies

He started to cross the road, and for the first time Fox noticed the large black Audi parked there. The driver’s window slid down, giving him a clear view of Grant Edwards. Edwards was known for the perpetual smile he wore. His face was that of an oversized infant, almost cherubic. Fox got the feeling the man would have the same demeanour whether he was helping an old lady with her shopping or thumping someone in a bar fight. Interesting that he had stayed in the car, though. Steele had wanted to befriend Fox rather than intimidate him; that had been the plan. Besides which, Edwards wasn’t known for either intellect or subtlety. Waiting in the car would have been Steele’s decision. Fox sent a little wave of farewell in the Audi’s direction as he headed back indoors.

Clarke had found two scenes where Stuart Bloom and Derek Shankley appeared as extras. Their job was to look fierce as they prepared for an imminent attack by the English, then scream and flee as the zombies appeared. The scenes seemed to have been shot in twilight, so it wasn’t easy to pick them out from the other actors, but it helped that they always stood next to one another. When she watched for a third time, she thought she noted amusement in their eyes where fear should have been, as if they’d been sharing a joke between takes.

Always supposing the director bothered with more than one take.

Neither Bloom nor Shankley was listed in the closing credits. The director (and also co-writer) was Alexander Dupree. From an internet search Clarke knew that this was a pseudonym used by Jackie Ness to disguise how few people were involved behind the camera in his productions. Cheaply made, his films had still earned him substantial sums, at least until recently. If a thriller made it big at the international box office, a quick knock-off version courtesy of Locke Ness Productions would be in circulation within a matter of weeks. In interviews, Ness was particularly proud of this guerrilla approach. Get it out quick, and make sure both violence and at least partial nudity appear within the first ten minutes. ‘Fear and desire,’ he’d been quoted as saying, ‘are what drive us. I just hold up a mirror so we can watch ourselves.’

From what she could glean from the nerds on the internet, the film had been made only a month prior to Bloom’s disappearance. She supposed it was to Ness’s credit that he hadn’t tried to capitalise on the PI’s newsworthiness at the time the film was released. Whenever he was asked by interviewers about Bloom’s disappearance, he gave versions of the same answer: ‘It would have been a great studio — great for film, great for Scotland. But that dream died.’ She had mulled those words over. He was tying Stuart Bloom’s disappearance to his own struggle with Adrian Brand. Without naming him, he was effectively blaming his rival.

Her phone buzzed: incoming call. She checked the name on the screen and slipped out of the office, pressing the phone to her ear as she closed the door.

‘I’ve got nothing for you, Laura.’

‘Okay,’ Laura Smith said. ‘But maybe I’ve got something for you.’

‘What?’

‘One of my colleagues doorstepped Alex Shankley this morning.’

‘That was insensitive.’

‘They’d actually gone looking for his son, but it was the dad who answered the knock.’

‘Hang on, this was whose home?’

‘Derek’s. A tenement flat in Partick.’

‘Okay.’

‘Thing is, the father said they couldn’t talk to the press until they’d spoken to you lot.’

‘Very wise.’

‘Siobhan, he was meaning today. That’s why I’m back at my post.’

Clarke returned to the MIT office and crossed to the window, peering through a grubby pane down to Queen Charlotte Street. ‘I don’t see you,’ she whispered, Graham Sutherland being within earshot.

‘I’m round the corner. Probably explains why Malcolm Fox didn’t clock me.’

‘Hang on a sec...’ Clarke left the office again and headed to the small room set aside for Fox and the box files. He was seated beside Tess Leighton, the pair of them deep in discussion, heads close. Clarke retreated along the corridor.

‘When was this?’

‘Not five minutes ago. He was meeting someone.’

‘Who?’

‘When you got in that spot of bother, you weren’t the only one. It was the same guy who grilled me.’

‘Brian Steele?’

‘With his shadow parked up nearby.’

‘Steele and Edwards were here ?’

‘For a friendly chinwag with Fox. He hasn’t mentioned it?’

‘He’s not seen me to speak to.’

‘What’s ACU’s involvement with all of this, Siobhan?’

‘No comment.’

‘Something’s being hushed up, something about the crime scene.’

‘Is it?’

‘Come on, Siobhan. I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t know.’

‘And what is it you think you know, Laura?’

‘Well, the handcuffs, for one thing.’

Clarke pressed her lips together for a moment. ‘So now you know why ACU are involved — someone’s leaking. If I had to guess, I’d say someone in the lab or on the scene-of-crime team.’

‘Could be anybody really, couldn’t it?’

‘If you go public, ACU will think it’s me again.’

‘I know. That’s one reason I’m waiting.’

‘The other being?’

‘You obviously don’t want it known about. Makes me think you’re scared it’ll either frighten someone off or else people will jump to the wrong conclusion.’ Clarke stayed silent. ‘Steele and Edwards were in uniform when the Bloom case happened. Did they happen to work on it, Siobhan?’

‘I can’t discuss that. What will you do about the handcuffs?’

‘It’ll break sooner or later.’

‘Can you give us a day or two?’

‘Maybe.’

‘You’re right, Laura. If you’re the one with the exclusive, ACU will come for me.’

‘Which is why I’ll probably give it to someone else, let them grab the glory.’

‘You’d do that?’

‘Saves us both a bit of grief, don’t you think?’

‘Thanks, Laura.’

‘That last mess with ACU, I do feel just a little bit responsible, you know.’

‘Consider the slate wiped.’ Clarke ended the call and watched as two men were led up the stairs and told to wait at the door to the MIT room. The elder of the two looked resolute, the younger hesitant.

Derek Shankley and his father.

The interview room at Leith police station. Clarke and Sutherland one side of the table, father and son the other. Four mugs of tea. Two sugars for Alex Shankley and the exact same for Derek.

‘Thank you for making the effort, sir,’ Sutherland told the retired detective.

‘It was Derek’s idea.’

The slight change in the son’s face gave the lie to this. Derek Shankley wore a black leather biker jacket over a white T-shirt. Fashion, Clarke reckoned, would always win out over comfort. He looked cold, the jacket zipped almost to his neck. He had studs in both earlobes and a shaved head. Though clean-shaven, he had kept traces of his sideburns. His father had a chiselled face, but was slightly stooped, the years having taken their toll.

‘You not recording this?’ Alex Shankley asked.

‘Unless one of you is here to confess?’ Sutherland’s smile told them he was joking.

‘We’re here to save you the trouble of making us come. It’s hellish news about Stuart and we want to give you our thoughts.’

‘Yes, I should have said...’ Sutherland turned his attention to Derek. ‘We really are very sorry about Stuart.’

Derek nodded solemnly. He hadn’t aged much since the days of Zombies v Bravehearts . Clarke wondered what his secret was.