Иэн Рэнкин - In a House of Lies

‘He was headed home,’ Jackie Ness had told the inquiry.

Yes, because Derek Shankley was preparing an evening meal for them, wine open, music playing, the end of another long week for them both. Of course, they only had Ness’s word for it that Bloom had left the meeting alive. The house had been searched and forensically examined, despite Ness’s complaints. Outbuildings had been checked, as had the woods beyond. Not that there was any good reason to suspect the producer.

It was just that they didn’t have much else.

Rebus returned to his Saab. It spluttered as it started, reminding him that it wasn’t getting any younger. He patted the steering wheel in sympathy, mouthed the phrase ‘managed decline’ and drove the half-mile to the village of Poretoun, which basically consisted, now as then, of a single thoroughfare (imaginatively named Main Street). There had been two pubs, but only one survived. The hardware shop, bank and post office had also gone. The café Rebus remembered dropping into for a memorable black pudding roll still had its signage, but was closed and available to let. There was a convenience store, a solitary shopper emerging from it with a carrier bag. Rebus parked and pushed open its door.

‘Just want some gum,’ he told the Asian woman behind the counter. He found the Airwaves and picked up a pack, then a second for luck.

‘You’re trying to stop smoking,’ she commented. Then, seeing from his look that she was correct: ‘Takes one to know one. Have you tried vaping?’

‘The technology defeated me.’

‘Well, gum will rot your teeth but not your lungs.’ She rang up the items. There was a small pile of that day’s Evening News on the counter, so he took one, looking at the headlines on the front. There was a colour photo of Catherine Bloom and the promise of an exclusive interview inside.

‘I must look up “exclusive” when I get home,’ he said. ‘Can’t be many people she’s not spoken to.’

‘Can you blame her, though? The way the authorities have treated that family is inexcusable.’

‘We’re only human,’ Rebus said, accepting his change and making his exit. He crossed to the pub and stepped inside. It felt welcoming, with a log-burning stove and thick tartan carpet. Spotting the coffee machine, he ordered an Americano and slid on to a bar stool. A middle-aged couple sat at a corner table, conversing quietly. Another regular was engrossed in his crossword. Rebus placed the Evening News on the counter.

‘Hellish, isn’t it?’ the barman said, nodding towards the photo of Catherine Bloom.

‘Aye,’ Rebus agreed.

‘Have you been to the woods, then?’ Rebus met the barman’s eyes. ‘You’re not local and a lot of people have been dropping in here either before or after. They’re taking the tape down tomorrow, I hear.’

‘Reckon that’ll spoil the tourist trade?’ Rebus enquired, stony-faced.

‘A sale is a sale, even if it’s only coffee. I always reckoned that film guy had something to do with it.’

‘Oh aye?’

‘Orgies and everything, he used to film them. That was the rumour anyway.’

‘News to me.’

‘The woods have always had that atmosphere about them — did you not feel it? Back in the day when he owned them, there’d be blood spattered around. People said he was sacrificing chickens or something.’

‘They must have been disappointed when they learned it was food colouring from his horror films.’

The barman studied him. ‘You know a lot about it.’

‘I worked the original inquiry. Even popped in here a few times.’

‘I only started here later. Used to work for the competition.’

‘Why did it close?’

‘Things change, I suppose. Landlord retired and couldn’t find anyone to take it on.’ He looked around him. ‘I give this place six months and it’ll go the same way. Trade’s dying, same as the village.’

‘Christ’s sake, Tam,’ the regular said, looking up from his newspaper. ‘You’re like a broken record.’ Then, eyes turning to Rebus: ‘I remember you, though. You used to drink a pint of heavy.’

‘That’s some memory you’ve got.’

‘To be honest, it was always going to be fifty-fifty. Back then, heavy and lager were what the place sold. Now it’s flavoured vodka and beer in overpriced bottles, to attract a younger crowd that would rather be anywhere but here. As for all that shite about Jackie Ness and Poretoun Woods...’ The man shook his head. ‘My son was an extra on some of his films. An orgy would have been just fine by him, but there was never a whiff of any of that. Long, miserable days, cheese sandwiches and as little pay as Ness thought he could get away with. Girls got a bit extra if they had to do nude, but the lads didn’t.’ He glowered at the barman. ‘You saw one or two of those films, Tam. A flash of tit was as racy as it got.’ He rolled his eyes and focused on his crossword again.

‘What does your son do now?’ Rebus asked.

‘He took over his uncle’s farm. Loved it ever since he was a kid. He’s selling up now, though, getting out before Brexit hits. Whole thing’s a bloody joke at our expense — and some around here even voted for it.’

The barman pursed his lips and busied himself with what few empty glasses there were, while Rebus took a sip of coffee. It was bitter and lukewarm, which seemed to fit in with the way the village was changing.

‘Will someone take on the farm?’ he asked.

‘Not as a going concern. It’s going to be houses. Posh ones for folk with good jobs in Edinburgh or retirees from south of the border.’

‘Wouldn’t be anything to do with Sir Adrian Brand, would it?’

‘It would.’

‘I’ve just been to Poretoun House.’

‘It’s criminal what he’s done to that place.’

‘On the other hand,’ the barman interrupted, ‘all those new houses might be good for business.’

‘Only if you add ciabatta to the bar menu,’ Rebus said, pushing away his cup. ‘And better coffee to go with it.’

Graham Sutherland and Callum Reid were in the interview room with Bill Rawlston. When Clarke asked why, George Gamble told her Rawlston had been at the heart of the original inquiry. Maybe he could point them in the right direction, offer shortcuts or share his instinct regarding motives and most likely suspects.

Meantime, the budget would allow for the soil analysis and whatever forensic tests the handcuffs and car interior required. The process was already under way.

Derek Shankley had managed another half-day away from teaching and was seated next to Phil Yeats, going through names and phone numbers. Clarke gave him a little smile of encouragement and headed along the corridor to the room where Fox and Leighton sat surrounded by the contents of the box files.

‘Mind if I have a word, Malcolm?’ she asked.

‘Sure.’ He got up and followed her back into the under-lit corridor with its flaking cream-painted walls.

‘Making progress?’ she asked. He shrugged a response. ‘Is your deal with Steele and Edwards that you share it with them first? I know you talked to them yesterday.’

‘I wondered how John knew. You saw them from the window?’

‘Something like that.’

‘You’re lying. If you’d been watching, you’d know it was only Steele I spoke to — Edwards stayed in the car. And to answer your question, I told him precisely nothing.’

‘Best keep it that way.’

‘You think they might be up to their necks?’

‘Anyone who could lay their hands on a pair of handcuffs is a suspect.’

‘Always supposing the two are connected.’

She stared at him. ‘Can we agree that it’s at least highly likely?’