Иэн Рэнкин - In a House of Lies

‘I’m just trying to keep an open mind, Siobhan. That’s something the original inquiry seemed to lack. From early on, there were just the two options — it was because he was gay, or it was because of his job.’ Fox nodded towards the MIT room. ‘You’ve got one of the chief suspects in there right now. He’s either helping, or else pretending to.’

‘We’ve actually got two witnesses in the building, Malcolm. Which one is it you’re marking as a suspect?’

‘The boyfriend. Not that I think he did it.’

Clarke folded her arms. ‘What did Steele want with you?’

Fox took a deep breath. ‘Just as you said, to be kept apprised.’

‘You know you can’t help them.’

Fox nodded slowly. ‘But I need to appear to be. They reckon they can stick John’s head in a noose otherwise.’

‘You think you can convince them you’re on their side?’

‘I’ll do my best. They played the Complaints and ACU card — joined at the hip as we fight the good fight.’ He paused. ‘I know you have a bit of history with them.’

‘So I know what utter bastards they can be. Be careful, Malcolm.’

‘I get the feeling there’s something you’re not telling me.’

She gave a thin smile by way of reply, patted the lapel of his suit jacket and returned to the MIT room. Derek Shankley was taking a break, standing with a mug of tea by one of the windows. She walked over to him.

‘How’s it going?’

He managed a half-smile. ‘Okay.’

‘I’m assuming you’d managed to move on with your life. Now this comes crashing down on you.’

He had removed his leather jacket — it was draped over the chair at Yeats’s desk. Different T-shirt from the previous day, black this time, tight-fitting. His body was toned, his stone-washed denims low-slung.

‘You’re right,’ he said quietly. ‘Instead of sleeping, I keep replaying our time together. We were friends as much as lovers; liked the same things, the same food...’

‘When I watched the two of you in that zombie film, I could tell — you definitely looked like you had fun together, could hardly keep the grins off your faces.’

His smile broadened at the memory. ‘That might have been the hash, mind you.’ He froze, fixing her with a look.

‘Relax,’ she reassured him. ‘What’s said at the kettle stays at the kettle.’

‘Temperature was zero that day,’ he went on. ‘You could see your breath in the air. One of the crew said as much, asked if zombies breathed. Said how could they when their lungs would be shrivelled up. And there we were painted blue and trying to dodge them.’ He paused. ‘Actually, I just mentioned it to...’ He nodded towards Phil Yeats, who was checking texts on his phone.

‘DC Yeats,’ Clarke reminded him.

‘I was telling him a few of us from Rogues worked as extras, but so did the teenagers from the local village. Talk about a culture clash — they saw us as some exotic species. One or two might even have wanted us extinct.’

‘It came to blows?’

‘Just a bit of name-calling, usually to our backs.’ Shankley paused, rubbing one hand tentatively up and down a bare arm. ‘It’s not why Stuart was killed.’

‘Sure about that?’

‘Fairly sure.’

‘Well then, speaking of Rogues...’ Clarke lowered her voice, moving a couple of inches closer to him. ‘We know your dad tipped you off if a raid was coming. Do you know who it was that told him?’

Shankley shook his head.

‘Sure about that?’ She watched him nod. ‘Well, let’s keep all that to ourselves, eh? It’s definitely got nothing to do with what happened to Stuart.’ She waited for her words to sink in, then lightened her tone. ‘Pretty dreadful films, weren’t they?’

‘Made by good people, though. The sound guy, the make-up girl, all that lot. They were lovely. Stuart and me used to go for a drink with the director of photography. He knew a hell of a lot more about filming than Jackie Ness. Told us stories about people he’d worked with, big names some of them. Plenty of gossip, too. Stuart learned a lot from him.’

‘In what way?’

‘How to photograph certain situations. You know, like if the light’s poor or from a distance.’

‘Useful in Stuart’s line of work.’

‘Same with the sound engineer — Stuart talked to him about taping stuff.’

‘Eavesdropping, you mean?’

‘Phone calls and stuff, yes. Plus meetings where there’s a lot of background noise.’

‘Have you given DC Yeats their names?’

‘He hasn’t asked.’

‘Maybe you could give them to me, then. Are you still in touch?’

Shankley wrinkled his face. ‘Not since Stuart vanished. I mean, they phoned to say how sorry they were and all that.’

‘And their names...?’

‘Colin and Joe. I don’t remember their surnames.’

Clarke led him to her desk, hitting play on the DVD and fast-forwarding to the end credits.

‘Colin Speke and Joseph Madden,’ she said, reading from the screen.

‘Must be,’ he agreed.

‘They’d have been questioned during the original inquiry?’

‘I guess.’ She looked at him and he shrugged. ‘Nobody asked me about them specifically.’

‘Well I’m asking now: could Stuart have used their expertise on the job he was doing for Jackie Ness?’

Shankley furrowed his brow as if straining to remember. ‘The three of them put their heads together a few times,’ he conceded. ‘Do you think it’s important?’

‘Probably not,’ Clarke said with a reassuring smile, having realised she was talking to a civilian — and a witness at that — rather than a colleague. ‘We just need to make sure we’ve covered everything we can. You still got their phone numbers or any way of contacting them?’

‘Not really.’

‘You’re not Facebook friends with them or anything?’

Shankley shook his head, crestfallen that he was disappointing her.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ she said. From behind his desk, Yeats was staring at them. ‘Break time’s over, I think, Derek. But remember what I said about those tip-offs.’

Leith police station had no car park, so Clarke had been forced to leave her Astra next to Leith Links. She got in behind the steering wheel and took out her phone. Gayfield Square was probably a five-minute drive at most, and she’d been considering it right up until the moment she made the call. DC Christine Esson picked up straight away.

‘Hello, stranger,’ Esson said by way of greeting.

‘Are you in the office, Christine?’

‘Somehow we’re coping without you.’

‘Sorry I’ve not been in touch. It’s all been slightly hectic. Everything okay?’

‘Sat in court four hours yesterday only for the trial to be postponed. Thank God for Candy Crush.’

‘Are you busy today?’

‘What do you need?’

‘The Ellis Meikle case.’

‘What about it?’

‘Do you remember the uncle’s name?’

‘The one with the tattoos?’

‘Yes.’

‘It was Darian or Damian or something, wasn’t it?’

‘Dallas,’ Clarke stated. ‘That’s what it was.’

‘Why do you want to know?’

‘He had a record, right?’

‘He’d been in a few scraps.’

‘Would his details be on file?’

‘What’s going on, Siobhan?’

‘I’m sure it’s nothing. I just wanted a word with him.’

‘It’ll all have been archived. Want me to retrieve it?’

‘Only if you have time.’ A car had drawn up alongside Clarke’s. ‘I’ll talk to you later, Christine,’ she said, ending the call. She lowered her window; Rebus was doing the same.

‘Fancy bumping into you,’ he called out across the gap.