Иэн Рэнкин - In a House of Lies

‘But not where you deserve to be.’

Meikle stared across the table. ‘Who are you to say that? What do you know about me, about any of us?’ His shoulders relaxed a little. ‘Go ahead and tell Uncle Dallas anything you like. You want to help your friend — I’m okay with that. But when he asks me, I’ll say you’re lying. I’ll say you’ve no evidence and you’re not even a proper cop.’

‘No evidence?’ Rebus’s mouth twitched. ‘Aye, maybe.’ He started to get to his feet, leaning across the table, lowering his voice. ‘We never did get to means, did we?’ He looked ready to make his exit, but stopped and turned back, eyes meeting Meikle’s. ‘Tell Billie there’s a knife missing from the set in her kitchen, the ones in the wooden block. If she wants you serving her sentence for her, she’d better get rid of that block. Only a matter of time before her dad notices — always supposing he hasn’t already.’

‘I used to visit them!’ Meikle was calling across the room as Rebus walked away. ‘I could have taken it!’

‘Tell your uncle to help my friend,’ Rebus called back. ‘Tell him to do the right thing.’

The same warder as before was waiting for Rebus in the corridor, arms folded, one foot crossed over the other as he leaned against the wall opposite the library’s closed door. He was smiling at Rebus’s approach.

‘Darryl wants another word,’ he said.

Rebus stopped in front of him, their faces only a couple of inches apart. ‘You’re a fucking disgrace,’ he told him, his jaw tight.

‘Makes two of us then. He told me you were Cafferty’s man.’

‘I’m nobody’s fucking man,’ Rebus spat, so close now that their chests were touching. Then he turned and walked away. Before he’d reached the end of the corridor, he heard the door to the library open. Christie had probably been just the other side of it, listening. Rebus kept walking, not bothering with so much as a backwards glance, even when he heard his name being called.

Clarke and Crowther were seated in A&E when Sutherland and Reid arrived. Clarke explained what had happened.

‘SOCOs headed to the farm?’ Sutherland asked.

‘Haj Atwal’s already there,’ Crowther assured him.

‘As of right now, it’s all speculative,’ Sutherland cautioned.

‘Does look good, though,’ Reid commented. ‘Not least because he tried to run.’

Sutherland nodded. ‘Is he in there?’ He gestured behind the reception desk towards a large room filled with curtained cubicles.

‘They think he may have one broken rib, maybe a shoulder fracture. They’re strapping him up.’

‘If they give him any medication, might be a while till we can question him.’

‘During which time the SOCOs can make their report, maybe get the lab to run a quick check of the tarpaulin in case it left its mark on the Polo...’

‘Plus,’ Sutherland added, ‘we can find out as much as possible about Mr Carlton.’

‘One thing we already know,’ Clarke went on, ‘is that he’s selling the farm for housing. Brand’s been after it for a few years.’

‘As good a reason as any to move the Polo elsewhere.’ Sutherland nodded again. ‘This is really great work, Siobhan. Christ alone knows how long it would have taken us to search every bloody farm on the NFU list.’

‘We’ve got John Rebus to thank,’ Clarke commented. ‘Plus Emily’s keen eyes.’

‘There’ll still be a few questions to answer, mind. Bosses will want your version of the accident.’

‘It wasn’t deliberate, Graham,’ Clarke assured him.

‘Car’s not even dented,’ Crowther added. ‘Couldn’t have been doing more than twenty.’

A doctor in a white coat was heading in their direction. ‘You’re here with Andrew Carlton?’ he asked. ‘Good news is, he’s fine. The bruising will be extensive and he’ll be in pain for some time.’

‘What have you given him?’ Sutherland enquired.

‘Painkillers, you mean? He refused them.’

‘He’s awake?’

‘Pretty much ready to be discharged. If you’ll follow me...’

All four followed the doctor to one of the cubicles. He parted the curtain and they saw the farmer lying there, stripped to the waist, chest and left shoulder tightly bandaged.

‘Quite a welcome party,’ he said, studying their faces. ‘Am I under arrest?’

‘We’ve got a few questions, Mr Carlton,’ Sutherland said. ‘Best asked down at the station.’

‘I need to speak to Gerry first.’

‘Who’s Gerry?’

‘Farmhand. He’ll be wondering where the hell I am.’

‘He already knows,’ Clarke said. ‘The scene-of-crime team met up with him.’

‘He doesn’t know anything,’ Carlton said quickly.

‘About the Polo, you mean?’

The farmer’s face tightened. ‘Do I get a lawyer?’ he asked.

‘We can sort all that out,’ Sutherland told him. ‘Are you okay to move? Should we fetch a wheelchair?’

‘I think I’m all right. Could do with some clothes, though.’ He looked down at his chest and shoulder. ‘Shirt won’t go on, but maybe the overalls will.’ His eyes met Clarke’s, recognition dawning. ‘It was you, wasn’t it? Behind the wheel? You need to be more careful on country roads.’

It had taken a while to manoeuvre Carlton into the back of Reid’s car, and almost as long to get him out again at the other end. He was kept in the interview room while a duty solicitor was fetched. Leighton and Yeats had been busy at their computers and on their phones, digging up as much as they could about the farmer. Carlton had neither wife nor current girlfriend, and asked them not to notify his parents, despite being told it wasn’t the sort of thing that would stay secret for long. He was thirty-eight years old and had been born and raised in Poretoun, coming to farming comparatively late after a university degree in accountancy and jobs in insurance companies and banks. The farm had been his uncle’s, the man desperate that it should stay in the family if at all possible. On his uncle’s death, Carlton had secured a large enough loan for the purchase of the farm, all of this happening towards the end of 2005, just a few months prior to Stuart Bloom’s disappearance.

The farming had been fine for a few years, but things got progressively tougher until he knew he had to sell. There had always been offers — it was commuting distance to Edinburgh and housing was always needed. Nobody wanted the land for farming, Brand eventually convincing the relevant bodies that it could be re-zoned — green belt no longer. Carlton’s loans and interest would be repaid, and he’d even have a bit left over, though it meant letting down Gerry and the various part-time farm labourers, plus his uncle’s memory.

All of this they had learned by the time the flustered-looking solicitor arrived. Her name was Sian Grant. Clarke didn’t know her. She looked young — still in her twenties — and inexperienced. But she would also be idealistic and hungry; Clarke knew they couldn’t afford to underestimate her. Sutherland had decided that Clarke and Crowther should be the first ones to question Carlton — as a reward, and because they knew as much as anyone, if not more. Crowther got the equipment ready after Carlton had had ten minutes with his lawyer. Teas were fetched, the farmer trying hard not to grimace when he lifted the mug.

‘Sure you’re up to this?’ Grant asked him.

‘It’s going to happen anyway, isn’t it? If not now, then later?’ He watched Clarke give a pleasant nod. ‘Let’s get on with it then.’

The three women shifted in their seats, composing themselves. Carlton’s overalls hadn’t been done up quite right, his left arm across his strapped chest preventing buttoning. He seemed self-conscious about it. Whenever his good hand wasn’t holding the mug, he tugged at the blue cotton, trying to pull the garment closed.