Иэн Рэнкин - In a House of Lies

‘Cold?’ his lawyer asked.

He shook his head, and they began. Clarke got him to fill in some of his biography, leading up to the purchase of the farm.

‘Whole family thought I was bonkers,’ he admitted. ‘Maybe I was, but I’d been going to my uncle’s since I was a toddler. Always took school pals there, especially in the summer break. It was a giant adventure playground. Never looked like hard work to me. Long hours, but I didn’t mind that.’

‘We’re interested,’ Clarke eventually said, ‘in how Stuart Bloom’s Volkswagen Polo ended up in a corner of one of your fields.’

‘Lot of stuff got left there.’

‘Sorry,’ the lawyer broke in. ‘Do you have evidence that the car in question was at my client’s farm?’

‘We’re pretty confident.’

‘But until you can prove it, it remains supposition, yes? And he’s just told you that things got dumped in his fields — fly-tipping is a perennial problem in the countryside.’

‘Actually,’ Crowther corrected her, ‘the word he used was “left” rather than “dumped”.’

‘Left under a tarpaulin,’ Clarke added, ‘so no one would see what was inside. But you must have known, Mr Carlton?’

He looked to his solicitor. She shook her head.

‘Our theory is,’ Clarke continued, ‘that the car and its contents had to be moved when discussions started about selling the land to a developer. It couldn’t be left there for others to find. Must have had a hell of a job getting it out of that quagmire, but I suppose a tractor and tow chain would come in handy.’

‘We’ll have the scene-of-crime and forensic lab report within the next few hours,’ Crowther added. ‘They’ve logged all the vegetation that had grown through the Polo’s chassis. They have soil samples that these days are as good as fingerprints. Chances are there’ll even be a few threads from the tarpaulin stuck to the Polo. Trust me, a few threads are all they need.’

‘But as of right now,’ Grant countered, ‘you don’t have any of that, DC Crowther.’

‘We have your client fleeing the scene,’ Clarke told the lawyer, ‘soon as he saw someone next to where the Polo had been. A woman perched on the bonnet of an old van, waving — scare easily, do you, Mr Carlton?’

‘Not something I expected to see,’ he muttered by way of explanation.

‘Actually, that word “scare” reminds me of something.’ Clarke pretended to be finding some information in the folder in front of her. ‘You acted in some zombie films for Jackie Ness, didn’t you?’

The question seemed to catch Carlton off guard. ‘Just in the background.’

Clarke showed him a still from Bravehearts . ‘This is you, yes? Next to your friend Gram?’

‘If you say so.’

‘I’m asking you what you say.’

‘Could be anyone,’ Grant prompted.

‘Could be anyone,’ Carlton duly parroted.

‘But you did play an extra in that film? And in others, too?’

‘Loads of us from the village did. It was a good laugh.’

‘You didn’t get paid, did you, or fed and watered come to that?’

‘Wasn’t why we did it.’

‘Plenty of drugs, though, eh? To keep the spirits up?’

‘I’m not sure what you’re...’ Grant began, but Clarke’s words rolled right over her.

‘Drugs brought along by your good friend Gram. Your good friend Gram who also managed to supply a pair of handcuffs when one scene demanded them, handcuffs identical to the ones found around a murdered man’s ankles in a car that was parked on your land for almost a decade.’ Clarke broke off, giving time for her words to take effect. ‘All of which makes you an accessory, at the very least. Unless you helped murder Stuart Bloom as well as disposing of his body.’

Grant had swivelled her whole body towards her client, demanding his full attention.

‘None of this is proven at this point. It’s a fishing expedition, Andrew, that’s all. The allegations are serious, which is why you shouldn’t have to deal with them until your mind is lucid and free from pain.’ Then to Clarke: ‘You hit him full-on with your car, Inspector. Concussion may be the least of it.’

Clarke ignored the lawyer. Her focus remained on Andrew Carlton, just as his eyes stayed fixed to hers. When he said something, Clarke didn’t quite catch it, masked as it was by Grant’s continuing remonstration.

‘Sorry, Andrew,’ she said, gesturing for the lawyer to be quiet, ‘what was that?’

Carlton’s eyes dropped but his voice was strong and steady. ‘Graeme was his real name. Not Gram. Graeme.’

‘And his surname?’

‘Hatch.’

Clarke watched Crowther scratch the name on her pad in large capital letters. ‘And what happened to Graeme?’ she asked.

‘I don’t know.’

‘I think you do. I don’t suppose he still looks like this?’ Clarke held up the still from the film. The farmer managed a rueful smile.

‘We can trace him, you know,’ Crowther said. ‘Better for you to cooperate and not be found out later to have held anything back.’

‘He moved away for a while,’ Carlton conceded. ‘Changed his name, changed everything ...’ He was lost in thought for a moment. ‘I didn’t know what was in the car. Nothing was in it when he brought it, nothing I could see.’

‘Bloom’s body was in the boot,’ Clarke stated quietly. Tears were welling up in Carlton’s eyes.

‘I need five minutes with my client,’ Sian Grant demanded.

‘Where’s Graeme now?’ Clarke asked the farmer. ‘A weight’s about to lift from you when you tell us.’

Carlton was shaking his head, sniffing and angling his head so no tears would escape. Clarke turned her attention to the lawyer.

‘You need to make your client understand that helping us is the smart thing to do.’ She began getting to her feet, gesturing for Crowther to switch off the recording equipment.

‘Interview suspended,’ Crowther said into the machine, checking her watch and adding the time. Then she followed Clarke from the room.

They made their report in front of Sutherland’s desk while Malcolm Fox brewed fresh mugs of tea. Phil Yeats had been sent to keep watch on the interview room. When Clarke had finished speaking, she checked with Crowther that she hadn’t left anything out.

‘We’ve definitely got him,’ was all Crowther said.

Clarke turned back to Sutherland. ‘Forensics?’ she asked.

‘No sign on the Polo’s bodywork of any fibres matching the tarp. The tarp itself, however, is another story. We think we have flecks of paintwork; probably flaked off as the bodywork started to corrode around the wheel arches. Might not get an exact match, but we’ll be able to say what make of car was wrapped up. Add to that the patch of land where the car sat — it’s been measured and is a near-perfect fit for a Polo. Less luck with the vegetation, but the soil will be checked by Professor Inglis and she’s promised not to take so long this time.’

‘All of which adds up to what?’ George Gamble asked. ‘Is this farmer our killer?’

‘I don’t think that for a minute,’ Clarke said. ‘His pal Gram or Graeme is the one I think we want.’

‘Internet isn’t giving me much,’ Tess Leighton interrupted, peering at her screen. ‘There are a few Graeme Hatches listed, but no Poretoun or central Scotland connection.’

‘If need be,’ Sutherland said, ‘we hit Register House, try for a birth certificate. Plus we go ask everyone in and around Poretoun.’ He looked at Clarke. ‘He was local, right?’

‘As far as we know.’

‘And dealing a bit of dope,’ Crowther added. ‘Someone’s bound to remember him.’

‘Did someone say dope?’ John Rebus was standing in the doorway.