Иэн Рэнкин - In a House of Lies

‘So that’s it? That’s as much as I’m getting?’

Rebus was rising to his feet. ‘Keep visiting Ellis. Make sure Billie goes too — he’s her brother after all; it’s the least she can do.’

Rebus drove Brillo back to Arden Street and deposited the dog in its basket in the kitchen. For the duration of the drive, he’d been thinking some more about the Meikles, which had led to memories of his own upbringing. His mother had died young, his father raising two sons — Rebus and his brother Michael — as best he could. But he had worked a lot of evenings and weekends, sleeping the day through and with occasional trips away. With the boys left to their own devices, they’d grown feral. John had left school at the first opportunity and joined the army, while Michael went on to sell drugs, do time and die young himself. The word ‘dysfunctional’ might not have existed back then, but Rebus reckoned his family would have ticked all the boxes.

He decided to call his daughter in Tongue, way up on the north coast of Scotland, where she was hard to visit. He got her answering service so left a brief message to say he was thinking of her and asking after his granddaughter Carrie. He boiled the kettle and made a herbal tea, before pouring it down the sink and reaching into the fridge for a low-alcohol beer instead. His breathing was just about back to normal after climbing the two flights. He sent Clarke a text and waited to see if she’d get back to him. A drug dealer called Gram; a farmer from Poretoun; the Polo left undisturbed for years and years, right under the very noses of the police and local population. He tried to imagine the scenario. At first it’s a panicky stopgap of a measure. But nothing happens, it seems to have worked. So you leave it a bit longer, and a bit longer still, until it becomes part of the scenery — you’ve almost forgotten it’s there, or what it means.

He sent Clarke another text and sipped on the beer, beer that had had all the joy sucked out of it. He’d asked his doctor during his last check-up: would a few pints or shorts really hurt?

‘Your funeral,’ the doctor had replied.

‘I’m going to put it in my will that I don’t want any sober pall-bearers.’

The next text he sent was to Malcolm Fox, who called him straight back.

‘Nice to hear a friendly voice,’ Rebus told him.

‘Jennifer Lyon has as good as ordered me back to Gartcosh. She thinks I’m malingering.’

‘And are you?’

‘I can’t leave, John — it’s just started to heat up.’

‘Yes, Siobhan told me about the farmer.’

‘He gave us a name.’

‘For his friend Gram?’

‘He was Graeme Hatch before. After Bloom’s murder he left town and changed it. He’s Glenn Hazard.’

‘The PR guy?’

‘Yes!’

‘So it was all Adrian Brand’s doing?’

‘Hazard didn’t start working in PR till a few years ago. There’s nothing to show he knew Brand in any way back in 2006. He would have known Jackie Ness, though. He hung around the film set, selling wherever he could.’

‘Have you brought him in for questioning?’

‘Under caution.’

‘He’s there now?’ An idea was forming in Rebus’s mind.

‘There’s only the one interview room, so they’ve seconded my office. That’s where Carlton is. Someone’s fetching some more recording gear from St Leonard’s. Meantime, DCS Mollison has arrived and the press are back outside.’

‘Fun and games — I can see why you’re staying put.’ Rebus paused. ‘So what’ll be in your actual report, Malcolm? Do I get a sneak preview?’

‘I know what you did, if that’s what you’re asking.’

‘And what did I do?’

‘On top of all the drinking on the job? And landing a reporter in a heap of trouble with Cafferty?’

‘There’s more?’

‘I also know you did your damnedest to cover up the fact that Mary Skelton’s affair was with your boss, Bill Rawlston. Same afternoons she was supposedly visiting her sick mother, he tended to be at non-existent meetings at Fettes. You were the one who told people why he wasn’t around. You even had him in your notes as being with you when you interviewed Jackie Ness. Problem is, Rawlston’s own diary has him at a meeting at Fettes. Different meeting; exact same time.’

‘Whoops.’

‘Whoops is right.’

‘Thing you need to appreciate, Malcolm, is that families always lie — and that’s what we were. In and around the Big House, we lied to each other and sometimes to ourselves. And now there’s just the one Big House — Gartcosh — and guess what?’

‘Nothing’s changed?’ Fox guessed.

‘Everyone still covers their own arse, stabs mates in the back, and tries to look busy when there’s nothing going on — ring any bells, DI Fox?’

‘You think that excuses what happened in the past?’

‘Maybe, maybe not. But thank goodness it all pales into insignificance in comparison with a murder, eh?’

‘Nothing is insignificant, John. Poretoun Glen Farm was visited, you know. By Steele and Edwards, as it happens. They talked to the present owner’s uncle. He was very frail, housebound really, and very thankful his nephew was taking over the reins. Whatever else you say about Steele, he gets the detail down. Left his card so either of them — farmer or nephew — could get back to him if they heard or remembered anything.’

‘Some habits never leave you,’ Rebus said with a thin smile.

‘How do you mean?’

‘ Semper vigilo , Malc. I’ll catch up with you soon.’

Fox must have heard something in Rebus’s voice. ‘How soon?’ he asked.

‘Depends on the traffic,’ Rebus said, ending the call.

He parked at Leith Links — it was the closest he could get. Media vans, a couple with satellite dishes on their roofs pointed skywards, had taken all the spaces nearer the police station. Rebus watched from the corner. He’d caught the local news on his Saab’s radio, so knew reporters had also been dispatched to Poretoun Glen Farm.

Eventually, DCS Mark Mollison emerged and was immediately mobbed. He had a statement to make, but couldn’t start until everyone had calmed down. Rebus made his move, squeezing past the scrum around Mollison and entering the station. A uniform stood just inside the door, ready to eject unwanted visitors. Rebus held up both hands.

‘I’m not press,’ he said. He didn’t recognise the officer behind the desk so asked to see Detective Inspector Fox.

‘He’s busy — they all are, if you hadn’t noticed.’

‘I’m an ex-cop myself,’ Rebus explained. ‘I’ve been helping on a case and I need a word with Fox or DI Clarke.’

‘I stopped listening after “ex”,’ the officer said, turning away. Rebus was aware of the uniform at his shoulder, ready to usher him out with a firm touch. He got out his phone and sent a text upstairs.

‘One minute,’ he told the uniform. ‘If nobody comes down, I’ll go.’

‘I’ve already started counting,’ the uniform warned him.

Fifty seconds later, Fox arrived, pushing open the inner door. He didn’t look exactly welcoming.

‘Okay?’ the uniform asked.

Eventually, Fox nodded stiffly. Before he could change his mind, Rebus crossed the threshold with a muttered ‘Thanks.’

As they climbed the stairs, Fox asked if anyone had spotted him.

‘Feeding frenzy around Mollison — I’m not daft.’ Rebus stopped, turning to face Fox. ‘Look, there’s something you need to know. Rawlston’s not a well man. A few more months and he won’t be here.’

‘You’re asking me to censor my report? Turn it into fake news?’

‘I’m asking you to take your time finalising it. Tell your boss you need to track down a few more people for interview. You’re being thorough, that’s all.’ Fox started climbing again, Rebus breathing heavily at his heels. ‘Fuck’s sake, Malcolm, nobody’s building a pyre around you. It would be a kindness, that’s all. I’m not even asking you to lie.’ Rebus caught Fox glaring at him. ‘Okay, a white lie to your boss maybe. Will you at least think about it?’