Иэн Рэнкин - In a House of Lies

‘I don’t doubt it.’ Rebus turned towards Billie. ‘Some dad you’ve got there. But it’s one thing to talk about it — or even think about it. Carrying it through, though...’ He eased past her on his way to the front door. ‘That’s cold, Billie — something your dad and Ellis might start to appreciate some day.’

He let himself out and stood on the landing. If words were being spoken inside, he couldn’t hear them. As he descended the stairs, he began to hum a tune. It was only when he got to the bottom that he realised what it was.

R. Dean Taylor, ‘There’s a Ghost in My House’. He hadn’t heard that one in a while...

6.30 a.m., still dark outside, weekend workers just beginning to trek into town, quarter-filled buses, windows misted with condensation, and a few pedestrians seeking out early-opening shops or those that stayed open round the clock. Clarke had made them coffee, Rebus asking if the newsagent’s would be open. Fox had argued that there’d be nothing in the papers that hadn’t already been reported online.

‘Ever tried reading the racing pages on a phone?’ Rebus had countered.

They’d then split up — Clarke and Fox heading to Leith, while Rebus took Brillo for a Meadows pit stop before the Arden Street flat.

‘Normal service will be resumed,’ he promised the dog, turning to leave.

Just the one journalist outside Leith police station. He looked junior and cold. He asked Rebus what time they’d be bringing Hazard back.

‘Soon,’ Rebus answered, taking pity on him. The young man took his phone out, ready to alert his colleagues. Rebus realised the same question would have been asked of Clarke and Fox, but they’d stonewalled.

Some short straw, that, he argued to himself as he headed indoors; like stakeouts in the old days, bum going numb and nowhere to pee... The desk officer recognised him this time, waved him through.

Sutherland was waiting at the top of the stairs, flanked by Clarke and Fox. The DCI was as well dressed as ever but pallid and tense. He pointed at Rebus.

‘Out you go,’ he commanded.

‘Listen, I think I might be able...’

But Sutherland was already striding into the MIT room. He half turned, eyes on Clarke. ‘He’s still here in thirty seconds, you’re off the team.’

The arm Clarke stretched to her side could either have been apologetic or a gesture of dismissal.

‘Tell him I can help,’ Rebus said.

‘If all else fails,’ Clarke agreed with a nod.

‘I’ll sit in my car.’ He fixed her with a stare. ‘Keep me posted unless you want me causing a scene in front of the press.’

She gave a slow nod, which he only half believed.

In MIT, Sutherland was being briefed by Reid and Crowther. The others had yet to arrive. Not much of use from the lab, but the soil sample had proved a ninety per cent match, which, Professor Hamilton had indicated, was good enough for a courtroom.

‘No prints on the tarp?’ Fox asked.

‘Just the farmer’s,’ Reid said. ‘And a bit of paint from a car the same colour and age as the Polo. They couldn’t give us a definitive match.’

‘Hazard’s prints aren’t on the cuffs?’

‘He was savvy enough to wear gloves when they moved the car. Maybe he’s always been clever that way.’

‘He wore gloves when he attacked Bloom?’

‘ If he attacked Bloom,’ Sutherland felt it necessary to qualify.

‘You’re having doubts, sir?’ Clarke asked.

‘Right now it’s Carlton’s word against his. Even if those handcuffs had at some point in the past been in Hazard’s possession, all he has to tell a court is that he lost them. Maybe his farming friend picked them up or stole them from him.’ He met Clarke’s eyes. ‘Who was it ran from you? Who was it had the car on his land until selling that land meant he needed to move it?’

‘Everything points towards Carlton rather than Hazard,’ Reid agreed.

‘Except,’ Clarke argued, ‘Carlton didn’t do a runner after the crime and change his identity, change his whole life. And he didn’t know the victim.’

‘We don’t know that Hazard knew him either.’

‘Hazard hung around whenever a film was being made, which puts him next to Jackie Ness, and Bloom was working for Ness as well as appearing as an extra in his films.’

‘We’re going round in circles,’ Sutherland said, not bothering to conceal his frustration. ‘And pretty soon we’re going to have to release Hazard from custody.’

‘Or charge him,’ Clarke commented.

‘With no evidence? His lawyer will boot that out of the park.’

‘The farmer’s statement is fairly compelling,’ Crowther interrupted.

‘I doubt Francis Dean will see it that way,’ Sutherland told her.

‘And we’ve dug up nothing from Hazard’s past? None of his old friends, contacts, clients?’

Reid handed the paperwork to Clarke. ‘Look for yourself. Seems he stopped dealing, started applying himself, found his métier in public relations...’

‘All of which happened straight after Bloom’s disappearance,’ Clarke muttered.

‘We’ve gone through his flat, his email accounts. We’ve dug up old girlfriends, people he shared digs with during his years in Glasgow. No police record, not so much as a speeding fine or parking ticket.’

‘A man who couldn’t risk getting into trouble,’ Crowther stated.

Sutherland was checking a message on his phone. ‘And on his way here as we speak. His solicitor’s probably downstairs waiting.’ He turned to Reid. ‘Can you try to rouse our sleeping beauties?’

Just as he finished speaking, Leighton and Yeats appeared in the doorway, Gamble toiling behind them. All three looked breathless as they offered their apologies.

‘Don’t bother getting comfortable,’ Sutherland said. ‘George and Phil, I want you at the forensic lab, make sure they did all the tests known to man, woman and the beasts of the field. The car, the tarpaulin, the handcuffs. The lab have got DNA for Glenn Hazard. If he left a drop of sweat, a strand of hair, or spittle from a cough, I want it. Understood? The rest of you are going to comb through everything we’ve compiled on Hazard thus far. Plenty gaps in his life story; we might have missed something crucial. Malcolm and Tess, one last dig through the original case files — is he lurking somewhere in there?’ He nodded towards Reid. ‘Callum, you’re with me in the interview room.’ Then, to the room at large: ‘I want us lining the corridor when Hazard gets here. A combination of hundred-yard stares and a gleam in the eye that tells him we know we’ve got him.’ He clapped his hands. ‘We need a result, folks, and that means getting busy. Think you’ve put in some tough shifts? Today’s going to be a brand-new definition of hard work. Let’s get started...’

Rebus saw the van arrive and emerged from his Saab to watch the circus. The press had been alerted and were ready to pounce. There was no rear entrance to the police station, no alleyway where the van could deposit its cargo. Reporters and cameras surrounded Glenn Hazard as he was led across the pavement to the police station’s door. He looked bemused, the very picture of innocence. His lawyer was waiting at the steps, ready for battle, his freshly shaved face roseate and gleaming. Rebus didn’t know him, but he knew the type — tailored like a shop-window mannequin and spritzed all over by an aerosol called privilege. The escorts eventually got Hazard indoors and the scrum began to thin out, as cameras and phones were checked, updates sent to news desks and social media outlets. Laura Smith approached Rebus with a smile that was trying not to seem overly professional.