Иэн Рэнкин: In a House of Lies

‘There’s something I should probably tell you, sir. Two of the uniforms from the original inquiry are now ACU. They’re the ones I recently locked horns with.’

Sutherland considered for a moment. ‘Not a problem, is it?’

‘Just thought you should know.’

‘Is that what your call was about?’

‘Sort of.’

‘No secrets, Siobhan. Seems to me that’s what was at the root of the original inquiry’s problems.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Let’s go back to using “Graham” again, shall we?’

‘Sir,’ Clarke said, with a bow and a smile.

A visitor was waiting at the front desk of Leith police station. He was stocky and corkscrew-haired, with a pair of John Lennon-style glasses perched on his nose. Tweed jacket, chinos and an open-necked pink shirt.

‘My name’s Glenn Hazard,’ he said, dishing out business cards. ‘I’m here on behalf of Sir Adrian Brand.’

‘You’re in PR, Mr Hazard,’ Sutherland said, having checked the card. ‘Sir Adrian’s one of your clients?’

Hazard nodded. ‘The most important of my clients,’ he clarified.

‘And what brings you here today?’

‘The story’s already gone viral — you’ve found Stuart Bloom.’ He sought each pair of eyes for confirmation.

‘Not strictly true.’

‘Well, the online community’s latched on to it, so whether you have or not hardly matters.’ He saw the look he was getting and backtracked. ‘No, of course it matters. But my job is damage limitation. Sir Adrian has already had to deal with the fallout from when Bloom disappeared. It would be good to... control the flow of information and kill rumours before they get started.’

‘What are you trying to say, Mr Hazard?’

‘Poretoun Woods — they’re owned by my client.’

‘Jackie Ness sold them to Sir Adrian?’ Clarke asked.

Hazard was shaking his head. He was about to start his answer when Sutherland interrupted.

‘Best if you come upstairs, Mr Hazard. It’d be good to get this sorted out. Good for your client, I mean.’

The MIT room hadn’t yet been aired and still smelled musty. One of the radiators hissed a constant complaint, and Callum Reid tried without success to open a window. Equipment had been unpacked, however — computers, a TV monitor, and a whiteboard perched on an easel — and it looked more like an inquiry hub than previously. Photos of Stuart Bloom and his partner Derek Shankley had been pinned up next to the map. Photocopies of newspaper reports from the 2006 investigation sat on each desk. Mugs and a kettle had appeared. Clarke looked towards Tess Leighton.

‘You were busy last night,’ she said.

‘George helped, actually,’ she replied.

Hazard settled on the chair that had been Rebus’s the previous day. He looked the sort that would be hard to faze — probably a minimum requirement for working in public relations.

‘Did you represent Sir Adrian back in the day?’ Sutherland was asking as he got comfortable behind his desk.

‘I wasn’t in PR then,’ Hazard replied.

‘Interesting job, is it?’

‘Every day a new challenge.’

‘Bit like police work then.’ Which was the end of the small talk. ‘So Poretoun Woods are owned by Sir Adrian Brand. Since when?’

‘Just the past couple of years. They came with Poretoun House. He bought both from a hotelier called Jeff Sellers. Sellers had plans to turn the place into another hotel — boutique, five-star, you know the drill. I think the money ran out, so Sir Adrian stepped in. Snapped up a bargain, I believe.’

‘Both house and woods used to belong to Jackie Ness,’ Clarke said.

‘Ness sold to Sellers.’

‘Does he know your client’s got hold of them?’

Hazard gave the thinnest of smiles. ‘I’d imagine so, even though the actual owner is one of Sir Adrian’s companies rather than Sir Adrian personally.’

‘He’s dusting off the golf course plan?’

‘Not that I’ve heard. That was the other side of the city from Poretoun, you know — west rather than south-east.’

‘There’s still bad blood, though?’

‘Maybe it would be more accurate to say both gentlemen have long memories. But that’s really why I’m here. The media are going to have the proverbial field day. Stuart Bloom was snooping into Sir Adrian’s affairs. Twelve years later he ends up dead on land owned by Sir Adrian. You can see how that’s going to play, unless we manage the story with the utmost care.’

‘We’re not in the business of managing stories, Mr Hazard,’ Sutherland stated. ‘Back in the day, things might have been a lot cosier, but that was then and this is now.’

‘You can’t want to see an innocent man suffer, his reputation damaged. I’m just saying that when you prepare your press releases and give your media briefings...’

‘Keep your client’s name out of it?’

‘As far as possible, yes, to protect the innocent. I’d be more than happy to help your press office in the drafting of—’

‘We might need to talk to Sir Adrian,’ Clarke interrupted, walking to the side of Sutherland’s desk so she was facing Hazard. ‘Is Poretoun House our best bet?’

‘He doesn’t actually live there.’

‘So who does?’

‘I think it’s empty. Sir Adrian has a house in Murrayfield.’

‘So what are his plans for Poretoun House?’

Hazard offered a shrug.

‘And just to get back to the subject,’ Sutherland interrupted, ‘why do you think the body was in those woods?’

Another shrug.

‘Does your client have a theory?’

‘From talking to him, I’d say he’s always thought Jackie Ness must have fallen out with the PI and bumped him off. The woods would have been an easy place to hide the body. Half a mile of dirt track and no one around. It’s certainly true that Ness had a temper on him. There are no end of stories about him — you can find most of them online.’ Hazard paused and fixed Clarke with a look. ‘If you do plan to interview Sir Adrian, you’ll have to promise to do the same with Ness. It would look bad otherwise.’

‘Thanks for the advice,’ Sutherland said icily. His phone buzzed: incoming text. He read it and placed the phone on the desk in front of him. ‘We’re grateful to you for filling in a few blanks, Mr Hazard. Phil, will you see Mr Hazard out, please?’

Hazard looked reluctant, but Sutherland was already on his feet, extending a hand for the PR man to shake.

‘If you need me for anything, anything at all...’

‘We all have your card.’ Sutherland nodded brusquely. He stayed on his feet as Yeats and Hazard left, then sought out Emily Crowther. ‘Could you close the door, please, Emily? We should wait for Phil but we can fill him in when he gets back. Best do this right now.’ He was leaning over his phone, dabbing at the screen. When it began to ring, he switched the speaker on.

‘DCI Sutherland.’ Clarke recognised Deborah Quant’s voice. ‘Thanks for getting back to me.’

‘Team’s all here, Professor,’ Sutherland called out. ‘We’re ready to hear what you’ve got for us.’

‘Whoever was babysitting the Blooms should have asked to see in the mother’s bag. She’d packed half her son’s life in there, including a copy of his dental records.’

Sutherland was gazing in Clarke’s direction, but her eyes were fixed to the far wall as she concentrated on not letting colour flood her face.

‘Looks like a positive match,’ Quant was saying. ‘We’ll still do the DNA — belt and braces and all that. But both parents thought the hair sample we showed them was probably Stuart’s. Same goes for the photos of his clothing. No distinguishing features or tattoos, so that’s pretty much what we’ve got.’