‘He told us.’
‘What?’
‘An email to the chief constable. He says talking about it will require him to detail a lot of incidents involving a culture of corruption within Police Scotland — I’m quoting verbatim.’
‘Does he give examples?’
‘No.’
‘But you don’t think he’s bluffing?’
‘My boss has no way of knowing.’
‘Your boss being the chief constable?’
‘In his wisdom, he passed it down the chain to the assistant chief constable.’
‘Jennifer Lyon, right? And she gave it to you?’ Clarke watched Fox nod. ‘To what end, though?’
‘We need to know more about this defence of his — what he’s going to say, how much of it he can prove. Online news agencies and bloggers are already sniffing. They know Haggard means Tynecastle and Tynecastle is rattling with skeletons.’
‘Well, I’ll be sure to keep you posted.’ Clarke brushed invisible flecks from her trouser legs.
‘Will you, though?’ Fox said into the silence.
‘Let me think.’ She cocked her head. ‘You come skulking around here at night — that smacks to me of wanting things kept low-key.’
‘I did try the station first,’ Fox countered, but Clarke shrugged off the comment.
‘None of this seems to be coming through proper channels. Did the ACC choose you for your background in Complaints or because she knows the two of us have history? Might make me a softer touch, happy to leak anything I hear in the interview room?’ Her face stiffened. ‘Why did Haggard send that email? He wants the case dismissed, doesn’t he? To do that, he’ll threaten whatever it takes, and lo and behold, he’s already got you and your boss doing his work for him.’ Clarke’s voice was rising as she got to her feet. ‘That’s not going to be how it works, Malcolm. I can’t believe you’d even try this on.’
‘I did tell the ACC it was a big ask.’
‘Does she want the case shut down?’
‘She wants what’s best for Police Scotland.’
‘Fewer column inches, you mean.’ Colour was creeping up Clarke’s neck. ‘Tell her I’ll send her the photos of Cheryl Haggard’s injuries. The photos and Cheryl’s statement. I’ll do it first thing.’
‘She knows the details of the case, Siobhan.’
Clarke was signalling for Fox to stand up. She was already at the doorway. ‘You can tell Lyon we spoke. But as long as I’m on this case, it is a case. And it will go to trial, I promise you that.’
‘You’re very confident. I’ve always admired that side of you. Other sides... maybe not so much.’
‘Enjoy your shiny fucking car, Malcolm.’
She led him to the door, slamming it shut after him. Back in her chair, she called Christine Esson, but got no answer. Flicking through her list of contacts, she found a number for Gina Hendry and sent her a text: I’m attached to the Haggard case. Want to speak to Cheryl. You okay to liaise? Would love to catch up anyway. It’s been a while. S
In the kitchen, she put the kettle on. A bottle of Edinburgh Gin, half full, stared at her from the worktop.
‘Not tonight, Satan,’ she cautioned it, reaching instead for the tea bags and a mug.
Day Two
3
Rebus was up before it got light, the usual full bladder to blame. Brillo looked keen, so they headed out to the Meadows. Rebus took a small hard rubber ball for the mutt to chase, though he’d drawn the line at those fling-and-fetch things most dog-walkers used. Instead, he scuffed the ball along the ground with the toe of his shoe, meaning Brillo never had to go very far to retrieve it.
After breakfast, he stayed at the table, looking over his notes from the previous night’s internet search. He hadn’t uncovered much. Jack Oram’s disappearance had been flagged up in a few editions of Edinburgh’s evening paper. His family had put together a Missing poster, which had found its way into one of the stories. Rebus had printed it off, along with a smaller picture of Oram on his wedding day. His wife’s name was Ishbel. Rebus had a stack of old telephone directories in the cupboard and consulted one of them. According to the newspaper, the family home had been in Craigmillar, and this was confirmed by the directory. Would the phone number still be the same? He tried it but got the constant tone telling him no such number existed. Stood to reason — he’d almost ditched his own landline when he’d moved flats a couple of years back. If Siobhan Clarke had had her way, he’d have ditched the phone directories too.
So he had an old address for the Oram family, a couple of grainy photographs, and the fact that the Potter’s Bar had morphed from pool hall to a pub called the Moorfoot. Not much to show for an evening, in other words. But then there was the lettings agency on Lasswade Road — if Oram needed a flat, did that imply that he was steering clear of his family? Did they have any inkling he was alive and kicking? And suppose Rebus did manage to track him down, was Cafferty really about to offer an olive branch to the guy, or was it not far more likely he’d be tying a noose to that branch instead?
Rebus reached across the table and lifted the envelope he’d taken from Cafferty’s flat. It was fat with twenties and fifties. He didn’t know what he was going to do with it, but he wasn’t going to keep it.
And he definitely wasn’t handing it back.
He knew that Eric Linn, the man he’d told about Albert Cousins’ poker losses, had died of lung cancer a couple of years back; he had heard as much from someone who’d attended the funeral. Cousins himself, one of Rebus’s more reliable snitches in CID days, had gambled everything away, lost his wife and his home, and topped himself. There hadn’t been more than a dozen people at the crematorium. When Rebus had chatted to Linn in the pub that night, had he known that Linn knew Cafferty? He didn’t think so. Had he known that Cafferty was a silent partner in the Potter’s Bar? Yes. But how the hell could he have known the poker nights were happening without Cafferty’s knowledge? He looked again at the photos of Jack and Ishbel Oram. At the time, he hadn’t given the story much thought. The past was littered with people like Oram who’d got on the wrong side of Cafferty and suddenly not been around any longer. There was no way he could have connected it to a few words spoken during yet another drinking session. It really wasn’t his fault.
Brillo was lying curled in his basket. He gave his owner an imploring but resigned look as Rebus slipped a jacket on.
‘A couple of hours max,’ Rebus explained, thinking that it might even be true.
His Saab was waiting outside. It was a wrench to leave the prime parking spot by his front door. More usually he had to trawl the area for a reasonable-sized gap. When he’d first moved to Marchmont, more than half a lifetime ago, there had been fewer students and fewer cars. Now, the students owned cars and thought nothing of paying for a parking permit. Rebus himself qualified for a disabled badge, but he’d baulked at the idea. He was conscious that his Saab — which started at the third time of asking — was the oldest car on his street and was edging towards ‘vintage’ territory. The council had plans to stop petrol and diesel cars using the city centre, but vintage cars would probably be exempt. ‘Just another year or two,’ he told the Saab. Always supposing the specialist garage in Wardie Bay could keep performing their regular miracles.
The drive to Lasswade Road didn’t take long. This time of day, traffic was mostly piling into town rather than out. Two-storey houses and single-storey bungalows lined the street, alongside a smattering of shops and businesses. Behind, only a short distance away, lay badlands not unknown to Rebus in his CID days. He parked outside a vet’s practice, through the window of which he could see anxious owners seated with pet carriers on their laps.