Less than an hour later, she was in Banehall. Drove past the Jardines’ old house. They’d moved so they wouldn’t be so close to Tracy’s rapist. Donny Cruikshank, whose age Siobhan calculated as twenty-two...
There were a couple of police vans parked in the next street. The milling crowd had grown. A guy with a microphone was doing a vox pop — she guessed he was the same radio reporter she’d been listening to. The house at the centre of all the attention was flanked by two others. All three doors stood open. She saw Steve Holly disappear into the right-hand one. Doubtless money had changed hands and Holly was being given access to the rear garden, where he might have a better view of things. Siobhan double-parked and approached the uniform standing guard at the blue-and-white tape. She showed her warrant card and he raised the tape for her so she could duck beneath.
‘Body been ID-d?’ she asked.
‘Probably the guy who lived there,’ he said.
‘Pathologist been?’
‘Not yet.’
She nodded and moved on, pushing open the gate, walking up the path towards the shadowy interior. She took a few deep breaths, releasing them slowly; needed to look casual when she stepped indoors, needed to be professional. The lobby was narrow. Downstairs there appeared to be only a cramped living room and an equally small kitchen. A door led from the kitchen to the back garden. The stairs were steep to the only other floor: four doors here, all of them open. One was a hall cupboard, filled with cardboard boxes, spare duvets and sheets. Through another she could see part of a pale pink bath. Two bedrooms then: one a single, unused. Which left the larger, facing the front of the house. This was where all the activity was: scene-of-crime officers; photographers; a local GP consulting with a detective. The detective noticed her.
‘Can I help you?’
‘DS Clarke,’ she said, showing him her ID. So far, she hadn’t as much as glanced at the body, but it was there all right: no mistaking it. Blood soaking into the biscuit-coloured carpet beneath it. Face twisted, mouth sagging as though in an effort to suck in a final lungful of life. The shaven head crusted with blood. The SOCOs were running detectors over the walls, seeking spatters which would give them a pattern, the pattern in turn giving clues to the ferocity and nature of the attack.
The detective handed back her ID. ‘You’re a ways from home, DS Clarke. I’m DI Young, officer in charge of this inquiry... and I don’t remember asking for any help from the big city.’
She tried a winning smile. DI Young was just that — young; younger than her anyway, and already above her in rank. A sturdy face above a sturdier body. Probably played rugby, maybe came from farming stock. He had red hair and fairer eyelashes, a few burst blood vessels either side of his nose. If someone had told her he wasn’t long out of school, she’d probably have believed them.
‘I just thought...’ She hesitated, trying to find the right combination of words. Looking around, she noticed the pictures stuck to the walls — soft porn, blondes with their mouths and legs open.
‘Thought what, DS Clarke?’
‘That I might be able to help.’
‘Well, that’s a very kind thought, but I think we can manage, if that’s all right with you.’
‘But the thing is...’ And now she stared down at the corpse. Her stomach felt as though it had been replaced by a punchbag, but her face showed only professional interest. ‘I know who he is. I know quite a bit about him.’
‘Well, we know who he is too, so thanks again...’
Of course they knew him. With his reputation and his scarred face. Donny Cruikshank, lifeless on the floor of his bedroom.
‘But I know things you don’t,’ she persisted.
Young’s eyes narrowed, and she knew she was in.
‘Plenty more porn in here,’ one of the SOCOs was saying. He meant the living room: the floor beside the TV stacked with pirate DVDs and videos. There was a computer, too, another officer sitting in front of it, busy with the mouse. He had a lot of floppies and CD-ROMs to get through.
‘Remember: this is work,’ Young reminded them. He decided the room was still too busy, so led Siobhan into the kitchen.
‘I’m Les, by the way,’ he said, softening now that she had something to offer him.
‘Siobhan,’ she replied.
‘So...’ He leaned against a worktop, arms folded. ‘How did you come to know Donald Cruikshank?’
‘He was a convicted rapist — I worked that case. His victim committed suicide. She lived locally... parents still do. They came to me a few days back because their other daughter’s run off.’
‘Oh?’
‘They said they talked to someone at Livingston about it...’ Siobhan tried to sound anything but judgemental.
‘Any reason to think...?’
‘What?’
Young shrugged. ‘That this might have something to do with... I mean, connect in some way?’
‘That’s what I’m wondering. It’s why I decided to come here.’
‘If you could write this up as a report...?’
Siobhan nodded. ‘I’ll do it today.’
‘Thanks,’ Young eased himself away from the worktop, readying to head back upstairs. But he paused in the doorway. ‘You busy in Edinburgh?’
‘Not really.’
‘Who’s your boss?’
‘DCI Macrae.’
‘Maybe I could have a word with him... see if he can spare you for a few days.’ He paused. ‘Always supposing you’re agreeable?’
‘I’m all yours,’ Siobhan said. She could have sworn he was blushing as he left the room.
She was walking back through to the living room when she almost collided with a new arrivaclass="underline" Dr Curt.
‘You do get around, DS Clarke,’ he said. He looked to left and right to make sure no one was eavesdropping. ‘Any progress on Fleshmarket Close?’
‘A little. I bumped into Judith Lennox.’
Curt winced at the name. ‘You didn’t tell her anything?’
‘Of course not... your secret’s safe with me. Any plans to put Mag Lennox back on display?’
‘I should think so.’ He moved aside to let a SOCO past. ‘Well, I suppose I’d better...’ He motioned to the stairs.
‘Don’t worry — he’s not going anywhere.’
Curt stared at her. ‘If you don’t mind me saying, Siobhan,’ he drawled, ‘that remark says much about you.’
‘Such as?’
‘You’ve been around John Rebus for far too long...’ The pathologist started climbing the stairs, taking his black leather medical case with him. Siobhan could hear his knees clicking with each step.
‘What’s the interest, DS Clarke?’ someone outside was shouting. She looked towards the cordon, saw Steve Holly there, waving his notebook at her. ‘Bit off the beaten track, aren’t you?’
She muttered something under her breath and walked down the path, opening the gate again, ducking under the cordon. Holly was at her shoulder as she made for her car.
‘You worked on the case, didn’t you?’ he was saying. ‘The rape case, I mean. I remember trying to ask you...’
‘Buzz off, Holly.’
‘Look, I’m not going to quote you or anything...’ He was in front of her now, walking backwards so he could make eye contact. ‘But you must be thinking the same as me... same as lots of us...’
‘And what’s that?’ she couldn’t help asking.
‘Good riddance to bad rubbish. I mean, whoever did this, they deserve a medal.’