‘That should stir the pot,’ Rebus said. The story itself was thin. Caro Quinn was quoted on the inhumanity of the detention centre. There was a paragraph about Knoxland, and a few old photos of the original Whitemire protests. Caro’s face had been circled. She was one among many, toting placards and shouting at the staff as they arrived for the centre’s opening day.
‘Your friend again,’ Wylie commented, reading over his shoulder.
‘What friend?’ Davidson asked, suspicious.
‘Nothing, sir,’ Wylie said quickly. ‘Just the woman who’s holding vigil at the gates.’
Rebus had reached the end of the story, which directed him towards a ‘comment’ piece elsewhere in the paper. He flicked pages and perused the editoriaclass="underline" inquiry needed... time for politicians to stop turning a blind eye... intolerable situation for all concerned... backlogs... appeals... future of Whitemire itself left hanging by this latest tragedy...
‘Mind if I keep this?’ he asked, knowing Caro might be heartened by it.
‘Thirty-five pence,’ Davidson said, hand outstretched.
‘I can get a new one for that!’
‘But this one’s been cherished, John, and only one careful owner.’ The hand was still outstretched; Rebus paid up, reasoning that it was still cheaper than a box of chocolates. Not that he reckoned Caro Quinn had much of a sweet tooth... But there he was, pre-judging her again. His job had taught him prejudice at the most basic ‘us and them’ level. Now, he wanted to see what lay beyond.
So far, all it had cost him was thirty-five pence.
Siobhan was back at the Bane. This time, she’d brought a police photographer with her, plus Les Young.
‘Could do with a drink anyway,’ he’d sighed, having found that three out of the four computers in the murder room had software problems, and none of them would connect successfully to the library’s telephone system. He ordered a half of Eighty-Shilling.
‘Lime and soda for the lady?’ Malky guessed. Siobhan nodded. The photographer was sitting at a table next to the toilets, attaching a lens to his camera. One of the drinkers approached and asked him how much he wanted for it.
‘Settle down, Arthur,’ Malky called. ‘They’re cops.’
Siobhan sipped her drink while Young handed over the money. She stared at Malky as he placed Young’s change on the bar. ‘It’s not what I’d call a typical reaction,’ she said.
‘What?’ Les Young asked, wiping the thin line of foam from his top lip.
‘Well, Malky here knows we’re CID. And we’ve got a man over there setting up a camera... And Malky hasn’t asked why.’
The barman offered a shrug. ‘Doesn’t bother me what you do,’ he muttered, turning away to wipe one of the beer taps.
The photographer seemed almost ready. ‘DS Clarke,’ he said, ‘maybe you should go first, check no one’s in there.’
Siobhan smiled. ‘How many women do you think come in here?’
‘All the same...’
Siobhan turned to Malky. ‘Anyone in the ladies’?’
Malky gave another shrug. Siobhan turned to Young. ‘See? He’s not even surprised we’re taking photos in the loo...’ Then she walked to the door and pushed it open. ‘All clear,’ she told the photographer. But then, peering into the cubicle, she saw that changes had been made. The various pieces of graffiti had been gone over with a thick black marker-pen, rendering them almost illegible. Siobhan let out a hiss of air and told the photographer to do his best. She strode back to the bar. ‘Nice work, Malky,’ she said coldly.
‘What?’ Les Young asked.
‘Malky here’s as sharp as a tack. Saw me using the toilet both times I was here, and it dawned on him why I was so interested. So he decided to cover over the messages as best he could.’
Malky said nothing, but raised his jaw-line a little, as if to show that he felt no guilt.
‘You don’t want to give us any leads, is that it, Malky? You’re thinking: Banehall’s well shot of Donny Cruikshank, good luck to whoever did it. Am I right?’
‘I’m saying nothing.’
‘You don’t need to... there’s still ink on your fingers.’
Malky looked down at the black smudges.
‘Thing is,’ Siobhan went on, ‘first time I came in here, you and Cruikshank were having a falling-out.’
‘I was sticking up for you,’ Malky retorted.
Siobhan nodded. ‘But after I left, you slung him out. Bit of bad blood between the two of you?’ She leaned her elbows on the bar and stood on tiptoe, stretching towards him. ‘Maybe we need to take you in for a proper interview... What do you say, DI Young?’
‘Sounds good to me.’ He put down his empty glass. ‘You can be our first official suspect, Malky.’
‘Get stuffed.’
‘Or...’ Siobhan paused, ‘you can tell us whose work the graffiti is. I know some belongs to Ishbel and Susie, but who else?’
‘Sorry, I don’t frequent the ladies’ lavs.’
‘Maybe not, but you knew about the graffiti.’ Siobhan smiled again. ‘So you must go in there sometimes... maybe when the bar’s shut?’
‘Got a bit of a perv thing going, Malky?’ Young prodded. ‘That why you didn’t get on with Cruikshank... too much alike?’
Malky pushed a finger towards Young’s face. ‘You’re talking pish!’
‘Seems to me,’ Young said, ignoring the proximity of Malky’s forefinger to his left eye, ‘we’re talking straight common sense. Case like this, one connection’s sometimes all you need to make...’ He straightened up. ‘Would you be okay to come with us just now, or do you need a minute to close up the bar?’
‘You’re having a laugh.’
‘That’s right, Malky,’ Siobhan said. ‘You can see it in our faces, can’t you?’
Malky looked from one to the other. Their faces were stern, serious.
‘I’m guessing you only work here,’ Young pressed on. ‘Best phone the owner and tell him you’re being taken in for questioning.’
Malky had allowed the finger to retreat back into his fist, the fist to fall to his side. ‘Come on...’ he said, hoping to make them see sense.
‘Can I just remind you,’ Siobhan told him, ‘that interfering with the course of a murder inquiry is a big no-no... judges tend to pounce on it.’
‘Christ, all I...’ But he clamped shut his mouth. Young sighed and pulled out his mobile, called a number.
‘Can I get a couple of uniforms to the Bane? Suspect to be detained...’
‘All right, all right,’ Malky said, holding up his hands in a pacifying gesture. ‘Let’s sit down and have a talk. Nothing we can’t do here, eh?’ Young snapped shut his phone.
‘We’ll let you know once we’ve heard what you’ve got to say,’ Siobhan informed the barman. He looked around, making sure none of the regulars needed a refill, then helped himself to a whisky from the optic. Opened the serving hatch and came out, nodding towards the table with the camera bag on it.
The photographer was just emerging from the toilets. ‘Did what I could,’ he said.
‘Thanks, Billy,’ Les Young said. ‘Let me have them by close of play.’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Digital camera, Billy... take you five minutes to do me some prints.’
‘Depends.’ Billy had packed his bag, slipped it on to his shoulder. He gave a general nod of farewell and headed for the door. Young sat with arms folded, businesslike. Malky had drained his drink in one go.
‘Tracy was well liked,’ he began.
‘Tracy Jardine,’ Siobhan said, for Young’s benefit. ‘The girl Cruikshank raped.’
Malky nodded slowly. ‘She was never the same afterwards... when she topped herself, it didn’t surprise me.’