‘All right there, big man?’
‘Sounds local,’ one of the officers commented.
‘Digital camera and some computer software,’ someone else added. ‘Anyone can direct their own porn film these days.’
‘Happily, not everyone would want to,’ a woman officer qualified.
‘Wait a second,’ Siobhan interrupted. ‘Go back a bit, will you?’
The officer holding the remote obliged, freezing the frame and backtracking moment by moment.
‘Is this you looking for tips, Siobhan?’ one of the men asked, to a few snorts.
‘That’s enough, Rod,’ Les Young called out.
An officer near Siobhan leaned in towards his neighbour. ‘That’s exactly what the woman on the rug just said,’ he whispered.
This produced another snort, but Siobhan’s mind was on the TV screen. ‘Freeze it there,’ she said. ‘What’s that on the back of the cameraman’s hand?’
‘Birthmark?’ someone guessed, angling their head for a better view.
‘Tattoo,’ one of the women offered. Siobhan nodded agreement. She slid from her chair, getting even closer to the screen. ‘I’d say if it’s anything, it’s a spider.’ She looked up at Les Young.
‘A spider tattoo,’ he said softly.
‘With maybe the web on his neck?’
‘Meaning the victim’s friend makes porn films.’
‘We need to know who he is.’
Les Young looked around the room. ‘Who’s in charge of finding us names for Cruikshank’s known associates?’
The team shared looks and shrugs, until one of the women cleared her throat and offered an answer.
‘DC Maxton, sir.’
‘And where is he?’
‘I think he said he was headed back to Barlinnie.’ Meaning he was checking for prisoners who’d been close to Cruikshank.
‘Call him and tell him about the tattoos,’ Young ordered. The officer walked over to a desk and picked up a phone. Siobhan meantime was on her mobile. She’d moved away from the TV, was standing next to the curtained window.
‘Can I speak to Roy Brinkley, please?’ She caught Young’s eye and he nodded, realising what she was doing. ‘Roy? DS Clarke here... Listen, this friend of Donny Cruikshank’s, the one with the spider’s web... you didn’t happen to notice any other tattoos on him?’ She listened, broke into a grin. ‘On the back of his hand? Okay, thanks for that. I’ll let you get back to your books.’
She ended the call. ‘Spider tattoo on the back of his hand.’
‘Nice work, Siobhan.’
There were a few resentful glances at this. Siobhan ignored them. ‘Doesn’t get us any further until we know who he is.’
Young seemed to agree. The officer in charge of the remote was running the film again.
‘Maybe we’ll get lucky,’ he said. ‘If this guy’s as hands-on as he looks, he might pass the camera to somebody else.’
They sat down again to watch. Something was niggling Siobhan, but she couldn’t say what. Then the camera panned round from the sofa to the crouching woman, only she was no longer crouching. She’d risen to her feet. There was some music in the background. It wasn’t a soundtrack, but actually playing in the living room as the filming happened. The woman was dancing to this music, seeming lost in it, oblivious to the other choreographies around her.
‘I’ve seen her before,’ Siobhan said quietly. From the corner of her eye she could see one of the team rolling his eyes in disbelief.
Here she was again: Captain Underpants’s sidekick, showing them all up.
Live with it, she wanted to tell them. But instead, she turned to Young, who looked as though he couldn’t quite believe it himself. ‘I think I saw her dancing once.’
‘Where?’
Siobhan looked at the team, then back towards Young. ‘A place called the Nook.’
‘The lap-dancing bar?’ one of the men said, eliciting laughter and jabbed fingers. ‘It was a stag,’ he tried explaining.
‘So did you pass the audition?’ one of the others was asking Siobhan, to even more laughter.
‘You’re behaving like schoolkids,’ Les Young snapped. ‘Either grow up or ship out.’ He hooked a thumb towards the door. Then, to Siobhan: ‘When was this?’
‘A few days back. In connection with Ishbel Jardine.’ She had the full attention of the room now. ‘We had information she might’ve ended up working there.’
‘And?’
Siobhan shook her head. ‘No sign of her. But...’ pointing towards the TV, ‘I’m fairly sure she was there, doing much the same dance she’s doing right now.’ On the screen, one of the men, naked apart from his socks, was approaching the dancer. He pressed his hands to her shoulders, trying to push her to her knees, but she twisted free and kept on dancing, eyes closed. The man looked to the camera and shrugged. Now the camera was jerked downwards, the focus blurring. When it came up again, someone new had entered the frame.
Shaven-headed, his facial scars more prominent on film than in real life.
Donny Cruikshank.
He was fully dressed, a grin spreading across his face, can of lager in one hand.
‘Gie’s the camera,’ he said, holding out his free hand.
‘Know how to use it?’
‘Get away, Mark. If you can do it, I can do it.’
‘Cheers, Donny,’ said one of the officers, scribbling the name ‘Mark’ into his notebook.
The discussion continued, the camera eventually changing hands. And now Donny Cruikshank swung the camera up to capture his friend. The hand went up too slowly to cover the face from identification. Without needing to be told, the officer with the remote tracked back and froze the frame. His colleague with the digital camera raised it to his face.
On the screen: a huge shaved head, the dome shiny with sweat. Studs in both ears and through the nose, a nick in one of the thick black eyebrows, one central tooth missing from the protesting mouth.
And the spider’s-web tattoo, of course, covering the whole of the neck...
24
From Pollock Halls, it was a short drive to Gayfield Square. There was only one other body in the CID office, and it belonged to Phyllida Hawes, whose face started to redden the moment Rebus walked in.
‘Grassed up any good colleagues lately, DC Hawes?’
‘Look, John...’
Rebus laughed. ‘Don’t worry about it, Phyl. You did what you felt you had to.’ Rebus rested against the edge of her desk. ‘When Storey came to see me, he said he thought I was on the level because he knew my reputation — I’m guessing I’ve got you to thank for that.’
‘All the same, I should have warned you.’ She sounded relieved, and Rebus realised she’d been dreading this encounter.
‘I’m not going to hold it against you.’ Rebus stood up and made for the kettle. ‘Can I make you one?’
‘Please... thanks.’
Rebus spooned coffee into the only two clean mugs left. ‘So,’ he asked casually, ‘who introduced you to Storey?’
‘It came down the line: Fettes HQ to DCI Macrae.’
‘And Macrae decided you were the woman for the job?’ Rebus nodded, as if in agreement with the choice.
‘I wasn’t to tell anyone,’ Hawes added.
Rebus waved the spoon at her. ‘I can’t remember... do you take milk and sugar?’
She tried a thin smile. ‘It’s not that you’ve forgotten.’
‘What then?’
‘This is the first time you’ve offered.’
Rebus raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re probably right. First time for everything, eh?’
She’d risen from her chair and come part of the way towards him. ‘I just take milk, by the way.’
‘Duly noted.’ Rebus was sniffing the contents of a half-litre carton. ‘I’d make one for young Colin, but I’m guessing he’s down at Waverley, on the lookout for travelling sneak-thieves.’