‘If it’s him.’
‘If it’s him,’ Clarke conceded. ‘Tess Leighton is putting in a late shift to check other missing persons from the period.’ She turned her head towards him. ‘And CCU became involved because...?’
‘For one thing, the family had complained we weren’t putting in enough effort. They had the lover down as a suspect and thought we’d gone too easy on him.’
‘Because of who his father was?’
‘Alex Shankley was a hairy-arsed Glasgow cop. A man’s man. Football on a Saturday, roast dinner on a Sunday. Spent his days chasing knife gangs and scumbags.’ Rebus broke off.
‘And ashamed of his son?’
‘Maybe. I don’t know. But word went around that it would be appreciated if we could try to keep mentions of Derek to a minimum. Wouldn’t be so easy these days, but we had our fair share of friendly journalists back then.’
‘Hang on, though. Bloom trained as a journalist. Wouldn’t the press be keen to find out what had happened to one of their own?’
Rebus shrugged. ‘He wasn’t in the trade long enough to make friends.’
‘Okay, so what about the meeting with Jackie Ness?’
‘A regular update at the mansion. Bloom’s instructions were to keep doing what he’d been doing.’
‘And what had he been doing?’
‘Asking around; buying a few drinks; accessing computers...’
‘When he disappeared, you looked at his computer?’
‘Not me personally, but the team did. He didn’t have an office as such, worked out of his flat. Never found his laptop, though — or should I say “notebook”. Didn’t find his phone either. All we knew was, in the weeks after he disappeared, he didn’t open any emails, didn’t make any calls, and withdrew no money from a cashpoint.’
‘Did you think he was dead?’
Rebus nodded. ‘Fight with his lover; picked up the wrong stranger from a club; ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time.’
‘Say he’d tried breaking into Adrian Brand’s home, or maybe his office,’ Clarke speculated.
‘We interviewed everyone we could, most of them more than once. Wasn’t as much CCTV back then, but even so, it was hard to just disappear into thin air. We were waiting for someone to talk, but no one did.’
‘His parents are on their way here,’ Clarke said with a sigh.
‘From where?’
‘They live near Dumfries these days.’
‘You think they can make the identification?’
‘More likely it’ll be down to DNA. But Graham is asking Jackie Ness to look at the clothing. He was apparently the last person to see Bloom. Derek Shankley’s being asked, too. You remember what Bloom was wearing the night he vanished?’
Rebus shook his head.
‘According to the newspaper reports, a red check shirt, denim jacket and blue jeans — same gear we found on the body in the Polo.’ She stared at him. ‘I need to know what you’re not telling me, John.’
‘We’ve pretty much covered it.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘It’s good to see you, Shiv. I just wish it didn’t have to end like this.’
Her eyes widened slightly. ‘Like what?’
Rebus nodded towards where Brillo had paused to squat. ‘With you being the one who’s got the keech bag.’
Clarke’s phone started vibrating. She tried for a disappointed look as she handed Rebus the small black polythene bag. ‘I’d better take this,’ she said.
When Rebus returned with Brillo now back on his lead, he asked her who’d called.
‘It’s nothing,’ she said, not managing to hide her exasperation.
‘Doesn’t sound like nothing.’
‘I’ve had a few calls, 0131, but when I answer, they just hang up.’
‘Not a number you recognise?’ He watched as she shook her head. ‘Tried phoning back?’
‘One time. No answer.’
‘It didn’t go to an answering machine or anything?’ Rebus gestured towards her phone. ‘Give it another shot. Keep you busy while I walk over to that bin.’
By the time he’d dumped the bag, she was walking towards him.
‘Someone picked up,’ she explained. ‘It’s a phone box on the Canongate.’
‘So who was on the other end?’
‘Sounded like a tourist. Said they were just passing.’
‘Bit of a mystery then. How many did you say you’ve had?’
‘I don’t know. Ten, twelve, something like that.’
‘All from the same number?’
She checked her screen for recent calls. ‘Two different numbers.’
‘So check out the other one, maybe that’ll give you the answer. That’s what a detective would do, DI Clarke.’ They shared a momentary smile, but then Rebus started coughing.
‘Cold weather’s a bugger,’ he explained.
‘You’re doing okay, though?’
‘Seem to have survived another winter. Annual spirometry test last week — lungs at seventy per cent.’
‘Winter’s not quite over yet — supposed to be snow on the way from Russia, maybe a lot of it.’
‘A good reason to stay indoors.’
‘You’ve dropped a bit of weight, that must be helping.’
‘Who can afford food on a police pension? There are positives, though.’
‘Such as?’
‘If I catch an infection, it could be the death of me — the perfect excuse not to be sociable. Plus, I can’t visit any big polluted cities like London.’
‘You had plans to go there?’
‘Not on your life.’ Rebus’s eyes shifted to Brillo. ‘I know about ACU, by the way,’ he admitted.
‘How?’
‘You’re not the only cop I talk to. Why didn’t you say?’
‘What was there to say?’
‘Jesus, Shiv, the number of times I was carpeted, I’m a walking encyclopedia on how to deal with those arseholes.’
‘Maybe I wanted to do it on my terms rather than yours. Besides, it was no big deal. They were fishing, that was all, like CCU in the Stuart Bloom case.’ She paused for a beat. ‘Unless you and yours really were hiding something?’
‘No comment, your honour.’ They stood in silence for the better part of thirty seconds. A single night-time jogger was out; traffic was light; a couple of dogs had started a barking contest on nearby Bruntsfield Links, causing Brillo’s ears to prick up.
‘If you’re not too scared of germs,’ Rebus eventually said, ‘we could go back to mine for a cup of coffee.’
But Clarke was shaking her head. ‘I should be getting home. I’ll probably see Deborah tomorrow; anything you want me to say to her?’
‘Nothing I can’t tell her myself.’ Rebus paused. ‘Just don’t mention the kitchen.’
Clarke reasoned that Canongate was on her way home anyway, so she turned right at North Bridge and looked for phone boxes. A brace of them stood in front of a kilt shop, not far from John Knox’s House. This was still tourist territory. She kept driving and found the street getting quieter — seemingly darker, too — as she neared its foot, where the contemporary architecture of the Scottish Parliament faced off against the ancient scowl of the Palace of Holyrood directly across the road. Driving around the roundabout, she retraced her route. The kilt shop phone boxes were the only ones she’d seen, so she pulled her car in next to them and got out. Neither looked exactly enticing, their windows spattered and misted by the residue of flyers that had been only partially removed.
She took out her own phone and called the number. The ringing came from the box right next to her. She cancelled the call and yanked open the door. The aroma of urine was very faint, but still caught in her nostrils. She gave the interior a good look, including its floor, but saw nothing to interest her. Closing the door again, she tapped the second unknown number into her phone. Sure enough, the ringing this time came from the companion booth. Clarke looked up and down the street, craning her neck to check all the windows above street level. Her phone listed the dates and times of the various calls. Two in the early afternoon, most between seven and nine in the evening, one at midnight. Someone local? Using a public telephone so as to remain untraceable? It struck her as an old-fashioned solution. If you wanted to stay anonymous, you could do so on a mobile; you just had to withhold your number. But there were ways of getting past that. All police detectives knew as much. Was someone in trouble? Or had someone been given her number by mistake? Maybe they kept expecting a male voice at the other end. Or else it was some random crank. She’d even heard of automated calls, just checking that lines and systems were working. It could be anything.