‘Could do with one of you in reception,’ he said. ‘They’re threatening to gatecrash.’
‘Who’s “they”?’ Sutherland asked. Clarke reckoned she knew.
‘The family?’ She watched the assistant nod.
‘And they’ve a reporter with them,’ he added.
‘Do the honours, Siobhan,’ Sutherland said. ‘We need one of them anyway for the DNA.’
‘What do I tell them, though?’
Sutherland managed a shrug that didn’t look wholly sympathetic. His attention was again on the autopsy, especially now that the ankles — still handcuffed — were being photographed, inspected, discussed.
Clarke tried not to let her feelings show as she made her exit, following the assistant to the public reception area. Another staff member was there, in white blouse and black trousers. She had risen from her desk and stood with arms stretched wide, as if to form a wall between the visitors and the stairs and corridors behind her. The assistant had melted away, leaving Clarke to walk to the receptionist’s side.
‘I’m Detective Inspector Clarke,’ she announced, holding open her warrant card. This had the desired effect — sometimes it did, sometimes it didn’t. The visitors’ attention shifted to her. She recognised Stuart Bloom’s parents from the photographs of them online. They looked to be in their early sixties. The mother, Catherine, wore a well-cut black coat. Her hair was silver, cut short, suiting the shape of her face. Time and tide had not been so kind to her husband. He had a haunted look in the photographs, always very much leaving the speeches to his wife. Martin Bloom had been an accountant and possibly still was. His suit looked like he wore it most days with the same tightly knotted necktie. His hair needed a trim, and grey hairs sprouted from both ears.
‘The family deserve to be told, DI Clarke. After all these years of police incompetence and cover-up...’
Clarke held up a hand as she studied the man who’d just spoken. He was probably still in his twenties, his face superficially like that of the Blooms’ son Stuart. Yet Clarke knew Stuart had been an only child. The man realised something was needed from him.
‘I’m Dougal Kelly. I’m a family friend.’
‘And would you also happen to be a journalist, Mr Kelly?’
‘I’m writing a book,’ Kelly admitted. ‘But that’s neither here nor there.’
Clarke seemed wordlessly to agree. She had turned away from him to focus on the parents.
‘Mr and Mrs Bloom, I know this is difficult, but right now we really don’t have anything concrete we can share.’
‘You could start by letting us see him,’ Catherine Bloom blurted out, a tremor in her voice.
‘That’s not really possible until we have a positive identification.’
‘You’re telling us it might not be him?’ Martin Bloom enquired quietly.
‘Right now we don’t know very much.’
‘But you know something!’ His wife’s voice was rising again.
‘Say it’s not Stuart, and we let you view the body before the real family. You must see the distress that would cause.’
‘How long until you know for certain?’ Dougal Kelly asked.
‘Not too long, I hope.’ Clarke’s eyes were still on the parents. ‘If we could swab one of you for DNA. And maybe take a hair or two...’
‘You can do that here?’ the father asked.
‘I’d think so.’ Clarke turned to the receptionist, who was back in her seat, trying for invisibility. ‘Okay if we use the waiting room while I check?’
‘Of course.’
‘And maybe rustle up a cup of tea or something?’
The receptionist nodded, picking up her phone.
‘This way then,’ Clarke said, leading them the few yards to the closed door.
‘You seem to know this place well,’ Kelly said, keeping his tone light.
Clarke gestured for them to go in. A few plastic chairs, a table covered in old magazines; posters on the walls showing a field of sunflowers, a waterfall, a sunset. She sat down first, watching as they followed suit.
‘Were you part of the original inquiry?’ Kelly asked. Clarke shook her head.
‘There better be no one from those days attached to this,’ Catherine Bloom spat.
‘Most of them are long retired,’ her husband said, patting the back of her hand. ‘DCI Rawlston and all that lot.’
‘The Chuggabugs are still around!’ his wife countered. Clarke thought she’d misheard.
‘Chuggabugs?’
Dougal Kelly leaned forward. ‘Too young for Wacky Races? Me too. Even in 2006 it was a relic, but that’s the name they got.’
‘Who?’
It was Catherine Bloom who answered. ‘The cops working for Adrian Brand.’
‘We only found out much later,’ Kelly explained, ‘that their colleagues called them that. Though not to their faces, I bet.’ He saw he still had some work to do. ‘Dastardly and Muttley? It was a TV cartoon. Same cars racing each other week after week. Dick Dastardly cheating and never seeing the benefit.’
‘I’ve heard of it.’
‘One of the cars was the Arkansas Chuggabug. A hillbilly driving and a bear as his passenger.’
‘Okay...’
‘And somehow Steele and Edwards got the nickname.’
A jolt of adrenalin shot through Clarke. She tried not to let it show. ‘Steele and Edwards?’
‘They were in Adrian Brand’s pay,’ Catherine Bloom interrupted. ‘And no one thought that was suspicious? No one thought that was part of the conspiracy?’
Her husband had stopped patting her wrist and started rubbing it, but she snatched her hand away.
‘I’m fine!’ she barked, just as the receptionist put her head around the door.
‘I need to know milk and sugar,’ she announced with the falsest of smiles.
Clarke was on her feet and heading for the door. ‘I’ll just be a minute,’ she explained. ‘Forgot to check if we can do the DNA here.’
She retraced her steps to the car park, then stood there for a moment running a hand through her hair. Her phone was in her other hand, so she made the call. Rebus picked up almost immediately.
‘Was it you that came up with the name for them?’ she asked.
‘And good morning to you, Siobhan. What name for who?’
‘The Chuggalugs.’
There was silence for a moment. ‘Chuggabugs,’ he corrected her.
‘Two cops called Steele and Edwards?’
‘Thick as thieves, as the saying goes. Who have you been talking to?’
‘Stuart Bloom’s parents.’
‘I wonder who told them.’
‘They’re with a writer called Dougal Kelly.’
‘Never heard of him. Has my name come up?’
‘Bill Rawlston’s did. Next thing I know, they’re talking about Steele and Edwards and how they were in Adrian Brand’s pocket.’ She waited for a response but none came. ‘Well, were they, John?’
‘This might be better done face to face.’
‘You know Steele and Edwards are still on the force, right?’
‘I’ve not heard anything about them in years.’
‘They’re ACU, John. They were the ones who came after me.’
‘Bloody hell — they were in uniform back then and unlikely to trouble an IQ test. They must know where the bodies are buried.’
‘Not the subtlest phrasing under the circumstances.’
‘I apologise. So the Chuggabugs went over to the dark side? Well, I suppose that makes as much sense as anything else these days. You at the mortuary?’
‘Yes.’
‘Seen Deborah?’