‘Just friendly concern. I take it you’ve a pressing engagement with a crime scene?’
‘In a manner of speaking. I’m working the Francis Haggard case.’ There was silence on the other end. ‘He’s a uniform at Tynecastle, but more pertinently, he thumps his wife — or at least he used to.’
‘That’s never good.’
‘No, it’s not.’
‘So you’re pretty busy right now, then?’
Clarke came to a halt and sighed into the phone. ‘Of course you’re not just calling for a catch-up.’
‘Well, that too, of course.’
‘But?’ At the far end of the corridor, a door opened and Christine Esson’s head appeared. Clarke signalled that she would only be a minute.
‘Do you remember working a misper case four years back?’ Rebus was saying. ‘Man named Jack Oram. Lived in Craigmillar, owned a pool hall.’
‘One of Big Ger Cafferty’s men,’ Clarke acknowledged. ‘We did what we could until we started hitting brick walls.’
‘Any chance of a look at the file?’
‘Why?’ She lifted a hand to her forehead and started rubbing it. Only John bloody Rebus could induce a headache so quickly.
‘I’m just interested.’
‘You’re also a civilian — which means the answer is no.’
‘Talk me through it, then. Maybe over a drink or a meal. I still owe you for what you did during COVID.’
‘I took Brillo for walks and delivered some groceries. It wasn’t exactly onerous.’ When she glanced up, it was no longer Christine Esson’s head at the door of the interview room but Michael Leckie’s. ‘I’ve really got to go, John.’
‘Does that mean you’ll think about it?’
‘It means goodbye.’
‘Hang on, there’s something else. Oram’s son. I think he’s maybe not unknown to Police Scotland. Maybe add him as a postscript?’
‘Goodbye, John.’
Clarke ended the call and dropped her phone back into her bag. She made her apologies as she entered the room. Esson had set up the recording equipment. Clarke looked everywhere but at Francis Haggard as she took her seat and composed herself. He was slouching in his chair, almost horizontal, elbows leaning on its arms.
‘My client would like to thank you for seeing us at such short notice,’ Michael Leckie said.
‘We’re always available to hear a full and contrite confession,’ Esson commented. Finally Clarke’s eyes met Haggard’s.
‘They’ve talked to you, haven’t they?’ he said. ‘The brass, I mean?’
Clarke kept any emotion out of her voice and her face. ‘Whether they have or not has no bearing on this case.’
‘We both know that’s a lie, DI Clarke. And the fact that they’ve been so quick off the mark tells me they’re rattled. They should be rattled, too, because once I start telling my story, the walls come tumbling down.’
‘Frankly I doubt you’re that important.’
‘In some ways you’re right, of course. I’m a very small piece of the whole. But even the smallest part of a mechanism can be crucial, especially when it goes wrong. And it started going wrong for me very early in the game.’ He hauled himself upright, leaning forward to ensure he had the room’s attention. The crotch-cupping machismo of the previous interview had gone. ‘First few weeks at Tynie, those are the ones you’ve got to get through, and it starts with your name. Me being Francis, that was all they needed to start the ball rolling. A Catholic name, apparently, so I became St Francis of Assisi, Hail Mary Haggard, Il Papa. As it happens, I was born Catholic, not that it was relevant. What mattered was that they had their pigeonhole for me.’
‘Who’s they?’
‘I’m getting to that.’ He paused before continuing. ‘After that, they just kept probing, looking for weak spots. Everyone got the same treatment, and pretty soon I was one of the ones doing the needling, firing likely nicknames at the latest newbie. Is that bullying? Indoctrination, maybe? Because if you couldn’t join in the banter, you might as well hand in your notice.’ His eyes flitted from Clarke to Esson and back again. ‘Women were slappers and sows, and if anyone didn’t agree, they were poofs or wimps. So yes, my skin got nice and thick, and sometimes I even led the pack, eager to please the boss, that boss being Alan Fleck. He was our sergeant, and he would look out for us once he’d moulded us. He was always there, standing at the back usually, just watching and maybe drinking the whisky he kept in his desk.
‘But he wasn’t alone. Plenty of other officers from other stations knew what was going on. They’d be given a tour and get to watch us while we played. There was one I think you know, DI Clarke. Retired now, of course, same as Fleck. I’ll be naming more names in due course, lots of them. But you know who I’m talking about here. The sarge loved him, loved the way he’d spent his whole career “getting away with it”. He’d tell us all the stories — this was after we’d passed the initiation, of course. By then we were ripe and ready, ready to do whatever was asked. Fit somebody up? Alter evidence? Intimidate witnesses? All that and a lot more besides. Backhanders from criminals, sometimes even doing their dirty work for them. Perjuring ourselves in court — well, that became standard procedure. We were bad cops, and some still are. We know where the bodies are buried, and it won’t be a pretty sight when they’re dug up. All because we’d been made to feel that we’d get away with it. Go ask your friend — he got his fair share. He was wallowing, same as us. And you know what? The way the world’s turning out, maybe that’s the only method that makes sense. “Police hard,” the sarge used to say. That’s the culture I was introduced to. That’s why I turned out...’ He sought the right word, ‘disordered.’
Silence filled the room as Haggard leaned back in his chair. Clarke turned her attention to the lawyer.
‘This is what you’re taking to court?’
The palms of Haggard’s hands came down hard against the table. ‘Nothing’s going to court! The chiefs are going to shut you down!’
Leckie’s fingers landed gently on his client’s forearm. ‘Francis, please.’ Then, to Clarke, ‘Mr Haggard continues to meet regularly with a therapist to try to deal with these issues. He is heartily sorry that his temper got the better of him on that one occasion with his wife.’
‘A lot more than one occasion,’ Clarke corrected him.
‘You have no evidence of that.’
‘Neighbours tell a different story, one they’re willing to share from the witness box.’
‘Those vegan arseholes,’ Haggard muttered. ‘They’ve had it in for me from day one.’
‘Your wife’s sister kept all the text messages sent to her about your abusive behaviour.’
‘Nonsense, the lot of it.’
‘The procurator fiscal doesn’t think so.’ Clarke turned back to the solicitor. ‘This was a waste of our time, Mr Leckie. Do better, please.’ She got to her feet, signalling the end of the meeting. Esson stopped the recording, following Clarke to the door.
‘DI Clarke... please...’
Clarke stopped and turned to face Haggard. He seemed suddenly cowed and exhausted.
‘Ask yourself why I’m doing this, burning bridges, turning friends into enemies.’
‘You tell me.’
‘It’s because I need to. That’s why I warned the brass — whether in court or on the QT, Tynecastle has to pay. Then maybe I can begin the process of forgiving myself. That’s what my therapist says. I hate what I’ve become.’ He had shifted his gaze from Clarke to Esson. ‘What the job’s done to me, I mean, what it’s made me do to Cheryl. I’m just hoping it’s not too late.’
‘Whatever you’re paying this therapist of yours,’ Clarke stated, ‘it’s too much.’ She tried to make eye contact with her colleague, but Esson seemed transfixed by Haggard’s words. Rather than wait, Clarke made her exit, striding down the corridor and turning the corner, where she came to an abrupt stop, trying to control her breathing.