There was one I think you know...
‘Bloody John bloody Rebus,’ Clarke said in exasperation. She glanced up to see Esson approaching, looking thoughtful. ‘Christ’s sake, Christine.’
‘What?’
‘You’re falling for it.’
‘Says who?’
‘Focus on what he did, not what he’ll say in order to get off.’
‘He’s right, though, isn’t he? About what the job can do?’
‘He’s an abuser, Christine, end of. The smart ones get away with it because they’re plausible.’
‘I’m not stupid, Siobhan.’
‘Good, because that’s the last thing you need to be right now.’ Clarke broke off as Haggard and his solicitor turned the corner, heading for the front door. Haggard met her look, his face lacking obvious emotion, and not for the first time, she wished she could see inside someone’s head.
Clarke and Gina Hendry had agreed to meet at a café bar on Corstorphine Road. Hendry had a latte in front of her but was perusing the wine list when Clarke sat down opposite.
‘Shame it’s too early,’ she mused.
The first time they’d met, Clarke had asked the obvious question: how do you do it? To work domestic abuse liaison, you needed to be an ally to the victim yet at the same time maintain objectivity. You were part police officer, part psychologist, part social worker. Hendry had allowed her hair to go grey since they’d last met up, probably as a consequence of lockdown, yet still managed to look younger than her age, her face wrinkle-free, eyes lively, cheeks a natural pink. A waiter took Clarke’s order of a double espresso and barked it towards the counter. Hendry had chosen a table in a dimly lit corner rather than the window. Clarke suspected it was because the women she helped had ex-partners, some of whom would almost certainly bear a grudge. Best not to be too visible.
‘So he’s got his defence strategy,’ Hendry said without preamble.
‘We’ll have a clinical psychologist examine him,’ Clarke assured her. ‘But just to be clear, Cheryl’s not mentioned PTSD to you at any point?’ Hendry shook her head. ‘Would it be okay if I asked her? Is she up to that?’
‘She’s a bit bruised — mentally, I mean — but her sister is being a complete bloody rock under the circs.’
‘What circs?’ Clarke nodded her thanks to the waiter as her drink arrived.
‘Her name’s Stephanie Pelham, Pelham being her married name. Ring any bells?’ Hendry watched Clarke shake her head. ‘James Pelham is a developer. Buys up derelict land and turns it into expensive flats and houses. He’s also an angel.’ She saw Clarke’s look. ‘Meaning he puts money into start-ups, hoping to make a killing down the line. Worth a mint, a good chunk of which Stephanie is intent on taking from him.’
‘They’re getting divorced?’
‘After she found out he was playing away from home. So she’s got that going on and now she’s looking after her sister, too. There’s only a couple of years between them and I get the feeling they’ve always been close.’
‘And Stephanie lives nearby?’
‘Hence the choice of watering hole.’
‘You say Cheryl’s bruised, but she’s doing okay?’
‘She’s not falling apart, if that’s what you mean.’
‘And she’s not going to change her mind about the court case? I know it happens.’
‘All the time,’ Hendry agreed. ‘But I don’t sense that happening here. Maybe if Stephanie weren’t backing her one hundred per cent.’ She met Clarke’s eyes. ‘The PTSD thing won’t fly, will it?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘And it’s all down to his years at Tynecastle cop shop?’
‘We interviewed him this morning, Gina. The way he spoke...’ Clarke broke off.
‘Christ, you think he’s got a chance?’
‘Look, we both know the culture. It’s maybe not as widespread these days as it once was, but it’s still there and plenty of our fellow officers insist on keeping their traps shut about it.’ She gave a sigh. ‘Christine Esson thinks maybe the job did play a role in altering his behaviour.’
‘I don’t buy that,’ Hendry said. ‘He’s into coercive control and always has been. If he was an airline pilot or a minister of the Church, he’d be exactly the same.’
‘But then there are the suits at the top,’ Clarke added. ‘They’ve hinted they want this particular case to just melt away.’
‘They’d be better off taking a flamethrower to Tynecastle. Job done.’
‘Something he said hit home, though — if he uses his defence, he’s consigning himself to the wilderness. Seems like the nuclear option, no? Why take it that far unless you really feel the button needs to be pressed?’
‘You’re forgetting that prisons are not comfy places for cops, Siobhan. Added to which, men who’re violent to women don’t always go down well with the other cons. In his shoes, I’d do everything in my power to avoid that outcome.’
‘You’re probably right,’ Clarke conceded.
Hendry glanced at her phone, checking the time. ‘I said three thirty.’
‘Am I giving you a lift?’
She shook her head. ‘Mine’s around the corner. We’ll take both — trust me, parking is not going to be an issue.
Stephanie Pelham lived in a large contemporary glass box with electric gates and a driveway twice the size of the car park at Gayfield Square police station. There was a yellow Porsche parked in front of a two-car garage. By the time Clarke and Hendry had parked, Pelham was at the front door to meet them. Wavy blonde hair, coloured nails, but casually dressed and probably sporting less make-up than if she were venturing out. The interior of the house as she led them inside was all pale wood and cream walls, with a floating staircase leading to the upper floor. She climbed ahead of them, explaining that the living area was upstairs to make best use of the view.
‘It’s beautiful,’ Clarke said, meaning it. The heightened position of the house, on a leafy street by Corstorphine Hill, meant much of Edinburgh was laid out before them, thanks to a wall of glass sliding doors beyond which a deep terrace stretched the width of the building.
‘That’s why I’m getting it and he’s not. No way I was losing this to the scumbag.’
‘I believe he’s some sort of developer?’ Clarke enquired.
‘Amongst other things. He did the apartment block that became Cheryl’s prison — to be frank, that’s how they could afford to buy.’
Pelham had picked up a wine glass, an inch of pale yellow liquid left in it. She pointed towards Clarke.
‘I’m going to guess gin and tonic.’
‘Maybe not while on duty.’
‘And I know Gina is a red wine girl,’ Pelham said, ignoring Clarke. There was a kitchen visible through a doorway, and she was making towards it. Clarke looked at Hendry, who gave a twitch of the mouth. This, she seemed to be saying, is the price of admission.
‘Stephanie did the whole interior,’ she explained. ‘It’s what she does for a living.’
Clarke nodded, as she felt was expected, though she harboured reservations about some of Stephanie Pelham’s touches. Too many floor-standing sculptures and abstract wall hangings for her taste.
‘Exotic,’ she commented. The smile Hendry gave indicated that she wasn’t exactly a fan either.
When the drinks arrived, they sat around a large wooden dining table. They’d just finished chinking glasses when they heard soft footsteps on the stairs.