‘No.’
‘I feel honoured then.’
‘Just you, or Ronnie too?’
‘Ronnie got the full mwah-mwah — both cheeks.’
‘Lucky he didn’t give her COVID.’
‘Lucky he didn’t give any of us COVID.’
‘How’s he doing anyway?’
‘Says he’s completed Netflix and is starting Disney Plus. You on your way back here or going home?’
‘How much longer are you sticking around?’
‘Maybe an hour. Gunshots reported in West Pilton. They need bodies to help with that. Not that there were any bodies. But I’m checking hospitals and surgeries in case any walking wounded emerge.’
‘I’ve got one quick stop to make before I can be there. Should I bring supplies?’
‘A cake wouldn’t go amiss. Did Francis discuss PTSD with Cheryl?’
‘Only after the first appearance of uniforms on his doorstep.’
‘Could mean something or nothing.’
‘Doughnuts okay, or do you need something stronger?’
‘Doughnuts will be fine. See you soon. Mwah.’
‘Mwah,’ Clarke said with a smile as the call ended.
Stephanie Pelham was refilling her glass when the doorbell rang.
‘Bloody cops,’ she sighed, heading for the stairs. ‘I’ll get it,’ she said at the sound of Cheryl’s bedroom door opening. She undid the lock and turned the handle. ‘Did you forget someth—’
The force of the door sent her stumbling.
‘I want to talk,’ Francis Haggard said. ‘She’s got time for CID, she can find time for me.’
He stepped over Pelham. Cheryl had slammed shut her own door with a squeal. Pelham was back on her feet. She grabbed a fistful of Haggard’s leather jacket.
‘Hell do you think you’re doing, Francis?’ She could smell the alcohol coming off him.
He ignored her and started slapping the bedroom door with his palm. ‘Cheryl, we need to talk about this! I’ve said I’m sorry. I’m seeing someone about it, a therapist, I mean.’ He pressed his forehead to the door, eyes squeezed shut. ‘I’ll do whatever it takes, sweetheart. You know I will. Things can go back to the way they were.’
‘Francis,’ Pelham warned him, ‘I swear to God you need to leave right now.’
‘I want to talk to my wife.’
‘Look at me, Francis. Look at me.’
He turned his head slowly, eyes opening. Pelham had taken a couple of steps back. She had her phone out, held in front of her.
‘I’ve already hit record,’ she said. ‘So unless you want to find yourself on remand, you’ll walk out of here right now.’
‘Cheryl,’ he said to the door, his voice softening further, ‘you know I love you. You know I do. We can sort this out. You and me together, put it all behind us.’
‘Later.’ The door’s thickness muffled the single word. Haggard angled his head, the better to hear.
‘What was that, Cher?’
‘We’ll talk later. Give me some time.’
‘We will talk, though, yeah?’
‘Still recording,’ Pelham stated.
Haggard twisted his body in her direction. ‘That goes nowhere,’ he said, nodding at the phone. ‘Or else...’ He stabbed a forefinger towards her, even as she kept her attention focused on the screen. ‘In fact...’ He made a lunge, wrestling the phone from her grasp.
‘Proud of yourself, are you,’ Pelham spat, rubbing at her wrist. He pocketed her phone and pointed at her again, waggling his finger a little this time. Then he pushed past her and headed for the door.
‘Call me when you’re ready!’ he yelled over his shoulder to the bedroom door. ‘I’ll be waiting!’
Pelham followed him down the hall, slamming shut the front door and making sure both locks were engaged. At the sound, Cheryl emerged.
‘Are you okay?’ she said.
‘Bastard took my phone.’
She padded towards her sister on bare feet and held her in an embrace.
‘You can’t go near him, Cheryl,’ Stephanie Pelham stated.
‘I just wanted him to leave. It worked, didn’t it?’
Pelham, her chin resting on her sister’s shoulder, looked up towards a corner of the ceiling. The CCTV camera stared back at her. She managed a thin determined smile.
5
Rebus had just finished eating an early dinner of microwaved haggis when he heard the doorbell. Brillo trotted with him to the door. Siobhan Clarke was standing on the step.
‘Well, well,’ Rebus said, while Brillo’s welcome was more effusive. ‘In you come then.’
Rebus had been in his new home a while, but there were still boxes waiting to be unpacked. Clarke, who had helped with the move, noted them stacked in the narrow hall.
‘I said I’d get round to it, and I will,’ Rebus told her. ‘On the other hand, if I’ve done without whatever’s in them this far, maybe they don’t need emptying at all.’ He had retreated to the living room. A CD was playing, John Lee Hooker. He turned the volume down. Clarke was sniffing the air.
‘Stovies?’ she guessed.
‘Haggis,’ Rebus corrected her.
‘With brown sauce, right?’
‘Right,’ he acknowledged. ‘Join me in a beer?’ Two empty cans stood on the dining table, with four unopened brethren lined up on the bookcase.
‘I shouldn’t.’
‘Another way of saying you will.’ He yanked the ring pull and handed her the drink. ‘Not your first of the day?’
‘Nor yours, despite doctor’s orders.’ She made show of sniffing the air again. ‘No cigarettes, though, so that’s something.’
Rebus sat himself at the table and gestured for her to join him. She slung her shoulder bag over the back of the chair.
‘Haggard case getting to you?’ he enquired.
‘Just a bit.’ She took a slurp of the beer. ‘Any chance of a glass?’
‘Makes for more washing-up.’
‘Or else you’ve no clean glasses.’
‘Busted,’ he said, raising his can towards her in a toast.
‘I remember I mentioned Haggard to you on the phone,’ Clarke said. ‘You made it sound like you didn’t know him.’ She watched Rebus nod while he drank. ‘He seems to know you, though.’
Rebus took his time swallowing the mouthful. ‘Is that so?’ he eventually said.
‘Every copper in Edinburgh knows Tynecastle is a cesspit and probably always has been.’
‘I was never based there.’
‘Your pal was, though — Alan Fleck.’
‘Alan’s long retired.’
‘Only three or so years, actually. You used to pay him visits at Tynecastle. He liked to showcase the unofficial training new officers were put through. Lessons in racism and sexism, lying under oath, cooperating with criminals...’
‘Hang on, Siobhan.’
‘It’s all going to come out, John, one way or the other. Malcolm Fox is in town, and though he’s no longer working Complaints, he’d like nothing more than to hang a whole laundry’s-worth of cops, serving and otherwise, out to dry. Either Haggard spills his guts to a jury, or else he gives it to Fox with the promise that a trial will at the very least go easy on him.’
‘I told you, I don’t know Francis Haggard.’
‘Well, he’s ready to drop you from a great height with no parachute.’
The silence lengthened between them until Clarke retrieved her bag and reached into it, bringing out a large padded envelope.
‘The Jack Oram inquiry,’ she said. ‘Everything I could dig out. Talk to me and I’ll hand it over.’
She drank as she watched Rebus weigh up his options. ‘Oh,’ she added, ‘and I ran a check on Oram’s son, Tommy.’