‘Do I need to trade for that, too?’
‘Not much to tell. Usual teenage misdemeanours. More recently there was an accusation of theft, but that didn’t get anywhere.’
‘What kind of theft?’
‘He was working on the electrics in somebody’s flat. Money went missing.’
‘He’s an electrician?’
Clarke shook her head. ‘More of an odd-job man. Works for a lettings company. Something needs fixing in one of their properties, he goes in.’
Rebus’s whole body seemed to have stiffened. ‘Which company?’ He watched Clarke shrug. ‘QC Lettings?’
‘That sounds about right. Looks like I’ve touched a nerve.’
‘Their office was the last sighting of Tommy’s dad.’
‘So why are you interested? You were cagey when you phoned.’
Rebus had finished his drink. He fetched the last two cans, opening hers, giving her little alternative.
‘I don’t know what it is about Tynie,’ he said as he sat back down. ‘You’re right that it’s always had a smell about it. Not sure the blame rests with Alan Fleck or any other single individual. It’s almost the building itself. When you walk in, you can sense an atmosphere. I’m not much of a one for the supernatural, but if you told me it was built on an old Indian burial ground, I’d be tempted to believe you.’
Clarke picked up her can, found it empty, and reached instead for its replacement. Beer on top of gin — her head would be pounding later.
‘I’m not exactly sure,’ Rebus went on, ‘what stories Haggard will have on him. I very much doubt any of them will be corroborated by his colleagues.’
‘Corroboration or not, if the stories are juicy enough, the media will run with them.’
‘So Police Scotland have sent Malcolm Fox to initiate the cover-up? And first thing Malcolm did was ask you to suspend the inquiry? I bet that went down well.’
‘As you can imagine. But the fact remains, Haggard is going to argue that PTSD is behind his violent outbursts. The stuff he’s mentioned so far, however — lying under oath, even fitting up innocent people — none of that cries PTSD to me. There’s got to be more, which is why I went looking online. Remember the Kyle Weller case? Arrested one night on the street, taken to the cells at Tynecastle, complained of feeling unwell...’
‘Dead next morning when they unlocked his door.’ Rebus nodded slowly.
‘CCTV somehow wasn’t working that night. A witness to the arrest changed their story. That’s one of several cases that I should have remembered. They all involved Tynecastle. My guess is, they all feature Francis Haggard, too.’
‘And he’s going to spill the beans just to lessen a domestic assault charge?’
‘Maybe he wants to atone. That’s what Christine Esson thinks.’
‘You’re not persuaded?’
‘Christine likes to see the best in people. I learned the opposite.’ Rebus met her eyes. ‘For better or worse.’
He stretched out his arms either side of him, palms turned upwards. ‘What am I supposed to say, Siobhan?’
‘I need to know if he has a chance of making any of it stick. I spoke with his wife today and came away more determined than ever.’
‘Fair play to you, but I swear I’ve got nothing to hide.’
‘In my experience, that would be a first. You’re not even telling me why you’re so interested in Jack Oram.’ She was interrupted by her phone alerting her to a text. Her eyes widened, then narrowed as she read it, her lips parting to show her bottom row of teeth.
‘Sounds like trouble,’ Rebus commented.
‘It’s Cheryl Haggard’s sister. Francis barged his way in earlier, trying to get to Cheryl. Left with one of the sister’s phones because she’d been filming him.’
‘Phones plural?’
‘One for work, one for personal use, I’m guessing.’ A second text had arrived. ‘There are security cameras in the house, though. He’s on tape.’ Clarke let out a loud exhalation.
‘I’d say he breached his bail conditions,’ Rebus suggested.
‘Absolutely he did.’ Clarke was making a call, her phone pressed to her ear. There was a slight shake to her right hand, adrenalin coursing through her.
‘Christine?’ she said into the phone. ‘We need to pick up Francis Haggard. He must have been watching Stephanie’s house. Probably saw me and Gina leave and his hackles went up. He forced his way in.’ She listened for a moment. ‘They’re both unharmed, but probably more than a bit shaken. Can you rouse a couple of uniforms and meet me at Haggard’s flat?’ She listened again. ‘No, I’m in Marchmont, so maybe twenty minutes.’ Her eyes met Rebus’s. ‘Yes, I’m at John’s. Just a social call. Twenty minutes, okay?’ She ended the call and stared at the beer cans. ‘Christ, am I even under the limit?’
‘I could give you a lift.’
‘You’ve been drinking too.’
‘But I’m a pensioner rather than a serving police detective — I’ve a lot less to lose.’
‘I can’t believe he’d do it. I really can’t even begin to...’
‘I’ll drop you there. Squad car can take you home or bring you back here.’
‘I can almost walk home from his flat.’
‘I thought Haggard lived down in Newhaven.’
Clarke looked at him. ‘He’s not in his own place. He’s renting on Constitution Street. But now I’m wondering why you would know where someone you claim not to know lives?’
‘Oops,’ Rebus said, sliding his arms into his jacket and picking up his car keys. ‘Maybe save that for later, eh?’
‘Just to be clear, you’re dropping me off and then leaving.’
‘Scout’s honour,’ Rebus said, ushering her to the door. As she preceded him, slinging her bag over her shoulder, he glanced back at the dining table. Yes, the Oram file was there, forgotten in all the drama.
He started whistling some blues as he took out his key and locked the door.
‘Town’s a mess,’ Rebus commented as roadworks steered him down yet another long-winded diversion.
‘This car’s not much better,’ Clarke said, studying her footwell.
‘If you’d rather walk, I can drop you here.’
She mimed zipping her lips closed, but opened them again a minute later. ‘Easter Road would have been quicker.’
Rebus took his eyes off the windscreen long enough to glare at her.
‘You don’t scare me the way you used to,’ she told him.
‘I’m rusty, that’s all.’
‘Did you hear about the shooting?’
‘No.’
‘Earlier today in Pilton. No casualties reported. Like you said — town’s a mess.’ She was lifted from her seat by a pothole Rebus hadn’t spotted. He cursed and focused on the road ahead. ‘So, Jack Oram,’ she said into the silence.
‘A spot of unfinished business, that’s all.’
‘Unless he’s dead, of course.’
Rebus allowed the point with a shrug. ‘I wasn’t lying about Francis Haggard,’ he said eventually. ‘I barely knew the guy.’
‘You did visit Tynecastle, though, watched the initiations?’
‘Just games, that’s all. Silly boys’ games.’
‘Even games can have consequences.’
‘So one minute you’re getting called St Francis, the next you’re thumping your wife?’
‘Wasn’t just about the nicknames, John. It’s everything that happened after.’ She peered through the windscreen. ‘Better to turn here and park on Wellington Place. Main road’s blocked top and bottom for the tram works.’
‘You’re the boss,’ Rebus said through gritted teeth.
She was right, though, and a couple of minutes later he was bringing the Saab to a halt as close to the cut-through as possible. Clarke thanked him and got out, then stuck her head back inside the car.