‘You’re talking about Rebus.’
‘I’m just remembering the favours he did for Cafferty back in the day.’ He paused. ‘You should dig a bit further into the Tony Barlow case, then ask Francis Haggard about it.’
‘Should I ask him about the cars shipped to Zeebrugge, too?’
Fleck offered a shrug. ‘Feel free, but it’ll get you nowhere. Road I’m pointing down is the one you should be taking.’
‘I’m not sure I trust your GPS. You know where to find me if you want to come in for a chat.’ Fox turned towards his Mercedes.
‘Mind if I ask how much you paid for it,’ Fleck called out to him. Instead of answering, Fox climbed in behind the steering wheel. When Fleck approached, he lowered the window. ‘Whatever it was,’ Fleck said, his teeth bared, ‘I’d have charged you a fuck of a sight more.’
Fox revved the car hard as he headed out of the compound, hitting every pothole, Fleck visible throughout in his rear-view mirror, waving and grinning.
9
‘You absolutely confident about this?’ Esson said from the driver’s seat of Clarke’s Astra.
‘It’s practically on the way back to base, Christine.’
‘Which doesn’t mean it’s a good idea.’
Having cut through from Corstorphine, they were on Gorgie Road, heading towards Tynecastle police station. It was situated on a square near the Hearts football ground, hemmed in by a mixture of tenements, workshops and garages. There was no car park, and liveried vans and cars had taken every on-street parking spot in the vicinity, so Clarke ended up on a double yellow line on the far side of the square. At the heart of the square was an unloved grassy area protected by low iron railings. A gate led to a couple of children’s swings and the stubby remains of what had probably been a seesaw. The police station was a couple of storeys tall, with mesh-covered windows staring blearily from the upper level. The facade was battleship grey, retouched to cover up indecipherable graffiti. Someone with a thick black Sharpie had been busy on the front door, too.
‘Bit of a throwback,’ Esson commented. Clarke nodded her agreement. She’d known a few stations like this in her early days on the force. They usually ended up with a nickname like Fort Apache or Precinct Thirteen. Most of them had been bulldozed and replaced. She wondered how much longer Tynecastle would endure.
The door was locked, and they had to be buzzed in. The reception area was cramped, its walls decorated with the usual public information notices and misper posters. A wall-to-ceiling clear plastic screen kept the desk officer safe, but Clarke noticed that it had been scratched with expletives and gang affiliations. She and Esson held up their warrant cards.
‘Need to speak with someone about Francis Haggard,’ Clarke said.
‘Colour me shocked,’ the desk officer responded with a world-weary smile. He was probably still in his twenties, but was experienced enough. ‘CID are currently elsewhere, though.’
‘Rank-and-file will do. Whoever’s available.’
‘Let me go and check. Why don’t you take a seat?’
He disappeared through the door behind him. When Clarke looked behind her, she was unsurprised to find that there was nowhere to sit.
‘Sense of humour probably comes in handy,’ Esson said, studying the literature on the walls.
‘Mop and bleach wouldn’t go amiss either,’ Clarke added, her shoes almost adhering to the black-and-white linoleum tiles.
A second door was opening to the side of the reception desk. A uniformed officer stood there, sizing up the visitors. He was in his mid to late thirties, tall and broad and with short dark hair. There were a few touches of acne on his neck, which he would probably never lose.
‘In you come then,’ he said, holding the door open.
‘DI Clarke,’ Clarke introduced herself as she passed him.
‘DC Esson,’ Esson added.
He nodded, then gestured down the hallway. ‘Left at the end,’ he said.
They entered an airless interview room, their host having the good grace to leave the door open once they were all inside. He indicated the chairs either side of the table.
‘We’re fine standing,’ Clarke said. He shrugged and rested his backside against the table. ‘I didn’t catch your name.’
The day’s paper was on the table. The officer twisted his body, making show of skimming it, then he picked it up and held it in front of him. The headline was OUR LAWLESS CAPITAL.
‘“Feral youths control unpoliced streets”,’ he recited from memory. ‘That’s why this place is empty. It’s why we’re running on empty. Nobody’s afraid of us any more, not the way they used to be. How do you think that makes us feel when we’re out there?’ He jabbed a finger towards the outside world.
‘Is this what’s known as getting your retaliation in first?’
‘Just giving you a bit of background, DI Clarke.’ He dropped the newspaper. ‘My name’s Rob Driscoll. I’m a mate of Francis’s.’
‘Then maybe you’ll know where we can find him.’
‘I heard you’d let the dogs loose. He went to talk to Cheryl, didn’t he?’
‘I didn’t think that was public knowledge.’
‘It’s public knowledge that uniforms have been wasting their time making detours to Constitution Street since last night.’
‘So you know where he lives.’
‘Like I said, we’re mates.’
‘When did you last speak?’
‘Few days back.’
‘In person?’
‘Phone.’ Driscoll pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. He was either exhausted or doing a passable impression.
‘Did it affect your friendship?’ Esson asked. ‘When you found out he’d been battering his wife, I mean?’
‘All I know is, he’s absolutely nuts about her.’
‘Funny way of showing it, wouldn’t you say?’
‘I’m not here to defend what he did, but there’s give and take in that relationship. Cheryl can get fired up, too.’
‘So the bruises, the bloody nose — they just go with the territory?’
‘Like I say, I’m not defending him.’
‘I’m hearing different, Rob.’ Clarke folded her arms. ‘Has he said anything to you about what he did to Cheryl?’
‘Not really. I don’t think he felt proud of it, though.’
‘Be a bit odd if he did.’
‘Pressure’s been getting to him — not that that puts him in a minority.’
‘He ever mention his proposed defence?’
Driscoll shook his head. ‘But that hasn’t stopped word getting round.’
‘So you know he’s going to drop you all in it?’
‘He’s blaming the job for the way he changed. Maybe he’s got a point. I’ve no idea if he’s planning to name names.’
‘Trust me, he is.’
‘He’ll do what he has to do.’
Clarke gave a thin smile. ‘Are your colleagues managing to be as phlegmatic as you about it?’
‘Dunno — I’d have to look up “phlegmatic” first.’
‘Oh, I think you know what it means. Any chance we can see his locker?’
‘I don’t see why not.’
‘Opened, I meant.’
‘That’ll require a search warrant.’
‘He’s absconded, Rob.’
‘Maybe he has and maybe he hasn’t. Depends if he realises he’s broken his bail conditions. Guy’s in a heightened emotional state, his head’s out of the game.’
‘You seem to know a lot about it.’
Driscoll’s phone was buzzing, alerting him to an incoming call. He checked the screen.
‘Take that if you need to,’ Clarke said, but he shook his head and waited for the caller to give up.