‘Anonymous.’
‘How anonymous?’
‘Not very.’ Meaning the switchboard had a record of the caller’s number.
One of Haj’s team was keeping guard on the second-floor landing. Clarke and Esson signed in and got suited up in protective overalls and shoe covers.
‘Doctor been?’ Clarke checked, receiving a nodded reply. Then, to Esson, ‘Shall we?’
‘After you, boss,’ Christine Esson said.
Clarke paused in the hallway. Surfaces were being dusted, a hand-held UV scanner checking for blood. Lowered voices were coming from the living room. Rather than interfering, Clarke and Esson stopped in the doorway. Clarke turned at a rustling sound behind them. Haj Atwal had returned.
‘What can you tell us?’ Clarke asked.
‘Doctor estimates time of death at between seven and eleven p.m. Phone call was logged at eleven twenty. He’s been stabbed. Twice in the back and once in the abdomen. Seems to have bled out right where he’s lying.’
Clarke forced herself to focus on Francis Haggard’s face. His eyes and mouth were open, tongue visible. The scene was vividly illuminated by the SOC team’s own freestanding lamps. A photographer crouched down for a closer shot, obscuring the view. Blood had pooled around the body.
‘A violent struggle?’
‘No signs of defence wounds on the hands or arms. And as you can see, the furniture is pretty much where you’d expect to find it. One thing we’ve done is close the shutters. No curtains or blinds, and we didn’t want anyone across the way being able to look in.’
‘Means someone over there could well have seen something,’ Esson commented. ‘Were the lights on in here when the body was found?’
‘Yes.’
‘Immediate neighbours didn’t hear shouting?’ Clarke added.
‘That’s very much your department, Siobhan. We’ve not found the murder weapon as yet. I’d suggest a search team.’
‘A knife, right?’
‘Doctor reckons a fairly small blade. Centimetre and a half in width, at least eight centimetres long. Autopsy will tell us more.’
‘If you wanted to chuck a knife,’ Esson broke in, ‘the tram works would be as good a place as any. Lots of nice deep holes.’
‘Look on the bright side,’ Atwal commented. ‘MIT office is just around the corner. Couldn’t be handier.’
MIT: Major Incident Team, who would gather whenever a serious enough crime took place. In Edinburgh, a suite of rooms had been set aside in Leith police station for use whenever the MIT needed it. Not even a five-minute walk. But it wasn’t a given that Clarke and Esson would be chosen. Esson seemed to be reading Clarke’s mind.
‘They’d be mad not to.’
Clarke gave a slow, uncertain nod and began studying the living room again. ‘We got the victim’s phone and computer?’
‘Yes to both,’ one of the SOC team piped up from behind her mask and visor. ‘Plus a second phone.’
‘Probably the one he took from Stephanie Pelham,’ Esson commented.
‘Anything else of interest?’ Clarke asked.
‘There’s a holdall in the bedroom,’ Atwal answered. ‘Half filled with clothes. I’m guessing he hadn’t been living here long. Police uniform hanging up in the wardrobe along with a couple of nice suits. Bottles of vodka and tequila in a carrier bag on the worktop, fast-food containers in the fridge and the bin.’ He paused. ‘Oh, and some cannabis and cocaine.’
‘Where?’ Clarke asked.
‘Bedside drawer for the cannabis, coffee table and bathroom sink for the coke.’
‘Do we start talking to the neighbours or await further instructions?’ Esson was asking Clarke.
‘I reckon we won’t have long to wait. All sorts of alarm bells are going to be ringing...’ Clarke broke off, staring past Esson’s shoulder. ‘And speak of the devil...’
Esson turned her head and saw Malcolm Fox march into the flat, suited up like everyone else, eyes fixed on the figures in the doorway. He shared a nod of greeting with Haj Atwal, who then headed into the living room. Fox’s gaze shifted to the body on the stripped wooden floor.
‘Doesn’t exactly help matters, does it?’ he stated. ‘There’s at least one citizen journalist outside already, by the way, filming everything that happens.’
‘And a murder victim in here who’s now become our client,’ Clarke replied. Then, ‘You got here quick.’
‘ACC phoned me. Soon as I heard the address, I knew who it would be.’ He exhaled noisily.
‘Christine and I know more about Francis Haggard than anyone, Malcolm. You need to make sure your boss is aware of that.’
Fox fixed her with a look. ‘The T in MIT stands for Team, Siobhan. Egos left at the door and no room for hidden agendas.’ He stopped when he saw she was about to erupt. ‘Anyway, this is hardly the place...’
‘You really don’t want me outside the tent, Malcolm,’ Clarke warned him, before setting off down the hallway.
‘And don’t forget to pick up your ego from the coat rack before you leave,’ Esson added, following Clarke into the stairwell.
Stripped of their coverings, they exited to the busy pavement. A fair-sized crowd had gathered and was growing. Some held up phone cameras. Others were shuffling their feet to try and get warm. The shutters on the window of Haggard’s flat were closed tight, just the thinnest blade of light visible.
‘MIT wouldn’t thank us for trampling all over their nice new shiny inquiry,’ Esson commented. ‘I reckon that means we can stand down till morning.’ She had picked up the two drinks from the foot of the stairs. Clarke took a sip from hers.
‘You reckon you’ll sleep?’ she asked.
‘Whale-song app on my phone — it never fails.’ Esson saw that Clarke was not to be appeased. ‘Whatever happens, Siobhan, Fox can’t just make it all go away, not now.’
‘I wouldn’t be so sure of that. Hence my crack about needing me inside the tent rather than out. He’ll see it as a threat, and he’ll want to keep a close eye.’
‘Me rather than us?’
‘That depends, doesn’t it? Are you on my side or his?’ Clarke watched Esson’s face darken. ‘This was your case before it was mine, Christine,’ she said, her tone conciliatory. ‘Fox knows that.’
‘So we’ll probably both be MIT tomorrow?’
‘If Malcolm gets his way.’
‘And will he?’
Clarke looked at her over the rim of her cup. ‘In my experience, his sort inevitably do.’
Day Four
13
The text arrived at 6.53 a.m.
Leith police station, 0800 sharp. Sent from Malcolm Fox’s telephone. Clarke checked that Christine Esson had received the same summons.
Yep. See you there.
Clarke parked her Astra next to Leith Links at quarter to eight and walked from there to Queen Charlotte Street. It struck her that she’d no idea who Queen Charlotte was or why a road in Leith had been named after her. The police station was situated in what had at one time been the town hall and sheriff court. The building was a couple of hundred years old and showing its age. An imposing staircase led up from ground level, but Clarke was unsurprised to see plastic buckets dotted about, ready to collect the rain that sometimes breached the leaky roof. She knew the MIT office, having worked a couple of cases there, and even dated her boss at the time. But he had moved north to Inverness and ceased communication. She wondered who would be in charge today.
‘Anyone but Fox,’ she prayed under her breath as she reached the top of the stairs.
She saw him immediately, standing at the far end of the corridor in quiet conversation with a woman Clarke didn’t recognise. He beckoned for her to join them.