‘It’s hour one of day one, Siobhan. You wanted to be here and here you are. What do you say we just try doing our job?’
Ritchie was coming back with the mugs. ‘Clean as I could get them,’ he apologised.
‘In which case, we’ll make do,’ Esson told him, her eyes never leaving Clarke’s.
King was approaching again, phone held out in front of him. ‘Latest from the Courant,’ he said.
Clarke took the phone from him, making sure Esson could see the screen. Most of it was filled with a grainy night-time photo, shot on a well-lit city street. She recognised Rob Driscoll, but not the man he was talking to.
‘“Shortly before their banished colleague was killed in cold blood, Tynecastle’s finest were enjoying a night on the bevvy at their usual clubhouse. A sign on the door of the pub’s back room warned outsiders to steer well clear, but the mutterings from within didn’t sound exactly celebratory — what could have been worrying them? And what might they have been planning to do about it?”’
She handed the phone back to King.
‘Should I take it to the boss?’ he asked.
‘If a pat on the head’s important to you,’ Clarke answered. ‘Otherwise, it’s just a sideshow.’
He considered for a moment before stomping back to his desk.
‘Important to rid them of all that puppyish enthusiasm,’ Christine Esson commented. Then, to the waiting Ritchie, ‘Kettle needs filling.’
Clarke meantime was exiting the room. She headed down the stairs and out into the crisp cold air. Tapped at her phone and pressed it to her ear.
‘Thought I might be hearing from you,’ Laura Smith said.
‘I’m not a fan of one-way streets, Laura. How did you know where and when the Crew meets?’
‘Would it shock you to learn that you’re not the only member of Police Scotland who talks to me? Besides which, I thought it was common knowledge. They meet there regular as clockwork.’
‘Who was the other man with Rob Driscoll?’
‘You mean you’ve never bought a car from Alan Fleck? Big discounts for serving officers.’
‘Why was he there?’
‘You tell me.’
‘Anything you find out, you need to let me know.’
‘I assume you’ve been assigned a role? Who’s in charge? Anyone I’ll have heard of?’
‘Media office will give you what you need.’
‘Is that how we’re playing it?’
‘Until you give me good reason not to.’
‘I told you, Siobhan, the more clicks I get, the more revenue.’
‘It’s not going to win you any friends at Tynecastle — you need to be careful, Laura.’
Clarke ended the call and stood for a moment breathing deeply. When she looked up at the first-floor windows, Malcolm Fox was staring down at her. She kept her face impassive, but she knew Fox would be wondering. Pocketing her phone, she headed back indoors.
Rebus heard the news from a fellow-dog walker who knew he was ex-CID.
‘Something happening in Leith,’ the man said while his dachshund exchanged greetings with Brillo. ‘They’ve got Constitution Street cordoned off.’
The nod Rebus gave was impassive, but his mind was racing. He got Brillo back on his lead and marched him home, grabbed the keys to the Saab and set out. He parked on the edge of Leith Links — recognised Clarke’s Astra parked half a dozen cars further along. He wasn’t sure what he’d say to her, but he cut through to Constitution Street anyway. Sure enough, the pavement had been blocked by strands of tape marked POLICE. A cold-looking uniformed officer provided an extra disincentive to ghouls. Rebus smiled a greeting and slipped his lanyard around his neck.
‘Meeting DI Clarke,’ he announced. The officer checked the list he was holding.
‘She’s not here,’ he said.
Which meant she was at Queen Charlotte Street, which in turn meant she had been recruited by the Major Incident Team.
‘I’ll take a look anyway,’ Rebus said, running his fingers down the lanyard.
‘All that bit of card tells me is that you’re exempt from wearing a mask. Nice try, though.’
Rebus stared towards the doorstep where he’d had his run-in with Fox only two nights back. Looked like the SOCOs hadn’t yet finished. A pair of them were having a dialogue, still wrapped in white protective suits and masks.
‘Haj!’ Rebus called out, giving a wave. Haj Atwal recognised him and walked towards the cordon.
‘Hiya, John,’ he said.
‘Any chance I could have a word? Might have something useful for you.’
Atwal gave him a long, searching look, but eventually nodded him through, the uniform lifting the tape with obvious reluctance so Rebus could duck beneath it.
‘How have you been keeping, John?’ Atwal enquired.
‘Never mind that. It’s Francis Haggard, right?’
‘Right.’
‘I was here a couple of nights back with Siobhan Clarke. He wasn’t home.’
‘Would have been better for him if he’d kept it that way.’
‘There was supposed to be surveillance on him.’
‘They did what they could.’
‘Busy times, eh?’
‘Been a while since I had so many crime scenes flying at me. I’m almost nostalgic for lockdown.’
Rebus nodded his agreement. ‘So tell me again, how was he killed?’
Atwal gave him a look. ‘Something useful, you said?’
‘Whatever got me past the cordon,’ Rebus replied with a wink. The door to the tenement had been wedged open, and he walked in, Atwal at his heels.
‘Crime scene, John. No place for a civilian.’
‘So give me some overalls.’ Rebus was already climbing the stairs, gripping the banister for assistance. He paused at the first-floor landing, turning to face Atwal.
‘Word to the wise, Haj — steer clear of COPD.’
‘Get your breath back. Last thing I need is another body.’ Atwal headed to the second floor and returned with a white suit for Rebus to wear. ‘So what connects you to the victim?’
‘He was a wife-beater, or whatever the term is these days.’ Rebus started struggling into the overalls, Atwal helping. ‘Siobhan had the bit between her teeth.’
‘Which doesn’t really answer my question.’
Rebus looked at him. ‘Were you really expecting it to? Okay, how do I look?’ He zipped the suit up.
‘Just don’t bend down or breathe out.’
‘I could have you for body-shaming.’
‘Why do I get the feeling this is going to come back to bite me?’
They climbed to the next storey, Rebus stopping at the doorway of the murder flat. ‘Door’s not been forced,’ he commented.
‘It was open a few inches when the first responders got here.’
‘Did a neighbour call it in?’ He watched Atwal shrug. ‘How did he die?’
‘Stabbed, bled out.’
‘Somebody must have heard.’
‘These flats are mostly rentals, not all of them occupied. Good solid walls, too.’
Rebus had entered the flat, pausing halfway down the corridor.
‘Did you know him, John?’
‘If I did, you really shouldn’t have let me in.’
‘You’re telling me I’m better off not knowing?’
Rebus stood in the living room doorway. There wasn’t much to see. If Haggard had been lying on a carpet, it had since been removed for analysis. The bloodstain on the wooden floor beneath was dark and large, but nothing a sander and some varnish couldn’t do something with. Rebus’s attention, however, was on the wallpaper. It covered only one wall — abstract squiggles and spirals against a silver background — the others painted pale mauve. He swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry.