‘This your local?’ Leckie asked, hoisting his pint glass in a toast.
‘Once upon a time.’
‘I know John Rebus haunted the place — maybe still does, for all I know. And yes, I know you and him used to work together.’
‘You’ve been checking up on me?’
‘Lawyers like to know who they’re dealing with. Your name and his have been mentioned on the odd occasion.’
‘I’m not entirely sure I like the sound of that. Cheers.’ She touched her glass to his and took a sip.
‘How’s the case going? Am I allowed to ask?’
‘Of course you are.’
‘And?’
‘It’s confidential.’ She watched him eventually smile. ‘But let me ask you something — were you surprised when you heard?’
‘That he was dead?’ He thought about this for the best part of a minute. ‘I suppose I was and I wasn’t. I’d asked his analyst if he considered him a suicide risk. He told me it was sixty — forty against.’
‘Men like Francis Haggard rarely top themselves. Or if they do, they wait until they’ve killed their partner first.’
‘I don’t think that was ever going to happen.’
‘This analyst of his,’ Clarke said, ‘it was a ruse, wasn’t it? Started seeing him after the first recorded assault?’
‘If you go back far enough into his phone records, I think you’ll find he tried several times to book sessions with psychotherapists prior to that incident. Mostly they were booked solid. Eventually he found one. So to answer your question, no, I don’t think it was a ruse.’
‘He seriously wanted to change?’
‘I’m sure of it.’
‘Really?’
‘He grew up in the Catholic faith, did you know that?’
‘He said it got him teased at Tynecastle.’
Leckie nodded. He was slowly revolving his glass on its coaster. ‘He was talking about seeing a priest, not just for confession, but as a way back into his faith.’
‘Psychoanalysis and religion — he was trying every angle, wasn’t he?’
‘That’s not what it felt like. I sensed him opening up after a lifetime of hiding emotion and weakness.’
‘Because those would have been seized on at Tynecastle?’
‘Seized on and ridiculed.’
‘So when he was opening up, did he mention any enemies to you, people he had reason to be afraid of?’
‘I think the person he was really scared of was himself. He hated how he’d stopped being able to control his temper.’ He met her gaze. ‘I genuinely believe that, and I know whereof I speak.’ He broke off long enough to take a sip from his glass. ‘My father abused my mother for years and we all turned a blind eye. Grandparents knew, uncles and aunts, family friends, neighbours... Nothing was ever said.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Never any contrition either, just lies and denials and those occasional rages, right up until a stroke turned him into an invalid. My mother nursed him until the day he died, can you credit that? I was in my mid teens by then, and when I was alone with him, I vented. Nothing he could do but lie there and take it. But I attended his funeral, same as everyone else, and we all went back to pretending again.’ He released the breath he’d been holding and blinked away the flashback. ‘When Francis spoke about how the job had coarsened him... well, it seemed to make sense.’ He looked at her. ‘Did I mention my dad was a cop?’
Clarke nodded her understanding. ‘So you think the job played a part in Francis’s death, but is there anything specific we should be looking at?’
‘Client confidentiality, Siobhan.’
‘Strictly off the record, though.’
Leckie thought again. Clarke realised that she was warming to him. He seemed to her one of those people who lived a considered life — weighing up pros and cons; empathetic; looking for the positives.
‘He used recreational drugs with a fair degree of regularity, but since he could afford them, I don’t suppose that’s an issue. He wasn’t thrilled at the prospect of going to jail — he knew that inmates don’t take kindly to disgraced police officers. I dare say it didn’t help that he had helped put away innocent men.’
‘He told you that?’
‘He told me these men were guilty of crimes, just not the ones ascribed to them.’
‘Specific cases?’
Leckie shook his head.
‘What about the names he was planning to name?’
‘We hadn’t got that far.’ He thought for a further moment. ‘He mentioned several times that police officers are often placed in a prison’s sex offenders wing — harder for the general population to get access to them. He said he’d rather be knifed in the food queue than have to hang out with that sort.’
‘He definitely said “knifed”?’
‘I think so.’
Clarke had taken out her phone. She held up a finger, meaning she needed a minute. Then she walked outside onto Young Street. The setts gleamed in the street light, slick from recent rain. Christine Esson eventually answered.
‘Sorry about earlier,’ Esson said.
‘Forget about it. Air sometimes needs clearing, and you were right — you’ve been on this case from the get-go. You deserve not to be shoved in a corner.’
‘So why aren’t you here, festooning me with apologies and caramel bars?’
‘I’m in a meeting with Haggard’s solicitor. I take it you’ve started on those Complaints files?’
‘You saw them arrive, right? You know how much there is to wade through?’
‘I’m trying not to think about it.’
‘Should you even be talking to the lawyer?’
‘Probably a grey area. But it got me thinking — Tynecastle has a history of fitting up suspects. I’m wondering how many of those Haggard played a part in and whether any of the guilty have been released recently.’
‘So we’d be looking for a criminal mastermind then, the sort who’d know that he’d just moved into a rented flat?’
‘They could have followed him.’
‘Rather than stabbing him as soon as they laid eyes on him?’
‘You’re right, it was just a thought.’
‘It is a thought, though. Maybe we could give it to Liam and Noel.’
‘You mean as in Oasis?’
‘My new name for King and Ritchie. King does everything but call him “our kid”.’
Clarke smiled. ‘What’s Fox up to?’
‘He’s just gone home — early for him. The DCI’s clocked off, too. Just us worker bees left. Should I let you get back to your grey area?’
‘See you tomorrow, Christine.’ Clarke ended the call and went back inside. Fresh drinks had appeared on the table.
‘Work,’ she explained, sitting down again.
‘Here’s to it.’ They clinked glasses.
‘Let me ask you something else,’ she said. ‘Do you do much for the Mackenzies?’
‘Personally, no. The commercial side of my practice does. That’s who sent me to look after Gaby.’
Clarke was checking her phone, finding photos of Fraser Mackenzie. She turned the screen towards Leckie. ‘The man who picked her up in the Range Rover?’
‘God, no.’ Leckie took the phone from her as he studied it. ‘The driver looked more the sort you’d cross the street to avoid.’
‘That’s what I thought,’ Clarke said, taking her phone back. She lifted her drink in silence and took a sip.
‘Maybe,’ Leckie said, ‘we can draw a line under the shop stuff and just talk instead.’
‘You mean like normal everyday people?’
‘You don’t think it can be done?’