Clarke met his gaze. ‘I suppose we can try,’ she said. ‘Are you a football fan?’
‘More rugby.’
‘Music?’
‘Modern classical.’
‘Books?’
‘Maybe the occasional thriller.’
‘You’re not making this easy, are you?’
He copied her smile. ‘How about you?’ he said. ‘What brought you into the police?’
‘Doesn’t that qualify as shop talk?’
‘Not if it’s telling me more about you.’
‘How long have you got?’
‘You’re the one with a later engagement.’ He eased back in his seat, readying himself to listen.
‘Just don’t let me drink any more of these,’ Clarke said, gesturing towards her glass. Then she began to tell him.
19
Fox was waiting for Clarke outside the Elemental Club, standing slightly apart from the cluster of young smokers and looking more like a concerned parent ready to escort his daughter home than someone ready for a loud and sweaty dance floor. He was wearing a jacket suited to woodland walks, beneath which Clarke could make out a pale blue polo shirt.
‘What?’ he said.
‘Your party shirt?’
‘It’s got short sleeves. And look.’ He hoisted one leg. ‘Jeans.’
‘Nicely pressed, too. Come on then, let’s see how you blend in.’
The two burly doormen, dressed in regulation black, checked them out but saw no reason to stop them going in. A steep staircase led down below pavement level. There were plenty of these underground venues on and around Cowgate. It made sense, Clarke supposed, in that it provided a level of natural soundproofing. The bass grew more insistent as they paid at a makeshift desk and allowed the staff member to stamp their wrists.
‘Do you want us to track and trace?’ Fox enquired.
‘If your phone can get a signal,’ she told him with a shrug.
‘Vaccine passport?’ This time she shook her head.
The corridor eventually led them to a single cavernous room, lights strobing from recesses halfway up its bare stone walls. There was a bar in one corner, a few tables on a raised platform, and a long ledge down one side of the room where most of the clubbers seemed content to sit. The dance floor was only half full, with what looked like students keen to get the night started.
‘It’s still early,’ Clarke explained to Fox.
‘Wonder if they’ve put a cap on the capacity.’
‘If you catch COVID, I promise I’ll do your shopping.’
‘In that case, drinks are on me.’
‘I’ll stick to orange juice.’
‘You sure?’
She nodded and took the only empty table, looking around. There was no sign of any DJ, so she craned her neck and noticed a minstrels’ gallery immediately above her. It faced the bar but couldn’t really be seen from where she sat, so she got up again, slipped her mask on, and joined Fox in the queue. Now she had a better view of the upstairs. Behind a waist-high glass panel there was a long table arrayed with boxes and flashing lights, and behind it all stood Gaby Mackenzie, shoulders hunched as she listened to her headphones, fingers busy teeing up the next track. It looked as if her main aid was a small silver notebook computer, though she also rifled through some CDs, pausing to sip from a plastic beaker with a fixed straw.
‘When does the actual music start?’ Fox asked from behind his mask, handing Clarke her drink. His seemed to be identical. He nodded towards the tables, but Clarke squeezed herself into a space on the ledge, leaving him with no option but to stand in front of her. As they removed their masks, she gestured over his shoulder and he turned, clocking Gaby Mackenzie and giving a nod of understanding.
When the next tune arrived, Clarke recognised it from the first few notes: Boards of Canada. It quickly morphed into something else, however, as the DJ added her own elements. A rapper joined the fray, appearing seamlessly. Clarke was quietly impressed. When she looked up at the gallery again, Mackenzie acknowledged her by raising her beaker.
‘We’ve been spotted,’ Clarke told Fox. He had removed his jacket and loosened the last of the three buttons on his short-sleeved shirt.
‘She’s playing your song?’
‘In a manner of speaking. You really didn’t have to come, you know.’
Fox gave a shrug. ‘Nice to have a break from the files.’
‘Anything there leap out at you so far?’
‘Just that the worst excesses — albeit unproven — I’d classify as historic, carried out by officers long retired or in some cases even deceased.’
‘I thought you might say that, since that’s the result you’re after.’
‘Doesn’t matter what I want, it’s there in black and white. I lost count of how many times John Rebus’s name came up, usually in cahoots with a sergeant called Alan Fleck.’
‘I’ve heard of him.’ Clarke lifted her drink to her lips. The orange juice tasted cheap, not helped by the addition of three ice cubes. But then no matter how cheap the juice, ice was cheaper. ‘John never actually worked at Tynecastle, though, right? So he was never a member of the Crew?’
‘Honorary status. He was still their go-to guy.’
‘For what exactly?’
‘If they needed a message passed on to Cafferty or one of the other thugs John seems to have enjoyed rubbing shoulders with.’ Fox paused. ‘You can’t tell me that all of this is coming as news to you. Those files show you covering Rebus’s arse more than once when the two of you worked together.’ He paused again, but Clarke wasn’t minded to add or admit anything. ‘Look, there’s something I want to tell you...’
‘I’m listening.’
He leaned in further towards her. ‘It’s Fleck I want. Every time we tried in my Complaints days, he somehow wriggled free. So for me it’s not strictly about deflecting attention from anything currently happening.’ He paused. ‘If the ACC knew this, she’d probably pull me from the case. See, it doesn’t really bother me if the walls of Tynecastle come tumbling down.’
‘And how about John?’
Fox shrugged. ‘Difficult to take Fleck down without Rebus falling too. Too much shared history.’
‘Then we might have a problem.’
‘Despite which, I get the feeling it leaves a bad taste in your mouth, the way this stuff keeps being covered up year after year, decade after decade. Tell me I’m wrong.’
Clarke concentrated on her drink again, determined not to give him the satisfaction of agreeing with him. She noticed that someone had joined DJ Gabz behind the decks. Looked like one of the doormen. His mouth was close to her ear, telling her something. She nodded before slipping her headphones back on and getting back to her job, the visitor disappearing into the darkness around her. The same doorman appeared in the main room a few moments later, but lingered just long enough to satisfy himself that there was no trouble in the offing. The soundtrack had shifted gears, becoming louder and edgier, the students growing ever more animated.
‘Is this techno?’ Fox asked, a brief look of pain crossing his face.
‘Been a while since I checked the various categories,’ Clarke answered, realising after a moment that he could no longer make out what she was saying. The dance floor was filling, people moving their hips and feet, holding drinks aloft. It was hard to tell if Gaby Mackenzie was pleased by the reaction. She was checking the screen of her phone, the bottom half of her face illuminated by its display. Clarke noted the arrival of another figure next to her, a different doorman though almost identical to the first in size and uniform. She thought of Leckie’s description of the driver who’d collected Gaby from Leith. Her parents had found her a solicitor PDQ — Clarke wondered if they’d sent the chauffeur too, or had it been someone Gaby herself knew and trusted?