‘And bring a friend — bring lots of friends.’
With plenty of distance between them and the next occupied table, Clarke and Esson had found themselves discussing the case. They’d tried not to at first, but had soon run out of topics. Esson had swirled the ice in her glass as she started things off.
‘The arresting officers, I could tell from their notes that they were trying to go easy on him. One of their own and all that. And there’s Cheryl standing at the far end of the hall with blood pouring from her nose and tears streaming. It was the neighbours who called it in. Far from the first time they’d heard screams. They’d summoned us one time previously, but Haggard had talked his way out when the uniforms pitched up. I thought the days were past when we turned a blind eye to domestics.’
‘Doesn’t help when you’re confronted by someone who carries the same warrant card as you.’
‘Might have talked his way out again this time if he hadn’t started mouthing off, then given one of them a shove. Have you seen the flat?’ Clarke had shaken her head. ‘I went for a look-see. New development in Newhaven, close by the harbour, views across the water from the balcony. The neighbours work in finance. They told me the wall insulation’s really good, which is how they knew the screams were serious. You saw the photos of her injuries?’
‘New and old, Christine. I’ve memorised the descriptions. I’ve read the interviews you did with her.’
‘Sometimes being a spinster’s not so bad,’ Esson had sighed.
The two women had locked eyes and shared half-hearted smiles.
Walking home, Clarke considered the relationships she’d had. Plenty of them down the years, always spluttering to a halt like a car with a leak in its fuel line. She had come to the eventual realisation that she was fine on her own. She had her flat, music and books and TV. She had friends she could hang out with or whose dinner tables she could share. They had mostly stopped trying to pair her with eligible men (and women, come to think of it). Edinburgh wasn’t the worst place to be single. She didn’t look out of place at concerts or the cinema or theatre. Okay, she’d been bored for stretches of the COVID lockdown, but she’d also enjoyed the silent city and its emptied streets.
The flip side, of course, was that while some crimes had fallen off a cliff, others had increased, including incidents of domestic abuse. Relationships had become pressure cookers. With pubs and clubs closed, drinking took place at home. Tempers frayed; insults were hurled — followed by fists and whatever came to hand.
That was the card she’d been expecting Haggard to play when he sat down in the interview room. Not bloody PTSD.
She had reached her building and was fishing her keys out of her bag when she heard a noise behind her. She wedged one of the keys between her fingers, turning it into a short stabbing weapon, bunched her fist and turned, coming face to face with someone she recognised.
DI Malcolm Fox.
He’d been seated in what looked like a brand-new Mercedes. For once he wasn’t in one of his many well-tailored work suits. His hands were deep in the pockets of a dark nylon puffer jacket. Noting the key Clarke was holding, he raised both hands in a show of surrender.
‘Nice to see you too,’ he said.
‘You never call, you never write,’ Clarke replied. ‘It’s almost as if the longer you’re based at the Big House, the easier it is to forget all us little people.’
Fox worked at Gartcosh, Police Scotland’s nerve centre. She wasn’t sure why his career had taken off while hers was stuck in the bus lane, though her one-time colleague John Rebus had taken to calling Fox ‘the Brown-Nose Cowboy’, meaning he was a yes man, a willing and eager toady, and he looked good parked behind a desk in one of those suits.
‘I’m here now, aren’t I?’ Fox gave a fulsome shrug. As well as the jacket, he was wearing blue denims and tan-coloured brogues, none of it quite working. His dark hair was cut close to the scalp, gelled at the front, and his cheeks gleamed as if they saw more of a razor than was strictly necessary.
‘It’s eight o’clock at night, Malcolm.’
‘You weren’t at the office.’
‘I have a phone, though.’
He gave a twitch of his mouth. ‘I wanted to see you in the flesh.’
‘Why?’
He turned his head in the direction of Broughton Street. ‘Grab a drink?’
‘I’ve had a drink.’
‘With Christine Esson — your front desk told me. I did look in at one or two places in the vicinity...’
‘Still got a bit of the detective left in you.’ Fox had worked CID and then Internal Affairs before the big move to Gartcosh’s Specialist Crime Division.
His hands were back in the pockets of his jacket, as if to signal that he was feeling the cold. ‘Maybe a coffee, then?’ His eyes were on the door behind Clarke.
‘I don’t think so. I’m pretty exhausted.’
He nodded his understanding. ‘The Haggard case.’
Clarke couldn’t help her eyebrows going up. ‘You’re well informed.’
‘He’s playing the PTSD card, isn’t he? Or hasn’t he told you that yet?’
Clarke gave him a hard stare. His eyes were almost twinkling. He knew he had her.
‘You’ve got precisely ten minutes,’ she muttered, shoving the key into the lock.
They climbed the stairs in single file, Fox to the rear. ‘Saw you clocking the car,’ he said. ‘I could probably get you the same deal, if you’re in the market.’
‘I’m not.’
‘Well, bear it in mind. Is Rebus still driving that old Saab of his?’
‘How would I know?’
‘You don’t see him these days?’
‘Who I see and don’t see is none of your business.’
‘Just making conversation.’
‘Well don’t.’ They had reached her landing. She opened the door and stalked down the hall. A quick survey of the living room told her she had nothing to worry about. Relatively tidy and evidence-free. She draped her coat over a chair and sat down, facing the doorway, where Fox now stood while he examined his surroundings.
‘Cleaner’s week off?’
‘Says the man whose best friend is a microwave.’
‘I actually know a few recipes these days. I’ll cook for you one night.’
‘Is that a threat?’ Fox just smiled and started unzipping his jacket. ‘Hardly worth your while,’ she added.
‘So no coffee, then?’
‘How the hell do you know about Haggard?’
‘He’s a police officer. It’s my job to know.’
‘In your past life maybe, but you’re not Complaints any longer.’
‘But I was — and my boss says that’s what’s important.’ He gestured towards the sofa and took her stony silence as permission to make himself at least partially comfortable. ‘We’re a bit worried about this case, Siobhan. Worried about possible repercussions.’
‘The bad publicity, you mean?’
‘A rogue cop is never a good look.’
‘Not the first time an officer’s been done for domestic abuse, so I’m guessing it’s not just that, meaning it’s got to be the PTSD angle.’
‘I worked Complaints for a number of years, Siobhan. Tynecastle was seldom off our radar, but we never could get anything to stick.’
‘I’m still not sure how you know he was going to cry PTSD.’