‘I’ve already considered it.’
‘Do you have any idea who’s outside?’
‘No.’
‘Or why?’
‘Too many suspects, Siobhan.’
Clarke thought of something. ‘You don’t use a stringer, do you?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Taking pictures for you.’
‘People send me stuff, but as yet I can’t afford to pay.’
‘Anything arrive tonight?’
‘Like what?’
‘A nightspot called the Elemental Club on Blair Street. Tynecastle’s finest on the randan.’
‘Oh, I know they go there, or some of them do, the ones with no wives and cash to spare.’
‘Someone was taking pics as they trooped in.’
‘Meaning you were there too — hence the alcohol intake?’
‘I was working.’
‘Do tell.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Oh — here’s that light you were talking about. What will the neighbours think? Is it safe to go to the window now?’
‘Probably.’ Clarke listened as Smith rose from her chair and crossed the living room.
‘Patrol car’s in the middle of the road, meaning I can’t see the other car.’
‘It’s still there, though?’
‘Does that mean he’s probably got nothing to hide?’
‘We’ll know soon enough.’
Clarke waited in silence, her eyes on her phone in case she got either a text or an incoming call. After ninety seconds, Smith came back on the line.
‘Car’s leaving. Will the police want to talk to me, do you think? Wait — one of them’s coming up the path.’
Clarke heard Smith’s doorbell ring. Then the sounds of her walking to the door and unlocking it. A brief muffled conversation and the door closed again, Smith lifting the phone to her mouth.
‘It was James Pelham,’ she said, a fresh tremor in her voice. ‘He told them he stopped to make a call.’
‘On his way where?’
‘I didn’t ask.’
‘I assume he’s not a neighbour?’
‘Nothing like.’ Smith paused. ‘He knows, doesn’t he?’
‘Knows what?’
‘That I’m the Courant. Meaning the one who flagged up his adultery for all the world to see.’
‘You’re sure it was the same car last night?’
‘What am I going to do? Why was he here?’
‘I don’t think he’ll come back, Laura, not now. Try to get some sleep and we’ll talk tomorrow.’
‘Thanks, Siobhan.’ Clarke could hear her taking a deep breath. ‘And if anything does happen regarding the Francis Haggard story...’
Clarke ended the call. Her phone rang almost immediately. The patrol repeated the version they’d told Laura Smith.
‘She says he was there two nights running,’ Clarke informed the officer. ‘Reckon he always stops there to make late-night calls?’
‘Don’t know,’ was the eventual reply. ‘But this is James Pelham we’re talking about. It’s not like he was casing the joint.’
‘Well, thanks for keeping an open mind. Maybe ask patrols to cruise that street the next night or two just in case.’ She paused. ‘You took note of the licence plate, yes?’
The silence on the line was as telling as any spoken answer.
‘It was a white saloon,’ the officer blurted out.
‘That’s hugely helpful,’ Clarke said.
‘Maybe a Volkswagen,’ the man was stumbling on as Clarke hung up.
James Pelham. Not just Stephanie’s ex, but also friend to Fraser Mackenzie. Businessman and charity donor.
Should she add stalker to that list?
Day Six
20
They met at an early-opening café near Tollcross. The booths were tight, Rebus just about managing to fit. He was halfway through a bacon roll when Clarke arrived.
‘Yours might be cold,’ he said. ‘Wanted it ordered before they got busy.’
She nodded and sat down, looking bleary. ‘I’ll take it with me,’ she said, focusing instead on the mug of sepia-coloured tea.
‘Late night?’ he asked.
‘Probably a few more of those in my future — we’ve got hold of about two decades’ worth of dirt on Tynecastle.’
‘Gathered by the Complaints?’ Rebus guessed. ‘Fox must be like a pig in shit.’
‘Your name seems to be a constant refrain.’
‘Oh aye?’
‘A conduit between the Crew and gangland. Any truth in that?’
He chewed silently for a few seconds. ‘Maybe some,’ he eventually conceded.
‘Some truth?’
It was his turn to nod. ‘But I don’t see where any of it gets you — I didn’t top Haggard. Stands to reason if it was a cop, it was someone still serving.’
‘Or else with something in their past that has to stay hidden at all costs.’
‘Such as?’
‘You tell me.’
‘I would if I could, Shiv.’ Rebus took another bite of roll. Brown sauce oozed from it, causing him to put his fingers to his mouth to clean them. The café had filled with workmen queuing for takeaway. Bacon sizzled and spat in the kitchen. The radio behind the counter was tuned to a local station with an excitable presenter.
‘There’s something else,’ Clarke said. ‘We’re questioning everyone with access to keys to the tenement. That includes anyone who works for QC Lettings. What can you tell me about Thomas Oram?’
‘I can tell you I doubt very much he killed a man he didn’t know.’
‘And you’re sure he didn’t know Francis Haggard?’
‘I don’t think he’s kept much from me so far. Even told me about his dad.’
‘What about him?’
‘Tommy gave him a bed in a lock-up just off Calder Road.’
‘Why?’
‘Jack wasn’t quite ready to go home.’
‘Couldn’t his son have got him a cheap deal with QC?’
‘Even cheap deals cost money.’
Clarke paused, as if trying to make her mind up about something.
‘Spit it out,’ Rebus said.
‘Francis Haggard used recreational drugs from time to time.’
‘Not exactly front-page news.’
‘But it might connect him more firmly to Fraser Mackenzie.’
Rebus stopped chewing. ‘Mackenzie’s dealing dope?’ He thought of the kids on their bikes, delivering to cars, delivering to homes, kids befriended by Tommy Oram...
‘What is it, John?’ Clarke demanded.
‘Nothing.’ He hoisted his mug and drank from it.
‘I worked that misper case, John. Tommy Oram’s dad used to work for Cafferty, so how does the son end up working for the man Cafferty sold his lettings business to?’
‘He knows the daughter.’
‘Tommy knows Gaby Mackenzie?’
‘I think that’s what I just said.’
It was Clarke’s turn to be thoughtful. Rebus kept his eyes on hers until her brain re-entered the room.
‘It’s nothing,’ she said, anticipating his question.
‘Whole lot of nothing going on around here,’ Rebus commented, wiping his hands on a serviette.
‘Gaby’s a DJ, did you know that? I watched her do a set last night at a club on Blair Street.’
‘Any good?’
‘Pretty popular.’
‘Anything I’d know — a bit of Jeff Beck or Rod Stewart?’
‘Music’s moved on.’
‘Got worse, you mean, like everything else.’ He looked at Clarke’s plate. ‘Apart from bacon rolls. You can trust a bacon roll.’
Clarke started to wrap hers up. ‘We got into a bit of a scrap as we were leaving the club.’
‘We?’