‘Do you use narcotics, Mr Fleck?’ Clarke asked, keeping the question casual.
‘No comment,’ Alan Fleck said.
It was Malcolm Fox’s turn to smile. ‘Took you long enough,’ he said.
After they’d let Fleck go, Clarke and Fox lingered in the corridor, breathing in lungfuls of slightly fresher air.
‘One thing he wasn’t wrong about,’ Clarke commented. ‘That room is a COVID risk.’ Then, her eyes on Fox, ‘Computer files and written notes?’
Fox gave a shrug. ‘I was winging it. Definitely got to him, though. That was a nice line about the drugs, too.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Can we ID suspects from just the eyes, though?’
‘Given the right budget and a friendly face at Special Branch...’
Christine Esson appeared in the office doorway. ‘We think we’ve got something,’ she told them, drawing them inside.
Trask waited until she had the team’s full attention. ‘We have a name for at least one bar where Francis Haggard might have spent some time on the afternoon before he was killed. A regular saw his photo in the Evening News and called it in. We need to go talk to the staff and the witness. So far it’s an ID from a grainy newspaper photo, so I’m not pinning up any bunting, but it’s as good a lead as we have right now.’
‘What’s the name of the bar?’ Gamble asked.
‘Drifter’s. It’s on Great Junction Street — basically walking distance from here.’
‘And from his flat,’ Clarke added.
Trask nodded. ‘Take Christine with you. Let us know what you find.’
‘Will do.’
‘Colin and Jason, go see the caller. I’ve got his details here.’ She held out a slip of paper, which King took from her with the eagerness of a seagull snatching a chip.
They all grabbed their jackets, Clarke glancing in Fox’s direction to see if he felt snubbed. But he was at his desk, peering at the screen of his computer. Downstairs, the two uniforms from Tynecastle were still waiting, propped against a wall and passing the time on their phones. Recognising Clarke, they began to shift their feet. She shook her head.
‘Someone will be with you shortly,’ she said, opening the door and making her exit. Once outside, Esson turned to her.
‘That was a lie, wasn’t it?’ she asked.
‘Obviously,’ Clarke said with a thin smile.
King and Ritchie barrelled out through the door after them, Ritchie giving a thumbs-up.
‘They’ll learn,’ Esson smirked.
‘It’s still nice to see, though,’ Clarke mused.
The day wasn’t bad, and they knew they’d be quicker walking than taking a car. Drifter’s was trying to make itself look like a Hawaiian tiki bar, with fake straw on its facade and pedal steel guitar music playing over the speakers. There was just the one server, dressed in a loud shirt and with a pink plastic lei around his neck. The half-dozen drinkers seemed resistant to the theme and were sticking to pints of lager. Clarke showed the barman her warrant card and then a photo of Francis Haggard.
‘He was in here three days ago,’ she said.
‘Afternoon or evening?’
‘Afternoon, we think.’
‘Well, that was my shift.’ The man studied the photo again and nodded. ‘Think he’d had one or two before he arrived. Didn’t cause any trouble, but looked like he might.’ He glanced over to a table where two men sat talking. ‘Hey, Colin,’ he called out, ‘you spoke to him, didn’t you?’
The man called Colin, tall, skinny and probably retired, got up and walked over to join them.
‘Oh aye,’ he said, looking at the photo. ‘He’s the one that died, aye?’
‘That’s right.’
‘He was in a bit of a mood. I happened to be passing his table and told him it might never happen.’ He kept his eyes on the photo. ‘It did, though, didn’t it?’
‘We would have appreciated you coming forward with this information, sir,’ Esson scolded him.
‘What information? That a guy sat in a pub and had a drink?’
Clarke tried to keep her tone light. ‘Did he happen to say anything else, maybe where he was headed next?’
‘Don’t think so.’ The man paused. ‘No, hang on — he saw that I had the paper folded open at the racing pages, asked me if I was a betting man. Well, I do like a wee flutter and I probably said as much. He told me he preferred casinos. Higher stakes, I think he said. Which is fine for those who can afford it, but he looked to me like he’d slept in a hedge.’
‘What time was this?’
‘Maybe four or five o’clock.’
‘My shift finishes at six,’ the barman commented.
‘And he’d left by then?’
Both men nodded. ‘Don’t ask me to swear on it,’ Colin said, ‘but he might’ve flagged down a taxi. He went out, and next thing a black cab pulls up. Unmistakable engine they’ve got. You can hear it above a ukulele, which can be a blessing in here.’
‘You love it really,’ the barman told him. Then, to Clarke and Esson, ‘He paid cash, I remember now — bit of a rarity these days. He told me to have one for myself. Speaking of which, drink on the house?’
Clarke shook her head. ‘We’ll have something, but we’ll pay our way, thanks all the same.’
They ordered fruit juices and took them to a table, sitting opposite one another.
‘Casinos?’ Esson speculated.
‘More likely he just went home,’ Clarke said.
‘He wouldn’t have needed a taxi for that.’
‘After a skinful he might.’
‘Sounds to me like he was steering clear of the flat, though, waiting for the heat to die down. He probably did sleep rough the previous night.’
‘How many casinos in the city?’ Clarke asked.
‘These days, fewer than half a dozen. Wouldn’t take us long to check.’
‘Start by phoning around with his description?’
Esson nodded. ‘But maybe take pity on those poor sods stuck in the waiting area,’ she said.
‘Why?’
‘Because we’re better than them.’
‘I suppose that’s true,’ Clarke said. ‘But all the same, let’s not rush our drinks, eh?’
22
Rebus opened the door to the pub’s back room, carrying his pint of IPA with him.
‘This the party?’ he said. He recognised Fleck, Driscoll, Agnew, Turnbull and a few other faces, but by no means all of them. The space wasn’t large, three narrow tables forming a U shape. There was a frosted window with vertical bars at the far end, and padded benches rather than individual chairs. Every one of the dozen or so heads turned towards him, conversation paused.
‘Bunch up a bit, lads,’ Fleck said with affected levity. ‘Nice of you to join us, John.’
‘I’m not staying,’ Rebus declared. ‘Just passing and thought I’d say hello.’
‘Just passing.’ The speaker gave a disbelieving snort. Rebus knew the face. Jimmy Callan. They’d retired around the same time.
‘Heard you were dead, Jimmy,’ Rebus said, raising his glass to his lips.
‘In better health than some.’
‘Well, you can probably afford to go private, with all those backhanders you took.’
‘You’d know more about that than me.’
‘Time was, I’d probably have agreed with you — I thought I knew every scam going, along with who was pulling them. But now I’m not so sure.’
‘We learned from the best,’ Agnew said, eyes flitting between Rebus and Fleck as he raised his glass.
‘The best or the worst,’ Rebus replied. ‘Sometimes it’s hard to tell them apart.’ He looked around the room again. ‘How many have been grilled so far? I assume the ones who have are here to pass their wisdom on to those still waiting.’