‘Should we maybe make her a coffee?’ Ritchie asked.
‘Only if it’s from the jar marked Valium, son.’
‘Besides,’ Christine Esson added, ‘door closed equals not to disturb, remember?’ She was standing next to the murder wall, checking the timeline. They now had Drifter’s, the casino and two taxis, but the thinking was, Haggard would have been unlikely to undertake the long walk home from Corstorphine. Stood to reason there was one last taxi trip still to be accounted for. Cheryl and her sister had been asked and swore he hadn’t been back, so what else had he done with himself?
Esson returned to her computer and replayed the casino footage. Something had been niggling at her, and now she realised what it was. She pulled up the list of belongings found on the body. It took her a moment to realise Ritchie was standing at her shoulder.
‘Look at this,’ she said, showing him the footage. ‘What’s our victim doing?’
‘Getting money from a cash machine.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Putting it in his pocket.’ Ritchie couldn’t see where this was going.
‘He takes the receipt too, though, doesn’t he?’ Esson jabbed at the screen. ‘But it’s not listed among his effects.’
‘Probably tossed it, same as I’d have done.’
‘He pockets it along with the notes,’ Esson stated, playing the footage one more time.
‘And at some point he took one of those notes out to pay for something, found the receipt and got rid of it.’ Ritchie shrugged at the obviousness of the explanation and headed back to his desk.
Esson watched Siobhan Clarke come back in from the hallway, where she’d been taking a call.
‘Anything we should know about?’ she nudged.
‘Elizabeth Mackenzie,’ Clarke explained, ‘backing up the story about Cafferty and the photo of Francis Haggard.’
‘The photo he denied ever receiving?’
‘Looks like we’ve caught him being economical with the truth.’
‘And to a murder inquiry at that. I’d say that’s cause to bring him in.’
‘No wheelchair access, though — and I doubt his solicitor will want him being questioned in reception.’
‘I’ve always wanted to check out a gangster’s interior design.’
Clarke watched Fox enter the office. He kept his eyes front as he walked to Trask’s door, knocking and entering.
‘Brave man,’ Esson commented.
‘Take Jason with you,’ Clarke told her. Esson waited for enlightenment. ‘I’ve got stuff to do, and you know as much about the photo as I do.’
‘I know John Rebus’s version.’
‘Elizabeth Mackenzie took it and sent it to Cafferty.’
‘Did she tell you why?’
‘She said it would wind him up, seeing a cop in an old flat of his.’ Clarke saw the look Esson was giving her. ‘I know, doesn’t make sense to me either. There’s plenty she’s not telling us — maybe Mr Cafferty will be more forthcoming.’
‘You really think so?’
‘Just see what you can do.’
‘Fine, but while you’re here...’ Esson signalled for Clarke to look at the monitor. ‘The receipt that came with the withdrawal — no sign of it among Haggard’s possessions.’
‘And?’
‘And Jason thinks he probably threw it away. From the look on your face, I’m sensing you agree.’
‘Feel free to double-check — his belongings are in the evidence cupboard. But go talk to Cafferty first.’
Clarke turned and headed to Trask’s office, copying Fox by knocking and then going in without waiting. Trask was seated, popping ibuprofen tablets from a blister pack. She swallowed two with a mouthful of Fanta from a plastic bottle, then gave the bottle a little shake.
‘Cheaper than water, can you believe it?’
‘Journalists a bit gnarly?’ Clarke asked.
‘One of them knew about all the boxes we’ve been going through.’
‘And for once it can’t have been Laura Smith,’ Clarke said.
Trask stared at her. ‘And why is that?’
Clarke realised she’d said the wrong thing. ‘Because she’s currently in my flat, recuperating from a petrol bomb attack on her home.’
‘Sleeping with the enemy,’ Fox muttered.
‘It’s called helping a friend,’ Clarke snapped back. Then, to Trask, ‘So who was it knew about the Complaints trawl?’
‘Trainee from the Record. He looked about fifteen, dressed in a suit he might grow into.’
‘Could just be that someone saw the boxes being hauled in here from the van and thought it worth telling the press?’
‘Whichever way it happened, it means the media know our magnifying glass is on Tynecastle. Speaking of which, the schoolkid also mentioned a stooshie last night on Palmerston Place, Tynecastle officers involved.’ She looked to the two detectives for clarification, but they just shrugged. Trask rubbed a hand across her forehead. ‘Have we finished interviewing them all yet?’
‘Few stragglers to pick up,’ Clarke admitted. ‘Currently off with COVID.’
‘Have any of these chats taken us a single step forward?’
‘There’s a lot still to do,’ Fox said. ‘Mobile phones, home computers—’
‘That’s why I came in, actually,’ Clarke interrupted. ‘Chris Agnew, I just wondered if we could go a little deeper on him.’
‘Any particular reason why?’
‘Just a whisper that he might have had some history with the deceased.’
‘What kind of history?’
Clarke shrugged. ‘A bit of bad blood.’
Trask looked across her desk again. ‘Has his phone been checked?’
‘Plenty opportunity to delete anything he didn’t want us seeing,’ Fox added. ‘Same goes for all of them. It’s why we’ve asked their service providers for call records. It might not tell us much, but it’s probably worth a punt.’
‘Retrieval can take time, though,’ Clarke said, ‘which is why I thought a word from the ACC’s office might work as a booster.’
‘I can certainly make the call,’ Trask said. ‘Anything to move this bloody case along. Speaking of which, have we got any whiff of his movements after he got out of that taxi?’
‘We’ve put word out to the cab firms,’ Clarke assured her. ‘I’m confident we’ll fill in the gaps.’
‘Well, that’s certainly a load off my mind.’ Trask gestured for them to leave.
‘Should I close the door after us?’ Fox asked.
‘You definitely bloody should,’ she replied.
By the time he caught up with Clarke, she was running a Google check on Palmerston Place. A couple of clicks later, they were staring at the shaky footage. At one point the camera zoomed in on Rob Driscoll’s furious, reddened face as he choked the life out of what appeared to be a helpless male approximately half his height and bulk.
‘Not great optics,’ Fox commented. As he walked back to his desk, Clarke called Laura Smith.
‘I’m gutted,’ Smith told her. ‘Half a dozen bloody bloggers got there first and my fire’s already yesterday’s news.’
‘Did you tell the Record that we had an MIT office full of Complaints files relating to Tynecastle?’
Smith paused for a moment. ‘I take it my question got asked,’ she eventually admitted. ‘I’d have been there myself if it wasn’t for this meeting with the insurers.’
‘What I’m wondering is: who told you?’ Clarke closed her eyes for a second. ‘Actually, you don’t even need to answer that.’
‘You home for supper tonight? I can cook again if you like.’
‘Only if you promise to make half as much.’ She watched Fox approach her desk. ‘Got to go,’ she said, ending the call.