‘She’s lost everything,’ she’d said afterwards.
‘They both have.’ Clarke just hoped Cheryl had the strength to get through it.
When her phone rang again, it was Ronnie Ogilvie. ‘We’re another step closer,’ he said. ‘Teenager on his way home from his girlfriend’s place. He lives one street over from Laura. Saw the Range Rover tearing away. Driver had his window down. He was pulling off a black balaclava and our witness got a good view of him. He’s given me the description, and I’m pretty sure if I put Gareth Crosbie in a line-up, we’ll get a match.’
‘That’s good, Ronnie.’
‘Geoff Dickinson is on his way here from Gartcosh. He reckons this is the breakthrough he’s been looking for.’
‘Make sure he gives you the credit.’
‘You sound tired, Siobhan.’
‘Do I? Maybe I am.’
She knew she should be feeling the opposite of wrung out. In a short time, the DCI would open a bottle of something and they would toast the closure of the case. The procurator fiscal was already locked away with Trask in her inner sanctum, the two of them sharing facts and discussing tactics. Getting a defendant to a courtroom was one thing, Clarke knew, but the result was never a foregone conclusion. She was wondering what precisely had driven Stephanie to do it — the thought of losing the divorce money, or the worry that she might lose the love and affection of her sister? Had she judged them equal in weight? Had she known what the outcome would be from the moment she stepped into her car?
The Porsche had been sealed and transported to the forensic facility at Howdenhall. If there was blood to be found, they would find it. Clarke had also arranged a search warrant for the Pelham home. They would check for stained clothing and attempts to clean up the same. Stephanie’s computer and both her phones would be taken to the lab to be pored over.
She noticed that Fox was standing by one of the towers of Complaints boxes, staring at it as if considering giving it a kick. He seemed to sense her reading his mind, and turned his head in her direction, offering a huge shrug.
‘They could be yours if you want them,’ he told her.
‘What could?’ Jason Ritchie walked into the office, a carrier bag hanging from one hand. He reached into it, producing a bottle of white and one of red.
‘I prefer beer,’ George Gamble pretended to grumble. ‘But for once, I might make an exception.’
Their heads turned as Christine Esson entered, followed by Colin King. Esson was nodding, letting the room know they had a result. She approached Clarke.
‘Is Cheryl okay?’ she asked.
‘Just a bit of whiplash, I think.’ Clarke held out a hand. ‘Congratulations, Christine.’
Esson looked at the hand, but then ignored it, pulling Clarke into a hug instead.
31
It was gone ten when the message arrived on Rebus’s phone. It was from a number he didn’t recognise, but that didn’t matter — it would be untraceable, a burner maybe. He knew who’d sent it.
The Moorfoot right now. Jack Oram will be there. Bring the stuff.
Brillo looked disheartened as Rebus grabbed his coat and keys. ‘You’ve had a walk,’ he chided the dog. But Brillo padded after him to the door, hoping to make him change his mind.
Outside, the Saab was parked twenty yards further up Arden Street. As Rebus walked towards it, a car came towards him, heading in the opposite direction. White Audi, driver’s window lowered. He recognised the face behind the wheel. Andrew, Cafferty’s lackey, actually smiled as he passed. Straight away, Rebus knew why. The Saab’s boot stood gaping, Rebus obviously not the only person in Edinburgh skilled with a crowbar. The emptied interior gave him the blankest of stares. He cursed, turning his head to where the Audi was making a right turn onto Warrender Park Road. Still cursing, he slammed the boot shut, but it sprang open again. He tried once more, with the same result.
‘Outstanding,’ he muttered to himself, climbing into the driver’s seat and checking, as suspected, that he had no visibility at all in the rear-view mirror. He started the engine anyway. He reckoned the Audi would head for Melville Drive, but would it then turn left or right? At the junction, he peered in both directions, but couldn’t see any white cars. Had Andrew driven up Marchmont Road instead? There were too many possibilities — and he was expected at the Moorfoot.
When his phone buzzed, he checked the screen and then answered.
‘Bit busy here, Siobhan,’ he announced.
‘I just thought you’d want to know we got someone for Francis Haggard’s murder.’
‘Chris Agnew?’
‘No, though he was having an affair with Stephanie Pelham, so you weren’t too wide of the mark.’
‘Who then?’
‘Stephanie’d had a one-night stand with Francis. He was threatening to go public. She stood to lose everything. He stuck a note on her windscreen, threw a stone at her window to alert her.’
The words were pouring out of her. Rebus remembered the feeling well. When you got a result, there was always someone you needed to tell.
‘So off she went to meet him,’ Clarke ran on, ‘taking a knife from the kitchen.’
‘Premeditated, then?’
‘Her team will try arguing otherwise, but the procurator fiscal seems fairly confident.’
‘And all the Tynecastle stuff?’
‘Turns out not to have been a factor, meaning it goes back in the vaults, luckily for some.’
‘Which counts as a result for Police Scotland, too. No embarrassing skeletons tumbling from closets. Is Fox pissed off?’
‘He reckons he still might get his day, if the walls at Tynecastle keep crumbling.’ She paused, tale told. Rebus reckoned the next stage would be a sleepless exhaustion. ‘So what are you up to?’ she asked. ‘You sound like you’re in the car.’
‘Just a bit restless, you know how it is. Thought a night drive might help.’ He glanced in his mirror and was rewarded with a view of the flapping boot. ‘I had Cafferty on the phone earlier, unhappy that I’d grassed him up to you.’
‘Probably not relevant now, if it ever was.’
‘Probably not,’ Rebus made show of agreeing.
‘I assume it was you that told Laura we were digging into the Complaints files on Tynecastle?’
‘Reckoned I owed her a favour. How’s she doing, by the way?’
‘She’s fine — and the noose is tightening around Crosbie.’
‘Find anything at the lock-up?’
‘Plenty of prints on the bottles. They’ve gone for analysis, as have the rags.’ She paused. ‘Team said someone had been there before them, made a bit of a mess.’
‘Oh?’
‘Emptied paint pots everywhere. Whoever it was should have checked the foldaway bed, though — hundreds of bagged pills taped to its underside.’
‘Well, isn’t that something?’
‘One day maybe you’ll share the full story, but right now I’m off for a long soak and a fresh glass of wine. Just out driving, eh?’
‘That’s right.’
‘It’s only that when you answered, you said you were busy. To me that means you’ve a destination in mind.’
‘Enjoy your moment of victory, Siobhan. They’re few and far between.’
‘Your way of telling me to mind my own business?’