‘So does pee,’ Rebus responded, gesturing to where Brillo had cocked his leg against Malcolm Fox’s ankle.
There was a space directly across the street from Clarke’s tenement. Lucky, she thought. Then she wondered if it had maybe been in use until just before she got there. She remembered the car from the previous night. Exact same spot. Having locked the Astra, she looked up and down the street, but all the cars seemed to be empty. No sign of anyone loitering on the pavement either. As she approached the tenement, though, she saw there was something scrawled on the door. Big fat silver letters against the dark-blue paint. She took out her phone and switched on the torch function, though she had already made the words out. But she just wanted to be sure they said what she thought they did.
PIG SCUM LIVES HERE!!!
PIG SCUM OUT!!!
She scanned the rest of the door. It was pristine. But then she noticed the intercom. The same silver pen had been used to cover up her name. She took a paper tissue from her pocket and ran it over the ink. Not quite dry. Another look up and down the street before she slid her key into the lock. Once inside, she stood with her back to the door, waiting. But no one was hiding, no one coming down the stairs towards her. Her heart was racing as she climbed to her landing, checking the door to her flat. The graffiti artist hadn’t come this far. Or if he had...
She unlocked the door and studied the hallway before walking in. Locking the door behind her, she crossed to the living room window, staring at the street and the windows opposite before closing the shutters and beginning to turn on the lights.
Thursday
8
There were TV cameras outside the police station on Queen Charlotte Street. Approaching, Siobhan Clarke saw Catherine Bloom giving an interview. Against her chest she held a blown-up photograph of her son. At her shoulder stood Dougal Kelly, making sure his JUSTICE FOR STUART sign was visible. Stuart’s father stood well back from the action, watching his wife with what to Clarke looked like a mixture of pride and resignation. The campaign had been long and apparently tireless, but had taken its toll. Half a dozen print journalists were eavesdropping on the TV interview, holding up their phones to record the exchange. One of them gave a hopeful look towards Clarke, but she shook her head. She was barely inside the building when the text message arrived: Meet later? But cafés and wine bars with Laura Smith had been the start of Clarke’s spot of bother with ACU. Smith was the only crime reporter left at the Scotsman, and the relationship had proved fruitful, Smith never overstepping the mark, never printing anything without first checking that Clarke was okay with it. But when she had started covering the suspensions of various officers at the top of the Police Scotland tree, ACU had come to demand who was leaking.
Truth was, Smith wouldn’t even tell her good friend Siobhan Clarke.
Ignoring the text, Clarke climbed the stairs. She was a bit bleary, having spent half an hour the previous night removing as much of the graffiti on her tenement door as she could. She had checked it this morning — the words were still there, though they were faint. What would her neighbours think? Some knew she was a cop, some didn’t. She would find a painter to cover it up with a couple of fresh coats, just as soon as she could stop yawning. Because that was another thing — around 1a.m., as she’d been drifting off to sleep, there’d been another call from the phone box on the Canongate.
‘What do you want?’ she’d snarled, listening as the line went dead.
‘Nice of you to join us, DI Clarke.’ The booming Glaswegian voice belonged to Detective Chief Superintendent Mark Mollison, divisional commander for Edinburgh. Clarke realised she should have expected a visit — especially when the media were in the vicinity. ‘We’ve just been discussing when and where to hold the first press conference. Do you have any views?’
Clarke looked around the room. They were all there, making her the late arrival. Sutherland and Reid had positioned themselves next to the wall, with its spreading display of maps, photos and cuttings. The last of the computers had arrived, along with a free-standing printer. She realised that the noises she’d heard from the next door along were those of the final members of the support staff settling in.
‘Not really, sir,’ she managed to reply. Mollison stood on his own in the centre of the room, hands clasped behind his back, rocking on his heels. He was well over six feet tall, with a face that was all burst veins leading to a nose that would not have disgraced Rudolph the reindeer.
‘Apparently the spot where the car was found is being examined again this morning, and a team will carry out a detailed search of the woods—’
‘Mr Mollison,’ Sutherland interrupted, ‘wonders if Poretoun Woods might make for an atmospheric backdrop.’
Clarke caught her boss’s tone. ‘I’m not entirely sure,’ she ventured, ‘that we have much to say to the media at this point in the inquiry.’ She watched as Sutherland nodded his head in agreement.
‘We certainly have information we don’t want them getting,’ Callum Reid added.
‘The handcuffs?’ Mollison guessed. ‘Any news of those?’
‘They’re being studied in detail by Forensics today,’ Sutherland informed him. ‘All we know as of now is that they’re an older model — in other words, not police issue at the time of Bloom’s disappearance.’
‘It’ll come out eventually, you know — we need to have a strategy for managing it.’
‘Absolutely.’
‘No press conference today, though?’
‘We could revisit the idea this afternoon, sir.’
Mollison tried not to look disappointed. ‘Might as well get back to St Leonard’s, then. Wouldn’t want to think I’m holding you back.’ As he spoke, he threw a sideways glance towards Clarke. With a gesture of farewell to the rest of the team, he marched out of the office, his leather soles clacking their way back down the stairs. Shoulders began to relax; breaths were exhaled.
‘One of you could have warned me,’ Clarke complained.
‘You’ve not given us your number,’ Emily Crowther informed her.
‘That’s the first thing we should do then,’ Sutherland decided. ‘Everybody’s contact details on a sheet of paper, pinned to the wall and copied into your phones.’
‘Maybe a WhatsApp group, too?’ Crowther suggested.
‘If you think it useful.’ Sutherland saw that Phil Yeats was heading towards the kettle. ‘Coffee can wait, Phil,’ he warned him.
‘In Siobhan’s case,’ George Gamble commented, ‘I’m not sure that’s true. You must have kept her out past her bedtime, Graham.’ There were smiles from behind the desks. Sutherland didn’t join in but Clarke did — last thing she wanted was for the team to split into factions. While they copied their details on to the sheet of paper being passed around, she approached Sutherland. He had returned to his chair and was starting to type at his keyboard.
‘Heard anything from Gartcosh?’ she enquired.
‘How did you know?’
‘Malcolm Fox and me go back a ways. I happened to bump into him last night.’
‘So you were out late then?’
‘Decided I’d better walk the pitch ’n’ putt course, just to see what I’ve let myself in for.’
He gave a half-smile. ‘Fox will be here soon. I informed everyone this morning. I’ve put Tess in charge of babysitting him. So if there’s anything you think she should know in advance...’
Clarke nodded and walked over to Tess Leighton’s desk.
‘I’ve worked with Fox in the past,’ she stated. ‘He’s good on detail, used to be in Complaints. He’s thorough, maybe even a bit plodding.’