‘Is he single, though?’ George Gamble interrupted. ‘That’s what Tess is wondering.’
‘Stick it, George,’ Leighton rasped. Then, to Clarke: ‘Any BO or bad breath? Farts and belches?’
‘I think he’ll pass those tests.’
‘Puts him one up on George, then.’
‘You forgetting something, Tess?’ Gamble retorted. ‘He worked for Complaints, meaning he got his jollies putting the boot into the likes of you and me. He might not smell, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t stink.’
Jackie Ness’s production company had an office in a shiny new glass-fronted development in Fountainbridge. Clarke and Emily Crowther had been dispatched to question him. During the drive, Crowther revealed that she had studied English literature at university, policing far from her first choice of career. She’d grown up in Fife and had a boyfriend who ran a bike shop on the edge of Dunfermline. They shared a house in the town and were planning to get married. She was starting to ask Clarke about herself when Clarke announced that they’d arrived.
Crowther was slim and blonde and probably fifteen years younger than her colleague. Knee-length skirt, sheer black tights, shoes with inch-high heels. She didn’t quite look or act like an officer of the law, and Clarke began to get an inkling as to why Sutherland had chosen her for the task.
The company name was Locke Ness. On the wall behind the reception desk, the logo could be seen rising from the depths of a stretch of water.
‘Clever,’ Crowther said, which seemed to please the young receptionist.
‘Mr Ness will be with you shortly,’ she said.
‘We did arrange a time,’ Clarke told her firmly. ‘If he wants to waste ours, maybe we can do this at the station instead.’
The receptionist’s smile melted away. ‘I’ll ask,’ she said, disappearing through a door. Crowther settled on the leather sofa while Clarke examined the shelf containing a handful of cheap-looking awards, and the wall-mounted posters for films such as Zombies v Bravehearts and The Opium Eater Murders. She had done a bit of reading up on the producer. He’d started by owning a string of video rental shops, then put money into low-budget horror films before moving to more mainstream releases. She wasn’t aware of ever having watched any of his output.
The receptionist was back, followed by a man who was shrugging his arms back into the sleeves of his suit jacket.
‘There’s a restaurant next door,’ he announced. ‘I skipped breakfast, so why don’t we go there? I’m Jackie Ness, by the way, in case you were wondering.’ His eyes fell on Emily Crowther and he wagged a finger in her direction. ‘The light loves you, did you know that? Catches your face just perfectly.’ He turned to the receptionist. ‘You agree, don’t you, Estelle?’ Then, to Clarke: ‘The restaurant won’t be busy, it’s not lunchtime yet. There’s a corner booth they normally keep for me. It’s not like we’re recording this or anything, is it? It’s just background.’
‘A better word might be “preliminary”,’ Clarke told him. ‘You’re not under caution and you don’t need a lawyer.’
‘The amount they cost, praise be for that. And you are...?’
‘Detective Inspector Clarke. This is DC Crowther.’
He turned his attention back to Crowther. ‘Just DC, or is there ever any AC?’ Immediately he held up a hand. ‘I know, I shouldn’t have. Couldn’t help it. Apologies et cetera.’
‘Still living in the Betamax era, I see.’
Ness chose to ignore Clarke’s rebuke. ‘Half an hour,’ he told the receptionist, already halfway to the exit.
‘Longer if need be, Estelle,’ Clarke cautioned, before following suit.
The restaurant served mostly burgers, and that was what Ness ordered — albeit vegetarian — along with an Irn-Bru, while the two detectives stuck to coffee. He’d been right though: they were the only customers, and were directed to his favoured spot. Clarke and Crowther sat across from him and watched as he shrugged his way out of his jacket.
‘Male menopause,’ he explained. ‘I’m always sweating or freezing.’
‘Bit old for the menopause, no?’ Clarke said.
‘I was always told you’re as young as the woman you feel.’ He chuckled to himself. It never ceased to amaze Clarke that such specimens survived. She thought of the Loch Ness monster, the last of its kind.
‘Is there a Locke to go with the Ness?’ she enquired.
‘Old business partner. We had a falling-out when he tried stiffing the taxman. The name makes people smile though, so I didn’t bother changing it.’
‘Anything in the pipeline just now?’
‘There’s always something in the pipeline. In fact, the pipeline’s bunged up with treatments and pitches and great scripts that’ll likely never get turned into films. Money just doesn’t materialise most of the time.’
‘Aren’t you the one who supplies the money?’
‘I find the money, and that’s a whole different skill. Goalposts have shifted. In my early days it was DTV — direct to video. Now everything’s digital. You’ve got kids making films on their mobile phones, editing them on their PCs, then chucking them on the internet. You’ve got Amazon and Netflix. Everyone’s streaming; DVDs and Blu-Ray sales are tanking. It’s actually not the goalposts that have shifted. It’s like walking into a completely different game.’
‘But you’re surviving?’
‘What else is there?’
He’d be in his early sixties, Clarke guessed, his hair silver but plentiful, his tan courtesy of a winter cruise or, more likely, a tanning booth. A good haircut, but his last shave had left a few grey hairs dotted about his round and shiny face. His teeth had been fixed, and he maintained the swagger necessary to his job, but his shirt hadn’t been ironed and a button was missing, not quite hidden by the bright crimson tie.
Like his industry, Jackie Ness had seen better days.
‘We’re here to ask you a few questions about Stuart Bloom,’ Clarke said, now the ice had been broken. ‘He was working for you when he went missing.’
‘It’s a hellish thing. My first thought was the same as everybody else — lovers’ tiff.’
‘And when he failed to resurface?’
‘Sometimes people just want to step off the grid. I did a film about it: quiet banking executive walks out on his family and becomes a vigilante.’
‘How about your own relationship with Mr Bloom?’
‘No problems there at all. He wasn’t overcharging, seemed to be getting some good stuff...’
‘Stuff on Adrian Brand?’
‘Aka the Fucker.’ His eyes moved between the two detectives. ‘Pardon my French.’
‘Did you ever suspect Brand might have known what was going on?’
‘You mean did he have Stuart bumped off?’ Ness’s face creased in thought. ‘It was always a possibility. Brand mixed with some ugly people. Stuart was getting close to proving it.’
‘Something that could have put him in danger?’
‘The cops at the time looked into it but didn’t get far.’ Ness broke off as his burger arrived. He picked it up and took a bite. He was still chewing as the drinks appeared. ‘Help yourselves to a sweet potato fry,’ he offered.
‘What did you think,’ Clarke asked, ‘when the car was found in Poretoun Woods?’
He shook his head vigorously. ‘Couldn’t have been there all that time.’
‘Why not?’ Clarke waited while he swallowed and took a sip of the Irn-Bru.
‘I used to film there. Not that exact spot maybe, but we were always in those woods. Anything vaguely medieval; anything to do with zombies or kids getting a scare.’