‘Hellish, isn’t it?’ the barman said, nodding towards the photo of Catherine Bloom.
‘Aye,’ Rebus agreed.
‘Have you been to the woods, then?’ Rebus met the barman’s eyes. ‘You’re not local and a lot of people have been dropping in here either before or after. They’re taking the tape down tomorrow, I hear.’
‘Reckon that’ll spoil the tourist trade?’ Rebus enquired, stony-faced.
‘A sale is a sale, even if it’s only coffee. I always reckoned that film guy had something to do with it.’
‘Oh aye?’
‘Orgies and everything, he used to film them. That was the rumour anyway.’
‘News to me.’
‘The woods have always had that atmosphere about them — did you not feel it? Back in the day when he owned them, there’d be blood spattered around. People said he was sacrificing chickens or something.’
‘They must have been disappointed when they learned it was food colouring from his horror films.’
The barman studied him. ‘You know a lot about it.’
‘I worked the original inquiry. Even popped in here a few times.’
‘I only started here later. Used to work for the competition.’
‘Why did it close?’
‘Things change, I suppose. Landlord retired and couldn’t find anyone to take it on.’ He looked around him. ‘I give this place six months and it’ll go the same way. Trade’s dying, same as the village.’
‘Christ’s sake, Tam,’ the regular said, looking up from his newspaper. ‘You’re like a broken record.’ Then, eyes turning to Rebus: ‘I remember you, though. You used to drink a pint of heavy.’
‘That’s some memory you’ve got.’
‘To be honest, it was always going to be fifty-fifty. Back then, heavy and lager were what the place sold. Now it’s flavoured vodka and beer in overpriced bottles, to attract a younger crowd that would rather be anywhere but here. As for all that shite about Jackie Ness and Poretoun Woods...’ The man shook his head. ‘My son was an extra on some of his films. An orgy would have been just fine by him, but there was never a whiff of any of that. Long, miserable days, cheese sandwiches and as little pay as Ness thought he could get away with. Girls got a bit extra if they had to do nude, but the lads didn’t.’ He glowered at the barman. ‘You saw one or two of those films, Tam. A flash of tit was as racy as it got.’ He rolled his eyes and focused on his crossword again.
‘What does your son do now?’ Rebus asked.
‘He took over his uncle’s farm. Loved it ever since he was a kid. He’s selling up now, though, getting out before Brexit hits. Whole thing’s a bloody joke at our expense — and some around here even voted for it.’
The barman pursed his lips and busied himself with what few empty glasses there were, while Rebus took a sip of coffee. It was bitter and lukewarm, which seemed to fit in with the way the village was changing.
‘Will someone take on the farm?’ he asked.
‘Not as a going concern. It’s going to be houses. Posh ones for folk with good jobs in Edinburgh or retirees from south of the border.’
‘Wouldn’t be anything to do with Sir Adrian Brand, would it?’
‘It would.’
‘I’ve just been to Poretoun House.’
‘It’s criminal what he’s done to that place.’
‘On the other hand,’ the barman interrupted, ‘all those new houses might be good for business.’
‘Only if you add ciabatta to the bar menu,’ Rebus said, pushing away his cup. ‘And better coffee to go with it.’
16
Graham Sutherland and Callum Reid were in the interview room with Bill Rawlston. When Clarke asked why, George Gamble told her Rawlston had been at the heart of the original inquiry. Maybe he could point them in the right direction, offer shortcuts or share his instinct regarding motives and most likely suspects.
Meantime, the budget would allow for the soil analysis and whatever forensic tests the handcuffs and car interior required. The process was already under way.
Derek Shankley had managed another half-day away from teaching and was seated next to Phil Yeats, going through names and phone numbers. Clarke gave him a little smile of encouragement and headed along the corridor to the room where Fox and Leighton sat surrounded by the contents of the box files.
‘Mind if I have a word, Malcolm?’ she asked.
‘Sure.’ He got up and followed her back into the under-lit corridor with its flaking cream-painted walls.
‘Making progress?’ she asked. He shrugged a response. ‘Is your deal with Steele and Edwards that you share it with them first? I know you talked to them yesterday.’
‘I wondered how John knew. You saw them from the window?’
‘Something like that.’
‘You’re lying. If you’d been watching, you’d know it was only Steele I spoke to — Edwards stayed in the car. And to answer your question, I told him precisely nothing.’
‘Best keep it that way.’
‘You think they might be up to their necks?’
‘Anyone who could lay their hands on a pair of handcuffs is a suspect.’
‘Always supposing the two are connected.’
She stared at him. ‘Can we agree that it’s at least highly likely?’
‘I’m just trying to keep an open mind, Siobhan. That’s something the original inquiry seemed to lack. From early on, there were just the two options — it was because he was gay, or it was because of his job.’ Fox nodded towards the MIT room. ‘You’ve got one of the chief suspects in there right now. He’s either helping, or else pretending to.’
‘We’ve actually got two witnesses in the building, Malcolm. Which one is it you’re marking as a suspect?’
‘The boyfriend. Not that I think he did it.’
Clarke folded her arms. ‘What did Steele want with you?’
Fox took a deep breath. ‘Just as you said, to be kept apprised.’
‘You know you can’t help them.’
Fox nodded slowly. ‘But I need to appear to be. They reckon they can stick John’s head in a noose otherwise.’
‘You think you can convince them you’re on their side?’
‘I’ll do my best. They played the Complaints and ACU card — joined at the hip as we fight the good fight.’ He paused. ‘I know you have a bit of history with them.’
‘So I know what utter bastards they can be. Be careful, Malcolm.’
‘I get the feeling there’s something you’re not telling me.’
She gave a thin smile by way of reply, patted the lapel of his suit jacket and returned to the MIT room. Derek Shankley was taking a break, standing with a mug of tea by one of the windows. She walked over to him.
‘How’s it going?’
He managed a half-smile. ‘Okay.’
‘I’m assuming you’d managed to move on with your life. Now this comes crashing down on you.’
He had removed his leather jacket — it was draped over the chair at Yeats’s desk. Different T-shirt from the previous day, black this time, tight-fitting. His body was toned, his stone-washed denims low-slung.
‘You’re right,’ he said quietly. ‘Instead of sleeping, I keep replaying our time together. We were friends as much as lovers; liked the same things, the same food...’
‘When I watched the two of you in that zombie film, I could tell — you definitely looked like you had fun together, could hardly keep the grins off your faces.’