‘Anything in particular?’ Maloney had asked.
‘There’s a certain organisation in Aberdeen that’s ripe to be put out to pasture...’
And Maloney had smiled, indicating that he’d known all along this was where their talk would lead.
Not that much had come of it; Aberdeen had dug in too deep, and Maloney hadn’t liked it that there’d been bad drugs sold on Cafferty’s patch, meaning increased police surveillance. Cafferty had protested that the drugs hadn’t come from any of his guys, but it had been a hard story to sell to the Irishman. Either Cafferty bore the responsibility, or else he had competition in what was supposed to be a trade he controlled.
But there had been some dealings and exchanges with Maloney down the years, the two men remaining wary, never quite able to trust one another. One thing Cafferty felt confident about was that if Maloney had sensed the private eye as a threat, he wouldn’t have blinked. And Bloom had begun to pose a threat, no doubt about that. His own reading at the time was that Bloom had been put under lock and key, maybe a safe house in Ireland — plenty of those left over from the Troubles. He’d be let go once the hint had been taken by Jackie Ness.
But no release had come.
And without a further face-to-face with Maloney, there was no way to know.
19
‘I managed to condense it to thirty sheets of A4,’ DC Christine Esson said as Clarke walked into the CID office in Gayfield Square. ‘If you want more, I’ll have to rustle everything up from storage. Mind telling me why it’s suddenly bugging you?’
The office was small, just the four desks, one of them permanently vacant. Through the door was the even smaller inner sanctum belonging to DCI James Page. Clarke turned from that door to Esson.
‘He’s in a meeting at the Big House.’
‘Which one?’
‘Fettes.’
‘I thought we’d stopped calling it that.’ Clarke picked up the large manila envelope and eased the printed sheets from it. ‘Where’s Ronnie?’
‘Called in sick.’
‘You’re home alone?’
‘And somehow still managing to survive.’
Clarke sat down at her own desk, ignoring the pile of messages waiting there for her, the files rising to half the height of her computer.
‘The last three days?’ she complained.
‘That’s what happens if you’re not here to flush it away.’
‘A lovely image, thanks, Christine.’
‘Any more flak from ACU?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘Meaning?’
Clarke looked up at her colleague. ‘I’m just going to read this lot, if that’s okay. Maybe chat later?’
Esson made a face and got back to work.
Ellis Meikle, aged seventeen, had been found guilty of the murder of his girlfriend. Her name was Kristen Halliday. They’d been an item since high school. Ellis had left at sixteen, no job, no prospects. Kristen had stayed on. Their social groups had begun to diverge. There were shouting matches, fuelled by cheap drink and whatever drugs were available.
Kristen had gone missing on a Wednesday afternoon. That night, her parents had turned up at the house Ellis shared with his mother and uncle. Kristen wasn’t answering her phone. Had Ellis seen her? He had shaken his head, seemingly irritated at being dragged from his computer game. His mother and uncle had been drinking. The uncle wanted to round up a search party. Kristen’s father said it wasn’t his call to make. Tempers had flared. Kristen’s mother wanted to phone the police. But Kristen had only been absent a few hours — nobody thought the police would be interested. They’d started ringing round her friends instead. One said that Kristen had been headed to the golf course to meet Ellis. Ellis was asked again: had he seen Kristen? Kristen’s mother had made a lurch towards him, physically restrained by Ellis’s mother, who had then been grabbed by Kristen’s father, which brought the uncle back into the melee. The neighbours, alerted by all the noise, had started to arrive.
Things calmed down and a further bottle of vodka was opened. More phone calls, friends’ doors knocked on. Just after dawn, a dog-walker had found the body on the golf course. Kristen lay in a bunker, lazily hidden beneath scooped sand, a single knife wound to her neck the cause of death. The police search team turned up the weapon sixteen hours later, in a patch of rough on a route leading from the bunker to the main road. It was an ordinary kitchen knife, four-inch blade, not particularly sharp. The wound was deep; it would have taken force, taken a certain rage.
The fingerprints on the handle were a match for Ellis Meikle. The last text received on Kristen’s phone had been from Ellis, wanting her to meet him at the golf course.
The initial interviews were handled with sensitivity — Clarke knew because she’d been in attendance at three of them. It was her case. Her and Esson and Ronnie Ogilvie. The forensics were irrefutable: Kristen’s blood on the knife and Meikle’s prints. One thing they couldn’t prove was where the knife had come from. Uncle Dallas was adamant none were missing from the kitchen in Restalrig. And how could he be so sure? Because he lived in the house, the house his brother Charles had moved out of, the house Ellis and his mother Seona shared. Charles Meikle meantime had got himself a flat in Causewayside, his daughter Billie going with him. Had the break-up been amicable? It had, mostly. No one was talking about a divorce. They’d asked the kids who wanted to stay with who, and the kids had made up their own minds. Uncle Dallas had then begun calling round, and had eventually started staying over. He slept on the sofa apparently, Billie reluctant to let him have her room, even though it was vacant.
No funny business between Seona and her brother-in-law? The one time DC Ronnie Ogilvie had raised the notion with Uncle Dallas, they’d almost had to set phasers to stun. Dallas Meikle was ex-army; diagnosed with PTSD after a spell in Afghanistan. Electricity crackled just below his surface.
‘You tried to organise a search?’ Clarke had asked him.
‘Ellis’s lass was missing, of course I did.’
‘It didn’t strike you as odd that Ellis himself seemed quite relaxed?’
‘We deal with stress in different ways — one thing I learned after the army.’ He had run a hand down the tattoos on his neck. Clarke wondered if it was a tell of some kind, but she couldn’t be sure.
The procurator fiscal’s office saw nothing complex in the case. The source of the knife wasn’t germane. The lack of blood on Ellis Meikle’s clothing and shoes just meant he’d disposed of the ones he’d been wearing.
‘He made a better job of it than he did with the knife,’ Clarke had commented in one meeting, her words met with silence.
Trial. Guilty verdict. Murder rather than culpable homicide, though the defence counsel had pushed hard for the latter, love being a kind of madness, a rash act in the heat of a heightened moment.