No youth incarceration for Ellis Meikle — straight to HM Prison Edinburgh, meaning Saughton, not far from the Hearts ground where his dad had taken him to fortnightly football games, a tradition carried on since the separation.
Seona Meikle in tears as the trial ended. Dallas in a black leather waistcoat wrapping a protective arm around her, while her husband comforted their dumbstruck daughter. Clarke had bought the drinks for her team that evening. DCI Page had added fifty quid to the pot, meaning for them to have a meal, but in the end they’d made do with nachos — and a few more rounds of drinks.
What else were they supposed to do, sit in silence, their thoughts on the Halliday family and the Meikles? Plenty more work would be waiting for them the next morning. Ellis Meikle and the other players in the drama could be filed away and forgotten.
Now, seated at her desk in Gayfield Square, Clarke wondered about that. You couldn’t let cases get to you. Yes, you had to treat everyone as a fellow human being, but you had to draw the line, not dwell on the suffering, the repercussions. You wouldn’t be able to do the job otherwise. She’d seen colleagues weep on occasion — of course she had — and she’d seen them frustrated when a result failed to materialise. But you had to move on. You had to.
But that wasn’t always what the families did.
There were copies of photos among the pages, and Clarke studied them. Ellis and Kristen together, shot with a phone at a party. Kristen sitting down to Christmas dinner with her family. Clarke remembered her parents, but had forgotten their names. Quietly distraught, shunning Dallas Meikle when he approached them outside the courtroom. More photos: the bunker, body in situ; the discarded knife; Ellis’s cramped bedroom, its walls covered in posters advertising computer games; various items of his clothing.
No blood.
He had stayed silent throughout the majority of the interviews, answering ‘yes’ when asked if he’d done it. He wouldn’t say why, wouldn’t answer any of their other questions. Christine Esson got him talking about Scottish football, but hit a wall when she tried changing the subject.
When Clarke looked up from the file, Esson herself was standing there, arms folded, a defiant look on her face.
‘Tell me,’ she demanded.
‘Ellis’s uncle has been hassling me.’
‘Hassling you how?’
‘Phone calls for one thing.’
‘What does he say?’
‘Nothing — the phone goes dead every time I answer.’
‘You sure it’s him?’
‘As near as can be. He works behind the bar at McKenzie’s. It’s across the street from the phone boxes where the calls originate.’ Clarke offered a shrug. ‘There was a car outside my flat, too. And stuff scrawled on the tenement door.’
‘Make of car? Registration?’
‘I’m a hopeless detective.’
‘And you’ve not spoken to him?’
‘I will. I just wanted to refresh my memory first.’ She picked up the paperwork and let it fall again on to the desk.
‘Families are never thrilled when you lock up their loved ones. Nephew and uncle were pretty close, as I recall.’
‘The trial ended two months ago, though. Why’s it taken him so long?’
‘He’s been festering?’ Esson offered. ‘Why did you give him your phone number?’
‘I’m pretty sure I didn’t.’
‘You gave it to Seona, then?’
Clarke was shaking her head. ‘I don’t think so. More than likely I handed a card to Kristen’s parents, but I can’t see them passing it on to Ellis’s uncle.’
‘Probably not,’ Esson agreed. ‘Want me to come with you?’
‘To see Dallas Meikle?’ Clarke shook her head again. ‘I think I can handle it.’
‘Doesn’t he have certain anger management issues?’
‘I can handle it,’ Clarke repeated with a little more force. ‘Thanks for this, though.’ She pressed a hand against the paperwork.
‘At least it’s a break from the body in the woods, eh?’
‘Definitely,’ Clarke agreed, hoping she sounded more confident than she felt.
‘You don’t need to go see him, you know. You could just report it.’
‘I could.’
‘But you’d rather do it all by yourself? That’s a bad habit you’ve picked up, Siobhan — almost as if your old sparring partner is still at your shoulder.’
‘John’s been retired a long time, Christine.’
‘So how come I still feel his presence?’ Esson’s eyes were drilling into Clarke’s. ‘How long since you last saw him?’ she enquired.
Clarke thought for a moment, then checked her wristwatch.
‘Thought so,’ Esson said, returning to her desk with a weary shake of her head.
20
Harthill service station, just off the M8, almost equidistant between Edinburgh and Glasgow. Only time Rebus had used it was when visiting the nearby Shotts prison. He stayed on the access road, ignoring the petrol pumps and parking bays, and pulled in behind the black Audi. As he got out, he could hear the motorway traffic. There was an artic parked up not far away, its driver checking the tyres. Rebus stood beside the Audi. Steele was in the driver’s seat, Edwards in the rear. They obviously wanted Rebus in the passenger seat but he slid in next to Edwards instead. That way he could keep an eye on both ACU officers.
‘Relax, John,’ Steele told him, ‘this isn’t Goodfellas.’ His window had been lowered a couple of inches so he could flick ash from his cigarette out of it.
‘It’s been a while, Brian.’
‘Thought we’d leave you in peace, now you’re retired.’ Steele met Rebus’s eyes in the rear-view mirror. ‘At least, I thought you’d retired. But you seem to hang around like the same bad smell.’
‘Speaking of which, any chance of lowering that window a bit more?’
‘You given up the coffin nails, John? Grant told me you had but I found it hard to believe.’
Out of the corner of his eye, Rebus saw that Edwards was smiling, not that that meant anything. Meantime, to make a point, Steele closed the window and kept smoking.
‘I’ve got to ask,’ Rebus said. ‘When they culled CCU and rebranded it, how did you two manage to survive?’
‘Aye, it was an ugly time,’ Steele responded. ‘All the complaints against CCU were made anonymously. Anonymously, John. Cowardly bastards wouldn’t even put their heads above the parapet. Cops grassing up cops is ugly. We’re supposed to be kin.’
‘You didn’t maybe join in, just to save your skins?’
Steele gave the slightest of snorts. ‘Think what you want to think, John. All that matters is we’re still standing.’
‘You’re quoting Elton John at me?’
‘Thought it was apt — I hear Deborah Quant calls your prick “Tiny Dancer”.’
There was a wheeze of laughter from Edwards. Rebus turned his head to face him. ‘The only wee dancer around here is that brain cell of yours, birling around with no one to partner it.’
In the silence that followed, Rebus stuck a piece of gum in his mouth and started chewing, while Edwards just glowered.
‘Bit of a surprise,’ Steele eventually said, ‘Stuart Bloom turning up like that.’
‘Makes me wonder why he did,’ Rebus replied. ‘I mean, why now? The boffins don’t think he was in that gully all those years, meaning at some point he was moved there.’
‘Aye, that got us thinking, too.’
‘I’m sure Grant here put the full force of his intellect into it.’ Rebus glanced towards Edwards again.
‘So what have you told them at MIT, John?’ Steele asked, flicking ash into an empty cigarette packet. ‘I assume that’s why you wanted to meet.’