Three kids were watching him. No way of knowing which one had called out. He gestured towards the three. Only one of them took up the challenge, pushing his bike with him as he approached.
‘Fuck are you after?’ the boy demanded to know.
‘Ellis Meikle.’
‘They put him away.’
‘Did you know him?’
‘Knew who he was.’ The boy sniffed. His head was closely shaved, his teeth uneven.
‘I wouldn’t mind a chat with one or two of his mates. Reckon you could track them down?’
‘What’s it worth?’
‘A fiver minimum.’
The boy gave a scowl. ‘Fuck am I supposed to buy with that?’
‘Name your price then.’
‘Bottle of voddy. Payment up front.’
It was Rebus’s turn to scowl. ‘This is the gig economy, son. You get paid for results. Now what do you say...?’
Three of them turned up, all older than Rebus’s gofer. One stayed just long enough to tell Rebus he could ‘get fucked’, but the other two were happy to talk. Afterwards, Rebus paid off his gofer and both chatterboxes and headed towards the golf course. He kicked himself for not thinking to bring Brillo. Maybe he’d give him a long walk later, up to the grounds of the Astley Ainslie hospital. The bunker belonged to the seventh hole, just behind the green. Two bunkers sat side by side, but the steepest was the one where she’d been killed.
People were still out playing in the fading light, but Rebus knew he wasn’t trespassing. This whole golf course was a magnet for Restalrig’s young people, as he’d just been informed. There were copses where they could do drugs and have sex. They could ride their bikes — motorised and pedal — across the fairways at night when no one was around. Ellis and Kristen used to come here, with other friends or on their own. Ellis wasn’t quite the loner he had seemed from the case files. He went to parties, drank and smoked dope. There were plenty of girlfriends in his past. Kristen had come as a surprise, though. She was loud and full of energy, and headed a coterie of other girls at her school. The feeling was, she could have done better than Ellis. Not that she was above getting into scrapes — playground fights; detentions; fallings-out with her parents. But for Ellis to do what he did... the boys told the same story: she must have driven him to it. Was she seeing anyone else behind his back? They didn’t know. Did Ellis carry a knife? If so, he’d never shown it to anyone.
She must have driven him to it...
Ellis had texted her to meet him at the golf course. She had gone. And something had happened, Dallas Meikle was right about that — argument, confrontation or ambush? Rebus had asked the two boys about Kristen’s parents. They were said to be quiet, weird, protective. Weird because they were churchgoers, though Kristen herself was lapsed. Protective because they often turned up in their car at parties and gatherings, ready to chauffeur their daughter home even when she’d not requested it.
‘Gie’d her a total riddy,’ one of the boys had told Rebus. ‘One minute she’s in a dark corner with Ellis, the next her maw’s standing ower them shouting and yelling.’
Rebus wondered what a couple of God-fearing folk had made of the arrangements at the Meikle household. Estranged parents, the uncle settling in, booze flowing, Ellis glued to his gaming screen. Did Rebus need to speak to them? Would they tell him anything? What would his excuse be for contacting them? He considered all this as he walked.
Bunches of flowers had been placed around the rim of the bunker. Those that had wilted had been repositioned at a distance and replaced by fresh ones. There were messages and photos, too, protected by plastic and polythene from the elements. Candles, an empty bottle of alcopop, a couple of small teddy bears. Rebus studied one of the photos of Kristen. It had been taken at the park. She had screwed up her face and was lifting her middle finger to the camera. Come on then, world, she seemed to be saying, let’s see what you’ve got.
Several people had left copies of another photo, taken by the official school photographer. Kristen’s long fair hair had been scooped up across her head, so that it draped down one shoulder. She was giving a pout and her lips were glossy. The top button of her blouse had been undone, her tie hanging loose. It looked recent, and Rebus guessed there’d be another copy in her parents’ living room, even though they probably didn’t approve of the way she’d chosen to present herself.
The case file had contained information on Kristen’s various social media activities, Facebook and Snapchat and the rest. He’d read through the printout of her phone texts and emails. Her last text had been sent to a friend: C u l8er E needs me, accompanied by a winking emoji, its tongue protruding. E for Ellis, waiting for her at the golf course.
Some of her friends had given evidence in court. She had gone willingly, they’d said. No way she could have known what was to happen. No, she hadn’t fallen out with Ellis. No, she wasn’t seeing anyone else. No, nothing had happened at school of late, nothing out of the ordinary.
Ellis’s day, too, had been as routine as any other, according to his mother: woke up late, went to the supermarket for her. Took his time, after running into some pals. In the meantime Billie had come to visit, sitting with her mum in the kitchen while Ellis retreated to his bedroom — with a couple of those same pals to start with. After they headed elsewhere, he stayed put, playing on his computer, headphones on, until he went out just after five. He said he was catching up with another friend, one with a brand-new console, but this was a lie — he had already texted Kristen.
‘Why did he lie?’ his mother had been asked.
She hadn’t had an answer.
‘Did he often keep secrets from you?’
‘I don’t think so.’
Rebus thought of Ellis Meikle, his side of the story yet to be told, sitting in a shared cell at Saughton, taking in the smells and sounds, wary and watchful. He stared down into the bunker and managed not to feel sorry for him.
24
Tess Leighton had put some make-up on, which ended up emphasising just how pale her skin’s natural tone was. Fox had been relieved to see her order a starter and a main — polishing off both with the accompaniment of a large glass of Merlot. Not anorexic then. Just slender and maybe a touch anaemic. The restaurant was really more of a pub — the posher places he had tried to book were closed Sunday evenings. But the food had been fine, as predicted by the reviews he’d checked on TripAdvisor. He wore a jacket and chinos rather than a suit. No tie, shirt open at the neck. They’d discussed their neighbourhoods — Oxgangs in his case, Livingston in hers — and their upbringings. Both had been married once; neither had children. Leighton had two brothers, Fox a sister. He hadn’t mentioned Jude’s various problems, while Leighton had eventually admitted that one brother had had a bit of a breakdown. They both enjoyed reading, and country walks, and being police officers. She’d listened intently as he spoke of his days in the Complaints, then confessed that she’d always managed to stay out of trouble.
‘No reports, no misdemeanours, no rebukes.’
‘Probably makes you unique, Tess.’
She gave a small, non-committal shrug. ‘Even Graham’s had a run-in, you know,’ she confided.
‘With Professional Standards?’
‘I think it went as far as ACU, except maybe it was CCU back then.’
‘What did he do?’ Fox placed his knife and fork on his plate, unable to finish the potatoes and carrots.