‘Pretty much as the fiscal anticipated,’ Clarke commented. ‘Interesting that Ness went for a criminal lawyer, though — not everyone knows one.’
‘Not everyone’s been in a war with Sir Adrian Brand,’ Sutherland said, stiffening his spine. ‘Anyway, we’re not done with him yet, not by a long chalk.’
‘Juries love a bit of forensic evidence,’ Emily Crowther stated. ‘Let’s not forget that.’
‘Be nice to have something more than a partial fingerprint, though — I don’t suppose the lab have come back to us in my absence?’
There were shakes of the head.
‘I hope the soil expert’s earning her fee,’ Sutherland sighed.
There was a knock at the door. They turned to see Brodie standing there. ‘Could my client trouble you for a sandwich or something? He’s not had any breakfast.’
‘The café does a reasonable BLT,’ Clarke offered.
‘My client is vegetarian.’
‘LT it is then, always supposing they’ll stoop to it.’
Jackie Ness was eventually released at 2.45 p.m. From around noon, Brodie had been complaining that they were going over the same old ground. A copy of the recording was handed over, while those in MIT who were keen got the chance to watch the interview courtesy of the copy they’d retained. Clarke studied Ness’s body language; not that it was such a big deal these days. A lot of people knew the tricks, and she reckoned someone who had worked all his life with actors would know them better than most. Once the room had cooled down, he had buttoned his shirt and slipped his jacket back on, then sat without moving, hands clasped in his lap, face a mask, answering questions with the briefest possible responses and letting his solicitor do the bulk of the talking.
Sutherland was updating the fiscal’s office by phone, while George Gamble stared into space. Clarke got the feeling he was rueing modern policing methods and would have liked nothing better than to have beaten a confession out of the producer.
‘We should take another look at the original interviews with Ness,’ Callum Reid was telling Emily Crowther. ‘We’ve only got his word for it that Stuart Bloom left Poretoun House alive. I know the place was checked over, but how thoroughly? Plus, crime-scene technology has moved on. I’m sure Sir Adrian would be happy to let us scope the place out. The story’s beginning to come together.’ He counted off on his fingers. ‘Prints on the cuffs; Bloom last seen alive heading to a meet with Ness...’ He paused.
‘I make that a total of two fingers, Callum,’ Clarke interrupted.
‘The car found in woodland owned by Ness at the time,’ Crowther added. Clarke watched Reid hold up a third finger.
‘Okay,’ she conceded, ‘but tell me this: what was Ness’s motive?’
‘Maybe they argued over Bloom’s fee or something. Again, we only have Ness’s word for it that everything was amicable between them. Could be he felt Bloom wasn’t making enough progress, or was ripping him off. Come on, we’ve all seen it. People who’ve just killed someone don’t exactly think rationally.’
‘Which might also explain the handcuffs around the ankles,’ Crowther added, earning a smile from Reid, as if this was an argument he could win with a show of hands.
‘I’m not saying none of it happened that way,’ Clarke said. ‘But proving it is something else.’
‘We’re missing a trick, though, if we don’t factor in Poretoun House as the probable scene of crime.’
‘Maybe.’
Reid was looking towards his boss, who was still on the phone. ‘I’m going to press the case. If there’s money in the pot for someone in a white coat to plop some mud under a microscope, surely we can get Scene of Crime to take their kit to Poretoun House.’
‘Knock yourself out,’ Clarke said.
The Evening News’s front page splashed on Jackie Ness’s visit to Leith police station. There was a nice big photo of the producer as he made his way to a waiting taxi, Kelvin Brodie trying to hold a briefcase up to make the photographer’s job more difficult. Rebus read the story — such as it was — through twice as he sat at a table in McKenzie’s. If the media knew about the handcuffs, they weren’t saying. The story was thin, but it would still shake Ness up. Rebus guessed there’d be reporters outside his home tonight, and his office in the morning. If there was guilt there, the cracks would start to appear, just so long as the media didn’t tire of teasing their prey.
Rebus guessed that Fettes HQ had tipped the media off, or maybe it had been one of the MIT team. It had always been a game played between the cops and the journos. Yes, reporters could be a pain in the arse, but they were also immensely useful conduits. It saddened him that so much these days happened online, with every keyboard warrior suddenly a ‘commentator’ or ‘pundit’ or ‘news-gatherer’. There was a lack of quality control. Anyone and everyone felt they had something to say and they weren’t about to hold back. The public probably reckoned they were better informed than ever. They were, but not always by the truth.
Then again, had it been so different in Rebus’s heyday? He’d tipped off journalists, fed them lies and half-truths when hoping to agitate a particular wasps’ nest or unsettle a suspect or a witness. Stories had been planted and others suppressed. With the ear of as few as half a dozen reporters, you could control the story, or at least have a bloody good go at shaping it. When lied to, the media might snarl and spit, but they always came back for more. Nowadays, commentators lied to your face, feeding you pap from a spoon as if you were an infant. Twenty-four-hour news meant everyone wanted to be first with a story, even if it turned out to be wonky. A few of Rebus’s old musical heroes had been reported online as having died, only for an apology to be issued later. He took nothing at face value now and required corroboration. Two sources, maybe even three before he believed anything the virtual world told him.
‘What do you want?’
Rebus looked up from his paper. Dallas Meikle was standing there, having just arrived to start his shift.
‘A minute of your time?’ Rebus gestured to a free chair, but Meikle remained standing.
‘Say what you have to say.’
‘I need to talk with Ellis.’
‘Why?’
‘I just do.’
‘He won’t tell you anything.’
‘But he’ll see me if you ask him.’
‘I suppose he might.’
‘Will you do it?’
‘He’s no fan of the police.’
‘In Saughton, I doubt that puts him in the minority. Besides, I’m just an old age pensioner.’
‘I can’t promise.’
‘But you’ll at least try?’
Dallas Meikle nodded, his eyes on Rebus. ‘You’re having doubts, aren’t you? You’re not as sure as you were that he did it?’
‘He most likely did — that’s something you might have to come to terms with. I’ll have a better idea once I’ve seen him.’
‘Even if he doesn’t speak?’
‘Things unsaid can still be important. Tell me, has he ever mentioned how he really felt about you moving in with him and his mum?’
‘We talked it through.’
‘You went there to make sure your brother behaved himself? Ever say to Ellis that it should have been his job?’
‘I don’t particularly mind if I fall out with Charles.’
‘Better that than his son falling out with him?’ Rebus nodded his understanding.
‘We done here then?’
Rebus closed his newspaper. ‘How well did you really know Kristen, Mr Meikle?’ A small flame started to smoulder in Meikle’s eyes. His lips stayed pursed. ‘From what I’ve heard, she wasn’t above flirting. Maybe it was just her nature, or to keep Ellis on his toes.’