‘It’s almost like he’s enjoying it,’ she commented. ‘But have they found anything?’
‘Not as far as I know. With a civilian in the room, Haj is being tight-lipped. What time do we leave for Glasgow?’
‘Let’s wait till after the rush hour. Six thirty should do it.’
‘Might not be finished here by then. There are about twenty rooms covering three floors. The house is shagged but gorgeous. Why do you think he’s letting us rip it up?’
‘Because it’s not really a house. It’s two fingers raised in Jackie Ness’s direction.’
‘So the photos...?’
‘Doubtless winging their way to Ness as we speak.’
‘Speaking of whom, any progress?’
‘The car is being searched again, just in case we missed something.’ Clarke saw that Graham Sutherland was getting to his feet. He was approaching the TV, seeking the remote so he could turn up the volume. ‘Emily, I’m going to have to go...’ She ended the call. Sutherland was blocking her view of the screen. The volume was audible by the time she reached his side. The reporter was standing on the edge of Poretoun Woods.
‘And after the questioning of film producer Jackie Ness and this morning’s renewed search of his old home just the other side of these woods behind me, now comes the revelation that the victim, private investigator Stuart Bloom, was handcuffed at the ankles inside his recovered Volkswagen Polo. This was reported only moments ago by an internet-based news agency and has yet to be verified by ourselves, though police have made no denial.’
Sutherland made eye contact with Clarke. ‘Because we’ve not been asked,’ he growled.
‘Press office should have warned us,’ Clarke said. ‘They must surely have known.’
Sutherland held out a hand towards her. ‘Pass me that nine iron, would you? I want to put it through this bloody screen.’
Mobile phones had started ringing: her own and Sutherland’s, plus the landlines not currently being used by Reid and Gamble. Tess Leighton appeared in the doorway, her own mobile pressed to her ear. Clarke nodded, then gestured towards the TV. Sutherland was muting the sound again. Fox had joined Leighton in the doorway. He raised an eyebrow in Clarke’s direction: managed to blag one more day, he seemed to be telling her.
‘Okay, people,’ Sutherland intoned, ‘we knew this moment would come. There’s a press conference due this afternoon anyway, so we can deal with all the questions then. Or let DCS Mollison deal with them, at any rate...’
As if summoned by Sutherland’s words, leather shoes could be heard climbing the stairs, Mollison’s head appearing at the top. He strode into the room, face thunderous.
‘We’re just hearing it for ourselves right now, sir,’ Sutherland said, raising a hand in apology.
‘The family will be up to high doh,’ Mollison snapped. ‘As if they didn’t have enough ammo against us as it is!’
And sure enough, the TV had switched from Poretoun Woods to Fettes HQ, Catherine Bloom positioned on the pavement just outside the gates, behind which stood a stern-looking uniformed officer, as if fearing invasion. As the camera moved position, Dougal Kelly sidled into view at Catherine’s shoulder. Sutherland pressed the volume button again.
‘We’ve always known,’ Stuart Bloom’s mother was saying, her voice trembling with emotion, ‘that the police acted irresponsibly, lazily and almost certainly corruptly, protecting those who have against those who have not, and looking down on Stuart’s family and circle of friends.’ She paused for breath. If Clarke hadn’t known better, she’d have said the woman had had media training. Then again, with Dougal Kelly in her corner, maybe she had. ‘But now,’ Catherine Bloom continued, ‘we have evidence of potential involvement by the police in the crime itself and not just the cover-up. There needs to be an inquiry into the handling of this case, carried out by a police force from outside Scotland, and questions need to be asked at the highest level of government about what was known, what was brushed under the carpet, and who knew what.’ She focused her gaze on the camera lens, speaking directly to the viewer. ‘My son’s callous murder must not have been in vain. I want justice; I want change; I want the guilty to be named, shamed and put behind bars — each and every one of them!’
The interview ended, cutting back to the studio and a visibly shaken newsreader. Sutherland cut the sound once more, hardly daring to meet Mollison’s eyes.
‘We need a chat in private,’ Mollison said solemnly. Sutherland nodded and sought out Tess Leighton.
‘Our room’s at your disposal,’ she quickly agreed. Sutherland led the way, Mollison at his heels. The office was quiet for a few moments, until George Gamble whistled softly.
‘What happens now?’ Phil Yeats asked.
‘In public, not much,’ Clarke guessed. ‘Plenty of private bollockings, I dare say, and maybe additional staff and resources for us. But we still have a murder to solve, and stringing us up isn’t going to help with that.’
‘But everyone will expect us to focus on the investigating officers from the time.’
‘And we’re doing that anyway, aren’t we?’
‘What if we give the press Ness’s fingerprint? Would that take the heat off?’
‘The handcuffs are still handcuffs. We need to know how the hell they got there and whose they were to begin with.’ Clarke ran a hand through her hair.
‘It keeps getting messier, doesn’t it?’ Callum Reid asked. He was straightening his tie, as if in readiness — Sutherland dismissed to the changing room, him promoted to captain. Clarke gave him a stern look.
‘I’ve survived messier,’ she told him. ‘This has a way to go yet.’ More texts had started arriving on her phone. There was one from Laura Smith, so she opened it.
Buy you a bite? Usual spot 12.30?
Clarke tapped a one-word reply: Fine.
The café was on Leith Walk, almost equidistant between Leith and Gayfield Square police stations. It was run by an Italian family and specialised in toasted sandwiches so overfilled no one could finish them. The booths were cramped and the music cheesy. Clarke squeezed in across from Laura Smith and stared at the third member of their party.
‘I’ve known Dougal a while,’ Smith explained. ‘We worked a night desk together some years back.’
Clarke gave Dougal Kelly a tight smile. ‘Could you give us a minute? Maybe fetch a jug of water?’
He waited until Smith had nodded her agreement before heading for the counter.
‘The handcuffs?’ Clarke said quietly.
‘I told you I’d give you a day or two. It was out there, Siobhan. Too many tongues had started wagging on your side of the fence.’
‘How well do you really know this guy?’ Clarke was staring at Kelly’s back.
‘The book he’s writing won’t be published till next year. And he definitely protects his sources.’
‘He knows about the run-in we had with ACU?’
Smith nodded.
‘And you brought him with you today because...?’
‘Just listen to what he has to say, okay?’
Kelly was returning with the pitcher and three glasses. ‘All right if I sit down?’ he asked. Clarke nodded, without managing to look welcoming. The owner was fetching his notepad. They ordered and he left, yelling instructions in the direction of the kitchen.