‘Shouldn’t you be stuck like glue to the grieving mother?’ Clarke asked Kelly.
‘She’s back in the hotel bedroom, digesting the news.’
‘We still don’t know where the cuffs came from,’ Clarke stressed. Kelly just shrugged.
‘One more piece of the jigsaw,’ he commented. ‘You have to admit, there’s a picture emerging.’
‘Unlike some, I don’t jump to conclusions.’ Clarke took a sip of water while Kelly sighed, gripping the rim of the table with both hands.
‘I’ll just say what I have to say, okay? The officers involved in the original inquiry — people like John Rebus, Mary Skelton, Douglas Newsome — they all fell down on the job. More than that; in some cases they broke the very laws they were honour-bound to uphold. I’ve got information on every single one of them.’
‘Including a couple of uniforms called Steele and Edwards?’
Kelly couldn’t meet her eyes. ‘Not so much, no.’
Clarke gave a snort. ‘That’s because they’re your source for all of this, yes? Happy to land everyone else in it just so long as they’re protected?’
‘I’m not saying they’re whiter than white.’
‘Trust me, that would be a tough sell around this table.’
‘But Rawlston with his lazy assumption that there had to be a gay angle; Skelton bunking off half the time; Newsome altering statements; Rebus doing favours for Derek Shankley...’ He paused. ‘You’ve not even started interviewing them, have you?’
‘In Mary Skelton’s case, that would require a spiritualist,’ Clarke replied icily. ‘In point of fact, we’ve already spoken with Rawlston and Rebus. And I’m sure Laura’s let you know we’ve had a visit from Derek Shankley and his father, too. So if you’re looking for evidence of sloppy policing or a cover-up, you need to try harder. And while you’re doing that, we’ll be doing our job, despite all the grief we’re getting.’
‘Can you really blame the family, after the way they’ve been treated?’
‘All I know is, everyone on the team in Leith is working their damnedest, and media attention just gets in the way.’
‘Catherine’s hurting — her and Martin both.’ Kelly paused and sighed. ‘You know, all the time he was missing, they never once considered having Stuart declared dead. There was always that sliver of hope. For a while, Martin started drinking. He managed to kick it, but it nearly ended the marriage.’
‘This’ll all be going in your book, will it?’
‘The family decide what goes in.’
‘So it might not be the full story.’ Clarke nodded to herself. ‘Just another version.’ She began to manoeuvre her way out of the booth and tossed a ten-pound note on to the tabletop. ‘That should cover mine. Don’t seem to have any appetite.’
‘The Blooms could be useful to you, you know,’ Kelly was saying. ‘They have the ear of the media. Someone out there knows who killed Stuart and why. The longer this plays on TV and elsewhere, the more it might get to them.’
Clarke ignored him, waved an apology towards the frowning proprietor and yanked open the door. She was halfway across the pavement when Laura Smith emerged, clattering towards her on wedge heels.
‘Siobhan...’
Clarke paused and waited. Smith glanced back at the window, where Kelly was watching.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I thought I was helping.’
‘Me or him?’
The journalist tried for a look suggesting penitence. ‘Let me make it up to you.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘A heads-up on a story we’re running in the morning. It’s about Sir Adrian Brand.’
‘Yes?’
‘You’re out at Poretoun House, aren’t you? Ripping the place apart from what I hear.’
‘What’s the story, Laura?’
‘Just that Sir Adrian is friends with DCS Mollison. We’ve got pics of them at charity galas and out on the golf course.’
‘So?’ Clarke managed not to show that her heart had sunk a little. ‘Have you asked DCS Mollison for a quote?’
‘He’s been hard to get hold of.’
‘Since news of the handcuffs broke? Wonder why that could be, Laura.’
Smith scowled at Clarke’s sarcasm. ‘I’m a reporter, Siobhan. This is my job.’
‘And did you find the story all on your own, or did you have a bit of help?’ Clarke looked towards the window. Kelly was dabbing at his phone with both thumbs. ‘He wants a friend inside MIT, and can give you something in return if you make an introduction?’
‘A story’s a story.’
‘Not when it’s being skewed. A game of golf? A charity night? Whoopee-fucking-do, Laura. You know as well as I do, it says everything and nothing, but that won’t stop the conspiracy theorists lapping it up, especially when you add as a last line that DCS Mollison could not be reached for comment.’
‘I couldn’t get to him, but you can.’
Clarke raised both eyebrows. ‘So you want me to do your job for you? Get him to talk to you? Dream on, sister.’ She spun away and unlocked her car. She had already started the engine when Smith’s fingernails tapped at the window. Clarke lowered it and Smith leaned in so they were face to face.
‘Know how few of us are left out here in the wild, Siobhan? Journalists like me, we’re an endangered species. It’s all bloggers and social justice warriors and gossip hounds. How many of them can you put a name to? Maybe you better start trying, because soon they’re going to be all that’s left.’
Clarke watched her turn and head back inside, where her overfilled sandwich was waiting. Kelly had picked his up and was wondering where to start. Smith sat across from him. He spoke, she listened, then they both turned in Clarke’s direction. She fixed her gaze on the windscreen in front of her and signalled to join the stream of traffic, ignoring the blaring horn of the taxi behind her.
29
Rebus hadn’t been inside Saughton for a few years. His phone was confiscated and he had to go through an airport-style scanner. They even swabbed him to check for drugs. He explained about the inhaler and they asked upstairs before allowing him to hang on to it. And then he was in. The visitors’ room was large and poorly heated, the tables busy with family members. Rebus was led towards Ellis Meikle. The young man sat rigid as a statue, jaw clenched, eyes fixed to the whitewashed stone wall over Rebus’s shoulder after Rebus had seated himself on the red moulded-plastic chair.
‘Thanks for seeing me,’ he said.
‘Thank Uncle Dallas,’ Meikle muttered.
‘You know why I’m here?’
‘No.’
‘Your uncle sort of asked me to take a look at the case. He says you shouldn’t be in here.’
Meikle’s eyes met Rebus’s. ‘They’ve got me in with the sex cases,’ he stated. ‘Say it’s for my own protection.’
‘They may be right. Won’t have escaped your attention that this place is a jungle. Survival of the fittest and all that. Sex cases tend to be quieter, better-mannered.’
‘I can look after myself.’
‘Helps that you’re a killer,’ Rebus agreed. ‘Killers always get a bit more respect.’
‘I’m not a sex case, though. I shouldn’t be in with them — it’s embarrassing.’
‘I can try to have a word...’ Rebus had been studying the young man. He was not yet quite an adult, his face a combination of the kid he had been and the man he was becoming. He still probably only needed a shave twice a week or so. He had defined cheekbones and thin shoulders, his prison-issue sweatshirt a size or two too large. He clasped his hands, pressing them across the top of his head, elbows jutting.
‘Tell Uncle Dallas I did it. He knows I did.’
‘If that’s your story, there’s not much anyone can do.’ Rebus shrugged as if it meant very little to him one way or the other. ‘But you know yourself that there are still questions and loose ends. The one thing that mystifies me is why you did it in the first place. Wasn’t Kristen the love of your life?’