‘That maybe someone had put the frighteners on him,’ Madden speculated.
‘There were dozens of possibilities,’ Speke added. ‘We heard the same rumours as everyone else.’
‘Even wondered about the boyfriend,’ Madden agreed. ‘Say he’d killed him, maybe in a jealous rage. Well... son of a cop, his dad would have had a way of getting rid of the evidence.’
‘And tonight,’ Speke said, ‘they’re saying Stuart was handcuffed.’
‘But with the only verifiable print that of Jackie Ness,’ Clarke felt it necessary to qualify.
‘I dare say your lot know how to make that happen, eh?’ Madden drained his glass and smacked his lips, signalling towards the bar for a refill.
‘You have a pretty jaundiced view of us,’ Crowther stated. Madden looked towards Speke.
‘Tell them.’
Speke shook his head furiously. Madden turned his attention back to the two detectives. ‘Colin here used to go to Rogues. He saw exactly how jaundiced your lot are.’
Clarke was studying Speke. ‘You’re gay, Mr Speke?’
‘I keep telling him that things have changed,’ Madden continued, ‘but he’s still got one foot in the closet.’ Speke had lifted the espresso cup and was trying to hide behind it. ‘I blame the parents myself.’
‘For what?’ Clarke enquired.
‘Dying before Colin could pluck up the courage to tell them.’ He saw the look Crowther was giving him. ‘Hetero as they come,’ he told her, patting his chest with a palm.
‘Were you at Rogues any of the times it was busted?’ Clarke asked Speke. He shook his head and took a deep breath.
‘Stuart always seemed to know in advance. He’d warn me off.’
‘How do you think he knew?’
‘I thought Derek was probably telling him.’
‘And how did Derek know?’
‘Well...’ Speke shrugged. ‘His dad, no?’
‘I wasn’t so sure about that,’ Madden offered. ‘The guy who owned Rogues...’ He looked to his friend.
‘Ralph Hanratty,’ Speke obliged.
‘I reckoned he had a cop or two in his pocket and they’d tip him the wink.’
Crowther and Clarke shared a look. They were trying to remember if Hanratty’s name was on the list Alex Shankley had helped compile. When Crowther slid her phone from her pocket, Clarke knew she’d be texting Phil Yeats.
‘Can we move on,’ Clarke said, ‘to a few questions about your involvement in Stuart Bloom’s business?’
Madden’s fresh glass had arrived. He took a slurp. ‘Is this because you don’t like us asking you about cops in people’s pockets and faking fingerprint evidence?’
‘It’s the reason we’re having this meeting, Mr Madden,’ Clarke corrected him. ‘We’ve been told that you advised him in regard to surveillance techniques—’
‘That’s a bit of a stretch,’ Colin Speke interrupted. ‘Stuart just wanted to know what gear we used in certain situations.’
‘He actually knew almost as much as we did,’ Madden added.
‘So you never went out with him on a job?’
‘Maybe once or twice.’
Clarke looked at Madden. ‘Go on,’ she prompted him.
‘Are we going to be in trouble?’
‘Did you break the law?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Me neither, till I hear what you’ve got to say.’
Madden glanced at his friend, who put up no objection. He swallowed another mouthful of wine, almost finishing the glass; Clarke was beginning to wonder if he had a problem.
‘We went out with him a few times so he could test bits and pieces of kit. A night-vision scope; special camera lenses; a few long-range mics.’
‘Any location in particular?’
‘There was a house in Murrayfield...’
‘Owned by Sir Adrian Brand?’ Clarke guessed. ‘Surrounded by a high wall.’
Madden was nodding. ‘That was the thing. Stuart was sure there’d be motion sensors that would floodlight the grounds, so the wall was as close as we could get. But that was only thirty feet or so from the back of the house.’
‘With a clear view of the garden room?’
‘You know the place?’ Madden watched as Clarke nodded.
Speke cleared his throat. ‘Stuart wanted to know about bugs, too, but I couldn’t help him with that. He went to the internet instead, I think.’
‘He bugged Brand’s house?’
‘House and office both was the plan.’
‘Never carried out?’
Speke looked to Madden, who shrugged.
‘How about computer hacking?’ Clarke asked.
‘Again, Stuart was a lot savvier than us.’
‘But you knew he was hacking into Brand’s computer?’
‘I don’t think he’d had any success. The tech wasn’t as readily available. There was some software he needed but couldn’t get his hands on.’
‘Any other jaunts apart from Murrayfield?’
‘Just Poretoun House.’
Clarke stared at Speke. ‘Why there?’ Speke shrugged and turned to Madden.
‘I’m not sure Stuart trusted Jackie Ness,’ Madden answered. ‘With good cause, too — the man had tried stiffing us for money we were owed; he did it to everybody if he thought he stood half a chance of getting away with it.’
‘Was it the same procedure as Murrayfield?’
‘Night vision; long-range mic,’ Madden confirmed.
‘What about bugs and computer hacking?’
‘Of Jackie Ness?’ Madden pondered this. ‘Stuart never said anything.’
‘Could money have become an issue between Stuart and his employer?’ Clarke asked, receiving shrugs from both men in response.
‘These little surveillance trips,’ Crowther interrupted, having sent her text, ‘did they throw up anything?’
This time the two men shook their heads simultaneously.
‘You’ve wrung every last drop from us,’ Madden said, draining his glass and waving it towards the bar.
Clarke handed over a business card to either man. ‘We may have some follow-up questions. Any more foreign trips planned?’
They shook their heads again. Clarke got to her feet, Crowther following suit.
‘Let me just...’ Clarke was reaching into her bag for some money but Madden waved her offer aside.
‘You only drank tap water. This is on us.’
She thanked him and made for the door. ‘They’re paying,’ she told the waitress, who was already on her way to the table with Madden’s wine.
‘Wish I’d had the steak now,’ Crowther said as they stepped outside.
32
‘This is nice,’ Rebus said. He meant it, too. His own flat was usually scruffy, filled with accumulations of clutter. Deborah Quant’s, on the other hand, was the epitome of order, each item carefully chosen and positioned, just a few books, a few knick-knacks. Each spacious wall held a solitary painting, which drew the eye towards the art. Her music came from an all-but-invisible Sonos system, and even her choices were tasteful. There were plenty of gadgets in her kitchen, but she had found cupboard space for them all, leaving the worktop largely empty. The flat was in a modern block in the Grange, walking distance from Rebus’s home. Just the one niggle — Quant didn’t want Brillo visiting. The dog’s tail had started wagging, eyes at their most appealing, as he’d watched Rebus shrug into his good coat.
‘Basket,’ Rebus had ordered, trying not to feel guilty.
Quant had summoned him for a supper of pasta and fish, washed down with Pinot Grigio. Just a short interrogation about his health over the dining table, then the pristine white sofa for decaf coffee, a drop more wine, and music. The wall-mounted TV stayed off while they talked.
‘Any news of the Bloom case?’ Rebus enquired.