‘I’d probably have gone tonto myself,’ Reid commented. ‘On top of the prints on the handcuffs and the media attention.’
‘I dare say Professional Standards will want a word with us.’
‘Not our fault he snapped,’ Clarke felt it necessary to state. ‘Has Ness put in a complaint?’
‘He might, if his solicitor suggests it. Mitigating circumstances and all that.’
‘Solicitor will say we should have known the reason Brand was on hand to take all those photos was to torment his old adversary.’
Callum Reid nodded his agreement and took a sip from his mug, wincing at its bitter contents.
‘So what now?’ Clarke asked.
‘Lady Brand is at the hospital with her husband. I’d like you to go have a word, see what was said between the two men.’
‘And then a chat with Ness?’
Sutherland looked at Clarke. ‘Maybe tomorrow. He’s being kept in the cells overnight. Chances are it’ll be a sheriff’s court appearance in the morning, a fine and another walk past the cameras and microphones.’
‘After which we bring him back into custody?’
‘Maybe. Meantime, go see what you can glean at A&E.’
Clarke’s windscreen had already started frosting over again. They sat together and waited for the heater to do its job. Reid yawned and checked his phone for news. Clarke’s own phone let her know she had a text. It was from Laura Smith.
Is it true about Ness and Brand?
Clarke texted back: I’m not talking to you. A reply came immediately.
Dougal didn’t get the fingerprint story from me! My editor’s raging I missed it! Can I phone you?
Instead of responding, Clarke released the handbrake and they headed to the hospital. No traffic on the roads apart from cabs. Clarke decided it was safe to ignore the odd red light, though Reid tutted theatrically every time she did it. He had brought his mug with him and she wished she had done the same.
‘Professional Standards would be the icing on the cake,’ he commented.
‘That’s the problem with this cake, Callum — it’s all icing and no bloody filling.’
They made good time and parked near the doors to A&E, making sure emergency vehicles could get past. Two ambulances stood under the canopy, doors open. It was a busy night. There were eight or nine patients seated in reception and a couple of others on trolleys. Paramedics in green overalls chatted among themselves to the side of the reception desk. Clarke and Reid showed ID to the receptionist and were given a ward number. When they got there, Cordelia Brand was seated alone on a row of chairs, her bag on her knees, face ghostly, eyes staring. Clarke and Reid introduced themselves.
‘He’ll be admitted when they’re done examining him,’ Lady Brand said. ‘There’s a bed waiting, I think. But right now they’re doing some sort of brain test. I’m sure he’s fine. He’s talking and everything, just hellish shaken.’
‘You recognised the assailant?’ Reid asked.
‘Oh, it was Jackie Ness all right. Adrian had been laughing about him earlier in the evening. Sending him those photos — I told him it was childish behaviour. But how could we know where it would lead?’
‘Had Ness contacted your husband at all? After the photos started arriving, I mean?’
‘Not that I know of. There were just a couple of them, weren’t there?’
‘A couple of dozen actually,’ Clarke corrected her. The woman’s face tightened.
‘Childish, as I say. But that doesn’t excuse what happened.’
‘Not at all,’ Reid agreed.
‘What did happen exactly?’ Clarke enquired. ‘Can you talk us through it?’
‘If Adrian had let the driver take us up to the door, we’d have been safely inside before that man could reach us. But no, we had to walk the length of the drive.’ She showed them her shoes. ‘In these, I ask you. But Adrian’s mind was made up, so that was that. He was opening the gates when Ness walked over. He’d obviously been waiting in his car; for how long I can’t say, but probably stewing all that time. I was warning Adrian — I thought it was a mugger — when the punch came. Adrian’s nose was bleeding, and then a knee caught him in the groin area. There was another punch to the stomach, I think — no, a kick, a kick to the stomach. He was on the ground by then, but Ness yanked on his hair so Adrian was looking up at him. That’s when he said it.’
‘Said what?’
‘“A man can only take so much. You should know that by now.”’
‘Those exact words?’
‘“You should know that” or “you should have learned that” — something along those lines.’
Clarke jotted it down in her notebook.
‘What do you think he meant?’ Reid was asking. Cordelia Brand offered a shrug.
‘The man’s clearly lost his mind, wouldn’t you say?’
A nurse had arrived through a set of swing doors. ‘Another hour or so, I’m afraid,’ she explained.
‘Any chance we can talk to him?’ Clarke asked, holding open her warrant card.
‘Doubtful until morning. You’d have to ask the doctor.’
‘Please don’t go upsetting him,’ Lady Brand begged the two detectives. ‘This will have bruised his ego as well as his face. He spars with his personal trainer, you know.’
‘We can all get caught by a sucker punch,’ Reid reassured her. The nurse was leaving. Lady Brand took her phone from her bag and showed them the photo of Ness’s car.
‘He should go to jail, but he won’t,’ she said.
‘What makes you think that?’
‘They’re overcrowded as it is — all an assault merits these days is a slap on the wrist. I’m a prison visitor, so I know.’
‘Saughton prison?’ Clarke asked casually. Reid was giving her a questioning look, but she ignored him.
‘Yes.’
‘Ever encountered a teenager called Ellis Meikle?’
‘He should be somewhere else, somewhere for younger prisoners. But then again, he is a murderer.’
‘So you know him to speak to?’
The woman shook her head. ‘Only by reputation — which is that he never says much, except to ask when he can have a games console. I don’t think human life means as much to him as that other world he inhabits. Now if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll go find a mirror so I can brush my hair and tidy my face. Need to look my best for Adrian when I see him.’
The two detectives watched her leave. She had good posture, her back ramrod straight. Clarke imagined her as a girl, books balanced on her head as she learned the necessary poise and refinement.
‘What was all that about?’ Reid asked as he checked his phone for messages.
‘Just a case I worked on.’
‘Do you keep tabs on all of them?’
Clarke didn’t bother answering. She stared at the words she had jotted on her notepad. ‘What do you make of Ness’s outburst?’
‘I’m not sure.’ He put his phone away and stifled a yawn. ‘So do we hang around here on the off chance of a word with the patient?’
‘Depends how keen you are.’
‘Bit of shut-eye wouldn’t go amiss.’
‘Hard to disagree. Bright and early at Leith, though?’
‘Last one in buys elevenses.’
‘You’re on.’
Malcolm Fox was in his kitchen, hands wrapped around a mug of instant hot chocolate. He had slept fitfully, a couple of hours at most. Before bed, he had peered through his curtains, half expecting to see the black Audi parked across his driveway. Either that or Rebus’s Saab. The further down he dug into the Bloom case, the more he found. Not hard facts as such, but hints and trails and links. Trace evidence, in a way. You looked for it at the scene of a crime, but that wasn’t the only place you could find it. Rebus had been good, of course, one of the best — it was the reason Complaints had never been able to kick him off the force. But in covering up the flaws, mistakes and misdemeanours of others, he had left the faintest trace evidence of his own.