There was a pub called McKenzie’s across the road and she was tempted. But she had plenty of gin at home, plus the necessary tonic water and lemon. A man had emerged from the dimly lit interior to smoke a cigarette. She walked over to him and nodded a greeting.
‘This your local?’ she asked.
‘Aye.’
‘Ever noticed anyone using those phone boxes?’ She pointed towards them.
He drew in some smoke and held it before exhaling. ‘Who the hell uses a phone box these days?’
‘Not everyone has a mobile.’
‘You could have fooled me. You the police?’
‘I might be.’
‘So what’s going on?’
‘Just some nuisance calls.’
‘Heavy breathing, you mean? Christ, that takes me back. Happened to my wife once. Years ago, mind.’
‘What about the pub — any new faces turned up recently?’
‘It’s mostly Americans and Chinese, looking for coffee and something to eat. Place makes more money from meals than drink these days. Want me to keep my eyes peeled?’
‘I’d appreciate it.’ She found a business card in her pocket. ‘I’m based at Gayfield Square. They can always get a message to me.’
‘Siobhan’s a nice name,’ he said, peering at the card.
‘My parents thought so.’
‘Can I buy you a drink, Siobhan?’
Clarke made show of scowling. ‘What would your wife say?’
‘She’d say, “Robbie, I never knew you still had it in you.”’
He was still chuckling as Clarke headed back to her car.
She drove the length of her street without finding a parking space, so ended up around the corner on a yellow line. There was a POLICE sign she could place on the dashboard, but it was, she knew from experience, an invitation to vandals, so instead she decided she’d remember to move the Astra before the wardens started their morning shift. A few late-night revellers were heading down Broughton Street with their fast-food containers, voices raucous with laughter. Music was pumping from one of the windows above her — but from the tenement opposite hers, praise be. There was someone sitting in a parked car. Their face had been illuminated by the screen of their phone, but the car interior was dark by the time Clarke found her key and unlocked her door. She made sure it clicked shut behind her.
The stairwell was well lit and uncluttered, no mail waiting for her other than the usual advertising bumf. She climbed to her landing, unlocked the door to her flat and flicked on the hall light. She wondered what it would be like to be welcomed by Brillo or another dog. Nice to have something to come home to, maybe. In the kitchen, she filled the kettle. Rebus’s own kitchen hadn’t been that bad, she decided, noticing the dishes in her sink. While the water boiled, she headed through to the living room, pausing at the window. She could just make out the car below, its front driver’s-side window illuminated again. She watched as the window slid down, a hand and wrist emerging, the phone pointed towards her tenement door. A single flash as a photograph was taken.
‘What the hell?’ Clarke muttered. She watched for a further moment, then stalked back into the hall, snatching up her keys and heading for the stairs. The car’s engine was running by the time she hauled open the tenement door. Headlamps lit, wheels turning as it began to leave its parking spot. She couldn’t make out the driver, no idea if they were male or female. As it pulled away, she stumbled over the kerb, taking a minute to right herself, by which time the car had turned into Broughton Street and was gone. No make, no number plate. She stared at the gap where the car had been, and decided to move her own.
‘Silver lining, Siobhan,’ she told herself, making for the corner.
Wednesday
4
The mortuary car park was almost full by the time Clarke arrived. She’d grabbed a coffee from her local café and carried it with her as she made for the staff entrance. Most of the attendants knew her and gave nods of welcome as she walked down the corridor. The autopsy suite was one floor up, so she climbed the stairs, opening the last door she came to. It led to the viewing area. There were two rows of benches, a glass panel separating the spectators from the room where the actual work was done. Sutherland’s team had already gathered. They were concentrating on the ceiling-mounted loudspeaker as Professors Deborah Quant and Aubrey Hamilton discussed procedure. Both women wore regulation gowns, foot protectors, masks, caps and goggles. Quant was the taller, which was useful when they had their backs to the viewing room. Mortuary staff fussed around them with stainless-steel implements and bowls and various sizes of clear plastic specimen pouch. Scales had been fetched, though Clarke very much doubted there’d be anything in the way of vital organs to weigh. Graham Sutherland wasn’t the only one to cast an envious eye at Clarke’s coffee.
‘What have I missed?’ she asked.
‘Clothing’s in the process of being removed.’ He handed a set of photographs to her. An identical set was being perused by one of the mortuary technicians. They showed Stuart Bloom at various ages and in a range of poses. In one of the later ones, he appeared to be wearing the same jacket and shirt from the night he’d gone missing. Stepping closer to the glass, Clarke saw that the denim jacket and check shirt had been sliced cleanly in sections from the cadaver, though not without taking some skin in the process. What was left on the slab looked like a prop from a horror film. Tweezers were removing samples of hair, eyebrows and a fingernail, along with bits of glass from the shattered window.
‘Apparently the wildlife have had a go at him down the years,’ Sutherland commented.
‘I thought the boot was closed, car windows intact?’
He looked at her. ‘I mean bugs and the like. They smell decay, they’re always going to find a way.’
Pathologist and anthropologist were now studying the skull, Quant circling the area of damage with her finger. They moved on to the jaw, examining the teeth.
‘Dental records,’ Clarke said. Sutherland nodded his agreement and turned towards George Gamble. While the other detectives were on their feet, Gamble had decided to stay seated, pudgy hands resting on thick knees.
‘They’re on their way,’ Gamble obliged.
Sutherland’s eyes met Clarke’s. ‘CCU agreed to release the case files. A couple of dozen boxes and about as many computer disks. It’s all coming to us from the warehouse.’
‘Joy of joys,’ Tess Leighton drawled.
‘Bit of reading for you, Tess,’ Callum Reid said with a grin.
‘For all of you,’ Sutherland corrected him. ‘Team effort, remember?’
Leighton wagged a finger at Reid, who gave a sniff and turned his attention back to the examination. The door swung open, a member of the mortuary team standing there in overalls and shin-high rubber boots.