‘Not unless he’s caught napping by a bloody film producer,’ another of the three said, pretending to throw a punch. Laughing to themselves, the men moved off, holding the site plans between them as they walked.
Turning around, Clarke saw that Crowther was checking the outbuildings. A large empty byre; a milking shed full of gleaming equipment; a silo half filled with manure; a barn with more machinery, a well-stocked workshop situated in a lean-to attached to it. The farmhouse was a modest two-storey affair, its door locked. Through the windows Clarke could make out breakfast detritus on the kitchen table — just the one plate, knife and mug — and a living room that looked like no one used it much.
Crowther gave a shrug and they continued their search. A muddy track behind the barn led to a ramshackle gate, beyond which stood a churned, steeply sloping field. Crowther gestured towards the field’s furthest corner. It had become a dumping ground for unwanted machines and implements.
‘What do you think?’ she asked. It was Clarke’s turn to shrug.
They opened the gate and headed in, slipping and sliding until they adjusted to the ground beneath them. As they got closer, Clarke could make out a baler (she thought), and other bits and pieces that could be attached to a tractor. There were a couple of old trailers, their wood mostly turned to pulp. A small van was missing all four wheels and had begun to sink into the mire. There were also coils of fencing, dangerous-looking collections of rusting barbed wire, and the remains of a fridge freezer and washing machine. Even a venerable-looking toilet and blackened cast-iron bath.
The two detectives’ interest, however, had quickly shifted to a gap between one of the trailers and the van. The ground here was a slightly different colour. What weeds and plants had pushed through the soil weren’t quite as well established as those nearby.
‘Something’s been moved,’ Crowther commented.
Clarke turned and peered into the front of the van. ‘There’s a tarpaulin in here.’
‘Get on to the SOCOs or a chat with the farmer first?’
‘SOCOs. If nothing else, their presence might throw Mr Carlton off balance. I wonder where the hell he is.’
It was then that Clarke heard a tractor in the middle distance. She climbed on to the bonnet of the van for a better look. The tractor was trundling along, the best part of one field over. It stopped suddenly, a figure half emerging on to the running board, facing her. Clarke waved, then watched as the figure leapt down from the cab and stood there for a moment before turning and running in the opposite direction.
‘Hell’s he up to?’ Crowther asked.
‘Back to the car!’ Clarke called out, jumping from the bonnet of the van and trying as best she could to hurry through the morass.
They called it in as they drove. Crowther had the sat nav up. Poretoun was the only village around. Not many roads, most of them little more than country lanes and farm tracks. They retraced their route towards the main road and took a left. Eventually they caught sight of the abandoned tractor. The lane was lined with hedgerows, with gaps here and there allowing occasional glimpses of the fields and woods beyond.
‘See him?’ Clarke said from between gritted teeth. Her boots were slick with mud, threatening to slip from the pedals.
‘No,’ Crowther admitted.
‘Get up on the roof.’ Clarke brought the car to a stop.
‘You sure?’
‘Just do it.’
Crowther got out, clambering on to the bonnet first and then the roof. Clarke slid her window down.
‘He can’t be far,’ she called out.
‘Unless he’s not on foot. Maybe there was a car...’
‘How long did they say for the cavalry?’
‘Fifteen minutes, maybe twenty. Dalkeith and Penicuik are the nearest stations.’
‘But not always manned?’ Clarke guessed.
‘Any chance of a helicopter?’
‘Yeah, sure. When we might not even be able to rouse a patrol car.’
Crowther slid back down the windscreen on to the bonnet and half rolled until her feet hit the ground. ‘Only asking,’ she said, getting back in.
Clarke pressed the accelerator, eyes scanning left to right. A figure darted from the undergrowth before she could brake. The impact threw him forward, spinning. He hit the roadway shoulder first, head next, and lay there, either unconscious or...
‘Dead?’ Crowther asked, jaw refusing to close once the word was out.
Clarke pulled on the handbrake and pushed open the door. She crouched in front of the farmer. Below his blue overalls, his chest rose and fell, rose and fell.
‘Ambulance?’ Crowther asked from the passenger seat.
‘Ambulance,’ Clarke confirmed with relief.
49
‘What did you do?’ Ellis Meikle asked Rebus. They were back in HMP Saughton’s visiting hall, same table as before.
‘They moved you?’ Rebus asked.
‘Not yet, but someone’s had a word. I’m being treated like I’m not to be messed with.’
‘I spoke to someone in here who has a bit of clout.’
‘Who?’
Rebus shook his head. ‘Best you don’t get too close. Had any other visitors?’
‘No.’
‘Want to know why I came here in the first place?’ Rebus watched Meikle shrug.
‘You said it was down to Uncle Dallas.’
‘A friend of mine, she was the cop in charge of your case.’
‘Clarke?’
‘That’s the one. She started getting prank calls. Being a detective, it took her about ten minutes to unmask the culprit — your uncle Dallas. He’d been given her number and home address by a couple of other cops she’d had some bother with. Being thick and malicious, they decided to offer her up to your uncle. She wants payback but Uncle Dallas wouldn’t help unless she took another look at your case. He thinks you’re innocent, Ellis. He believes in you.’
‘He shouldn’t.’
‘Thing is, though, I’m going to have to tell him he’s right. It took me a while to make up my mind — I had your dad in the frame but it didn’t quite work. He may have fancied Kristen — he seems to have a thing for women younger than your mum — but like I say, it didn’t quite work. So I’m going to have to tell Uncle Dallas about Billie.’ Rebus paused to let his words sink in. Colour was creeping up Ellis Meikle’s neck.
‘No,’ the young man said, voice suddenly hoarse.
‘What else can I do?’ Rebus reasoned. ‘You’re in here for a crime you didn’t commit.’ He leaned forward on his elbows. ‘Started to dawn on me when I told you I’d been talking to some of the kids who knew you in Restalrig. Remember? I told you they’d said she made you do it, and straight away you asked if they meant Kristen. Afterwards, I began to wonder — who else if not your girlfriend?’ He paused, giving his words time to sink in.
‘Billie was at your house that day; your focus was on the game you were playing — easy for her to send a text from your phone. And that would have been that, if you hadn’t gone out and bumped into one of Kristen’s pals, wondering why you weren’t at the bunker. You knew straight off who must have sent the text — unlikely it was one of your mates. So you hightailed it, but too late. Billie had already done the deed. You took the knife from her, made sure to wipe her prints and add your own, then threw it where it wouldn’t be too hard to find. Got your sister out of there, maybe covering up any blood on her clothes by sticking your own jacket over her. And that was that.’ He lifted his elbows off the table and leaned back in his chair. ‘Something else you said on my first visit: “What else was I going to do?” You didn’t mean killing Kristen; you meant taking the blame.’