All of this Clarke had learned in the space of just over thirty minutes, thanks to the Police Scotland database. It had been two years since Hodges’ last run-in with the law — stopped with a car full of untaxed cigarettes. He’d kept his mouth shut and paid the fine. But that should have prevented him owning or running a venue like the Devil’s Dram, and a bit more digging had revealed that he neither owned nor ran it — not according to the paperwork. So what did he do?
Clarke was about to ask.
She thumped on the doors of the club and waited. Nobody answered so she tried again. There was a locked gate to the right of the building, leading to a narrow alley two inches deep in rubbish. To the left, a wider lane, paved with wonky-looking setts, led uphill and around to the back, where there was a door for deliveries. The door was open and cases of wine and beer were being unloaded from a white van with no discernible markings. The driver handed her a crate of twenty-four bottles, so she carried them inside. A young man she didn’t recognise took them off her, eyes narrowing only slightly at the stranger’s appearance.
‘Harry around?’ Clarke asked.
‘Usual spot.’
Clarke nodded as if fully understanding, and walked through the storage area into a corridor, at the end of which was a door. Opening it, she stepped into the club proper. Harry’s usual spot was the same one where she had found Darryl Christie on her previous visit. She was two thirds of the way up the staircase before he realised she wasn’t staff.
‘Who let you in?’
‘A face friendlier than yours, Mr Hodges.’
‘Oh, it knows my name.’
‘And your record.’
‘Rehabilitation is a great thing.’
‘Is that what Darryl does — takes bad lads and turns them into paragons of virtue?’
‘I’m a bit busy here, Officer.’
‘Been out to see Craw Shand again? I’ll be taking a look at the footage. Lot of traffic cameras along Peffermill Road.’
‘Oh aye?’
‘And that Range Rover does stand out.’
‘You’ve still not said why you’re here.’
‘Mr Shand seems to have been abducted. That really wasn’t a very good move on somebody’s part.’
‘I’ve already told you I don’t know the fucker.’
‘No need for bad language, Mr Hodges.’ She paused for a second. ‘Hugh Harold Hodges — your parents had a sense of humour, then?’
‘Fuck you.’
‘I want Craw Shand returned to me unharmed.’
‘Good for you. Put it on your Christmas list.’
Clarke placed both hands on the table and leaned in towards him. ‘It won’t be a list I’ll be carrying next time you see me. It’ll be a warrant.’
Hodges looked her up and down. ‘Your patter’s as pish as your dress sense. The spinster look is so last year.’
‘That hurts,’ Clarke said, staring at his feet. ‘What size shoes do you take? Looks like a nine. It’s amazing what our lab can do with the impression of a sole — and one was left on Craw Shand’s back door.’ She paused to let this sink in. ‘Tell your boss: Craw Shand belongs to me.’
‘Tell him yourself. But do it somewhere else. And check out the gents’ bogs on your way out — wee treat for you there.’
He got busy on his phone, checking messages and answering them with rapid movements of his thumb. Clarke held her ground for a few seconds longer, then walked down the stairs with as much dignity as she could muster. As she made for the entrance, she paused and stared at the door to the gents. It was marked ‘Warlocks’ and wasn’t giving anything away, so she pushed it open. There didn’t seem to be anyone inside. She could see cubicles, sinks and a single trough-style urinal. And then something caught her eye. A large framed photograph, blown up from a video still. It was grainy, but she knew when it had been taken and who it showed. Deborah Quant’s party. And there was Siobhan herself, in her short black dress, cut slightly too low at the neck. She had an arm around Quant’s back and was leaning down to yell something in her ear, mouth and eyes open wide.
From the club’s security cameras. Blown up and framed. Directly above the trough where the men stood in droves each evening.
She tried to shift it, but it had been screwed into the wall.
‘Fuck,’ she said under her breath.
‘No need for bad language,’ Hodges chided her, standing by the door, holding it a few inches open with one hand, a grin on his face.
‘If you don’t want us back here night after night, checking for drugs and underage drinkers, that’ll be gone by the time I’ve reached my car.’
‘Cops are always welcome here,’ he said as she stormed past him. ‘This’ll be the highlight of their trip, wouldn’t you say, Detective Inspector? And you should feel flattered — turns out even spinsters have a bit of life left in them when enough Happy Hour cocktails are poured down their throats...’
Forensics had finished at Craw Shand’s. They had been satisfied with photos of the shoe print, so the door was still in place, a padlock added so the house could be secured before the team left. Although he had already been interviewed, the next-door neighbour came out to share his thoughts with Clarke.
‘Never any trouble... didn’t hear a peep in the night...’
The neighbour across the back from Shand had said the same. No shouts or yelps, nobody wrestling Craw Shand out from his kitchen. Nothing. Maybe the uniform had been right — the caved-in door had been waiting for Shand, and he’d taken fright and fled. Clarke had asked Laura Smith if she could place a story on the Scotsman’s website.
‘Am I allowed to flag up the Darryl Christie connection?’
‘Wiser not to.’
A patrol had last checked the rear of the property at 11 p.m., meaning the door had been forced sometime between then and six in the morning. Only one of the neighbours had seen Craw leave the house that day — a routine morning trip to the local shop. His TV had been heard through the wall in the afternoon — horse-racing commentary. As Clarke took a final tour of the rooms, she found little in the way of clues. A bag of groceries sat on the kitchen worktop — tinned soup, ravioli, peanuts. An open packet of biscuits on a chair in the living room. There was a large empty backpack on top of the wardrobe in Shand’s bedroom. His drawers were half filled with clothes. Didn’t mean he hadn’t taken a smaller bag, maybe enough shirts and pants for a couple of days. The mail on the kitchen table didn’t add much — a couple of overdue bills for his phone and his TV package, and one advising him that his gas supply was being disconnected. She had contacted his mobile provider. If he made any calls, she wanted to know about it pronto. The neighbours had been given her business card — they were to get in touch should Shand return home at any point, or anyone else pay a visit.
And that was that. Apart from one thing.
Christie picked up after three rings.
‘I’m assuming you’ve heard from Harry?’ Clarke asked.
‘I only wish I’d been there when you saw that lovely photo. Now you know how it feels to be framed.’