Grant Hood had spent the morning dealing with the press, reworking the daily news release for later in the day — hopefully this time to the satisfaction of both DCS Templer and ACC Carswell — and fielding calls from the victim’s father, angry that more broadcast time wasn’t being given to appeals for information.
‘What about Crimewatch?’ he’d asked several times. Secretly, Grant thought Crimewatch was a bloody good idea, so he’d called the BBC in Edinburgh and been given a number in Glasgow. Glasgow had then given him a number in London, and the switchboard there had put him through to a researcher who’d informed him — in a tone which said any liaison officer worth their salt would already know — that Crimewatch had ended its run and wouldn’t be back on air for several months.
‘Oh, yes, thanks,’ Grant had said, putting down the phone.
He hadn’t had time for lunch, and breakfast had been a bacon roll from the canteen, almost six hours ago. He was aware of politics all around him — the politics of Police HQ. Carswell and Templer might agree on some things, but never on everything, and he was poised somewhere between them, trying not to fall too fatally into either camp. Carswell was the real power, but Templer was Grant’s boss, she had the means to kick him back into the wilderness. His job was to deprive her of motive and opportunity.
He knew he was coping so far, but only by dint of forgoing food, sleep and free time. On the plus side, the case was now garnering interest from further afield, not just the London media, but New York, Sydney, Singapore and Toronto. International press agencies wanted clarification of the details they had. There was talk of bringing correspondents to Edinburgh, and would DC Hood be available for a short broadcast interview?
In each case, Grant felt able to answer in the affirmative. He made sure he jotted down the details of each journalist, with contact numbers and even a note of the time difference.
‘No point me sending you faxes in the middle of the night,’ he’d told one news editor in New Zealand.
‘I’d prefer an e-mail, mate.’
So Grant had taken those details down, too. It struck him that he needed to get his laptop back from Siobhan. Either that or invest in something more up-to-date. The case could use its own website. He’d send a memo to Carswell, copy to Templer: stating his case.
If he ever got the time...
Siobhan and his laptop: he hadn’t thought of her in a couple of days. His ‘crush’ on her hadn’t lasted long. Just as well they hadn’t taken things any further really: his new job would have driven a wedge between them. He knew they could play down that kiss, until it would seem as if it had never happened. Rebus was the only witness, but if the pair of them denied it, called him a liar, he’d start forgetting, too.
Only two things Grant felt sure of now: that he wanted Liaison permanently, and that he was good at it.
He celebrated with the day’s sixth cup of coffee, nodding to strangers in the corridors and on the stairwell. They seemed to know who he was, wanting both to know him and be known by him. His phone was ringing again when he pushed open his door — the office was small, no bigger than the cupboards in some stations, and there was no natural light. Still, it was his fiefdom. He leaned back in his chair, taking the receiver with him.
‘DC Hood.’
‘You sound happy.’
‘Who is this, please?’
‘It’s Steve Holly. Remember me?’
‘Sure, Steve, what can I do for you?’ But the tone was immediately more professional.
‘Well... Grant.’ Holly managed to get a sneer into the word. ‘I was just after a quote to go with a piece I’m running.’
‘Yes?’ Grant leaned forward a little in his chair, not quite so comfortable now.
‘Women going missing all over Scotland... dolls found at the scene... games on the Internet... students dead on hillsides. Any of it ring a bell?’
Grant thought he’d squeeze the life out of the receiver. The desk, the walls... they’d all gone hazy. He closed his eyes, tried to shake his head clear.
‘Case like this, Steve,’ he said, attempting levity, ‘a reporter will hear all kinds of stuff.’
‘Believe you solved some of the Internet clues yourself, Grant. What do you reckon? Got to be connected to the murder, haven’t they?’
‘I’ve no comment to make on that, Mr Holly. Look, whatever you think you may know, you’ve got to understand that stories — true or false — can do irreparable damage to an investigation, especially one at a crucial stage.’
‘Is the Balfour inquiry at a crucial stage? I hadn’t heard...’
‘All I’m trying to say is...’
‘Look, Grant, admit it: you’re fucked on this one, pardon my French. Best thing you can do is fill me in on the small print.’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Sure about that? Tasty new posting you’ve got there... I’d hate to see you go down in flames.’
‘Something tells me you’d like nothing better, Holly.’
The telephone receiver laughed into Grant’s ear. ‘Steve to Mr Holly to Holly... you’ll be calling me names next, Grant.’
‘Who told you?’
‘Something this big, you can never keep it watertight.’
‘So who punched the hole through the hull?’
‘A whisper here, a whisper there... you know how it is.’ Holly paused. ‘Oh no, that’s right — you don’t know how it is. I keep forgetting, you’ve only been in the job five fucking minutes, and already you think you can lord it over the likes of me.’
‘I don’t know what—’
‘Those little individual briefings, just you and your favoured poodles. Stuff all that, Grant. It’s the likes of me you should be looking out for. And you can take that any way you like.’
‘Thanks, I will. How soon are you going to press?’
‘Going to try slapping us with a two-eye?’ When Grant didn’t say anything. Holly laughed again. ‘You don’t even know the lingo!’ he crowed. But Grant was a fast learner.
‘It’s an interim interdict,’ he guessed, knowing he was right. Two i’s: a court injunction, halting publication. ‘Look,’ he said, pinching the bridge of his nose, ‘on the record, we don’t know that any of the stuff you’ve mentioned is pertinent to the current case.’
‘It’s still news.’
‘And possibly prejudicial.’
‘So sue me.’
‘People play dirty like this, I never forget it.’
‘Get in the fucking queue.’
Grant was about to put down the phone, but Holly beat him to it. He got up and kicked the desk, then kicked it again, followed by the waste-bin, his briefcase (bought at the weekend), and the corner where two walls met. He rested his head against the wall.
I have to go to Carswell with this. I have to tell Gill Templer!!
Templer first... chain of command. Then she’d have to break the news to the ACC, who in turn would probably have to disturb the Chief Constable’s daily routine. Mid-afternoon... Grant wondered how late he could leave it. Maybe Holly would call Templer or Carswell himself. If Grant sat on it till day’s end, he’d be in bigger trouble. It could even be that there was still time for that two-eye.
He picked up the phone, squeezed shut his eyes once more in what, this time round, was a short and silent prayer.
Made the call.
It was late afternoon, and Rebus had been staring at the coffins for a good five minutes. Occasionally he would pick one up, examine the workmanship, comparing and contrasting with the others. His latest thought: bring in a forensic anthropologist. The tools used to make the coffins would have left tiny grooves and incisions, marks an expert could identify and explore. If the exact same chisel had been used on each joint, maybe it could be proven. Perhaps there were fibres, fingerprints... The scraps of cloth: could they be traced? He slid the list of victims so that it sat in front of him on the desk: 1972 ...’77 ...’82 and ’95. The first victim, Caroline Farmer, was the youngest by far; the others were in their twenties and thirties, women in the prime of life. Drownings and disappearances. Where there was no body, it was all but impossible to prove a crime had been committed. And death by drowning... pathologists could tell if someone were alive or dead when they entered the water, but other than that... Say you knocked someone unconscious and pushed them in: even if it came to court, there’d be room for haggling, the murder charge reduced to culpable homicide. Rebus remembered a fireman once telling him the perfect way to commit murder: get the victim drunk in their kitchen, then turn the heat up under the chip-pan.