In a House of Lies: The Brand New Rebus Thriller (Inspector Rebus 22), Page 2

  ‘But there’ll be an autopsy?’ Callum Reid asked. He was standing by his map as if to make sure no one else claimed ownership.

  Sutherland nodded. ‘With Hamilton assisting Professor Quant. Meantime, the kids’ prints have been taken for purposes of elimination. I think Haj wants them terminated rather than eliminated – stomping all over his crime scene, leaving broken glass everywhere.’

  ‘What do we make of the handcuffs?’ George Gamble had removed his suit jacket and sat with his thumbs tucked into the pockets of his waistcoat.

  ‘Good question.’ Sutherland looked at each of them in turn. ‘Any ideas?’

  ‘They seem to be good quality,’ Tess Leighton drawled. She sat very upright on her chair, like a disapproving Miss Jean Brodie.

  ‘They’re proper,’ Sutherland agreed.

  ‘Meaning police issue?’

  ‘We don’t know that yet.’

  ‘But around the ankles,’ Callum Reid said, shaking his head. ‘Doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘Unless you want to stop someone running away,’ Phil Yeats added.

  Sutherland ran a finger thoughtfully down the bridge of his nose. ‘Anything to add, Siobhan?’

  Clarke cleared her throat. ‘I’ve got a source who thinks he might have a name for us.’

  There was a sudden energy in the room. Reid forgot about his map and marched in Clarke’s direction. ‘Go on then,’ he demanded.

  ‘He wouldn’t tell me.’

  ‘Then let’s go talk to him!’ Reid looked towards Sutherland, expecting a nod or a word, but his boss’s eyes were on Clarke.

  ‘Who is it exactly you’ve been speaking to, Siobhan?’

  ‘He’s an ex-cop. Been retired a few years. And if I know him, he’ll be turning up here in the next ten or fifteen minutes.’

  ‘Feel like telling us a bit about him before that happens?’

  ‘In ten or fifteen minutes?’ Clarke gave a little snort. ‘I doubt I’d be able to do him justice.’

  Sutherland leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. ‘Give it a try anyway.’

  ‘They wouldn’t let me past the front desk,’ Rebus complained as Clarke led him up the stairs. ‘Time was …’

  Clarke stopped, turning to face him. ‘Are you okay, John? I mean, really?’

  ‘I’ve still got COPD, if that’s what you’re asking. It doesn’t go away.’

  ‘I know. It gets worse.’

  ‘But somehow I’m still here.’ Rebus stretched out his arms. ‘Like the proverbial …’

  ‘Bad penny? Bull in a china shop?’

  ‘I think I was going to say “ghost in the machine” until I realised it’s not exactly a proverb.’ He paused, studying his surroundings. ‘Just like old times.’

  ‘Nothing like old times, John,’ she cautioned him, starting up the stairs again. Rebus was breathing heavily by the time they reached the landing. He took a moment to compose himself, patting his pocket to check he had his inhaler.

  ‘I kicked the cigarettes, once and for all,’ he informed Clarke.

  ‘And the booze?’

  ‘Just the odd tincture, m’lud.’ Pulling back his shoulders and fixing a look on his face that she recognised of old, he breezed past her into the room. Sutherland was already on his feet. He met Rebus in the middle of the floor and gripped his hand.

  ‘Not every day you meet a legend,’ he said.

  ‘Me or you?’ Rebus responded. Sutherland gave a half-smile before leading Rebus towards the waiting chair. Phil Yeats was leaning against the wall; it was his chair Rebus was settling on. Sutherland sat at his desk, hands clasped.

  ‘Siobhan tells us you might have some information, John. We’re grateful to you for coming in.’

  ‘You might not be when you hear the name. It was 2006.’ Rebus broke off and gestured towards Callum Reid. ‘You’d have been in short pants, son.’ Then, to Sutherland: ‘Is it bring your kid to work week or something?’

  ‘DI Reid is older than he looks.’ Sutherland was still trying for levity, but Clarke could tell it wasn’t going to last. His tone alerted Rebus, who scanned the room again. ‘Short memories, like I was telling Siobhan. If I’m right, your car most likely belongs to Stuart Bloom.’ He waited, watching as Sutherland’s brow furrowed.

  ‘I was still in Inverness in 2006,’ the DCI eventually said.

  ‘How about you, Siobhan?’ Rebus held up a finger. ‘Actually, I can help you there – you were on secondment in Fife. Three months, I think, which tied in almost exactly with the case.’

  ‘The private investigator?’ Clarke was nodding to herself. ‘I remember us talking about it. He did a vanishing act.’

  ‘That’s the one,’ Rebus said. ‘Ringing any bells?’ He looked around the room but was met by blank faces. Callum Reid, however, was already busy on his phone, starting a search of the name on the internet. The others realised what he was doing and followed suit. All except Sutherland, whose own phone had started buzzing. He pressed it to his ear.

  ‘DCI Sutherland,’ he said. His eyes were fixed on Rebus as he listened. Having thanked the caller, he waved his phone in Rebus’s direction. ‘Members of the public have been in touch. Other members of the public, I should say. Three of them gave the same name you just did.’

  ‘Private investigator from Edinburgh,’ Reid intoned, reading from his screen as he skimmed it. ‘Disappeared in March of 2006. His partner was questioned—’

  ‘Business partner?’ Sutherland interrupted.

  ‘Lover,’ Rebus corrected him. ‘Stuart Bloom was gay. Boyfriend happened to be the son of a Glaswegian murder squad detective called Alex Shankley.’

  ‘The boyfriend was a suspect?’ Sutherland asked.

  ‘No shortage of those,’ Rebus stated. ‘But when there’s no sign of foul play and a body fails to turn up …’

  Sutherland had risen from his chair and walked over to the map, studying it. Rebus joined him.

  ‘Would those woods have been searched?’ He watched Rebus give a slow nod.

  ‘More than once, I think.’

  Sutherland half turned towards him. ‘And why is that?’

  ‘Because of who owned them.’

  ‘Spit it out, John,’ Sutherland snapped, patience at an end.

  ‘The man Stuart Bloom was working for. A film producer called Jackie Ness. Ness’s house is the far side of the woods from the road.’ Rebus peered at the map, eventually pressing his finger against a particular spot. ‘There, more or less,’ he said. ‘And “house” might be doing it a disservice – more like a mansion.’

  ‘Ness still lives there?’ Sutherland watched Rebus shrug. He turned towards the room. ‘Get me that information,’ he demanded of no one and everyone.

  ‘A computer would be handy,’ Phil Yeats said. ‘My notebook’s in the car. I could go fetch it.’

  Sutherland nodded. Then, for Rebus’s benefit: ‘It’s what laptops are called these days.’

  ‘I know that,’ Rebus retorted. ‘So what happens now?’

  Sutherland grew thoughtful. ‘You worked the original inquiry. Be helpful to know what you know.’

  ‘Always assuming,’ Tess Leighton added, ‘it really is this guy Bloom’s car, and him in the boot.’

  ‘We need to keep an open mind,’ Sutherland agreed. ‘But meantime, maybe John could give a statement, just to keep everything tidy. I’m assuming the paperwork is in storage somewhere?’

  ‘CCU probably took most of it,’ Rebus said casually, pretending to study the map.

  ‘CCU?’

  ‘I know it’s called ACU these days, but it was the Counter-Corruption Unit in 2006. Wee history lesson might be needed for some of you. This was long before Police Scotland. We still had the eight regional forces then—’

  ‘Why would CCU be involved, John?’ Sutherland interr
upted.

  Rebus made show of thinking for a moment. ‘Well,’ he eventually said, ‘we somehow managed to make a complete fucking mess of things. CCU was just the icing on the cake, so to speak.’

  ‘He’s not wrong,’ Callum Reid said, eyes fixed on his phone, thumb busy. ‘Bloom’s family made over a dozen complaints during the inquiry and after. Just last year they were at it again.’

  Rebus nodded slowly, eyes on Sutherland. ‘Be a lot simpler if it turned out to be just about anyone in that car other than Stuart Bloom. Any chance that it was a suicide?’

  ‘I think we can pretty much rule that out. Someone covered the car with branches and bracken.’

  ‘He might have done that before climbing into the boot, if he really didn’t want to be found.’

  George Gamble gave a gravelly chuckle. ‘Ever come across a suicide handcuffed at the ankles?’

  ‘Handcuffed?’ Rebus looked from Sutherland to Siobhan Clarke and back again.

  ‘I’m not sure we want that particular detail made public just yet.’ Sutherland glared at Gamble.

  ‘Police handcuffs?’ Rebus pressed.

  Sutherland held up a hand, palm towards Rebus. ‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Maybe we should sit down and you can tell us the story.’

  ‘Cup of tea wouldn’t go amiss.’

  Sutherland nodded and turned his attention to Clarke. ‘Siobhan, you’re the one with the local knowledge …’

  ‘There’s a café across the street. Probably the best option.’

  Sutherland produced a twenty-pound note from his pocket and held it out for her to take.

  ‘Hang on,’ she complained. ‘You want me to go?’

  ‘I’m delegating,’ he said with a sly look.

  She snatched the note from him and walked over to Emily Crowther. ‘Off you go then, DC Crowther.’

  Crowther scowled and seemed reluctant to take the money, so Clarke placed it on the desk, sliding it towards her.

  ‘Nicely delegated,’ Rebus commented with a thin smile. Then, to Graham Sutherland: ‘Where do you want me to start?’

  3

  A street of bungalows in Blackhall, quietly residential apart from drivers keen to avoid the adjacent – and busier – Queensferry Road. Rebus pushed open the wrought-iron gate. No sound from its hinges, the garden to either side of the flagstone path well tended. Two bins – one landfill, one garden waste – had already been placed on the pavement outside. None of the neighbours had got round to it yet. Rebus rang the doorbell and waited. The door was eventually opened by a man the same age as him, though he looked half a decade younger. Bill Rawlston had kept himself trim since retirement, and the eyes behind the half-moon spectacles retained their keen intelligence.

  ‘John Rebus,’ he said, a sombre look on his face as he studied Rebus from top to toe.

  ‘Have you heard?’

  Rawlston’s mouth twitched. ‘Of course I have. But nobody’s saying it’s him yet.’

  ‘Only a matter of time.’

  ‘Aye, I suppose so.’ Rawlston gave a sigh and stepped back into the hall. ‘You better come in then. Tea or something that bit stronger?’

  ‘Tea will be fine.’

  Rawlston glanced over his shoulder as he headed for the kitchen. ‘First time I’ve known you to turn one down.’

  ‘I seem to have picked up a wee dose of COPD.’

  ‘What’s that when it’s at home?’

  ‘Chronic obstructive pulmonary disease – known as emphysema in the old days.’

  ‘Trust you to get something that has the word COP in it.’

  ‘Aye, I feel like I drew a winning ticket there.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry all the same. Neither “chronic” nor “obstructive” sounds like a top prize.’

  ‘How about you, Bill?’ Rebus asked.

  ‘Beth died last year. Smoked a pack a day all her adult life. Then she trips and hits her head and a blood clot gets her. Would you credit it?’

  The kitchen was immaculate. Lunchtime’s soup bowl and side plate had been washed and were sitting on the drainer. The plastic container the soup had been in had also been rinsed – there’d be a recycling bin outside the back door waiting to receive it.

  ‘Sugar?’ Rawlston asked. ‘I can’t remember.’

  ‘Just milk, thanks.’ Not that Rebus was planning on drinking the tea; he was awash with the stuff after his trip to Leith. But the making of the drinks had given him time to size up Bill Rawlston. And Rawlston, too, he knew, would have been using the time to do some thinking.

  ‘Just through here,’ Rawlston told his guest, handing over a mug and leading the way. The living room was small, a dining room off. Family photos, ornaments and a bookcase stocked with paperbacks and DVDs. Rebus made a show of studying the shelves.

  ‘You don’t hear much of Alistair MacLean these days,’ he commented.

  ‘Probably a good reason for that. Sit down and tell me what’s on your mind.’

  There was an occasional table next to Rawlston’s favoured armchair. Two remote controls and a phone, plus a spare pair of glasses. The colourful paintings on the walls probably reflected Beth’s taste rather than her husband’s. Rebus perched on the edge of the sofa, mug cupped in both hands.

  ‘If it is him, it’s likely a murder case. From the description of the body, he was probably already dead all the time we were looking for him.’

  ‘The body was found in Poretoun Woods?’

  Rebus nodded.

  ‘We searched those woods, John, you know that. We had dozens of men … spent hundreds of hours …’

  ‘I remember.’

  Stuart Bloom had lived in Comely Bank, to the north of the city centre. The nearest police station to his home was the Lothian and Borders Police HQ on Fettes Avenue – colloquially known as ‘the Big House’ – so that was where they’d based the inquiry team, in two rooms usually used for meetings of the top brass. DCI Bill Rawlston had been put in charge, with Rebus and half a dozen other CID officers under him. At the first briefing, Rawlston had informed the group that this was his last year before retirement.

  ‘You and me both,’ Rebus had interrupted. Rawlston had locked eyes with him.

  ‘So I want a result here. No slacking. No tipping off the media. No back-stabbing. If you want to play politics, there’s a parliament waiting for you down the road. Understood?’

  But there had been slacking, and whispers to favoured journalists, and fronts stabbed when backs were not available. The team had never quite gelled, never become a family.

  Rawlston placed his mug on the table next to him. ‘Say it is him …’

  ‘They’ll open a murder inquiry,’ Rebus stated. ‘And the media will go digging out all the old stories, which our lot will already be looking at afresh. Then there’s his family to consider.’

  ‘They were at me again last year, did you hear?’ Rawlston watched Rebus nod. ‘As far as they’re concerned, the whole thing was a conspiracy from the start, with us bang in the middle of it. Well, they finally got their official apology from the Big Chief.’

  ‘Just before he was kicked into touch.’

  ‘He said we’d behaved with “institutional arrogance” in the way we dealt with all their bloody complaints. The nerve of the man …’

  ‘Nobody ever proved we got the inquiry wrong, though,’ Rebus felt it necessary to add. Then, when Rawlston said nothing: ‘I seem to recall the mother was best described as feisty.’

  Rawlston gave a hoot. ‘We worked ourselves into the ground, and not one bit of thanks.’

  ‘Quite the reverse, in fact.’

  ‘I loved my job, John, but by the end, I was as relieved as hell to walk away.’ Rawlston paused. ‘How about you?’

  ‘They had to drag me out. Even then, I went back in for a while, working cold cases.�
�

  ‘And now?’

  Rebus exhaled. ‘Washed up seems to be the general consensus.’

  ‘So what brings you here?’

  ‘Just thought you should know. There’s a team already up and running. I spoke to them earlier, so now they know at least a bit of the story. But they’ll be dusting off the case files, and at some point they’ll interview the family … and the original inquiry team.’ Rebus’s voice died away.

  ‘We’re going to have to defend ourselves all over again.’ Rawlston seemed to be staring at something beyond the living room walls. ‘I think I knew from the start that it was one of those cases you take to the grave. In my case, sooner rather than later.’

  Rebus took a moment to respond. ‘How long have you got?’

  ‘Six months to a year. I’m told I look as good as I ever did. I still exercise and eat my greens … take the various tablets.’ Rawlston managed a wry smile. ‘Never smoked in my life, but I spent thirty years married to someone who did. Would you credit it? And here’s what’s waiting for me at the end – all that old shite coming back to haunt me.’ He looked at Rebus. ‘You able to keep your ear to the ground, John? Let me know how it plays out?’

  Rebus nodded. ‘I reckon I can do that.’

  ‘They’re out to bury us, you know. They don’t want the likes of us around. We smell of old days and old ways.’

  ‘You said earlier about a conspiracy with us in the middle …’ Rebus had placed his untouched mug on the carpet and was rising to his feet. ‘So what would you say if I told you the body in the car was wearing handcuffs?’

  ‘Handcuffs?’

  ‘Forensics will soon know if they were police issue. Doesn’t mean they came from a cop, of course.’

  ‘The Chuggabugs?’

  Rebus gave a shrug. ‘You ever hear from them?’

  ‘They came to Beth’s funeral. Didn’t stay for the drinks, though.’

  ‘Are they still on the force?’

  ‘We didn’t really speak.’ Rawlston rose to his feet, straightening his shoulders and pulling back his head. But Rebus knew now, knew it was for show. The man was in pain, and the pain wasn’t going anywhere.