Authors: Ian Rankin
Idle thoughts. But in Benzie’s shoes … wife and daughter … he didn’t think he could have done it, leaving behind a devastated family. And now Claire wanted to be a pathologist, a career filled with corpses and ventilated, windowless rooms. Would each body she dealt with be her father’s image … ?
‘Penny for them,’ Siobhan said.
‘No sale,’ Rebus replied, fixing his eyes on the road ahead.
‘Cheer up,’ Hi-Ho Silvers said, ‘it’s Friday afternoon.’
‘So what?’
He stared at Ellen Wylie. ‘Don’t tell me you don’t have a date lined up?’
‘A date?’
‘You know: a meal, some dancing, then back to his place.’ He started gyrating his hips.
Wylie screwed up her face. ‘I’m having trouble keeping my lunch down as it is.’
The remains of the sandwich were on her desk: tuna mayonnaise with sweetcorn. There’d been a slight fizziness to the tuna, and now her stomach was sending her signals. Not that Silvers was about to take any notice.
‘Must have a boyfriend though, Ellen?’
‘I’ll call you when desperation takes hold.’
‘As long as it’s not Friday or Saturday night: my drinking nights, those are.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind, George.’
‘And Sunday afternoon, of course.’
‘Of course.’ Wylie couldn’t help thinking that this arrangement probably suited Mrs Silvers just fine.
‘Unless we get some overtime.’ Silvers’s mind made the switch. ‘What do you reckon the chances are?’
‘Depends, doesn’t it?’ And she knew what it depended on: media pressure, forcing the brass to look for a quick result. Or maybe John Balfour, asking another favour, twisting an arm or two. Time was, CID would work seven-day weeks, twelve-hour days on a big case, and be paid accordingly. But budgets were tighter now, along with staffing levels. She’d never seen so many happy cops as the day CHOGM – the Commonwealth Heads of Government Meeting – had rolled into town, bringing with it an overtime jamboree. But that had been a few years back now. Still she caught officers, Silvers among them, muttering the word ‘chogm’ under their breath, as though it were a talisman. As Silvers shrugged and moved off, overtime probably still on his mind, Wylie turned her attention to the story of the German student, Jürgen Becker. She thought of Boris Becker, her favourite tennis player at one time, and wondered idly if Jürgen might be some relation. She doubted it: a famous relly would have pulled out the stops, like with Philippa Balfour.
And yet what progress had they made? They didn’t seem to be any further forward than the day the MisPer inquiry had opened. Rebus had all these ideas, but there was no focus to them. It was as if he reached out his hand and plucked possibilities from some tree or bush, expecting people to swallow them. The one time she’d worked with him before – a body found in Queensberry House, just as they were readying to knock most of it down and start building the parliament – there hadn’t been a result. He’d as good as dumped her, refused to talk about the case afterwards. Nothing had come to court.
And yet … she’d rather be part of Rebus’s team than none at all. She felt she’d burned her bridges with Gill Templer, whatever Rebus said, and she knew it was all her fault. She’d tried too hard, almost to the point of pestering Templer. It was a form of laziness: pushing to be noticed in the hope advancement would follow. And she knew Templer had rejected her precisely because she’d seen it for what it was. Gill Templer hadn’t got to the top that way – she’d had to work her damnedest throughout, fighting a prejudice against women officers which was never discussed, never admitted to.
But still there.
Wylie knew she should have kept her head down and her mouth shut. That was how Siobhan Clarke worked; she never looked pushy, even though she was every inch the careerist … and a rival – Wylie couldn’t help but see her that way. Templer’s favourite from the start, which was precisely why she – Ellen Wylie – had begun campaigning overtly and, as it turned out, too strenuously. Leaving her isolated, stuck with a piece of crap like the Jürgen Becker story. On a Friday afternoon, when there’d most likely be no one around to answer her phone calls, reply to her questions. It was dead time, that was all.
Dead time.
Grant Hood had another press conference to organise. He already knew the names to put to faces, had arranged short get-to-know meetings with the ‘majors’, these being the more reputable journalists, crime reporters of long standing.
‘Thing is, Grant,’ DCS Templer had confided in him, ‘there are some journos we can call our own, in that they’re malleable. They’ll toe the line, place a story for us if and when we want them to, while holding back stuff we don’t want getting out. You already have a foundation of trust there, but it cuts both ways. We have to give them good copy, and they’re hoping they get it an hour or two before the oppo.’
‘The oppo, ma’am?’
‘Opposition. See, they look like a solid mass when you see them in the press room, but they’re not. At times they’ll cooperate with each other – like sending one of their number on a thankless stake-out. He then shares whatever he gets with the rest of them. They take it in turns.’
Grant had nodded his understanding.
‘But in other respects, it’s dog eat dog. The hacks who’re not in the loop, they’re keenest of all, and not likely to be scrupulous. They’ll get chequebooks out when it suits, and they’ll try to win you over. Not with cash maybe, but with drinks, a bit of dinner. They’ll make you feel one of the lads, and you’ll start thinking: they’re not so bad really. That’s when you’re in trouble, because all the time they’ll be pumping you without you knowing it. You might let drop a hint or a teaser, just to show them you’re in the know. And whatever it is you’ve come out with, you can guarantee they’ll print it with knobs on. You’ll be “a police source” or “an unnamed source close to the investigation” – that’s if they’re in the mood to be kind. And if they get anything on you, they’ll turn the screws. They’ll want chapter and verse, or they’ll leave you on the rack.’ She’d patted his shoulder, and finished by saying: ‘Just a word to the wise.’
‘Yes, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am.’
‘It’s okay to be on genial terms with them all, and you should introduce yourself to the ones who matter, but never forget which side you’re on … or that there
are
sides. Okay?’
He’d nodded. Then she’d given him the list of ‘majors’.
He’d stuck to coffee and orange juice in each meeting, and was relieved to see most of the journalists doing likewise.
‘You might find the “elders” running on whisky and gin,’ one younger reporter had said, ‘but not us.’
The meeting after that had been with one of the most respected of the “elders”. He’d wanted nothing more than a glass of water: ‘The young ones drink like fish, but I find I can’t any more. And what’s your tipple of preference, DC Hood?’
‘This isn’t a formal occasion, Mr Gillies. Please, call me Grant.’
‘Then you must call me Allan …’
Still Grant couldn’t get Templer’s warning words out of his head. As a result, he felt he’d come over as stiff and awkward at each get-to-know. Still, one definite bonus was that Templer had arranged for him to have his own office at Fettes HQ, at least for the duration of the inquiry. She’d called it ‘prudent’, explaining that he’d be talking to journalists every day, and it was best to keep them at a distance from the main investigation. If they happened to drop into Gayfield or St Leonard’s for a briefing or even a quick chat, there was no telling what they might overhear or happen to notice.
‘Good point,’ he’d said, nodding.
‘Same goes for phone calls,’ Templer had gone on. ‘If you want to call a journalist, do so from your office, door closed. That way they’re not going to hear anything they shouldn’t in the background. One of them phones you and catches you in CID or somewhere, say you’ll call them back.’
He’d nodded again.
Thinking back, she’d probably reckoned he resembled one of those nodding dogs, the kind you got in the back of naff cars. He tried to shake the image away, focused on his screen. He was drafting a press release, copies to go to Bill Pryde, Gill Templer and ACC Carswell for their input and approval.
Carswell, the Assistant Chief Constable, was on another floor in the same building. He’d already knocked on Grant’s door and come in to wish him good luck. When Grant had introduced himself as Detective Constable Hood, Carswell had nodded slowly, his eyes those of an examiner.
‘Well,’ he’d said, ‘no cock-ups and a result on this, we’ll have to see about doing something better for you, eh?’
Meaning a hike to detective sergeant. Hood knew Carswell could do it, too. He’d already taken one young CID officer under his wing – DI Derek Linford. Problem was, neither Linford nor Carswell had any time for John Rebus, which meant Hood would have to be careful. He’d already turned down one drink with Rebus and the rest of the crew, but was conscious that he’d spent some time alone with Rebus in a bar all too recently. It was the sort of thing which, leaked to Carswell, could put a real spanner in the works. He thought again of Templer’s words:
if they get anything on you, they’ll turn the screws …
Another image flashed in front of him, that clinch with Siobhan. He’d have to be careful from now on: careful who he spoke to and what he said, careful who he spent time with, careful what he did.
Careful not to make enemies.
Another knock on the door. It was one of the civilian staff. ‘Something for you,’ she said, handing over a carrier bag. Then she smiled and retreated. He opened it. A bottle inside: José Cuervo Gold. And along with it, a little card:
Here’s wishing you well in your new post. Think of us as sleepy-headed children, who need to be told their daily story
.
Your news friends, the Fourth Estate
.
Grant smiled. He thought he detected the hand of Allan Gillies. Then it struck him: he’d never answered Gillies’s inquiry about his favoured drink … yet somehow Gillies had got it right. It went beyond guesswork: someone had been talking. The smile left Grant’s face. The tequila wasn’t just a gift, it was a show of strength. Just then his mobile sounded. He took it from his pocket.
‘Hello?’
‘DC Hood?’
‘Speaking.’
‘Just thought I’d introduce myself, since I seemed to miss out on one of the invites.’
‘Who is this?’
‘My name’s Steve Holly. You’ll have seen my byline.’
‘I’ve seen it.’ Holly’s was definitely not one of the names on Templer’s list of ‘majors’. Her own succinct description of him: ‘a shit’.
‘Well, we’ll be seeing one another at all these press conferences and such like, but I thought I’d just say hello first. Did you get the bottle?’
When Grant didn’t reply, Holly just laughed.
‘He always does that, old Allan. Thinks it’s clever, but you and I know it’s just a party trick.’
‘Is it?’
‘I’m not the sort for rubbish like that, as you’ll no doubt have noticed.’
‘Noticed?’ Grant frowned.
‘Think about it, DC Hood.’ With that, the line went dead.
Grant stared at the phone, and then it dawned on him. The journalists, all they’d had from him so far were his office phone, fax and pager. He thought hard, and was sure he hadn’t given his mobile to any of them. More advice from Templer:
‘Once you get to know them, there’ll be one or two you really click with – it’s never the same combination for any liaison officer. Those really special ones, you might want to let have your mobile number. It’s a sign of trust. For the rest, forget it or your life won’t be your own … and with them clogging the line, how can any of your colleagues hope to contact you? Us and them, Grant, us and them …’
And now one of ‘them’ had his mobile number. There was only one thing for it, he’d have to get it changed.
As for the tequila, that was going with him to the press conference. He’d hand it back to Allan Gillies, tell him he was off the alcohol these days.
He was beginning to think that might not be so far from the truth. There were a lot of changes to be made if he was going to stay the course.
Grant felt he was ready.
The CID suite at St Leonard’s was emptying. Officers not involved in the murder case were clocking off for the weekend. Some would work a Saturday shift if it was offered them. Others would be on call, should a fresh case need investigating. But for most, the weekend was beginning. There was a spring in their step; they struck up choruses of old pop songs. The city had been quiet of late. A few domestics, a drug bust or two. The Drugs Squad were keeping their heads down, however, after answering a tip-off: a council house in Gracemount, silver sheeting at an upstairs bedroom window, kept closed all day and night. They’d hurtled in, ready to demolish Edinburgh’s latest cannabis supply, and had instead found a teenager’s bedroom, newly decorated. His mum had bought a moon blanket instead of curtains, thought it looked trendy …
‘Bloody
Changing Rooms
,’ one of the Drugs Squad had muttered.
There were other incidents, but they were isolated, hardly the stuff of a crime wave. Siobhan looked at her watch. She’d called the Crime Squad earlier, asked about computers. She hadn’t even got halfway through her explanation when Claverhouse had said, ‘Someone’s already on it. We’ll send him over.’ So now she was waiting. She’d tried Claverhouse again: no answer. He was probably on his way home or to the pub. Maybe he wasn’t sending anyone till Monday. She’d give it another ten minutes. After all, she had her own life, didn’t she? Football tomorrow if she wanted it, though it was an away match. Sunday she could go for a drive: there were all these places she’d never been – Linlithgow Palace, Falkland Palace, Traquair. A friend she hadn’t seen in months had invited her to a birthday party Saturday night. She didn’t think she’d go, but the option was always there …
‘Are you DC Clarke?’
He had a briefcase with him, which he placed on the floor. She was reminded for a second of door-to-door salesmen, cold callers. Straightening, she saw that he was overweight, most of it around the stomach. Short hair, a tuft standing up at the back of his head. He introduced himself as Eric Bain.