Procurator Fiscal’s office. Well dressed, with shiny, confident faces, and led by the Solicitor General for Scotland, Elinor Macari.
‘Do we need to bow or anything?’ Rebus murmured to Clarke, who was fixing her fringe. Macari was pecking the Chief Constable on both cheeks.
‘Just don’t say something you might regret.’
‘You’re the boss.’
Macari looked as though she’d made several stops on her way to the party: hairdresser, cosmetics counter and boutique. Her large black-framed glasses accentuated the sharpness of her gaze. Having swept the room in an instant, she knew who needed greeting and who could be dismissed. The councillor who headed the policing committee merited the same kiss as the Chief Constable. Other guests nearby had to make do with handshakes or a nod of the head. A glass of white wine had been fetched, but Rebus doubted it was anything other than a prop. He noticed too that his own bottle of lager was empty, though he’d vowed to save his thirst for something more deserving.
‘Got a few words stored up in case she drifts this way?’ he asked Clarke.
‘I’d say we’re well out of her orbit.’
‘Fair point. But now she’s arrived, the presentations can’t be far behind.’ Rebus held up the packet of cigarettes and gestured in the direction of the outside world.
‘Are you coming back?’ She saw his look and gave a twitch of the mouth, acknowledging the stupidity of the question. But as he made to leave the canteen, Macari spotted someone and made a beeline for them, so that Rebus had to swerve past her. She frowned, as if trying to place him, going so far as to glance at his retreating figure. But by then she had reached her prey. Siobhan Clarke watched as the most senior lawyer in Scotland took Malcolm Fox by the arm and led him away from his Professional Standards cohort. Whatever was about to be discussed, a modicum of privacy was required. One of the canteen staff had arrived in the doorway, holding the cake, but a gesture from the Chief Constable told her the ceremony would have to wait until the Solicitor General was ready. .
Day One
1
A flatbed lorry had arrived, the name of a local scrapyard stencilled on its doors. The previous night, a flimsy cordon had been erected, consisting of three-inch-wide tape with the word POLICE on it. The tape ran from an undamaged tree to a fence post and from there to another tree. The driver of the flatbed had sliced through it and was preparing to winch the crashed VW Golf up the slope towards the waiting ramp.
‘Not a bad afternoon,’ Rebus said, lighting a cigarette and examining his surroundings. A stretch of narrow country road on the outskirts of Kirkliston. Edinburgh Airport wasn’t far away, and the roar of approaching and departing passenger flights punctuated the rural scene. They had come in Clarke’s Vauxhall Astra. It was parked on the opposite verge, flashers blinking in a warning to approaching drivers. Not that there seemed to be any.
‘It’s a straight road,’ Clarke was saying. ‘Surface wasn’t icy or greasy. Must have been going at a fair clip, judging by the damage. .’
True enough: the front of the Golf had become concertinaed on impact with the venerable oak tree. They made their way past the torn fencing and down the slope. The driver from the flatbed jutted out his chin in greeting but otherwise wasn’t about to ask who they were or why they were there. Clarke carried a folder, which was good enough for him — meant they were official, and therefore probably best avoided.
‘Is he okay?’ Rebus asked.
‘He’s a she,’ Clarke corrected him. ‘Car’s registered to Jessica Traynor. Address in south-west London. She’s in the Infirmary.’
Rebus was walking around the car. It was less than a year old, pearl-coloured. From what he could see of the tyres, there was plenty of tread on them. The windscreen was gone, driver’s-side door and boot gaping, both airbags deployed.
‘And we’re here because. .?’
Clarke opened the folder. ‘Mainly because her father seems to have friends. Word came down from on high: make sure we’ve not missed anything.’
‘What’s to miss?’
‘Hopefully nothing. But this area’s notorious for boy racers.’
‘She’s not a boy, though.’
‘She drives the kind of car they like.’
‘I wouldn’t know.’
‘I think the Golf still qualifies as a “hot hatch”.’
Rebus wandered over towards the flatbed. The man from the scrapyard was reeling out a cable with a large hook on the end. Rebus asked him how many Golfs ended up in the compactor.
‘A few,’ he conceded. He sported oily blue overalls under a scuffed leather jacket, and dirt was ingrained on his palms and under his nails. The baseball cap he wore was so grubby the lettering on it was indecipherable, and a thick greying beard covered his chin and throat. Rebus offered him a cigarette, but the man shook his head.
‘Roads around here used as racetracks?’ Rebus continued.
‘Sometimes.’
‘You on a diet or something?’ The man looked at him. ‘Cutting back on your vocabulary,’ Rebus explained.
‘I’m just here to do a job.’
‘But this isn’t the first crash like this you’ve seen?’
‘No.’
‘How regular?’
The man considered this. ‘Every couple of months. Though there was one last week, the other side of Broxburn.’
‘And it’s cars racing each other? Any idea how it gets arranged?’
‘No,’ the man stated.
‘Well, thanks for sharing.’ Rebus walked back towards the Golf. Clarke was peering through the open door, examining the interior. ‘Take a look,’ she said, handing Rebus a photograph. It showed a brown suede boot in what seemed a woman’s size, framed against the floor of the car.
‘I don’t see any pedals.’
‘That’s because it was in the passenger-side footwell.’
‘Okay.’ Rebus handed the photograph back. ‘So you’re saying there was a passenger?’
Clarke shook her head. ‘It’s one of a pair of Ugg boots belonging to Jessica Traynor. The other was on her left foot.’
‘Ugg?’
‘That’s what they’re called.’
‘So it flew off on impact? Or came off when the medics pulled her out?’
‘First patrol car on the scene, the officer took a few shots on his phone — including the boot. Jessica was still in the car at the time. Ambulance arrived a few minutes later.’
Rebus pondered this. ‘Who found her?’
‘A woman on her way home from Livingston. She works shifts at a supermarket there.’ Clarke was studying a typed sheet of paper from the folder. ‘Driver’s-side door was open. Impact could have done that.’
‘Or the driver tried to get out.’
‘Unconscious. Head resting against the airbag. No seat belt.’
Rebus took the photographs from Clarke and studied them while Clarke spoke. ‘The supermarket worker called 999 just after eight in the evening, no light left in the sky. No street lamps either, just the distant glow from Edinburgh itself.’
