‘How’s it all going?’ May Collins asked from the doorway.
‘How long have you been there?’
‘Not long.’ She gestured towards the empty mug. ‘Need a top-up?’
Rebus shook his head. ‘Frank Hess isn’t the talkative sort, is he?’
‘Frank’s a grumpy old sod. By all accounts he was a grumpy young sod, too. His only daughter died in a car crash about ten years back. Her husband was in the car with her. He died too. Been to a party, drinking, not thinking it mattered – roads around here deserted and all that. Off the road and into a tree.’ Collins sighed. ‘Don’t think that improved his general outlook on life.’
‘So it’s just him and Jimmy?’
Collins nodded. ‘Jimmy has two sisters but they’re down south. Either one of them would take Frank, but he won’t budge. They come up sometimes, give Jimmy a bit of respite.’
‘Families, eh?’ Rebus commented, for want of anything else to say.
‘I reckon we all live too long these days, that’s the problem. What’s that film where you only get to reach a certain age? Sci-fi thing.’
‘Michael York,’ Rebus said. ‘I forget the title, but I seem to remember they were culled when they reached forty.’
‘Bad news for both of us,’ May said with a smile. ‘Did you get any joy about Sam?’
‘They’re done and dusted with her. Few questions about Keith and Lord Strathy.’
‘The land buy?’ She watched as he nodded. ‘Joyce told me about the magazines. You reckon Strathy’s vanishing act is connected?’
‘Christ knows, May.’ Rebus ran a hand across his forehead. ‘Maybe I’m not so different from the ghost-hunters who’ve been heading to the camp.’
Collins laughed. ‘I heard about that. They had equipment and everything – wands attached to machines. Waving them around, waiting for a reading.’
‘Pretty much what I’m doing here.’ Rebus nodded towards the computer.
‘You’re doing more than that.’ He sensed her reaching a hand out towards his shoulder again. He stood up and she lowered her arm. He crouched to remove the memory stick. By the time he’d straightened up, she was gone.
28
Siobhan Clarke had been to Gartcosh before, but not often and not for a while. An hour or so’s drive from Edinburgh; probably less than half that from Glasgow. The land surrounding it still had a bleak post-industrial feel. There were no houses, hotels or shops that she could see. Instead, the place sat in splendid isolation, far away from the world it investigated. The Scottish Crime Campus had the look of a modern polytechnic, albeit one protected by a high fence and whose only entry was via a guardroom. Her warrant card had been checked; she had been photographed and a visitor pass printed out.
‘Make sure it’s visible at all times,’ she was told.
Having passed through a set of glass double doors with an airlock, she waited for Fox to do the same. It was a short walk to the complex’s main entrance. During those steps, something happened to Fox. His gait became more confident and his shoulders slackened, his face relaxing. This was a place where his abilities made sense and were recognised. Clarke wondered, had their roles been reversed, whether she’d feel the same. As they crossed the atrium, he couldn’t help playing tour guide, pointing in the vague direction of the HMRC and Procurator Fiscal units. Having climbed the stairs, it was the turn of Counter-Terrorism. But they were headed to the other side of the concourse and Fox’s own domain, Major Crime.
Fox’s staff card, swinging from a lanyard around his neck, was far from a flimsy visitor’s pass and could be used to unlock at least some of the secure doors around them. He ushered Clarke inside one of these and they walked down a narrow corridor. The offices either side were identical glass boxes. His colleagues sat at computers mostly, peering at screens, sometimes speaking quietly into microphone headsets. Others were making phone calls or huddled in discussion. It all looked as exciting as an accountancy firm, the men in shirts and ties, the women wearing unshowy blouses in muted colours. There were a few waves or nods of welcome in Fox’s direction as well as inquisitive looks towards Clarke. She had spoken on the phone many times to Major Crime personnel; knew some of their names from email correspondence. But she didn’t recognise a single face.
Fox entered one of the rooms. Two desks, only one of which was occupied.
‘Where’s Robbie?’ he asked.
‘Getting a coffee,’ the bespectacled young woman said. ‘And good morning to you too, Malcolm.’
‘Sorry, Sheena,’ he apologised. ‘This is DI Clarke.’
‘Siobhan,’ Clarke added with a smile.
‘Post-it note for you on your desk,’ Sheena told Fox. He plucked it from his computer screen and read it.
‘Fraud unit,’ he explained to Clarke. ‘Far as they can tell, Scoular’s clean. Has dealings with offshore banks and corporations, but that’s not unusual in his line of work.’ He crumpled the note and flicked it into a waste-paper bin.
‘Nice to meet you, Sheena,’ Clarke said, following him as he made his purposeful exit.
A coffee cart sat on the far side of the concourse, a small chatty queue in front of it. There were seats nearby and Fox approached one of them.
‘Hiya, Robbie.’
The man looked up. He was in his thirties, head completely shaved. When he stood, Clarke saw that he was well over six feet tall and as lean as a picked bone.
‘Been away, Malcolm?’ he enquired.
‘But keeping busy – how about you?’ Fox realised that Robbie’s eyes were on Clarke, so he made the introductions.
‘Either of you want a coffee?’ Robbie asked, shaking Clarke’s hand.
‘Love one,’ she said before Fox could demur. They joined the queue. Robbie had binned his finished cup.
‘Where do you live, Siobhan?’ he asked.
‘Edinburgh. How about you?’
‘Motherwell.’
‘I go there for the football sometimes. You a fan?’
‘As it happens. What’s your team?’
‘Hibs.’
‘I feel your pain.’ Fox was beginning to look impatient with how slowly the queue was moving. ‘Malcolm’s not got time for
