‘Thanks, folks,’ Fox said, hands clasped together.
‘Don’t let it go to your big baldy head,’ George Gamble retorted.
As they returned to their desks and Sutherland headed into his office to make the call, Clarke saw Fox run a questioning palm over his scalp.
‘He was winding you up,’ she told him in an undertone.
‘I know that.’
But Clarke knew that next time Fox went to the toilets, he’d be angling his head in front of the mirror in an attempt to take a really good look.
41
He awoke with a start and lashed out, but the face above him belonged to Robin Creasey.
‘Bloody hell, John, thought I’d lost you there.’
Rebus’s hand went to his windpipe. He sensed damage. Swallowing brought a searing heat to his throat. He tried speaking, his voice barely a whisper.
‘Keith’s computer was here.’ He gestured towards the drawer. ‘Jimmy borrowed a motorbike, the night Keith was killed. Ron Travis heard it.’
Creasey switched on his phone’s torch and aimed it into the drawer. ‘Something at the back,’ he said.
‘Keith’s notebooks.’
‘I’ll get someone here to stand guard. And an ambulance for you.’
Rebus shook his head, the action causing immediate dizziness. He accepted Creasey’s help as he made to stand. The world birled around him as he took his inhaler out, aiming it between his chattering teeth. Wasn’t sure it would do any good, but he took a couple of puffs anyway. As he made his way tentatively from the shed, he saw Frank Hess standing in the kitchen doorway. The man’s eyes were judging him.
‘Where will he have gone?’ Rebus demanded in the same strangulated whisper.
‘Don’t worry about that, John,’ Creasey said. ‘Let’s just focus on you for the moment.’
Rebus grabbed a fistful of Creasey’s jacket lapel. ‘Let’s not,’ he said.
‘Jimmy is a good boy,’ Hess was intoning, more to himself than anyone else. Rebus thought he could see tears in the old man’s eyes. He got Hess’s attention and pointed towards Creasey.
‘More you tell them, the better–for your grandson, I mean. You need to do the right thing now, Frank. Start making up for all your wrongs.’
Hess glowered at him. ‘You and I are no longer young men. Keith was a young man, impatient, full of ideas. He thought he could change things.’ He stabbed a finger towards Rebus. ‘For how long were you a policeman? And did you change the world? Did you change anything?’
‘I’ll tell you one thing I didn’t do–kill a man because I was jealous of what he had. But then you as good as killed a second time, didn’t you–framing Hoffman, seeing him executed? And to stop that coming to light, you sent your grandson to kill yet again. And my guess is you were fine with that.’
‘It was not planned! It was not!’
Rebus turned his head towards Creasey. ‘Get the shed sealed off, dust those notebooks for prints, check if there’s anything useful in the house. Warrant might be a bit easier to arrange now, wouldn’t you say?’
‘I’ll need a statement from you too. And I still think you should go to hospital.’
‘I promise I will–just as soon as you’ve got hold of Jimmy Hess.’
‘Don’t go looking for him, John,’ Creasey called out as Rebus headed on fragile legs towards the close. By way of answer, Rebus gave a little wave of one hand.
42
Interview Room B, Leith police station.
Interview Room A did exist, but it had been out of commission for months due to a leak in the ceiling that would prove costly to fix. Siobhan Clarke had checked that the AV recorder in IRB was working. Graham Sutherland sat next to her. Malcolm Fox had argued that there should be someone present from Gartcosh, to which Sutherland had answered with a one-word question: why?
Clarke could imagine Fox fuming somewhere in the building, maybe on the phone to Jennifer Lyon to register his displeasure. The warrant to search Giovanni Morelli’s home having been secured, Esson and Ogilvie had been dispatched there along with half a dozen well-trained uniforms and a brace of forensic technicians. Morelli had been asked for his cooperation–and his keys–on his arrival at the station. His lawyer now sat alongside him, shuffling papers. Clarke hadn’t been at all surprised when Patricia Coleridge had announced her arrival at the reception desk. She was dressed identically to her previous visit. Clarke guessed she had an array of business wear racked and ready. Same expensive notepad and matching pen, plus an iPad with a leather cover that doubled as an angled stand.
Next to her, Morelli looked a little more nervous than before. His chair had been pushed back so he could cross one leg over the other without the table getting in the way. He wore loafers with no socks, several inches of tanned and hairless ankle showing. He had already made his protestations of innocence and now he just wanted to be elsewhere.
‘Shall we get started?’ Graham Sutherland said, after they had all identified themselves for the recording. He then sat back and let Clarke take over. She began by placing a sequence of photographs in front of Morelli.
‘This is you, yes? At Edinburgh airport eleven days ago. Not quite as dapper as usual but quite recognisable. You’re renting a car from the Avis concession. Here’s a copy of the documentation you signed, and here’s a record of your credit card transaction.’
‘No comment.’
‘Really?’
Coleridge leapt straight in. ‘My client need say nothing at this point, DI Clarke.’
‘I just thought it might be simpler for him to agree that the evidence shows he rented a car for one day. This car…’
Photos of the Passat in its Avis parking bay, and also being driven through Edinburgh’s streets as the long summer dusk shaded towards night.
‘I agree the quality isn’t brilliant. But our expert has produced a clear enough image of the number plate.’
Coleridge studied the photos while Morelli stared at the
