Midnight and Blue, page 20
‘So there is news?’
‘There might well be – once I’ve talked to Darryl.’
The governor gave a sigh. ‘You’re a pain in the hole, John – did anyone ever tell you that?’
‘It gets a chapter in my autobiography.’
‘You’ll tell me the outcome tomorrow, okay?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Rebus held two fingers to one of his temples and gave a little flick, as if in salute.
Forty minutes later, he was on his way to SRU, accompanied by Eddie Graves.
‘How are tricks with you?’ Rebus asked.
‘Back’s playing up again. Sleep’s not great either. Son dinged his car the other day. He’s fine, but it’s the third time. He’s going to be uninsurable at this rate.’
‘Could be worse, though, eh?’
Graves glanced at him. ‘How?’
‘Well, you might have to spend your days surrounded by the dregs of society.’
‘Retirement can’t come soon enough.’
‘You’ll miss us when you’re gone.’
‘I won’t miss being called Michelle, though.’
‘It’s meant affectionately,’ Rebus said. ‘But to get back to my original question, I was actually meaning in here – with the murder and Darryl Christie kicking off and everyone’s springs ready to snap…’
Graves gave a shrug. ‘It’s like the old saying – what’s for ye won’t go by ye.’
‘I always thought that was a bit bleak myself.’
‘Your point being?’
Rebus found he had no answer to that, none that would offer consolation to Graves or change his worldview. So they walked the rest of the route in silence, all the way to Darryl Christie’s cell.
The door was unlocked by one of the faces Rebus knew from his time in the unit. Both officers stood guard, door ajar, as Rebus entered the room’s tight confines.
‘I need to look up the word solitary in the dictionary,’ Darryl Christie muttered.
He was lying on his bed, hands clasped together on his stomach. He half turned his head to make eye contact with his visitor.
‘How’s it going out there?’ he asked.
‘Everett Harrison’s taken to sounding like a chain-smoking Fenella Fielding and Blair Samms wants me moved back here. The first of those was your doing, but what about the second?’
‘He’s got a point, though – up to now you’ve been tolerated, but you’re still an ex-cop, and ex-cops tend not to thrive in the general prison population. Plus you’re a marked man.’
‘Meaning Bobby Briggs?’
‘For one.’
‘Who else?’
‘How long have you got?’ Christie drummed the fingers of one hand against the knuckles of the other. ‘Anyway, what brings you to my throne room? Managed to speak to Malcolm Fox yet?’
‘He knows I need a word,’ Rebus improvised. Then: ‘You’re Mark Jamieson’s supplier, right?’
‘No comment.’
‘See, he ended up KO’d. As a regular user, he’d know how much to take and the effect it would have. This went above and beyond.’
‘You’re saying the merch was tampered with?’
‘Either that or switched.’
‘By whoever it was who did for poor Jackie?’ Christie nodded his understanding. ‘They still had to unlock the cell, though, didn’t they? And the one thing in here I have trouble laying my hands on is a magic key. I doubt any of us could get hold of one without taking an officer hostage – and that didn’t happen, did it?’
‘No hostage-taking required if the price was right. Who brings all the dope in? Blair Samms?’
‘I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.’ Christie offered a wink. It struck Rebus that he was a lot more relaxed than previously, a bit more pleased with himself.
‘You sure it’s Hanlon who’s gunning for your boys? No other candidates you can think of?’
‘I’m sure.’
‘Why are you smiling?’
‘I just got word we’re fighting back. Scouse bastard stuck his gun through another car window, but this time my boy wrenched it out of his hand, near broke the shooter’s wrist in the process. Roared off on his motorbike, tool and dignity left behind. That’s the message my lot needed – these wankers can be beaten. Want to know the best bit?’
‘What?’
‘It was an air pistol. No threat whatsoever. You could maybe pass that on to Everett Harrison – no threat whatsoever.’ Christie stared at the ceiling again, the smile spreading across his face.
‘Unless Hanlon decides to escalate,’ Rebus speculated.
‘He’d better be quick then, now there’s a bounty on his head.’
Rebus took a moment to digest this. ‘How much?’
‘Enough.’
‘Plane fares included?’
‘Hanlon reckons he’s protected in Brazil – but that protection disappears in a puff of smoke if the offer’s right.’ Christie glanced in Rebus’s direction. ‘No plane fares needed.’
‘I’m guessing this is something I shouldn’t share with Harrison.’
‘Maybe I’m testing your loyalty.’
‘And maybe you’re spinning me another of your lines. How many more days are you in here?’
‘Out tomorrow, probably.’
‘Back to Trinity Hall alongside Harrison?’
‘That’s up to the governor.’ Christie paused and yawned, wetting his lips with his tongue. ‘So is that the sum total of your progress on Jackie’s murder? Mr Tennent must be disappointed.’
‘A bit more cooperation would help.’
‘You’re telling me I should cooperate with an ex-cop who’s been tasked with pushing the blame onto a con rather than a uniform? Jog the fuck on, John. Now if you don’t mind, I could do with some shut-eye.’ He yawned again. ‘Waiting till after lights-out to start making business calls means I lose out on my eight hours.’ He raised a hand and waved it towards Rebus, then turned on his side, face towards the wall. Rebus stood there for a moment before pushing open the cell door.
‘You sent him to sleep,’ Graves said, staring at the prone figure. He sounded almost envious.
16
Clarke and Esson were seated side by side in the office, going through a printout of names, email addresses and, in some cases, phone numbers.
It helped that Zak Campbell hadn’t been versed in the ways of the dark web and had left behind plenty of instructions to himself on which passwords he needed to access the various domains. Subs and fees were paid by bitcoin to an offshore account, outwith the UK’s jurisdiction. Still, by dint of having all the instructions they needed, they had accessed his balance and found that it was in the hundreds of thousands – at current rates of exchange.
He paid the models mostly by cash or with gifts of electronics and vouchers for online retailers. The twenty-three teenagers on his books were now real names and faces. Most of them had turned eighteen, but four could be classified as children. Jasmine was the only one from her school. Those awkward phone calls and visits to parents and family homes had already begun. So far, only Jasmine was AWOL. Swabs and fingerprints were being taken, so that they could be matched to the crime scene. Each step in the investigation had to be meticulous and defence-lawyer-proof. The Procurator Fiscal’s office was in close touch with DCI Carmichael, and he in turn was checking regularly that things were being done in accordance with procedures and protocols.
The users they’d identified so far – there were almost a thousand regulars, with thousands more one-time payers – were men ranging from their twenties to their seventies, from all corners of the UK and beyond, stretching as far as Australia and Bermuda. So far only one woman, based in Hong Kong but Scots-born.
A few pseudonymous accounts were proving difficult to break down. Mae McGovern had been persuaded to accept CEOP’s offer of help from the National Crime Agency, whose opinion was that these individuals were well used to covering their tracks and therefore probably breaking the law in other ways – either that or they were IT professionals. Clarke and Esson scoured the list again. One Glasgow councillor, a probation service officer in Derby, a company director in Aberdeen, a teacher in North Wales. Some had already been contacted. Peter ‘Pedro’ Cowan was there too, which made Clarke think of Laura Smith and the breaking of the story. The major incident team had been fielding requests ever since, the mainstream media hungry for a feed. Bryan Carmichael had hosted a hastily arranged press conference at which he shared the bare minimum of information, to the irritation of those gathered before him. The office had watched on their phones or computers, giving shrugs afterwards. The media would be far from satisfied and the usual keyboard warriors would be dusting off their pitchforks. Someone had already thrown paint at the downstairs window of Zak Campbell’s home and sprayed the word PAEDO on his garage door.
‘At least they can spell,’ Esson had commented when shown a photo of the damage.
Someone had opened a window in the office to let out the smells of the various fast-food offerings delivered to the desks of officers who didn’t have time or inclination to take a proper break. Clarke’s last meal had been a sandwich, as had the meal before that. Not that she had much of an appetite. Coffee was keeping her going. Esson, as usual, drank only mugs of hot water – couldn’t stand tea or coffee. As a result, she looked a lot less wired than Clarke felt.
‘An awful lot of suspects,’ Gillian Reeves commented, waving the same list of names in the air as she passed the shared desk. ‘And still no sign of Marcus Simpson. One of our patrols checked again an hour ago.’
‘What do his neighbours say?’
‘Apparently it’s not that unusual.’
‘His car reg is out there, right?’
Reeves nodded. ‘Everyone’s on the alert.’
Clarke and Esson shared a look. Jasmine Andrews and Marcus Simpson: both known to the victim, both whereabouts currently unknown. The Jasmine inquiry was now a hunt for a murder suspect, DCI Carmichael convinced that the timing of her disappearance was no coincidence. But he had also stressed that no one outside of MIT – her parents included – were to be told this. Cammy Colson had been a bit more blunt in his summation: She either did it or she got someone to do it for her…
‘A lot of these we can probably put a line through, right?’ Esson said, tapping the stapled sheets of paper. ‘The overseas ones, I mean.’
‘We can’t rule anyone out, Christine – Fiscal wouldn’t like that.’
‘If we’re ranking them, though…’
Clarke nodded her agreement. ‘Of course they’re far less likely. We talk to locals first, but that probably includes Glasgow… maybe even as far as our man in Aberdeen.’
‘We’ve already got a few booked in for interview – with the promise of maximum discretion in return for their cooperation.’
‘That room’s going to be getting a lot of use. We’ll have a video camera installed by tomorrow at the latest.’
Esson’s phone buzzed. She checked caller ID and got up, stepping away from the desk. ‘Hi there, Jason,’ she said. ‘Sorry I’ve not been picking up your calls.’
‘I’m feeling decidedly neglected here, Christine.’
‘Are you at the prison or Gayfield Square?’
‘The latter.’
‘Case hitting a wall?’
‘Lucky for us the public’s attention has moved elsewhere. Hasn’t stopped Mae McGovern turning the screws, mind. How are things at St Leonard’s?’
Esson turned from the window and studied her surroundings. ‘Just ever so slightly manic. Campbell’s computer has yielded most of his users.’
‘Well, that’s a huge step. Any interesting names?’
‘Celebs, you mean? None to speak of. One ex-footballer, who’ll have been shocked to know who was taking his money.’
‘So the next stage is giving them all a grilling?’
‘We’re going to be kept busy.’
‘Has Marcus Simpson turned up yet?’
‘No. I don’t suppose you can shed any light?’
‘He still has family in town, that’s about as much as I know. Except that he’s got a burial to plan. Might be worth checking if he’s still in touch with the funeral directors.’
‘That’s a good idea, thanks.’
‘You’ll come and lend a hand in return, yes?’
Esson couldn’t help but smile at his persistence. ‘Give me half an hour,’ she said.
On her way back to the desk, she phoned the mortuary, where Jackie Simpson’s body was being held. She asked about funeral arrangements and got a name and number. As she settled again next to Clarke, she made the call to a parlour in Greenhill. Clarke gave her a questioning look, but Esson was already speaking.
‘Yes, hello there. This is Detective Sergeant Christine Esson. I’m attached to the inquiry regarding Jackie Simpson – he might be John Simpson in your records.’ While she listened, she mouthed the words funeral director to Clarke, who nodded her understanding. ‘Yes, that’s right,’ she continued. ‘What I’m wondering is, are you in touch with his son, Marcus?’ Esson watched Clarke give a silent round of applause. ‘So when is he coming in for that meeting? Today?’ She angled her phone so that she could check the time on its screen. ‘That’s only an hour from now. He hasn’t phoned to cancel or change the arrangement?’ She listened for a moment, shaking her head for Clarke’s benefit. ‘Well, if he does get in touch, I’d be grateful if you didn’t mention that I’ve spoken with you.’ She listened again. ‘Oh, I’m sure discretion goes with the territory. Many thanks again.’
She ended the call, grabbed a notepad and jotted down the details of the funeral parlour, handing them to Clarke.
‘I need to be elsewhere,’ she explained. ‘It’s Jason we have to thank for this, and he wants me to show my face at Gayfield Square.’
‘Has there been a break in the case?’ Clarke asked.
‘Not even a minor fracture. Any chance you can keep Marcus waiting until I get back?’
‘Depends how cooperative he’s feeling – always supposing he turns up in the first place.’
‘Oh ye of little faith,’ Esson said, making for the door.
The first thing Marcus Simpson asked Clarke was whether he needed a solicitor. This was in her car. He had arrived at the funeral home in a minicab, Clarke and Colson intercepting him before he reached the front door. He’d looked resigned to his fate as they led him to the Astra, putting him in the back seat, where Colson joined him, having checked that the child locks were engaged – didn’t want him making a dash for it at the first set of red lights.
‘Do you think you need one?’ Clarke had asked, making eye contact via the rear-view mirror.
‘You tell me.’
‘Well, it’s up to you, Marcus. But all we really want right now is a chat.’
‘So chat.’
‘Once we get to St Leonard’s.’
‘St Leonard’s?’
‘This isn’t about your dad – it’s to do with your pal Zak.’
‘What about him?’ He had turned his head sharply, suddenly interested in the passing scenery.
‘Never play poker, Marcus,’ Clarke advised. ‘Your body right now is one mahoosive tell…’
At the station, he was invited to make himself comfortable in the interview room. Clarke provided a mug of tea and a
KitKat.
‘Preferential treatment,’ she said. He had his phone in one hand, both knees bouncing. ‘Who’ve you been calling?’
‘Undertaker – had to apologise, didn’t I?’
‘That was decent of you. We won’t be releasing the body for a while yet anyway.’
‘Why wait? It’s not like you lot are ever going to solve it.’
‘What makes you so sure?’
‘Stands to reason.’ He lifted the mug to his lips.
‘Where’ve you been hiding anyway?’
‘I’ve not been hiding. Just staying at my cousin’s. I do that sometimes. We play games – should see the set-up he’s got: multiple screens, interactive chairs, VR headsets…’
‘You didn’t think we might be wanting a word?’
‘Couldn’t care less one way or the other.’ He took a loud slurp of tea. Clarke got the feeling he was trying to rattle her. She snatched the uneaten KitKat from the table, unwrapped it and took a bite.
‘What happened to “preferential treatment”?’ he asked with a scowl.
‘That was before you started pissing me off.’
He jutted out his jaw and hoisted his phone. ‘Maybe I should talk to your boss.’
‘My boss?’
‘DCI Fox.’
‘How do you know Malcolm Fox?’
‘My dad did him a few favours.’
‘Did he now?’ Clarke pushed the remains of the KitKat back across the table. Simpson just looked at it. ‘What sort of favours?’ She watched the young man shrug. ‘Was he in touch after your dad died?’
‘No. But I phoned him.’
‘When?’
‘I didn’t want fingers pointed at me when Zak died. Fox said there was nothing he could do. Told me never to call him again.’
‘That was the only time you’ve spoken with DCI Fox?’ She watched him nod.
‘Dad gave me his number a while back. He knew I might get in trouble one day and need a friend. Might’ve worked if Dad hadn’t been killed. After that, Fox was done with us.’ He picked up the KitKat, studied it for saliva and then took a bite. Clarke checked the time on her phone. She was hoping she wouldn’t have to bring Colson in.
‘We should probably save this for the interview,’ she said.
‘I thought this was the interview?’
The words were just out of his mouth when the door flew open and Christine Esson manoeuvred her way in, bringing a chair with her. ‘Apologies if I’ve kept you waiting,’ she said, sounding breathless. She started readying the recording equipment before she made herself comfortable, shrugging her way out of her coat and draping it over the back of her chair.
‘Before you turn that on,’ Clarke said, ‘Marcus has just been telling me that his dad used to do favours for a DCI called Malcolm Fox.’
