In a House of Lies

‘The parents,’ the constable explained. ‘Yesterday morning, before my shift started.’

Rebus nodded slowly and started the long walk back to his car.

He didn’t drive far, coming off the track on to a muddy tarmacked B road. A couple of left turns and he was at the gates to Poretoun House. The gates were closed, no sign of a bell or anything. A padlocked chain. When Rebus pushed, there was just enough give for him to squeeze through the gap — security obviously not much of an issue.

‘That’s what losing a few pounds does for you, John,’ he said to himself. Twenty pounds actually. First time he’d gone to the Oxford Bar after shedding it, they’d asked if he had long to live. He’d been forced to tell them it wasn’t cancer. No, not cancer, but he was buggered if he was going to let COPD have him without a fight. One of the other patients at the respiratory clinic had used a phrase — ‘managed decline’ — and it had stuck with Rebus. To him, it seemed to sum up his whole life since retirement, and maybe even before.

‘Cheery bastard today,’ he muttered as he walked.

The driveway was overgrown, the gravel surface green with weeds and moss. The house itself soon appeared, looking forlorn. He remembered visiting it to question Jackie Ness, in a huge and overly ornate living room. Mary Skelton had been with him; it was one of those rare days when she seemed able to focus on her job rather than her sleeping arrangements. Not that they’d lingered at Poretoun House. It had been a follow-up; they were there to take receipt of printed communications between Ness and the misper. Rebus remembered the film memorabilia, the posters and props. The hallway had become a repository for lighting rigs, rails filled with costumes, camera tripods. Had anyone thought to mention that Stuart Bloom had appeared in one of Ness’s films? Had Ness himself or maybe Derek Shankley said something? If so, whoever they’d told hadn’t thought it worth recording. The family really had earned their eventual begrudged and belated apology.

‘Utter shambles,’ Rebus said to himself.

He did a circuit of the building’s exterior. Lawns that had stopped being tended to. A broken window pane, boarded up. Foliage sprouting from gutters and downpipes. No sign of life. He crouched by the front door, peering through the letter box. The hall was dusty and empty. No sign of any mail on the floor. Most of the windows had been shuttered, upstairs and down. But he found one where the shutters didn’t quite meet and pressed his nose to the glass. The living room was devoid of furniture, cracks appearing in its stuccoed ceiling. Didn’t seem to him that anyone was even bothering to heat the place. Turning away from the house, he had a clear view towards the woods. The last time anyone had seen Stuart Bloom alive, he’d been driving away in his Polo.

‘He was headed home,’ Jackie Ness had told the inquiry.

Yes, because Derek Shankley was preparing an evening meal for them, wine open, music playing, the end of another long week for them both. Of course, they only had Ness’s word for it that Bloom had left the meeting alive. The house had been searched and forensically examined, despite Ness’s complaints. Outbuildings had been checked, as had the woods beyond. Not that there was any good reason to suspect the producer.

It was just that they didn’t have much else.

Rebus returned to his Saab. It spluttered as it started, reminding him that it wasn’t getting any younger. He patted the steering wheel in sympathy, mouthed the phrase ‘managed decline’ and drove the half-mile to the village of Poretoun, which basically consisted, now as then, of a single thoroughfare (imaginatively named Main Street). There had been two pubs, but only one survived. The hardware shop, bank and post office had also gone. The café Rebus remembered dropping into for a memorable black pudding roll still had its signage, but was closed and available to let. There was a convenience store, a solitary shopper emerging from it with a carrier bag. Rebus parked and pushed open its door.

‘Just want some gum,’ he told the Asian woman behind the counter. He found the Airwaves and picked up a pack, then a second for luck.

‘You’re trying to stop smoking,’ she commented. Then, seeing from his look that she was correct: ‘Takes one to know one. Have you tried vaping?’

‘The technology defeated me.’

‘Well, gum will rot your teeth but not your lungs.’ She rang up the items. There was a small pile of that day’s Evening News on the counter, so he took one, looking at the headlines on the front. There was a colour photo of Catherine Bloom and the promise of an exclusive interview inside.

‘I must look up “exclusive” when I get home,’ he said. ‘Can’t be many people she’s not spoken to.’

‘Can you blame her, though? The way the authorities have treated that family is inexcusable.’

‘We’re only human,’ Rebus said, accepting his change and making his exit. He crossed to the pub and stepped inside. It felt welcoming, with a log-burning stove and thick tartan carpet. Spotting the coffee machine, he ordered an Americano and slid on to a bar stool. A middle-aged couple sat at a corner table, conversing quietly. Another regular was engrossed in his crossword. Rebus placed the Evening News on the counter.