In a House of Lies
- Автор: Рэнкин Иэн
- Серия: Inspector Rebus #22
- Год: 2018
- Язык: английский
- Год: Orion
- ISBN: 978-1-4091-7688-6
- Жанр: Полицейские детективы
Электронная книга - «In a House of Lies». Краткое содержание книги:
She made show of checking her watch. ‘Only took you seventy-five minutes, John — good going.’
‘Is there, though?’
‘The wheels of forensic anthropology grind slow, and apparently you can’t hurry soil analysis. The lab in Aberdeen has a lot on its plate, so to speak, and a cold case murder isn’t a top priority.’ She lifted a finger. ‘And if anyone asks, you didn’t hear that from me.’
‘Who’s going to ask?’
‘Have you not been questioned yet?’
‘Not as such.’
‘You will be, though.’
‘If they get round to me. You know they got a fingerprint match from the cuffs?’
She nodded. ‘The film producer.’
‘He was questioned under caution.’
‘And then released. I do watch the news, John.’
Rebus was thoughtful for a moment. Quant had tucked her legs under her and was holding her wine glass while cradling her head in her free hand, elbow propped on the arm of the sofa. Her long red hair had been drawn back from her face and was held by an elasticated band. She wore no make-up, well aware that she didn’t need it. She looked a decade younger than her actual age and never seemed particularly fatigued despite her workload.
‘I forget,’ he asked casually. ‘Did you do the autopsy on Kristen Halliday?’
‘What’s Kristen got to do with anything?’
‘I was asked to dust off the case.’
‘So you’ve looked at the files?’ She watched him nod. ‘Therefore you know fine well I did the autopsy. What’s this all about, John?’
‘Ellis’s uncle harbours a few doubts. He managed to persuade Siobhan that it was worth a fresh pair of eyes.’
‘Every murderer’s family doubts they could have done it.’
‘But when you examined her...’
‘She was stabbed in the neck. She bled out. Cause of death is all that was required from me.’
‘You didn’t pick up anything else from the body?’
‘No recent intercourse. Traces of cannabis and vodka in her system. Not enough to make her incapable. No other marks such as bruising. Her clothes were bloodstained but otherwise clean.’
‘No defensive wounds to the hands?’
‘She knew her attacker, John. She was stabbed from the front by someone right-handed. They didn’t creep up behind her or anything.’
‘Just the one incision?’
‘By a blade matching the one found discarded nearby with Ellis Meikle’s prints on it.’ Quant lifted her head, leaning towards him. ‘Which might explain why he was found guilty.’
‘We got prints from the handcuffs around Stuart Bloom’s ankles too, yet Jackie Ness is still a free man.’
‘Ness hasn’t admitted anything; Meikle did.’
Rebus nodded distractedly. ‘I went to see him this afternoon. He’s in Saughton.’
‘How’s he doing?’
‘A bit more talkative than at the trial.’
‘I remember him when I was giving my evidence. He kept his head bowed. I’m not sure he was really taking any of it in. We know he used drugs, drank too much, no job, broken family...’
‘Just another statistic, eh?’
‘You’re beginning to have doubts,’ Quant stated.
‘I’m looking for the motive, Deb, and not really seeing one.’
‘You know as well as I do, we don’t always get that sort of closure. Plenty of killers don’t know why they did it or else won’t say.’ She reached over and placed a hand on his knee. ‘Cases are seldom a hundred per cent watertight. Ninety usually does it for the jury. Do you think Jackie Ness is going to get away with it?’
Rebus shrugged. ‘If your forensic pals got a move on, I might know the answer to that.’
‘Why did Siobhan bring the Meikle case to you?’
‘She’s snowed under.’
‘And maybe she did it to keep you active?’
‘Either that or out of her hair.’
‘She must have dozens of cases like Meikle, though — does she have links to the uncle or something?’
‘Sort of.’
‘It’s not just altruism then?’
‘It seldom is.’
He watched as Quant tugged the band from her hair, shaking it loose so it fell across her shoulders and forehead.
‘Are you staying?’ she asked.
‘I’d like to, but there’s Brillo to think of.’
‘You could walk him, then come back after.’
‘I could.’ His eyes scanned the room. ‘I like it here.’
‘The decor, the furnishings...?’
‘I think it’s the fact you have a lift,’ he joked, earning a cushion in the face.
33
Sir Adrian Brand and his wife Cordelia had been out for the evening — La Traviata, courtesy of Scottish Opera at the Festival Theatre. Parking was always problematic so they had taken a black cab. Afterwards, they managed a late supper at Ondine before heading home to Murrayfield. The cab dropped them at the gates.
‘We’ll walk,’ Brand instructed the driver, handing over a twenty and telling him to keep the change. The cab started to move off as his wife glowered at him.
‘It’s only fifty yards,’ he chided her, punching the code into the panel on the gatepost.
‘But in heels,’ she complained, lifting one leg for him to see.
‘I’ll carry you then,’ he said with a smile as the gates began to swing open.
Neither of them had noticed the car parked across the street, or that someone had emerged from it and was striding towards them. Cordelia Brand caught a glimpse of the figure from the corner of her eye, and clutched her evening bag close to her chest.
‘Adrian...’ she said.
Brand turned just as the fist was swinging towards him. It connected with the meat of his nose, blood splashing down his shirt front. A knee to the groin doubled him over, and a kick to the stomach put him on all fours. His wife was yelling for help, swiping at the assailant with her bag. He didn’t seem to register her blows. Instead, he leaned down, grabbing Brand by the hair and pulling until his face angled upwards, tears streaming from the eyes.
‘A man can only take so much,’ Jackie Ness hissed, showing both rows of teeth. ‘A lesson you should have learned by now.’ He slammed Brand’s forehead against the pavement, then straightened up and began walking back to his car. Cordelia Brand was torn between stopping him and helping her husband. Decision made, she fumbled in her bag for her phone.
It was 2 a.m. when Clarke got the call. She dressed and picked up her car keys. Jackie Ness’s car had been pulled over on Melville Drive. He’d been placed under arrest and taken to St Leonard’s police station. Sir Adrian Brand was at the Royal Infirmary, awaiting a scan. He seemed okay, but the doctors in A&E wanted to be sure. His wife had given a statement, along with a photo she had snapped with her phone of Ness’s car leaving the scene, its number plate clearly visible. A statement had also been taken from Brand himself. Graham Sutherland was reading it as Clarke entered the MIT room in Leith. Callum Reid turned away from the kettle and handed Clarke a mug of instant.
‘No milk, sorry,’ he said. His hair was uncombed and his eyes were bleary. He wore a shirt and jacket but no tie. Sutherland, on the other hand, looked immaculate. Clarke wondered if he slept upright in his clothes.
‘I didn’t bother disturbing anyone else’s beauty sleep,’ Sutherland said. ‘Just thought my two DIs should be in the loop.’
‘This is because of the Poretoun House search?’ Clarke asked. Stupid question, but she was still half asleep.
‘Mr Ness has been questioned by officers at St Leonard’s, and that’s the story he gave. Even showed them his phone. Over two dozen photos, sent to him by Sir Adrian Brand over a four-hour period. One of them is a selfie, Brand grinning while the work goes on behind him.’