‘Okay,’ Colson said, ‘so her bank tells us Jasmine hasn’t withdrawn any cash or used her debit card since her disappearance. On the other hand, she might not need to if her ex is to be believed about the cash she was suddenly parading.’

  ‘And her parents say they’d not been dishing out any more than usual.’

  ‘Nicking it from her mum’s purse?’

  Clarke offered a shrug.

  ‘Dad handing it over because he feels guilty at not being around?’

  She tapped the screen with her ballpoint pen, next to the name James Andrews. A background check had revealed that Jasmine’s father had been in a bit of trouble back in his twenties – drunken brawls, fights with nightclub security. Seventeen years ago now, but even so…

  ‘A good woman can soothe the savage beast,’ had been Colson’s response. Clarke hadn’t bothered to correct him. She had tried playing out the scenario – father grabs daughter from wife he sees as unfit – but dismissed it. Nothing on the screen added very much to the sum of their current knowledge. But then, just as she was about to give in to the lure of yet another KitKat, her phone vibrated against the desk.

  She picked it up and answered. She listened for a moment, a crease forming above her nose as she concentrated.

  ‘Hang on,’ she eventually said to the handset, ‘I’m putting you on speakerphone.’ She did so, laying the device flat on the desk halfway between her and Colson.

  ‘Okay, PC Galvin,’ she said, raising her voice slightly to compensate. ‘Repeat what you just told me.’

  ‘We’re outside the home of Kevin and Martha Fielding. They’re the parents of Craig Fielding. They’ve made a complaint about a neighbour called James Andrews. Apparently he attacked their son.’ The constable paused. ‘Well, between the address and the name Andrews, I realised the connection and thought I better call it in.’

  ‘You did the right thing,’ Clarke told him. ‘Is Craig injured?’

  ‘Mr Andrews shook him about a bit and gave him a slap, but nothing that needs medical attention.’

  Clarke saw that Colson was already starting the process of putting his arms into the sleeves of his jacket. She’d been about to tell the constable that they’d be there in fifteen minutes.

  ‘Stay there,’ she said instead. ‘We’ll be with you in the next half hour.’

  Colson had grabbed another biscuit, which he gnawed at while Clarke drove.

  ‘What do you reckon?’ he asked between bites.

  ‘I reckon you better not get chocolate on my seats.’

  The traffic was in a good mood and they made it to the Fielding house quicker than expected. The patrol car was parked kerbside, and Clarke pulled to a stop next to it. A dog-walker had paused across the street, keen for some drama and ignorant of the fact that his dog had done its business on the pavement behind him. Colson pointed a warning finger and advised him to clean it up.

  The door to the house was being opened by PC Galvin, who didn’t yet look out of his teens. His partner was the same age and only half an inch taller. They told their story a final time in the hallway, the door to the living room closed, keeping their voices low. Then Clarke dismissed both officers while adding her thanks. They replaced their caps on their heads as they walked down the path. Colson closed the front door behind them. Clarke was already in the living room.

  Craig Fielding sat on the sofa, hands squeezed between his knees, while his agitated parents stayed on their feet. Clarke started introducing herself and Colson, but Kevin Fielding interrupted.

  ‘We want him charged,’ he said, voice quavering. His hair was thinning and he wore round, thick-framed glasses, his movements reminding Clarke of nothing so much as a marionette.

  She crouched in front of Craig, seeking eye contact. ‘You okay?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course he’s not okay, he’s been attacked!’

  ‘This isn’t doing any good, Kevin,’ Martha Fielding said, her voice strained. Clarke had the feeling she was one of those people who would always try to do the right thing and see the best in people. The room was cluttered with little glass ornaments. A pipe lay forgotten in a large ashtray by the fireplace, a pouch of tobacco alongside.

  Clarke got back to her feet. ‘Maybe if you just tell me what happened.’

  ‘Jasmine’s father beat up my son, that’s what happened!’

  ‘Would you like to sit down, Mr Fielding?’ She looked from husband to wife and back again. ‘Both of you.’ As if to help them come to a decision, she settled on the sofa next to their son. His left cheek was still red from the slap and he looked like he’d shed a few tears.

  ‘He was in such a state when he came back,’ Martha Fielding said, sitting down on one of the two chairs. ‘And all he’d wanted to do was offer sympathy.’ Colson was resting on the arm of the sofa, next to Clarke. When he took all of this in, Kevin Fielding decided to give up the fight, throwing himself onto the one empty armchair.

  Clarke turned towards Craig. ‘You went to Jasmine’s house?’ she coaxed. ‘To show sympathy?’

  ‘I just wanted them to know that we all care about Jas.’

  ‘So thoughtful,’ his mother added quietly.

  ‘And what happened?’ Clarke asked.

  Craig stared at his hands, still pressed between his knees. ‘Helena was pleased to see me,’ he began. ‘She went to the kitchen to pour me a glass of water.’ He paused to take a breath. ‘But then he came home. Pulled me to my feet, shouting at me, asking me where she was.’ Fresh tears were forming at the corners of his eyes. ‘He kept shaking me…’

  ‘Just a boy,’ Martha stated.

  ‘Helena told him to stop, and that’s when he slapped me. Then he let me go. I ran for it, ran all the way back here.’

  ‘He was in such a state,’ his mother added.

  ‘The man’s clearly out of control,’ Kevin Fielding muttered, though much of the fight seemed to have gone out of him.

  ‘I doubt you’d be in your right mind, sir,’ Colson advised, ‘if your child had gone missing.’

  ‘Doesn’t excuse it.’

  ‘Maybe it does a bit,’ Martha piped up.

  ‘How about if we go speak to Mr Andrews?’ Clarke suggested. ‘We’ll give him a warning and get him to apologise.’

  ‘I don’t want to see him,’ Craig blurted out.

  ‘A written apology, then – and a promise not to fly off the handle again. If he can’t stick to that, he’ll find himself in custody.’ Clarke broke off and made eye contact with both parents. ‘Do we all think that would suffice?’

  Eventually there were nods from husband and wife. Clarke turned her attention to their son. ‘That okay with you, Craig?’

  ‘Suppose,’ he said.

  ‘Right then,’ she said, rising to her feet, followed by Colson.

  ‘Thank you,’ Martha Fielding said, as though they’d just made a donation to a cause close to her heart.

  ‘I bloody knew they’d call the cops. That wanker was never going to show his face himself.’

  James Andrews turned and strode back into his living room, Clarke and Colson following. There was a bottle of red on the coffee table, three-quarters drained, flanked by two emptied wine glasses. There was also a crystal tumbler with some whisky still in it. Andrews wasn’t quite drunk, but his eyes were glassy.

  ‘Do you mean Craig or his father?’ Colson asked.

  ‘The dad, obviously. Smug streak of piss that he is.’

  Helena Andrews had appeared silently in the doorway from elsewhere in the house. She nodded a greeting towards the detectives and sat down, looking almost ghostly.

  ‘How is Craig?’ she asked.

  Her husband flung out an arm to indicate the two detectives. ‘Called the cops on us, sweetheart – that’s how he is!’

  Clarke and Colson had already decided to remain on their feet, their faces stern. Andrews waited for them to say something, then started to shake his head when they stayed silent.

  ‘I’m not about to say sorry, if that’s what you’re asking.’

  ‘He’s a child, Mr Andrews,’ Colson stated.

  ‘He’s fifteen,’ Andrews countered. ‘A year from now he could be in the army. We’re not talking about a toddler here. At fifteen I was smoking and sneaking a drink—’

  ‘And fighting?’ Colson enquired. ‘A lifestyle choice that ended up getting you in a bit of bother.’

  ‘Half a lifetime back.’

  ‘Still quick to anger, though, sir, wouldn’t you say?’

  Andrews took a step towards Colson, so they were face to face. ‘I walk in and he’s sitting there like he owns the place.’ He gestured towards the chair his wife was now occupying. ‘Calls me “James” like we’re old pals. Cocky little git at the best of times – there was only ever one thing he wanted from our Jas.’ He broke off, eyes flitting towards his wife.

  ‘Sex, you mean?’ Clarke asked.

  ‘What else?’

  ‘Even if that were true,’ Helena broke in, ‘he didn’t get it. She’d have said.’

  Her husband looked unconvinced. ‘The kid was a leech, coming here at all hours uninvited. When I walked in and he was sitting there… where she should have been…’ He exhaled loudly, anger spent for now.

  ‘Is James in trouble?’ Helena asked, eyes on Clarke.

  ‘A written apology would help.’

  ‘He’ll do that.’

  Andrews stared at her but didn’t say no.

  ‘We’re on tenterhooks,’ she went on. ‘Neither of us sleeping, worried sick. We just want her to walk through that door…’ She bowed her head so the tears would remain hers and hers alone.

  ‘You’ll write something down?’ Colson nudged James Andrews. Andrews nodded, but his attention was on his wife. For a moment, Clarke thought he was ready to go to her and wrap her in his arms. But instead he started heading towards the front door.

  ‘I’ll let you out,’ he said.

  6

  DCI Mae McGovern had gathered the major incident team at Gayfield Square police station. It had been decided to move the base from HMP Edinburgh because there were too many restrictions inside the prison and it took too long for the team to get in and out. Besides, they had all they needed in terms of the crime scene. There were some interviews still to be carried out, but those did not require everyone’s presence. Two team members – DCs Allbright and Tilley – were absent, one at an emergency dental appointment and the other with COVID, leaving what could best be described as a skeleton crew.

  They had listened to selected recordings from the interviewees, focusing on the night-shift POs and the deceased’s cellmate. The autopsy report had been discussed and photos of the locus projected onto a screen so they could discuss theories. The lack of the murder weapon was proving a major frustration. Forensics had picked up no blood traces on the floor outside the cell. CCTV footage showed no POs looking agitated or attempting to hide stained clothing. Nothing had come of a search of staff lockers and rubbish bins. And yet the pathologist, Deborah Quant, had been clear – there would have been blood.

  ‘So we’re going to have to come at this from an angle,’ DCI McGovern was telling her team. She stood at the front of the room with arms folded. She had removed the jacket of her trouser suit and rolled up the sleeves of her olive-green blouse. Her hair was auburn and Christine Esson reckoned it had to be dyed. McGovern was in her late forties, not far off qualifying for a full police pension. Two grown-up kids, each with a child of their own. The windowsill behind her desk was festooned with framed photos of her family. Her husband was a senior civil servant. Like him, she had grown up in Glasgow and attended university there before joining the police. She was never going to lose the accent and often made fun of herself when playing to an east-coast audience. But she had a sharp mind that belied her apparently easy-going nature, and when she rolled her sleeves up you knew she meant business.

  ‘We need to focus on motive,’ she went on, eyes scanning the room, making sure she had every officer’s full attention. ‘Who wanted Jackie Simpson dead? We know he had a lengthy criminal record, but never for anything violent. He’d been breaking into premises since he was at school – jail had become an occupational hazard. He was due to be released shortly and had behaved impeccably while serving his sentence.’

  ‘Not exactly impeccably,’ Jason Mulgrew interrupted, ‘if you speak to Chris Novak.’

  ‘Agreed, a fair bit of niggle there, but enough to merit murder?’

  ‘There was a threat to pay the officer’s house a visit,’ DC Zara Shah piped up. McGovern nodded slowly, allowing this.

  ‘Once Simpson was out, Novak couldn’t get to him so easily,’ Mulgrew added, meriting a smile from Shah for backing her up.

  ‘I’d say just the opposite,’ Esson couldn’t help arguing. ‘If Novak really wanted to harm Simpson, why not wait until he was released? Much more chance of getting away with it. Attacking him in his cell brings the list of suspects down to a handful.’

  ‘Heat of the moment, who’s to say?’ Shah argued back. McGovern held up a hand, silencing them.

  ‘We need to know all there is to know about the victim, the officers on duty and the prisoners on that wing. If Chris Novak continues to be the main suspect, then we can zero in on him, but I want to be confident that we’re not missing something. Did the deceased have a beef with anyone else – prisoner or staff? Could one of Novak’s colleagues have decided to do him a favour by taking matters into their own hands?’

  ‘Let’s not forget his good friend Valerie Watts,’ Mulgrew added. ‘The night-shift team all say the same thing – they pretty much knew where everyone was from minute to minute. But CCTV shows Novak leaving the control room, and two minutes later, so does Watts. It’s a good ten minutes before they pop up again. Loo break apparently, but there’s no sign of either of them on the tapes.’

  ‘What do we make of the broken camera?’ Shah asked.

  ‘It had been reported and there had already been one attempt to repair it,’ McGovern stated.

  ‘On the other hand,’ Shah continued, ‘someone could have decided that with it out of action, the timing was right for the assault.’

  Mulgrew lifted his laptop from his desk and turned its screen to face the room at large. ‘Couple of other cameras were still working. They show sections of the hall, officers patrolling, but nobody particularly lingering.’ He had speeded up the footage. They’d all watched it more than once, knew every single frame. ‘Patrols aren’t frequent – they don’t have the staffing level. Unless an alarm’s hit or a con requests a visit.’

  ‘The governor would rather we used the term “resident”,’ Esson reminded him.

  ‘How about the prisoner who heard a key in a lock?’ Shah asked.

  ‘His name’s Billy Groam,’ Mulgrew answered. ‘Seemed pretty confident when we talked to him, but maybe he was high on something that night.’ He turned his screen back towards him and worked away at the touchpad. ‘There are blind spots throughout the prison – and the POs would know them. Mostly officers stick to two rooms away from Trinity Hall. One houses the CCTV screens and comms with the cells, the other is for downtime. Usual kettle, microwave, fridge and sink, plus a corkboard where they pin up photos of recent weapon finds and the like.’

  ‘I also want us to think a bit more about the cellmate,’ McGovern added. ‘He was high as a kite, but was that voluntary? Had someone slipped him a much bigger dose than he was used to? Had he been more or less ordered to take enough spice or whatever to put himself out of the game? Was he really unconscious when he got hit on the head or did he maybe hear or see something or somebody? Could be he’s blocking it out and it’ll come back with a bit of nudging. Plenty for us to be considering and a lot of work ahead. Anything you need from me, you only have to ask.’

  ‘Does that include a few more pairs of hands?’ Esson asked.

  ‘You know what budgets are like these days, Christine.’ McGovern’s tone was cold, but her eyes were sympathetic. Nobody blamed her for the fact they lacked bodies, funds and sometimes the equipment to do the job.

  Once McGovern had left for her own office down the hallway, Esson settled at her computer, trying to get it to do something, anything. Not for the first time, it wasn’t minded to oblige. An arm suddenly reached down past her shoulder, Mulgrew’s fingers busying themselves on her keyboard. The screen sprang to life.

  ‘I could have done it,’ Esson commented.

  ‘A simple “thanks” will suffice, Christine.’

  Over by the tea bags, Shah was shaking an empty half-litre milk carton.

  ‘Whose job was it to bring fresh?’

  ‘Allbright’s,’ Mulgrew said, walking towards her. ‘Probably curdling in the dental surgery as we speak.’

  ‘You mean the milk or Allbright?’

  Mulgrew snorted at the joke, Esson refusing to join in even though Allbright’s name really did sometimes seem to be in itself a joke on nominative determinism. She got up and joined them as the kettle came to a boil.

  ‘If you followed my example, it wouldn’t bother you,’ she said, pouring the boiled water into her empty mug.

  ‘Don’t know how you can do that,’ Shah said, wrinkling her nose.

  ‘I like it,’ Esson replied. She watched Mulgrew offer Shah the last peppermint tea bag, which Shah accepted with a look not unadjacent to a simper. Esson tried to remember if the DC was attached right now. She thought not. She was about four inches shorter than Mulgrew and eight years younger. Her family had moved to Scotland from the Middle East a generation back. Esson envied her flawless skin and those huge hazel eyes, currently fixed on Jason Mulgrew. When Mulgrew passed Esson’s desk on his way to his own and half raised an eyebrow, she wondered if something had been showing in her face.

  ‘Do we have the victim’s file?’ Shah asked the room.

  Esson hoisted it and let it fall with a thump back onto her desk. ‘Like the boss says, he’s been on our radar most of his adult life.’

  ‘We’ve not really talked to the family yet, have we?’

  Esson made show of opening the file. They’d been through this more than once. ‘Divorced, one son, Marcus. His ex moved south, the son stayed here. He’s been in a bit of bother too, the past few years. Driving under the influence with no insurance, couple of scuffles outside pubs and clubs, possession of hash and speed…’