Helena Grant had agreed to drive over to Bill Emsworth’s house for dinner. She’d hesitated when he’d first asked her, feeling that, now the Christmas break was finished, it might be better to revert to her old routine for the moment. She’d already made a tentative arrangement to spend New Year’s Eve with him, and she’d wondered whether it might be better to use the intervening time to give herself some space to think about their burgeoning relationship.
But Emsworth had been keen to continue where they’d left off over Christmas, and she could see the sense in what he was saying. Yes, she didn’t want to rush headlong into something she might regret. But neither of them was getting any younger, and maybe they shouldn’t risk wasting even a single night.
Anyway, she told herself, it was only dinner. She’d told Bill she’d prefer to drive home at the end of the evening, so she could be in the office early in the morning. Even there, though, she hedged her bets by sticking an overnight bag in the back of the car. She could feel herself drifting further and faster into this than she’d perhaps intended, but she wasn’t sure she really cared.
In the days since Christmas, the temperatures had risen and the snow was largely gone, though traces lingered in the edges of the fields and other sheltered places, and the bulk of Ben Wyvis, looming over the Black Isle, was still thickly covered.
Grant had been later leaving the office than she’d intended, catching up first on a debrief from Alec McKay and Ginny Horton about their conversation with Kelly Armstrong and then a further discussion with the head of comms about to use the image of the so-called ‘Alastair Farlowe’ as part of an appeal in the following day’s media. She called Bill to warn him she was running late. He’d told her not to worry. He was cooking a casserole that would keep until she arrived.
It was past seven when she crossed the Kessock Bridge, the lights of Inverness glittering behind her. She took the Munlochy turn and following the coast road through Avoch and Fortrose to Rosemarkie. As she pulled up outside Bill’s house, the front door opened. It looked as though he’d been awaiting her arrival.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ she said, as she approached the door. ‘You know how it is.’
‘I remember how it was,’ he said. ‘It’s a while since I worked in an office.’
She followed him inside, closing the front door behind her. By contrast with the chilly night, the house felt warm and welcoming. ‘How’s the food going?’
‘Fine. It’ll happily just sit there and be ready when we are. Thought that would allow us to spend maximum time together, rather than me bobbing up and down all the time. Glass of wine?’
She hesitated. ‘Why not? But I’d better stick to just the one if I’m driving home tonight.’
‘Are you driving home tonight?’
‘That was the plan. I do need to be in early in the morning.’
‘It’s not much further from here.’ Bill smiled. ‘And I bet you brought an overnight bag in the car.’
She laughed. ‘That’s probably exactly why I shouldn’t stay. You’re getting to know me too well.’
‘Well, let’s see how the evening goes, shall we? Whether I can tempt you. To a few more glasses of wine, I mean.’
A bottle of red wine and two glasses were already waiting in the living room. He poured one for her and they sat together on the sofa.
‘How’s your day been?’ he asked.
‘Not so bad. Slow progress, you know. But that’s how it is.’
Bill smiled. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t press you for more information. Just making conversation.’
‘So how’s your day been? Lots of words?’
‘Not yet. Still at the plotting stage.’
‘I thought you didn’t do much plotting, usually, just threw yourself into it.’ This was what he’d told her at one of their early meetings when they’d still been largely discussing matters of police procedure.
‘It varies. Mostly I just write. But this one felt like it needed some more upfront thought to make sure I got it right.’
‘What’s it about?’
His expression was one of mock horror. ‘You can’t expect me to tell you that. Any more than you’d tell me about your ongoing investigation.’ He laughed. ‘It’s a bit of a superstition, actually. I don’t like to talk about it till I’ve finished.’
‘Fair enough. Hope it’s going well, anyway.’
‘Like you say, slow progress.’
‘You still haven’t shown me your office or whatever you call it.’
‘I suppose I haven’t.’
‘Is that another superstition. Don’t you show people where you work, either?’
‘To be honest, no one’s ever really been very interested before.’
‘Well, I’m interested. I’d love to see it.’
‘There’s not much to see. Just a desk and a computer.’
‘I’d still be interested. It’s a big part of you. It’s what you do.’
‘Well, if you insist. Just don’t set your expectations too high. I’ll give you the grand tour, if you’ve thirty seconds.’
He led her up the stairs to the first floor. Bill’s bedroom, the only room she’d been inside up here, was ahead of them. The writing room was to its right, although also at the front of the house, presumably with a similar view out over the bay. He ushered her inside, turning on the light as he did so. ‘Here we go.’
As he’d said, there wasn’t actually much to see. There was a solid antique desk by the window with an Apple Mac desktop on it. Next to the computer sat an apparently random pile of papers. There was an office chair, and rows of bookshelves lining the walls.
‘Not much to it, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘I did warn you.’
‘It’s where you work your magic, though.’
‘It’s where I mostly drink coffee and stare out of the window.’
‘Must have an impressive view.’ In the dark, Grant could see little other than a scattering of lights on the far side of the firth.
‘That’s one of the problems,’ Bill said. ‘I should go back to living in the London flat I had with nothing but a view of someone else’s back wall. I’m sure I got more work done.’
‘It must be inspiring, though.’
‘It certainly makes me conscious how far I’ve come.’
She was examining the bookshelf next to the desk. ‘These are all your books?’
‘A selection of them. Various editions. A few foreign editions and suchlike. I’ve a lot more in boxes scattered around the house.’
‘I hadn’t realised you’d written so much.’
‘Well, I’ve been at it for a long time.’
She was scanning through the titles. Since she’d met him, she’d been trying to catch up on his work, more or less in chronological order, though she’d only scratched the surface. ‘I’ve enjoyed the ones I’ve read.’
He laughed. ‘You have to say that, though, don’t you?’
‘It’s still true.’ She turned back towards him. ‘If I’d read the books before I met you, I think I’d have been surprised.’
‘In what way?’
‘I’m not sure exactly. I’d have expected someone – I don’t know, darker, maybe, more intense. Also the author’s biogs imply you’re something of a recluse. Can’t say that’s something I’ve noticed.’
‘That stuff’s just generated by the publicity people. Truth was, I was always a bit shy. Wasn’t keen on doing interviews or attending conventions. All that stuff writers are supposed to do to promote their books. So they decided to make a virtue of it, paint me as Mr Mysterious. No photographs on the books, that kind of thing. It was always nonsense, but it gave the media a hook, I suppose.’ He smiled. ‘Mind you, I think people up here thought it was true when I first moved here. My move coincided with writing a book I was struggling with against a tight deadline, so I had a good few months of head-down writing. Then of course we all went into lockdown, so none of us saw anybody. I’m sure there were all kinds of rumours circulating about me, particularly if people had seen the stuff about me being a recluse. Everyone was surprised when lockdown was loosened and I started getting active in the local community.’
As he was talking, he’d taken her into his arms and kissed her softly on the lips. ‘Then of course I met you, so it’s not been a bad year, all told.’
‘It’s been a strange year,’ she said. ‘But, yes, it’s not turned out too badly.’ She kissed him back and then turned back to the bookshelf. ‘What’s this one?’ She held up a paperback which had been sitting face down on the shelf in front of the other books. The author was credited as Brian Ellis and it looked very different from Emsworth’s books. It was called Bad Justice. For some reason, it rang a bell in her mind.
Emsworth looked awkward. ‘Oh, God, that. That goes a long way back.’
‘Who’s Brian Ellis?’
‘The initials are a giveaway, It’s a pseudonym.’
‘You mean it’s one of yours?’
‘It’s rather different from my other books. My one foray into true crime. All the rage now, of course. I must have been ahead of my time. Load of crap, though.’
‘I’m sure it isn’t.’
‘I wouldn’t advise you to read it. It wasn’t my idea in the first place. Someone approached me about a supposed miscarriage of justice.’ He paused, as if unsure how to explain himself. ‘Actually, it was what first brought me back up into this part of the world.’
‘It was a local case?’
‘Inverness. Got a lot of coverage at the time. Youngish accountant killed in a drive-by shooting.’
She was gazing at him with an odd expression. ‘The Bruce Dennis case?’
‘You know about it? Well, I suppose you would.’
‘I don’t just know about it. I worked on it. One of my first jobs as a very inexperienced DC.’
‘Oh, God, this is even more embarrassing.’
She was staring at him. ‘Bad Justice. I’d completely forgotten that. I hadn’t realised it was you.’
He’d reddened with apparent embarrassment. ‘There’s no reason why you should have. God, I wish I hadn’t brought you up here now.’
‘No, it’s fine. I never read the book – it was all a bit too raw for me – but I read various reviews and articles at the time of the retrial. From what I read, you weren’t entirely wrong. And I’m sure your motives were good, even if it was the wrong outcome.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘This really has put a damper on the evening, hasn’t it? All I can say is that it was twenty-odd years ago.’
‘Actually, I thought the issues you raised in the book were spot on. The DCI in charge of the investigation was – well, let’s say, prone to cutting corners when it suited him. Jackie Galloway. He got his comeuppance later, in more ways than one, but he was king of the hill in those days. The evidential issues you identified were all real. I don’t know exactly what Galloway did, but some of the evidence was decidedly dodgy.’ She paused. ‘I still think we got the right man, though. It was a kick in the teeth when Kenny Rogan was eventually acquitted.’
‘If it’s any consolation,’ Bill said, ‘I’ve come round to the same conclusion. That’s one reason I’m embarrassed by the book now.’
‘You shouldn’t be,’ she said. ‘You uncovered some real anomalies. I’m sure what happened in the Dennis case was one of the factors that ultimately helped end Jackie Galloway’s career.’
‘I was too zealous, though. I was adamant Kenny Rogan didn’t kill Dennis, and I used the inconsistencies in the evidence to push through that conclusion. That’s why he was acquitted.’
‘You highlighted the issues with the prosecution case, and the jury decided his guilt couldn’t be proved beyond reasonable doubt. That’s how justice works. It doesn’t mean he didn’t do it.’
‘I’ve sometimes wondered about doing a sequel or an updated version. But the interest wouldn’t be there. I’m just glad it’s out of print.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘What do you think now? Do you still think Kenny Rogan was guilty?’
‘I do, actually. We didn’t have much doubt at the time. But the whole thing was very political. With a small “p”, though possibly with a large one too for all I know. It was one of those turf wars – small-time mobsters squabbling over their territory. Dennis was far from squeaky clean himself, as you probably pointed out in the book–’
‘Something else I’ve regretted since. You can’t libel the dead, but I should have been more considerate to his family.’
‘You’ve a duty to the truth, surely. Dennis was far from an innocent party. He was involved in money laundering and a load of other stuff. His killing was a warning to the people who employed him.’
Bill had turned away. ‘I’m not so sure about any of it any more. If Dennis really was guilty of that stuff, that was a matter for you to deal with. It doesn’t justify him being shot.’
‘I’m not saying that for a moment. I’m just saying the whole thing was tangled. We didn’t have much doubt Kenny Rogan was behind the killing, though we didn’t believe he’d done the deed himself. Rogan had some influential backers, and we knew we’d struggle to build a case the Fiscal would support. That was what led Jackie Galloway into his corner-cutting. If in doubt, create and plant the evidence. That was Jackie’s way.’
‘Noble corruption. That’s what you call it, isn’t it?’
‘I’m not sure there was much noble in Jackie’s case. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was receiving backhanders from the other side. Jackie wasn’t averse to boosting his own conviction rate, but he’d be even more inclined to take the risk if there were a few quid involved.’
‘The rest of you let him get away with it?’
‘I was the lowest of the low,’ she said. ‘There were rumours about what Galloway was up to, but I wasn’t in a position to prove or disprove them. As for the others in the team – well, you’d have to ask them. One or two were in Galloway’s pocket. That emerged later. But I imagine others were in the same position I was.’
Bill was still turned away from her, so she had no idea how he was reacting to what she was saying. He clearly had regrets about the book and its outcome, but that was hardly her fault. Finally he turned back towards her, his expression still unreadable. ‘He’s dead now, isn’t he?’
‘Galloway? He came to a sad end. Pigeons coming home to roost, and all that.’
‘I remember reading about it in the papers. It was one of the things that made me think about the book again after all these years. I suppose Galloway was as responsible for Rogan’s acquittal as anyone. If he’d played by the book, Rogan would still be paying the price.’
‘In fairness,’ Grant said, ‘if Galloway had played by the book, we might never have laid a finger on Kenny Rogan in the first place. But, yes, you’re right.’
‘You said it’s how justice works,’ Bill said. ‘But justice doesn’t work, does it? Bruce Dennis and his family never got justice.’
‘Nothing else could have been done,’ Grant pointed out. ‘Once Rogan was acquitted, we had nowhere else to go. We weren’t looking for anyone else. We were unlikely to gather any more substantive evidence against him. As far as I know, the case is still officially open, but everyone knew it was going nowhere.’
‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have opened this all up. I’d only got the book out because I wanted to check some details about the trial that are relevant to the project I’m working on at the moment. I’m thinking of kicking it off around the same time as the Rogan trial. It never occurred to me you might have been involved in the original enquiry.’
‘It’s mainly a historic curiosity for me now. A reminder of how policing used to be, back in the days when beasts like Galloway were in charge.’
‘I take it it’s different now.’
‘It’s not perfect, but we’ve made progress.’
‘That’s good to hear. Right, enough wallowing in the past. We should get downstairs to the casserole before it turns into a cinder. It’s a tolerant recipe but we shouldn’t test its patience too much.’
She smiled. ‘I’m sorry for drawing attention to the book. I hadn’t realised I was touching a nerve.’
‘It’s just something I’ve been thinking a lot about recently, for one reason or another.’
‘You say you’re working on something set around the same time?’
‘Kicking off around the same time, anyway. It’ll probably come to a conclusion in the present day.’
‘Sounds intriguing.’
‘It’s probably too soon to say how exactly it’ll pan out.’ He led her back out of the office, turning off the light as he left. ‘Let’s get back downstairs.’
He left her in the living room while he went to tend to the food in the kitchen. She sat back down on the sofa, sipping her wine. She still wasn’t entirely sure what had happened upstairs. She’d clearly touched a nerve, though she wasn’t sure why Bill was so bothered by a twenty-year-old book. On the other hand, though she hadn’t thought about the case for years, it continued to bother her. Not because she thought herself culpable for what had happened. She’d only been the tiniest cog in the wheel, and nothing she’d said or done would have made any difference.
But she was like all half-decent coppers. She hated to see justice not done, or in this case justice being undone. Yes, it was right that Rogan was ultimately acquitted. There was sufficient doubt about the evidence to undermine the prosecution case. But equally she’d had no doubt he was guilty, and that he was being protected by others who, in their various ways, were no doubt equally guilty. It had pained her to see Rogan walk free. It was a common frustration of the job, but that didn’t make it easier to deal with.
She took another sip of the wine. Now that the case had come back into her mind, there was something nagging at her. Something she’d forgotten about the detail of the case. She couldn’t remember too much about the specifics of the case. She’d just been a foot-soldier doing what she was told to do, focusing mainly on not screwing up in a way that might have attracted Galloway’s legendary wrath.
Maybe in the morning, if she had a moment, she might get hold of the file, refresh her memory. There was something troubling her, some itch she couldn’t quite scratch. Maybe Alec would remember. He’d have been around at the time, though hadn’t worked on the case for some reason.
She was still mulling this over when Bill reappeared. ‘I’ve just put the veg on,’ he said. ‘Another few minutes and we’ll be there.’ He took a seat beside her. ‘Wine top-up?’
She hesitated. For a few moments upstairs, she’d really thought that, between them, they’d managed to bring the evening to a dead stop. She’d been certain then that she’d stick to her original intention and head home at the end of the evening. But already she was relaxing again, and returning to her empty house was the last thing she wanted to do.
‘Go on then,’ she said. ‘Why not?’