A Song for the Dark Times

1

Siobhan Clarke woke to a text from Rebus. She decided it could wait until she’d made coffee. It was just gone seven and Graham Sutherland had already gone. She wondered if she should be unnerved by his ninja-like ability to dress and depart without her noticing.

‘Could have made me a drink, though...’

She tramped back to her bedroom, still in her pyjamas, mug cupped in both hands. Placed it on the bedside table and lifted her phone, swiping it awake.

Big favour. Look after Brillo today. Key under half-brick next to front door. Talk later.

‘The hell?’ Clarke seated herself on the edge of the still-warm bed and made the call.

‘I’m driving,’ Rebus warned her. ‘Don’t want to get a ticket.’ His old Saab had no hands-free option. She could hear the engine churning.

‘Where’s the fire?’

‘Samantha. Her partner’s gone AWOL.’

‘You’re driving to Tongue?’

‘Not quite — they moved to the next village along a couple of years back.’

‘And you reckon your rust bucket’s up to the job?’

‘I almost asked to borrow yours.’

‘Why didn’t you?’

‘It was five o’clock. I wasn’t sure you’d have thanked me.’

‘I’d also have held you back with a few questions.’

‘That too. Brillo doesn’t need much looking after — a bit of a walk and you can leave him to his own devices while you go beg for a place on the MIT.’

‘You don’t want me unpacking for you?’

‘It’s all done.’

‘Liar.’

‘Don’t you go rummaging through my stuff without my say-so.’

‘You reckon you’ll only be away for the day?’

‘Mispers, Shiv — they almost always turn up eventually.’

‘Where are you now?’

‘Just south of Pitlochry.’

‘On the dreaded A9?’ She paused. ‘Is Samantha all right?’

‘Would you be?’

‘How long’s he been gone?’

‘Two days, one night.’

‘Suicide risk?’

‘Not overly.’

‘Oh?’ Clarke tipped the mug to her mouth.

‘Samantha says she was seeing someone else.’

‘Ah.’

‘He didn’t pack a bag; car left near the house; hasn’t used his debit card.’

‘Maybe trying to give her a fright?’

‘In which case he’ll be getting a slap.’

‘From her or from you?’

‘Let’s catch up later. You know where Brillo’s stuff is.’

‘I did until you rearranged the kitchen.’

‘Always good to have a challenge, Shiv.’

In the time she took to shape her reply, Rebus had ended the call.

It was just after ten by the time she reached the MIT office. The room was buzzing with activity, Graham Sutherland leaning over Christine Esson’s desk as she explained to him whatever was on her computer screen. When he spotted Clarke, Sutherland broke off the conversation and sauntered in her direction.

‘Can’t seem to keep you away, DI Clarke,’ he said, folding his arms as he planted himself in front of her.

She gave a shrug and what she hoped was an endearing smile. ‘John’s headed out of town. I’ve literally got nothing else to do.’

‘But like I said, I’ve a full complement here.’ He gestured to the desks. Clarke recognised everyone: Esson and Ogilvie; DSs Tess Leighton and George Gamble, another DC called Phil Yeats. She’d worked with them before as part of Sutherland’s team. They all knew about her and the boss. Only Gamble ever gave her any stick.

‘No DI that I can see,’ she commented.

‘That would be me.’

She turned towards the doorway. Malcolm Fox had just entered, carrying a sheaf of paperwork.

‘You get around, Malcolm,’ Clarke said.

‘Major Crime Division are taking an interest,’ Sutherland explained, not sounding exactly thrilled about it. ‘They’ve loaned us DI Fox for the duration.’

‘Making daily reports to our elders and betters, I dare say.’

‘Above all else, I’m a team player, Siobhan — you know that.’

Clarke couldn’t help glancing in Tess Leighton’s direction. The look Leighton gave her signalled that the relationship she’d had with Fox hadn’t lasted.

‘I can be useful, sir,’ Clarke said, turning her attention back to Sutherland. ‘You know I can.’

Sutherland took his time considering. ‘It would mean sharing a desk with Malcolm.’

‘As long as he promises not to copy my classwork.’ Clarke knew what Sutherland was thinking — just as Fox would be keeping an eye on them and reporting back to his bosses, so she’d have an eye on him, keeping Sutherland in the loop.

Fox seemed ready to remonstrate, but decided on a resigned shrug instead. ‘Fine by me,’ he said. ‘Catching the killer is the priority.’

‘Well said. I’ll leave the two of you to find a spare chair from somewhere and then get reacquainted.’

They watched Sutherland retreat to his office. Fox held out a hand.

‘Welcome aboard.’

Clarke stared at the hand. ‘My town, my ship. You’re the passenger here.’ She heard Tess Leighton stifle a laugh. Fox’s face began to redden.

‘Same old Siobhan,’ he eventually said. ‘Light on charm, heavy on offensive. Almost like you learned from the master. Speaking of whom...’

‘House move’s done and dusted.’

‘But his health’s okay? I mean, no worse than it was?’

‘Phone him sometime and ask.’

‘I gave up trying.’

Clarke was looking around, in search of a free chair.

‘Maybe the support office.’ Fox gestured towards the corridor. ‘I’ll do it if you like.’

Clarke nodded her agreement.

‘While you make us some tea.’ He made his exit quickly, before she could respond.

Clarke marched over to the kettle, checked it for water and switched it on.

‘There’s a kitty,’ George Gamble growled from behind his desk. ‘Five quid in the tin.’

‘And hello to you too, George.’ Gamble seemed to be wearing the same suit as ever — three-piece in too loud a check. His hair was still unruly, face blotchy, stomach straining against his waistcoat. Seated opposite him, Tess Leighton seemed a ghost by comparison — slender, pale-skinned, hollow-eyed. Both were good enough detectives in their different ways, even if Gamble seemed to be counting the days and hours until retirement. Clarke had only worked with them once before, and was better acquainted with Esson and Ogilvie, both of whom came from her team at Gayfield Square. Phil Yeats was another of Sutherland’s regulars, a fair-haired twenty-something who specialised in doing what he was ordered to do, no more and no less.

Esson had brought a mug to the kettle, ready for a refill.

‘What’s the story?’ she asked quietly.

‘John’s off north to see his daughter.’

‘Leaving you in the lurch.’

‘We’d pretty well finished the move. Just a few boxes left.’

‘Find anything interesting tucked away in his flat?’

‘No porn or dead bodies. Turns out he likes a Jack Reacher book, though.’

‘I’m more of a Karin Slaughter girl. They’re both coming to Edinburgh if you—’

‘Christine,’ Clarke broke in, ‘when exactly were you planning to tell me about Fox?’

‘What’s to tell? Far as I knew, you were on leave.’

‘So when I dropped by yesterday...?’

‘I thought it might annoy you ever so slightly.’

‘I’m not annoyed — I just like to be apprised.’

Esson puckered her mouth for a moment. ‘See anything of DCI Sutherland last night?’

Clarke glared at her. ‘What if I did?’

‘He didn’t spill the beans either — same reasoning, I’m guessing. We just wanted you to unwind. DI Fox tends to have the opposite effect.’

The kettle had finished boiling. Clarke lifted it too high as she poured, scalding liquid slopping from the first mug. She cursed under her breath.

‘Break’s obviously done you a power of good,’ Esson teased, watching Fox carry what looked like an interview-room chair into the office.

Clarke ignored her, finished making the tea and carried both mugs to Fox’s desk. He was moving his things to one side — laptop, stationery, phone charger — with all the delicacy a man of his proportions could muster. Clarke tried to get comfortable on the chair. Fox hefted his mug in what looked like a toast before taking a sip.

‘So where are we?’ Clarke asked.

‘To start with, we’re treating it as homicide,’ Fox obliged. ‘No weapon recovered as yet, and nothing substantive from CCTV — though we’re still looking. Victim was an overseas student and there have been a few attacks recently.’

‘Oh?’

‘Mostly in St Andrews actually — rich kids hounded by local idiots. But there have been a couple of incidents around the Meadows. Students have organised themselves so no one needs to be out there at night on their own. Then there’s the race angle — Brexit has led to a rise in attacks, mostly verbal but occasionally physical.’

‘In Edinburgh?’

‘Again, just a few reports. But one of the victim’s close friends was beaten up a few weeks back.’

‘That’s interesting.’

‘Not far from the deceased’s home. We’re not seeing an obvious connection as yet, but it’s on our radar.’

‘What about Salman’s lifestyle? I know he liked James Bond, but that’s about it.’

‘The guy seems to have lived like James Bond, too.’ Fox put a series of photographs up on his screen. ‘These are from his social media. Nightclubs and champagne. The Aston he drives in Edinburgh is a new model, but in London he has a classic DB5.’

‘Isn’t drinking frowned on? I assume he’s a practising Muslim...’

‘Different rules seem to apply.’ Clarke watched shot after shot of Salman bin Mahmoud, in immaculate tailoring, embracing a succession of glamorous young women in clubs and at sporting events.

‘You’ll notice he favours a martini,’ Fox commented.

‘What about drugs?’ she asked as another page of photos appeared, courtesy of Fox’s finger on the trackpad.

‘Not as far as we know.’ Fox began to tap at the faces. ‘That one’s the daughter of a Conservative MP. And this one is Scottish gentry — Lady Isabella Meiklejohn. Her dad owns a goodish chunk of the Flow Country.’

‘The what?’

‘Caithness and Sutherland. Peat bog mostly.’

‘They all look like supermodels.’

‘Wonder what attracted them to the exotic playboy millionaire.’

Fox was rewarded with a twitch of the mouth from Clarke that almost constituted a smile.

‘How rich was he?’

‘We don’t really know. His father’s been under house arrest for a while, but there’s obviously still money — only so far you can run a lifestyle like that on credit. We’ve added photos of his Edinburgh abode to the Murder Wall.’ Fox gestured in its general direction. ‘And the Met have sent us some of his London pad — not too shabby in either case.’

‘And he wasn’t known to us before this happened — neighbours complaining of wild parties, speeding tickets on the streets of the New Town?’

‘A fistful of parking fines that went unpaid. He wasn’t keen on walking any distance to his front door, which meant leaving the Aston on the occasional yellow line.’

‘Catnip to the wardens.’

Fox nodded his agreement. He had come to the end of the photographs. Clarke sat back in her chair. It wasn’t exactly built for comfort — she was going to have to bring in a cushion from her living room. ‘So what do you think happened?’

‘It comes down to the locus. Seafield Road that time of night — he was either at the start of a long drive south or else he was meeting someone.’

Clarke nodded her agreement. ‘None of his friends live out that way?’

‘Not that we’ve found.’

‘Maybe he was looking for a hot hatch to race. Not unknown of an Edinburgh night, especially in the suburbs. If I had a car like his, I’d be tempted.’

‘Carjacking gone wrong is certainly something we’re looking at. Aston’s been examined; only its owner’s prints. Plenty fuel and no obvious mechanical issues.’

‘So he didn’t pull off the road for a breakdown.’ Clarke nodded again. ‘Mobile phone records?’

‘Have been requested in full. So far it looks like his last call was to a male friend — actually the same one who was mugged. He says they were just chatting about this and that, plans for the weekend and such.’

‘How long before he was killed?’

‘A couple of hours.’

‘Have you talked to his friend?’

‘Me personally?’ Fox shook his head. ‘I’ve not long arrived.’

Clarke made eye contact and held it. ‘Why did they send you, Malcolm?’

He offered a slow shrug. ‘It qualifies as Major Crimes, Siobhan.’

‘Why, though?’

‘Because certain people insist.’

‘Our political masters, you mean?’

‘There are international ramifications. With us leaving Europe...’

‘We need all the trading friends we can get — including regimes?’ Clarke guessed. ‘But the Saudi rulers don’t exactly see the deceased’s father as a bosom buddy, so why the pressure?’

‘I really can’t say.’

‘Which is a diplomatic way of telling me not to push it?’ Clarke cocked her head. ‘Are we going to hit brick walls along the way, Malcolm? People we won’t be allowed to question, information that’s not going to be forthcoming?’

‘I honestly have no idea.’ Fox lifted the mug to his lips again. ‘But something tells me you’re going to clamber over any walls you find — almost like you learned from—’

Clarke stopped him with a wagged finger. ‘Anything John Rebus taught me is long gone, and so is he.’

She hoped the words sounded more confident than she herself felt.

2

Rebus had forgotten how long the drive took. A distance of around 250 miles and he could swear he’d done it in under four hours in the past. Today, however, it was more than five, with just the one stop to refuel car and driver both, giving the Saab’s bonnet a reassuring pat to let it know he appreciated the effort. The A9 itself hadn’t been too bad considering — some lorries and caravans and a couple of sets of roadworks. The process of dualling was ongoing and would continue to be ongoing long after Rebus had headed to the traffic-free highway in the sky. He hadn’t thought to bring anything. There was just the one CD in the car — a compilation Siobhan had burned for him. She’d written the words ‘Songs for Dark Times’ on the disc in black felt pen. He’d asked her to explain the title.

‘Some to make you think,’ she’d said, ‘some to calm you down or get you dancing.’

‘Dancing?’

‘Okay, nodding your head then.’

It was indeed a mixed bag. One track might be funk that sounded beamed down from the 1970s, the next a piece of Brian Eno minimalism. Leonard Cohen sang about love and loss, and another band about post-Brexit England. Then there was Black Sabbath with ‘Changes’.

‘Nice touch, Siobhan...’

At the petrol station, adding a toothbrush and toothpaste to his purchases, he’d asked the woman at the till if they sold CDs.

‘All Bluetooth these days,’ she’d explained.

‘Hopefully not after brushing,’ Rebus had replied.

The rain had arrived well before Tain, accompanying him to Altnaharra and beyond, thirty-odd miles of single-track road, but mercifully free of other vehicles. His eyes felt gritty and his spine, shoulders and backside ached. When he paused in a passing place to relieve his bladder, he took deep breaths in an effort to appreciate his wilderness surroundings. Steep peaks, glassy lochs, bracken and birdsong. Not that he had taken in much of the scenery, being too preoccupied with thoughts of Samantha. Her mother, Rhona, had died a few years back. There had been a sparsely attended funeral in a commuter town outside London. Samantha had grown up in the flat in Arden Street, eventually moving with her mother to London. Then back to Edinburgh for work, before finally settling in Tongue with Keith. Carrie had arrived thanks to IVF — a final throw of the dice, in Samantha’s words. They’d moved a few further miles east from Tongue to a modern bungalow that kept the heating bills down. Rebus had met Keith only a handful of times, preferring to visit during working hours. Likewise, Keith seldom accompanied Samantha and Carrie on their rare trips to Edinburgh.

Did Rebus even know his surname? Samantha must have told him. In one ear and out the other probably. Seemed to work hard enough though, provided for his family. Last job Rebus knew of was helping decommission the old nuclear power plant at Dounreay. There’d been a leak the previous year and Rebus had phoned to check Keith was all right. Samantha had assured him that all the tests had come back negative.

‘You’ll still need a bedside light then?’ her father had joked.

Dounreay wasn’t exactly next door to Naver. About a forty-five-minute drive each way. He’d once asked Samantha why they didn’t move closer to Keith’s work. The answer was Carrie. She had friends and was in a good school. Put those on the scales and the commute weighed nothing.

Good old Keith. So why had Samantha been seeing another man?

As he passed by Tongue, Rebus switched off the wipers. The sun had broken from behind a bank of cloud. The sea, when he caught sight of it, was gleaming and calm. The wind had died down. Past Tongue was another stretch of single-track road, winding inland so that he lost sight of the sea again for a bit. Eventually he reached Naver, driving through the village. As he passed Samantha’s bungalow, he checked for a patrol car, seeing no sign of one. The church was a few hundred metres further along, the lay-by just in front of it. Keith’s dark blue Volvo XC90 sat there.

Rebus drew to a stop behind it and got out, rolling his shoulders to loosen them. The key had been removed from the Volvo’s ignition and the doors were locked. Rebus peered inside without noting anything unusual. He estimated the distance back to the bungalow — a walk of a few minutes? He doubted public transport was plentiful, though there was a bus stop on the other side of the road. Maybe Keith had hitched a ride or organised a taxi or something. Maybe mates from Dounreay had taken him drinking in Thurso and he’d woken up ashamed at something he’d done, lying low in a hotel or a spare room until he could summon the courage to confess.

After all, hadn’t Samantha confessed?

Or had she? Had she told Keith, or had she been found out? Rebus watched as a car approached. It was a Mondeo rather than a marked vehicle, but he somehow knew it was the police. Unmarked meant CID, so it was no surprise when the car pulled up next to Rebus’s Saab, blocking half the carriageway. The driver put the flashers on and got out, leaving his door ajar, engine running.

‘Can I help you with anything, sir?’ he asked, in a tone that suggested something needed explaining. He was in his late twenties, short black hair already going silver at the temples. Clean-shaven, square-jawed, ruddy-cheeked, broad-shouldered. In other circumstances, Rebus might have taken him for a farmer.

‘You’re here to question my daughter,’ he said. ‘And that’s why I’m here.’

The man arched his back a little, as if for a more appraising look. ‘You’ll be John Rebus then?’ He saw Rebus attempt to disguise his surprise. ‘Internet makes it easy these days. I ran your daughter’s name and there you were.’

‘It’s her partner you should be interested in.’

‘Everybody interests me, sir.’ A hand was shoved towards Rebus. ‘I’m a detective sergeant, all the way from Inverness.’

‘Long way to come.’

‘Not nearly as far as some.’

Rebus shook the proffered hand. ‘Does the detective have a name?’

‘Robin Creasey.’

‘And you know I’m ex-CID?’

‘Strictly civvy street now, though.’

‘Is that you telling me not to get involved?’

‘Of course you’re involved — you’re her family. But if this does turn out to be police business...’

‘It’ll be none of my business?’ Rebus guessed.

‘We understand one another.’ Creasey looked at Rebus’s car. ‘You’ve just arrived, eh? I can feel the heat coming off the engine.’

‘I might need to get that seen to.’

Creasey offered a broad smile. ‘Let’s go see your daughter then.’ But he paused halfway to his Mondeo, scanning his surroundings. ‘Odd place to leave the car, isn’t it? I wonder if he was much of a churchgoer...’

Samantha kept biting off bits of her fingernails throughout the interview. The living room was messy, most of the damage done by Carrie. Rebus doubted Samantha had even noticed. The same was true in the kitchen — the previous day’s dishes piled in the sink; breakfast leftovers on the table. Rebus had made them mugs of tea. Samantha was on a chair, Creasey the sofa. Rebus took the spare chair, moving toys and books from it. Creasey kept his questions short but incisive. Problems at work? At home? Was this sort of behaviour out of character? Could she give him Keith’s phone number, and those of his friends and family? Rebus learned that Keith’s surname was Grant and his parents were deceased. He had a sister in Canada but they weren’t close. Did he ever go for a swim — there was a beach nearby, after all? No, because he’d never learned.

‘He didn’t drown himself,’ Samantha stated.

She’d tried his phone, of course, but had he maybe used his bank card? He had not. Why did she think he’d left the car in the lay-by? She shook her head in response, choosing a fresh fingernail to gnaw on. Rebus noticed how many framed photographs there were in the room, mostly posed shots of Carrie, taken at her school — but family holidays too, everyone smiling for the camera. In the flesh, Samantha looked tired, hair long and straggly with an increasing amount of grey in it. Rebus reckoned she’d lost some weight, her face gaunt, skin loose at the neck.

‘You should tell him,’ he announced, just as the interview was winding down. His daughter gave him a hard stare. ‘He’ll find out anyway, if he’s as thorough as I think he is.’

Creasey looked from daughter to father and back again, content to bide his time. Samantha focused her eyes on the wooden floor at her feet.

‘There was a guy I was seeing for a while. It’s finished now, but Keith found out. Hard to keep secrets in a place this size.’

‘How long ago was this?’

‘A couple of months.’

‘This other man — a friend of his?’

She shook her head. ‘He runs a commune. That’s what you’d probably call it. Keith and me were curious, so we visited one day. Keith didn’t go back, but I did.’

‘So Keith does know the man?’

‘His name’s Jess Hawkins. Far as I know they just met the once, and only really for a quick handshake.’

‘When Keith found out, he didn’t go looking for Mr Hawkins?’

‘I told him not to. Whatever it was, it had ended by then.’

‘How did he find out?’ Rebus asked. ‘Did you tell him?’

She shook her head again. ‘A note — anonymous, of course.’

‘Someone in the village, then?’ Samantha shrugged. ‘Do you still have it?’

‘No.’

‘Have you seen Mr Hawkins since?’ Creasey enquired.

An eventual slow nod of the head. ‘In social situations, yes.’

‘I appreciate you sharing this with me, and I have to ask if you think it could have anything at all to do with Keith’s disappearance.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘There must have been an impact on your relationship, though?’

She glared at the detective. ‘I don’t remember booking to see a counsellor.’

Creasey held up a hand in appeasement. ‘It’s just that it might explain Keith’s actions — he needs to go somewhere to clear his head, think things through.’

‘He’s had a couple of months to do that,’ Rebus reasoned.

‘Time for things to fester,’ Creasey countered. Rebus noticed that he hadn’t touched his tea. It sat on the floor on a ceramic coaster. ‘I’d imagine things were difficult, Samantha. Did he retreat into himself, or is he more the type who lashes out?’

Samantha gave a snort. ‘Keith’s never ever raised a hand to me.’

‘You talked? Tried to work things out?’

‘When he was around.’

‘He started staying out more than usual?’

‘He had his hobby people. They probably saw more of him than Carrie and me did.’

‘What’s the hobby?’

‘Local history. There’s an old POW camp back towards Tongue. They’re looking at its history, doing some excavating. There’s a half-baked plan to open it to tourists.’

‘Maybe not so half-baked — you’re on the North Coast 500 after all. Plenty new visitors.’

‘Mostly speeding past in their sports cars,’ Samantha said dismissively. Creasey turned towards Rebus.

‘It’s a circuit that’s become popular with drivers.’

‘I know,’ Rebus replied. ‘I might live in the far-off lands to the south, but news sometimes travels.’

Creasey decided to ignore Rebus’s tone and turned his attention back to Samantha. ‘What do you think’s happened to Keith, Samantha?’

‘Something.’

‘Could you be more specific?’

‘An accident maybe.’ She offered a shrug and checked her phone. ‘I need to fetch Carrie soon.’

A glance at his watch told Rebus his daughter was exaggerating — school wouldn’t finish for another hour or two. He saw Creasey come to the same conclusion, yet nod all the same.

‘One last question then — when did you last see or speak to Keith?’

‘That same evening. After dinner, he said he was going out.’

‘He didn’t say where?’

‘No.’

‘And he seemed all right?’

Samantha nodded slowly.

‘Then let’s leave things for now.’ Creasey got up from the sofa and handed her a business card. ‘I’ll file a missing person report, but if he does turn up or anything changes...’ Samantha gave another nod. ‘Are the keys to the Volvo here? I wouldn’t mind checking the interior. I’ll pop them through your letter box when I’m finished.’

‘On the table by the front door.’

Creasey stretched out his hand to take hers. ‘People almost always come back,’ he said. She returned the handshake without looking in the least bit convinced.

Rebus got up and said he would see the detective out. Creasey lifted the car keys while Rebus opened the door. Both men stepped outside, Rebus closing the door after them, making sure it wasn’t locked.

‘You reckon it’s nothing to worry about?’ he enquired.

‘Early days. If she’d not mentioned the affair and I’d found out after, I might have wondered what else she wasn’t telling me.’ He paused, studying Rebus’s face. ‘I know she’s not always had it easy. She was twelve, wasn’t she, when that nutcase got hold of her? Held a fearsome grudge against you.’

‘Thirty-odd years back.’

‘Then a hit-and-run in her twenties. She was in a wheelchair for a time. Still has a trace of a limp when she walks.’

‘Is this us playing detective Top Trumps?’

‘Aren’t Top Trumps a bit after your time?’

‘You’re forgetting I’ve got a granddaughter — plus a daughter who’s turned out perfectly well adjusted, despite your insinuations.’

‘I’ve not met too many folk who’re “perfectly” well adjusted, Mr Rebus.’

‘Go look at the car, head home, file your report.’

‘Leaving you here to do what exactly?’

‘Help my daughter as best I can.’ Rebus opened the door and disappeared back inside.

3

They got the living room and kitchen tidy, Samantha checking her phone every few minutes in case she’d missed a text from Keith.

‘So nothing at all out of the ordinary that day?’ Rebus asked.

‘No.’

‘Keith came home from work, had dinner, then went out?’

‘Weren’t you listening when I told the detective?’

‘Just getting it clear in my mind. What time did you start to worry?’

‘Bedtime, I suppose.’

‘You suppose?’

‘I texted him.’ She waved her phone in front of her father’s face. ‘Take a look if you don’t believe me.’

‘Of course I believe you.’

‘Doesn’t sound like it to me.’ She checked the time again. ‘Anyway, I really do have to go fetch Carrie.’

‘Creasey knows, you know.’

She scowled at him. ‘Knows what?’

‘That you lied to get rid of him.’

‘I couldn’t stand it another minute.’ She lifted her coat from the back of a chair and started putting it on. ‘You coming?’

‘Does Keith keep anything about the POW camp here?’

‘In the garage.’

‘I might stick around then.’

‘Suit yourself. It’s not locked. And you can leave the door unlocked here, too.’

‘Everywhere used to be like that,’ Rebus commented.

‘A nice safe place to bring up kids,’ Samantha said, mostly to herself, wrapping a long scarf around her neck and making for the door.

When she was gone, he wandered through the house. There were no bedside drawers in the main bedroom, just identical small tables. Her side: a half-empty blister pack of ibuprofen; nail scissors; phone charger; clock radio. His: a football biography; iPad; headphones. The iPad required a password. The screen saver was one of the framed photos from the living room — a beach holiday, father and daughter presumably with Samantha on the other end of the camera. He considered opening the clothes drawers and the fitted wardrobe but managed to stop himself.

Carrie’s room was a riot of colour and toys, including one he remembered buying her for her eighth birthday. There wasn’t much else apart from the small bathroom and a box room being used for storage, so he donned his coat and headed to the garage. Shelves filled with DIY stuff, tools and lengths of wire and cable. And in the centre, where a vehicle might sit, a large trestle table with a folding wooden chair. Rebus sat down and started examining the reams of paper, books, notebooks, plans and photocopied photographs.

Camp 1033 was also known as Borgie Camp, named after the river that ran past it. Rebus got the sense that it had housed different sets of people at different times during the Second World War, from ‘aliens’ long resident in the UK to captured German soldiers. Keith had been diligent. There were books about the history of concentration camps and about specific camps in Scotland and elsewhere. He’d picked them up from dealers, the cardboard packaging tossed on the floor nearby. To Rebus’s mind, that spoke of an urgency, a hunger — maybe a way to stop thinking about what had happened with Samantha? Immersing himself. Losing himself. There was a long handwritten list of official documents and books that he had yet to get his hands on. The words ‘National Library?’ had been double-underscored.

Rebus knew he could spend hours here without necessarily learning much that would help. All the same, he was curious. If Borgie was Camp 1033, presumably that meant there were at least another 1,032 camps like it scattered throughout the British Isles. Why hadn’t he known? One of the books was dedicated to another Scottish camp called Watten, near Wick. Not so far away in the scheme of things. There was also a flyer for a camp called Cultybraggen, near Comrie, which, practically intact, already operated as a tourist destination. Rebus saw that Keith — or someone — had made scribbled calculations about how much it would cost to do something similar with Camp 1033. The answer was several hundred thousand pounds. Whoever had written the figures had added a frowning face to the final underlined sum.

He listened as a car drew up, engine idling for half a minute, before driving off again. He made his way from the garage to the bungalow, unsurprised to find the Volvo key fob on the floor of the hallway. Picking it up, he closed the door again and decided to walk to the lay-by. The wind whipped around him, making him wish he had a hat while also aware that he’d have had trouble stopping it flying away. He unlocked the car and climbed into the driver’s side, closing the door on the elements. He turned the ignition and the engine sprang into life. When he tried the hi-fi, the radio was tuned to Radio Scotland, but there was no signal.

The navigation system offered few clues, no destination having been set. Around here, it paid to know your routes rather than depending on technology to know them for you. As if to reinforce this, there was a road atlas in the passenger-side pocket. Rebus couldn’t quite reach it, so, leaving the engine idling, he got out and rounded the car, settling in the passenger seat. Quickly he realised it was damp. He got out again and pressed his palm to the seat. Definitely damp. He grabbed the road atlas and flicked through it, concentrating on the pages showing the local area. Nothing had been marked or circled. Leaning back into the car, he lifted the central armrest. The storage space below was empty save for a few chocolate wrappers and sticks of chewing gum. Keith wasn’t a smoker, though Samantha had admitted to Creasey that he liked the occasional night at the pub with his cronies, these mostly being people he worked beside. The pubs ranged from the local in Naver to as far afield as Thurso. No driving while inebriated, though — always a cab or a willing teetotal friend.

The glove box held nothing other than the car’s log book and various garage bills. Rebus closed the passenger-side door and checked the back seats, then the boot, which contained a muddy cagoule, a pair of thick knitted socks, and hiking boots that had seen good use. Rebus imagined this would be Keith’s kit for trips to Camp 1033.

Retreating to the driver’s seat once more, he stared out through the windscreen at a view of rising hills. The land here was greener than in nearby Tongue, less scraped and craggy. He knew from previous visits that dunes lay to the other side of the churchyard and led to a long, curving stretch of sandy beach. He thought he remembered Samantha saying Keith had grown up in Dundee, but that there were family ties to the local area — summer holidays with relatives; fond memories. He wondered if he should leave the key in the ignition, for when Keith returned. But Samantha had made the decision to take it home with her, so he turned off the ignition, locked the car and put the key in his pocket.

When he reached the bungalow, there was no sign of Samantha, so he climbed into his own car and set off for the village proper. Its only real shopping street lay just off the main road. There was a bar called The Glen, a shop that doubled as post office and café, and a pottery. When he parked outside The Glen, the first person he saw was Creasey. He was in conversation with a couple of locals outside the shop. Rebus knew what he was doing: same thing Rebus himself intended to do. Namely: dig. He entered the pub and walked up to the bar. The place was dead, apart from a barmaid rearranging glasses on a shelf. She glanced in his direction.

‘Your friend’s just been in,’ she said.

‘What gave the game away?’

‘I know a copper when I see one. I’ll tell you what I told him.’ She faced Rebus, her hands pressing against the bar top. ‘Keith keeps his nose clean; knows when he’s had enough.’

‘He’s a regular, then?’

‘Sits over there with his history group.’ She gestured towards a corner table. ‘Couple of pints apiece and that’s them done.’

‘This is the same group that’s been researching Borgie Camp?’

The barmaid studied him. ‘Your friend didn’t know its name.’

‘You told him, though?’

‘But now I’m wondering how come you know and he didn’t. Makes me think I might have jumped to conclusions a bit soon.’

‘I’m John Rebus. Samantha’s my daughter.’

‘You used to be police,’ she said with a slow nod.

‘So you weren’t far out in your assessment.’

‘Good to know I’ve not lost the touch. The other man was asking about Samantha — did she come in with Keith, did they seem to be getting along as a couple.’

‘Mind if I ask how you answered?’

‘A kid can put a strain on a relationship. Keith’s commute means he’s away long stretches of the day.’

‘And when he’s not busy at work, he’s got Camp 1033.’

‘Have you been there?’ Rebus shook his head. ‘Can’t have been much fun for the prisoners — freezing in the winter and a gale constantly howling. And yet some of them stayed put when the war finished, settled down with local lassies.’

‘I get the feeling you speak from experience.’

‘My dad.’

‘You don’t seem old enough.’

She rolled her eyes but didn’t look unflattered. ‘Second marriage for him when his first wife died. He was nearly fifty when I came along. He’d changed his name from Kolln to Collins. Christened me May after the month I was born — lack of imagination if you ask me.’

‘Is he still with us?’

‘In his nineties but wearing well enough.’

‘Nice to meet you, May.’ Rebus shook her hand across the bar. He’d had to revise her age upwards by around a decade — the climate hadn’t managed to leave its mark on her features. Dark shoulder-length hair, a face that needed little or no make-up. She held herself with the no-nonsense confidence of bar staff everywhere. ‘What else was DS Creasey asking?’

Instead of answering, she offered Rebus a drink. ‘Just to keep me company.’ When he shook his head, she poured herself lemonade from the mixer gun, adding a slice of lemon.

‘We’re sophisticated up here,’ she said as she dropped it into the glass.

‘So I’ve noticed.’

She was thoughtful as she sipped; Rebus got the idea she was trying to decide what to tell him.

‘He asked me if I knew Samantha’s history,’ she eventually confided. ‘That surprised me. I mean, she’s not the one who’s done a runner. Whereas Keith’s biography didn’t seem to interest him at all.’

‘Almost as if he suspects her of something?’ Rebus offered.

‘I refused to play along. Rumours are quick enough to spread without anyone aiding and abetting.’

‘Did he ask what you think might have happened to Keith?’

She gave a slow nod, eyes fixed on her drink. ‘People leave all the time for any number of reasons. I’ve thought of it myself more than once.’

‘So what keeps you here? Your dad, I guess.’

‘Maybe — or maybe the same reason people move here in the first place: to turn their backs on all the shit happening elsewhere. That’s why I hardly ever switch that thing on unless a customer demands it.’ She gestured towards the TV that sat high up on the wall above the door. Rebus noticed the framed pictures alongside. They showed John Lennon and Yoko Ono.

‘Just been listening to him in the car,’ he commented.

‘We get a few fans in now and again.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘He used to come here. Well, Durness really. Holidays when he was a boy. Then there was the accident.’

Rebus walked towards the TV. One of the photos showed a car, its front severely dented.

‘He was bringing Yoko north to show her his childhood haunts,’ May Collins explained. ‘They went off the road, ended up in hospital in Golspie.’

‘I don’t think I knew that.’

‘That’s my kind of local history.’

Rebus turned back towards her. ‘Did Keith’s group ever quiz you about your dad?’

‘They’re nothing if not thorough.’ She fixed him with a look. ‘You’re pretty thorough too, for a pensioner.’

‘That’s not what I am, though, as well you know.’

She nodded her understanding. ‘You’re a parent. Means you’ve a personal stake in the game.’

‘So if you happen to think of anything that might help me...’ Rebus wrote his mobile number on the beer mat in front of him and slid it in her direction. ‘I’d be really grateful. And maybe next time I’m in, I can buy us both a drink.’

She waved the mat at him. ‘Size of this place, I won’t need to phone you — a loud enough shout will do the job just as well.’

Outside, there was no sign of Creasey. In fact, the street was empty. Rebus walked its length and then retraced his steps back to the Saab. But when he turned the key in the ignition, nothing happened. He tried again, pumping the accelerator. A single click was all he received for his troubles. He got out and opened the bonnet, staring at the engine.

‘Who are you kidding?’ he muttered to himself, slamming it shut and heading into The Glen.

‘So soon?’ May Collins said.

‘Car won’t start. Is there a garage I can phone?’

‘In Tongue there is, but we usually rely on Jess Hawkins.’ She saw the look on Rebus’s face. ‘Ah, you know about Jess. I wasn’t sure.’

‘He’s the guy from the commune?’

‘All manner of skills out there. There’s usually someone who knows about engines. Want me to phone them?’

‘They have phones, then?’

She smiled. ‘They’re not exactly the Amish.’

‘So what are they?’

‘Remember what I said about what brings people here?’

‘Shit happening elsewhere?’

‘Fresh start’s what they aspire to. That and saving the planet. So should I phone?’

Rebus considered his options and gave a nod. But when she tried, there was no answer.

‘Maybe leave it an hour and try again,’ she suggested. ‘You can always park yourself with a drink and the paper.’

Rebus shook his head. ‘But I’ll leave the car key with you if that’s okay. When you need me, I’ll be at Samantha’s.’

‘I could give you a lift.’

‘And shut the bar?’ Rebus shook his head. ‘Despite appearances, I’ve still got the use of my legs.’

‘So I might see you out jogging later?’

‘That’s always been more of a morning thing with me.’ Rebus gave a wave as he made his exit, grabbing the toothbrush and toothpaste from the unlocked Saab and stuffing them into his pocket.

He was half lying on the sofa in the living room — and probably three quarters asleep — when Carrie came careering through the front door, leaving duffel coat, backpack and shoes in her wake. She drew up short at the sight of him. He met Samantha’s eyes.

‘I wasn’t sure you’d still be here,’ she said, explaining why his appearance was coming as a surprise to his granddaughter.

‘Hiya, Carrie,’ he said, opening his arms. Carrie marched forward as if into battle, resting her head against his shoulder as he embraced her and kissed the top of her head. Her hair was fair, cut short, her face round, eyes inquisitive. ‘You look more like your mum every day,’ he said.

‘Mum’s got grey hair,’ Carrie countered.

‘I mean when she was your age.’

Carrie studied him. ‘Can I see a photo?’

‘Of your mum?’ He made show of patting his pockets. ‘I don’t have one on me.’

‘You’ve got a phone.’

‘Grandad doesn’t keep photos on his phone,’ Samantha said, coming forward to rub her daughter’s hair.

‘Why not?’

‘Let’s get you some milk and a biscuit.’ Samantha started ushering Carrie towards the kitchen, head half turned towards her father. ‘Do you want anything? Are you staying for dinner?’

‘My car’s died on me.’

‘Wondered where it was.’

‘They said in the village Jess Hawkins was my best bet.’

Samantha didn’t answer. Rebus got to his feet and followed her into the kitchen.

‘It’s probably true,’ she said as she poured out the milk. Carrie had settled at the table and was busying herself with what looked like her own personal iPad. ‘I mean, there’ll be someone there who can help.’

‘Where does he live?’

‘Towards Tongue.’

‘So near Camp 1033, then?’

‘Practically next door.’

‘I took a look at all the stuff in the garage.’

‘So you’ll appreciate it’s become a bit of an obsession with Keith.’ Samantha glanced at her own phone before slipping it back into her pocket — still no message.

‘Where’s Daddy?’ Carrie asked.

‘Working,’ Samantha said.

‘He’s always working,’ Carrie complained. ‘When I grow up I’m not going to do any work.’

‘That’s the spirit,’ Rebus said. Then, to his daughter: ‘Where’s the nearest B and B?’

‘You can stay here,’ she said, placing a plate of biscuits on the table.

‘You’ve not got room.’

‘We’ve got a sofa. You’d like Grandad to stay with us, wouldn’t you, Carrie?’

Carrie glanced up, but whatever was on the screen was the focus of her attention now, and Rebus failed to catch her mumbled response.

‘Once Carrie’s in bed, we can do some catching up,’ Samantha continued. ‘And you can tell me why you no longer have a landline. I did a bit of thinking and my guess is you’ve moved.’ She stared him out until he nodded. ‘Moved and not told me,’ she said. Her voice was emotionless but her eyes weren’t.

‘It literally happened yesterday,’ Rebus argued. ‘I was going to phone you today.’

‘It’s the stairs, isn’t it? You can’t manage the stairs any more.’

Carrie looked up. ‘Why not?’

‘I’m getting a bit creaky,’ Rebus explained.

‘Are you going to die?’ She sounded curious rather than fearful.

‘Not for a while yet.’

‘Daddy spends all his time with dead people.’

Samantha tried to laugh. ‘That’s not true, Carrie.’

‘In the garage.’ She flapped an arm towards the outside world. ‘All the photos and the names — hardly any of them are still alive.’

Samantha jumped as her phone sounded, her face falling as she saw the name of the caller on the screen. ‘Jenny’s mum,’ she said, answering. Carrie gave a little wave, as if Jenny could see her. Samantha walked into the hallway. Arrangements for a play meet seemed to be the subject under discussion.

‘I need to make a call too,’ Rebus informed his granddaughter, checking for a signal — one bar; good enough. Samantha was in the living room, so he stood in the hallway and tapped in the number, wondering how Siobhan Clarke was going to react to the news he was about to give her.

4

‘So when will you be back?’ Siobhan Clarke, phone pressed to her ear, watched Brillo sniffing the grass thirty-odd feet away. The dog suddenly squatted, and Clarke gestured for Fox to take the small black polythene bag from her outstretched hand. His face registered an objection, quickly countered by her glare.

The Meadows was relatively busy: a few barbecues they’d had to coax Brillo away from; an improvised game of football; joggers and cyclists; toddlers connected to their wary parents by reins; prone students readying to rouse themselves for an evening elsewhere.

‘Can’t you just rent another one?’ Clarke asked, watching Fox as he crouched to complete his task. He looked for the nearest bin and strode towards it, while Brillo returned to tracking some invisible spoor.

‘Christ, John...’ Clarke gave a loud sigh. By the time Fox reached her, the call had ended.

‘He’s staying put?’ Fox guessed.

‘Car trouble.’

‘Is his daughter okay?’

‘Her other half’s gone AWOL. I think she’s pretty much on her own up there apart from her daughter.’

‘So what do we do with the dog?’

Clarke managed a thin smile, grateful for that ‘we’.

‘I should probably take him home with me.’

‘After we’ve spoken to the deceased’s friend?’

Clarke nodded. ‘I’ll come pick Brillo up after.’ She clapped her hands against her thighs and Brillo bounded up to her. Clarke clipped the lead onto the dog’s collar and all three walked back to Melville Drive, crossing it and heading up Marchmont Road. When they turned into Arden Street, Brillo hesitated at the entrance to the stairwell but seemed resigned to the gate leading to the small garden. Clarke unlocked the door. While she checked the food and water bowls in the kitchen, Fox paced the living room, reaching into a box and pulling out a handful of seven-inch singles.

‘Archaeology, most of these,’ he said when Clarke found him.

‘John says he wants it put on his gravestone: “He listened to the B-sides”.’

Fox smiled and scanned the room. ‘Feels weird — same stuff, different setting. He talked to me about buying a bungalow...’

‘Like the one you live in?’

‘Said that was the main reason he couldn’t bring himself to do it.’

‘What did he mean by that?’

Fox put the records back in their box. ‘It was just a general dig, I think. You know what he’s like.’ He brushed his hands together as if to rid them of dust. Clarke was checking her phone. ‘Almost time? The dog’ll be okay here on its own?’

‘I said I’ll come back after — unless you’re offering.’

‘I’m not good with animals.’

‘Me neither.’

There was a snorting sound from the doorway. Brillo sat there, head cocked.

‘He knows a liar when he sees one,’ Fox said with a grin. ‘Come on then, let’s go see what a trust fund looks like nowadays.’

Circus Lane was one of the most picturesque and therefore photographed streets in Edinburgh. At one time it would have provided stabling and staff accommodation for grand houses nearby. These days its mews homes were highly sought-after and immaculately maintained, with floral displays gracing some of the frontages. Clarke would once have described the road surface as cobbled, but she knew better now — the stones underfoot were setts, being more brick-like than pebble-shaped.

Giovanni Morelli lived halfway along the street. Clarke and Fox had been expecting to meet him inside, but he was on his doorstep. He wore no jacket, but had tied a fashionable-looking scarf around his neck above a yellow woollen V-neck and white T-shirt.

‘Mr Morelli?’ Clarke felt it necessary to ask. The young man nodded. He was clean-shaven, albeit with a five o’clock shadow, and tanned, with thick dark hair that he ran a hand through before nodding. There was a woman with him, dressed in a short suede jacket, jeans and knee-high boots. She stood several inches taller than the Italian, with broader shoulders. Her hair was thick and straw-blonde, swept back over one ear. As she concentrated on her cigarette, Clarke had a view of varnished nails, expertly manicured.

‘Issy was visiting,’ Morelli explained. ‘I don’t like the smell of smoke, so...’

‘Thanks for agreeing to see us,’ Fox said, introducing himself and Clarke.

‘So here we are, on the street like a couple of tramps,’ the woman called Issy snapped. ‘Will this take long? We’re heading to a drinks party.’

‘Lady Isabella Meiklejohn?’ Clarke deduced. Meiklejohn seemed only momentarily thrown by the identification. She was in her mid twenties, with flawless skin and pearly teeth.

‘We should start by saying we’re sorry for your loss,’ Fox stated. ‘As you know, it’s our priority to get to the bottom of whatever happened.’

‘By trying to put Giovanni in the frame?’ Meiklejohn muttered, grinding her cigarette stub under her heel.

‘Issy, please,’ Morelli said, placing his fingers lightly on her arm. She wrapped them in her own hand for a moment.

‘One theory,’ Fox went on, ‘is that the two attacks could be linked. Someone with a grudge against Salman and yourself, Mr Morelli.’ He ignored the roll of the eyes from Meiklejohn. ‘The mugging took place here, didn’t it?’

Morelli nodded, pointing to a spot only a few feet away. ‘I was coming home.’

‘Where had you been?’

‘Salman’s.’

‘He lived — what? — five or so minutes’ walk away?’

Morelli nodded again. ‘Midnight or maybe just after. One attacker, I think. From behind. A blow to the head.’ He placed his hand on his crown. ‘I fell over. One more blow, I think.’

‘A fist, or...?’

‘The hospital thought maybe an object of some kind.’

‘Were you dressed much like tonight?’

‘A jacket. It was later, which means cooler.’

‘A hooded jacket?’

‘Yes, you’re correct — they said the hood softened the blows.’

Meiklejohn was making show of checking and sending texts on her phone.

‘I think you went to the hospital with Mr Morelli?’ Clarke asked her.

‘We’ve been through this more than once,’ Meiklejohn said. ‘Which means it’s on record, which means you know damned well I did.’

‘You’re just a friend?’

Finally the woman looked up, her eyes meeting Clarke’s.

‘Yes.’

‘And with Mr bin Mahmoud?’

‘Again, yes.’ Her eyes went back to her screen. ‘Look, we all know it’s down to Brexit. Attacks on foreigners have rocketed.’

‘Not too many fans of Brexit in these parts,’ Fox commented.

‘Is that so? My family’s full of them.’

‘They live locally?’

‘London and Sutherland.’ She looked at Morelli. ‘We’re going to be late.’

‘There’s a bar around the corner if you’re desperate,’ Clarke suggested.

‘We’re meeting people in the Cowgate.’

Clarke’s brow furrowed slightly. ‘The Devil’s Dram?’

Meiklejohn shook her head. ‘The Jenever Club.’

‘We won’t keep you too much longer,’ Fox said.

Morelli touched his friend’s arm again. ‘Take a taxi. I’ll follow you.’

Her face twisted. ‘And leave you alone with a couple of cops? No chance.’ Then, to Fox: ‘You seriously think Gio’s tap on the head is linked to someone murdering Salman in cold blood?’

‘What do you think?’

‘I think I hear the faint rustle of straws being clutched at by a police force that couldn’t find its own backside on a dimly lit bidet.’

‘You’d probably have more experience of bidets than we would,’ Clarke commented, her demeanour hardening alongside her tone. Fox motioned to Morelli that he had a further question.

‘The person who attacked you — you got no sense of their height, age, sex?’

Morelli offered a shrug.

‘They didn’t say anything or take anything?’

Another shrug.

‘Ergo a hate crime,’ Meiklejohn interrupted.

‘With race crimes, the attacker most often vents verbally as well as physically,’ Fox countered. ‘They want the victim to know why it’s happening to them.’

Meiklejohn dismissed this with a twitch of one shoulder.

‘How did the three of you meet?’ Clarke asked into the silence.

‘At a party,’ Morelli said.

‘One of Mr bin Mahmoud’s?’

A shake of the head. ‘A mutual friend in St Andrews.’

‘You’re both students here?’ Clarke watched them nod their agreement. ‘English literature?’ Another nod.

‘Whereas Mr bin Mahmoud was attending a business course in London...’

‘But part of our circle nonetheless,’ Meiklejohn said.

‘Sort of like networking?’ Clarke offered.

‘A social network,’ Meiklejohn said, smiling as if pleased with the line.

‘I remember that film,’ Morelli said.

‘Me too.’ Clarke nodded. ‘A bunch of entitled rich kids stabbing each other in the back.’

Morelli frowned. ‘I don’t remember it like that at all...’

Clarke had parked her Vauxhall Astra on St Stephen Street. As they passed the Bailie pub, Fox asked her if she fancied a pit stop.

‘Not here,’ she replied. ‘Besides, I’m on dog-sitting duties, remember? I’ll drop you back at your car.’

‘Did we learn much from the two of them?’

‘What do you think?’

‘I’m asking you.’

‘So I notice.’ She paused as she unlocked the car and got in, doing up her seat belt while Fox did the same. ‘They didn’t seem shocked or grieving or any of that.’

‘Evidence of the stiff upper-class lip?’

‘Or theirs is a world where you know people without ever becoming really close. Salman had money, good looks and pedigree. I’m sure Lady Isabella seems every bit as exotic to the likes of him and Gio as all of them seem to you and me.’

‘It certainly feels like a different world.’ Fox was silent for a moment. ‘Morelli has much the same build as the deceased, similar skin tone...’

‘Bin Mahmoud had a beard, though.’

‘But say someone followed him from the deceased’s. They were behind him and he had his hood up.’

‘A case of mistaken identity?’

‘The lane is a nice quiet spot for an assault.’

Clarke seemed to ponder this as she started the engine and eased the car out of the tight parking spot.

‘I didn’t think you were entirely fair about that film, though,’ Fox added.

‘Me neither,’ Clarke admitted with a smile. ‘But it was all I had to work with at the time.’

‘Well, that and a bidet,’ Fox said, returning the smile.

5

Having collected Brillo and all his paraphernalia, Clarke sat in her tenement flat while the dog explored his new surroundings. He seemed both puzzled and a little bit sad, clearly missing his owner and maybe wondering if this nomad’s existence was to be his life from now on. Having eaten some leftovers from the fridge and half finished a mug of peppermint tea, Clarke put her coat back on and made for the door, Brillo trying to accompany her. Out on the landing, she listened to the barking from within before unlocking the door again.

‘If you insist,’ she said, scooping the dog up into her arms.

Brillo was well behaved in the car, tail wagging, paws pressed to the passenger-side window as he watched the passing parade of shops, bars, restaurants and pedestrians. Clarke’s destination wasn’t far. She left the window down an inch when she climbed out, telling him to ‘Stay, good boy.’ Brillo seemed contented enough with this arrangement.

They were just off the Cowgate, towards its eastern end. Late-night weekends, the street could get messy with drunken fights and related idiocy, but it was neither the weekend nor late. Nevertheless, most venues boasted one or two heavy-set doormen, ready to deter or deal with trouble. Clarke had googled the Jenever Club and had been proved right. Until a few months back it had been a nightspot called the Devil’s Dram. Back then, it had specialised in expensive whiskies and overpriced food, along with nightly DJ sets and dancing. It seemed whisky had given way to gin, without the exterior having been given much of a makeover.

Clarke couldn’t help glancing to her left as she crossed the street, towards where the mortuary sat in faint anonymity. Those who worked there referred to it as the city’s ‘dead centre’, yet around it life continued in its thrumming heat and intensity — at least judging from the blast from the club’s interior as a suited doorman opened the door for her. But before she could enter, a hand rested on her shoulder.

‘Fancy meeting like this.’ She spun towards the beaming face of Malcolm Fox. ‘I was about ready to give up on you.’

Rather than entering, the pair of them stepped to one side. ‘Okay, I’m impressed,’ Clarke said, managing to sound anything but.

‘I think it was when I suggested a drink and you said “not here”. That told me you had somewhere else in mind — and as the Devil’s Dram had already been mentioned...’

‘You’re in danger of getting good at this.’

‘But there’s more, isn’t there?’

Clarke considered for a moment before answering. ‘Meiklejohn wasn’t what you’d call high, but she’d taken something — my guess would be cocaine.’

‘I hadn’t actually noticed that.’ Fox looked annoyed with himself.

‘Maybe I’ve seen more coke-heads than you.’

‘It’s true I’ve led a sheltered life. But putting two and two together, you’re not here to keep an eye on Gio and Issy — who’ve not turned up yet, by the way.’

Clarke stared at him. ‘You’ve been here all this time?’

‘Didn’t have any other plans. I’m right, though, aren’t I? The Dram used to be owned by a certain Morris Gerald Cafferty; no reason to suspect he’s not still in charge just because drinking trends have changed.’

‘And the other thing we know about Cafferty is...?’

‘He probably still controls a good portion of the local trade in illicit substances.’

‘And now you know as much as I do. Odd that they haven’t turned up yet, though — they seemed keen enough earlier.’

‘Almost as if they just wanted rid of us. So what’s the plan, DI Clarke?’

‘A quick drink at the end of a long day,’ Clarke answered with a shrug.

‘Yeah, Cafferty’ll definitely believe that.’ Fox held out a hand. Clarke looked at it. ‘Good working with you again, Siobhan.’

‘Likewise,’ she answered eventually, shaking it. But when Fox loosened his grip, hers intensified. ‘And now that we’re getting chummy, time for you to tell me why Gartcosh are so interested.’

She watched intently as Fox debated with himself. Eventually he nodded and drew her back a few more steps along the pavement.

‘A request from Special Branch in London,’ he explained in an undertone. ‘They’re wondering if there could have been state involvement. The Saudis, I mean. Though it’s not especially their style.’

‘In that he wasn’t chopped up and taken away in a suitcase?’ Clarke released the pressure on his hand. ‘What’s your feeling?’

‘Too early to tell.’

‘Some sort of message to the father?’

Fox just shrugged. ‘You’re all caught up.’

‘Do the rest of the team know?’

‘Special Branch’s feeling is best keep it quiet.’

‘Why?’

‘If I were being generous, I’d say it’s because they want us to have an open mind.’

‘And on those odd days when your mood’s less generous?’

‘They don’t want the Saudis thinking we suspect them. Might jeopardise those precious trade relations.’

‘The fewer people who know, the less chance of a leak.’ Clarke nodded her understanding. ‘No more keeping stuff from me, Malcolm,’ she warned.

‘Can I assume you’ll be telling the DCI?’

‘Any reason I shouldn’t?’

‘Your call, Siobhan.’

‘My call,’ she confirmed, heading for the figures flanking the doorway.

They decided their first task would be to check the toilets, see if anyone was doing a line. The main room was noisy. There was a dance floor, its multicoloured squares illuminated from below. The DJ stood swaying gently behind a couple of laptops while people danced. The place was maybe half full, the evening young, but plenty of sweat and noise was being generated. The bar was doing brisk business with cocktails, the staff putting on a show. There was a balcony reached by a transparent staircase, and a basement that would almost certainly be quieter.

Clarke wasn’t a stranger to the place, though she hadn’t been here since it changed its name. The cheesy occult decor of the Devil’s Dram had been replaced by mock-Victorian — heavy drapes; flickering wall lights mimicking gas lamps; dark wood panelling. She pushed open the door to the ladies’ loo and pretended to be checking her appearance in the long mirror above the row of sinks. Only one cubicle door was closed. When its occupant emerged, she stood next to Clarke while she fixed her hair with one hand, phone glued to the other.

‘Dead in here tonight,’ Clarke offered.

‘I’ve seen it livelier.’

The door to the bar opened and another young woman clattered in on three-inch heels. She gave Clarke a quizzical look, taking in the sensible clothes — and probably their wearer’s age, too. It struck Clarke that yes, she was old enough to be the mother of either of these young women.

‘Gary’s being a right prick,’ the new arrival stated into her phone, eyes on its screen as she headed to a cubicle.

‘Gary?’ Clarke asked the woman next to her, receiving a shrugged reply. A quick tug on the short sparkly dress, another check in the mirror and then she was gone.

The voice behind the cubicle door was echoey, Gary’s shortcomings entailing a lengthy list. Clarke took a final look around for any traces of white powder, then pulled open the door. A large, unsmiling figure stood there. When she looked past him towards the gents’, she saw that Fox, too, had been paired with a new companion.

‘He wants a word,’ she was told.

‘Of course he does,’ she replied. She looked across towards Fox and saw him give a shrug. She nodded and allowed herself to be led past the dance floor, following Fox and his minder up the staircase to where the bulky, shaven-headed form of Morris Gerald Cafferty sat alone at a corner banquette.

‘Thought it was you,’ Cafferty said with a grin, gesturing for them both to sit. There was just enough room, though Clarke was conscious of Fox’s thigh pressing against hers. ‘Fetch you a drink?’

‘We’re fine,’ Fox said.

Another gesture from Cafferty sent the two doormen on their way. He focused on his visitors. ‘You walk into a club but you’re not after a drink. Still on duty, I presume?’

‘You’ve changed the place,’ Clarke said, keeping her tone conversational.

Cafferty waved a hand across the balloon-shaped glass in front of him. ‘Gin’s the thing nowadays. Cheap and quick to distil. Add a mixer — and everybody does — and it’s hard not to turn a profit.’

‘Refit probably wasn’t expensive either,’ Clarke commented, enjoying watching Cafferty try his best not to look irritated.

‘You’re working the murder of that Arab student?’ Cafferty posited.

‘Good guess,’ Fox said.

‘Had to be high-profile enough to bring you scurrying from Gartcosh. Still Major Crimes, DI Fox?’ Fox nodded. ‘Probably still a bit of a thorn in DI Clarke’s side that you got the promotion she deserved.’

‘Salman and his friends were regulars here?’ Clarke asked, not about to be deflected.

‘They came a few times,’ Cafferty allowed. ‘I’ve turned the cellars into a VIP area. If I like the look of you, you get a little black card that allows you in.’

‘You didn’t have a falling-out, by any chance?’

‘With the prince?’ Cafferty smiled at the absurdity of Clarke’s question.

‘I don’t think he was a prince,’ Fox commented.

‘He liked it when I called him that, though.’ Cafferty shifted position. ‘I looked his history up online, saw the stuff about his dad. Politics, eh? Root of all evil.’ There was a gleam in his eye as he spoke. Clarke wondered what game he was playing. ‘I hear you’ve turned house mover, DI Clarke. Remember — always bend at the knees. How’s Rebus enjoying his retirement flat?’

‘Do Salman and his entourage ever buy anything from you?’ she enquired.

Cafferty’s eyes widened in mock horror. ‘Is this you accusing me of peddling drugs? Next thing I know, I’m cutting open a young Arab student over a deal gone wrong?’ He made a dismissive noise. ‘I see those CID brains are the usual blunted tools. And speaking of tools, you still keeping your bed warm for your boss, Siobhan? Office romances seldom end well. Just look at Malcolm here and...’ He clicked his fingers, brow furrowed. ‘Her name’s on the tip of my tongue.’

‘We didn’t come here for this,’ Clarke said, sliding out of the banquette. ‘We were told that a couple of the victim’s friends could be found here. Just had some follow-up questions for them. Okay if we check out this so-called VIP area of yours?’

‘Be my guest. In fact, I insist on it. You’ll find the razor blades and the rolled-up fifties on a gold-leaf table next to the bar. Maybe something even more exotic if you guess the secret password...’ Cafferty was chuckling as he watched them leave.

Fox couldn’t help glancing back as they started their descent.

‘He’s getting old,’ he said to Clarke. ‘That sheen on his face doesn’t look exactly healthy.’

‘Or else he’s been sampling the goods.’

‘He wouldn’t, though, would he?’

‘No,’ Clarke admitted.

‘Who do you think’s passing him all the news about us?’

‘Could be anyone. Show me a cop shop that couldn’t double as a colander.’

‘Fair point.’

They had reached the next set of stairs down. It was protected by a better class of doorman, who stood, hands clasped in front of him, next to a black velvet rope. He unhooked it at their approach.

‘Thought we had to show a card,’ Clarke said.

‘Not for officers of the law,’ the man said in a voice like the bottom of a quarry.

Clarke and Fox headed down. The light was different, a little brighter, and the piped music was softer. There was a small bar staffed by a glamorous woman who looked underworked. The tables all around were empty.

‘Not so much as a rolled-up fiver,’ Fox said under his breath.

An arched doorway led down an unreconstructed brick-lined passageway. Clarke picked up the faint smell of damp. She knew that the Old Town boasted dozens of these underground passages and storage cellars. There were intimate spaces off to both sides, and these were where the possessors of the black card had chosen to set up their lairs. Each room was lined with purple crushed velvet. Real candles replaced the electric lighting of the upper floors. Champagne in ice buckets was the tipple of preference. Though the smoking ban seemed to be holding firm, a few people were vaping. Passing one of the rooms, Clarke caught sight of Meiklejohn and Morelli. They had obviously just arrived and were shedding their outerwear while greeting the three drinkers already gathered. Neither of them bothered to look up as Clarke and Fox passed. Clarke signalled to Fox to retrace their steps. Even when they passed the arched doorway for a second time, the group paid them no heed.

Back in the bar area, they stopped for a moment.

‘Know who that was?’ Clarke asked.

‘I’ve not gone senile.’

‘I don’t mean Posh Spice and the Italian Stallion — I mean the guy with the two fashion models.’

‘I didn’t really get a chance to—’

‘His name’s Stewart Scoular. He was an MSP till the SNP kicked him into touch. Some racist comments he posted online. Tiptoed away for a bit and reinvented himself as a property developer.’

‘Okay.’

The hostess was asking them if they wanted something to drink. ‘Compliments of Mr Cafferty,’ she added.

‘Not while we’re on duty,’ Fox said, watching as her fixed smile began to dissolve.

Clarke was already climbing the stairs. Fox followed her out of the Jenever Club and onto the Cowgate.

‘That’s why he had that glint in his eye,’ Clarke was saying.

‘Cafferty?’

She nodded, deep in thought. ‘When he said that thing about politics — he knew damned well we were going to find Stewart Scoular downstairs. It’s like he was setting the coordinates for us on his GPS.’

‘Hence the insistence we go exploring?’

Clarke nodded again. ‘What are you up to, Cafferty?’ she muttered.

‘Not so unusual that a wealthy developer would know the likes of Meiklejohn and Morelli, is it?’

Clarke considered this. ‘He’s probably fifteen years older than them, but no, I don’t suppose it is.’

‘Well then...’ Fox broke off, straightening his shoulders when he saw the look Clarke was giving him. ‘Is this where you tell me your intuition’s sharper than mine? Maybe that’s why you deserved the promotion they handed to me?’

‘You know Cafferty — if he can hammer a wedge between us, he will. That’s what that cheap shot was all about.’

‘But you do think he was telling you something with that line about politics?’

‘I’m fairly sure.’

‘Though you’re not sure what?’ He watched her shake her head slowly. ‘So where does that leave us?’

‘It leaves us heading home. I just hope no one’s stolen Brillo.’

‘You left him in the car? I’m not sure John would approve.’

‘Then he should get his arse back here, shouldn’t he?’

‘I’m sure he’s working on it.’

Clarke stared at him. ‘Are you?’ she asked.

‘Not really,’ Fox admitted, holding up his hands in defeat.

A waiter had arrived, swapping Cafferty’s empty glass for a full one. It was lemonade, but no one needed to know. Cafferty liked to fool his customers into thinking he was a fan of the product. Back when he’d sold whisky, apple juice had provided a passable imitation. He busied himself on his iPad, running back the CCTV footage and replaying it. He couldn’t be sure Clarke had clocked Scoular, but he reckoned it was a safe bet. If it had just been Fox, that lumbering bear of a guy, things might have been different.

‘Interesting, though,’ he said to himself, zooming in and out of the footage, then checking angles from different cameras. There was the fragrant Lady Isabella and her olive-skinned companion, larger than life and not eight feet from Clarke and Fox. Yet the detectives hadn’t confronted them — meaning Clarke had been lying about wanting to question them. Meaning the visit had been a fishing expedition. Yes, of course. Both of them needing the facilities at the self-same time? They’d been on a hunt for drugs.

Cafferty gave the thinnest of smiles. ‘Should have hung around for that free drink, Shiv.’ He reckoned that in the next few minutes Lady Isabella would be reaching into her clutch for a smallish bag, happy to share its contents with her chums. Scoular would buy another bottle of champagne, so the club was still making some money. They wouldn’t all partake — Scoular liked to keep his nose clean, as it were. But Cafferty had footage aplenty of the others, including the ill-fated Salman bin Mahmoud. Maybe none of it would ever prove useful, but you could never tell, could you? And meantime, he should go and offer his condolences. Hadn’t they just lost their friend, after all, and wasn’t tonight by way of a wake? He might even manage to slip in the question uppermost in his mind: what had the boy prince been doing in such a grim part of town, so far from his Georgian town house and all its trappings? Was there something Cafferty had missed in those hours and hours of video?

Next time he upgraded the system, he’d be sure to add sound to his list of requirements; but meantime, with all the solemnity he could muster, he rose to his feet and scooped up his refilled glass.