A Song for the Dark Times

23

Clarke and Fox were waiting in the interview room at Leith police station when Giovanni Morelli arrived. He wore the same scarf around his neck, tied in the same style. Dark blazer, pale green chinos with matching V-neck jumper (cashmere most likely), leather slip-on shoes with no socks. A pair of sunglasses had been pushed to the top of his head.

‘Heading to the beach after?’ Fox suggested as Morelli was ushered in. ‘Or is that what you wear to classes?’

‘I was brought up to dress well,’ Morelli commented with a shrug. Clarke gestured for him to take the seat opposite her and Fox. She had a thick dossier in front of her, its manila cover kept closed. She had padded it with blank sheets from the photocopier to make it look more substantial, and had written Morelli’s name on the front in nice big letters. Alongside it sat a selection of photographs of various parties Morelli and the victim had attended. He reached out and turned one of them towards him, the better to study it.

‘He was fun to be around?’ Clarke made show of guessing.

‘Definitely.’ Morelli leaned back in his chair, angling his right leg across his left knee and undoing his blazer’s single shining button.

‘We came to realise,’ Clarke said, ‘that though we know quite a lot about you, we hadn’t actually had a proper chat.’ She patted her hand against the folder.

Morelli looked from one detective to the other. He hadn’t shaved for a few days, but Clarke doubted it was laziness. A five o’clock shadow suited his complexion and jawline and he knew it.

‘Okay,’ he said, drawing the word out.

‘You come from a wealthy background, grew up in Rome, yes?’

‘Correct.’

‘That night in Circus Lane, you told us you’d met Issy and Sal at a mutual friend’s party in St Andrews...’

‘Not quite — Issy and I were at the party. We met Sal there for the first time.’

‘Meaning you already knew Issy?’

The Italian nodded. ‘We were sixteen, seventeen, still at school. Our families ended up at Klosters at the same time, and we met at a party there.’

‘Klosters the ski resort rather than Cloisters the Tollcross pub?’ Clarke enquired, glancing towards Fox: prejudice vindicated, she was telling him.

‘We discovered we liked similar books, music, films...’

‘No coincidence then that you both applied to Edinburgh University?’

Another shrug. ‘It has a good reputation. And of course there are no fees.’ He said this with a self-deprecating smile.

‘Because of EU rules,’ Fox agreed. ‘Which are about to end.’

‘Bloody Brexit,’ Morelli commented.

‘Have you noticed any changes during your time in Scotland?’ Fox went on.

‘Changes?’

‘A hardening of attitudes.’

‘Racism, you mean? Not especially — it’s a bigger issue in England, I think.’

‘Yet you were attacked...’ Clarke watched Morelli give another shrug. ‘So if that wasn’t a race crime, what was it? You’ll appreciate that you’re not dissimilar to Mr bin Mahmoud — to the untrained eye, I mean, on a dark night, an under-lit street...’

‘With your hood up,’ Fox added.

‘You think they mistook me for Sal?’

‘Only problem with that hypothesis,’ Clarke continued, ‘is that you were treated leniently — much more leniently — by comparison. It could have been by way of a warning, and when Mr bin Mahmoud seemed not to have taken that warning, they upped the stakes.’

Morelli leaned forward a little. ‘But who were these people? What had he done to them?’

‘That’s what we’re attempting to ascertain, Mr Morelli.’

‘He had no enemies.’

‘We keep hearing that. But he was running an unsustainable lifestyle, judging by his bank account. Was he maybe borrowing? Were there drugs issues? We appreciate you were his friend — one of his very closest — and you want to protect his reputation, but if there’s anything that could help us, we need to hear it sooner rather than later.’

Clarke sifted the photographs as she waited. Fox had clasped his hands across his chest, a benign look on his face. Morelli ran a palm along his jaw, as if to aid his thinking.

‘Stewart Scoular,’ he began, his voice tailing off.

‘Yes?’ Clarke prompted.

‘There was a millionaires’ playground in the Highlands, the scheme required investment. Stewart was courting Sal.’ His eyes met Clarke’s. ‘Is that how you say it?’ He waited for her nod before continuing. ‘And of course you are correct, whenever there was a party, there were stimulants.’

‘Sourced from where?’

‘Stewart again, I think.’

‘Not a man called Cafferty?’

‘The one who owns the Jenever Club? I’ve met him a few times — he’s a gangster, yes?’

‘We would say so.’

‘He liked me to tell him stories of the Mafia, the Camorra, the ’Ndrangheta. My parents live in a nice part of Rome, but they have security — if you have money in Italy, you never feel completely safe.’

‘We’ve looked up your family,’ Fox said. ‘Your father especially. It seems he’s not only a successful businessman but a hard-nosed one too. Didn’t he once sack an entire workforce with no warning? There are even rumours of links to Mafia figures...’

‘In Italy, to be successful is to be hard-nosed. And wherever money is being made, the underworld isn’t far behind. My father treads carefully, I assure you.’

‘Did Cafferty have any dealings with Mr bin Mahmoud?’ Clarke enquired.

Morelli thought for a moment. ‘Not really. We only ever saw him at the club. He might appear out of nowhere, shaking hands, offering complimentary drinks. I don’t think he impressed Stewart.’

‘Explain.’ Clarke rested her forearms on the table.

‘Stewart would be hosting potential investors. He wanted to wow them. A private club will do that, no? But Cafferty always seemed to know when they were on the premises, and he would come asking questions, seeking information — and with no subtlety.’

‘What do you think was going on?’

‘To my mind, Cafferty is just a hoarder — he gathers information and contacts. Much of it may never be of use to him, but he gathers it anyway. Also, I think he liked to get under Stewart’s skin.’

‘So why does Mr Scoular continue to frequent the club?’

Morelli gave a thin smile. ‘Cafferty has a reputation. Some people find that attractive. They want to rub shoulders with dangerous people because it makes them feel a little bit dangerous and powerful, too. Do you understand?’

Both detectives nodded.

‘There is one further possibility to be explored,’ Morelli went on. ‘You say I was the victim of a hate crime, or else I was mistaken for Sal. But I could have been targeted precisely because I was part of his circle — another way of sending a message to him.’

‘But if he had no enemies...’

‘None that he knew of,’ Morelli qualified. ‘None that any of us knew of. And yet he was murdered and I was attacked.’ He offered another shrug.

There was silence in the room for a few seconds until Fox broke it.

‘What will you do after university, Gio?’

‘I may continue my studies.’

‘Here or in Rome?’

‘Who knows?’

‘You’ve been friends with Isabella for some time,’ Clarke said. ‘Have you ever met her father?’

‘Yes.’

‘Here or at Strathy Castle?’

‘Here, London, up north...’

‘Parties?’

‘Of course.’

‘He owns the land this millionaires’ playground of Mr Scoular’s would be built on.’

‘It is a foolish location — too windy, too cold.’ Morelli made show of shivering. ‘The one thing this country does not do well is weather.’

‘Was Salman at these parties?’ Fox enquired.

‘Some.’

‘They were pitches for funding?’

‘In a way, I suppose.’

‘Your family has money — your father is an industrialist...’

‘You’re wondering if I’ve ever been asked to contribute — the answer is yes. But I’ve always declined. I grew up knowing business and commerce and the people involved. None of it appeals to me. Give me books and art — those are what’s important.’

‘Nice to have the choice,’ Clarke commented.

‘I know I am pampered, privileged, a dilettante — I have heard it from my father’s own lips.’ Morelli’s face fell a little at the memory.

Clarke exchanged a look with Fox. A twitch of his mouth told her he felt they were done here. She pushed back her chair, rising to her feet. Fox did the same. Morelli looked up at them.

‘Finished?’ he asked.

‘Thank you for coming in,’ Clarke said.

The two detectives escorted him from the room and watched him descend the stairs to the ground floor.

‘He didn’t seem particularly intimidated by our interview room,’ Fox commented in an undertone.

‘Might need to toughen up the decor,’ Clarke agreed. ‘Either that or we’re just going soft in our old age.’

‘Speaking of which — any word?’

‘Not a peep.’

‘Walkies at lunchtime, then?’

Clarke nodded resignedly and took a look at her phone. No missed calls or messages.

‘Could just be his way of avoiding all the changes here,’ Fox offered. ‘The new flat and everything.’

‘That’s not it,’ Clarke said. ‘He’s working a case and he’ll be damned if anything gets in the way of him solving it.’

‘Begs the question — why have local CID not run him out of town?’

‘Give them time,’ Clarke said, turning and heading into the MIT office.

24

Rebus was in the kitchen, eating a bacon roll and talking with Cameron and May. Cameron had mentioned the possibility of T-Cut to get rid of the damage to the Saab.

‘And you should report it,’ May added. ‘When all’s said and done, it’s a criminal act.’

‘I phoned Creasey and told him,’ Rebus answered. ‘He’s doubtless putting his best officers on it.’ He dug the note from his pocket and held it up so they could both read it. ‘Meantime, this was shoved through Samantha’s door.’

‘Christ, some people...’ May Collins shook her head, rising and heading to the sink.

‘Why, though?’ Cameron asked, still chewing.

‘Because someone wants her gone,’ Rebus said.

‘Is that what your car’s all about? A warning?’

‘Maybe.’ Rebus folded the note up again and pocketed it. There was the sound of a distant thump. Someone was outside the pub’s front door. Collins, dish towel in hand, went to investigate, returning a few moments later, Julie Harris at her shoulder.

‘What’s wrong?’ Rebus asked, rising to his feet.

‘They’ve arrested Sam — taken her to Inverness.’

May Collins’ eyes were on Rebus. ‘Is that serious?’

‘One way to find out,’ he said.

Five minutes later he was in the Saab, heading south. Cloud was low, rain threatening and a couple of Dutch-registered motorhomes impeding his progress. He thought things through, knowing it made sense from the investigation’s perspective. Keith had pretty obviously been killed the same night his car ended up abandoned in the lay-by. Stood to reason it had been driven there by whoever killed him, meaning he and his killer had probably been in the car when it was driven to the scene of the murder — how else had the killer got there? Someone he knew; someone he trusted.

Even if they’d recently been arguing.

Why dump the car in such a conspicuous spot, though? Because the killer panicked, once the initial shock had worn off. Panicked, stopped the car and fled the scene. Nearest house to the lay-by was Samantha’s. And where was Carrie while all this was happening? Creasey and his troops would doubtless reckon her old enough to be left alone for an hour — an hour being all it would have taken, maybe even as little as forty minutes. Premeditated? That was a question they couldn’t answer as yet. What mattered to them right now was coming up with a convincing suspect and pushing that suspect into confessing. Rebus couldn’t know what the autopsy had thrown up, or what evidence might have been gleaned from the crime scene. Would they want all Samantha’s clothes and shoes for analysis? The Volvo had already been checked and he doubted they’d found anything incriminating there — if they had, Samantha would already have been charged.

Why take Keith’s laptop and notebooks? He suspected CID wouldn’t worry themselves about any of that — details to be ironed out later or brushed aside.

Once past the motorhomes, he put his foot down, only to be overtaken quarter of an hour later by a parade of motorbikes with German plates. The road was relatively benign thereafter, passing places appearing with enough regularity to mean oncoming vehicles didn’t slow him by much. At Lairg, he branched off the A836, keen to get onto the faster A9 as quickly as possible.

Traffic was sluggish as he neared Inverness, the rain pelting down now, the Saab’s wipers just coping and no more. He began to wonder if the old car would get him back to Naver in one piece. He knew where the police HQ was and reckoned they’d have taken her there. He bypassed the centre of the city, staying on the A9 until the turn-off for the main infirmary. His destination was directly opposite it, which he supposed could come in handy from time to time. He dreaded to think how many hours he’d wasted driving out to Edinburgh’s Royal Infirmary once it had relocated from the city centre to the outskirts. All to take a witness statement or try to collar an injured suspect.

Of course she’s a suspect, he thought to himself as he headed into the car park. When he turned off the ignition, the Saab’s engine coughed a complaint loud enough to be noticed by a small group of smokers congregated at one corner of the building. They seemed to be finishing their break, readying to head indoors. But one of them lingered and began walking in Rebus’s direction.

‘Didn’t think we could keep you away,’ Creasey said, staring up at the sky to gauge when the next heavy shower would arrive. ‘But you know how these things are. This has to happen.’ He gestured towards the HQ.

‘Can I see her?’

‘Don’t think so.’

‘Legal representation?’

‘Everything by the book, John,’ Creasey attempted to reassure him. ‘And she’s holding up okay.’

‘She has a daughter at home...’

‘We won’t be holding her — or charging her at this point.’

‘Good, because you’d look a right twat when the real killer pops up.’

The sigh Creasey gave was theatrical. Rebus decided on a change of tack.

‘Didn’t have you pegged for a smoker.’

‘I’m not, but some on the team are, and I don’t like to be left out. Some of the best ideas come when people allow themselves to switch off for a few minutes.’

Rebus nodded his agreement. He reached into his pocket and handed over the anonymous note. ‘Shoved through her door sometime yesterday. Not everyone’s on her side.’ He paused. ‘Might even be more ominous than that.’

‘How do you reckon?’

‘Someone might want her running, giving you more reason to put her at the top of your list.’

‘The killer?’ Creasey studied the note again. He held it up to what light there was.

‘Doubt you’ll get prints, but you could try.’

‘I’ll hang onto it then.’

‘Remember,’ Rebus said, ‘it was a note like this that told Keith about Samantha and Hawkins.’

‘Same person?’

He gave a shrug. ‘Don’t suppose you’ve done anything about Colin Belkin yet?’

‘Not yet, no.’ Creasey was looking in the direction of the Saab. ‘Halfway point to home, I’d guess.’

Rebus shook his head. ‘Edinburgh can wait. I’m staying here until my daughter no longer needs me.’

‘I thought she made that decision when she kicked you out of her house.’ Creasey’s eyes had hardened.

Rebus gave as good as he got, his voice deepening. ‘You got nothing useful from the autopsy; there’s no sign of a weapon or the items taken from Keith’s satchel — no prints on the satchel either, I’m guessing. Don’t let the brick wall you’re slamming your head against cause you to do something rash.’

‘Like charging your daughter? Your daughter Samantha with her prints on the car and the satchel?’

‘She didn’t do it!’ Rebus snapped through half-gritted teeth.

‘Then there’s nothing to worry about,’ Creasey said with a thin smile, turning away and heading back to work.

Rebus considered walking up to the front desk and causing a fuss, but he knew it would be futile. He heard a car door open and saw a figure he recognised emerge. It was one of the journalists who’d been hanging out at The Glen.

‘Catch any of that?’ he said as the journalist started to approach.

‘Bits and pieces.’

‘Do I know your name?’

‘Lawrie Blake. Remember, I told you I’m friends with Laura Smith at the Scotsman? Which means I know a fair bit about you, Mr Rebus.’

‘I couldn’t be more thrilled about that, Lawrie.’

The young man nodded towards the Saab. ‘I recall you were getting it fixed in Naver. Still doesn’t sound too healthy. My brother owns a garage not far from here — he’s a hellish good mechanic and I know he’s sorted Saabs in his time. I could give him a call.’

‘Kind of you, but I need to head back north.’

‘I also know a car-hire place — not far from my brother’s workshop, and with a café halfway between them.’

Rebus thought for a moment. ‘I’ve met some silver-tongued journalists in my time,’ he eventually conceded, ‘but few I’ve taken to like you, young Lawrie.’

‘I’ll even buy the coffees,’ Blake said, ‘while we chat about Samantha and this mysterious note.’

It took Rebus only a few seconds to finish making his mind up.

‘Lead the way,’ he said.

Blake’s brother would take a look at the Saab and let Rebus know what he thought, but it might take a day or two. The scratch would need a respray, always supposing the matching colour could be found. Rebus had said to focus on the engine, then had given the Saab a pat on its bonnet, promising he’d be back. The car-rental office had a hatchback he could have immediately, with a special low rate for a five-day hire. He had asked if it boasted a CD player, having lifted Siobhan Clarke’s compilation from the Saab. The nod from the rental clerk sealed the deal.

The café was a Costa, and Laurie Blake added sandwiches to their order. Rebus offered to go halves but the reporter was adamant.

‘A promise is a promise.’

They found a table by the window and tucked in.

‘There are more attractive parts to Inverness,’ Blake assured Rebus.

‘It’s not my first visit,’ Rebus replied.

‘The A9 murders?’ Blake smiled. ‘I’m pretty good at my job.’

‘I’m beginning to sense that. So will you write something about the note?’

‘What did it say?’

‘Just the one word — “leave”.’

‘Pity we don’t have the note itself.’

Rebus lifted a paper napkin. ‘I could recreate it for you.’

‘That might qualify as fake news.’

‘You think your readers would mind?’

‘These days, probably not.’ Blake bit into his sandwich and chewed.

‘If you’re good at what you do, you’ve probably come across Lord Strathy in your travels?’

‘Of course.’

‘The plans for rocket launch pads and golf resorts?’ Rebus watched Blake nod. ‘And the wife who left him to join a commune?’

‘Same commune your daughter’s friendly with.’

‘How much do you know about them?’

‘I know their landlord wants them gone — it’s been rumbling through the courts and various lawyers’ offices the past couple of years. I dare say the fact his wife left him to go live with Jess Hawkins hasn’t endeared Lord Strathy to the place.’

‘He owns Camp 1033, too,’ Rebus said, keeping his tone conversational.

‘Which is why he was never going to sell to your son-in-law.’

‘They weren’t married.’

‘So that’s one thing I’ve learned today.’ Blake paused, still chewing, and tapped a note into his phone. ‘Mind if I ask you about Samantha?’

‘Yes. Very much.’ Blake looked ready to remonstrate, but Rebus held up a hand. ‘Later we can maybe talk about that. You know the contents of Keith’s satchel have gone missing, presumably taken by his killer?’

Blake nodded. ‘Creasey said as much.’

‘Why do you think the killer took them?’

The reporter’s eyes narrowed slightly. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Isn’t it obvious?’

‘Not really.’

‘When you were in the bar, did you notice the gap on the wall underneath the optics? Three nails just sitting there?’

‘No.’

‘Maybe that’s the difference between a reporter and a detective. An old firearm used to be displayed there. Unusable as a gun these days...’

‘But pretty good for clubbing someone?’ Blake nodded his understanding.

‘It was lifted around a month ago — just one more missing piece of the puzzle.’ Rebus paused meaningfully. ‘But it gets better. Lord Strathy seems to have gone AWOL too.’

Now the reporter’s eyes widened. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Can’t believe the Fourth Estate haven’t cottoned on to it, if I’m being honest.’ Rebus pretended to be interested in whatever lay beyond the window. ‘If you were to publish something by day’s end, you’d have an exclusive.’

Blake gave him an appraising look. ‘Don’t think I can’t see what you’re doing. You’ll fight tooth and nail for your daughter.’

‘I’m not bullshitting you, Lawrie. Everything I’ve told you can be fact-checked. All the years I was a cop, I learned that coincidences are as rare as unicorns.’

‘You don’t believe in unicorns?’

‘I believe in Samantha. Put what I’ve told you online or don’t, it’s up to you.’

‘Do I name my source?’

‘If you do, I’ll run you over in a cheap-deal two-door rental.’ Rebus drained the last of his coffee, then realised his phone had pinged with a message. It was from Creasey.

She needs a lift back. If you can’t do it, might take a while.

‘I have to go,’ he told Blake. He took out a pen and scrawled his number on the thin paper napkin, sliding it across the table. ‘Nice doing business with you.’

Samantha looked less than thrilled to see him waiting for her as she stepped out of the building.

‘All they said was that my lift was outside.’

‘I happened to be passing,’ Rebus said. ‘But if you’d rather wait for a uniform to take you...’

She stepped forward and gave him the briefest of hugs, her head pressing into his shoulder, then followed him wordlessly to the car.

‘You’ve junked the Saab?’ she asked as she fastened her seat belt.

‘It’s just having a bit of a holiday.’ He kept his eyes on the windscreen. ‘How did it go in there?’

‘How do you think?’

‘It’s a game they have to play, Samantha, that’s all.’

‘It’s not a game to me, Dad,’ she said coldly.

‘Did you tell them about the fight you had the night Keith died?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good.’ He sensed her looking at him. ‘Means they might have some hard questions for Hawkins and his group.’ He turned towards her. ‘Think about it — where else was Keith going to go after he stormed out?’

‘The camp, obviously. He felt safe there. Said it was like a second home.’ She took a deep breath. ‘Now can we please get going?’

They drove in silence after that, Rebus getting used to the rental car’s foibles and controls, Samantha finding a radio station whose signal didn’t fade for the first part of the journey. When all that was left was static, she slotted home the CD, studying the track list. ‘Who did this?’

‘Old colleague of mine called Siobhan.’

‘She has catholic tastes — Mogwai and Orange Juice?’ She thought for a moment. ‘Keith was a big Mogwai fan.’

‘He liked his music? I didn’t see much evidence in the house.’

‘No one needs albums these days, Dad.’

‘I do.’

‘We actually met at a gig in Glasgow, Keith and me. Well, the bar afterwards. Clicked straight off.’

‘Was he always a history buff?’

Samantha nodded. ‘For a while it was the Clearances. There were homes torched around Strathnaver, clearing the land for sheep rearing. The factor was tried for murder but let off.’

‘Landowners are a bit more benign these days. You ever met Lord Strathy?’

‘Just his ex-wife.’

‘You and her get on okay?’ Samantha gave a one-shouldered shrug. ‘Night Keith died, Ron Travis heard a motorbike.’

‘The guy who owns that backpacker place? Is that why you were asking me about being on the bike with Jess?’

‘I’m just saying what Travis heard...’

‘Really? That’s what you’re doing?’ She shook her head and turned up the music, folding her arms to signal that she wasn’t in the mood for any more talk. Eventually, north of Lairg and with no traffic on the road to speak of, she announced that she needed a pee. Rebus pulled over and she opened the door. He busied himself with his signal-less phone until she returned.

‘Thanks,’ she said. He nodded and made to start off, but she gripped his left arm, causing him to turn and make eye contact.

‘I know you think I did it. It won’t stop you trying to cover up for me or put someone else in the frame, but I know that’s what you think.’

‘Samantha...’

She thumped her closed fist hard against her chest. ‘It’s like you fired a bullet at me and it hit me right here.’

‘Speaking of guns, there’s an old revolver missing from The Glen...’ He was about to say more, but she was already flinging open the door.

‘Enough!’ she yelled, beginning to stride down the road ahead of the car. Rebus started the engine and followed her. He knew how thrawn, how determined she could be. He lowered the passenger-side window and drew level with her. For a moment, he thought she might leave the roadway altogether and start tramping through the bracken.

‘You need to get home to Carrie,’ he said. ‘Know how long that’ll take on foot?’

‘I’ll hitch.’

‘Just get in. We don’t have to talk. You don’t have to look at me. I’ll just drive.’ He pulled ahead of her and applied the brakes, watching in the wing mirror as she approached. She passed the car and went another twenty yards or so, but then came to a halt. Rebus stayed where he was, waiting. Eventually her shoulders slumped a little and she turned on her heel, getting back in and fussing with the seat belt.

‘I loved him,’ she said, as much to herself as to her father.

‘I know that,’ he replied quietly, easing his foot down on the accelerator.

‘And I didn’t do it.’

Rebus nodded but said nothing. Did he believe her? He wanted to. He needed to. He’d switched off the CD, so the only noise was the car engine. Samantha lowered her window and let the breeze have its way with her hair. Eventually Rebus found some words.

‘I know I wasn’t a great dad. Not much of a husband either. Sometimes I tell myself I did my best, but I know that’s not true.’

‘You were okay,’ Samantha muttered. ‘Remember the mirror in my room, when I was wee?’

‘The one on the dresser — how can I forget? I had to come in every night and drape a towel over it.’

‘Because I was convinced it led somewhere dark and scary.’

Rebus smiled at the memory. ‘I wonder why I didn’t just take it away.’

Samantha’s eyes met his. ‘Because I needed it to look into when it was light outside.’

He nodded slowly, his gaze returning to the road ahead.

‘You were okay,’ he heard her say. Then she reached forward to turn the CD back on.

Average White Band: ‘Pick Up the Pieces’.

He hoped that was what they were doing.

25

Siobhan Clarke’s call was eventually answered.

‘I’ve got just about enough signal for a bollocking,’ she heard Rebus say by way of introduction.

‘Good, because I’m primed to give you one.’

‘It’s online already?’

‘Which is why I’ve had Laura Smith on the phone, screaming about how come she’s not the one we gave it to.’

‘You put two and two together...’

‘All investigations leak at some point, but I know what you’re like.’

‘What am I like?’

‘You stir shit up for the sake of it.’

‘Not strictly true — I usually only do it when I’m getting nowhere. How’s Brillo?’

Clarke looked down at the floor of her living room. ‘Curled up next to me.’

‘You’re walking him, though?’

‘We’re just back. So talk me through it — maybe then I’ll have something I can tell Laura while I’m buying her the first of several large gins.’

‘She’s the press — you don’t need to go kowtowing.’

‘You forgetting she’s helped us plenty in the past?’ Clarke sat down on the chair so heavily, Brillo’s head shot up. She gave him a pat of reassurance.

‘A young reporter up here, he did me a couple of favours so I decided I owed him.’

‘You couldn’t just take him to the pub?’

‘I’m not convinced he’s old enough to get served. Besides, what harm does it do?’

‘Ramsay Meiklejohn is a member of the House of Lords. That makes his disappearance — if that’s what it is — national news, maybe even international. The London tabloids are scenting blood.’

‘I’m still not seeing a downside.’

‘You might when they descend on Naver. You’ve only had the Scottish media to deal with so far — they’re pussycats by comparison. “Anyone seen Lord Strathy?”; “No, but while you’re here, we’ve a murder you might be interested in — victim’s partner lives just up the road.”’

‘Yes?’

‘Christ, John, you’re throwing your own daughter to the...’ Clarke broke off, rising to her feet again and beginning to pace. ‘You think she did it?’ The question was met with silence.

‘No shortage of suspects,’ Rebus eventually answered.

‘You’re not seriously adding Lord Strathy to the list?’

‘Keith went to Strathy Castle, kicked up a stink.’

‘Why?’

‘He wanted Strathy to sell him the camp. Strathy wasn’t inclined to agree.’

‘I’m not seeing grounds for murder.’

‘Wouldn’t mind asking his lordship a few questions, though — and his gardener, come to that.’

‘Haven’t got round yet to checking him for you — sorry.’

‘Never mind. I already know he has a record, along with a history of violence. He hustled Keith off the castle grounds.’ There was silence on the line for a moment. Then: ‘You’ve spoken to the daughter?’

‘She seems very relaxed about things.’

‘Why would that be?’

‘Might be an act.’ Clarke sighed and glanced down in Brillo’s direction. ‘John, if you’re going to be much longer, it’s going to have to be a kennel job.’

‘Nonsense — you spend too much time in the office as it is.’

‘Not as much as Malcolm.’

‘You’re not able to keep tabs on him as much as you’d like?’

‘He’s become friendly with your old sparring partner.’

Another moment’s silence.

‘Has he now?’ Rebus eventually drawled. ‘And why’s that?’

‘Something to do with Stewart Scoular.’

‘The SNP guy? You mentioned him before.’

‘Drummed out of the party and now reinvented as a land developer. He seems to feature in Strathy’s plans for your POW camp.’

‘Is there a connection, do you think?’

‘Only if Keith was killed because of his opposition, and frankly I still think that’s a stretch.’ Clarke paused. ‘Is it possible you’re seeing things that aren’t there, John? You used to say to me that the simple explanation usually turns out to be the right one.’

‘The simple explanation would bring Samantha back into the picture.’

‘Exactly.’ Clarke paused by her window, peering down onto the night-time street below. It all looked so peaceful, so orderly. ‘You never answered my question earlier.’

‘Which one?’

‘You know damn well.’

She listened to Rebus exhale at length and noisily. ‘She’s my daughter, Shiv, and she has a daughter of her own. She can’t do time, guilty or not.’

‘Jesus, John...’

‘I’ve put away innocent people before.’

Clarke pressed her forehead to the glass. ‘I don’t want to hear any of this.’

‘Then don’t ask. You’ve got enough on your plate, notably Malcolm Fox. You can’t let Cafferty get his claws into him — that bastard never, ever lets go.’

‘What do you think’s going on?’

‘Cafferty would do anything to have someone on the inside at Gartcosh, the higher up the better.’

‘Malcolm’s hardly—’

‘But he’s on his way, and it seems he has the ear of the ACC. If and when she lands the top job...’

‘A promotion for Malcolm?’

‘Even without the promotion, he’s still going to look like a prize to Cafferty. I know that sounds ridiculous and I can barely believe I’m saying it, but our slow-moving, slow-thinking DI Fox gets to inhabit spaces closed to the likes of you and me.’

‘The heart of any and all Major Crime investigations?’

‘Anti-terrorism, money laundering, all manner of classified stuff we have no inkling of. And yes, I know it should have been you they came for — staggers me that Fox got the nod.’

‘We both know why, though...’

‘Is this where you point the finger at me? My proximity somehow contaminated you in the minds of the wankers at the Big House?’

‘The thought seems to have crossed your mind,’ Clarke said.

‘But just think how mundane those formative years would have been without me charging into the occasional china shop.’

She was smiling, almost despite herself.

‘So what now?’ Rebus asked into the silence.

‘How many more days do you think you’ll be?’

‘You know as well as I do, it’s sometimes a long game.’

‘Want me to post you some clothes?’

‘I should have thought to buy some when I was in Inverness.’

‘So how are you managing?’

‘Pub landlady, I’ve got her late husband’s cast-offs on standby.’

‘A landlady, eh? You’ve landed on your feet.’

‘Maybe and maybe not.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘I’ve got her on my list of suspects.’

‘You’re kidding?’

‘Her and her dad...’

‘Her dad?’

‘He’s in his nineties, so he’s low in the charts.’ Clarke couldn’t help laughing. ‘But he kept an old revolver in the bar and it’s gone walkabout, which maybe puts the barman, Cameron, in the picture. Added to which we have Samantha’s flame from the commune... maybe his partner, Angharad Oates, too — Lord Strathy’s ex, lest we forget — if we’re factoring in her jealousy of Samantha’s fling with Hawkins.’

‘You’re incorrigible.’

‘Is that what I am? How come I feel so tired, then? I could use some of Malcolm’s stamina.’ Clarke didn’t say anything. ‘You’re going to go check, aren’t you, see if he’s still in the office?’

‘Feet up with a good book,’ Clarke corrected him, knowing she was lying. ‘I’ve got the new Karin Slaughter to keep me company.’

‘Not forgetting a faithful pooch.’

‘Kennels, John. I’m not joking.’

‘Try telling him that to his face.’

When Clarke turned from the window, it was as if Brillo had heard every word. His head was cocked, eyes moist.

‘I can hear your resolve crumbling from here,’ Rebus said, ending the call.

‘Thought I’d find you here,’ Clarke said, entering the MIT office.

‘Some of us don’t have Brillo to feed and walk,’ Fox replied.

‘Speaking of which, when did you last eat?’ Clarke reached into the carrier bag she was holding and handed a fish supper to Fox. He began to unwrap it, while she went to the kettle and switched it on.

‘Salt and sauce?’ he asked.

‘Just salt — I wasn’t sure which you were. Got you these, though.’ She dug sachets of ketchup and HP out of her pocket and tossed them towards him.

‘You think of everything,’ Fox said. His desk was strewn with paperwork, so he transported the food to Esson’s obsessively tidy desk and seated himself there. While the kettle got to work, Clarke took a look at his computer.

‘CCTV,’ she commented. Fox nodded, tearing at the fat piece of battered haddock.

‘Christ, this is good,’ he said.

‘Found any interesting bicycles?’

He shook his head. ‘Might be something, though. I’ll tell you after.’

Clarke poured two teas, sniffing the milk before adding a dollop to each stained mug. She carried both to Esson’s desk. Having freed up one hand, she lifted a chip from the pile beneath the fillet.

‘Any news from John?’ Fox asked.

‘He sends his love.’

‘I’ll bet he does. I saw about his daughter on the news — formally questioned but not yet charged. That must be shredding him.’

‘You know John.’

Fox glanced up at her. ‘Was it him who tipped off the reporter about Lord Strathy?’

‘Who else?’

‘Bloody typical.’

Clarke stared down at the carton of food. ‘You’re leaving most of the batter.’

‘The healthy option.’

She picked up a sliver and popped it into her mouth. ‘The lack of footage doesn’t mean Issy and her bike weren’t there. I’m guessing Craigentinny has its share of cycle paths; not much call for CCTV on those.’ Fox was nodding to let her know he’d already considered this. ‘Thing is, though, where’s her motive?’

‘Motive is for later, Siobhan. Right now, an actual suspect would be received with thanks. Want the rest of these chips?’

‘You had enough?’ She watched Fox pat his not-insubstantial stomach. ‘In that case, I’ll eat while you show me what you’ve got.’ She lifted the cardboard carton and followed him to his desk. They sat side by side while Fox scrolled through the CCTV.

‘Thing is,’ he began, ‘previously we’d focused on Seafield Road, and the route Salman took from the New Town. But if his destination was the golf course car park, makes sense to look at the streets in and around Craigentinny too. Sadly, the CCTV coverage there is patchy, but I noticed this car.’ He clicked on a frame, freezing it. Headlights; terraced houses; an unremarkable saloon car; the driver nothing more than a smudged outline. ‘No visible passenger. And travelling towards the golf course from the direction of town.’

‘Okay.’ Clarke knew there was more coming. She finished the final few chips while Fox found the relevant clip.

‘This is Seafield Road again, just before eleven p.m. See that parked car?’ He pressed a fingertip to the screen. The car was shown from behind, rear lights glowing.

‘You’re saying it’s the same one?’

‘Same shape, similar colour.’

‘Where on Seafield Road is this?’

‘About fifty yards from the car park where Salman died, towards the city side. Next footage we have, no car.’

‘Driver stopped to take a call, then headed off again?’ She watched as Fox offered a shrug. ‘It’s not much, Malcolm.’

‘I know that. What I’m wondering is, is it worth asking the tech people to play with it and maybe get us a number plate?’

‘What’s your theory?’

‘There’s a meeting arranged at the golf club, but this driver gets there early and finds the car park locked. Drives out onto Seafield Road and parks. He or she knows an Aston when they see one, so when Salman hoves into view, they signal, maybe with a flash of the headlights. Salman pulls into the nearest secluded spot — which happens to be fifty yards behind the parked car. The other car joins him there.’ He noticed that Clarke was staring at him. ‘What?’

‘That’s properly impressive. You’re wasted at Gartcosh.’

‘We do detective work there too, you know.’

‘But not very much of it.’

‘So I hand this over to tech support in the morning?’

Clarke nodded. ‘Meantime, what make of car do you reckon? Looks pretty generic.’

‘Could be any one of half a dozen,’ Fox agreed. His phone was vibrating. He lifted it from the desk, checking the caller’s name and then answering.

‘Yes?’ was all he said. Then, after listening to whatever the caller was saying: ‘Okay, two minutes.’

‘Cafferty?’ Clarke guessed as the call ended. ‘Downstairs waiting?’

‘I need to do this alone,’ Fox said, putting his jacket on.

‘No you don’t.’

He gave her a look that was almost imploring. ‘Siobhan, please...’ As he made for the door, he turned his head, checking she was staying put.

Clarke walked over to the window. Large black car as before; driver on the pavement, his phone illuminating his face. She held up her own phone, selecting camera and zooming in as far as possible. She snapped a picture of the driver, peering at it. Too grainy to be of any use in putting a name to him.

‘Pity,’ she said to herself.

It always helped to know your enemies.

Fox got into the back seat next to Cafferty, the armrest lowered between them.

‘I’m trying to be patient, Malcolm,’ Cafferty drawled. ‘But it goes against my nature.’

Fox opened his mouth to speak, but then noticed that Cafferty’s focus had shifted. He was looking at something through the window. Turning, Fox spotted Clarke crossing the road.

‘She doesn’t know about the tapes or the ACC,’ he managed to tell Cafferty. ‘Let me deal with her...’

The front passenger door opened and Clarke threw herself onto the seat. The driver was moving towards the car, but Cafferty slid his window down.

‘It’s okay, Benny,’ he said.

‘Does Benny have a surname?’ Clarke asked.

‘I assume so. Nice of you to join us, Siobhan.’

‘Shouldn’t you be holding court at your club?’

‘I’m after a progress report, that’s all. You know Malcolm’s been doing a bit of work for me?’

‘I know he’s been looking at Stewart Scoular, yes.’

‘I feel I’ve not been getting my money’s worth — not that money has changed hands.’

‘I’m here to tell you he’s not been slacking.’

‘Might help,’ Fox added, eyes on Cafferty, ‘if I knew what exactly it is you think I’m going to find.’

Rather than answer, Cafferty kept his focus on Clarke. He even leaned his head forward a little into the gap between the back seats and the front.

‘So Malcolm’s been holding out on you, Siobhan? Hasn’t told you about the recordings of Jenni Lyon’s partner playing away from home — I hope he’s cooled down, by the way. He was going to fall on his sword, but that doesn’t seem to have happened. My guess is, Malky had a word with Jenni and Jenni had a word with the love rat.’

‘Recordings made at your club?’

‘And elsewhere.’ Cafferty glanced in Fox’s direction and grinned. ‘Didn’t know that, did you, Malky boy? I’m laying all my cards on the table right here. And I want Siobhan in the loop, because it seems to me you’ve been unwilling to trust her.’

‘You want me in the loop,’ Clarke corrected him, ‘because you’re trying to cause a rift between me and Malcolm — and that’s not going to happen.’

The grin this time was aimed at the front seat. ‘She’s sharp, isn’t she, Malky?’

‘His name is Fox — Detective Inspector Fox to the likes of you.’

‘It’s that sort of attitude that can turn a concerned citizen against the powers of law and order and send them to the internet or the media with their little explosive package of recordings.’

‘If you want Scoular so badly,’ Clarke retorted, ‘go after him yourself.’

‘In fact,’ Fox said, pulling back his shoulders, ‘maybe we should go have a word with Mr Scoular. I’m sure he’d be tickled to know of your interest in him.’

‘And one other thing,’ Clarke added. ‘These tapes — I’m guessing you told Malcolm that releasing them would end ACC Lyon’s career. But that’s hardly a result for you, is it? Far better to hang onto them in the expectation that she’ll soon be Chief Constable. Think of the extra leverage you’d have on her then.’ She was shaking her head slowly. ‘You never planned to release them, did you? It’s all just talk — you’re all just talk.’

‘That’s a gamble you’re willing to take?’ Cafferty’s eyes were on Fox now. ‘Yes or no, DI Fox? Or hadn’t you better check with your boss first, see what she wants you to do?’

Fox’s mouth opened a fraction, but no words formed. Clarke had opened the car door and was swivelling her legs out onto the roadway. Cafferty’s hand clamped around Fox’s forearm.

‘Think very carefully, DI Fox.’ He nodded towards Clarke’s back. ‘This isn’t your future — Gartcosh is; Jennifer Lyon is; a seat at the top table is.’

Fox shook his arm free and opened the door. ‘My future, my decision,’ he said, climbing out.

‘Absolutely.’ Cafferty was laughing lightly as Fox slammed the door closed. Clarke, having given up asking Benny for his surname, was on her way back to the station’s main door. Fox caught her up.

‘Lyon knows all about this?’ she asked in an undertone.

‘Yes.’

‘That’s the armour you were talking about?’ Fox nodded. ‘In which case, he’ll think he’s already won.’

‘How do you make that out?’

‘Even if you give him nothing, he can say you did his bidding, and Lyon knew about it and sanctioned it.’

‘So?’

‘So the pair of you might have to go on record and deny it — in other words, lie to whoever is asking.’

‘And?’

She stopped just short of the door, turning so she was face to face with him. ‘He tapes everything that happens in his club, Malcolm. What makes you think he stops there?’

‘The car?’

‘All it takes is for him to switch on his phone’s voice memo app. Plus you’ve been in his penthouse. Chances are everything you said there has been recorded.’

Fox couldn’t help looking over his shoulder at the car. It was starting to move, but Cafferty had left the rear window open, his eyes on the two detectives as he passed.

‘He’s won,’ Fox said quietly, statement rather than question. ‘I feel a bit sick.’

‘I hope it wasn’t the fish,’ Clarke replied, making show of pressing her hand to her stomach.

‘How can you joke about this?’

She considered for a moment and then shrugged. ‘Thinking he’s won doesn’t mean he has. It’s not over yet, Malcolm.’ She watched the car glide away from them into the night. ‘Not nearly over...’

As Benny drove to the Jenever Club, Cafferty phoned Cole Burnett.

‘It’s your Uncle Morris, Cole. How are things at your end?’

The teenager’s voice was nasal and ever-so-slightly slurred. ‘It’s all good, all good.’

‘Got an address or two for me?’

‘Aye.’

‘Well, let’s not say any more until we meet face to face. You know my place on the Cowgate? I’ll see you there in an hour.’

‘Okay.’

‘Cheer up, son — future’s full of good things coming your way. Just trust your Uncle Morris.’ He ended the call and placed his phone on the seat next to him.

‘You really think he’s got the makings?’ Benny asked from the driver’s seat, eyes meeting Cafferty’s in the rear-view mirror.

‘If he hasn’t, he’s all yours.’ Cafferty turned his head to watch the city slide past. Leith had changed — fine dining, craft beer and artisan bread — but it was still Leith. Like an old band coaxed out on the road again, smack was making a comeback. Coke had stopped being available only to the wealthy. Crack and methadone and benzos were everywhere.

Money was being made.

But the people at the top always wanted a bigger slice. If Cafferty didn’t fortify his territory, others might think he was vulnerable. He’d had meetings in Glasgow and Aberdeen, just to make sure everyone knew where things stood. Not Dundee, though — because the people shipping the drugs from Manchester hadn’t wanted it. Message enough to Cafferty’s mind: they’d be coming for him soon. And when they came, they would take out the street dealers first, making things nice and clear to him. That was why over the past few months he’d been bringing losers like Cole Burnett aboard. Let the marauders think they were taking out his best guys, his whole army. They would reckon it an easy win.

Then they would begin to relax. And their guard would come down...

‘Want some music or anything, boss?’ Benny was asking.

‘I’m fine, Benjamin, thanks. Big Ger Cafferty is absolutely tickety-boo.’