A Song for the Dark Times

32

Rebus, May and Cameron were in the kitchen finishing breakfast when they heard a noise at the pub’s locked and bolted front door. May went to investigate, Rebus knowing full well what she’d find. Sure enough, she returned slightly flustered, trying not to show it.

‘Cameron,’ she announced. ‘Our fingerprints are needed. Police are waiting in the bar.’

‘What’s going on?’ Cameron asked.

‘They found a gun. They think it might be the one from here.’ She fetched her jacket from the coat rail. ‘I’ve got to go with them — they need Dad’s prints too.’

Cameron pushed a last corner of bread into his mouth as he rose from his chair. Rebus was up too. He followed May into the bar. The print kit had been set up on one of the tables. Robin Creasey was studying the photographs of John Lennon.

‘Have you had any sleep?’ Rebus asked.

‘Not much.’ He turned his attention to May. ‘You and your father will have to come to Inverness, I’m afraid. That’s where the firearm is and we need an identification.’

‘Won’t our fingerprints be proof enough?’ May enquired.

‘Would showing May a photograph suffice?’ Rebus added.

‘I don’t think so.’ But Creasey produced his phone anyway and opened its picture gallery, holding the screen close to May’s face as he used a finger to slide between shots. Rebus changed position so he could view over May’s shoulder. A rusty revolver, with a piece of white muslin cloth covering a section of the grip. He knew the cloth’s purpose: blood and hair beneath, not the sort of thing you wanted civilians seeing. As Creasey flipped back through the gallery, he had eyes only for May, checking her reaction. She had placed a palm to one cheek as if to aid concentration.

‘Looks similar,’ she eventually conceded.

‘We think there are marks that will correspond to the nails on the wall.’ Creasey nodded to where a photographer was busy getting close-ups of the gap below the optics while an assistant held up a simple wooden ruler as a measurement aid.

‘Easier just to bring the gun here,’ Rebus suggested. ‘Inverness is a hellish long trip for a frail old man.’

‘We’ll be fine, John,’ May attempted to reassure him. Then, to Cameron: ‘You going to be okay on your own?’

The young barman was seated at the table while his prints were taken. ‘These’ll be destroyed after, won’t they? Not kept on some Big Brother database?’

‘Never fear,’ Creasey said, which didn’t seem to console Cameron in the least.

When May’s turn came to sit at the table, Rebus drew Creasey to one side. ‘So what’s your thinking now?’ he asked in an undertone.

Creasey gave the beginnings of a shrug. ‘As ever, I’m keeping an open mind.’

‘The gun was lifted from here for a reason. Maybe the same reason it was used against Keith.’

‘Or it was just handy in the heat of the moment. Like I say, I’m ruling nothing out.’ Creasey rolled his shoulders and gave his neck a few stretches.

‘Racking up the miles,’ Rebus commented. ‘How long till Forensics finish with the gun?’

‘I’ll have a report later today. Blood and hair have gone for analysis. They’re checking for fibres and prints. It dates to the 1940s. Hasn’t been decommissioned but it’s corroded to hell, trigger and cylinder jammed. Barrel full of gunk and no bullets in any of the chambers.’

‘Serial number?’

‘Just about readable. Luckily there’s a guy in the lab knows someone who fancies himself an expert. If it can be traced, we’ll trace it.’ Creasey opened his notebook and glanced at it. ‘It’s a Webley .38, Mark 4, apparently. Turned them out by the crateload during the war.’

‘State it’s in, has it definitely spent time in the sea?’

Creasey fixed Rebus with a look. ‘You’re doubting Mr Collins’ story?’

‘Like you, I’m ruling nothing out.’

‘Amount of wear and tear makes his version of events feasible. If we need to, we can probably carbon-date the sand in the cylinder.’

The scraping of chair legs against the floor caused them both to turn round. May Collins was on her feet.

‘Ready when you are,’ she told Creasey, all businesslike. Then, to Rebus: ‘Pay’s not great, but there’s a shift for you here if you’re willing.’

‘I can manage,’ Cameron argued.

‘If needed, I can be here,’ Rebus said. May nodded without meeting his eyes. She fastened her jacket and checked she had her phone.

‘Best behaviour while Mummy’s gone,’ she said, pausing at the door until Creasey had opened it for her. Rebus and Cameron watched as the rest of the crew followed. Once the door was closed, Cameron bolted it again.

‘Not nearly opening time yet,’ he explained. ‘Not that I couldn’t do with a drink after all that.’ He was behind the bar by now, his fingers touching the three thin nails. Then he flinched and cursed, tugging the sleeve of his jumper over his hand and rubbing at the nails and the mirrored glass behind.

‘They’ll call that tampering with the evidence,’ Rebus chided him.

‘I call it protecting the innocent,’ Cameron countered. ‘Do we need to get some more tea on?’

‘Wouldn’t go amiss. And if it’s okay with you, I need time on the computer, look a few things up.’

‘What sort of things?’

‘Local history to start with.’

‘You could always consult Keith’s group.’

‘Might end up at that, but meantime...’

Cameron nodded, whether he understood or not. ‘I’ll get that brew going,’ he said, heading in the direction of the kitchen.

Having rung the bell, Rebus could sense Samantha hesitating on the other side of the door, checking through the spyhole. He heard the sound of a chain being slid open and the lock being turned.

‘Can’t be too careful, eh?’ he offered as the door swung wide. ‘Unlike the old days.’

She ushered him inside, sliding the chain back across afterwards. ‘Reporter walked straight in yesterday,’ she muttered.

‘Which one?’

She shrugged, already slouching back towards the kitchen. It was messier than ever. Samantha’s face was paler even than before, cheeks sunken, hair unwashed.

‘How’s Carrie?’ he asked, watching his daughter slump onto one of the chairs around the breakfast table.

‘Full of questions I either can’t answer or don’t want to. She keeps looking at photos on her iPad — holidays and birthdays and Christmas...’ She got up, heading for the kettle and switching it on. ‘This is what we’re supposed to do, isn’t it? Make tea and pretend it makes everything bearable for a while?’

‘Is it all right if I ask a question?’

She gave him a quick glance. ‘Do you ever stop?’

‘It’s all I seem to be good for.’

She was concentrating all her efforts on lifting two tea bags from the box, placing them in mugs next to the kettle. It took her a moment to work out what came next. She walked to the fridge, checking the date on the milk.

‘I’m not even sure what day it is,’ she said to herself. Then, to her father: ‘Go on then.’

‘They’ve found the murder weapon. It’s the revolver that used to sit behind the bar in The Glen.’

‘They hit him with it? Why not just shoot him?’ She thought for a moment. ‘I think I remember it. May’s dad found it on the beach.’

Rebus nodded. ‘I don’t suppose you ever saw it here? In Keith’s bag maybe?’

She was shaking her head as she handed him his tea, having forgotten to take the tea bag out.

‘And he never mentioned taking it from the pub?’

‘No.’ She sat down again, her own tea forgotten about, the mug still over by the kettle. Her eyes met his. ‘Remember when that man abducted me, back when I was a kid? He did it to get at you. And afterwards, Mum took me to London. We couldn’t live in Edinburgh any more. Is that what I’m going to have to do with Carrie? Make a new life elsewhere? I’ll need to find a job, whatever happens...’

‘I’ve got money. Best you have it now rather than when I’m gone.’

‘Jesus, Dad.’ Her head went down into her hands. ‘Is one fucking death not enough to be getting on with?’

‘Sorry.’

After a moment, her head lifted again. ‘Why did they use the gun?’

‘Maybe to make a point,’ Rebus offered.

‘What do you mean?’

‘The camp, the revolver, the stuff still missing...’

‘It’s to do with the camp then? Not me, not Jess?’

‘Creasey and his team might take a bit more persuading,’ Rebus cautioned.

Samantha remembered her tea, got up to fetch it. ‘I see Strathy turned up. I remember how excited Keith was the day he went to the castle. On his way to work he’d seen the vans — the marquee company and caterers. He knew what he was doing — maximum embarrassment for his lordship. He was like a kid afterwards, bouncing off the walls like someone had given him too much sugar, when all he’d really been given was a burst lip.’

‘Courtesy of the gardener?’

‘I told him he should report it, but he laughed it off.’

She checked the time on her phone.

‘I’m seeing Julie,’ she explained. ‘Means running the gauntlet again.’ She exhaled noisily. ‘I just want to go back to being me — does that make any sense?’

Rebus nodded. ‘Mind if I stick around?’ he asked. ‘Not here, but the garage?’

‘You’ll need to unlock it. Key’s on the hall table. Put it through the letter box when you’re done.’

‘You’ll be locking up the house?’

She gave a slow, regretful nod. ‘Everything’s changed,’ she said.

33

After a couple of hours spent in the garage, Rebus felt the need to clear his head. He walked to the rear of the bungalow. The garden was basically just lawn, a tool shed, a swing and a folded-away whirligig clothes line. After less than a minute’s battering by the wind, he changed his mind and climbed into his rental car. One bar of signal on his phone, so he called Creasey.

‘You’re worse than a bloody newshound,’ Creasey answered. ‘And there’s nothing to report.’

‘That’s not why I’m calling.’

‘In which case, I can give you two minutes.’

‘I’ve got a fair idea who wrote the notes,’ Rebus began.

‘She’s had another?’

‘I meant the one telling Keith about Samantha’s fling with Hawkins.’

‘Okay, I’m listening.’

‘Angharad Oates.’

‘I suppose that’s credible. Not sure it makes any difference to—’

‘Are you forgetting the motorbike? They all get to use it. The night Keith was killed, Ron Travis heard it.’

‘So to your mind, because Oates wrote a couple of anonymous letters, she then murdered Keith, making it more likely that her lover Jess Hawkins and your daughter might be thrown together again?’

‘She’d know who the police would most likely point the finger at. Plus, chances are, it’d lead to Samantha getting out of Dodge.’

‘John...’

‘Okay, how about this — the day Keith barged into that party at Strathy Castle, he was hauled away by Colin Belkin, who gave him a smack in the mouth as a send-off.’

‘And?’

‘And these are leads you should be following.’

‘I’ve got the lead I need right here at the lab.’

‘Prints on the revolver?’

‘You’ll find out soon enough.’ The line went dead. Rebus felt like punching something. Instead of which, he started the engine.

The cemetery lay a mile inland from Tongue, above the village and just off the road to Altnaharra. A low stone wall surrounded it, with high metal gates giving access for hearses. Rebus reckoned that at one time there’d have been a horse-drawn procession from the nearby communities. Maybe not even horses — the coffin carried aloft by family or friends. Only a handful of the gravestones looked new; most were weathered, their inscriptions faded. The grass had been mown recently, though, and fresh flowers had been added to several plots. Not an easy place to hide, and Rebus saw Helen Carter straight away. She was leaning on her walking frame, deep in thought — or more likely remembrance. Rebus approached her, clearing his throat to announce his presence.

‘I heard the car,’ she said.

‘And here was me thinking you’re stone deaf.’

‘I’ve got my hearing aid in.’ She pointed to one of her ears.

Rebus took up position next to her and studied the name on the headstone.

‘Anniversary of his death,’ she explained.

‘I know — I looked him up online. Thought he’d be in one of the war cemeteries.’

‘We guessed he’d want to be here,’ Carter said quietly. ‘Chrissy did anyway.’

Rebus took stock of the scenery. It felt like they might be the only living things in the whole landscape — no livestock visible, no birdsong. Then he turned his attention back to Sergeant Gareth Davies’s grave.

‘Age twenty-nine,’ he recited. ‘How old was Chrissy?’

‘Nineteen. Two years younger than me.’

‘I heard she died a few years back.’

‘She had a good life down south, and a long one.’

‘You kept in touch after she left?’

‘She didn’t often visit — too many memories.’

‘It was a terrible thing to happen.’

‘And such a stupid thing, too.’

‘Sergeant Davies’s killer must have harboured strong feelings for her,’ Rebus agreed. ‘That was what it was, wasn’t it — a crime of passion?’

‘It’s what was said at the trial.’

‘You don’t sound convinced.’

Helen Carter took a deep breath. ‘Chrissy wasn’t the bonniest of lassies — she’d tell you that herself. But she liked the attention of men, and she found ways to make sure she got that attention.’

‘She was a flirt?’

‘It went a bit beyond that.’ Carter almost had a glint in her eye. ‘Another good reason for her to head south — our parents weren’t going to stand for much more of it. They were religious, as was I, I suppose. They knew they could trust me not to get into trouble.’

‘But not Chrissy?’

‘No.’

‘Were you dating your future husband at this time?’

Carter considered for a moment. The breeze had caught her hair. She pushed some strands back behind her ear.

‘Should we go sit in the car?’

‘A friend is picking me up soon.’

‘Stefan Novack, by any chance?’

She smiled. ‘You are a detective, aren’t you?’

‘The pair of you just seemed comfortable with one another as you were leaving the bar that day.’

‘Well, maybe you’re right.’ She gave a slight shiver. ‘I can feel this wind getting into my bones.’

Rebus put his arm out for her to take, but she waved the offer away, gripping the handles of her walker and shuffling towards the gates.

‘Do you come here on Chrissy’s behalf?’ he asked.

‘I suppose so.’

‘You never did answer my question about your boyfriend...’

‘Fred,’ she said. ‘Friedrich, actually. We were friends for a while, lovers eventually.’

‘Your parents approved?’

‘Not overly. There was always that element of “sleeping with the enemy”.’

‘Did they grow to like him?’

‘They grew to accept him.’ Her beady eyes drilled into Rebus’s. ‘Why are you asking about all this?’

‘I’ve listened to the recording Keith made of his interview with you. You told him Chrissy didn’t really know Hoffman. He wasn’t part of her coterie?’

‘They’d met on several occasions. The evidence pointed to him as Gareth’s killer.’ She offered a small shrug.

‘Could there have been another reason why Sergeant Davies was targeted?’

‘I can’t think of one.’

‘And none of her other admirers might have been jealous of him?’

‘I’d imagine they were all jealous of him.’

‘These were British guards or internees?’

‘Both. As I say, Chrissy had a certain reputation and she was hell-bent on upholding it.’

‘She sounds a handful. I don’t suppose you were jealous of her, Helen?’ They had reached Rebus’s car. He opened the passenger-side door.

‘Maybe I was — just a little.’

‘But then you had Friedrich...’

The car door was still open, but she seemed reluctant to get in.

‘As a friend, yes,’ she said. ‘But if I’m being honest, I had my eye on Franz, too. A bit naughty of me, but I think I was trying to stir Friedrich into action, if you know what I mean.’

‘Franz? As in Frank Hess?’ Rebus watched her nod. ‘Another of Chrissy’s admirers?’

‘Oh yes — until Gareth came along and swept her off her feet.’

‘And was Joe Collins part of that group too?’

Carter wrinkled her brow in thought. ‘Not that I remember. Josef was a bit gruff, a bit of a grouch. We always wondered...’ She broke off.

‘What?’ Rebus asked.

‘We wondered if, given a gun, would he shoot the lot of us? I mean, we used to ask that question a lot — me and Chrissy and the other girls. They all seemed so polite and so charming, but until they surrendered, they’d been merrily slaughtering our menfolk. Plenty at Camp 1033 were still loyal Nazis. One or two even went to Nuremberg.’

‘Shall we get in?’ Rebus gestured towards the car’s interior, but she shook her head. ‘What if I told you,’ he continued, his voice dropping a fraction, ‘that Joe Collins’ revolver had been used to kill Keith Grant?’

Her face didn’t change. ‘Is that what happened?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then I don’t really know what to say.’

‘Keith was bringing the past back to life, dusting off a few ugly truths some people might have wanted kept hidden.’

‘You can’t seriously think one of us...? We’re almost ready for the grave ourselves!’

‘Maybe there was more than one attacker,’ Rebus commented. He saw she was becoming agitated. ‘Then again, it could all be a con trick — pushing the investigation one way when the truth is hiding down another track entirely.’ He heard a car approaching and turned towards it. ‘Looks like your ride’s here. Handy that Mr Novack’s still up to driving.’

‘Try and stop him,’ Carter said with a faint smile.

The Land Rover came to a stop next to them. Novack gave a wave through the window.

‘The walker goes in the boot,’ Carter told Rebus. He opened the passenger door for her, then stowed the walker while she eased herself into the car. Rebus went to the driver’s-side window.

‘What brings you here?’ Novack asked, winding the window down.

‘Paying my respects.’

Novack’s look suggested that he doubted this. ‘You’ve heard about the revolver?’

‘Wasn’t sure word had got out.’

‘I assure you it has, along with the news that Joe and May are under arrest.’

‘What?’ Helen Carter froze with the seat belt half strapped across her.

‘They’re verifying the gun, that’s all,’ Rebus countered. He went around the car and closed Carter’s door. Novack lowered the passenger-side window.

‘Joe’s gun, though,’ he went on. ‘Used to murder a man.’

Rebus leaned in at the window. ‘Do you see your old friend Joe as a killer, Stefan?’

‘Of course he doesn’t!’ Carter snapped.

‘Maybe his daughter, then, eh?’ Rebus shook his head. ‘Best not let rumours get started. You never know where they’ll stop.’ The window began to rise, Novack’s finger on the switch as he glared at Rebus, while his passenger couldn’t make eye contact at all.

You’re rattled, Rebus thought. You’re both rattled.

Rather than watch the Land Rover roll away, he marched back into the cemetery, stopping once more at Gareth Davies’s resting place.

‘She didn’t bring anything to mark the occasion, did she?’ he asked out loud. No flowers of remembrance, no card or note.

Just Helen Carter herself.

34

Siobhan Clarke’s mobile rang at precisely noon. She didn’t recognise the number.

‘Hello?’ she answered.

‘I’m calling because Issy Meiklejohn more or less demanded it. I have no intention of giving you my name, so please don’t ask.’

The voice was clipped, upper class, English Home Counties.

‘Define “demanded”.’

‘There’s rather a venomous streak to that young woman, wouldn’t you say?’

‘I’ve always found her perfectly charming.’

‘Is that supposed to be funny? Anyway, you know why I’m calling?’

‘You’re Lord Strathy’s alibi, the one I’m supposed to accept on trust — without seeing your face or having a name to put to it. You’ll appreciate that’s not usually how we operate on a murder inquiry. Still, I’m listening.’

As were the others in the MIT office. Clarke ignored them and walked into the hallway, closing the door after her. Fox was in the admin room next door, talking to one of the staff. Clarke descended the stairs until she was beyond his eyeline.

‘He was with me for the best part of five days. I doubt we were out of one another’s sight for more than half an hour in all that time.’

‘This was in London?’

‘Yes.’

Clarke did the calculation. Five days, which finished yesterday morning. Strathy’s little romp had started only a day or so after Keith Grant died and three days after Salman bin Mahmoud’s murder.

‘During your time with him, did you watch the news, read a paper?’

‘Not so you’d notice.’

‘One of Lord Strathy’s business partners had been found murdered. The man was a friend of his daughter’s. He didn’t mention it at any stage?’

‘He did not.’

‘Maybe he excused himself to make or take a phone call?’

‘We promised ourselves — phones off.’

‘Awkward if your husband needed to contact you.’

‘Look, I’ve told you what I can. Ramsay was with me. We were having a good time.’

‘He was relaxed, didn’t seem at all worried?’

‘Same old Ramsay.’

‘The crime I’m investigating took place in Scotland, and our legal system demands corroboration.’

‘Pity we weren’t engaged in a ménage à trois, then, isn’t it?’ There was a throaty chuckle as the line went dead.

Clarke stared at the screen of her phone. ‘Gotcha,’ she said quietly.

Back in MIT, she crossed to Christine Esson’s desk and jotted the telephone number onto a much-doodled pad.

‘Analyst would have a field day with those,’ she said, admiring the swirls, swooshes, lightning bolts and zigzags that kept Esson busy during every phone call she made.

‘What am I doing with this?’ Esson asked, tapping her pen against the line of digits.

‘Finding me a name, address and anything else that can be gleaned. I’d do it myself if I possessed half your skill set.’

‘And that concludes Siobhan’s motivational TED talk. Thank you all for coming...’

Clarke was smiling as she headed for her own desk. Fox had just taken his seat and was stifling a yawn.

‘Still not sleeping?’ Clarke guessed, noting how bloodshot his eyes were.

‘Sleep’s overrated.’

‘Strathy’s lover just called me. Christine’s going to put a name and face to her.’

‘She used her own phone?’

‘With any luck. What did admin want?’

‘I’m using too much paper.’ She stared at him. ‘Seriously. All the background stuff I’ve been printing out and photocopying.’

‘I thought we had a proper budget — how much stuff have you been churning out?’

‘A fair bit.’

She looked at the piles on his side of the desk. More was stacked on the floor.

‘Two copies of everything,’ he confessed.

‘One for home, one for here?’ Clarke guessed. ‘So you can keep at it even when you’re not in the office?’ But then she made a clucking sound. ‘No, Siobhan, that’s not quite it — it’s so you can pass one set along to either the ACC or Cafferty, and my antennae tell me the latter is the more likely.’

‘Keeping him onside,’ Fox intoned quietly.

‘Just stuff relating to Stewart Scoular, though? Not the bin Mahmoud case per se? Tell me he’s not watching us do our job...’

‘I’m being careful.’

‘How careful?’

‘As much as I can be. There’s obviously a bit of crossover here and there.’

‘That’s great news, Malcolm. Means if we ever lift Cafferty for anything, he can brag that he’s got you tucked into his breast pocket like a little silk handkerchief. I thought we’d covered this when we were walking back here from his big shiny gangster car?’ She saw the look Fox was giving her. ‘What is it you’re hiding?’

He started shaking his head.

‘Please tell me you’ve not gone all lone wolf and reckon you can deal with him without anyone’s help?’

Having stopped shaking his head, Fox made a zipping motion with his fingers across his mouth.

‘Can we have a grown-up conversation here?’ Clarke insisted.

‘Not quite yet.’

She was about to remonstrate further, but Christine Esson was approaching.

‘Fast work,’ Clarke commented.

‘This isn’t that,’ Esson said. ‘But it’s kind of interesting nonetheless. Just got a message about the Chinese student who was mugged on Argyle Place. Seems her phone’s been returned to her, along with an apology.’

‘An apology?’

‘In English and Mandarin Chinese, apparently. The student’s friend, the one who helped translate for her, she got in touch just now. Says the Chinese is really ropy, wonders if the apology was fed into some online translation site.’

‘What does it say exactly?’

‘She sent a photo of the note.’ Esson handed her phone over to Clarke. Fox slid his chair closer so he could see it too.

Really sorry for what I did to you. Promise never to do it again. And then presumably the same message in Chinese characters. Written with the same black ballpoint pen and in the same hand by the look of it. The Chinese rendition looked clumsy, mistakes scored out and corrected. The English version was in capitals, and even that looked a bit wonky. Clarke angled the phone’s screen towards Esson.

‘Would you say this person’s hand was shaking?’

‘Parkinson’s?’ Esson suggested.

‘But in the real world?’

‘Written under duress or in an emotional state,’ Fox answered.

Esson took her phone back. ‘Phone and note were in a Tesco bag stuffed through the victim’s letter box.’

‘How did the mugger know where she lives?’

Esson shrugged. ‘I’m guessing maybe her phone? Probably got a tracker or something — maybe a food delivery app. People are increasingly sloppy with their personal information.’

‘A mugger who grew a conscience,’ Clarke pretended to marvel.

‘I assume you don’t think that’s the case here?’

‘I suppose what matters is that we can remove her from the wall. Hugely doubtful she ties to the attacks on Salman and Gio.’

‘Do you want to tell the boss or shall I?’ Esson asked.

‘It’s all yours, Christine. We’ve done sod all to earn the privilege.’

35

Clarke and Fox had just returned from a late lunch — soup and a roll at a café on Constitution Street — and were settling themselves at their shared desk. Clarke could see from the corner of her eye that Christine Esson had news. Sure enough, as soon as they were seated, she was on her feet and striding towards them.

‘Here comes DCI Sutherland’s favourite student,’ Clarke teased.

‘She’s about to become yours too,’ Esson retorted, handing over a sheet of paper. ‘Name’s Violetta Pakenham. Lives in Kensington. Owns a boutique there. Married, two grown kids.’

‘I know that name,’ Fox said, getting to work on his computer. A moment later he had what he was looking for. ‘Probably George Pakenham’s wife. He’s one of Stewart Scoular’s investors.’

‘I can see why Lord Strathy would want the affair kept hush-hush,’ Clarke commented. ‘Piss off Pakenham and you’d mightily piss off Scoular.’

‘And everyone else in the consortium,’ Fox added. ‘These things are built on sand, and that sand is made up of public confidence. To have one of your big names cheating with the wife of another...’

‘Gives us a bit of leverage, if we want it,’ Esson argued. ‘I mean, if we think there’s anything about the case that Strathy’s been hiding from us...’

‘He tells or we leak?’ Clarke nodded her understanding and met Fox’s eyes. ‘Do we think he’s hiding anything?’

‘I’m not sure, and I certainly don’t want him sparking out on us again.’ Fox busied himself on his keyboard for a moment, then angled his screen towards Clarke and Esson. The photo he’d found showed a couple at a red-carpet event. The man was in his seventies, the woman much younger.

‘Just the twenty-year age gap,’ Esson commented.

‘What about Issy?’ Fox asked Clarke. ‘She’s the one who put Mrs Pakenham in touch with us. She must know her dad is playing with fire.’

‘Reckon she told any of her mates?’

‘I’d say she’s good at playing things close to her chest.’

‘Or else Scoular would probably already know.’

Fox nodded. ‘As Christine says, this gives us leverage. Fetch Issy in, get her to tell us everything she knows or suspects.’

‘Okay,’ Clarke said after the briefest consideration, ‘let’s do it.’

An hour later, the two uniforms who had been sent to St Stephen Street to collect Lady Isabella Meiklejohn escorted her up the stairs and into the same interview room she’d been made to wait outside while her father was being questioned the previous day. She took her time composing herself, ignoring Clarke and Fox, who sat opposite.

‘Turns out I was wrong to trust you, Detective Inspector Clarke,’ she intoned as she adjusted her jacket. ‘I’d be an idiot not to know why I’m here.’ Finally she looked up, her eyes throwing darts in Clarke’s direction.

‘How is Lord Strathy?’ Fox asked in a voice that was almost genuinely solicitous.

‘He’s no longer in danger. Some lifestyle adjustments have been suggested.’

‘By his doctors or by you?’ Clarke enquired. Meiklejohn gave her another withering look.

‘Should I be calling Patsy and inviting her to join us?’

‘Depends how many other people you want knowing that your dad’s sleeping with the wife of someone he’s doing business with.’

Meiklejohn gave a sour smile. ‘I did warn her to make sure the call couldn’t be traced. Dozy bitch doesn’t even have the sense.’

‘George Pakenham’s had ties to Stewart Scoular’s business for quite some time,’ Fox stated. ‘The two of them seem pretty chummy.’ He was sifting through the details he’d found, including a dozen or so photos taken at trade awards dinners.

‘And?’

‘I’d imagine you’d like it to stay that way.’

‘Which entails cooperating with you?’ Meiklejohn stretched out her arms. ‘In what way have I not been cooperating?’

‘Craigentinny golf course,’ Clarke said, leaning forward a little. ‘Late at night, a meeting arranged in the car park — why?’

‘Sorry, whose meeting is this?’

‘Your friend Salman. Something to do with the planned takeover? Something Salman had to see for himself?’

‘I know nothing about it.’

‘Stewart Scoular was heading the team. Don’t tell me he never discussed it with you? Your father was in the mix too, Issy, and we think you act as his representative.’

‘Which means,’ Fox added, ‘that you know more than you’re telling.’ He held a photograph in front of her face. ‘Any idea whose car this is?’

‘Not mine.’

‘Whose, then?’

Meiklejohn scrunched up her eyes as she studied the photo. ‘Are you serious? It’s just a blur.’

‘A blur that’ll soon have a licence number. What type of car does Stewart Scoular drive?’

‘He doesn’t see the point.’ She saw that a bit more explanation was required. ‘Living in the city — plenty taxis, decent public transport.’

‘So he doesn’t own a car,’ Clarke stated. ‘What if he’s invited to a party at, say, Strathy Castle?’

‘He’d rent something suitable, a Merc or an Audi.’

‘No lifts in Mr bin Mahmoud’s Aston?’

Meiklejohn gave a snort. ‘Bit cramped.’

‘Roads up there would be tough on an Aston anyway — wouldn’t look good when he had to hand it back,’ Clarke agreed.

‘Hand it back?’ Meiklejohn sounded puzzled.

‘It’s leased — didn’t you know? Same goes for the DB5 in London. The house here is owned by the Mahmoud family trust, but the London penthouse is a rental. Not what you’d call a fortune in any of the bank accounts we’ve found.’

‘And credit cards going unpaid,’ Fox added, ‘in danger of maxing out.’

Clarke was studying Meiklejohn. ‘This is coming as a surprise?’

‘Sal was loaded.’

‘Maybe at one time, but his father’s situation had altered things; a lot of the money was untouchable.’

‘That can’t be right.’ Meiklejohn was shaking her head. Clarke leaned further across the desk towards her.

‘Why’s that?’

‘He was about to sign up to The Flow.’

‘The Flow?’ Fox echoed.

‘That’s the name Stewart gave it — actually my father’s idea. The company is being incorporated this week or next.’

‘The Flow is the country club project near Naver?’ Clarke watched.

Meiklejohn nodded. ‘It’s been proving a difficult sell, the financial climate being what it is — Brexit and so forth. Stewart has some promises from America and Hong Kong, but even so...’

‘How much did Salman intend contributing?’

‘Ten or thereabouts.’

‘Ten million?’ Fox shared a look with Clarke: where the hell was he going to get that kind of money?

‘Father was over the moon when I told him.’

‘Lord Strathy stood to turn a decent profit from the project?’ Clarke asked.

‘The trust did, certainly.’

‘And the trust is what keeps everything afloat?’

Meiklejohn nodded again.

‘So with Salman’s death...’

She expelled some air. ‘In Stewart’s words: we redouble our efforts.’

‘Which in your father’s case meant heading off for a few days with his married lover?’

‘The ways of the flesh always take precedence where my father’s concerned.’

‘So a major investor has just been killed and your father doesn’t hold a meeting or a conference call? Doesn’t consider cancelling his plans so he can comfort his daughter, who’s just lost a good friend in shocking circumstances?’

‘You have met my father? I didn’t imagine things?’

‘What about the murder of Keith Grant? When did he learn of that?’

‘Probably at the same time he found out from the media that he was supposedly missing.’

‘And what did he say to you about it?’

‘Not a damned thing.’

Fox shifted a little, signalling that he had a question of his own. ‘The scheme hasn’t died with Mr bin Mahmoud, though?’

Meiklejohn considered this. ‘I see what you’re saying — someone was trying to scupper The Flow?’

‘Bit drastic if they were,’ Clarke cautioned.

‘Or else,’ Fox added, ‘the meeting that night was with someone Salman thought was good for the money — a loan perhaps.’

‘I keep telling you, Salman had money.’

‘Paperwork says otherwise — unless you know where he might keep a chunk of it hidden?’

Meiklejohn shook her head.

‘Would Stewart Scoular know?’

‘I can’t see Sal confiding in him.’

‘Mr Morelli, then?’

Meiklejohn shrugged. ‘You’ve got me thinking, though. Plenty competitors out there to add to cranks like Keith Grant and Jess Hawkins.’ She folded her arms determinedly and made eye contact with Clarke. ‘I’m sure you’re wrong about Sal’s finances. The ten mil was a lock. He’d promised me and there’s no way he wasn’t going to deliver.’

‘He didn’t though,’ Clarke said quietly. Thinking: someone made sure of that...

They took Brillo for a walk across Leith Links. Clarke threw a ball for the dog to retrieve while Fox called Gartcosh to see if Robbie Stenhouse had made any progress. When Clarke turned towards him, Fox shook his head at her. She made a kicking motion with her right foot.

‘Siobhan wants me to remind you,’ Fox said into his phone, ‘about that football match — tickets and drinks on her if we get a quick result.’ He listened for a further few seconds, nodding to himself. ‘I know you will, Robbie. That’s why we all worship you as a deity.’ He ended the call and gave a sniff. ‘To be fair,’ he explained to Clarke, ‘the man is as thorough as he is scrupulous — and there’s no shortage of cameras in Edinburgh for him to check. One small nugget, though...’

Clarke tossed the ball again. ‘Any time you’re ready.’

‘Sticker in the rear window, he thinks it might say Avis.’

‘A rental car?’

‘In which case we’re looking at someone who’s either just visiting or doesn’t have a car of their own.’

‘Or they do, but they don’t want to use it,’ Clarke added. ‘Issy seemed so certain Salman had funds available. Is there something we’re not seeing?’

‘His reputation might be enough to get him a bank loan.’

‘In which case there’d have been documentation in at least one of his houses, no?’

‘Cafferty used to be a loan shark, didn’t he?’

‘Shillings and pennies, Malcolm. I think even Cafferty might baulk at handing over ten million quid.’

‘I know I would, most days.’

Clarke had taken her own phone out and was checking its news feed. There was a short piece about a weapon having been recovered in the Keith Grant murder case, a publican and her father helping police with their enquiries.

‘Hope you know what you’re doing, John,’ she muttered.

‘We could go talk to Avis,’ Fox was suggesting, ‘show them the photos, see if they can ID the car. We’ve got a rough idea when it would have been taken out and returned.’

‘Did Robbie say anything about the number plate?’

‘He thinks he can get most of it into a readable state, probably by tomorrow lunchtime.’

‘Let’s cut him some slack then.’ Clarke scuffed the ball across the grass with her foot, Brillo, tongue lolling, giving chase.

‘Have you thought about bringing Brillo into the office?’ Fox asked. ‘I doubt the team would mind.’

‘Gamble’s got an allergy to dogs apparently.’

‘He’s got an allergy to hard work, too, but you don’t hear us complaining.’

Clarke managed a smile. ‘I keep coming back to the money, Malcolm. If Salman was about to hand it over, The Flow was a huge step closer to becoming a reality. Who gained most from that not happening? Not Issy or her father, not Stewart Scoular.’

‘People up north who didn’t want it,’ Fox answered. ‘Only thing is, none of this would be in the public domain. It’s the reason why commercial espionage has become big business.’

‘Your source told you that, did he?’

‘Want me to see if he knows something we don’t about The Flow? Who the competition might be?’

Clarke gave a slow nod, so Fox got his phone out and made the call. Brillo was seated on his haunches at Clarke’s feet, the ball ready and waiting. But she was busy with her own phone again, rereading the news story about the recovered weapon. There was a photo of Camp 1033 and she clicked on it, enlarging it with her fingers. Keith Grant was described as a campaigner who had been raising funds to buy the camp and bring it into the community as a ‘tourism resource’.

‘Can’t be a connection,’ Clarke muttered to herself, giving the ball another almighty kick.

But stranger things had definitely happened.

36

Rebus had taken a shift behind the bar so Cameron could have a break. Usual handful of regulars, armed with anecdotes about the revolver, May and her father. He had tried putting Cameron’s mind at rest, but the memory of his fingerprints being taken lingered and the young man wasn’t entirely reassured. When a barrel needed changing, Rebus went into the kitchen and saw Cameron pacing the yard outside, puffing on a joint and checking his phone. He left him to it and told the customer he’d have to pick something else.

‘But I always have lager.’

‘They say variety’s the spice of life,’ Rebus coaxed him.

‘Give me a can of lager then,’ the man decided.

‘I knew there was a touch of the rebel in you,’ Rebus said, reaching into the chiller.

Cameron was in the cellar changing the barrel when May Collins arrived back. Eyes followed her all the way from the door to the rear of the bar. She disappeared into the corridor, hanging up her jacket before returning.

‘Christ,’ she said, taking in the looks of her clientele, ‘if this was a Western, the piano player would have stopped.’

This raised a few smiles, after which people went back to their conversations and newspapers.

‘And what the hell is that?’ she asked Rebus, gesturing towards the loudspeaker attached to one corner of the ceiling.

‘Leonard Cohen,’ he answered.

She rolled her eyes before turning to the optics and pouring a whisky. Rebus could sense her staring at the space where the revolver had sat. Eventually she turned again, slopping water into her glass before taking a swallow.

‘It went well then,’ Rebus said.

‘They grilled my dad for over an hour, John. At his age! And then they started on me. How long’s the gun been missing, who do I think could have taken it?’

‘It is the same gun, then?’

‘Our prints — Dad’s and mine — are on it.’ She watched Cameron emerge from the cellar. ‘Yours too. Creasey’s on his way here to have a chat with you.’

‘Joe’s okay, though?’ Rebus asked.

‘He’s shattered. Slept all the way to the house.’

‘You don’t want to stay with him?’

‘He refused the offer.’ Her shoulders slumped a little. ‘How has it been here?’

‘Fairly quiet. I took a trip to the cemetery, bumped into Helen and Stefan.’

‘Any chance we can maybe live in the here and now just for a bit?’

‘You should go rest. Hate to say it, but the bar’s coping without you.’

She shook her head. ‘Don’t want anyone whispering that I’m hiding. Bad enough I seem to be a murder suspect all of a sudden.’

‘I still think Keith lifted the revolver. Killer took it from his satchel.’

‘Might have had the decency to wipe my prints off when they’d finished.’ She flinched. ‘Sorry, that wasn’t exactly tactful.’

‘Take a break, half an hour or an hour.’ Rebus looked to Cameron, who backed him up with a firm nod.

‘Maybe I will then...’ She broke off as the door opened. Two detectives walked in, one of them Creasey, another a younger woman Rebus hadn’t seen before.

‘Need a wee chat,’ Creasey informed Cameron. ‘Somewhere quiet if possible.’

‘Kitchen?’ Cameron suggested, eyes on his employer. She nodded.

‘DC Larkin will take care of you,’ Creasey said. Larkin went behind the bar, following Cameron into the corridor. Creasey’s attention had already turned to Rebus. ‘And I need to borrow this one, too.’

‘Looks like that’s my break over,’ May Collins said. Then, to the bar generally: ‘Everyone happy being served by a murder suspect? It’s either that or time to finish up and vamoose...’

By the time Rebus caught up with Creasey, he was in the front seat of his Mondeo. Rebus climbed into the passenger side and closed the door. ‘I told her she’s not really a suspect,’ he said.

‘Prints on the gun handle are mostly partials, but still good enough.’

‘May, her father and Cameron?’

‘Plus the deceased’s — though that’s between us for the time being.’

‘So Keith did swipe the gun?’

‘He really thought it was the one used to kill the soldier, didn’t he?’ Rebus gave a slow nod. ‘To answer your question, I doubt either Ms Collins or her father did for Keith — which doesn’t mean they’re not involved in some capacity.’

‘What about Cameron? Any motive there?’

Creasey gave a tired smile. ‘Anyone but your daughter, eh? Well, that’s why I wanted to speak to you. I need to go see her and I thought it might help if you were there too.’

‘Tell me her prints aren’t on the gun?’

Creasey shook his head. ‘But one of the partials is much smaller than the others. Almost certainly a child’s.’

‘Carrie?’

‘Rather than take the girl’s prints, I thought maybe a chat would suffice.’

Rebus reached across to his seat belt, buckling himself in. Creasey started the engine and pulled away from the kerb. Rebus called Samantha. She was at Julie’s, as was Carrie. He got directions and passed them to Creasey.

‘What is it he wants?’ Samantha was asking. ‘I’ve told him everything I know.’

‘We’ll be there in a couple of minutes. I’ll explain then.’

The house was a new-looking bungalow on the hillside overlooking the village. Two cars were already parked in the driveway, so Creasey stopped next to the grass verge. Julie Harris ushered them in.

‘Kettle’s on,’ she said.

Samantha was in the living room, Carrie and Jenny playing in Jenny’s bedroom. While Creasey started explaining the visit, Rebus went into the kitchen to help with the drinks.

‘Is she okay?’ he asked.

‘Sam or Carrie?’

‘Both, I suppose.’

‘There’s a counsellor they’re going to start seeing, maybe an hour a week for a wee while.’

The kitchen was neat and unremarkable, photos and a to-do list stuck to the refrigerator door.

‘Your partner?’ Rebus asked. The family were posing next to a human-sized Goofy and Donald Duck.

‘Disneyland Paris, two Christmases back. I’d have binned it, but Jenny wouldn’t let me.’ She turned briefly to look at Rebus. ‘Walked out two months later. He’s good with the upkeep, I’ll give him that. Sees Jenny every couple of weeks.’

‘He’s still local?’

‘Aberdeen. New job, new life. All right for some, eh?’

‘You grew up here?’ She nodded. ‘I’ve actually not met too many people who did.’

‘Bright lights elsewhere.’

‘The same lights some people escape by moving here?’

She handed him two mugs. ‘How does he take it?’

‘Whatever way we give it to him,’ Rebus said, heading for the door.

Carrie was eventually summoned to the living room, Julie Harris replacing her in the bedroom. The girl climbed onto her mother’s knee, looking wary. It had been decided that Samantha should ask the questions. The story was quickly told, once Carrie had decided saying nothing wasn’t going to get her anywhere.

‘Nobody’s in trouble,’ Samantha attempted to assure her. ‘It’s just a piece of the puzzle that needs to be filled in. There was a rusty old gun in Daddy’s shoulder bag, wasn’t there? Did he show it to you?’

Carrie bit her lip and shook her head. ‘Found it,’ she said, in a voice not much above a whisper.

‘And you took it out?’

‘It was really heavy.’

‘I’ll bet it was. Did Daddy see you?’

She shook her head again.

‘So you just put it back and left it where you’d found it?’

A nod.

‘And never said anything to Daddy?’

Carrie turned her attention to the only stranger in the room. ‘My daddy’s gone to heaven,’ she explained to Creasey. ‘He won’t come back for a long time.’

Samantha Rebus worked hard at keeping her composure.

‘Where was this, Carrie?’ Rebus asked quietly. ‘The rusty old gun, I mean?’

‘The garage.’

‘The bag was on Daddy’s desk?’ Another nod. ‘Lying open?’

‘I just wanted to look. I wasn’t going to take anything.’

‘What else was in there? Maybe some notebooks and a computer?’

‘Those were on his desk.’

‘So he’d been working? Could you see anything he’d written?’

A shake of the head. Samantha’s eyes were on Creasey.

‘Is that enough?’ she asked.

‘I think so,’ he replied. ‘Thank you for your help, Carrie.’

‘You’re welcome.’ She slid from her mother’s lap and skipped out of the room.

Samantha squeezed her eyes shut. ‘So the gun’s the one from The Glen,’ she said, as if getting things straight in her mind, ‘and Keith took it as part of his research, and someone hit him over the head with it. I still don’t understand why.’

‘We’re working on it,’ Creasey said with some confidence.

‘I never knew he had it, swear to God. If Carrie had told me, I’d have made him get rid of it.’ She opened her eyes and stared at the living room door. ‘That’s what I’d have done,’ she said.

‘Carrie’s not to blame,’ Rebus cautioned, but Samantha wasn’t listening.

‘If she’d only said something...’

‘Your father’s right, Ms Rebus. You shouldn’t start—’

She silenced him with a glare. ‘Maybe the two of you could just go away now.’ She leapt from the chair and left the room.

Rebus and Creasey sat in silence for a moment, then Creasey rose slowly to his feet.

‘Do you ever drink any of the cups of tea that get made for you?’ Rebus asked, gesturing towards the still-full mug.

‘Don’t really like the stuff,’ Creasey admitted. ‘But people do seem to enjoy making it.’

37

Siobhan Clarke was stretched along her sofa, Brillo tucked in next to her and an old episode of Inside No. 9 on the TV, when her phone rang.

‘Hello?’ she answered.

‘It’s Robbie. Robbie Stenhouse.’

‘I don’t remember giving you my number, Robbie.’

‘I have ways — and I wasn’t sure this could wait.’

Clarke lifted herself up to sitting, swinging her feet to the floor. Brillo awoke with a start and she comforted him with a pat.

‘You’ve got something for me?’

‘It’s a rental, right enough. I’ve run the plate and the car’s based out at the Avis concession at Edinburgh airport. Give me your email and I’ll send you everything I’ve got.’

She did so, realising that she was now patting Brillo rather more briskly than the dog would like.

‘Does the offer of a Hibs — Motherwell match still stand?’ Stenhouse was asking.

‘Half-time pies on me. I’ll check the fixture list once we’ve put this case to bed.’

‘Speaking of which, I might call it a night. It’s a tungsten-silver VW Passat.’ He reeled off the registration number, Clarke jotting it down on the front page of the day’s Evening News.

‘Thanks again, Robbie,’ she said, ending the call. She chewed on the pen, lost in thought for a moment, and then called Malcolm Fox. ‘It’s an airport rental,’ she told him. ‘Robbie’s emailing me the specifics.’

‘Told you he was good.’

‘Good enough to track down my phone number.’ She broke off. ‘He asked you for it, didn’t he?’

‘About an hour after we left Gartcosh. Not that he’d thank me for revealing his secrets.’

‘Not so secret — even long-retired DIs know about him.’ She paused again. ‘You out somewhere?’

‘Just picking up some takeaway,’ Fox said, explaining the background noise Clarke could hear. ‘Does the airport mean it’s someone who’s just arrived in town? Don’t tell me it’s going to be some London connection the Met hasn’t bothered to mention...’

‘Remember what Issy Meiklejohn told us, though: Stewart Scoular rents cars sometimes.’

‘Added to which, she doesn’t own one, so if she felt the need...’

‘We’ll know more in the morning. Rendezvous in Leith or meet at Avis?’

‘Avis at nine?’

‘Suits me. So what’s on the menu tonight?’

‘Indian. Probably waiting for me as we speak. Have you told Graham Sutherland yet?’

‘He’s over in Glasgow.’

‘Keep him in the loop or hand him a delicious surprise?’

‘Let’s wait and see what we get from Avis. If it turns out to be a tourist who got lost on their way to their hotel...’

‘Way to burst a boy’s balloon, Siobhan.’

‘Enjoy your curry.’ Clarke ended the call and tossed the phone into the space left by Brillo, who had vacated the sofa and was watching her reproachfully from the middle of the living room floor.

‘Okay, I’m sorry,’ she apologised. A curry? No, but a single fish wouldn’t go amiss. She rose to her feet, saw Brillo start to wag his tail in expectation.

‘Got it in one,’ she said. ‘A single fish and a battered sausage. Maybe even a jaunt to the airport tomorrow if you’re lucky.’ She stepped into the hallway, Brillo bounding towards the door to the outside world.

‘One thing about an airport rental,’ she told the dog as she grabbed her coat and his lead, ‘no shortage of CCTV out there. Meaning whoever it was, we’ve got them.’

‘Wish I hadn’t mentioned a curry,’ Fox muttered to himself, rubbing his hand across his growling stomach. Hours since he’d eaten. Needed to empty his bladder too, but it was too public on the Cowgate. He had a thing in his glove box, a ‘He-Wee’ he thought it was called. But any of the night-time carousers wandering past could glance down and catch him in the act. So instead he shifted a little in his seat and hoped Scoular wouldn’t be too much longer in the Jenever Club. No sign of Issy or Gio tonight — though they could have arrived before he did.

Fox picked his notebook up from the passenger seat. Scoular had taken a private-hire cab from his home in Stockbridge, not stopping anywhere en route. He had been inside for ninety-five minutes, during which time the street had altered in character. The pedestrians now were younger and noisier. There were music venues nearby, club nights and concerts starting. One stag party had swaggered past, tapping out a tattoo on the roof of Fox’s car and turning to beam smiles at him. Soon after, a hen party had arrived at the Jenever, dressed in pink sashes over matching T-shirts printed with the bride-to-be’s face. Writing on the back of each: Sue’s Booze Crew. The doormen decided they could go in, and were rewarded with a peck on the cheek or a squeeze of the backside. A little later, a couple from the party were back out again to smoke cigarettes and chat to the doormen, who had perked up as a result.

He had the radio on — Jazz FM. Not a brilliant signal, due to the Cowgate being akin to a canyon, a narrow sunken stretch with high buildings either side. Better than nothing, though. And now he had something to think about too: an airport rental. They’d agreed nine in the morning, but Fox reckoned the Avis office would open much earlier. He might get there ahead of time, present Siobhan with a fait accompli. Not that she would thank him for it; quite the opposite. Might do it anyway, though.

The hen party women were back indoors, the night-time chill proving too much for their skimpy outfits. One of the doormen had offered his overcoat, receiving yet another kiss, this time on the lips as far as Fox could tell. When the women had gone, both doormen shuffled their feet in a little dance.

Small comforts, Fox mused. You took them where you could.

And now the doors were opening again, and Stewart Scoular emerged, a woman on his arm. She wore heels and a tight black dress with a cream jacket draped over her shoulders. Fox had expected to recognise her, but it wasn’t Issy Meiklejohn. He thought about trying to get a photo with his phone, but he was too far away and couldn’t risk the flash. Besides, if he needed a name, Cafferty could probably provide it. A taxi was being summoned by one of the doormen, Scoular slipping him a banknote by way of a tip. Fox was reminded of a Glasgow cop he’d known who tipped everyone, from café staff to barkeepers. Always gave to beggars and Big Issue sellers, too.

‘It’s nice to be nice,’ he had explained. ‘And now and then, one or two might even reciprocate.’ Meaning a nugget of gossip or inside gen. ‘Just wish I could claim it back,’ he had added with a chuckle.

Fox had only worked alongside him a few months, was having trouble summoning a name. Last time he’d seen him had been the funeral of a fellow officer. There had just been time for a brief handshake and a hello.

He watched now as the back door of the black cab closed, the same doorman doing the honours. A brief wave and the taxi moved off with its cargo. Fox followed, having jotted down the exact time of Scoular’s departure from the Jenever. Result or not, if necessary they could show Cafferty that there had been no lack of effort. Always supposing the ACC’s plan didn’t work out. Never did any harm to have a backup.

He knew within a few minutes that they were headed to Scoular’s home. He remembered the man’s boast at their first meeting, about how he didn’t always live there alone. As far as Fox could see, nothing was happening on the back seat — no faces converging. He followed the cab to Stockbridge, staying well back at the drop-off. As Scoular and the woman went into the house, he started moving again, catching up with the taxi a few hundred metres further on. He flashed his lights until the driver signalled and stopped. Fox pulled up behind him, walked to the driver’s window and showed his warrant card.

‘Thought I had a flat,’ the driver said.

‘Nothing like that. Wanted to ask you about the couple you just dropped off.’

‘What about them?’

‘Any interesting chat?’

‘I wasn’t listening.’ The driver saw from Fox’s look that he wasn’t falling for it. ‘Really didn’t say much of anything,’ he conceded. ‘Busy with their phones. He made one call, overseas I think.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘He asked what time it was there. They were confirming a conference call of some kind, at a time to suit everyone.’ The driver shrugged. ‘That was about it. Can’t say he looked too happy, though.’

‘No?’

‘Seated next to a dolly bird like that, no way I’d be scowling.’

‘Did her name get a mention? Had they just met, do you think?’

‘Not a scooby.’

‘Anything else?’

The man shrugged again. Fox thanked him.

‘Will you put in a word next time I get a ticket?’

Fox managed a thin smile. ‘Drive safely,’ he said, retreating to his car.

Scoular was worried, it seemed, and unable to switch off, even on a date. Overseas: the Far East maybe, or the USA. With bin Mahmoud gone, there was a gaping financial hole that needed to be filled, meaning more hard work for Stewart Scoular. No way was he behind the killing — it was the last thing he’d needed. Didn’t mean there wasn’t a connection, though. Didn’t mean there weren’t secrets he was keeping.

Fox added the details to his little notebook. Time to go home, he reckoned, with a brief pit stop at a curry house.

He had an early start in the morning, after all.