A Song for the Dark Times

38

As Fox walked towards the Avis desk, he saw a figure he recognised holding something out towards him.

Siobhan Clarke. A cardboard beaker of coffee.

‘Good morning,’ she said.

‘You’re here early,’ Fox replied.

‘You too.’ She made show of checking her watch. ‘Had the feeling you would be.’

Fox looked towards the rental desk. A businessman was being served, his wheelie case parked next to him. ‘Have you...?’

‘That wouldn’t be very comradely, would it? Buying a coffee and waiting — that’s what colleagues do.’

‘All right, you’ve had your fun.’ He took a sip from the cup, then prised off the lid. It was a cappuccino, as far as he could tell. Clarke opened her shoulder bag and lifted out a dozen sheets of paper, held together with a paper clip.

‘This is what Robbie sent me. Close-up of the cleaned-up number plate; DVLA details; a few shots of the car as it travelled through the city that night.’

‘He must really like you,’ Fox commented as he sifted the sheets. The businessman was wheeling his suitcase towards the exit.

‘Shall we?’ Clarke asked, heading to the desk, Fox at her heels.

A supervisor had to be called, the clerk handing the phone to Clarke so she could explain. Then the supervisor spoke to the clerk and the clerk got busy on her keyboard. Fox had asked to speak to someone from the security staff, and a man had arrived, Fox telling him that he needed CCTV from the date the car was rented.

‘Main concourse, Avis desk and parking bays will do for starters.’

‘That’s a big ask.’

‘Big asks are all a murder inquiry ever has. Your cooperation at this time would be appreciated.’

The man puffed out his cheeks but headed off anyway to make a start, taking with him one of Fox’s business cards.

‘System’s a bit slow today,’ the clerk was telling Clarke.

‘That’s fine,’ Clarke responded. Not that it was. She was holding onto her coffee cup like she might at any moment wring the life from it.

‘Sure you should be having caffeine?’ Fox asked.

She stopped drumming the fingers of her free hand against the counter. A couple of customers had arrived and were queuing behind the two detectives.

‘Maybe I could serve them first?’ the clerk requested.

‘They can wait,’ came the terse response from Clarke.

‘Okay, here we go,’ the young woman said half a minute later. A printer whirred somewhere below the counter. She slid from her stool and crouched to retrieve the sheets of paper. ‘The physical paperwork will be in one of the filing cabinets, along with the credit card receipt. But meantime...’ She handed over the printout. Clarke sought the renter’s details. Fox beat her to it, jabbing the name with his finger.

‘Giovanni Morelli,’ he stated, repeating it silently as if trying to make sense of what he was seeing, while Clarke continued to scour the form.

VW Passat with 1,200 miles on the clock, rented the morning Gio’s good friend Salman was murdered, returned first thing the following day, fewer than thirty miles having been added to the car’s total mileage.

‘Ten into town,’ Clarke said, ‘and the same back.’

‘Around five from the New Town to the murder scene,’ Fox added, nodding his comprehension. He turned his attention to the clerk. ‘Where is this car right now?’

The clerk tapped away at her keyboard. ‘It’s onsite.’

‘Has anyone else rented it since Mr Morelli?’

She looked past Fox’s shoulder to where the queue was growing and becoming impatient.

‘Don’t worry about them,’ Clarke said. Then, turning towards the queue, ‘A police matter. Thank you for your patience.’

The clerk got busy again on her keyboard. ‘It’s due to be issued to a new customer today.’

‘Not going to happen,’ Clarke said. She fixed Fox with a look. ‘We need Forensics out here.’

‘It’ll have been valeted?’ he checked with the clerk. She nodded her agreement.

‘Blood’s not going to shift for a bit of vacuuming and polishing,’ Clarke told him. She already had her phone in her hand, entering the number she needed. Fox turned back towards the clerk.

‘Keys, please. And a note of whatever bay it’s in.’ He was finding it hard to concentrate and knew it would be the same for Siobhan. There were procedures to be followed, but all he could think about was Giovanni Morelli.

‘Haj?’ Clarke was saying into her phone. ‘I need a crew at the airport. Avis parking lot. Car there may have been used in the bin Mahmoud homicide. DI Fox and me are here already.’ She listened to whatever was being said to her and watched as the clerk handed Fox a slip of paper and a key fob. ‘Yes,’ she assured the scene-of-crime boss, ‘we can secure the immediate area. But be as fast as you can, eh?’

‘We’ll let you get back to work,’ Fox was informing the clerk. ‘But we will need all the documentation you mentioned, so when you’ve got a free second...’ He saw that Clarke was already making towards the exit, having abandoned her coffee on the counter. He placed his own cup next to hers and started moving.

‘Why?’ she asked, as they crossed the road. They weren’t quite running, but they weren’t quite walking either. Fox had buttoned his jacket in an attempt to stop his tie flapping up around his ears. ‘I don’t get it, Malcolm. I really don’t.’

‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,’ Fox cautioned. ‘This might only prove that he was there that night.’

‘You saw the photos — no sign of a passenger in the Passat. So unless Salman gave his killer a lift to the murder scene in his Aston...’

‘Could be a third car we’ve just not seen yet.’

‘Or Issy on her bike, eh?’ Clarke shook her head. ‘It fits; it’s just that it doesn’t make sense.’

‘Morelli’s the one we need to be asking.’

She looked at him. ‘Reckon he’s a flight risk? Parents with money and powerful friends...’

‘Let’s see if the car can offer us some clues.’

They were nearing the Avis lot now. ‘Which bay?’ Clarke asked.

‘Forty-two, like The Hitchhiker’s Guide.’ He saw the look on Clarke’s face. ‘Just attempting a bit of levity.’

They walked the rest of the way in silence. There was a kiosk, and the man stationed there had obviously been alerted by the clerk in the terminal. He led them to bay 42 and left them to it.

‘Tempting to take a look,’ Fox said, holding up the key.

‘Better not,’ Clarke warned him. She was circling the car, pressing her face close to its various windows. It had definitely been through a wash, and the inside looked pristine. When her phone pinged, she checked the screen.

‘Forensics?’ Fox guessed.

‘The DCI,’ she corrected him. ‘Wants to know where we are.’ She made the call, lifting the phone to her ear. Fox was wishing he’d not dumped that coffee. The temperature hadn’t got into double figures yet and there was no shelter to be had. Not that Siobhan Clarke seemed bothered. Her cheeks were suffused with colour, her eyes gleaming. When she met Fox’s gaze, there could be no mistaking her confidence, which, if not misplaced, meant he’d soon be on his way back to his desk at Gartcosh.

He knew he shouldn’t feel entirely sad about that, but he did.

39

Joseph Collins took his time opening the door of his cottage, his walking frame proving an impediment. Rebus greeted him from the path, where he was admiring the garden.

‘Can’t all be your own work?’ he speculated.

‘Mostly May these days. What the hell do you want?’

‘Wondered how you were doing — can’t have been easy yesterday. May’s still not over it. All the rumours, and the eyes on her when her back’s turned.’

Collins squared his shoulders. ‘We’re strong, the both of us.’

Rebus had approached the front step. ‘Can I maybe come in?’

‘Why?’ Collins was peering at him through glasses that needed a polish to clean them of various smears and smudges. Seated in the bar, he had seemed stooped and tremulous, but his eyes were the same ones that had seen warfare and bloodshed. The young Josef Kolln was visible to Rebus, trapped deep within an aged receptacle.

‘Because,’ he intoned, ‘your gun was used to kill an innocent man, meaning it’s time you came clean. For May’s sake as much as yours.’

‘Go to hell.’

‘I was a cop for over thirty years, Mr Collins — I’ve been to hell. What I saw in Camp 1033 wasn’t as bad as some, but it’ll still haunt me. Keith didn’t deserve what happened to him, but he deserves your help.’

‘Your own daughter most likely did it.’ The old man was growing agitated.

‘You really think that?’

‘I don’t know what I think.’

‘I’m more interested in what you know. See, there was a reason that gun was put on display. You were goading someone, letting them know you knew.’

‘Knew what?’

‘The truth about who killed Sergeant Davies. And with Keith digging the whole story up again, no telling what might happen. He believed it was the same gun. Maybe he thought he could get it tested for DNA. That’s why he lifted it from behind the bar. You always told people the truth — that you found it washed ashore. But I don’t think you did much to dispel the other rumours. In fact, once they’d started, you got to like them, because they pointed the way to the real story.’

Rebus had taken another step towards Joseph Collins. He could see past him into the narrow hallway beyond. Family photos on the walls, the usual clutter of a long life.

‘Stefan Novack, Helen Carter and Frank Hess — Keith interviewed all of them. Stefan drives, but he wasn’t at the camp at the time Sergeant Davies was murdered — unless you know different. Helen’s sister had more than her share of admirers, some of whom became her lovers. Was Helen jealous? Did she have a thing for Sergeant Davies? Then there’s Frank, who admired her but doesn’t seem to have been admired back.’ Rebus paused. ‘And then there’s you. You knew both Frank and Helen. Which means you knew her sister too. I began to wonder if the gun was your way of telling people you’d done it. See, planting the murder weapon in Hoffman’s room means it had to be someone with access to the camp. Helen worked there; you and Frank Hess were interned there.’

‘Leaving only a few hundred other potential suspects.’ Collins sounded suddenly weary, shoulders starting to droop. The gnarled, liver-spotted hands were trembling as they gripped the walker. ‘Tell me, Mr Rebus, which of us had the strength to cause Keith’s death? You say the revolver was in his possession — we must have fought him for it, no? Wrestled it away from him? Can you picture that? Really? Can you?’

Rebus waited a moment before taking a final step. His face was now inches from Collins’.

‘Time to end it, Herr Kolln — for both our daughters’ sakes.’

Collins’ eyes seemed to cloud over a little. He lifted one hand from the walker and rubbed it across his lips. Then, with slow deliberation, he began to back away from the doorway, hauling the walker with him.

‘You’re right,’ he said as he retreated. ‘I never told him it wasn’t the same gun. He never lost his thing for the ladies, you see — it was my way of warning him off my wife... both my wives, come to that.’

‘Who, though?’

‘Go talk to Frank, Mr Rebus.’ Slowly the door began to close.

‘From what I know of him, that could be pretty one-sided.’

‘Try anyway.’

The door clicked shut, leaving Rebus on a spotless path in a well-kept garden.

‘I will then,’ he said quietly, scratching a hand through his hair.

The house Frank Hess shared with his grandson Jimmy sat on a short terrace leading off the main road down towards the shore. The sun was out, the day becoming pleasantly warm. Rebus thought he could hear the semi-distant crashing of waves. It struck him he’d yet to visit the beach. Maybe soon. He had rung the bell three times before he heard a voice bawling from somewhere inside.

‘What do you want?’

‘Mr Hess? It’s John Rebus, Samantha’s father.’ He had prised open the letter box and was yelling through it.

‘Go away.’

‘I can’t do that, Mr Hess. We need to talk.’ He placed his eye to the slit in the door, withdrawing rapidly as a walking stick was jabbed into the space.

‘It’s about the revolver and why Keith took it from the pub. He tried asking you about it. Seemed to make you angry. Mind you, judging by today, I’d say that’s probably your default setting.’

‘Leave us alone.’

‘Is Jimmy there? Can I speak to him?’ Rebus risked placing his eye to the letter box again. He could see the old man’s torso, the chaotic hallway behind him. He let the flap close again and tried the door handle. The door wasn’t locked, so he took a step inside. The walking stick caught him across one shoulder but did not deflect his attention from the objects he had seen from outside. He lifted the heavy leather jacket from its hook, studying it as another blow landed against his back. The old man was wheezing and spluttering. Rebus crouched down and picked up the crash helmet, in which nestled a pair of leather gloves. He turned towards Frank Hess, deflecting the latest blow with his elbow.

‘Jimmy has a bike,’ he stated.

‘No,’ Hess said, making to land another blow. Rebus dropped the jacket and snatched the end of the walking stick, holding it tight while Hess tried to wrest it away from him.

‘So he just likes dressing in the gear?’

‘He’s a good boy. He looks after me.’

Rebus nodded. ‘Unconditional love — he’ll do whatever it takes to keep you contented. You guessed why Keith had lifted the gun. You knew why Joe kept it on display behind his bar. Always with an eye for the ladies — hit you hard that Chrissy had no time for you but seemed perfectly happy giving herself to anyone else.’ He paused for a moment, watching as Hess’s chest rose and fell, as if he was having trouble catching a breath. ‘No love for Hoffman in the camp,’ he ploughed on. ‘No one about to complain if he went to the firing squad — easy to plant the revolver in his room and then get word to the authorities.’ He paused again, studying Hess. The man was medium height, and had lost any weight he’d carried in younger years. Folds of flesh hung from his neck. His cheeks were sunken, teeth yellow. ‘You’ve been filled with rage all your life, haven’t you, Herr Hess? Not much you can do with it at your age. Jimmy, on the other hand...’

Hess’s eyes lit up suddenly, the years seeming to fall from him, until Rebus could see the young conscript, the zealot, the unlovable admirer of the local flirt.

‘My grandson has done nothing,’ he spat. He looked around the hallway as if seeking something, then padded off deeper into the house.

Rebus did his own looking. No bike. There was a narrow close to one side of the house, but he hadn’t seen one there either. He took out his phone: no signal. He was putting it away again when Hess emerged from the gloom, brandishing a carving knife.

‘The hell are you doing, Frank?’ Rebus said, hands in front of him, palms facing the oncoming figure.

‘I could kill you, you know. You said so yourself — a man filled with rage.’

‘Unlike Jimmy, you mean?’ Rebus nodded as if in understanding, then flung out his left hand, wrapping it around Hess’s wrist, twisting until the knife dropped to the floor. He took a step forward, his mouth close to the old man’s ear.

‘You don’t ride a bike, though,’ he said in a quiet voice, before turning and leaving the house.

He entered the close. A couple of old bicycles, one of them dating back to childhood by the look of it. A small rear garden. More junk: rotting wooden doors; a makeshift cloche constructed from discarded window frames in which only weeds seemed to be thriving; old car tyres and hubcaps. In one corner stood a small shed, bought not too many years back judging by its condition. He yanked open the door and peered in. A rotary lawnmower gathering cobwebs; boxes of tools; garden implements hanging from nails. No motorbike. He closed the door and stalked back to his car, checking his phone for signal as he drove. When he gained a single bar, he stopped and called Creasey.

‘You need a search warrant for Frank Hess’s house. And you need to question the grandson.’ He paused. ‘Grandson and grandfather both,’ he corrected himself.

‘And why is that, John?’ Creasey’s voice was in danger of breaking up. The single bar was fluttering.

‘I’ll explain when I see you. Just get on it.’ He ended the call and continued driving, finding a space outside The Glen. He walked in as Cameron was finishing mopping the floor.

‘Careful you don’t slip,’ the barman warned him.

‘I never slip, son, which doesn’t stop me falling on my arse sometimes. Question for you: does Jimmy Hess own a motorbike?’

‘No.’

‘You sure?’

‘Positive.’

‘He has all the accoutrements.’

Cameron was nodding. ‘That’s because he sometimes borrows Callum’s.’

‘And who the hell is Callum?’

‘Him and his dad run Torries farm. Mad keen on bikes is Callum, though you’ll mostly find him on an ATV.’ He saw Rebus’s blank look. ‘You’d probably call it a quad bike. Handy for getting around the fields.’

‘So Torries farm, how do I find it?’

Cameron started a complicated explanation, but Rebus cut him off.

‘Easier if you come with me.’

‘But we’re opening—’

‘Do what the man says.’

They turned their heads towards the voice. May Collins was standing in the doorway behind the bar, drying her hands on a cloth. Her eyes were on Rebus.

‘Dad says you paid him a visit. Looks to me like you’ve got the scent of something, so what are you waiting for?’ She made a shooing motion with her fingers.

‘I’ll grab my jacket,’ Cameron said.

In the brief time he was gone, Collins and Rebus maintained eye contact without a word being exchanged between them. But there was a faint smile on Collins’ lips as Cameron squeezed past her, shrugging his arms into his denim jacket.

‘Good luck,’ were her parting words as the two men left the bar.

It was a twenty-minute drive, east at first and then winding inland. The farm’s main compound lay down a rutted track, Rebus taking it at speed. It was a hire car after all. At the sound of the approaching engine, a young man wearing a blue boiler suit appeared in the yard from one of the barns.

‘That’s Callum,’ Cameron said. Rebus stopped next to a muddy quad bike and got out. Cameron and Callum were shaking hands and exchanging greetings by the time he reached them.

‘I’m John Rebus, Samantha’s dad,’ he said by way of introduction.

‘Sorry for your loss,’ the young man said. He was brawny and red-cheeked, with wild hair and a no-nonsense manner. ‘What brings you out here?’

‘You’re friends with Jimmy Hess?’

‘Since school.’

‘He borrows your bike sometimes?’

Callum gave a quizzical look. ‘He does, aye.’

‘When was the last time that happened?’

‘I’d have to think.’

‘Recently, though? Just over a week back?’

‘Something like that.’

‘Did he say why he needed it?’

‘Jimmy just likes to hit the road sometimes, let off a bit of steam. His grandad’s not the easiest man to live with.’

‘I know I couldn’t do it,’ Cameron confirmed.

Rebus turned to him. ‘You don’t need to, though, do you? Frank Hess hardly ever visits the pub.’

‘Never, actually,’ Cameron corrected him. ‘Says it’s because he’s not a man for the drink, yet if you visit the house...’

‘What?’

‘Plenty whisky bottles, and Jimmy’s definitely not a fan of malts.’

Rebus focused his attention on the farmer again. ‘So how long did Jimmy have the bike for?’

‘Just the one day.’

‘Day and night?’

‘Being on a bike at night is a joy. You don’t need a destination, not up here. The drive is everything.’

‘If you thought about it, you could get me the exact date?’ Rebus persisted.

‘Yes.’

‘And when he brought the bike back, how did he seem?’

Callum looked from Rebus to Cameron and back again. ‘Wait a sec, this is my mate you’re talking about.’

‘And you’re going to be talking about him a lot more, not to me but to a murder inquiry.’

Callum was shaking his head, while Cameron looked stunned. Rebus’s phone was vibrating in his pocket. He lifted it out.

‘You get a signal all the way out here?’

‘Mast over that way.’ Callum pointed towards a distant hill.

Rebus pressed the phone to his ear, turning away from both young men. ‘Yes, DS Creasey, what can I do for you?’

‘You know search warrants don’t come ten a penny? I need to convince my boss to convince a judge — which means you need to convince me.’

‘Best done face to face — where are you now?’

‘Just past Lairg, heading north.’

‘Thing is, as soon as Jimmy Hess’s grandad talks to him, we’ve got a problem. Anything that could be evidence is going to get ditched. And your way takes time, Robin.’

‘John...’

But Rebus had already made up his mind.

Having dropped Cameron at the pub, he headed back to Frank Hess’s house and tried the door. Locked now. He rang the bell, but there was no answer. Peered through the letter box. No sign of the crash helmet or jacket. Cursing under his breath, he stalked down the close and into the garden. There was a door to the kitchen, but it was locked too. The window was grimy, but he could see in. The carving knife lay on the worktop. The drawer it had been taken from gaped open. A frying pan on the stove and pots and dishes in the sink. Two mugs on the drop-leaf table. No sign of life.

He stepped back and stared at the upstairs windows. Both had their curtains closed. He headed to the shed and opened it, started rummaging, then decided it would be easier if he shifted the lawnmower. He dragged it out and got to work, tossing tools behind him to make more space. Boxes of screws, nails of odd sizes, most of them rusted, hooks and pieces of wire and old three-pin plugs. Plastic flowerpots, rolls of twine, cans of oil...

He noticed that the workbench had a drawer. It was stuck shut, so he left it. But having gone through the last box, he had nothing to show for his efforts. Sweat was causing his shirt to cling to his back. He checked that his inhaler was in his pocket, just in case. Then he looked at the drawer and decided to give it another go. This time he used a large screwdriver, wedging it into a gap. Some of the wood began to splinter, but the drawer moved out a fraction. He tried again; more movement. He gripped the sides of the drawer in both hands and—

‘You’re trespassing,’ Jimmy Hess said. Rebus turned towards him. Hess filled the shed’s doorway. ‘Criminal damage, too.’

‘Police are on their way, son,’ Rebus said, breathing hard. ‘But it’s you they’ll be talking to, not me.’ He reached a hand through the gap in the drawer and lifted out a laptop. He sensed Keith’s notebooks were in there too, at the back, harder to reach. ‘Best go prepare your grandfather.’

Jimmy Hess was shaking his head. His large, round face showed no emotion. Gone was the jovial figure who had sat at the table in The Glen; gone, too, the concerned and solicitous grandson who had brought an end to Keith Grant’s interview.

‘I don’t think so,’ he told Rebus.

And then he lunged, hands around Rebus’s throat, pushing him back until Rebus collided with the rear wall of the shed. He felt his airway constrict, his eyes bulging and watering at the same time, blurring his vision. He had his own hands around the younger man’s wrists, but couldn’t budge them. He sought a pinkie, intent on bending it back until it snapped, but his strength was already ebbing. His knees buckled and he sank towards the floor, sharp corners of various objects digging into him. Changing tactics, he reached for Jimmy Hess’s face, clawing at it, seeking the vulnerable eyes. But Hess just turned his head to and fro, making purchase impossible. The sea was roaring in Rebus’s ears now, and the world had turned blood-red like a sunset. Hess’s teeth were bared in effort. Rebus only wished he could have given his tormentor a more even fight... and been more help to Sammy...

Sam...

Samantha...

His hands fell away and his eyes fluttered once before closing.

A deep darkness lay beyond the roaring.

40

The Leith team were in high spirits, except for George Gamble, who sat with arms folded, having warned anyone who’d listen: ‘Don’t count your fried chickens.’ His chair creaked as he leaned back in it.

Most of the team had gathered in the vicinity of the Murder Wall, perched on desks or standing expectantly while Graham Sutherland considered their next move.

‘I’ll talk to the Fiscal’s office,’ he announced, ‘that’s probably job one.’

‘Surely job one is getting Morelli in here and interviewing him under caution,’ DC Phil Yeats said. He was handing round the teas and coffees, this having become a routine he seemed to welcome. (‘Detective wages for a Tea Jenny’s work,’ had been Ronnie Ogilvie’s comment one night in the pub after Yeats had left.)

‘We need to remember he’s a flight risk unless we get him to surrender his passport,’ Malcolm Fox added.

‘In good time, Malcolm,’ Sutherland said. He had taken up position in front of the wall display, facing his team. ‘Car’s gone to the workshop at Howdenhall. If there’s trace evidence to be found, they’ll find it. I’m promised news by close of day.’

‘Search warrant for Morelli’s home?’ Esson piped up.

‘As soon as I’ve had a word with the Fiscal. Do we have any thoughts as to motive?’

‘Not exactly,’ Siobhan Clarke offered, ‘but there’s premeditation there. I’m guessing he thought it less risky to head out of town to rent the vehicle. CCTV from the airport shows him dressed very unshowily. Malcolm and I have had dealings with him, and he’s always immaculate.’ The team had been handed printouts of the CCTV stills. They studied them as Clarke continued. ‘Hooded sweatshirt, jeans and trainers.’

‘What’s the backpack for?’ Ronnie Ogilvie asked.

‘How many people fly into Edinburgh with no luggage at all?’ Clarke answered. ‘He’s trying not to stand out. But the hoodie brings me to another thing — it’s what he was wearing the night he claims he was attacked.’

‘Claims?’

‘Remember what I said about the thought that’s gone into this: if Morelli’s viewed by us as a victim...’

‘He’s less likely to seem a possible suspect.’ Ogilvie nodded his understanding.

‘All of which is great,’ Sutherland interrupted. ‘But it remains speculative.’

‘Pretty compelling all the same,’ Fox stressed. ‘Car at the murder scene; renter known to the victim; prearranged meeting. Don’t forget — last call on Salman’s phone was to his good pal Giovanni.’

‘Which we dismissed because of who Morelli was and what had allegedly happened to him,’ Christine Esson added. ‘When in fact he might just have faked a mugging by dunting his head against a wall.’

Sutherland was nodding thoughtfully. ‘Let me talk to the Fiscal, get things moving. But in the meantime let’s keep this under wraps — no leaks for a change.’ He paused. ‘Understood, George?’

Gamble froze, digestive biscuit halfway to his mouth. ‘Don’t look at me, boss.’

‘Just making sure you’re paying attention. And let’s hear it for Siobhan and Malcolm. It’s because of them that we’re as far along as we are.’

Sutherland started clapping, the others joining in. The applause was the usual mix: genuine enthusiasm and relief, topped with a sprinkling of resentment that the collar belonged to someone other than the celebrant.

‘Thanks, folks,’ Fox said, hands clasped together.

‘Don’t let it go to your big baldy head,’ George Gamble retorted.

As they returned to their desks and Sutherland headed into his office to make the call, Clarke saw Fox run a questioning palm over his scalp.

‘He was winding you up,’ she told him in an undertone.

‘I know that.’

But Clarke knew that next time Fox went to the toilets, he’d be angling his head in front of the mirror in an attempt to take a really good look.

41

He awoke with a start and lashed out, but the face above him belonged to Robin Creasey.

‘Bloody hell, John, thought I’d lost you there.’

Rebus’s hand went to his windpipe. He sensed damage. Swallowing brought a searing heat to his throat. He tried speaking, his voice barely a whisper.

‘Keith’s computer was here.’ He gestured towards the drawer. ‘Jimmy borrowed a motorbike, the night Keith was killed. Ron Travis heard it.’

Creasey switched on his phone’s torch and aimed it into the drawer. ‘Something at the back,’ he said.

‘Keith’s notebooks.’

‘I’ll get someone here to stand guard. And an ambulance for you.’

Rebus shook his head, the action causing immediate dizziness. He accepted Creasey’s help as he made to stand. The world birled around him as he took his inhaler out, aiming it between his chattering teeth. Wasn’t sure it would do any good, but he took a couple of puffs anyway. As he made his way tentatively from the shed, he saw Frank Hess standing in the kitchen doorway. The man’s eyes were judging him.

‘Where will he have gone?’ Rebus demanded in the same strangulated whisper.

‘Don’t worry about that, John,’ Creasey said. ‘Let’s just focus on you for the moment.’

Rebus grabbed a fistful of Creasey’s jacket lapel. ‘Let’s not,’ he said.

‘Jimmy is a good boy,’ Hess was intoning, more to himself than anyone else. Rebus thought he could see tears in the old man’s eyes. He got Hess’s attention and pointed towards Creasey.

‘More you tell them, the better — for your grandson, I mean. You need to do the right thing now, Frank. Start making up for all your wrongs.’

Hess glowered at him. ‘You and I are no longer young men. Keith was a young man, impatient, full of ideas. He thought he could change things.’ He stabbed a finger towards Rebus. ‘For how long were you a policeman? And did you change the world? Did you change anything?’

‘I’ll tell you one thing I didn’t do — kill a man because I was jealous of what he had. But then you as good as killed a second time, didn’t you — framing Hoffman, seeing him executed? And to stop that coming to light, you sent your grandson to kill yet again. And my guess is you were fine with that.’

‘It was not planned! It was not!’

Rebus turned his head towards Creasey. ‘Get the shed sealed off, dust those notebooks for prints, check if there’s anything useful in the house. Warrant might be a bit easier to arrange now, wouldn’t you say?’

‘I’ll need a statement from you too. And I still think you should go to hospital.’

‘I promise I will — just as soon as you’ve got hold of Jimmy Hess.’

‘Don’t go looking for him, John,’ Creasey called out as Rebus headed on fragile legs towards the close. By way of answer, Rebus gave a little wave of one hand.

42

Interview Room B, Leith police station.

Interview Room A did exist, but it had been out of commission for months due to a leak in the ceiling that would prove costly to fix. Siobhan Clarke had checked that the AV recorder in IRB was working. Graham Sutherland sat next to her. Malcolm Fox had argued that there should be someone present from Gartcosh, to which Sutherland had answered with a one-word question: why?

Clarke could imagine Fox fuming somewhere in the building, maybe on the phone to Jennifer Lyon to register his displeasure. The warrant to search Giovanni Morelli’s home having been secured, Esson and Ogilvie had been dispatched there along with half a dozen well-trained uniforms and a brace of forensic technicians. Morelli had been asked for his cooperation — and his keys — on his arrival at the station. His lawyer now sat alongside him, shuffling papers. Clarke hadn’t been at all surprised when Patricia Coleridge had announced her arrival at the reception desk. She was dressed identically to her previous visit. Clarke guessed she had an array of business wear racked and ready. Same expensive notepad and matching pen, plus an iPad with a leather cover that doubled as an angled stand.

Next to her, Morelli looked a little more nervous than before. His chair had been pushed back so he could cross one leg over the other without the table getting in the way. He wore loafers with no socks, several inches of tanned and hairless ankle showing. He had already made his protestations of innocence and now he just wanted to be elsewhere.

‘Shall we get started?’ Graham Sutherland said, after they had all identified themselves for the recording. He then sat back and let Clarke take over. She began by placing a sequence of photographs in front of Morelli.

‘This is you, yes? At Edinburgh airport eleven days ago. Not quite as dapper as usual but quite recognisable. You’re renting a car from the Avis concession. Here’s a copy of the documentation you signed, and here’s a record of your credit card transaction.’

‘No comment.’

‘Really?’

Coleridge leapt straight in. ‘My client need say nothing at this point, DI Clarke.’

‘I just thought it might be simpler for him to agree that the evidence shows he rented a car for one day. This car...’

Photos of the Passat in its Avis parking bay, and also being driven through Edinburgh’s streets as the long summer dusk shaded towards night.

‘I agree the quality isn’t brilliant. But our expert has produced a clear enough image of the number plate.’

Coleridge studied the photos while Morelli stared at the wall nearest him. ‘You’re telling me these all show the same car? I’ll admit the licence plate is legible in one of them, but as for the rest...’ She gave Clarke a hard stare. ‘How many silver VW Passats do you think there are in the UK, Inspector?’

‘Once we rule out the ones that don’t have an Avis sticker on the rear windscreen, you mean?’ Clarke pretended to guess. ‘Fewer than you might think.’ She produced more photos. Robbie Stenhouse had certainly earned his half-time pie and Bovril. ‘Same car, 10.30 p.m., driving past Craigentinny golf course — you played there with your friend Salman, didn’t you, Mr Morelli? With Stewart Scoular making up the threesome.’ She gave him an opportunity to answer, an opportunity he declined. ‘We think the car had tried entering the nice secluded car park, but it was locked for the night. So here’s the same car on Seafield Road, 10.50 p.m., parked as if waiting for someone. Not too long after, Salman bin Mahmoud was drawing into the warehouse car park just behind where this car was parked. Soon after that, he was attacked and killed.’

‘Your point being?’ Coleridge asked.

But Clarke’s attention was firmly fixed on Morelli, who was doing his damnedest to avoid meeting her eyes. ‘What did he ever do to you, Mr Morelli? Issy will be devastated when she finds out.’

Morelli uncrossed his legs and angled his head a little. It was enough of a tell to satisfy Clarke at this stage. She got to her feet and walked around the table so she was in his eyeline. He turned his head away from her, and found that he was met by Graham Sutherland’s equally piercing gaze.

‘Car’s being checked for DNA, Mr Morelli,’ Clarke continued. ‘Not yours, but Salman’s. We’re assuming you’ve disposed of the clothes you were wearing, but when you cut someone the way you cut your friend, there tends to—’

‘I’m seeing no evidence here of any malfeasance or even impropriety on my client’s part,’ Coleridge broke in to protest. ‘DCI Sutherland, you must realise that it is not the function of any police investigation to—’

‘Ms Coleridge,’ Sutherland interrupted in turn, ‘what’s required here is a credible explanation from your client as to why he would travel out to Edinburgh airport to rent a car for one day, putting fewer than thirty miles on the clock before returning it. Once he’s done that, perhaps he can further elucidate his reason or reasons for driving through Craigentinny — not exactly turf I’d think he was familiar with — not half an hour before Salman bin Mahmoud arrived there to meet someone. Quite the coincidence, isn’t it? As is the fact that Mr bin Mahmoud’s last telephone conversation that day was with Mr Morelli. They spoke for just under five minutes, between 7.15 and 7.20 p.m. I’d be keen to know what was said, perhaps what arrangements were being made. By failing to explain himself, your client is digging himself a very deep hole. You’d serve his interests best by making him aware of that.’

He leaned back a little to let the room know he’d finished. The silence lingered. Clarke had returned to her chair. Having unscrewed the top from her pen and then screwed it back on again, Coleridge eventually turned towards Morelli. Sensing that something was needed from him, he inhaled at length and noisily before opening his mouth.

‘No comment,’ he said.

Despite his solicitor’s protestations, they were holding onto the Italian for the twenty-four hours allowed in law. He’d been placed in a cell and given weak sugary tea in a thin plastic cup. The Fiscal Depute had convened the team for a meeting, then taken Sutherland aside for a private word.

‘Nothing from the car,’ Tess Leighton said as she ended the call she’d just been on. ‘They’re giving it another go, but I didn’t sense any great confidence.’

Clarke checked the screen of her own phone. She had asked Christine Esson for regular updates from Morelli’s mews house. So far all she’d had was: Nice place! She sent another text by way of a nudge — a single question mark — and walked over to the kettle, where Fox was dunking a herbal tea bag in a mug.

‘Phil’s gone to fetch milk,’ he explained. ‘So meantime...’

‘You’re offering me second use of your peppermint tea bag?’ Clarke shook her head. ‘I was hoping for more from the car.’

‘Me too. But it still leaves Morelli with a lot of explaining to do.’

‘Or else he keeps his trap shut and walks out of here tomorrow.’

‘Nothing from Christine?’

‘Just that he keeps a lovely house.’

‘He’ll have a cleaner — we need to ask them if he bagged any clothes for them to dispose of. Maybe there’s a knife missing from a set in the kitchen...’

Clarke nodded slowly. ‘Christine knows all that, Malcolm.’

‘Must be something we could be doing.’

‘Wee trip to the cells for a spot of waterboarding?’

‘Few slaps would probably do it.’

‘Back in John’s day,’ Clarke agreed. Then: ‘Coleridge wants her client assessed as a suicide risk.’

‘Why?’

‘I assume the hope is that he’ll be given preferential treatment.’

‘I watched the recording.’

‘And?’

‘You were good.’

‘Anything I missed?’

‘When you mentioned Issy...’

‘Ah, you noticed that.’

‘You touched a nerve. Bit more of that wouldn’t have gone amiss.’

Clarke nodded slowly and watched as the Fiscal Depute left Sutherland’s office, heading for the stairs.

‘She doesn’t look overly optimistic,’ Fox commented.

‘They never do, until we’ve got a confession and maybe a dozen eyewitnesses.’

Fox smiled over the rim of his mug. He sipped at the tea and savoured it. ‘Not too bad,’ he said.

‘Phil’s not exactly hurrying with that milk.’ Clarke checked the time on her phone.

‘Ask him and he’ll tell you the first shop he tried had run out. I’d put money on it.’

‘While in fact he’s just been enjoying a saunter?’ Clarke turned as Fox gestured towards the doorway. Phil Yeats was striding into the room. He hoisted a carrier bag as he approached the kettle.

‘Nearest place didn’t have any,’ he explained.

‘You keeping a crystal ball tucked away somewhere?’ Clarke asked Fox, while Yeats frowned, wondering what was under discussion.

‘Get a brew on then!’ George Gamble roared from his desk.

‘No rest, eh?’ Clarke commiserated as Yeats judged whether he’d have to refill the kettle.

‘What did the Fiscal say?’ he asked in return.

‘That you play a crucial role in this hard-working team.’

‘Sod off, Siobhan. Maybe you can run the errands next time.’

‘Just teasing, Phil. Honestly, what would we do without you?’ She paused. ‘Bring mine over to my desk, will you?’

She left the young DC to it, Fox following her back to their shared computer. A ping had alerted her to an incoming message. Once seated, she held the phone up so Fox could see it. A one-word text from Christine Esson.

43

The specks on Giovanni Morelli’s tan leather loafers were minuscule. One of the scene-of-crime team had taken it upon himself to study each and every pair of shoes on the neat racks in Morelli’s wardrobe. Eventually, having noted the flecks under a magnifier, he’d opted for luminol.

‘Positive for blood,’ Esson announced. She had taken up the same position as Sutherland earlier, the DCI himself now part of her audience, arms folded, feet apart. His jaw was rigid, telling Clarke that he was as full of nervous tension as anyone else — he just didn’t want to show it. ‘Shoes have gone to the lab. If it’s the victim’s blood, a match shouldn’t take long.’

‘No bin bags out the back stuffed with stained clothing?’ Tess Leighton asked.

Esson shook her head. ‘We finally traced his cleaner and she’s walking Ronnie through the scene. She’s no memory of having to dispose of anything out of the ordinary. Morelli doesn’t do much cooking, so there’s never a lot in the swing bin. It’s Brabantia, by the way — one of their nice stainless-steel ones. Whole place looks ready to be photographed for a magazine. One thing the cleaner did say is that she thinks a knife might be missing from the kitchen drawer.’

‘Thinks?’

‘She can’t swear to it.’

‘That’s not much use,’ Leighton muttered.

‘Another word with the Fiscal needed,’ Fox nudged Sutherland.

‘I’ll be the judge of that, Malcolm.’

‘Get the bastard up from the cells,’ Gamble growled. ‘Ask him some proper questions.’

‘As opposed to what, George?’ Clarke bristled.

‘He needs intimidating, that’s all I’m saying. Couple of brawny, no-nonsense Scots coppers...’ Gamble was looking at Fox as he spoke.

‘He thinks he’s in Life on Mars,’ Tess Leighton commented with a roll of her eyes.

‘Second interview can wait until we’ve had the lab report,’ Sutherland cautioned.

‘What if that doesn’t happen till after we’ve had to let him walk?’ Gamble argued.

‘He’ll be made to surrender his passport. Don’t fret, George — he’s not getting away.’

‘I’ve known folk hightail it, passport or not, boss.’

‘I think George has a point,’ Clarke said in a level voice. ‘I’m not sure we need the report.’

‘You think he’s suddenly going to get chatty with his expensive solicitor sitting right there beside him telling him “no comment” will suffice?’

‘I actually do.’

‘Something up your sleeve, Siobhan?’

‘Just female intuition maybe.’

Sutherland gave her a look that told her he didn’t totally believe this. But he said okay anyway.

Prior to Giovanni Morelli being brought up from his cell, and while Sutherland was confirming that Patricia Coleridge was on her way, Clarke stepped into the corridor to make a discreet call, after which she descended the station’s ornate staircase, stopping at the front desk.

‘Anyone asks for me,’ she told the officer there, ‘send them straight up. I’ll be in IRB.’

The officer nodded his understanding. As Clarke climbed the stairs again, she saw Fox waiting for her at the top.

‘You’re up to something,’ he commented.

‘I’m really not.’

‘You are, though. I thought we were partners.’

‘The kind who turns up at a car-rental desk half an hour early to steal some glory?’

Fox made a show of wincing. ‘Brillo must be due a walk, surely.’

‘Nice try, Malcolm. Though if you’re offering...’

‘I’m not.’

‘Didn’t think so.’ She leaned in towards him until her lips were only a centimetre from his ear. ‘Watch and learn, Mr Brawn.’

He was attempting a scowl as she headed back into the office.

‘Here we are again,’ Patricia Coleridge announced, with no obvious enthusiasm.

Clarke had once more checked the recording equipment before switching it on. Sutherland was in the same seat as before, opposite the lawyer and her client.

‘The cell is disgusting,’ Morelli was telling Coleridge. ‘The toilet — unbelievable. The sandwich they gave me — inedible!’

‘Just a little longer, Gio,’ Coleridge consoled him. Notebook, iPad and pen laid out, hands pressed together above them as if in prayer, eyes flitting between the two detectives opposite.

‘I assume there’s news of some kind?’ she demanded.

‘A forensic search of Mr Morelli’s home has uncovered a pair of shoes with spots of blood on them,’ Clarke announced. ‘That blood is being analysed as we speak.’

‘So it could well be my client’s?’

‘We both know that’s not the case, though.’ Clarke’s attention was focused on Morelli. ‘You got rid of everything else you’d been wearing, but no way you were going to part with such a lovely pair of shoes. You wore chain-store stuff when renting the car — less conspicuous that way — but for a meeting with Salman... well, he’d be expecting the usual sharply dressed Gio.’

‘You don’t have to say anything,’ Coleridge reminded her client.

‘Cooperation now could play in your client’s favour. Once we have the blood match, we won’t have much need for his assistance.’

‘No comment,’ Morelli said.

Clarke could sense Sutherland growing uneasy, realising how little they had to play with and wondering why Clarke had been keen to hold the interview. She wished she could reassure him, but couldn’t think how.

‘Can we talk about the knife that’s missing from one of your drawers in the kitchen?’

‘Knives get thrown away all the time,’ Coleridge drawled.

‘No comment,’ Morelli repeated. Sutherland shifted slightly in his seat again. Clarke risked a glance in his direction.

Relax.

‘When the test shows that it’s Salman bin Mahmoud’s blood on your shoes, Mr Morelli, what then? Reckon “no comment” will suffice in a courtroom?’

‘This is outrageous.’ Coleridge tossed down the pen she’d only just picked up and fixed Sutherland with a look. ‘You’ve dragged us in here with no new evidence, just a succession of wild theories and suppositions — is this really the way you run your major cases, DCI Sutherland?’

Sutherland looked like he was struggling to form a suitable answer, while Clarke’s attention had turned to the interview room door, beyond which she could hear raised voices. Eventually Coleridge noticed them too.

‘What the hell’s going on?’ she was asking as the door was yanked open. Issy Meiklejohn appeared, Malcolm Fox behind her, his hand grasping her forearm.

‘What the fuck did you do?’ Meiklejohn screamed at Morelli. ‘You fucking murdering fucking...’

Morelli was on his feet so fast that his chair tipped over and clattered to the floor. He had his hands raised as if to fend off the apparition before him. Saliva flew from Meiklejohn’s mouth as she yelled, her face puce with rage, both rows of teeth visible.

‘Get her out of here!’ Graham Sutherland was saying to anyone who would listen.

‘How did she get in?’ Coleridge was demanding. ‘The Fiscal needs to be told. This is appalling. Surely any possible prosecution is now—’

‘I did it for you, Issy,’ Morelli blurted out. ‘I did it for you.’

‘You murdered our friend!’

‘He was lying to you to get you into his bed! There was never any money for The Flow!’

‘DCI Sutherland!’ Coleridge howled. ‘I must protest in the strongest terms!’

‘Get her out,’ Sutherland repeated. Fox had his arms around Meiklejohn’s waist now, pulling her backwards as best he could.

‘Bastard,’ Meiklejohn said, all energy spent and replaced by a low, steady sobbing.

‘Issy...’ Morelli had taken a step towards her.

‘No,’ she said. ‘No.’ She shrugged Fox aside and disappeared from view.

‘DCI Sutherland,’ Coleridge was saying, attempting to regain both her composure and control of the situation. ‘None of this is admissible anywhere — you must see that.’

Fox was making to close the door from outside. He gave Clarke a look and she gave him one back — a look that ended with a wink.

‘If we’re pausing the interview,’ she said to the room at large as Morelli righted his chair and sat down, head in his hands, ‘maybe I should switch off the recording?’

‘Best if we take a break,’ Sutherland agreed.

‘Better still,’ Coleridge said through gritted teeth, ‘if you explain how a member of the public got past the desk downstairs — almost as if they knew where to find us.’

Clarke was affecting a look of complete innocence as she reached towards the machine and pressed the stop button.

‘No, leave it on,’ Morelli said. ‘I want to explain.’

‘That’s very unwise, Gio,’ Coleridge warned him.

‘I want to explain,’ he repeated, with a bit more iron in his voice.

Clarke turned the machine on again.

44

‘He wore motorcycle gloves,’ Rebus said croakily. He was in The Glen, seated at the same corner table where he had first met Jimmy Hess. Creasey sat opposite, next to May Collins. She had made Rebus a drink comprising hot water, whisky, honey and a squeeze of lemon, plus a couple of ibuprofen tablets that he’d struggled to swallow. ‘Hence no prints,’ he continued. ‘Drove the Volvo back here, maybe thinking he’d buy himself some time that way. Walked to the camp to retrieve the bike — no one on the road that late of an evening, meaning no witnesses.’

‘John did tell you it was to do with the camp,’ Collins admonished Creasey. He turned his head to her.

‘Are you sure you didn’t know anything about it? Your dad goading Frank Hess all these years? He didn’t drop a hint of any sort?’

She glared at the detective. ‘Definitely not. All I knew was that there was always a bit of needle between them.’

‘Why did your father never come forward?’

Rebus watched May Collins shrug. ‘I think maybe he liked tormenting Frank, or it could be he just wasn’t overly bothered. He’d been through a war — what was one more innocent life?’

Creasey’s phone vibrated and he checked the screen, his face unreadable.

‘Any sign?’ Rebus wanted to know.

‘He can’t get far.’

Rebus was reminded of the stories about escapes from Camp 1033. The runaways would head into the wilderness but soon give up. He imagined Jimmy Hess running, the laptop under his arm. He would run, then rest, then run again, growing thirsty and hungry and cold. Eventually he would realise the futility of it, but would he be able to find his way back, or would the peatlands all look the same, lacking landmarks of any kind? Of course, he could be sticking to another course, following the coast to east or west. But patrol cars were on the hunt, hiding places in short supply and easily searched.

‘Callum’s farm?’ he suggested.

‘Two officers are there, just in case.’

‘What about Frank?’

‘Under lock and key in Tongue. We’ll transfer him to Inverness later.’

‘He’s your catch — shouldn’t you be there?’

‘Soon as I’m sure you’re okay.’

‘I keep telling you I’m dandy.’ Rebus swallowed, wincing in pain again.

‘Christ, John,’ Creasey said.

May Collins reached out and gave his hand a squeeze. ‘At least let a doctor take a look,’ she said.

Rebus was about to protest when the door to the bar rattled open and Samantha burst in. She spotted them and flopped down next to her father, giving him as much of a hug as the cramped space would allow.

‘Are you all right?’ she asked.

‘Might have to skip choir practice tonight.’

‘You’ve seen a doctor?’

‘He’s refusing,’ May Collins said. ‘Can I get you anything, Sam?’

Samantha shook her head.

‘How’s Carrie?’ Rebus wheezed.

‘She’s okay, but you’re not.’ She turned to Creasey. ‘He’s got COPD, you know. Finds breathing hard enough as it is.’

‘I did consider bundling him into a patrol car in handcuffs,’ Creasey replied. ‘Short of that, I’m not sure what I can do.’

Samantha turned back to her father again. ‘You’re a stubborn old goat.’

‘With the bleat to match.’ Rebus stroked his throat with thumb and forefinger.

‘It was Jimmy, then?’ she said. ‘Killed Keith, tried to strangle you?’

‘Jimmy,’ Rebus confirmed.

Her brow wrinkled. ‘Because of something that happened seventy-odd years ago?’

‘Some people have long memories.’

May pointed towards the bar. ‘It was that bloody revolver that started it. Wish to hell I’d taken it down when I had the chance.’ She took Samantha by the wrist. ‘I’m so, so sorry, Sam.’

‘It was that camp,’ Samantha said quietly. ‘It got under Keith’s skin. He couldn’t let it go...’ Her eyes flitted between the detective and the publican. ‘Can I have a minute with my dad?’

They nodded and headed to the bar. Samantha took Rebus’s hand in hers.

‘Suppose we can plan the funeral now,’ she said. ‘I could do with a bit of help with that. And maybe a move south, too — if you wouldn’t mind us living nearer you.’

‘I reckon I could cope. You need to think it through, though, once the dust settles — Carrie’s schooling and all that.’ He paused. ‘And I’m sorry if I ever had any doubts about you.’

‘You’ve got a suspicious mind. Comes with the job.’

‘Doesn’t mean we can’t go on together, though, eh?’

She smiled and wrapped her arms around him again. Over her shoulder, Rebus saw Creasey lift his phone up, checking an incoming message and then motioning to May Collins that he needed to be elsewhere. His eyes met Rebus’s as he walked towards the door, and he mouthed a single word, knowing Rebus would understand.

The word was ‘farm’.

45

‘So when is he back?’ Fox asked into his phone as he walked.

‘Tomorrow or the day after. Saab’s been fixed, so that’s one less funeral to worry about. Though he’ll have to head north again at some point.’

‘John always gets his man, doesn’t he?’

‘Even if he barely makes it out alive. Killer damn near choked him to death. Where are you anyway?’

‘Clearing my head with a walk.’

‘Nowhere in the vicinity of a certain penthouse of recent acquaintance?’

‘Always so suspicious.’ Fox paused. ‘How about you?’

‘I’m at John’s new place. I was just going to drop off that signed Lee Child — bit of a house-warming gift. But then I sort of started on the unpacking.’

‘He won’t thank you for it.’

‘If it’s left to him, it could take months. Anyway, I won’t get it finished tonight — I’m out for dinner with Graham in a bit to celebrate.’

‘What’s the music?’

‘One of John’s — R. Dean Taylor.’

‘Never heard of him. Isn’t it a bit early to be celebrating? Long way still to go.’

‘Taped confession, though, Malcolm.’

‘That was a nice trick you pulled. Of course, it only takes Issy to tell her old pal Patsy that you phoned and told her everything, then invited her to pay her respects in person...’

‘A confession’s still a confession. No duress involved.’

‘He’s been in love with her for a long time? Morelli and Issy, I mean.’

‘Since they first met in their teens,’ Clarke agreed. ‘Never became physical — her choice, I’m guessing. But when Morelli found out she intended studying in Edinburgh, he signed up to the same course — which is a bit creepy if you ask me.’

‘Just a bit.’

‘Salman meantime was on his uppers — he’d even been borrowing from Morelli. But he couldn’t help blabbing to him about the money he’d told Issy would save her father’s dream project.’

‘Money he didn’t actually have?’

‘He was heading back home anyway to either face the regime’s music or save the family business. Far as he was concerned, he was having one last go at nailing Issy before he left. So Morelli lures him to Craigentinny with the promise that he has a source who wants to help with the buyout. They argue, and Morelli pulls out the knife.’

‘Which he’s taken because...?’

‘Because he’s Italian and reckoned Salman might take a bit of persuading to come clean to Issy and lay off her.’

‘Why didn’t Morelli just tell Issy?’

‘I think because a bit of his father has rubbed off on him — no compassion, no empathy.’

‘Ready to take the nuclear option.’ Fox found himself nodding his agreement as he stepped out of a cyclist’s path.

‘Anyway,’ Clarke was saying, ‘I don’t buy his version, not entirely. He chose Craigentinny because closer to home would have been too risky. Explains the fake mugging, too. Rather than an argument gone nuclear, this is about as calmly premeditated as any murder I’ve worked. So yes, I feel like celebrating. And meantime you’re out on a walk?’

‘I don’t drink and I don’t smoke — what else am I going to do, to paraphrase Culture Club?’

‘Adam and the Ants,’ she corrected him. ‘Well, be careful out there, Malcolm — city’s liable to bite you when you least expect it. I better start finishing up here — need to go home and get changed. See you tomorrow?’ Fox stayed silent. ‘Oh, you’re heading back to Gartcosh?’

‘Any reason for me not to?’

‘So this is us saying goodbye?’

‘You almost sound sorry to see me go. Far cry from when you first set eyes on me.’

‘Happy travels, DI Fox. Come see us again sometime.’

‘Bye, Siobhan.’ He ended the call and slipped the phone back into his pocket. He was heading into Quartermile from Lauriston Place, having parked on a single yellow line. This time of the evening, he wasn’t going to get a ticket. (The one from outside the restaurant on Hanover Street was still in his glove box.) Quartermile was quiet, a few drinkers in the bar he passed, about half the tables filled in the Malaysian restaurant next door. Food-delivery drivers were coming and going while students hauled bags from the Sainsbury’s supermarket back to their digs.

Fox approached the tall glass box that Cafferty called home and pressed the intercom. He was buzzed in immediately, but stood in the vestibule a moment, gathering his thoughts before summoning the lift. He’d phoned and confirmed that Cafferty was able to see him. Cafferty had asked the reason of course, and all Fox had said was ‘Scoular’.

‘Good news, I hope, Malky.’

Well, that depended on your viewpoint.

Cafferty was waiting at the penthouse door for him, dressed in an open-necked white shirt and jogging bottoms, his feet bare. He padded back into the open-plan living area and snatched up a glass half filled with red wine.

‘Can I tempt you, Malcolm?’

‘Not a cat in hell’s chance.’

Cafferty sat down in his favourite chair and waited, unsurprised when Fox stayed standing.

‘About Scoular,’ Fox began.

‘Yes?’

‘We’ve dug and dug again, and there’s nothing there.’

‘Is that right?’ The apparent good humour vanished from Cafferty’s face.

‘Doesn’t matter, though, does it? What matters to you is getting me and especially my boss working on your behalf. Because once you’ve done that — and you’ve got it on tape — you reckon you own us. Isn’t that the truth?’ Cafferty opened his mouth to answer, but Fox wasn’t finished. ‘But it’s not the whole truth — the whole truth would have to include your raging jealousy of the man.’

‘Oh aye?’

Fox started counting on his fingers. ‘He’s younger than you, a lot better-looking than you. Rubs shoulders with the great and the good rather than the scumbags you’re stuck with on a daily basis. You see him with his friends at your club and you know there’s a wall between you and them that you can’t seem to scale, and Christ knows you’ve tried. Call it a class thing, or just snobbery — they look down on you when you know they should be looking up. And meantime Scoular sells his wee bits and pieces of coke to his pals, keeps them sweet, fixes people up with each other — a real mover and shaker. And yes, there’s probably dodgy money in the mix somewhere, yet he remains completely non-stick. That’s why he got to you, and that’s why you started us digging. And here I am telling you there’s sweet FA to show for it. He’s still Stewart Scoular, property developer and darling of the society pages, and you’re still you.’

He broke off. ‘I might grab a glass of water.’ As he walked over to the sink and lifted a clean glass from the draining board, he heard Cafferty clapping his hands slowly.

‘Wee speech over and done with?’ Cafferty asked once he’d finished the round of mock applause. ‘Feel better for getting all that off your chest? If so, drink your drink and get your fat arse out of here. I’ve got calls to make and some juicy wee bits of video to send out into the world.’

Fox took his time draining the glass, placing it in the sink after. He checked the time on his wristwatch.

‘Somewhere else you need to be, Malcolm?’

Fox shook his head. ‘Something you need to see.’ He had activated his phone and was tapping in keystrokes. ‘It’s being streamed on the Scotsman website. They got the exclusive, but it’ll be everywhere tomorrow. Your eyesight up to a screen this size?’

Cafferty had risen slowly to his feet. Fox turned the volume all the way up and held the phone away from him. Dennis Jones was seated on a sofa, his wife Jennifer Lyon next to him. The interview had already started, but they were getting to the meat of it. Jones and Lyon held hands, as had been arranged. The questions had been vetted. The interviewer was Laura Smith. While not exactly the tamest inquisitor, she had been warned about what gaining an exclusive meant.

‘So I want to apologise publicly and profoundly to my wife especially,’ Jones was saying, ‘but also to everyone else involved in this sorry episode — a mess entirely of my own making. I can only hope that Jenni will be able to forgive me. I know I will work tirelessly to regain some level of trust. I’ve certainly never stopped loving her and I never shall. I will, of course, be resigning with immediate effect from my university post, and will be seeking counselling...’

Fox watched Cafferty as Cafferty watched the scene play out. ‘The ACC thinks she can ride out the storm,’ he explained while Laura Smith asked one of her prepared questions. ‘She’s assembled a team of PR people and lawyers, so do what you like with those tapes. Story’s already been broken, and my boss is controlling it. All you’ve done is make yourself a target. Every agency based at the Scottish Crime Campus is going to move your name to the top of their wanted list.’ He shifted his attention to the window overlooking the Meadows. ‘Enjoy the uninterrupted view while you can.’

He switched off the live feed and pocketed the phone, walked to the door in silence and let himself out. Waiting for the lift, he half expected Cafferty to emerge, ready to vent. But the lift came and Fox stepped into it, turning to face the doors as they closed. He pressed G for ground floor. Halfway down, he released the breath he’d been holding. He would give Jennifer Lyon an hour before calling her, let her know it had gone to plan. Her plan, outlined to him that day in Gartcosh. It had taken time to persuade her husband, but then the only other option offered to him had been divorce.

‘Bloody waste of all that surveillance, though,’ Fox muttered to himself. Still, the ACC owed him now, and she would not be allowed to forget.

The lift doors slid open again and he stepped out. One more door separated him from the clear fresh air of the world outside. Through the glass, he could see a hooded figure waiting just the other side.

Food delivery? No, the figure wasn’t carrying anything. Tenant? Just possibly. But Fox was starting to think otherwise: one of Cafferty’s collection of scumbags. A junior-level dealer most likely. He pulled open the door. Beneath the hood, the pockmarked face was hesitant.

‘You going in or what?’ Fox demanded to know.

Another moment before the decision was made. Then: ‘Aye, thanks.’ Hands stuffed deep inside the hoodie’s pockets, the youth started to move past Fox, who was still holding the door open for him.

‘I’m assuming you know the way — P for penthouse.’

‘I know the way, aye. Cheers. Really helpful.’

‘Don’t expect him to be in the best of moods, mind,’ Fox said as he exited the building. It was still light outside. This time of the year, it was hard to imagine the many long dark nights that would arrive all too soon...