by Ian Rankin
He glanced at his phone, checking for signal. ‘Go back in and get yourself a drink,’ he told Cameron. ‘I’ll be there in a minute.’
‘Sorry I didn’t…’
‘Don’t worry about it.’ Rebus had already started calling Creasey’s number. He walked the length of the roadway, checking the other parked vehicles. No damage to any of them.
‘I’m off duty,’ Creasey eventually answered.
‘Murder inquiries must’ve changed since my day.’ Rebus could hear music in the background–supper-club jazz by the sound of it. ‘You at home?’
‘Enjoying a well-deserved rest and about to turn in for the night.’
‘Did you do that check on Colin Belkin?’
‘Turns out you were right.’
‘He has a record?’
‘Had to go back a few years, but yes–a few minor assaults and the like.’
‘Did you speak to him?’
‘Sent a couple of uniforms.’
‘I think they maybe pissed him off.’
‘How so?’
‘Someone just had a go at my car. Drove off when spotted.’
‘And you’re stretching that all the way to Colin Belkin? How do you reckon he got to you?’
‘Remember his friendly cop in Thurso, the one who checked up on Malcolm Fox? You could do worse than ask him.’
‘In my acres of free time, you mean? I’ll be sure to add it to the list. You think this Belkin character’s going to cause you trouble?’
‘I’ve already seen evidence of his temper. Seems to be very protective of his employer.’
‘Don’t do anything rash, John.’
‘Perish the thought, DS Creasey.’
‘And Samantha and Carrie are okay?’
‘I’ll let you get back to your jazz. Speak tomorrow.’
Rebus ended the call and went indoors. May Collins had taken the stool next to his. She was holding a glass with a half-inch of whisky in it. He saw that his own glass had been topped up. Cameron was the other side of the bar, his cider already half finished.
‘I took the liberty,’ Collins said. ‘Though if you don’t want it…’
‘After you’ve gone to the trouble of pouring it?’ Rebus lifted the whisky to his lips and took a mouthful.
‘Cameron says your car got keyed.’
‘Aye.’
‘Any idea why?’
‘Serves me right for parking in a dodgy part of town.’ He paused. ‘I’m assuming it’s not an everyday occurrence around here?’ He watched her shake her head. ‘Well, anyway…’ He held up his glass to clink it against hers, then did the same with Cameron.
‘Here’s tae us,’ Cameron said.
‘Wha’s like us?’ Collins added.
‘Might just leave it there,’ Rebus said, unwilling to finish the toast. But the words echoed in his head anyway.
Gey few, and they’re aw deid…
Day Four
23
Clarke and Fox were waiting in the interview room at Leith police station when Giovanni Morelli arrived. He wore the same scarf around his neck, tied in the same style. Dark blazer, pale green chinos with matching V-neck jumper (cashmere most likely), leather slip-on shoes with no socks. A pair of sunglasses had been pushed to the top of his head.
‘Heading to the beach after?’ Fox suggested as Morelli was ushered in. ‘Or is that what you wear to classes?’
‘I was brought up to dress well,’ Morelli commented with a shrug. Clarke gestured for him to take the seat opposite her and Fox. She had a thick dossier in front of her, its manila cover kept closed. She had padded it with blank sheets from the photocopier to make it look more substantial, and had written Morelli’s name on the front in nice big letters. Alongside it sat a selection of photographs of various parties Morelli and the victim had attended. He reached out and turned one of them towards him, the better to study it.
‘He was fun to be around?’ Clarke made show of guessing.
‘Definitely.’ Morelli leaned back in his chair, angling his right leg across his left knee and undoing his blazer’s single shining button.
‘We came to realise,’ Clarke said, ‘that though we know quite a lot about you, we hadn’t actually had a proper chat.’ She patted her hand against the folder.
Morelli looked from one detective to the other. He hadn’t shaved for a few days, but Clarke doubted it was laziness. A five o’clock shadow suited his complexion and jawline and he knew it.
‘Okay,’ he said, drawing the word out.
‘You come from a wealthy background, grew up in Rome, yes?’
‘Correct.’
‘That night in Circus Lane, you told us you’d met Issy and Sal at a mutual friend’s party in St Andrews…’
‘Not quite–Issy and I were at the party. We met Sal there for the first time.’
‘Meaning you already knew Issy?’
The Italian nodded. ‘We were sixteen, seventeen, still at school. Our families ended up at Klosters at the same time, and we met at a party there.’
‘Klosters the ski resort rather than Cloisters the Tollcross pub?’ Clarke enquired, glancing towards Fox: prejudice vindicated, she was telling him.
‘We discovered we liked similar books, music, films…’
‘No coincidence then that you both applied to Edinburgh University?’
Another shrug. ‘It has a good reputation. And of course there are no fees.’ He said this with a self-deprecating smile.
‘Because of EU rules,’ Fox agreed. ‘Which are about to end.’
‘Bloody Brexit,’ Morelli commented.
‘Have you noticed any changes during your time in Scotland?’ Fox went on.
‘Changes?’
‘A hardening of attitudes.’
‘Racism, you mean? Not especially–it’s a bigger issue in England, I think.’
‘Yet you were attacked…’ Clarke watched Morelli give another shrug. ‘So if that wasn’t a race crime, what was it? You’ll appreciate that you’re not dissimilar to Mr bin Mahmoud–to the untrained eye, I mean, on a dark night, an under-lit street…’
‘With your hood up,’ Fox added.
‘You think they mistook me for Sal?’
‘Only problem with that hypothesis,’ Clarke continued, ‘is that you were treated leniently–much more leniently–by comparison. It could have been by way of a warning, and when Mr bin Mahmoud seemed not to have taken that warning, they upped the stakes.’
Morelli leaned forward a little. ‘But who were these people? What had he done to them?’
‘That’s what we’re attempting to ascertain, Mr Morelli.’
‘He had no enemies.’
‘We keep hearing that. But he was running an unsustainable lifestyle, judging by his bank account. Was he maybe borrowing? Were there drugs issues? We appreciate you were his friend–one of his very closest–and you want to protect his reputation, but if there’s anything that could help us, we need to hear it sooner rather than later.’
Clarke sifted the photographs as she waited. Fox had clasped his hands across his chest, a benign look on his face. Morelli ran a palm along his jaw, as if to aid his thinking.
‘Stewart Scoular,’ he began, his voice tailing off.
‘Yes?’ Clarke prompted.
‘There was a millionaires’ playground in the Highlands, the scheme required investment. Stewart was courting Sal.’ His eyes met Clarke’s. ‘Is that how you say it?’ He waited for her nod before continuing. ‘And of course you are correct, whenever there was a party, there were stimulants.’
‘Sourced from where?’
‘Stewart again, I think.’
‘Not a man called Cafferty?’
‘The one who owns the Jenever Club? I’ve met him a few times–he’s a gangster, yes?’
‘We would say so.’
‘He liked me to tell him stories of the Mafia, the Camorra, the ’Ndrangheta. My parents live in a nice part of Rome, but they have security–if you ha
ve money in Italy, you never feel completely safe.’
‘We’ve looked up your family,’ Fox said. ‘Your father especially. It seems he’s not only a successful businessman but a hard-nosed one too. Didn’t he once sack an entire workforce with no warning? There are even rumours of links to Mafia figures…’
‘In Italy, to be successful is to be hard-nosed. And wherever money is being made, the underworld isn’t far behind. My father treads carefully, I assure you.’
‘Did Cafferty have any dealings with Mr bin Mahmoud?’ Clarke enquired.
Morelli thought for a moment. ‘Not really. We only ever saw him at the club. He might appear out of nowhere, shaking hands, offering complimentary drinks. I don’t think he impressed Stewart.’
‘Explain.’ Clarke rested her forearms on the table.
‘Stewart would be hosting potential investors. He wanted to wow them. A private club will do that, no? But Cafferty always seemed to know when they were on the premises, and he would come asking questions, seeking information–and with no subtlety.’
‘What do you think was going on?’
‘To my mind, Cafferty is just a hoarder–he gathers information and contacts. Much of it may never be of use to him, but he gathers it anyway. Also, I think he liked to get under Stewart’s skin.’
‘So why does Mr Scoular continue to frequent the club?’
Morelli gave a thin smile. ‘Cafferty has a reputation. Some people find that attractive. They want to rub shoulders with dangerous people because it makes them feel a little bit dangerous and powerful, too. Do you understand?’
Both detectives nodded.
‘There is one further possibility to be explored,’ Morelli went on. ‘You say I was the victim of a hate crime, or else I was mistaken for Sal. But I could have been targeted precisely because I was part of his circle–another way of sending a message to him.’
‘But if he had no enemies…’
‘None that he knew of,’ Morelli qualified. ‘None that any of us knew of. And yet he was murdered and I was attacked.’ He offered another shrug.
There was silence in the room for a few seconds until Fox broke it.
‘What will you do after university, Gio?’
‘I may continue my studies.’
‘Here or in Rome?’
‘Who knows?’
‘You’ve been friends with Isabella for some time,’ Clarke said. ‘Have you ever met her father?’
‘Yes.’
‘Here or at Strathy Castle?’
‘Here, London, up north…’
‘Parties?’
‘Of course.’
‘He owns the land this millionaires’ playground of Mr Scoular’s would be built on.’
‘It is a foolish location–too windy, too cold.’ Morelli made show of shivering. ‘The one thing this country does not do well is weather.’
‘Was Salman at these parties?’ Fox enquired.
‘Some.’
‘They were pitches for funding?’
‘In a way, I suppose.’
‘Your family has money–your father is an industrialist…’
‘You’re wondering if I’ve ever been asked to contribute–the answer is yes. But I’ve always declined. I grew up knowing business and commerce and the people involved. None of it appeals to me. Give me books and art–those are what’s important.’
‘Nice to have the choice,’ Clarke commented.
‘I know I am pampered, privileged, a dilettante–I have heard it from my father’s own lips.’ Morelli’s face fell a little at the memory.
Clarke exchanged a look with Fox. A twitch of his mouth told her he felt they were done here. She pushed back her chair, rising to her feet. Fox did the same. Morelli looked up at them.
‘Finished?’ he asked.
‘Thank you for coming in,’ Clarke said.
The two detectives escorted him from the room and watched him descend the stairs to the ground floor.
‘He didn’t seem particularly intimidated by our interview room,’ Fox commented in an undertone.
‘Might need to toughen up the decor,’ Clarke agreed. ‘Either that or we’re just going soft in our old age.’
‘Speaking of which–any word?’
‘Not a peep.’
‘Walkies at lunchtime, then?’
Clarke nodded resignedly and took a look at her phone. No missed calls or messages.
‘Could just be his way of avoiding all the changes here,’ Fox offered. ‘The new flat and everything.’
‘That’s not it,’ Clarke said. ‘He’s working a case and he’ll be damned if anything gets in the way of him solving it.’
‘Begs the question–why have local CID not run him out of town?’
‘Give them time,’ Clarke said, turning and heading into the MIT office.
24
Rebus was in the kitchen, eating a bacon roll and talking with Cameron and May. Cameron had mentioned the possibility of T-Cut to get rid of the damage to the Saab.
‘And you should report it,’ May added. ‘When all’s said and done, it’s a criminal act.’
‘I phoned Creasey and told him,’ Rebus answered. ‘He’s doubtless putting his best officers on it.’ He dug the note from his pocket and held it up so they could both read it. ‘Meantime, this was shoved through Samantha’s door.’
‘Christ, some people…’ May Collins shook her head, rising and heading to the sink.
‘Why, though?’ Cameron asked, still chewing.
‘Because someone wants her gone,’ Rebus said.
‘Is that what your car’s all about? A warning?’
‘Maybe.’ Rebus folded the note up again and pocketed it. There was the sound of a distant thump. Someone was outside the pub’s front door. Collins, dish towel in hand, went to investigate, returning a few moments later, Julie Harris at her shoulder.
‘What’s wrong?’ Rebus asked, rising to his feet.
‘They’ve arrested Sam–taken her to Inverness.’
May Collins’ eyes were on Rebus. ‘Is that serious?’
‘One way to find out,’ he said.
Five minutes later he was in the Saab, heading south. Cloud was low, rain threatening and a couple of Dutch-registered motorhomes impeding his progress. He thought things through, knowing it made sense from the investigation’s perspective. Keith had pretty obviously been killed the same night his car ended up abandoned in the lay-by. Stood to reason it had been driven there by whoever killed him, meaning he and his killer had probably been in the car when it was driven to the scene of the murder–how else had the killer got there? Someone he knew; someone he trusted.
Even if they’d recently been arguing.
Why dump the car in such a conspicuous spot, though? Because the killer panicked, once the initial shock had worn off. Panicked, stopped the car and fled the scene. Nearest house to the lay-by was Samantha’s. And where was Carrie while all this was happening? Creasey and his troops would doubtless reckon her old enough to be left alone for an hour–an hour being all it would have taken, maybe even as little as forty minutes. Premeditated? That was a question they couldn’t answer as yet. What mattered to them right now was coming up with a convincing suspect and pushing that suspect into confessing. Rebus couldn’t know what the autopsy had thrown up, or what evidence might have been gleaned from the crime scene. Would they want all Samantha’s clothes and shoes for analysis? The Volvo had already been checked and he doubted they’d found anything incriminating there–if they had, Samantha would already have been charged.
Why take Keith’s laptop and notebooks? He suspected CID wouldn’t worry themselves about any of that–details to be ironed out later or brushed aside.
Once past the motorhomes, he put his foot down, only to be overtaken quarter of an hour later by a parade of motorbikes with German plates. The road was relatively benign thereafter, passing places appearing with enough regularity to mean oncoming vehicles didn’t slow him by much. At Lairg, he
branched off the A836, keen to get onto the faster A9 as quickly as possible.
Traffic was sluggish as he neared Inverness, the rain pelting down now, the Saab’s wipers just coping and no more. He began to wonder if the old car would get him back to Naver in one piece. He knew where the police HQ was and reckoned they’d have taken her there. He bypassed the centre of the city, staying on the A9 until the turn-off for the main infirmary. His destination was directly opposite it, which he supposed could come in handy from time to time. He dreaded to think how many hours he’d wasted driving out to Edinburgh’s Royal Infirmary once it had relocated from the city centre to the outskirts. All to take a witness statement or try to collar an injured suspect.
Of course she’s a suspect, he thought to himself as he headed into the car park. When he turned off the ignition, the Saab’s engine coughed a complaint loud enough to be noticed by a small group of smokers congregated at one corner of the building. They seemed to be finishing their break, readying to head indoors. But one of them lingered and began walking in Rebus’s direction.
‘Didn’t think we could keep you away,’ Creasey said, staring up at the sky to gauge when the next heavy shower would arrive. ‘But you know how these things are. This has to happen.’ He gestured towards the HQ.
‘Can I see her?’
‘Don’t think so.’
‘Legal representation?’
‘Everything by the book, John,’ Creasey attempted to reassure him. ‘And she’s holding up okay.’
‘She has a daughter at home…’
‘We won’t be holding her–or charging her at this point.’
‘Good, because you’d look a right twat when the real killer pops up.’
The sigh Creasey gave was theatrical. Rebus decided on a change of tack.
‘Didn’t have you pegged for a smoker.’
‘I’m not, but some on the team are, and I don’t like to be left out. Some of the best ideas come when people allow themselves to switch off for a few minutes.’
Rebus nodded his agreement. He reached into his pocket and handed over the anonymous note. ‘Shoved through her door sometime yesterday. Not everyone’s on her side.’ He paused. ‘Might even be more ominous than that.’