A Song for the Dark Times

by Ian Rankin

  ‘Siobhan’s partner is a DCI,’ Fox said in warning.

  ‘Can’t blame a man for trying.’

  ‘A DCI with scant interest in football,’ Clarke qualified, pocketing the card.

  They took their coffees back to the seats, finding a quiet spot.

  ‘They’re supposed to be breakout areas,’ Fox said, prising the lid from his coffee so it would cool more quickly. ‘Theory is, different disciplines can mingle and share intelligence.’

  ‘Whereas in reality,’ Robbie said, ‘nobody shares a single bloody thing they don’t need to–scared they’ll end up not getting the credit.’

  ‘Not strictly accurate,’ Fox muttered into his cup.

  ‘But you’re absolutely right,’ Clarke told Robbie, ‘in assuming we’re just another in that long line of people who need a favour. Malcolm tells me there’s nobody to match you at Gartcosh when it comes to CCTV.’ She hoped she wasn’t laying it on too thick, but he looked the type who liked having his tummy tickled. ‘Tidying up images, turning blurs into identifiable faces and suchlike.’

  Robbie gave a shrug that was mock-modest at best. ‘I like to think I’m pretty good,’ he eventually conceded.

  ‘Which is why we’ve driven all the way from Edinburgh to see you.’

  ‘The Saudi student?’ he surmised. Clarke nodded slowly. ‘Had to be, I suppose; pretty quiet in Edinburgh otherwise, no?’

  ‘Drugs, gangs, muggings–pretty quiet, yes.’

  ‘You’ve got Malcolm helping now, though. He’ll have those cleared up in no time.’

  ‘Unless you keep us hanging around all day,’ Fox said.

  ‘I assume it’s night-time footage? Not brilliant lighting? Maybe glare from headlamps making things more difficult still?’

  ‘That’s about the size of it,’ Clarke said. She hadn’t taken her eyes off Robbie, hoping her look was endearing rather than desperate.

  ‘It’s a car near the crime scene,’ Fox added. ‘Driving down a road to start with and then parked–we think it’s the same car.’

  ‘Picked up on council cameras?’

  ‘Does that make a difference?’ Clarke asked.

  ‘Speed cameras are built to read number plates. Council ones are more of a general deterrent.’

  ‘Not as good, in other words.’

  ‘If they’ve been driving around the city at night, could be they’ve triggered a speed camera anyway–empty streets, drivers often put the foot down without thinking. Red traffic lights are another possibility–road’s clear so you whizz through and the camera clocks you.’ Robbie looked at both detectives. ‘You’ve not checked, have you?’

  ‘No,’ Fox conceded.

  ‘I might as well do that too, then, eh?’ Robbie took a sip from his cup.

  ‘We’d be hugely grateful,’ Clarke told him.

  ‘You can pay me back by making sure my team gets maximum points from yours next season.’

  ‘You drive a hard bargain,’ Clarke said with a smile, holding out her hand to seal the deal.

  *

  They had almost reached the ground floor when Fox came to a stop, recognising the figure climbing the stairs towards them. Clarke knew the face too: ACC Jennifer Lyon. She was reading from a sheaf of papers while holding a conversation on her phone, a shoulder bag and briefcase making life no easier for her. But she ended the call when she saw Fox. The phone went into her bag along with the papers.

  ‘Malcolm,’ she said, managing to turn the single word into both statement and question.

  ‘Potential progress on the bin Mahmoud case,’ he explained. ‘Just need Robbie not to sit on it too long.’

  ‘I’ll see to it there’s no slacking,’ Lyon assured him.

  ‘This is DI Siobhan Clarke. She’s helping me today.’

  ‘From the look she just gave you, I’d say DI Clarke regards that as somewhat of an understatement.’ There was a thin smile for Clarke but no free hand for any more tactile greeting. Then, to Fox: ‘I need a word with you anyway, Malcolm.’ And to Clarke: ‘In private, DI Clarke. Maybe you could get yourself a coffee or something.’

  Clarke watched them climb the remaining stairs, Fox gesturing for her to wait in the atrium. Instead of a coffee, she headed to the loos, seating herself and taking out her phone. Rebus had sent her some magazine photos. She studied them casually, then called him.

  ‘The Chief Constable,’ she said.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I’d seen some photos from the party, but not that one.’

  ‘Friends with Stewart Scoular, you think?’

  ‘It’s the first I’m hearing of it.’

  ‘It’s the party Keith crashed, making no friends and kicking up a fuss about the community buyout of Camp 1033.’

  ‘Slow down, this is all new to me.’

  ‘Keith wanted the Meiklejohns to sell some land to the community so they could turn Camp 1033 into a visitor attraction. He wasn’t getting any joy so gatecrashed that party. Remember the gardener?’

  ‘Colin Belkin?’

  ‘I reckon he’d be the one who kicked Keith out. I’ve met Angharad Oates, by the way, out at the compound, where she looks after Jess Hawkins’ young kid. There’s a Kawasaki there that someone might have heard on the road the night Keith was killed.’

  ‘Lot of threads, John. I’m guessing you’re beginning to see a pattern?’

  ‘Maybe. Meantime your pals Lady Isabella, bin Mahmoud and Morelli were at the selfsame party.’

  ‘You don’t think Keith could have had dealings with them?’

  ‘If only I were in a position to ask them that, the ones who’re not murder victims, I mean.’

  ‘There can’t be a connection…’

  ‘Two killings, Siobhan.’

  ‘Hundreds of miles apart, John.’

  ‘But can you ask anyway?’

  ‘I’m a bit busy.’

  ‘You don’t sound it. In fact, from the echo, I’d guess you’re on the bog.’

  ‘Must be your phone.’

  ‘If you say so. But you will talk to Meiklejohn and Morelli?’

  ‘I’m seeing so much of them, I might suggest a flat-share.’

  ‘You reckon they’re involved?’

  ‘We’ve got some CCTV we’re checking.’

  ‘Robbie Stenhouse is your man for that.’ When she didn’t answer immediately, Rebus spoke again. ‘You’ve already seen him?’

  ‘How the hell do you know about Robbie Stenhouse?’

  ‘Guy’s a legend. Did you happen to notice any other faces in those pics I might find interesting?’

  ‘Not really. You already know Stewart Scoular.’

  ‘I like how he slithers his way into every other photo. If it’s his consortium behind the golf resort, and the party was a way of buttering up potential investors, he’d be far from happy about Keith shouting the odds. Remember what happened at that Donald Trump place in Aberdeen?’

  ‘I watched the documentary.’

  ‘People like Scoular need to feel they’re controlling the story. Keith definitely wasn’t helping with that.’

  ‘And yet, all the dozens of newspaper profiles and mentions in the business pages, not a single word about Keith and the rest of his group. They hardly had any media presence.’

  ‘He didn’t pose a danger, is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘I’m saying he could be safely ignored.’

  ‘Maybe someone failed to get that message, Siobhan.’ Rebus gave a long and noisy exhalation.

  ‘Anything else to report?’ she asked. ‘How’s Samantha?’

  ‘Still not been charged. I think there’s the hint of a thaw between us, too.’

  ‘That’s good.’

  ‘You at Gartcosh right now?’

  ‘Waiting for Malcolm–Jennifer Lyon needed a word with him.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Is this you stonewalling me?’

  ‘Only a bit.’

  ‘How
’s that dog of mine doing?’

  ‘Not getting as much attention as he needs.’

  ‘A feeling we all know, eh? You any closer to a result?’

  ‘I’ll have a better idea once Robbie’s worked his magic.’

  ‘Good luck then–talk to you later.’

  Clarke ended the call. She had a text from Graham Sutherland asking how it was going.

  Leaving soon, she texted back.

  As she exited the toilets, she saw there was still no sign of Fox. No visibly vacant seats either. A passing officer, white shirt and epaulettes, asked her if she needed help.

  ‘Just waiting,’ she told him with an exasperated smile. Two more minutes and she’d head back to the car; five after that and she’d be off, let Fox find his own way back to Edinburgh. But she knew she wouldn’t do it.

  She needed to share the news about the Chief Constable.

  Fox had been abandoned by Jennifer Lyon in her office’s anteroom, seated across from her secretary, who was busy at her computer. Finally she opened the door and crooked a finger. By the time he went in and closed the door, she was seated behind her desk.

  ‘Anything to report?’ she asked briskly.

  ‘Making progress on the bin Mahmoud inquiry.’

  She dismissed this with the briefest of nods. ‘And Mr Scoular?’

  Fox considered his response. ‘If there’s dirt–proper dirt, I mean–it’s well hidden. The Fraud Unit have come up empty-handed. I can show Cafferty we’ve done the work–including surveillance–but that’s about all, unless we opt to go nuclear: phone tap, computer intercept…’

  ‘Surveillance?’

  ‘Just me in my free time.’

  ‘Explains why you look so bleary.’ She paused. ‘But it’s appreciated.’

  ‘I don’t mind in the least.’

  ‘And no one on the team has twigged what you’re up to?’

  Fox swallowed. ‘Not as far as I’m aware.’

  ‘Not even DI Clarke?’

  ‘No, ma’am.’ He noticed that the ACC was staring at him with almost preternatural calmness.

  ‘Malcolm,’ she drawled, pressing the palms of her hands together, ‘we need, you and I, to talk about Morris Gerald Cafferty…’

  29

  The looks on the faces of the team back in Leith ranged from expectant through hopeful to sceptical. Clarke responded with a shrug while Fox announced that the CCTV would be ‘fast-tracked’.

  ‘So we can expect to hear back in weeks rather than months?’ Ronnie Ogilvie posited.

  ‘Don’t be so negative, lad,’ George Gamble said, stifling a post-lunch belch. ‘That’s always been my job.’

  There were a few tired smiles at this. Clarke had walked between the rows of desks–desks across which (Christine Esson’s aside) paperwork sprawled–and negotiated her way past further heaps of paper on the floor until she reached the Murder Wall. It was dispiriting how little of note had been added to it recently. There seemed to be not quite enough oxygen in the room. They were in danger of beginning the process of going through the motions. The look on Graham Sutherland’s face when he emerged from his lair told her he wasn’t far off telling them to go back to square one and recheck everything they’d already checked.

  ‘Gartcosh?’ he asked.

  ‘In train,’ Clarke replied.

  ‘Modern electric or clapped-out diesel?’

  The joke was weak but merited something. She managed a twitch of the mouth. Sutherland stood next to her.

  ‘A sudden bout of guilty consciences would be nice,’ he stated. ‘The assailant or someone who knows them. Somebody always knows something. In the old days, we’d be on the street hearing the gossip.’

  ‘We could try offering a reward.’

  ‘It’s crossed my mind.’

  ‘Another press conference? Rekindle some media enthusiasm?’

  ‘They’ve all moved on to the elusive Lord Strathy.’

  ‘According to one source, he’s hanging out with Lord Lucan in a Monte Carlo casino,’ Tess Leighton piped up from behind her computer.

  ‘I can check that lead out if you like.’ Christine Esson had her hand raised like a kid in a classroom.

  Clarke lowered her voice before asking Sutherland if he was getting any grief from on high.

  ‘No more than usual,’ he muttered. ‘Though the Saudis have slightly changed their tune. There’s some trade negotiation under way and they’re using our apparent incompetence as leverage. Salman has gone from persona non grata to revered martyr in pretty short order.’

  ‘Expediency wins the day.’

  ‘With us as the whipping boy.’ Sutherland stared at the wall. ‘None of which should distract us from the job at hand. You don’t think we maybe missed something early on? Worth another look at the autopsy, the scene-of-crime report—’

  ‘Why not the forensics too?’ Clarke interrupted. ‘Then we can bring everyone in for interview again and nudge the Met into sifting through their findings for the tenth time.’

  ‘I’ve reached that point, have I?’ Sutherland asked, looking sheepish.

  ‘Only slightly earlier than anticipated.’ This time they shared a smile.

  ‘Guys,’ Christine Esson called out, ‘you’re going to want to take a look at this.’

  They started to gather around her desk, Clarke slowed by an incoming text on her phone. It was from Laura Smith.

  Turn-up for the books!

  ‘Well, well,’ George Gamble was saying, breathing heavily after the effort of walking halfway across the room.

  ‘Looks like Issy Meiklejohn’s doorstep,’ Fox was saying, eyes on the news feed playing on Esson’s monitor. ‘Can you turn the sound up?’

  Esson was doing just that as Clarke arrived. Several cameras and microphones were being pointed towards where Issy Meiklejohn stood, her hand gripping her father’s forearm in a show of support and apparent relief.

  ‘Never knew there’d be such a fuss,’ Ramsay Meiklejohn was saying, his face redder than ever, eyes darting from camera to camera, questioner to questioner.

  ‘Who instigated this?’ Sutherland was asking. ‘How come we’re last to know?’

  ‘Shh!’ Christine Esson said. Then, realising what she’d done: ‘With respect, sir.’

  ‘Just a few days’ much-needed R&R,’ Meiklejohn was explaining. ‘Catching up on sleep; fresh air and exercise.’

  ‘Somewhere nice, Lord Strathy?’ one reporter yelled from near the back of the scrum.

  ‘Nowhere that’s getting a free advert,’ Issy Meiklejohn broke in. ‘I’m just glad my father is back in one piece, not that I ever had any concerns. My view is that this whole charade was an attempt by the police to divert attention from their manifest failings in finding the murderer of my friend Salman bin Mahmoud. It’s their inept handling of that case that should be your focus now.’

  Her father nodded along, pushing out his bottom lip to underline his wholehearted agreement.

  Sutherland was jabbing the screen. It was live video from a local news website. ‘You say you know where this is?’ he asked Fox.

  ‘Me and Siobhan were there a couple of days back.’

  ‘Then why in God’s name are you still here? Go fetch!’

  ‘And if he’s unwilling to play ball?’

  ‘We’re a murder inquiry and we have questions for him. If he won’t cooperate, place him under arrest.’

  Clarke’s eyes were still on the screen, focused on Meiklejohn’s daughter. ‘Might be a two-for-one deal,’ she advised.

  ‘So be it,’ Sutherland said. ‘Now get moving, the pair of you!’

  It was not a long drive from the police station to St Stephen Street, despite the vagaries of roadworks and temporary diversions.

  ‘Has there ever been a time when Edinburgh hasn’t been a building site?’ Fox said through gritted teeth. They were in his car for a change. Clarke had wound her window down a couple of inches for some fresh air.

  ‘Are you really not goin
g to tell me what Lyon wanted?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘But it was to do with Cafferty and the videos?’

  ‘As the Pet Shop Boys sang, my lips are sealed.’

  ‘That was Fun Boy Three.’

  Fox’s brow furrowed. ‘You sure?’

  ‘Well, if you’re not going to play nice, maybe I should keep my news to myself.’

  ‘And what news might that be?’

  ‘John sent me some pics from a magazine spread at Strathy Castle.’

  ‘I’ve seen them.’

  ‘You’ve got some of them on your computer, but not these ones–one of them shows our dear Chief Constable and his wife looking very chummy next to Stewart Scoular.’ She saw him staring at her. ‘Eyes on the road, Malcolm.’

  ‘When did this happen?’

  ‘While you were meeting the ACC.’

  ‘And you kept it to yourself because…?’

  ‘I was thinking it through. Want to hear my theory?’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Say the Chief Constable is one of Scoular’s investors…’

  ‘I’d think it’s above his pay grade, no?’

  ‘He could probably manage the odd few thousand–and Scoular would definitely want him on board.’

  ‘Other investors would certainly be reassured,’ Fox agreed.

  ‘My guess is, Cafferty found this out.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Probably because Martin Chappell has the sort of name Scoular would want to drop into a lot of his conversations.’ She watched Fox nod slowly. ‘And if we were to find any dirt on Scoular…’

  ‘That would hasten Chappell’s retirement, so as to hide any potential embarrassment to Police Scotland.’

  ‘Putting Jennifer Lyon on the throne.’

  ‘Makes sense,’ Fox said.

  ‘So now I’ve told you, will you take it to the ACC?’

  ‘I’ll have to think.’

  ‘If you do go to see her, I want to be there too.’

  ‘Duly noted. You didn’t get round to telling Graham?’

  ‘No, and I think it should stay that way, unless we start to see a connection to the murder.’ Clarke’s phone was buzzing. Not a number she recognised, but she answered anyway.

  ‘DI Clarke?’ the voice said. ‘This is DS Creasey. I’m a member of the Keith Grant inquiry team.’