A Song for the Dark Times: The Brand New Must-Read Rebus Thriller

by Ian Rankin

  ‘Christ, Malcolm, when you dig, you dig deep.’ Clarke glanced at him. ‘Doesn’t require you to look so smug, though.’

  ‘But you have to admit, it’s starting to connect: Scoular in bed with Lord Strathy; funding from the Middle East; the victim and Isabella Meiklejohn … ’

  ‘Getting us no closer to why someone might want Salman dead.’

  ‘Except,’ Fox said, ‘for this … ’ A fresh page opened on the screen. ‘The same consortium had wanted to build a spaceport near Tongue. That fell through, partly from local concerns, but mostly because the money didn’t come together. Same problems seem to be besetting the golf resort plan. And it’s not like there haven’t been costs. With Ahmad bin Mahmoud under house arrest, his financial dealings limited, his son would be the one under pressure to cough up. Pressure in all likelihood applied by the likes of Stewart Scoular and Ramsay Meiklejohn.’

  ‘Any actual evidence of that happening?’

  Fox’s face fell slightly. ‘I’ve contacted a couple of business journalists but not heard back yet.’

  ‘You’ve been talking to the press?’ Clarke was giving him a hard stare.

  ‘Only by email, carefully worded.’

  ‘Nevertheless, probably not the wisest move.’ Clarke scratched her forehead.

  ‘I don’t see anyone else around here pushing the case forward, Siobhan.’

  ‘You’re doing Cafferty’s bidding, Malcolm. He’s the one who kick-started this. Don’t you think that should give us pause?’

  Fox was shaking his head. ‘If you ask me, Cafferty thought all we’d find was maybe Scoular giving or selling the odd bit of white powder to his mates. Probably doesn’t like that because it’s robbing him of prospective customers.’ He gestured towards the screen. ‘This goes way beyond that, and I’m the one who joined the dots. At the very least, it’s worth taking to the boss, no?’

  ‘Sure. But you sound like you’re thinking beyond “very least”.’ She studied him. ‘A wee chat with Stewart Scoular maybe?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Before taking it upstairs?’

  Fox shrugged. ‘No time like the present, that’s what they say.’ He wasn’t quite smirking.

  ‘You’ve already arranged it?’ Clarke guessed.

  He checked his watch. ‘Want to tag along?’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Pretty much.’

  ‘At his office?’

  He shook his head. ‘His home. This being a murder inquiry, I told him time was of the essence.’

  ‘What else did you say?’

  ‘That we were interviewing anyone who might have known the deceased, and his name had cropped up.’

  ‘He admitted knowing Salman?’

  Fox was nodding while manoeuvring his arms into his jacket. ‘I might be a desk jockey, Siobhan,’ he said, patting a corner of the table, ‘but sometimes I ride a winner.’

  Clarke wasn’t entirely convinced of that, but she followed him out of the office in any case.

  What else was she going to do?

  13

  Stewart Scoular’s home was part of a Georgian terrace overlooking the Water of Leith in Stockbridge. There were two buzzers next to the front door, one marked ‘Office’ and the other left blank. Fox pressed the blank button. A few moments later, a voice crackled through the intercom. ‘In you come then.’

  They pushed open the door and entered a cramped vestibule with two doors off, one of which swung open. Scoular wore an open-necked pale pink shirt, the sleeves rolled up. His feet were bare, Clarke noticed. No rings on either of his hands, no wristwatch or other jewellery. His hair was sandy-coloured and recently barbered, his face lightly freckled, teeth gleaming.

  ‘I see you brought backup,’ he said with a chuckle.

  ‘This is my colleague DI Clarke,’ Fox stated. ‘We appreciate you seeing us at this time of night.’

  Scoular waved the formalities aside and led them into a large drawing room with high ceiling, ornate cornicing and sanded wooden floor.

  ‘Lovely place,’ Fox said, sounding as if he meant it. The furnishings looked expensive, but the room had an under-used feel to it. Clarke got the notion there would be a version of the man-cave elsewhere, boasting a big TV and all the accoutrements. The drawing room had no shelves and precious few knick-knacks. No books, magazines or family photos.

  ‘You live here on your own?’ she asked.

  ‘Not every night,’ Scoular said with another chuckle. ‘Can I offer either of you a drink?’

  ‘That’s kind of you, but no thanks.’ Fox had lowered himself onto the leather sofa. It had chrome fittings that would attract fingerprints, not that Clarke could see any. It was either brand new or its owner employed a meticulous cleaner. ‘We won’t keep you,’ Fox was saying, shifting a little to make room for Clarke. ‘Just a few questions to clarify how well you knew Salman bin Mahmoud.’

  Scoular sat down on the sofa’s matching chair and crossed his legs so that his right foot rested on his left knee. Clarke felt he was trying just a bit too hard to appear relaxed and unconcerned. He angled his head upwards as if to aid his thinking.

  ‘I honestly doubt I’d met him more than ten or twelve times. At parties mostly.’

  ‘Including ones he hosted?’

  ‘Once, certainly.’

  ‘He lived a five- or ten-minute walk from here?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘And Giovanni Morelli is even closer?’

  ‘Five tops. I’d say I know Gio slightly better than I knew Sal.’

  ‘People called him Sal?’

  ‘Some of us did.’ Scoular had gripped his exposed toes in one hand and seemed to be massaging them.

  ‘Hurt your foot?’ Clarke interrupted.

  ‘No.’ He seemed to realise what he’d been doing. ‘Sorry.’ He placed the foot back on the floor. ‘Touch of cramp earlier, after my run.’

  It didn’t surprise Clarke that he ran. Probably had a home gym, too. He was lean and lightly tanned, almost certainly attractive to a certain type of woman. She imagined him pitching one of his projects to a room filled with people who envied his looks and self-confidence. They would see him as a maverick, too, expelled from his political party for being just a bit too edgy.

  ‘I should have asked,’ he was saying, ‘whether you’re making progress with your investigation.’

  ‘We’re moving forward,’ Fox assured him – a meaningless phrase, but one Scoular was happy to accept.

  ‘When I was an MSP, I had a strong interest in crime and justice. Struck me Police Scotland was underfunded and still doing a hell of a job.’

  ‘We try not to complain,’ Clarke said.

  ‘Turning back to Mr bin Mahmoud,’ Fox interrupted, ‘you met him socially a few times, but was that the extent of your relationship?’

  ‘Pretty much.’

  ‘Ever visit him in London?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But business takes you there?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘Your business being … ?’

  ‘Property developing – commercial mostly. Hotels and the like. Plenty of land in Edinburgh we could be doing more with.’

  ‘To maximise profit, you mean?’

  ‘To maximise potential. It’s not always about the money.’

  ‘Added amenities, quality of life?’

  Scoular’s eyes were probing, wondering if Clarke was being sarcastic. ‘Correct,’ he said tonelessly.

  ‘We’ve established that you knew Mr bin Mahmoud and you know Mr Morelli,’ Fox said, ‘so you probably also know Lady Isabella Meiklejohn?’

  ‘Yes, I know Issy.’

  ‘Is there anyone else in Mr bin Mahmoud’s circle we should be talking to?’

  Scoular thought for a moment. ‘Issy and Gi
o are the ones to ask. As I say, I was hardly Sal’s closest confidant … ’

  ‘So in your opinion, who was?’

  ‘Issy probably.’

  ‘They were an item?’

  ‘You’d have to ask her. I never got the impression sex was Sal’s thing.’

  ‘So what was his “thing”, do you think?’

  ‘He liked clubbing. He liked wearing good clothes, driving nice cars, travelling … ’

  ‘All paid for by his father?’

  ‘Unless he was doing bar work on the sly.’

  Fox just about managed to return Scoular’s smile. ‘Ever had any dealings with Salman’s father?’

  ‘None whatsoever.’

  ‘But you have done business in the Middle East?’

  ‘Not for some time and never with him.’ Scoular slapped his palms against his thighs as if readying to get to his feet. ‘That’s us pretty much done, don’t you think?’

  ‘Did Mr bin Mahmoud have any enemies, any sign of trouble in his life?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And the last time you saw him … ?’

  ‘At some club or other, I’d guess.’

  ‘The Jenever perhaps?’ Scoular stared at Clarke without answering. ‘We were told it’s one of your haunts.’

  ‘I’d hardly call it that. I might drop by a couple of times a month.’

  ‘You’ll know of its proprietor, though – man called Cafferty?’

  ‘Remember me saying I took an interest in crime and justice?’

  ‘So you do know Cafferty?’

  ‘Only by reputation.’

  ‘But despite that reputation, you’re happy to add to his profits?’

  Scoular looked from Clarke to Fox and back again. ‘I’m not sure where this is heading.’

  It was Fox who answered. ‘We’re just trying to paint as complete a picture as we can of Mr bin Mahmoud, his history, his lifestyle.’

  ‘He was fun to be around, the classic playboy, I suppose. There might be jealousy of that in some quarters, but to know him was to like him.’ This time Scoular did get to his feet, making show of stretching his calf muscles.

  ‘One last thing,’ Fox said, rising from the sofa. ‘Any idea what he was doing out by Seafield?’

  ‘I did wonder about that.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Only connection I can think of is that we played golf out that way once.’

  ‘He was a golfer?’

  ‘Not much of one, no, but Sean Connery is. Sal always wanted to emulate his hero.’

  ‘Just the two of you, was it?’

  ‘Gio was there too. Not much better a player, though he definitely dressed the part. You know that scene in the film MASH? The pros from Dover – that’s who they reminded me of.’

  ‘You probably don’t laugh at them to their face, though?’ Clarke enquired. ‘Not when you need them opening their chequebooks for one of your projects.’

  Scoular gave her a scornful look. ‘No chequebooks these days, Inspector. Strictly electronic. And I pride myself on never losing a single cent for any of my investors.’

  ‘The golf course up north?’ Fox added. ‘The one on land owned by Issy Meiklejohn’s father?’

  ‘What of it?’

  ‘With Mr bin Mahmoud dead, won’t funding be rather more problematic? Or had he already decided not to add any more to the pot?’

  ‘I think I’ve said all I’m going to.’ Scoular walked to the door and held it open. Clarke took her time getting to her feet, her eyes meeting his all the way to the threshold.

  ‘Thanks again for your time,’ she commented. Then, gesturing towards his bare feet: ‘Watch you don’t get chilblains … ’

  ‘Interesting, no?’ Fox said once they were back on the pavement.

  ‘We certainly got him rattled.’

  ‘You reckon he’s holding back?’

  Clarke nodded. ‘Same as you do. Question is: what do we do about it?’

  ‘There are forensic accountants at Gartcosh. I might offer it to them.’

  Clarke was thoughtful for a moment. ‘For someone accused of racism, he has a demonstrably international taste in friends.’

  ‘As long as they’re rich and not Jewish.’

  ‘What about the golf course angle? The one near where bin Mahmoud was killed?’

  ‘You reckon there’s anything there?’

  ‘I’ve no idea, Malcolm.’ She checked the time on her phone.

  ‘Walkies for Brillo?’

  ‘Poor wee sod’s been waiting long enough. You coming along, or do you need to report back to Cafferty?’ She watched him start to scowl. ‘I’m just teasing,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t think you are,’ he answered, stuffing his hands into his pockets and turning away.

  ‘You’ve nothing to apologise for,’ Clarke told herself in an undertone. ‘You’re not the one caught between a gangster and Special Branch … ’

  Cafferty was at his usual banquette on the mezzanine level at the Jenever Club, nursing his usual lemonade, when Benny called with news.

  ‘Might have something, boss. Good shout on Moredun. This guy lives just off Moredunvale Road, runs the local gang there. Not unknown to the cops.’

  Cafferty took a sip of his drink. ‘A name would be nice, Benjamin.’

  ‘Cole Burnett.’

  ‘Like the stuff we used to mine?’

  Benny spelled it for him.

  ‘Never heard of him,’ Cafferty admitted, more to himself than to his employee.

  ‘Want me to haul him in?’

  ‘You’ve seen him?’

  ‘Not yet. Got his address, though.’

  ‘And what makes you so sure he’s our guy?’

  ‘He has a taste for nicking phones. A shove and a kick and he’s off.’

  ‘Who does he sell them to?’ Cafferty listened to the silence as Benny tried to work out how best to tell him he had no idea. ‘Doesn’t matter. But yes, I want him hauled in. Maybe to the club, though let’s wait till it’s shut. Not much noise escapes the cellars – you could have the Hulk wired up to the mains and no one on the street outside would know.’

  ‘Car battery does the job just as well,’ Benny commented.

  ‘You’d know more about that than I would,’ Cafferty said, though both of them knew that wasn’t strictly true.

  14

  It was gone midnight by the time May Collins ushered the final customers out. She had been joined for the evening shift by a barman called Cameron. He was in his twenties and lived in a caravan behind the pub, which he shared with his tattoos and facial piercings.

  ‘The room you’re in is his by rights,’ Collins had explained to Rebus, ‘but he’d rather be where he is.’

  Rebus helped clear the tables of glasses and other detritus, while Collins stacked stools and chairs and Cameron loaded the glasswasher.

  ‘Leave the floor till morning,’ Collins suggested.

  ‘Busiest we’ve been in a while.’ Cameron didn’t sound displeased. There had been no hassle, no rowdiness. The pub had become a community hub, inquisitive journalists given short shrift. Two of the journalists had been around the last drinkers to leave – one from Inverness, one from Aberdeen. The one from Inverness had approached Rebus at one point to tell him: ‘Laura Smith says hello and that you should call her back.’ To which Rebus had responded with a few choice words of his own, causing the reporter to retreat, spending the rest of the evening in a huddle with his fellow newshound.

  There had been toasts to Keith’s memory and reminiscences from those who’d known him, but behind it all lay the vast whispered question: did they have a murderer in their midst? Rebus had eavesdropped on a few suggestions. It was travellers, strangers, immigrants. Hadn’t there been a murder in Thurso a couple of years back,
the culprit never caught? And hadn’t that been caused by a blow to the skull too? Necessary stories, he knew – an attempt to deflect rather than explain the reality of the situation. One wilder theory saw a poltergeist placed squarely in the frame.

  ‘I’ve seen strange things out that way,’ the proposer had told his rapt audience. ‘Lights, sounds, shadows moving behind the main fence … ’

  Catching Rebus’s eye, Collins had shaken her head slowly.

  He’d spent the evening nursing a single pint, which, once flat, he’d switched for a whisky, adding plenty of water.

  ‘Sorry not to be putting more into the coffers,’ he’d apologised, handing a five-pound note across the bar.

  ‘We’re doing grand without you,’ Collins had replied.

  She opened the till now and scooped notes and coins into a bag. ‘Just going to put this in the safe,’ she told Cameron, disappearing through a doorway.

  Cameron was behind the bar again, pouring himself a cider, everything done that needed doing. Rebus studied the gantry. Among the bottles sat a coat of arms, a few faded postcards from overseas, a fake twenty-pound note, examples of various foreign currencies, and a few snaps taken in the bar down the years.

  ‘That’s May’s dad,’ Cameron said, tapping one of the photos. ‘Used to run this place until it got too much for him. Long before my time, mind.’

  ‘Does he still come in?’

  The barman shook his head. ‘I think the place holds too many memories. Good ones, I mean, but he’s a shadow of himself these days.’

  ‘I know the feeling.’

  Cameron managed a wry smile. ‘You’re staying the night here, eh?’

  ‘Samantha needs a bit of space.’

  ‘Understandable, I suppose.’ He had finished the cider in a few hefty gulps. ‘That’s me then.’ He lifted his denim jacket from a hook.

  ‘Did you have much to do with Keith?’

  ‘Served him a few drinks now and then.’

  Rebus’s eyes were on the gantry again. ‘What used to be there?’ He nodded towards a triangular arrangement of thin nails.

  ‘Believe it or not, a revolver.’ Cameron pointed to each nail in turn. ‘Barrel rested on that, trigger guard on that, grip on that. Think it belonged to Mr Collins, but I’m not sure. Rusted all to hell.’