by Ian Rankin
Fox shoved open the door and got out. The driver was grinding what was left of his cigarette underfoot. He crossed the road and re-entered the station, passing through security and climbing the stairs. There was water damage to the ceiling above him, a pail readied on the top step for the next time it rained. The station had been built early in the nineteenth century as a courthouse, before becoming the home of Leith Council for a time. It was a solid stone edifice, but like many police stations of similar vintage, upkeep was prohibitive. He wondered how many more years it had.
‘More than me, in all likelihood,’ he said to himself, his breathing a little laboured as he reached the landing.
Clarke was at their shared desk. Most of the rest of the team had clocked off for the day or were in the process of doing so, but Siobhan Clarke was sticking around. The records from the victim’s mobile phone provider had come through, six months’ worth. They’d already accessed his phone so knew about the more recent calls, and had spoken to everyone he’d been in touch with on the day he died. An upmarket wine and spirits shop in central London featured, as did two private banks (one London, one Edinburgh), a local tailor specialising in tweed and sporting wear, and a Michelin-rated restaurant in Leith. The banks had proved stubbornly resistant to questions about their client’s financial situation. A far-from-complete set of printed statements had been brought from Salman bin Mahmoud’s Edinburgh home, and showed a balance in the low five figures.
‘Not being cheeky,’ Christine Esson had said, ‘but that doesn’t seem much.’
Then again, as Graham Sutherland had pointed out, the super-rich often had other means of salting away and accessing funds. Forensic accountants were busy both at the Met in London and at Gartcosh. It hadn’t been difficult for Fox to add Stewart Scoular’s name to the mix, alongside Isabella Meiklejohn and Giovanni Morelli.
Nor did the deceased own either of his sports cars – both were leased. The home in Edinburgh was owned outright by the family, purchased as a long-term investment most likely, while the London penthouse was a rental costing almost exactly double what Fox earned in a month.
Fox sat alongside Clarke and picked up the two books sitting on the desk. They were hardback thrillers.
‘Present from Christine,’ Clarke explained. ‘One for me, one for John.’
Fox opened one of the books at the title page. ‘Signed and everything,’ he said. ‘Now if only you had some downtime … ’
‘What did Cafferty want, by the way?’ Fox stared at her. ‘The office has windows, Malcolm. You get a call, and quarter of an hour later you say you’re heading to the gents.’
‘I’d put my jacket on,’ Fox realised.
‘Which strictly speaking isn’t needed for a call of nature. So I walk over to the window and see a big shiny car and a big shiny heavy.’
‘He was just after an update.’
‘You really can’t be doing this.’ Clarke frowned. ‘Did you ask why he’s so interested in Stewart Scoular?’
‘He’s keeping his cards close to his chest.’
‘He’s not the only one. There’s stuff you’re not telling me, and I can’t honestly say I like it.’
‘I told you about Special Branch,’ Fox said, lowering his voice.
‘That’s not it, though.’ She shook her head. ‘One thing I sense is that you think you have the brass on your side – hence all that guff about having a certain amount of armour.’
‘Leave it, Siobhan.’
‘You know me better than that. What’s Cafferty trading? Something too juicy for your bosses not to let him have his way?’
‘I said leave it.’ Fox’s voice had stiffened. He took a deep breath and exhaled. ‘Isn’t Brillo due an evening walk?’
‘I took him out at lunchtime, remember?’
‘That was six hours ago.’
‘How many walks do you think he needs?’
‘Maybe you should check that with John.’
‘Yeah? And maybe you should check with Special Branch how happy they are about you bringing a known gangster into this inquiry.’
The silence between them lengthened, Fox’s jaw flexing as he clamped his teeth together. ‘Any word from Rebus?’ he eventually asked.
Clarke gave a sigh. ‘We seem to be back to radio silence.’
‘And the elusive Lord Strathy?’
‘Ask as many questions as you like – I’m not forgetting that you’re keeping stuff back from me and it’s going to keep pissing me off until you tell me.’
‘Understood. But to get back to Lord Strathy?’
‘Still nothing. I got the Met to pay a visit to his various London haunts.’
‘They must be loving us down there.’ Fox managed a thin smile.
Clarke lifted one of the sheets of telephone numbers. It was now fully annotated. The original bills had shown only calls and texts sent by the victim, but now they also had calls to his phone.
‘Gio, Issy, Gio, Issy, Gio,’ she reeled off. ‘Almost two dozen chats on his last day alive.’
‘I believe young people prefer it to actually being in the same room as someone.’
‘Then there’s Stewart Scoular, though not with nearly the same frequency.’ Clarke glanced at the writing on her notepad. ‘Eighteen calls in six months – nine from and nine to.’
‘And nothing to indicate that a meeting was being set up at Craigentinny,’ Fox stated, ‘unless it was with Meiklejohn or Morelli.’
Clarke nodded. ‘But we do have these,’ she said, tapping another sheet. ‘A dozen calls to the landline at Strathy Castle. Once a fortnight, pretty much.’
‘No mobile signal up there?’
‘That’s my thinking.’
‘Talking to Issy?’
Clarke offered a shrug. ‘We’ll ask her. Got to be either her on a home visit, or else her father.’ She rubbed her eyes. She and Fox were now the only occupants of the MIT room. Footsteps could be heard descending the staircase as the ancillary staff finished their working day. ‘How’s that search on Issy going, by the way?’
‘The internet is its usual glorious swamp. Wild-child stuff from her early days; PR repair jobs courtesy of a few society glossies. Apparently she spends a large chunk of her life helping charities.’
‘Between university lectures and society balls? When I was at uni, there were some just like her – a whole raft of poshos we only saw once a year in the exam hall.’
‘While you had a bath full of coal for a bed?’
‘School of hard knocks, Malcolm.’
‘I thought your parents were lecturers?’
‘Way to burst my class-conflict bubble.’ Clarke shook herself, trying to clear her head.
‘Call it a day?’ Fox suggested.
‘I will if you will.’
‘Thought I might stick with it a bit longer.’ He tapped the computer screen. ‘Plenty on here about Issy the socialite, but it’s the business brain we’re really interested in.’
‘Meaning talking to your business contacts?’
‘I hope you’ve noticed that none of them has leaked yet.’
‘Doesn’t mean to say they won’t.’
‘I should probably give the ACC a call too, keep her posted.’
‘I’m going to assume she knows about Cafferty.’
‘Assume what you like.’
‘Might be easier if I just took a baton to your head until you fess up.’
‘That wouldn’t be very professional. But let me propose something. I do a bit more work here while you walk Brillo and have a bite to eat … ’
‘Yes?’
‘Then we meet up and go see if Lady Isabella Meiklejohn is at home and receiving visitors – after all, we’ve yet to see where she lives.’
‘Other thing is the deceased’s house,’ Clarke added. ‘I know a crew’
s been through it, but I wouldn’t mind a nosy.’
‘And there’s a set of keys somewhere around here.’ Fox’s gesture took in the office.
‘Rendezvous at eight?’
Fox did a quick calculation in his head. ‘Eight it is.’
20
Isabella Meiklejohn lived a literal stone’s throw from Gio Morelli, but unlike her friends, she was making do with a second-floor flat on St Stephen Street, almost directly across from the Antiquary pub. Her voice on the intercom had been wary, switching rapidly to irritation when the two detectives identified themselves.
‘Not more bloody questions,’ she complained as she buzzed them in.
The tenement stairwell was on the shabby side. A bicycle was chained to the landing rail next to her door, and Clarke asked if it was hers.
‘Full of surprises, aren’t I?’ she said with a cold smile, ushering them in. The hallway was narrow and cluttered. A mannequin acted as a coat and hat rack, while a stuffed pine marten in a glass case did duty as a table of sorts, its lid covered with unopened mail, keys and headphones. Clarke caught a glance of the galley kitchen – obviously the maid’s day off. Both bedroom doors were closed. The living room was cuboid, with just the one window. An open door gave a view into a box room, which had become a study of sorts – desk, computer, printer. Dance music played through a portable gadget that Meiklejohn silenced with a spoken command.
There were some books piled by the fireplace, but not huge amounts, and no visible bookcases. Plenty of garish art on the walls, possibly the work of friends or fellow students. Meiklejohn flounced back onto the sofa, legs tucked under her. A glass of red wine sat on the floor, next to a half-empty bottle and a full ashtray. The smell of tobacco lingered.
‘Hard work cycling uphill into town,’ Clarke offered, ‘especially for a smoker.’
‘Nothing wrong with my lungs.’ Meiklejohn glanced down at her chest before giving Fox what she probably thought was a coquettish look.
‘Any word from your father?’
‘No.’
‘And you’re not beginning to worry?’
‘Should I?’
Fox cleared his throat. ‘The calls between you and Mr bin Mahmoud on the day he died: can you remind us what they were about?’
‘Probably the usual – a bit of gossip, maybe plans for the weekend.’
‘Not business, then?’
‘Business?’
‘When we bumped into you at that restaurant earlier, you looked to be dining with some of Stewart Scoular’s investors.’
‘Did I?’
‘That’s what I’m asking.’
Meiklejohn lifted her glass and turned her attention to Clarke. ‘What do you think, Inspector?’
‘At first I thought you were getting a free feed in exchange for flashing your tits at a bunch of men old enough to be your father.’
Meiklejohn hoisted the glass in a toast before drinking. ‘And now?’ she said.
‘Scoular is part of a consortium that’s been trying to buy a golf course in Edinburgh. Some of the same people are probably part of the scheme to build a new upmarket resort between Tongue and Naver – on land largely owned by your father.’
‘Owned by the Strathy Estate,’ Meiklejohn corrected her.
‘Which equates to the same thing, more or less. So what we’re wondering is, was your role at the lunch maybe more substantial? Do you speak for your father at such gatherings?’
Meiklejohn took her time placing the wine glass back on the floor. ‘And how exactly,’ she drawled, ‘does any of that get you nearer to identifying Sal’s killer?’
‘We’re just working with the pieces given to us,’ Fox said. ‘Seeing how they might fit into the overall picture.’
‘Are you sure KerPlunk isn’t a better analogy? Because when I look at you, I see two people with nothing but the straws they’re yanking on.’
‘You do want Mr bin Mahmoud’s killer caught, Lady Isabella?’ Clarke butted in.
‘Of course I do.’
‘And you still claim that he had no obvious enemies?’
‘Envious racists apart, no.’
‘No one who owed him money or he owed money to? No commercial disagreements? No spurned friends or lovers?’ She gave a bit of extra weight to the final word.
‘We never fucked, Inspector.’
‘Why not?’
Meiklejohn met Clarke’s stare. ‘I don’t think that’s any of your business.’
‘You and Gio Morelli aren’t an item?’
‘No.’
‘Stewart Scoular?’ This time the question came from Fox.
‘What the hell has my love life got to do with any of this?’
‘Is that a yes?’
‘It’s a big fat fuck you.’
‘How well did your father know the victim? Well enough for Salman to phone him at Strathy Castle?’
‘I wouldn’t know.’
‘Or was it you he was calling?’
‘I spend as little time up there as humanly possible.’
‘But you took Salman there, yes?’
‘For a couple of parties.’
‘Parties your father attended?’
‘I’m not saying they didn’t know one another socially, but my father spends more time in London than he does anywhere north of the border.’
‘And London,’ Fox interrupted, ‘happens to be where Mr bin Mahmoud was studying.’
Meiklejohn gave a slow nod, as if remembering something. ‘My father did arrange for him to visit the House of Lords – Sal loved that. But actually something came up, so Pops couldn’t make it and he had a friend show Sal round instead.’
‘I’m guessing VIP visits to the House of Lords would impress Stewart Scoular’s would-be investors.’
‘I still fail to see what any of this has to do with Sal’s death. Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got a seminar I need to be prepping for.’
‘Tomorrow morning?’ Clarke asked. ‘What time?’
Meiklejohn had to think about it. ‘Eleven.’
‘What’s the topic?’
‘Poetry of the … ’ She looked around the room for help answering.
‘Not a lot of obvious textbooks here,’ Clarke continued. ‘I’m not sure you go to many of your classes. It’s all just a bit of a lark to you – or it was, until things that were more fun came along. Things like Salman and Gio and maybe even Stewart Scoular.’ She turned away from the sofa. ‘We’ll see ourselves out.’
‘Paradise Lost!’ Meiklejohn called to the retreating figures.
‘Is that the one with the snake?’ Fox asked Clarke.
‘And the tree of knowledge.’
‘Could do with one of those,’ he muttered, pulling the door closed after them. He was a few steps down before he realised Clarke was studying the bicycle.
‘Did we check the CCTV for bikes?’ she asked. ‘Near the scene of the crime, I mean? Isn’t there a bike lane right next to the warehouse?’
‘You don’t think … ?’
‘Just being thorough, Malcolm. Which is maybe why we should also put some thought into Lady Issy and Stewart Scoular.’
‘If they’re lovers, you mean?’
‘Present, past or even future.’
‘What’s your best guess?’
‘Jury’s out,’ she said with a shrug. ‘One thing, though – no great show of conspicuous wealth at Lady Issy’s residence.’ She lifted a set of keys from her pocket and gave them a shake. ‘Here’s hoping for better things elsewhere.’
The house on Heriot Row already felt abandoned. Clarke tapped the code into the intruder alarm to reassure it she meant no harm. Fox had found the light switches. The hall was large and had been recently modernised: white marble floor; gold trim wherever possible; statuary, pr
esumably of Middle Eastern provenance. Clarke scooped up some mail. None of it looked interesting, so she added it to the pile on the table by the door.
‘Who else has keys?’ she asked.
‘Deceased’s lawyer,’ Fox stated.
‘None of his friends?’
‘Not that we know of. This floor and the two above belong to the bin Mahmoud family. There’s a garden flat below, owned by a guy who has a software business. He’s been interviewed; says his neighbour was quiet for the most part – a few car doors slamming and engines revving after a party, but that’s about it.’
‘Mr Software never merited an invite?’
‘No. The one substantial chat they seem to have had was when the deceased mooted buying the flat, but the owner wasn’t for selling.’ Fox saw Clarke glance at him. ‘Not exactly grounds for murder.’
‘On the other hand, I’d say Salman was probably unused to people saying no.’
‘We could invite the neighbour in for a chat?’
But Clarke was shaking her head as she pushed open the door to the drawing room.
The word that sprang to mind was ‘opulent’: two huge plush sofas; a large wall-mounted TV with sound system; more statuary and ornaments. A vast antique carpet covered the wooden floor. The bookcases were filled with a range of oversized hardbacks, most of them histories of art and antiquity. One whole shelf, however, had been set aside for books about James Bond and Sean Connery. In front of these sat two framed photos of the actor, taken in his Bond days, both autographed.
Next door was a contemporary kitchen, nothing in its capacious double fridge but vegetarian ready meals and bottles of white wine and champagne. The separate freezer contained only a few trays of ice cubes. Fox was checking behind another door off the hall.
‘WC and shower,’ he said.
He followed Clarke up the curving stone staircase. The master bedroom contained a large bed and a wall-length built-in wardrobe with mirrored doors. Salman bin Mahmoud’s various suits, jackets and shirts were neatly arranged, some still in the polythene wrapping from their last dry-clean. Tiered drawers inside the wardrobe held underwear, belts, ties, jewellery.
‘Liked his cufflinks,’ Fox commented.