by Ian Rankin
‘A big bike, then?’ Rebus enquired. ‘Like the Kawasaki they keep out at Stalag Hawkins? Have you told the investigation?’
‘I’m not sure they thought it relevant – it probably isn’t.’
‘And as I say,’ Edward Taylor added, ‘lots of folk around here use them – I’ve even seen your daughter on one.’
Rebus stared at him. ‘Samantha?’
‘Riding pillion with Hawkins at the controls. Used to ride a bike myself back in my younger days.’
‘Mind you,’ Ron Travis commented, ‘size of some of our potholes, you could lose a bike in them if you’re not careful.’
The conversation continued for a further minute or so until they realised Rebus had long ago ceased listening, his mind somewhere else entirely.
Samantha eventually opened the door to him, a pained look on her face.
‘What do you want, Dad?’
‘Are you okay?’
‘What do you think?’
‘And Carrie?’
‘Still at Jenny’s.’
‘Have you told her yet?’
‘Yes.’ She attempted to blink back a tear. ‘I’m just here getting some of our stuff; we’re staying with Jenny and her mum.’
‘Julie Harris – I’ve met her. Can I come and visit?’
‘Not tonight.’ She angled her head, determined that the tears would not escape. ‘They took me to see him. To identify him, I mean. And they got my fingerprints. And all the time it was happening, I was thinking: this is what my dad used to do; this is how he spent his working life. No emotion, no warmth, just a job to be got on with.’
‘Samantha … ’
‘What?’
‘I have one question that needs answering.’ She just stared at him, so he ploughed on. ‘You’re sure you’ve no inkling who sent Keith that note telling him about you and Hawkins?’
‘No.’
‘Do you remember the wording?’ He watched her shake her head. ‘I’ve learned a lot about Keith these past couple of days. He had a good heart and he cared about people. That’s why the camp fascinated him – he saw echoes in it of things that might happen again.’ He watched her recover her composure as his words sank in.
‘You’re right about that,’ she said quietly.
‘But all that passion he had tells me he might well have wanted a face-to-face with Hawkins, maybe after you had that argument?’
Samantha’s face darkened. ‘How many times do I have to say it? Jess has nothing to do with this!’
‘But is it true you sometimes went out on his motorbike?’
‘Ages back – and what the hell’s that got to do with anything?’
‘We have to give them something, Samantha – the cops, I mean. Because if we don’t, all they’ve got is you. Creasey knows you took Carrie to the commune that day. I’m guessing someone there told him.’
She scowled and turned away, disappearing down the hall. He wasn’t sure what to do, but she was suddenly back, thrusting a piece of paper at him. He took it from her. Just the one word, all in capitals, done with a thick black marker pen: LEAVE.
He looked at her for an explanation.
‘Stuck through the letter box – someone without the guts to say it to my face.’ She gestured towards the note. ‘They think I did it, and they’re not the only ones, are they?’
‘I don’t think you did it, Samantha.’
‘Then why are you so desperate to put someone else – anyone else – in the frame?’
Rebus reached out and took her by the wrist while he tried to find the right words, but she shrugged herself free and took a step back inside the house.
‘I’m closing the door now,’ she said, almost in a whisper.
‘Is it the same writing as the other note?’ Rebus asked.
Instead of answering, she shut the door.
He looked down and realised he was still holding the piece of paper.
After closing time again at The Glen, Rebus was perched on a stool, nursing a well-watered whisky. He’d asked May Collins if Helen’s sister Chrissy was still alive.
‘Died a few years back – I remember Helen heading south for the funeral.’
She was in the office now, putting the day’s takings into the safe. Cameron was outside, smoking a roll-up. Rebus took out the note and unfolded it. He felt helpless and was struggling not to turn that feeling into anger.
I don’t think you did it …
Despite everything.
He was rubbing his stinging eyes when Cameron barged back into the pub.
‘Someone’s just had a go at your car,’ he exclaimed.
‘What?’ Rebus slid from the stool and strode towards the door. He followed Cameron outside. The Saab was parked kerbside about forty feet away, the closest he had been able to get to the pub at the time. As they approached the car, Cameron walked out onto the roadway, pointing to the bodywork. He flicked his phone’s torch on so Rebus could see the damage. A long, ugly line weaving its way along both rear door and front.
‘You saw them?’ Rebus asked, running a finger along the scratch.
‘Car pulled up, driver got out. I wasn’t sure what he was doing. Drove off again. Thought it odd so I came and looked.’
‘What did he look like?’
‘I was checking my phone,’ Cameron said with a shrug.
‘The car, then?’
Another shrug. ‘Mid-sized. Dark colour.’
‘Some eyewitness you make, son.’ Rebus looked around. ‘No other cars on his hit list?’ He paused. ‘I’m assuming it was a he?’
‘Think so.’
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’v
e 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 have 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,’ Morel
li 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?’