by Ian Rankin
‘You’re Lord Strathy’s alibi, the one I’m supposed to accept on trust – without seeing your face or having a name to put to it. You’ll appreciate that’s not usually how we operate on a murder inquiry. Still, I’m listening.’
As were the others in the MIT office. Clarke ignored them and walked into the hallway, closing the door after her. Fox was in the admin room next door, talking to one of the staff. Clarke descended the stairs until she was beyond his eyeline.
‘He was with me for the best part of five days. I doubt we were out of one another’s sight for more than half an hour in all that time.’
‘This was in London?’
‘Yes.’
Clarke did the calculation. Five days, which finished yesterday morning. Strathy’s little romp had started only a day or so after Keith Grant died and three days after Salman bin Mahmoud’s murder.
‘During your time with him, did you watch the news, read a paper?’
‘Not so you’d notice.’
‘One of Lord Strathy’s business partners had been found murdered. The man was a friend of his daughter’s. He didn’t mention it at any stage?’
‘He did not.’
‘Maybe he excused himself to make or take a phone call?’
‘We promised ourselves – phones off.’
‘Awkward if your husband needed to contact you.’
‘Look, I’ve told you what I can. Ramsay was with me. We were having a good time.’
‘He was relaxed, didn’t seem at all worried?’
‘Same old Ramsay.’
‘The crime I’m investigating took place in Scotland, and our legal system demands corroboration.’
‘Pity we weren’t engaged in a ménage à trois, then, isn’t it?’ There was a throaty chuckle as the line went dead.
Clarke stared at the screen of her phone. ‘Gotcha,’ she said quietly.
Back in MIT, she crossed to Christine Esson’s desk and jotted the telephone number onto a much-doodled pad.
‘Analyst would have a field day with those,’ she said, admiring the swirls, swooshes, lightning bolts and zigzags that kept Esson busy during every phone call she made.
‘What am I doing with this?’ Esson asked, tapping her pen against the line of digits.
‘Finding me a name, address and anything else that can be gleaned. I’d do it myself if I possessed half your skill set.’
‘And that concludes Siobhan’s motivational TED talk. Thank you all for coming … ’
Clarke was smiling as she headed for her own desk. Fox had just taken his seat and was stifling a yawn.
‘Still not sleeping?’ Clarke guessed, noting how bloodshot his eyes were.
‘Sleep’s overrated.’
‘Strathy’s lover just called me. Christine’s going to put a name and face to her.’
‘She used her own phone?’
‘With any luck. What did admin want?’
‘I’m using too much paper.’ She stared at him. ‘Seriously. All the background stuff I’ve been printing out and photocopying.’
‘I thought we had a proper budget – how much stuff have you been churning out?’
‘A fair bit.’
She looked at the piles on his side of the desk. More was stacked on the floor.
‘Two copies of everything,’ he confessed.
‘One for home, one for here?’ Clarke guessed. ‘So you can keep at it even when you’re not in the office?’ But then she made a clucking sound. ‘No, Siobhan, that’s not quite it – it’s so you can pass one set along to either the ACC or Cafferty, and my antennae tell me the latter is the more likely.’
‘Keeping him onside,’ Fox intoned quietly.
‘Just stuff relating to Stewart Scoular, though? Not the bin Mahmoud case per se? Tell me he’s not watching us do our job … ’
‘I’m being careful.’
‘How careful?’
‘As much as I can be. There’s obviously a bit of crossover here and there.’
‘That’s great news, Malcolm. Means if we ever lift Cafferty for anything, he can brag that he’s got you tucked into his breast pocket like a little silk handkerchief. I thought we’d covered this when we were walking back here from his big shiny gangster car?’ She saw the look Fox was giving her. ‘What is it you’re hiding?’
He started shaking his head.
‘Please tell me you’ve not gone all lone wolf and reckon you can deal with him without anyone’s help?’
Having stopped shaking his head, Fox made a zipping motion with his fingers across his mouth.
‘Can we have a grown-up conversation here?’ Clarke insisted.
‘Not quite yet.’
She was about to remonstrate further, but Christine Esson was approaching.
‘Fast work,’ Clarke commented.
‘This isn’t that,’ Esson said. ‘But it’s kind of interesting nonetheless. Just got a message about the Chinese student who was mugged on Argyle Place. Seems her phone’s been returned to her, along with an apology.’
‘An apology?’
‘In English and Mandarin Chinese, apparently. The student’s friend, the one who helped translate for her, she got in touch just now. Says the Chinese is really ropy, wonders if the apology was fed into some online translation site.’
‘What does it say exactly?’
‘She sent a photo of the note.’ Esson handed her phone over to Clarke. Fox slid his chair closer so he could see it too.
Really sorry for what I did to you. Promise never to do it again. And then presumably the same message in Chinese characters. Written with the same black ballpoint pen and in the same hand by the look of it. The Chinese rendition looked clumsy, mistakes scored out and corrected. The English version was in capitals, and even that looked a bit wonky. Clarke angled the phone’s screen towards Esson.
‘Would you say this person’s hand was shaking?’
‘Parkinson’s?’ Esson suggested.
‘But in the real world?’
‘Written under duress or in an emotional state,’ Fox answered.
Esson took her phone back. ‘Phone and note were in a Tesco bag stuffed through the victim’s letter box.’
‘How did the mugger know where she lives?’
Esson shrugged. ‘I’m guessing maybe her phone? Probably got a tracker or something – maybe a food delivery app. People are increasingly sloppy with their personal information.’
‘A mugger who grew a conscience,’ Clarke pretended to marvel.
‘I assume you don’t think that’s the case here?’
‘I suppose what matters is that we can remove her from the wall. Hugely doubtful she ties to the attacks on Salman and Gio.’
‘Do you want to tell the boss or shall I?’ Esson asked.
‘It’s all yours, Christine. We’ve done sod all to earn the privilege.’
35
Clarke and Fox had just returned from a late lunch – soup and a roll at a café on Constitution Street – and were settling themselves at their shared desk. Clarke could see from the corner of her eye that Christine Esson had news. Sure enough, as soon as they were seated, she was on her feet and striding towards them.
‘Here comes DCI Sutherland’s favourite student,’ Clarke teased.
‘She’s about to become yours too,’ Esson retorted, handing over a sheet of paper. ‘Name’s Violetta Pakenham. Lives in Kensington. Owns a boutique there. Married, two grown kids.’
‘I know that name,’ Fox said, getting to work on his computer. A moment later he had what he was looking for. ‘Probably George Pakenham’s wife. He’s one of Stewart Scoular’s investors.’
‘I can see why Lord Strathy would want the affair kept hush-hush,’ Clarke commented. ‘Piss off Pakenham and you’d mightily piss off Scoular.�
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‘And everyone else in the consortium,’ Fox added. ‘These things are built on sand, and that sand is made up of public confidence. To have one of your big names cheating with the wife of another … ’
‘Gives us a bit of leverage, if we want it,’ Esson argued. ‘I mean, if we think there’s anything about the case that Strathy’s been hiding from us … ’
‘He tells or we leak?’ Clarke nodded her understanding and met Fox’s eyes. ‘Do we think he’s hiding anything?’
‘I’m not sure, and I certainly don’t want him sparking out on us again.’ Fox busied himself on his keyboard for a moment, then angled his screen towards Clarke and Esson. The photo he’d found showed a couple at a red-carpet event. The man was in his seventies, the woman much younger.
‘Just the twenty-year age gap,’ Esson commented.
‘What about Issy?’ Fox asked Clarke. ‘She’s the one who put Mrs Pakenham in touch with us. She must know her dad is playing with fire.’
‘Reckon she told any of her mates?’
‘I’d say she’s good at playing things close to her chest.’
‘Or else Scoular would probably already know.’
Fox nodded. ‘As Christine says, this gives us leverage. Fetch Issy in, get her to tell us everything she knows or suspects.’
‘Okay,’ Clarke said after the briefest consideration, ‘let’s do it.’
An hour later, the two uniforms who had been sent to St Stephen Street to collect Lady Isabella Meiklejohn escorted her up the stairs and into the same interview room she’d been made to wait outside while her father was being questioned the previous day. She took her time composing herself, ignoring Clarke and Fox, who sat opposite.
‘Turns out I was wrong to trust you, Detective Inspector Clarke,’ she intoned as she adjusted her jacket. ‘I’d be an idiot not to know why I’m here.’ Finally she looked up, her eyes throwing darts in Clarke’s direction.
‘How is Lord Strathy?’ Fox asked in a voice that was almost genuinely solicitous.
‘He’s no longer in danger. Some lifestyle adjustments have been suggested.’
‘By his doctors or by you?’ Clarke enquired. Meiklejohn gave her another withering look.
‘Should I be calling Patsy and inviting her to join us?’
‘Depends how many other people you want knowing that your dad’s sleeping with the wife of someone he’s doing business with.’
Meiklejohn gave a sour smile. ‘I did warn her to make sure the call couldn’t be traced. Dozy bitch doesn’t even have the sense.’
‘George Pakenham’s had ties to Stewart Scoular’s business for quite some time,’ Fox stated. ‘The two of them seem pretty chummy.’ He was sifting through the details he’d found, including a dozen or so photos taken at trade awards dinners.
‘And?’
‘I’d imagine you’d like it to stay that way.’
‘Which entails cooperating with you?’ Meiklejohn stretched out her arms. ‘In what way have I not been cooperating?’
‘Craigentinny golf course,’ Clarke said, leaning forward a little. ‘Late at night, a meeting arranged in the car park – why?’
‘Sorry, whose meeting is this?’
‘Your friend Salman. Something to do with the planned takeover? Something Salman had to see for himself?’
‘I know nothing about it.’
‘Stewart Scoular was heading the team. Don’t tell me he never discussed it with you? Your father was in the mix too, Issy, and we think you act as his representative.’
‘Which means,’ Fox added, ‘that you know more than you’re telling.’ He held a photograph in front of her face. ‘Any idea whose car this is?’
‘Not mine.’
‘Whose, then?’
Meiklejohn scrunched up her eyes as she studied the photo. ‘Are you serious? It’s just a blur.’
‘A blur that’ll soon have a licence number. What type of car does Stewart Scoular drive?’
‘He doesn’t see the point.’ She saw that a bit more explanation was required. ‘Living in the city – plenty taxis, decent public transport.’
‘So he doesn’t own a car,’ Clarke stated. ‘What if he’s invited to a party at, say, Strathy Castle?’
‘He’d rent something suitable, a Merc or an Audi.’
‘No lifts in Mr bin Mahmoud’s Aston?’
Meiklejohn gave a snort. ‘Bit cramped.’
‘Roads up there would be tough on an Aston anyway – wouldn’t look good when he had to hand it back,’ Clarke agreed.
‘Hand it back?’ Meiklejohn sounded puzzled.
‘It’s leased – didn’t you know? Same goes for the DB5 in London. The house here is owned by the Mahmoud family trust, but the London penthouse is a rental. Not what you’d call a fortune in any of the bank accounts we’ve found.’
‘And credit cards going unpaid,’ Fox added, ‘in danger of maxing out.’
Clarke was studying Meiklejohn. ‘This is coming as a surprise?’
‘Sal was loaded.’
‘Maybe at one time, but his father’s situation had altered things; a lot of the money was untouchable.’
‘That can’t be right.’ Meiklejohn was shaking her head. Clarke leaned further across the desk towards her.
‘Why’s that?’
‘He was about to sign up to The Flow.’
‘The Flow?’ Fox echoed.
‘That’s the name Stewart gave it – actually my father’s idea. The company is being incorporated this week or next.’
‘The Flow is the country club project near Naver?’ Clarke watched.
Meiklejohn nodded. ‘It’s been proving a difficult sell, the financial climate being what it is – Brexit and so forth. Stewart has some promises from America and Hong Kong, but even so … ’
‘How much did Salman intend contributing?’
‘Ten or thereabouts.’
‘Ten million?’ Fox shared a look with Clarke: where the hell was he going to get that kind of money?
‘Father was over the moon when I told him.’
‘Lord Strathy stood to turn a decent profit from the project?’ Clarke asked.
‘The trust did, certainly.’
‘And the trust is what keeps everything afloat?’
Meiklejohn nodded again.
‘So with Salman’s death … ’
She expelled some air. ‘In Stewart’s words: we redouble our efforts.’
‘Which in your father’s case meant heading off for a few days with his married lover?’
‘The ways of the flesh always take precedence where my father’s concerned.’
‘So a major investor has just been killed and your father doesn’t hold a meeting or a conference call? Doesn’t consider cancelling his plans so he can comfort his daughter, who’s just lost a good friend in shocking circumstances?’
‘You have met my father? I didn’t imagine things?’
‘What about the murder of Keith Grant? When did he learn of that?’
‘Probably at the same time he found out from the media that he was supposedly missing.’
‘And what did he say to you about it?’
‘Not a damned thing.’
Fox shifted a little, signalling that he had a question of his own. ‘The scheme hasn’t died with Mr bin Mahmoud, though?’
Meiklejohn considered this. ‘I see what you’re saying – someone was trying to scupper The Flow?’
‘Bit drastic if they were,’ Clarke cautioned.
‘Or else,’ Fox added, ‘the meeting that night was with someone Salman thought was good for the money – a loan perhaps.’
‘I keep telling you, Salman had money.’
‘Paperwork says otherwise – unless you know where he might keep a chunk of it hidden?’
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Meiklejohn shook her head.
‘Would Stewart Scoular know?’
‘I can’t see Sal confiding in him.’
‘Mr Morelli, then?’
Meiklejohn shrugged. ‘You’ve got me thinking, though. Plenty competitors out there to add to cranks like Keith Grant and Jess Hawkins.’ She folded her arms determinedly and made eye contact with Clarke. ‘I’m sure you’re wrong about Sal’s finances. The ten mil was a lock. He’d promised me and there’s no way he wasn’t going to deliver.’
‘He didn’t though,’ Clarke said quietly. Thinking: someone made sure of that …
They took Brillo for a walk across Leith Links. Clarke threw a ball for the dog to retrieve while Fox called Gartcosh to see if Robbie Stenhouse had made any progress. When Clarke turned towards him, Fox shook his head at her. She made a kicking motion with her right foot.
‘Siobhan wants me to remind you,’ Fox said into his phone, ‘about that football match – tickets and drinks on her if we get a quick result.’ He listened for a further few seconds, nodding to himself. ‘I know you will, Robbie. That’s why we all worship you as a deity.’ He ended the call and gave a sniff. ‘To be fair,’ he explained to Clarke, ‘the man is as thorough as he is scrupulous – and there’s no shortage of cameras in Edinburgh for him to check. One small nugget, though … ’
Clarke tossed the ball again. ‘Any time you’re ready.’
‘Sticker in the rear window, he thinks it might say Avis.’
‘A rental car?’
‘In which case we’re looking at someone who’s either just visiting or doesn’t have a car of their own.’
‘Or they do, but they don’t want to use it,’ Clarke added. ‘Issy seemed so certain Salman had funds available. Is there something we’re not seeing?’
‘His reputation might be enough to get him a bank loan.’
‘In which case there’d have been documentation in at least one of his houses, no?’
‘Cafferty used to be a loan shark, didn’t he?’
‘Shillings and pennies, Malcolm. I think even Cafferty might baulk at handing over ten million quid.’
‘I know I would, most days.’
Clarke had taken her own phone out and was checking its news feed. There was a short piece about a weapon having been recovered in the Keith Grant murder case, a publican and her father helping police with their enquiries.