by Ian Rankin
Small comforts, Fox mused. You took them where you could.
And now the doors were opening again, and Stewart Scoular emerged, a woman on his arm. She wore heels and a tight black dress with a cream jacket draped over her shoulders. Fox had expected to recognise her, but it wasn’t Issy Meiklejohn. He thought about trying to get a photo with his phone, but he was too far away and couldn’t risk the flash. Besides, if he needed a name, Cafferty could probably provide it. A taxi was being summoned by one of the doormen, Scoular slipping him a banknote by way of a tip. Fox was reminded of a Glasgow cop he’d known who tipped everyone, from café staff to barkeepers. Always gave to beggars and Big Issue sellers, too.
‘It’s nice to be nice,’ he had explained. ‘And now and then, one or two might even reciprocate.’ Meaning a nugget of gossip or inside gen. ‘Just wish I could claim it back,’ he had added with a chuckle.
Fox had only worked alongside him a few months, was having trouble summoning a name. Last time he’d seen him had been the funeral of a fellow officer. There had just been time for a brief handshake and a hello.
He watched now as the back door of the black cab closed, the same doorman doing the honours. A brief wave and the taxi moved off with its cargo. Fox followed, having jotted down the exact time of Scoular’s departure from the Jenever. Result or not, if necessary they could show Cafferty that there had been no lack of effort. Always supposing the ACC’s plan didn’t work out. Never did any harm to have a backup.
He knew within a few minutes that they were headed to Scoular’s home. He remembered the man’s boast at their first meeting, about how he didn’t always live there alone. As far as Fox could see, nothing was happening on the back seat – no faces converging. He followed the cab to Stockbridge, staying well back at the drop-off. As Scoular and the woman went into the house, he started moving again, catching up with the taxi a few hundred metres further on. He flashed his lights until the driver signalled and stopped. Fox pulled up behind him, walked to the driver’s window and showed his warrant card.
‘Thought I had a flat,’ the driver said.
‘Nothing like that. Wanted to ask you about the couple you just dropped off.’
‘What about them?’
‘Any interesting chat?’
‘I wasn’t listening.’ The driver saw from Fox’s look that he wasn’t falling for it. ‘Really didn’t say much of anything,’ he conceded. ‘Busy with their phones. He made one call, overseas I think.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘He asked what time it was there. They were confirming a conference call of some kind, at a time to suit everyone.’ The driver shrugged. ‘That was about it. Can’t say he looked too happy, though.’
‘No?’
‘Seated next to a dolly bird like that, no way I’d be scowling.’
‘Did her name get a mention? Had they just met, do you think?’
‘Not a scooby.’
‘Anything else?’
The man shrugged again. Fox thanked him.
‘Will you put in a word next time I get a ticket?’
Fox managed a thin smile. ‘Drive safely,’ he said, retreating to his car.
Scoular was worried, it seemed, and unable to switch off, even on a date. Overseas: the Far East maybe, or the USA. With bin Mahmoud gone, there was a gaping financial hole that needed to be filled, meaning more hard work for Stewart Scoular. No way was he behind the killing – it was the last thing he’d needed. Didn’t mean there wasn’t a connection, though. Didn’t mean there weren’t secrets he was keeping.
Fox added the details to his little notebook. Time to go home, he reckoned, with a brief pit stop at a curry house.
He had an early start in the morning, after all.
Day Seven
38
As Fox walked towards the Avis desk, he saw a figure he recognised holding something out towards him.
Siobhan Clarke. A cardboard beaker of coffee.
‘Good morning,’ she said.
‘You’re here early,’ Fox replied.
‘You too.’ She made show of checking her watch. ‘Had the feeling you would be.’
Fox looked towards the rental desk. A businessman was being served, his wheelie case parked next to him. ‘Have you … ?’
‘That wouldn’t be very comradely, would it? Buying a coffee and waiting – that’s what colleagues do.’
‘All right, you’ve had your fun.’ He took a sip from the cup, then prised off the lid. It was a cappuccino, as far as he could tell. Clarke opened her shoulder bag and lifted out a dozen sheets of paper, held together with a paper clip.
‘This is what Robbie sent me. Close-up of the cleaned-up number plate; DVLA details; a few shots of the car as it travelled through the city that night.’
‘He must really like you,’ Fox commented as he sifted the sheets. The businessman was wheeling his suitcase towards the exit.
‘Shall we?’ Clarke asked, heading to the desk, Fox at her heels.
A supervisor had to be called, the clerk handing the phone to Clarke so she could explain. Then the supervisor spoke to the clerk and the clerk got busy on her keyboard. Fox had asked to speak to someone from the security staff, and a man had arrived, Fox telling him that he needed CCTV from the date the car was rented.
‘Main concourse, Avis desk and parking bays will do for starters.’
‘That’s a big ask.’
‘Big asks are all a murder inquiry ever has. Your cooperation at this time would be appreciated.’
The man puffed out his cheeks but headed off anyway to make a start, taking with him one of Fox’s business cards.
‘System’s a bit slow today,’ the clerk was telling Clarke.
‘That’s fine,’ Clarke responded. Not that it was. She was holding onto her coffee cup like she might at any moment wring the life from it.
‘Sure you should be having caffeine?’ Fox asked.
She stopped drumming the fingers of her free hand against the counter. A couple of customers had arrived and were queuing behind the two detectives.
‘Maybe I could serve them first?’ the clerk requested.
‘They can wait,’ came the terse response from Clarke.
‘Okay, here we go,’ the young woman said half a minute later. A printer whirred somewhere below the counter. She slid from her stool and crouched to retrieve the sheets of paper. ‘The physical paperwork will be in one of the filing cabinets, along with the credit card receipt. But meantime … ’ She handed over the printout. Clarke sought the renter’s details. Fox beat her to it, jabbing the name with his finger.
‘Giovanni Morelli,’ he stated, repeating it silently as if trying to make sense of what he was seeing, while Clarke continued to scour the form.
VW Passat with 1,200 miles on the clock, rented the morning Gio’s good friend Salman was murdered, returned first thing the following day, fewer than thirty miles having been added to the car’s total mileage.
‘Ten into town,’ Clarke said, ‘and the same back.’
‘Around five from the New Town to the murder scene,’ Fox added, nodding his comprehension. He turned his attention to the clerk. ‘Where is this car right now?’
The clerk tapped away at her keyboard. ‘It’s onsite.’
‘Has anyone else rented it since Mr Morelli?’
She looked past Fox’s shoulder to where the queue was growing and becoming impatient.
‘Don’t worry about them,’ Clarke said. Then, turning towards the queue, ‘A police matter. Thank you for your patience.’
The clerk got busy again on her keyboard. ‘It’s due to be issued to a new customer today.’
‘Not going to happen,’ Clarke said. She fixed Fox with a look. ‘We need Forensics out here.’
‘It’ll have been valeted?’ he checked w
ith the clerk. She nodded her agreement.
‘Blood’s not going to shift for a bit of vacuuming and polishing,’ Clarke told him. She already had her phone in her hand, entering the number she needed. Fox turned back towards the clerk.
‘Keys, please. And a note of whatever bay it’s in.’ He was finding it hard to concentrate and knew it would be the same for Siobhan. There were procedures to be followed, but all he could think about was Giovanni Morelli.
‘Haj?’ Clarke was saying into her phone. ‘I need a crew at the airport. Avis parking lot. Car there may have been used in the bin Mahmoud homicide. DI Fox and me are here already.’ She listened to whatever was being said to her and watched as the clerk handed Fox a slip of paper and a key fob. ‘Yes,’ she assured the scene-of-crime boss, ‘we can secure the immediate area. But be as fast as you can, eh?’
‘We’ll let you get back to work,’ Fox was informing the clerk. ‘But we will need all the documentation you mentioned, so when you’ve got a free second … ’ He saw that Clarke was already making towards the exit, having abandoned her coffee on the counter. He placed his own cup next to hers and started moving.
‘Why?’ she asked, as they crossed the road. They weren’t quite running, but they weren’t quite walking either. Fox had buttoned his jacket in an attempt to stop his tie flapping up around his ears. ‘I don’t get it, Malcolm. I really don’t.’
‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,’ Fox cautioned. ‘This might only prove that he was there that night.’
‘You saw the photos – no sign of a passenger in the Passat. So unless Salman gave his killer a lift to the murder scene in his Aston … ’
‘Could be a third car we’ve just not seen yet.’
‘Or Issy on her bike, eh?’ Clarke shook her head. ‘It fits; it’s just that it doesn’t make sense.’
‘Morelli’s the one we need to be asking.’
She looked at him. ‘Reckon he’s a flight risk? Parents with money and powerful friends … ’
‘Let’s see if the car can offer us some clues.’
They were nearing the Avis lot now. ‘Which bay?’ Clarke asked.
‘Forty-two, like The Hitchhiker’s Guide.’ He saw the look on Clarke’s face. ‘Just attempting a bit of levity.’
They walked the rest of the way in silence. There was a kiosk, and the man stationed there had obviously been alerted by the clerk in the terminal. He led them to bay 42 and left them to it.
‘Tempting to take a look,’ Fox said, holding up the key.
‘Better not,’ Clarke warned him. She was circling the car, pressing her face close to its various windows. It had definitely been through a wash, and the inside looked pristine. When her phone pinged, she checked the screen.
‘Forensics?’ Fox guessed.
‘The DCI,’ she corrected him. ‘Wants to know where we are.’ She made the call, lifting the phone to her ear. Fox was wishing he’d not dumped that coffee. The temperature hadn’t got into double figures yet and there was no shelter to be had. Not that Siobhan Clarke seemed bothered. Her cheeks were suffused with colour, her eyes gleaming. When she met Fox’s gaze, there could be no mistaking her confidence, which, if not misplaced, meant he’d soon be on his way back to his desk at Gartcosh.
He knew he shouldn’t feel entirely sad about that, but he did.
39
Joseph Collins took his time opening the door of his cottage, his walking frame proving an impediment. Rebus greeted him from the path, where he was admiring the garden.
‘Can’t all be your own work?’ he speculated.
‘Mostly May these days. What the hell do you want?’
‘Wondered how you were doing – can’t have been easy yesterday. May’s still not over it. All the rumours, and the eyes on her when her back’s turned.’
Collins squared his shoulders. ‘We’re strong, the both of us.’
Rebus had approached the front step. ‘Can I maybe come in?’
‘Why?’ Collins was peering at him through glasses that needed a polish to clean them of various smears and smudges. Seated in the bar, he had seemed stooped and tremulous, but his eyes were the same ones that had seen warfare and bloodshed. The young Josef Kolln was visible to Rebus, trapped deep within an aged receptacle.
‘Because,’ he intoned, ‘your gun was used to kill an innocent man, meaning it’s time you came clean. For May’s sake as much as yours.’
‘Go to hell.’
‘I was a cop for over thirty years, Mr Collins – I’ve been to hell. What I saw in Camp 1033 wasn’t as bad as some, but it’ll still haunt me. Keith didn’t deserve what happened to him, but he deserves your help.’
‘Your own daughter most likely did it.’ The old man was growing agitated.
‘You really think that?’
‘I don’t know what I think.’
‘I’m more interested in what you know. See, there was a reason that gun was put on display. You were goading someone, letting them know you knew.’
‘Knew what?’
‘The truth about who killed Sergeant Davies. And with Keith digging the whole story up again, no telling what might happen. He believed it was the same gun. Maybe he thought he could get it tested for DNA. That’s why he lifted it from behind the bar. You always told people the truth – that you found it washed ashore. But I don’t think you did much to dispel the other rumours. In fact, once they’d started, you got to like them, because they pointed the way to the real story.’
Rebus had taken another step towards Joseph Collins. He could see past him into the narrow hallway beyond. Family photos on the walls, the usual clutter of a long life.
‘Stefan Novack, Helen Carter and Frank Hess – Keith interviewed all of them. Stefan drives, but he wasn’t at the camp at the time Sergeant Davies was murdered – unless you know different. Helen’s sister had more than her share of admirers, some of whom became her lovers. Was Helen jealous? Did she have a thing for Sergeant Davies? Then there’s Frank, who admired her but doesn’t seem to have been admired back.’ Rebus paused. ‘And then there’s you. You knew both Frank and Helen. Which means you knew her sister too. I began to wonder if the gun was your way of telling people you’d done it. See, planting the murder weapon in Hoffman’s room means it had to be someone with access to the camp. Helen worked there; you and Frank Hess were interned there.’
‘Leaving only a few hundred other potential suspects.’ Collins sounded suddenly weary, shoulders starting to droop. The gnarled, liver-spotted hands were trembling as they gripped the walker. ‘Tell me, Mr Rebus, which of us had the strength to cause Keith’s death? You say the revolver was in his possession – we must have fought him for it, no? Wrestled it away from him? Can you picture that? Really? Can you?’
Rebus waited a moment before taking a final step. His face was now inches from Collins’.
‘Time to end it, Herr Kolln – for both our daughters’ sakes.’
Collins’ eyes seemed to cloud over a little. He lifted one hand from the walker and rubbed it across his lips. Then, with slow deliberation, he began to back away from the doorway, hauling the walker with him.
‘You’re right,’ he said as he retreated. ‘I never told him it wasn’t the same gun. He never lost his thing for the ladies, you see – it was my way of warning him off my wife … both my wives, come to that.’
‘Who, though?’
‘Go talk to Frank, Mr Rebus.’ Slowly the door began to close.
‘From what I know of him, that could be pretty one-sided.’
‘Try anyway.’
The door clicked shut, leaving Rebus on a spotless path in a well-kept garden.
‘I will then,’ he said quietly, scratching a hand through his hair.
The house Frank Hess shared with his grandson Jimmy sat on a short terrace leading off the main road down towards the sho
re. The sun was out, the day becoming pleasantly warm. Rebus thought he could hear the semi-distant crashing of waves. It struck him he’d yet to visit the beach. Maybe soon. He had rung the bell three times before he heard a voice bawling from somewhere inside.
‘What do you want?’
‘Mr Hess? It’s John Rebus, Samantha’s father.’ He had prised open the letter box and was yelling through it.
‘Go away.’
‘I can’t do that, Mr Hess. We need to talk.’ He placed his eye to the slit in the door, withdrawing rapidly as a walking stick was jabbed into the space.
‘It’s about the revolver and why Keith took it from the pub. He tried asking you about it. Seemed to make you angry. Mind you, judging by today, I’d say that’s probably your default setting.’
‘Leave us alone.’
‘Is Jimmy there? Can I speak to him?’ Rebus risked placing his eye to the letter box again. He could see the old man’s torso, the chaotic hallway behind him. He let the flap close again and tried the door handle. The door wasn’t locked, so he took a step inside. The walking stick caught him across one shoulder but did not deflect his attention from the objects he had seen from outside. He lifted the heavy leather jacket from its hook, studying it as another blow landed against his back. The old man was wheezing and spluttering. Rebus crouched down and picked up the crash helmet, in which nestled a pair of leather gloves. He turned towards Frank Hess, deflecting the latest blow with his elbow.
‘Jimmy has a bike,’ he stated.
‘No,’ Hess said, making to land another blow. Rebus dropped the jacket and snatched the end of the walking stick, holding it tight while Hess tried to wrest it away from him.
‘So he just likes dressing in the gear?’
‘He’s a good boy. He looks after me.’
Rebus nodded. ‘Unconditional love – he’ll do whatever it takes to keep you contented. You guessed why Keith had lifted the gun. You knew why Joe kept it on display behind his bar. Always with an eye for the ladies – hit you hard that Chrissy had no time for you but seemed perfectly happy giving herself to anyone else.’ He paused for a moment, watching as Hess’s chest rose and fell, as if he was having trouble catching a breath. ‘No love for Hoffman in the camp,’ he ploughed on. ‘No one about to complain if he went to the firing squad – easy to plant the revolver in his room and then get word to the authorities.’ He paused again, studying Hess. The man was medium height, and had lost any weight he’d carried in younger years. Folds of flesh hung from his neck. His cheeks were sunken, teeth yellow. ‘You’ve been filled with rage all your life, haven’t you, Herr Hess? Not much you can do with it at your age. Jimmy, on the other hand … ’