by Ian Rankin
Clarke could imagine Fox fuming somewhere in the building, maybe on the phone to Jennifer Lyon to register his displeasure. The warrant to search Giovanni Morelli’s home having been secured, Esson and Ogilvie had been dispatched there along with half a dozen well-trained uniforms and a brace of forensic technicians. Morelli had been asked for his cooperation – and his keys – on his arrival at the station. His lawyer now sat alongside him, shuffling papers. Clarke hadn’t been at all surprised when Patricia Coleridge had announced her arrival at the reception desk. She was dressed identically to her previous visit. Clarke guessed she had an array of business wear racked and ready. Same expensive notepad and matching pen, plus an iPad with a leather cover that doubled as an angled stand.
Next to her, Morelli looked a little more nervous than before. His chair had been pushed back so he could cross one leg over the other without the table getting in the way. He wore loafers with no socks, several inches of tanned and hairless ankle showing. He had already made his protestations of innocence and now he just wanted to be elsewhere.
‘Shall we get started?’ Graham Sutherland said, after they had all identified themselves for the recording. He then sat back and let Clarke take over. She began by placing a sequence of photographs in front of Morelli.
‘This is you, yes? At Edinburgh airport eleven days ago. Not quite as dapper as usual but quite recognisable. You’re renting a car from the Avis concession. Here’s a copy of the documentation you signed, and here’s a record of your credit card transaction.’
‘No comment.’
‘Really?’
Coleridge leapt straight in. ‘My client need say nothing at this point, DI Clarke.’
‘I just thought it might be simpler for him to agree that the evidence shows he rented a car for one day. This car … ’
Photos of the Passat in its Avis parking bay, and also being driven through Edinburgh’s streets as the long summer dusk shaded towards night.
‘I agree the quality isn’t brilliant. But our expert has produced a clear enough image of the number plate.’
Coleridge studied the photos while Morelli stared at the wall nearest him. ‘You’re telling me these all show the same car? I’ll admit the licence plate is legible in one of them, but as for the rest … ’ She gave Clarke a hard stare. ‘How many silver VW Passats do you think there are in the UK, Inspector?’
‘Once we rule out the ones that don’t have an Avis sticker on the rear windscreen, you mean?’ Clarke pretended to guess. ‘Fewer than you might think.’ She produced more photos. Robbie Stenhouse had certainly earned his half-time pie and Bovril. ‘Same car, 10.30 p.m., driving past Craigentinny golf course – you played there with your friend Salman, didn’t you, Mr Morelli? With Stewart Scoular making up the threesome.’ She gave him an opportunity to answer, an opportunity he declined. ‘We think the car had tried entering the nice secluded car park, but it was locked for the night. So here’s the same car on Seafield Road, 10.50 p.m., parked as if waiting for someone. Not too long after, Salman bin Mahmoud was drawing into the warehouse car park just behind where this car was parked. Soon after that, he was attacked and killed.’
‘Your point being?’ Coleridge asked.
But Clarke’s attention was firmly fixed on Morelli, who was doing his damnedest to avoid meeting her eyes. ‘What did he ever do to you, Mr Morelli? Issy will be devastated when she finds out.’
Morelli uncrossed his legs and angled his head a little. It was enough of a tell to satisfy Clarke at this stage. She got to her feet and walked around the table so she was in his eyeline. He turned his head away from her, and found that he was met by Graham Sutherland’s equally piercing gaze.
‘Car’s being checked for DNA, Mr Morelli,’ Clarke continued. ‘Not yours, but Salman’s. We’re assuming you’ve disposed of the clothes you were wearing, but when you cut someone the way you cut your friend, there tends to—’
‘I’m seeing no evidence here of any malfeasance or even impropriety on my client’s part,’ Coleridge broke in to protest. ‘DCI Sutherland, you must realise that it is not the function of any police investigation to—’
‘Ms Coleridge,’ Sutherland interrupted in turn, ‘what’s required here is a credible explanation from your client as to why he would travel out to Edinburgh airport to rent a car for one day, putting fewer than thirty miles on the clock before returning it. Once he’s done that, perhaps he can further elucidate his reason or reasons for driving through Craigentinny – not exactly turf I’d think he was familiar with – not half an hour before Salman bin Mahmoud arrived there to meet someone. Quite the coincidence, isn’t it? As is the fact that Mr bin Mahmoud’s last telephone conversation that day was with Mr Morelli. They spoke for just under five minutes, between 7.15 and 7.20 p.m. I’d be keen to know what was said, perhaps what arrangements were being made. By failing to explain himself, your client is digging himself a very deep hole. You’d serve his interests best by making him aware of that.’
He leaned back a little to let the room know he’d finished. The silence lingered. Clarke had returned to her chair. Having unscrewed the top from her pen and then screwed it back on again, Coleridge eventually turned towards Morelli. Sensing that something was needed from him, he inhaled at length and noisily before opening his mouth.
‘No comment,’ he said.
Despite his solicitor’s protestations, they were holding onto the Italian for the twenty-four hours allowed in law. He’d been placed in a cell and given weak sugary tea in a thin plastic cup. The Fiscal Depute had convened the team for a meeting, then taken Sutherland aside for a private word.
‘Nothing from the car,’ Tess Leighton said as she ended the call she’d just been on. ‘They’re giving it another go, but I didn’t sense any great confidence.’
Clarke checked the screen of her own phone. She had asked Christine Esson for regular updates from Morelli’s mews house. So far all she’d had was: Nice place! She sent another text by way of a nudge – a single question mark – and walked over to the kettle, where Fox was dunking a herbal tea bag in a mug.
‘Phil’s gone to fetch milk,’ he explained. ‘So meantime … ’
‘You’re offering me second use of your peppermint tea bag?’ Clarke shook her head. ‘I was hoping for more from the car.’
‘Me too. But it still leaves Morelli with a lot of explaining to do.’
‘Or else he keeps his trap shut and walks out of here tomorrow.’
‘Nothing from Christine?’
‘Just that he keeps a lovely house.’
‘He’ll have a cleaner – we need to ask them if he bagged any clothes for them to dispose of. Maybe there’s a knife missing from a set in the kitchen … ’
Clarke nodded slowly. ‘Christine knows all that, Malcolm.’
‘Must be something we could be doing.’
‘Wee trip to the cells for a spot of waterboarding?’
‘Few slaps would probably do it.’
‘Back in John’s day,’ Clarke agreed. Then: ‘Coleridge wants her client assessed as a suicide risk.’
‘Why?’
‘I assume the hope is that he’ll be given preferential treatment.’
‘I watched the recording.’
‘And?’
‘You were good.’
‘Anything I missed?’
‘When you mentioned Issy … ’
‘Ah, you noticed that.’
‘You touched a nerve. Bit more of that wouldn’t have gone amiss.’
Clarke nodded slowly and watched as the Fiscal Depute left Sutherland’s office, heading for the stairs.
‘She doesn’t look overly optimistic,’ Fox commented.
‘They never do, until we’ve got a confession and maybe a dozen eyewitnesses.’
Fox smiled over the rim of his mug. He sipped at the tea and savoured it. �
��Not too bad,’ he said.
‘Phil’s not exactly hurrying with that milk.’ Clarke checked the time on her phone.
‘Ask him and he’ll tell you the first shop he tried had run out. I’d put money on it.’
‘While in fact he’s just been enjoying a saunter?’ Clarke turned as Fox gestured towards the doorway. Phil Yeats was striding into the room. He hoisted a carrier bag as he approached the kettle.
‘Nearest place didn’t have any,’ he explained.
‘You keeping a crystal ball tucked away somewhere?’ Clarke asked Fox, while Yeats frowned, wondering what was under discussion.
‘Get a brew on then!’ George Gamble roared from his desk.
‘No rest, eh?’ Clarke commiserated as Yeats judged whether he’d have to refill the kettle.
‘What did the Fiscal say?’ he asked in return.
‘That you play a crucial role in this hard-working team.’
‘Sod off, Siobhan. Maybe you can run the errands next time.’
‘Just teasing, Phil. Honestly, what would we do without you?’ She paused. ‘Bring mine over to my desk, will you?’
She left the young DC to it, Fox following her back to their shared computer. A ping had alerted her to an incoming message. Once seated, she held the phone up so Fox could see it. A one-word text from Christine Esson.
Bingo!
43
The specks on Giovanni Morelli’s tan leather loafers were minuscule. One of the scene-of-crime team had taken it upon himself to study each and every pair of shoes on the neat racks in Morelli’s wardrobe. Eventually, having noted the flecks under a magnifier, he’d opted for luminol.
‘Positive for blood,’ Esson announced. She had taken up the same position as Sutherland earlier, the DCI himself now part of her audience, arms folded, feet apart. His jaw was rigid, telling Clarke that he was as full of nervous tension as anyone else – he just didn’t want to show it. ‘Shoes have gone to the lab. If it’s the victim’s blood, a match shouldn’t take long.’
‘No bin bags out the back stuffed with stained clothing?’ Tess Leighton asked.
Esson shook her head. ‘We finally traced his cleaner and she’s walking Ronnie through the scene. She’s no memory of having to dispose of anything out of the ordinary. Morelli doesn’t do much cooking, so there’s never a lot in the swing bin. It’s Brabantia, by the way – one of their nice stainless-steel ones. Whole place looks ready to be photographed for a magazine. One thing the cleaner did say is that she thinks a knife might be missing from the kitchen drawer.’
‘Thinks?’
‘She can’t swear to it.’
‘That’s not much use,’ Leighton muttered.
‘Another word with the Fiscal needed,’ Fox nudged Sutherland.
‘I’ll be the judge of that, Malcolm.’
‘Get the bastard up from the cells,’ Gamble growled. ‘Ask him some proper questions.’
‘As opposed to what, George?’ Clarke bristled.
‘He needs intimidating, that’s all I’m saying. Couple of brawny, no-nonsense Scots coppers … ’ Gamble was looking at Fox as he spoke.
‘He thinks he’s in Life on Mars,’ Tess Leighton commented with a roll of her eyes.
‘Second interview can wait until we’ve had the lab report,’ Sutherland cautioned.
‘What if that doesn’t happen till after we’ve had to let him walk?’ Gamble argued.
‘He’ll be made to surrender his passport. Don’t fret, George – he’s not getting away.’
‘I’ve known folk hightail it, passport or not, boss.’
‘I think George has a point,’ Clarke said in a level voice. ‘I’m not sure we need the report.’
‘You think he’s suddenly going to get chatty with his expensive solicitor sitting right there beside him telling him “no comment” will suffice?’
‘I actually do.’
‘Something up your sleeve, Siobhan?’
‘Just female intuition maybe.’
Sutherland gave her a look that told her he didn’t totally believe this. But he said okay anyway.
Prior to Giovanni Morelli being brought up from his cell, and while Sutherland was confirming that Patricia Coleridge was on her way, Clarke stepped into the corridor to make a discreet call, after which she descended the station’s ornate staircase, stopping at the front desk.
‘Anyone asks for me,’ she told the officer there, ‘send them straight up. I’ll be in IRB.’
The officer nodded his understanding. As Clarke climbed the stairs again, she saw Fox waiting for her at the top.
‘You’re up to something,’ he commented.
‘I’m really not.’
‘You are, though. I thought we were partners.’
‘The kind who turns up at a car-rental desk half an hour early to steal some glory?’
Fox made a show of wincing. ‘Brillo must be due a walk, surely.’
‘Nice try, Malcolm. Though if you’re offering … ’
‘I’m not.’
‘Didn’t think so.’ She leaned in towards him until her lips were only a centimetre from his ear. ‘Watch and learn, Mr Brawn.’
He was attempting a scowl as she headed back into the office.
‘Here we are again,’ Patricia Coleridge announced, with no obvious enthusiasm.
Clarke had once more checked the recording equipment before switching it on. Sutherland was in the same seat as before, opposite the lawyer and her client.
‘The cell is disgusting,’ Morelli was telling Coleridge. ‘The toilet – unbelievable. The sandwich they gave me – inedible!’
‘Just a little longer, Gio,’ Coleridge consoled him. Notebook, iPad and pen laid out, hands pressed together above them as if in prayer, eyes flitting between the two detectives opposite.
‘I assume there’s news of some kind?’ she demanded.
‘A forensic search of Mr Morelli’s home has uncovered a pair of shoes with spots of blood on them,’ Clarke announced. ‘That blood is being analysed as we speak.’
‘So it could well be my client’s?’
‘We both know that’s not the case, though.’ Clarke’s attention was focused on Morelli. ‘You got rid of everything else you’d been wearing, but no way you were going to part with such a lovely pair of shoes. You wore chain-store stuff when renting the car – less conspicuous that way – but for a meeting with Salman … well, he’d be expecting the usual sharply dressed Gio.’
‘You don’t have to say anything,’ Coleridge reminded her client.
‘Cooperation now could play in your client’s favour. Once we have the blood match, we won’t have much need for his assistance.’
‘No comment,’ Morelli said.
Clarke could sense Sutherland growing uneasy, realising how little they had to play with and wondering why Clarke had been keen to hold the interview. She wished she could reassure him, but couldn’t think how.
‘Can we talk about the knife that’s missing from one of your drawers in the kitchen?’
‘Knives get thrown away all the time,’ Coleridge drawled.
‘No comment,’ Morelli repeated. Sutherland shifted slightly in his seat again. Clarke risked a glance in his direction.
Relax.
‘When the test shows that it’s Salman bin Mahmoud’s blood on your shoes, Mr Morelli, what then? Reckon “no comment” will suffice in a courtroom?’
‘This is outrageous.’ Coleridge tossed down the pen she’d only just picked up and fixed Sutherland with a look. ‘You’ve dragged us in here with no new evidence, just a succession of wild theories and suppositions – is this really the way you run your major cases, DCI Sutherland?’
Sutherland looked like he was struggling to form a suitable answer, while Clarke’s attention had turned to the interview r
oom door, beyond which she could hear raised voices. Eventually Coleridge noticed them too.
‘What the hell’s going on?’ she was asking as the door was yanked open. Issy Meiklejohn appeared, Malcolm Fox behind her, his hand grasping her forearm.
‘What the fuck did you do?’ Meiklejohn screamed at Morelli. ‘You fucking murdering fucking … ’
Morelli was on his feet so fast that his chair tipped over and clattered to the floor. He had his hands raised as if to fend off the apparition before him. Saliva flew from Meiklejohn’s mouth as she yelled, her face puce with rage, both rows of teeth visible.
‘Get her out of here!’ Graham Sutherland was saying to anyone who would listen.
‘How did she get in?’ Coleridge was demanding. ‘The Fiscal needs to be told. This is appalling. Surely any possible prosecution is now—’
‘I did it for you, Issy,’ Morelli blurted out. ‘I did it for you.’
‘You murdered our friend!’
‘He was lying to you to get you into his bed! There was never any money for The Flow!’
‘DCI Sutherland!’ Coleridge howled. ‘I must protest in the strongest terms!’
‘Get her out,’ Sutherland repeated. Fox had his arms around Meiklejohn’s waist now, pulling her backwards as best he could.
‘Bastard,’ Meiklejohn said, all energy spent and replaced by a low, steady sobbing.
‘Issy … ’ Morelli had taken a step towards her.
‘No,’ she said. ‘No.’ She shrugged Fox aside and disappeared from view.
‘DCI Sutherland,’ Coleridge was saying, attempting to regain both her composure and control of the situation. ‘None of this is admissible anywhere – you must see that.’
Fox was making to close the door from outside. He gave Clarke a look and she gave him one back – a look that ended with a wink.
‘If we’re pausing the interview,’ she said to the room at large as Morelli righted his chair and sat down, head in his hands, ‘maybe I should switch off the recording?’