A Song for the Dark Times

by Ian Rankin

  ‘Hob takes forever,’ she said, flipping the switch.

  ‘You’re here on your own, Mrs Belkin?’

  ‘If I had been, I’d not have let you over the threshold, not without seeing some ID.’

  Rebus made show of patting his jacket pocket. ‘In the car,’ he apologised.

  ‘No matter, my husband Colin’s not far away. He’s gardener, handyman and whatever else the place needs.’ She was fetching mugs and teapot, milk and sugar. ‘A biscuit?’

  ‘Not for me.’

  ‘You’ve really come all the way from Edinburgh?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And have you heard about our murder? It’s getting so nowhere is safe.’

  ‘Young man along by Naver?’ Rebus nodded. ‘A bad business.’

  ‘This world of ours is coming apart at the seams.’ She shook her head in bewilderment.

  ‘Hard to disagree.’

  He watched her as she took her time deciding how to frame her next question.

  ‘Is it because of Lady Isabella, Inspector?’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘She knew the Saudi gentleman–brought him here on a couple of occasions.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘But she doesn’t come home very often, prefers the bright lights and what have you.’

  ‘This is more to do with Lady Isabella’s father. We’ve information that he might have been conducting some business with the deceased.’

  ‘What sort of business?’ She poured water from the kettle into the teapot. Her hand was steady as she concentrated on the task.

  ‘Does Lord Strathy have an office–a PA or secretary?’

  ‘In London, yes. Most of his business dealings are focused there.’

  ‘Is that where he is just now?’

  A sudden flush came into Belkin’s cheeks. ‘We’re not quite sure where he is, that’s the truth of it.’

  There was a sound behind them. The door to the outside world rattled open and a heavy-set, unshaven man stood there, eyes wary as they landed on Rebus.

  ‘Colin, this is Mr Fox, a detective from Edinburgh,’ Belkin began to explain.

  ‘Oh aye?’ He didn’t sound entirely convinced. ‘Bit long in the tooth, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’m younger than I look.’

  ‘Bloody well have to be.’ The gardener went to the sink, rinsing his hands and drying them on a towel his wife handed him. ‘What’s this all about?’

  ‘The young Saudi,’ his wife informed him, as she filled another mug, ‘the one who came here…’

  ‘What of him?’

  Rebus took a step forward. ‘We’re looking into any business dealings he might have had, and your employer’s name came up.’

  Colin Belkin took a slurp of tea. ‘And how the hell would we know anything about that?’

  ‘It was Lord Strathy I came to see–your wife’s just been telling me he seems to have disappeared.’

  ‘Christ’s sake, just because a man takes a bit of time to himself,’ the gardener growled.

  ‘Is that what he’s done?’

  ‘Stands to reason.’ Belkin thumped the mug down onto the large wooden table. Then, to his wife: ‘Remember that business two years back? The reporter who said he wasn’t a reporter?’

  ‘What business?’ Rebus asked.

  But the gardener had stretched a hand out towards him, palm up. ‘Let me see some ID.’

  ‘He told me he left it in the car,’ Jean Belkin said.

  ‘Then we’ll go to the car and check it out. Against the law to tell people you’re the police when you’re not.’

  ‘I can give you a number to call,’ Rebus countered. ‘You can ask for DI Malcolm Fox.’

  Belkin dug a phone from his back pocket. ‘Let’s do that then.’

  Rebus turned his attention to Jean Belkin. ‘What business?’ he asked her again, but she wasn’t about to answer.

  ‘Door’s there,’ her husband said with a gesture, ‘unless you want to give me that number…’

  Rebus debated for a moment. ‘You’ll be hearing from us again,’ he said.

  Colin Belkin was turning the door handle, still with his phone in his other hand. With a final glare at husband and wife, Rebus made his exit, rounding the property and climbing a sloping path back to where his Saab stood waiting.

  At the end of the driveway, he left the gates gaping–it wasn’t much by way of payback, but what else did he have?–and pulled into a passing place. He switched on his phone, but found he had no signal. Had the gardener been bluffing then? It was entirely possible. He heard running footsteps, but too late to do anything about them. The driver’s-side door was hauled open and Colin Belkin grabbed a fistful of his lapel, teeth bared.

  ‘You’re no bloody copper, so who the hell are you?’

  Rebus was trying to undo his seat belt with one hand while he wrestled Belkin’s vice-like grip with the other. The man was shaking him like a rag doll.

  ‘You keep your nose out of honest people’s business!’ Belkin barked. ‘Or you get this.’ He brandished a clenched fist an inch from Rebus’s face.

  ‘Which jail were you in?’ Rebus asked. The man’s eyes widened, his grip faltering slightly. ‘I can smell an ex-con at fifty yards. Does your employer know?’

  Belkin drew his fist back as if readying to throw a punch, but then froze at the sound of his wife’s voice. She was standing in the gateway, pleading for him to stop. Belkin brought his face so close to Rebus’s that Rebus could feel his oniony breath.

  ‘Come bothering us again, you’ll be getting a doing.’ He released his grip on the lapel and reared back, turning and walking in the direction of his waiting wife.

  Rebus’s heart was pounding and he felt light-headed. He pressed a hand against the outline of the inhaler in his pocket but didn’t think it would help. Instead he sat for a moment, watching in the rear-view mirror as Belkin closed the gates with an almighty clang, his wife steering him back towards the castle. When they disappeared from view, he pushed down on the accelerator, feeling a slight tremble in the arch of his right foot. The perfect time for the CD to decide he merited John Martyn’s ‘I’d Rather Be the Devil’.

  Back on the A836, he checked his phone again and found he had one bar of signal, so he pulled over and called Siobhan Clarke.

  ‘How’s it going?’ she asked.

  ‘Lord Strathy’s not been seen by his staff for a while.’

  ‘Must be in London then.’

  ‘That’s not the impression I get. I’d say they’ve been trying to rouse him without success.’

  ‘What do you make of it?’

  ‘That’s your job rather than mine.’

  ‘I’ll check with his London office. Maybe ask his daughter, too.’

  ‘One other thing–the staff mentioned some press interest a couple of years back. Any idea what that’s about?’

  ‘Hang on.’ He could hear her sifting paperwork, and a muttering from Malcolm Fox as she asked him about it.

  ‘Strathy’s fourth wife,’ Clarke eventually said. ‘Seems he collects them like hunting trophies. She walked out on him.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Renounced the high life for the pleasures of hippiedom.’

  Rebus’s eyes narrowed. ‘Meaning?’

  ‘According to reports, she joined some New Age cult.’

  ‘Based between Naver and Tongue, by any chance?’

  ‘Why ask if you already know?’

  ‘It was more of an educated guess. Do you have a name for her?’

  ‘Angharad Oates. Cue tabloid headlines about wild oats being sown.’

  ‘Can you send me what you’ve got on her?’

  ‘Or you could google it, same as Malcolm did.’

  ‘He’s keeping you busy then?’

  ‘Just a bit.’

  ‘Funny that, when he’s just been up here asking questions at Strathy Castle…’

  ‘Keeping your usual low profile?’
/>   ‘Just remember who’s doing all your dirty work.’

  ‘How’s everything else? With Samantha, I mean?’

  ‘She’s hanging in.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘Do me one last favour, will you? Run a check on a Colin Belkin. He’s the groundsman and general factotum at Strathy Castle.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I’m betting a pound to a penny he’s got previous.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  16

  ‘Tell me what you see,’ Malcolm Fox said, turning his head towards Siobhan Clarke. He had driven them to Craigentinny golf course, passing the scene of Salman bin Mahmoud’s murder on the way.

  Clarke saw some parked cars, most of them the makes and models preferred by middle-management types–indeed, the sort of car Malcolm Fox himself drove these days. A couple of silver-haired gents were exiting the clubhouse at the end of their morning round, bags of clubs slung heavily over their shoulders.

  ‘Your future?’ she pretended to guess. Then: ‘Maybe just spit it out, eh?’

  ‘Watch and learn.’ Fox killed the engine and undid his seat belt before opening the driver’s-side door. Clarke hated him when he was like this. He could never just share a finding or what he thought might be an inspired inkling–there always had to be a song-and-dance. He was walking towards the barrier they’d just driven through. It was a weighted white pole, which could be lowered as necessary. The car park was unmanned, though signs warned of penalties and restrictions. Once Clarke had caught up with him, Fox slapped a hand against the barrier.

  ‘They close it at night–I called and checked.’

  ‘Okay,’ Clarke agreed.

  ‘Closed and locked–you see what that means?’ He waited, but she didn’t respond. ‘Salman bin Mahmoud has been here in daylight, played golf here. The car park is a good place for a meeting, he thinks.’ He made a circle in the air with a finger. ‘No CCTV, no security guard.’

  ‘He doesn’t know it’s not usable at night?’ Clarke concluded.

  ‘Thwarted, he drives to the first car park he finds.’

  ‘The warehouse.’ She was nodding now. ‘All of which assumes the meeting was his idea, yet we’ve found nothing on his phone.’

  ‘Maybe there’s another phone we don’t know about; or the meeting was planned some other way. Could even have been arranged face to face. All I’m saying is, this gives us the reason he ended up being killed where he did. Added to which, maybe the meeting was to be about the golf course.’

  Clarke saw the excited look on Fox’s face.

  ‘Any time you’re ready,’ she said, folding her arms.

  ‘I got talking to my business reporter contact. Craigentinny’s a public course, meaning the city owns it, but it’s no secret Edinburgh Council’s strapped for cash and desperate to save and make money. A consortium made an approach.’

  ‘To buy the golf course?’

  ‘Apparently not just this one–and not just in Edinburgh.’

  ‘This is connected to Stewart Scoular’s plan for the golf resort up north?’

  ‘Same names keep popping up.’

  ‘Including the bin Mahmoud family and Lord Strathy?’

  Fox nodded like a bright kid whose teacher had just taken note. Clarke kept her face emotionless as she thought it through.

  ‘John says Lord Strathy’s done a vanishing act. I tried his London office but they’ve all got degrees in evasion.’

  ‘His daughter?’

  ‘Not answering her phone. I left a message.’ Clarke gnawed at her bottom lip. ‘How often did Salman bin Mahmoud play here?’ Fox shrugged. ‘The game with Scoular was how long ago?’

  ‘You know as much as I do, Siobhan.’

  ‘We need to talk to Scoular again, don’t we?’ The shrug became a slow nod. ‘And how much of this do you report back to Big Ger Cafferty?’

  ‘That’s probably best kept between me and him, wouldn’t you say? Last thing I want is for you to be dragged into this.’

  ‘In case it becomes messy?’

  ‘I’ve got a certain level of body armour.’

  ‘Better hope whoever comes for you doesn’t aim for the head then.’ Clarke unfolded her arms and placed her hands on her hips. ‘Okay,’ she said, ‘let’s go and see if we can get under the skin of a certain reptilian property developer…’

  He didn’t exactly look pleased to see them.

  They had tracked him down to a restaurant just off George Street, where he was hosting a business lunch. He was still chewing as he left his guests and entered the foyer.

  ‘Just a couple of questions,’ Clarke said, this being as much of an apology as she was willing to offer. ‘You played golf with Salman bin Mahmoud how many times?’

  ‘Three, I think.’

  ‘How many of those at Craigentinny?’

  ‘Just the one.’

  ‘And this,’ Fox interrupted, stepping closer as a waiter squeezed past, ‘was because of your consortium’s interest in taking Craigentinny into private ownership?’

  Scoular swallowed whatever was in his mouth. His eyes moved between the two detectives.

  ‘What’s this got to do with Salman’s murder?’

  ‘That’s what we’re attempting to ascertain.’

  Before Scoular could add anything, Clarke lofted another question in his direction. ‘How long ago was your final game with the deceased?’

  ‘Maybe three weeks.’

  ‘Three weeks before he died?’

  ‘I’d have to check my diary, but thereabouts.’

  ‘And this was at Craigentinny?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And the pair of you were discussing financing the purchase of the course?’

  ‘Along the way, yes.’

  ‘I’m guessing buying it would be a cheaper option than building a new resort from scratch elsewhere?’ Fox enquired.

  ‘That depends on negotiations.’

  ‘Always assuming you intended keeping it as a golf course. I’m guessing if the membership sums didn’t add up, you could always apply to rezone it and build a lot of nice executive homes…’

  Scoular glared at Fox. ‘Which of my competitors have you been talking to? Not one of them’s to be trusted–and baseless gossip can lead to a libel action, Inspector.’

  It was Clarke’s turn to step closer to Scoular as a couple of new diners entered the restaurant. ‘Seen anything of Lord Strathy recently?’ She watched his jaw tighten as he turned his attention towards her.

  ‘Ramsay?’ he eventually said. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘He’s one of your investors, isn’t he? Maybe I should even say “partner”?’

  ‘What if he is?’

  ‘He seems to have gone to ground.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘You’ve not heard from him?’

  Scoular made show of looking at his watch. ‘Was there anything else?’

  ‘Just for confirmation, Salman bin Mahmoud was what we might call a business associate? He had control of the family money and some of that money was being put towards projects you were in charge of?’

  ‘I’m a facilitator, that’s all.’

  ‘Is that a yes?’

  ‘I’ve told you as much as I can. If you’ve not found me cooperative, it might be time for me to get my lawyers involved. Meantime, maybe you could busy yourselves elsewhere–finding whoever killed Sal would be an excellent start.’

  He pushed his way back through the curtain into the dining room. Clarke and Fox had a view of the tables. They all looked full. Having waited a few seconds, Clarke crooked her index finger at Fox and pushed open the curtain. The room was L-shaped, and as they turned the corner, they saw a separate, glassed-in private area. It contained a single oval table around which sat six diners. Scoular was apologising while one waiter topped up glasses and another cleared the empty plates. Four men, all in suits and ties; one woman. Lady Isabella Meiklejohn.

  Clarke pushed open the door and wal
ked in, Fox right behind her.

  ‘This is intolerable,’ Scoular began to object. Clarke ignored him.

  ‘I left you a message,’ she told Meiklejohn.

  ‘Did you?’ Meiklejohn wore a crimson jacket over her short black dress. Her lipstick matched the jacket. She smiled what she probably thought would suffice as an apology, her eyes on her glass as she raised it to her mouth.

  ‘We’ve been trying to reach your father,’ Clarke told her.

  ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘Do you know his whereabouts?’

  ‘I do not; nor do I especially care.’ She smiled for the benefit of the other guests.

  ‘Get a message to him,’ Clarke commanded. ‘Tell him to call me.’ She watched as Meiklejohn made show of giving a toast with her glass. ‘Better let you get back to the sales pitch then…’ She stared at each of the four men in turn, as if to memorise their faces.

  Fox shifted slightly, allowing her to leave the room ahead of him. With a slight bow of the head, he followed her, catching up only when they reached the pavement. Clarke was removing a parking ticket from the windscreen of his car. She handed it to him.

  ‘Recognise any of them?’ she asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Maybe we should have brought along your man from the business pages.’

  ‘Gut feeling, though–bankers, maybe councillors.’

  Clarke nodded. ‘And Issy Meiklejohn for window-dressing.’

  ‘Nothing more?’

  Clarke stared at him. ‘What’s your thinking, Malcolm?’

  ‘She wouldn’t be the first woman in history to mask her intelligence.’

  ‘You reckon she’s running the family firm?’

  ‘Not so different from Salman bin Mahmoud’s role–maybe that was the initial connection between them: kids with their eyes on the prize.’

  Clarke couldn’t help but agree; not that she was about to give Fox the gold star he seemed to be expecting. She gestured towards the parking ticket he was holding. ‘Make sure you pay that. The fine doubles if you don’t, and I’m not sure your body armour works where Edinburgh’s wardens are concerned.’