A Song for the Dark Times

by Ian Rankin

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You’ve heard of it?’

  ‘I’m a friend of John Rebus. He didn’t give you my number?’

  ‘Actually he did–texted it to me just now, said you’d be a useful contact. Didn’t say you were friends, though.’

  ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘I’ll keep it quick–signal comes and goes on the A9. You’ve heard about Lord Strathy’s reappearance?’

  ‘Yes.’ Fox gave Clarke an inquisitive look, but she ignored him.

  ‘I’d like to talk to him before he leaves Edinburgh. Is there any way you could facilitate that?’

  ‘Way ahead of you, DS Creasey. We have a few questions for him ourselves.’

  ‘Can you keep him busy until I get there? Might take another couple of hours.’

  ‘A couple? I’m guessing the speed cameras will be working overtime. Strathy will be at Leith police station for as long as we can hold him. Text me when you arrive and I’ll come meet you.’

  ‘I’m grateful.’

  Clarke had another caller waiting. She hung up on Creasey and tapped the icon.

  ‘Sounds like you’re driving,’ she heard Rebus say.

  ‘Malcolm is. On our way to pick up his lordship.’

  ‘You need to ask him about the party Keith gatecrashed–we have to know what really happened.’

  ‘DS Creasey is on his way here as we speak. He’ll be the one with the questions.’

  ‘But you’ll have first dibs.’

  ‘And all I know about the case is what you’ve told me. Fill me in on Creasey, though.’

  ‘He’s capable, but not exactly inspiring. There’s a line he’s following that he expects will lead to Samantha.’

  ‘Not a complete idiot, though?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And willing to drive a hundred and fifty miles to interview a minor player.’

  ‘Strathy might be a lot more than that, Siobhan. As far as I can tell, he’s trading on his name and the fact that he owns a castle. He’s got land he wants to develop and protest groups standing in his way. He might have seen Keith and Jess Hawkins as movable obstacles. It would be a big win for Strathy if Hawkins were to be connected to Keith’s murder.’

  ‘Set up to take the fall, you mean?’

  ‘Bear all this in mind when you’re asking your questions. Just because someone looks like Billy Bunter doesn’t mean they don’t possess low animal cunning.’ Rebus paused. ‘Any further thoughts about the Chief’s involvement?’

  ‘Party line is, there’s no involvement.’

  ‘Brushing him under the carpet?’

  ‘Hang on,’ she said, turning to Fox. ‘Quicker if you turn here.’ He did as he was told, only to notice a bin lorry halfway along the street, blocking the route. With a growl, he hit the brakes and began reversing. ‘I’ll talk to you later, John,’ Clarke said into her phone. ‘Right now I need to apologise for my navigational skills…’

  At St Stephen Street, the media were packing up. While Fox found a parking spot, Clarke rang Issy Meiklejohn’s doorbell.

  ‘What?’ the intercom crackled.

  ‘Detective Inspector Clarke,’ she announced.

  ‘That didn’t take long.’

  Clarke listened as the buzzer signalled that the door had been unlocked. She climbed to Issy’s landing. The door to the flat was already open. Issy stood there like a sentry.

  ‘Need a word with him,’ Clarke said.

  ‘He’s tired.’

  ‘Nice trick with the doorstep conference, by the way–friendly media, all hand-picked?’ She peered over the taller woman’s shoulder.

  ‘Come back later,’ Issy Meiklejohn demanded.

  Clarke shook her head. ‘My boss wants Lord Strathy at the station. Only way this ends is with your dad accompanying me there. Nice comfortable car outside, no markings, no fuss.’

  ‘This is preposterous.’

  She gave an apologetic shrug. ‘Nevertheless,’ she said, her voice drifting off.

  ‘Wait here a minute,’ Meiklejohn said after a moment’s thought. She closed the door, leaving Clarke on the landing. Clarke gave the handle a surreptitious turn, but it was locked.

  It was more like two minutes before the door opened again. Lord Strathy was dressed in an olive-green tweed suit and open-necked white shirt. He hadn’t shaved, silvery bristles showing on his jowls. He looked bemused and there was a slight whiff of whisky on his breath. His daughter had donned a three-quarter-length crimson coat, covering her black polo neck and tight trousers tucked into knee-high boots. She checked she had her keys and her phone, then ushered her father out and closed the door again. Clarke composed a quick text to Fox.

  Here we come.

  ‘My father’s solicitor wants to know which station she should meet us at,’ Issy Meiklejohn said. ‘Her name’s Patricia Coleridge and she’s very, very good…’

  ‘I know her,’ Clarke said. She turned her attention to Lord Strathy. ‘Criminal law is her thing; interesting that’s the kind of solicitor you know.’

  ‘Patsy’s father went to the same school as mine,’ Issy Meiklejohn said. ‘The two families have known one another ever since.’

  ‘Why doesn’t that surprise me?’ Clarke said in an undertone as they headed down the stairs.

  Issy Meiklejohn was left to fume on a chair in the corridor while her father was escorted into Interview Room B at Leith police station. Sutherland had given the nod for Clarke and Fox to ask the questions. He’d already had a word with Patricia Coleridge, assuring her that no charges were being levelled and her client was not being cautioned, adding the caveat that if he failed to cooperate, that situation could rapidly change.

  Clarke knew that Coleridge’s mind would be as sharp as her business suit. She had already unzipped her large leather notebook and unscrewed the top from her expensive-looking pen. She had a thin mane of straw-blonde hair, prominent cheekbones and piercing grey eyes. A spectacles case sat untouched next to her. There would be no recording made, everything nicely informal.

  Strathy looked around the small enclosed space in apparent befuddlement.

  ‘You don’t have to answer anything,’ Coleridge advised him as, after a peck on the cheek, he took the seat next to her. ‘A simple “no comment” will suffice.’

  Fox had carried in some of the paperwork from the inquiry and was studying the timeline.

  ‘I doubt I can be of much use,’ Lord Strathy announced, hands held out in front of him, palms upwards.

  ‘Where have you been the past few days?’ Clarke asked, jumping straight in.

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Around the time you disappeared, there were two murders. One here and one up north. Odd coincidence, you going to ground.’

  ‘No connection, I assure you.’

  ‘You knew we’d want to question you–afraid of what you might let slip?’

  Coleridge gave a theatrical sigh as she played with her pen. ‘Is crass speculation all you have to offer us, DI Clarke?’

  Clarke ignored her, maintaining eye contact with Ramsay Meiklejohn. ‘When was the last time you saw Salman bin Mahmoud?’

  He puffed out his cheeks. ‘Weeks ago.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Four or five maybe.’

  ‘Here or up north?’

  ‘In London. A small gathering at his home.’

  ‘Business or pleasure?’

  ‘A bit of both, I suppose–no such thing as a free meal these days, eh?’ He turned to smile at his lawyer, who remained solemn-faced.

  ‘Remember,’ she reminded him, ‘“no comment” will do.’

  ‘I’ve done nothing wrong, Patsy,’ Meiklejohn told her.

  ‘Yet you can’t account for your whereabouts these past few days,’ Fox stated.

  Meiklejohn turned his attention back to the two detectives. ‘I can account for them perfectly well. I merely choose not to.’

  ‘But you weren’t in hiding?’

  ‘No.’r />
  ‘And it’s not that you were running scared?’ Clarke added. ‘I don’t mean scared of us questioning you–scared of something or someone else?’

  ‘Absolutely not.’ But neither detective could miss that he shifted a little in his seat as he spoke.

  His lawyer attempted to deflect attention with a query of her own. ‘It might help if we knew precisely why you think Lord Strathy can help you with any of this. Salman bin Mahmoud was a business acquaintance, nothing more.’

  ‘Business relationships can go sour, though, especially where large sums are concerned. The golf resort near Naver was projected to cost tens of millions, quite a few of those making their way into your pocket, Lord Strathy. Salman bin Mahmoud was one of your investors, yes?’

  ‘In a very minor way.’

  ‘He owed you money?’

  ‘On the contrary–he was preparing to top up his initial investment. His death came as a shock and a blow.’

  ‘A financial blow, you mean?’ Strathy nodded. ‘What about the buyout of Craigentinny golf course–were you involved in that too?’

  ‘Not in any monetary sense. Stewart Scoular had mentioned it, of course.’

  ‘How well do you know Mr Scoular?’

  ‘We do business occasionally.’

  ‘But he’s invited to your parties, the ones you host at Strathy Castle?’ Clarke gestured to Fox, who removed the magazine photos from their folder, placing them on the table. A sunny, windy day; smiling faces outside a large white marquee; champagne flutes held aloft.

  ‘There’s Salman bin Mahmoud,’ Clarke said, pointing. ‘And there’s Stewart Scoular.’

  ‘And your own Chief Constable,’ Meiklejohn countered. ‘An acquaintance of mine, you know.’

  ‘Meaning an investor?’

  ‘Is this going anywhere?’ Coleridge interrupted, checking her slim gold wristwatch.

  ‘This was the day of the incident, wasn’t it?’ Clarke was asking. ‘A man called Keith Grant came barging in…’

  ‘Was it the same day?’ Meiklejohn sounded genuinely uncertain.

  ‘The same Keith Grant who was murdered in one of the huts at Camp 1033, on land you own, just a few days after Salman bin Mahmoud met his end.’

  ‘All of which I’m sure is very interesting,’ Coleridge broke in again, ‘but I think you’ve had quite enough of my client’s time.’ She closed her notebook with a flourish and began screwing the top back on her pen, having written precisely nothing.

  ‘Two projects,’ Clarke pressed on. ‘Two men connected to them end up dead, and suddenly you, Lord Strathy, are nowhere to be found.’

  ‘We’re walking,’ Patricia Coleridge said, nudging her client as she rose to her feet.

  ‘An officer from Inverness is on his way here with some further questions for Lord Strathy,’ Clarke told her.

  ‘Unless you’re arresting my client, Inspector, we’re leaving right now.’

  ‘If you’re scared, we can protect you,’ Fox announced, leaning across the table so he had Meiklejohn’s attention. ‘Is it Stewart Scoular–is that who you’re afraid of?’

  ‘No comment,’ Meiklejohn stuttered, beginning to pull himself up to standing.

  ‘Your daughter is in business with you, yes?’ Clarke asked, her tone hardening. ‘Funny she didn’t mention you visiting the victim’s home in London.’

  ‘No reason she should know.’ Meiklejohn had begun coughing, and as he stood up, he had to steady himself, hands gripping the back of his chair. But when he tried to move, his knees buckled, his face growing more crimson than ever, wincing in pain. Coleridge had pushed open the door.

  ‘Issy!’ she called. But Issy Meiklejohn was right there, her mouth open in shock as she saw her father. Clarke was already on the phone, summoning a paramedic.

  ‘There’s a defibrillator in the building,’ Fox was saying.

  Lord Strathy was bent forward, hand to his chest, flanked by the two young women.

  ‘We need an ambulance!’ Issy yelped.

  ‘I’ll be all right,’ he told her, his free hand patting the back of hers. ‘Just need a bit of air.’

  ‘You’re going to the hospital,’ she said, her tone firm. Then, to Patricia Coleridge: ‘How could you let them do this, Patsy? How could you?’

  The look Coleridge cast towards Clarke and Fox left them in no doubt that she would find a way to deflect the blame onto them if she possibly could.

  Graham Sutherland had appeared in the doorway, other officers and support staff vying for a better view of the drama. When he locked eyes with Clarke, she managed nothing more than a lifting of one eyebrow. He’d told her once that he found it charming, though she rather doubted its power over him right this second.

  30

  When Creasey’s text arrived, she went downstairs to greet him. He had parked somewhere by Leith Links and was walking along Queen Charlotte Street towards her.

  ‘DI Clarke?’ he guessed, waving a hand.

  ‘How was the drive?’

  ‘About what you’d imagine.’ He was making to pass her and enter the police station, but froze when he saw the look on her face. ‘You let him go?’

  ‘He was rushed to hospital. Chest pains.’

  ‘Faking it?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Shit.’ He angled his head heavenwards. ‘Did he tell you anything useful?’

  ‘Not especially.’

  ‘The interview was taped, though?’

  ‘Afraid not.’

  He lowered his head to gaze at her. ‘Really?’

  ‘We were trying to keep it casual.’

  ‘How far is the hospital?’

  ‘They won’t let you see him.’

  ‘I need to try.’

  ‘You don’t want a coffee or anything first?’ Clarke watched as he shook his head. ‘We’ll take my car, then. You could probably do with a break.’

  ‘I could definitely do with a break–my hope was, Lord Strathy might be it…’

  Clarke texted Fox to let him know the score while she led Creasey to her Vauxhall Astra. They drove in silence for the first few minutes, Creasey leaning back into the headrest.

  ‘The A9 hasn’t improved then?’ she commented. ‘Still, must be nice to get away from John for a bit.’

  Creasey snorted. ‘He’s a piece of work, as they say.’

  ‘Not many things I’ve not heard him called. Good detective, though; never gives a case a minute’s rest.’ She paused. ‘You think Samantha did it?’

  ‘Her or her lover–that would be the standard scenario.’

  ‘So those are your chief suspects?’

  ‘Everyone but John Rebus thinks so. He’s got half a dozen conspiracy theories lined up.’ He half turned in his seat so he was facing her. ‘Smoke and mirrors most likely.’

  ‘And yet here you are, DS Creasey.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘One of John’s theories has brought you all the way to Edinburgh. He thinks you maybe lack imagination–your trip here tells me he’s wrong.’

  ‘You worked with him for a long time?’

  ‘Felt like.’

  ‘He doesn’t seem to be relishing retirement. I know his daughter’s freedom and good name are on the line, so he’s desperate–but I also sense he’s enjoying it, though maybe he wouldn’t see it that way.’

  Clarke was reminded of the case files stacked up in Rebus’s new flat. She knew he was planning to break open the unsolveds. Something to keep me warm in my old age…

  ‘I think he feels he let Samantha down,’ she confided. ‘Not just once, but over and over.’

  ‘And now’s his chance to atone?’ Creasey chewed on this while staring at the passing parade of shops. ‘I should have asked–how’s your own case looking?’

  ‘Like you, we could use a break.’

  ‘They are two distinct cases?’

  Clarke nodded. ‘With a few linked players. Your victim wasn’t making himself popular with Lord Strathy; Lord
Strathy had business dealings with the bin Mahmoud family; my victim was best friends with Lord Strathy’s daughter. And so far no clear motive in either case.’

  ‘I told you I’ve got a motive.’

  ‘Jealousy? A love triangle? I don’t think you believe that.’

  ‘She’d visited her ex-lover the day her partner was killed. He found out and they argued.’

  ‘So they leave their daughter alone in the house and drive to the internment camp? Does that make sense to you?’

  Instead of answering, Creasey leaned back into the headrest again and closed his eyes.

  ‘Not too much further,’ Clarke reassured him. Then: ‘We’re finding Lady Isabella a bit interesting. I think she has a head for business, though she hides it well. From what little I’ve seen of her father, he’s far from CEO material.’

  ‘He’s a figurehead, you mean? His daughter tucked away behind the curtain, pulling the strings?’

  ‘She’s close to Stewart Scoular–he’s the contractor who seems to sign up the investors.’

  ‘He’s also been a guest at Strathy Castle.’

  Clarke glanced at him. ‘Yes, he has.’

  ‘I can do a Google photo search as well as the next person,’ Creasey explained.

  Clarke’s attention was flitting between the windscreen and a new message on her phone.

  ‘Want me to read it out to you?’ Creasey asked.

  ‘Just an MIT colleague, wondering how long I’ll be.’

  ‘They’re missing you already?’

  Clarke shook her head slowly. ‘Just pissed off I’m dodging the flak.’

  ‘You’re being blamed for Strathy’s collapse?’

  ‘In my absence, almost certainly.’

  ‘But you weren’t alone in the room with him?’

  ‘I was with another DI called Fox.’

  ‘The one whose identity Rebus stole?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So this Fox guy will have your back?’

  A wry smile just about broke across Clarke’s face as she signalled to take the exit into the grounds of the Royal Infirmary.

  Having been told to wait in the A&E reception, Clarke fetched them a hot chocolate apiece.

  ‘About as nutritious as the machine gets,’ she apologised.