A Song for the Dark Times

by Ian Rankin

  ‘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?’

  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.

  ‘Hope you know what you’re doing, John,’ she muttered.

  ‘We could go talk to Avis,�
�� Fox was suggesting, ‘show them the photos, see if they can ID the car. We’ve got a rough idea when it would have been taken out and returned.’

  ‘Did Robbie say anything about the number plate?’

  ‘He thinks he can get most of it into a readable state, probably by tomorrow lunchtime.’

  ‘Let’s cut him some slack then.’ Clarke scuffed the ball across the grass with her foot, Brillo, tongue lolling, giving chase.

  ‘Have you thought about bringing Brillo into the office?’ Fox asked. ‘I doubt the team would mind.’

  ‘Gamble’s got an allergy to dogs apparently.’

  ‘He’s got an allergy to hard work, too, but you don’t hear us complaining.’

  Clarke managed a smile. ‘I keep coming back to the money, Malcolm. If Salman was about to hand it over, The Flow was a huge step closer to becoming a reality. Who gained most from that not happening? Not Issy or her father, not Stewart Scoular.’

  ‘People up north who didn’t want it,’ Fox answered. ‘Only thing is, none of this would be in the public domain. It’s the reason why commercial espionage has become big business.’

  ‘Your source told you that, did he?’

  ‘Want me to see if he knows something we don’t about The Flow? Who the competition might be?’

  Clarke gave a slow nod, so Fox got his phone out and made the call. Brillo was seated on his haunches at Clarke’s feet, the ball ready and waiting. But she was busy with her own phone again, rereading the news story about the recovered weapon. There was a photo of Camp 1033 and she clicked on it, enlarging it with her fingers. Keith Grant was described as a campaigner who had been raising funds to buy the camp and bring it into the community as a ‘tourism resource’.

  ‘Can’t be a connection,’ Clarke muttered to herself, giving the ball another almighty kick.

  But stranger things had definitely happened.

  36

  Rebus had taken a shift behind the bar so Cameron could have a break. Usual handful of regulars, armed with anecdotes about the revolver, May and her father. He had tried putting Cameron’s mind at rest, but the memory of his fingerprints being taken lingered and the young man wasn’t entirely reassured. When a barrel needed changing, Rebus went into the kitchen and saw Cameron pacing the yard outside, puffing on a joint and checking his phone. He left him to it and told the customer he’d have to pick something

  else.

  ‘But I always have lager.’

  ‘They say variety’s the spice of life,’ Rebus coaxed him.

  ‘Give me a can of lager then,’ the man decided.

  ‘I knew there was a touch of the rebel in you,’ Rebus said, reaching into the chiller.

  Cameron was in the cellar changing the barrel when May Collins arrived back. Eyes followed her all the way from the door to the rear of the bar. She disappeared into the corridor, hanging up her jacket before returning.

  ‘Christ,’ she said, taking in the looks of her clientele, ‘if this was a Western, the piano player would have stopped.’

  This raised a few smiles, after which people went back to their conversations and newspapers.

  ‘And what the hell is that?’ she asked Rebus, gesturing towards the loudspeaker attached to one corner of the ceiling.

  ‘Leonard Cohen,’ he answered.

  She rolled her eyes before turning to the optics and pouring a whisky. Rebus could sense her staring at the space where the revolver had sat. Eventually she turned again, slopping water into her glass before taking a swallow.

  ‘It went well then,’ Rebus said.

  ‘They grilled my dad for over an hour, John. At his age! And then they started on me. How long’s the gun been missing, who do I think could have taken it?’

  ‘It is the same gun, then?’

  ‘Our prints–Dad’s and mine–are on it.’ She watched Cameron emerge from the cellar. ‘Yours too. Creasey’s on his way here to have a chat with you.’

  ‘Joe’s okay, though?’ Rebus asked.

  ‘He’s shattered. Slept all the way to the house.’

  ‘You don’t want to stay with him?’

  ‘He refused the offer.’ Her shoulders slumped a little. ‘How has it been here?’

  ‘Fairly quiet. I took a trip to the cemetery, bumped into Helen and Stefan.’

  ‘Any chance we can maybe live in the here and now just for a bit?’

  ‘You should go rest. Hate to say it, but the bar’s coping without you.’

  She shook her head. ‘Don’t want anyone whispering that I’m hiding. Bad enough I seem to be a murder suspect all of a sudden.’

  ‘I still think Keith lifted the revolver. Killer took it from his satchel.’

  ‘Might have had the decency to wipe my prints off when they’d finished.’ She flinched. ‘Sorry, that wasn’t exactly tactful.’

  ‘Take a break, half an hour or an hour.’ Rebus looked to Cameron, who backed him up with a firm nod.

  ‘Maybe I will then…’ She broke off as the door opened. Two detectives walked in, one of them Creasey, another a younger woman Rebus hadn’t seen before.

  ‘Need a wee chat,’ Creasey informed Cameron. ‘Somewhere quiet if possible.’

  ‘Kitchen?’ Cameron suggested, eyes on his employer. She nodded.

  ‘DC Larkin will take care of you,’ Creasey said. Larkin went behind the bar, following Cameron into the corridor. Creasey’s attention had already turned to Rebus. ‘And I need to borrow this one, too.’

  ‘Looks like that’s my break over,’ May Collins said. Then, to the bar generally: ‘Everyone happy being served by a murder suspect? It’s either that or time to finish up and vamoose…’

  By the time Rebus caught up with Creasey, he was in the front seat of his Mondeo. Rebus climbed into the passenger side and closed the door. ‘I told her she’s not really a suspect,’ he said.

  ‘Prints on the gun handle are mostly partials, but still good enough.’

  ‘May, her father and Cameron?’

  ‘Plus the deceased’s–though that’s between us for the time being.’

  ‘So Keith did swipe the gun?’

  ‘He really thought it was the one used to kill the soldier, didn’t he?’ Rebus gave a slow nod. ‘To answer your question, I doubt either Ms Collins or her father did for Keith–which doesn’t mean they’re not involved in some capacity.’

  ‘What about Cameron? Any motive there?’

  Creasey gave a tired smile. ‘Anyone but your daughter, eh? Well, that’s why I wanted to speak to you. I need to go see her and I thought it might help if you were there too.’

  ‘Tell me her prints aren’t on the gun?’

  Creasey shook his head. ‘But one of the partials is much smaller than the others. Almost certainly a child’s.’

  ‘Carrie?’

  ‘Rather than take the girl’s prints, I thought maybe a chat would suffice.’

  Rebus reached across to his seat belt, buckling himself in. Creasey started the engine and pulled away from the kerb. Rebus called Samantha. She was at Julie’s, as was Carrie. He got directions and passed them to Creasey.

  ‘What is it he wants?’ Samantha was asking. ‘I’ve told him everything I know.’

  ‘We’ll be there in a couple of minutes. I’ll explain then.’

  The house was a new-looking bungalow on the hillside overlooking the village. Two cars were already parked in the driveway, so Creasey stopped next to the grass verge. Julie Harris ushered them in.

  ‘Kettle’s on,’ she said.

  Samantha was in the living room, Carrie and Jenny playing in Jenny’s bedroom. While Creasey started explaining the visit, Rebus went into the kitchen to help with the drinks.

  ‘Is she okay?’ he asked.

  ‘Sam or Carrie?’

  ‘Both, I suppose.’

  ‘There’s a counsellor they’re going to start seeing, maybe an hour a week for a wee while.’

  The kitchen was neat and unremarkable, photos and a to-do list stuck to the refr
igerator door.

  ‘Your partner?’ Rebus asked. The family were posing next to a human-sized Goofy and Donald Duck.

  ‘Disneyland Paris, two Christmases back. I’d have binned it, but Jenny wouldn’t let me.’ She turned briefly to look at Rebus. ‘Walked out two months later. He’s good with the upkeep, I’ll give him that. Sees Jenny every couple of weeks.’

  ‘He’s still local?’

  ‘Aberdeen. New job, new life. All right for some, eh?’

  ‘You grew up here?’ She nodded. ‘I’ve actually not met too many people who did.’

  ‘Bright lights elsewhere.’

  ‘The same lights some people escape by moving here?’

  She handed him two mugs. ‘How does he take it?’

  ‘Whatever way we give it to him,’ Rebus said, heading for the door.

  Carrie was eventually summoned to the living room, Julie Harris replacing her in the bedroom. The girl climbed onto her mother’s knee, looking wary. It had been decided that Samantha should ask the questions. The story was quickly told, once Carrie had decided saying nothing wasn’t going to get her anywhere.

  ‘Nobody’s in trouble,’ Samantha attempted to assure her. ‘It’s just a piece of the puzzle that needs to be filled in. There was a rusty old gun in Daddy’s shoulder bag, wasn’t there? Did he show it to you?’

  Carrie bit her lip and shook her head. ‘Found it,’ she said, in a voice not much above a whisper.

  ‘And you took it out?’

  ‘It was really heavy.’

  ‘I’ll bet it was. Did Daddy see you?’

  She shook her head again.

  ‘So you just put it back and left it where you’d found it?’

  A nod.

  ‘And never said anything to Daddy?’

  Carrie turned her attention to the only stranger in the room. ‘My daddy’s gone to heaven,’ she explained to Creasey. ‘He won’t come back for a long time.’

  Samantha Rebus worked hard at keeping her composure.

  ‘Where was this, Carrie?’ Rebus asked quietly. ‘The rusty old gun, I mean?’

  ‘The garage.’

  ‘The bag was on Daddy’s desk?’ Another nod. ‘Lying open?’

  ‘I just wanted to look. I wasn’t going to take anything.’

  ‘What else was in there? Maybe some notebooks and a computer?’