A Song for the Dark Times

by Ian Rankin

  ‘Those were on his desk.’

  ‘So he’d been working? Could you see anything he’d written?’

  A shake of the head. Samantha’s eyes were on Creasey.

  ‘Is that enough?’ she asked.

  ‘I think so,’ he replied. ‘Thank you for your help, Carrie.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’ She slid from her mother’s lap and skipped out of the room.

  Samantha squeezed her eyes shut. ‘So the gun’s the one from The Glen,’ she said, as if getting things straight in her mind, ‘and Keith took it as part of his research, and someone hit him over the head with it. I still don’t understand why.’

  ‘We’re working on it,’ Creasey said with some confidence.

  ‘I never knew he had it, swear to God. If Carrie had told me, I’d have made him get rid of it.’ She opened her eyes and stared at the living room door. ‘That’s what I’d have done,’ she said.

  ‘Carrie’s not to blame,’ Rebus cautioned, but Samantha wasn’t listening.

  ‘If she’d only said something…’

  ‘Your father’s right, Ms Rebus. You shouldn’t start—’

  She silenced him with a glare. ‘Maybe the two of you could just go away now.’ She leapt from the chair and left the room.

  Rebus and Creasey sat in silence for a moment, then Creasey rose slowly to his feet.

  ‘Do you ever drink any of the cups of tea that get made for you?’ Rebus asked, gesturing towards the still-full mug.

  ‘Don’t really like the stuff,’ Creasey admitted. ‘But people do seem to enjoy making it.’

  37

  Siobhan Clarke was stretched along her sofa, Brillo tucked in next to her and an old episode of Inside No. 9 on the TV, when her phone rang.

  ‘Hello?’ she answered.

  ‘It’s Robbie. Robbie Stenhouse.’

  ‘I don’t remember giving you my number, Robbie.’

  ‘I have ways–and I wasn’t sure this could wait.’

  Clarke lifted herself up to sitting, swinging her feet to the floor. Brillo awoke with a start and she comforted him with a pat.

  ‘You’ve got something for me?’

  ‘It’s a rental, right enough. I’ve run the plate and the car’s based out at the Avis concession at Edinburgh airport. Give me your email and I’ll send you everything I’ve got.’

  She did so, realising that she was now patting Brillo rather more briskly than the dog would like.

  ‘Does the offer of a Hibs–Motherwell match still stand?’ Stenhouse was asking.

  ‘Half-time pies on me. I’ll check the fixture list once we’ve put this case to bed.’

  ‘Speaking of which, I might call it a night. It’s a tungsten-silver VW Passat.’ He reeled off the registration number, Clarke jotting it down on the front page of the day’s Evening News.

  ‘Thanks again, Robbie,’ she said, ending the call. She chewed on the pen, lost in thought for a moment, and then called Malcolm Fox. ‘It’s an airport rental,’ she told him. ‘Robbie’s emailing me the specifics.’

  ‘Told you he was good.’

  ‘Good enough to track down my phone number.’ She broke off. ‘He asked you for it, didn’t he?’

  ‘About an hour after we left Gartcosh. Not that he’d thank me for revealing his secrets.’

  ‘Not so secret–even long-retired DIs know about him.’ She paused again. ‘You out somewhere?’

  ‘Just picking up some takeaway,’ Fox said, explaining the background noise Clarke could hear. ‘Does the airport mean it’s someone who’s just arrived in town? Don’t tell me it’s going to be some London connection the Met hasn’t bothered to mention…’

  ‘Remember what Issy Meiklejohn told us, though: Stewart Scoular rents cars sometimes.’

  ‘Added to which, she doesn’t own one, so if she felt the need…’

  ‘We’ll know more in the morning. Rendezvous in Leith or meet at Avis?’

  ‘Avis at nine?’

  ‘Suits me. So what’s on the menu tonight?’

  ‘Indian. Probably waiting for me as we speak. Have you told Graham Sutherland yet?’

  ‘He’s over in Glasgow.’

  ‘Keep him in the loop or hand him a delicious surprise?’

  ‘Let’s wait and see what we get from Avis. If it turns out to be a tourist who got lost on their way to their hotel…’

  ‘Way to burst a boy’s balloon, Siobhan.’

  ‘Enjoy your curry.’ Clarke ended the call and tossed the phone into the space left by Brillo, who had vacated the sofa and was watching her reproachfully from the middle of the living room floor.

  ‘Okay, I’m sorry,’ she apologised. A curry? No, but a single fish wouldn’t go amiss. She rose to her feet, saw Brillo start to wag his tail in expectation.

  ‘Got it in one,’ she said. ‘A single fish and a battered sausage. Maybe even a jaunt to the airport tomorrow if you’re lucky.’ She stepped into the hallway, Brillo bounding towards the door to the outside world.

  ‘One thing about an airport rental,’ she told the dog as she grabbed her coat and his lead, ‘no shortage of CCTV out there. Meaning whoever it was, we’ve got them.’

  ‘Wish I hadn’t mentioned a curry,’ Fox muttered to himself, rubbing his hand across his growling stomach. Hours since he’d eaten. Needed to empty his bladder too, but it was too public on the Cowgate. He had a thing in his glove box, a ‘He-Wee’ he thought it was called. But any of the night-time carousers wandering past could glance down and catch him in the act. So instead he shifted a little in his seat and hoped Scoular wouldn’t be too much longer in the Jenever Club. No sign of Issy or Gio tonight–though they could have arrived before he did.

  Fox picked his notebook up from the passenger seat. Scoular had taken a private-hire cab from his home in Stockbridge, not stopping anywhere en route. He had been inside for ninety-five minutes, during which time the street had altered in character. The pedestrians now were younger and noisier. There were music venues nearby, club nights and concerts starting. One stag party had swaggered past, tapping out a tattoo on the roof of Fox’s car and turning to beam smiles at him. Soon after, a hen party had arrived at the Jenever, dressed in pink sashes over matching T-shirts printed with the bride-to-be’s face. Writing on the back of each: Sue’s Booze Crew. The doormen decided they could go in, and were rewarded with a peck on the cheek or a squeeze of the backside. A little later, a couple from the party were back out again to smoke cigarettes and chat to the doormen, who had perked up as a result.

  He had the radio on–Jazz FM. Not a brilliant signal, due to the Cowgate being akin to a canyon, a narrow sunken stretch with high buildings either side. Better than nothing, though. And now he had something to think about too: an airport rental. They’d agreed nine in the morning, but Fox reckoned the Avis office would open much earlier. He might get there ahead of time, present Siobhan with a fait accompli. Not that she would thank him for it; quite the opposite. Might do it anyway, though.

  The hen party women were back indoors, the night-time chill proving too much for their skimpy outfits. One of the doormen had offered his overcoat, receiving yet another kiss, this time on the lips as far as Fox could tell. When the women had gone, both doormen shuffled their feet in a little dance.

  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 explain
ed. ‘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 with 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 infor
ming 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.