by Ian Rankin
‘Surely job one is getting Morelli in here and interviewing him under caution,’ DC Phil Yeats said. He was handing round the teas and coffees, this having become a routine he seemed to welcome. (‘Detective wages for a Tea Jenny’s work,’ had been Ronnie Ogilvie’s comment one night in the pub after Yeats had left.)
‘We need to remember he’s a flight risk unless we get him to surrender his passport,’ Malcolm Fox added.
‘In good time, Malcolm,’ Sutherland said. He had taken up position in front of the wall display, facing his team. ‘Car’s gone to the workshop at Howdenhall. If there’s trace evidence to be found, they’ll find it. I’m promised news by close of day.’
‘Search warrant for Morelli’s home?’ Esson piped up.
‘As soon as I’ve had a word with the Fiscal. Do we have any thoughts as to motive?’
‘Not exactly,’ Siobhan Clarke offered, ‘but there’s premeditation there. I’m guessing he thought it less risky to head out of town to rent the vehicle. CCTV from the airport shows him dressed very unshowily. Malcolm and I have had dealings with him, and he’s always immaculate.’ The team had been handed printouts of the CCTV stills. They studied them as Clarke continued. ‘Hooded sweatshirt, jeans and trainers.’
‘What’s the backpack for?’ Ronnie Ogilvie asked.
‘How many people fly into Edinburgh with no luggage at all?’ Clarke answered. ‘He’s trying not to stand out. But the hoodie brings me to another thing–it’s what he was wearing the night he claims he was attacked.’
‘Claims?’
‘Remember what I said about the thought that’s gone into this: if Morelli’s viewed by us as a victim…’
‘He’s less likely to seem a possible suspect.’ Ogilvie nodded his understanding.
‘All of which is great,’ Sutherland interrupted. ‘But it remains speculative.’
‘Pretty compelling all the same,’ Fox stressed. ‘Car at the murder scene; renter known to the victim; prearranged meeting. Don’t forget–last call on Salman’s phone was to his good pal Giovanni.’
‘Which we dismissed because of who Morelli was and what had allegedly happened to him,’ Christine Esson added. ‘When in fact he might just have faked a mugging by dunting his head against a wall.’
Sutherland was nodding thoughtfully. ‘Let me talk to the Fiscal, get things moving. But in the meantime let’s keep this under wraps–no leaks for a change.’ He paused. ‘Understood, George?’
Gamble froze, digestive biscuit halfway to his mouth. ‘Don’t look at me, boss.’
‘Just making sure you’re paying attention. And let’s hear it for Siobhan and Malcolm. It’s because of them that we’re as far along as we are.’
Sutherland started clapping, the others joining in. The applause was the usual mix: genuine enthusiasm and relief, topped with a sprinkling of resentment that the collar belonged to someone other than the celebrant.
‘Thanks, folks,’ Fox said, hands clasped together.
‘Don’t let it go to your big baldy head,’ George Gamble retorted.
As they returned to their desks and Sutherland headed into his office to make the call, Clarke saw Fox run a questioning palm over his scalp.
‘He was winding you up,’ she told him in an undertone.
‘I know that.’
But Clarke knew that next time Fox went to the toilets, he’d be angling his head in front of the mirror in an attempt to take a really good look.
41
He awoke with a start and lashed out, but the face above him belonged to Robin Creasey.
‘Bloody hell, John, thought I’d lost you there.’
Rebus’s hand went to his windpipe. He sensed damage. Swallowing brought a searing heat to his throat. He tried speaking, his voice barely a whisper.
‘Keith’s computer was here.’ He gestured towards the drawer. ‘Jimmy borrowed a motorbike, the night Keith was killed. Ron Travis heard it.’
Creasey switched on his phone’s torch and aimed it into the drawer. ‘Something at the back,’ he said.
‘Keith’s notebooks.’
‘I’ll get someone here to stand guard. And an ambulance for you.’
Rebus shook his head, the action causing immediate dizziness. He accepted Creasey’s help as he made to stand. The world birled around him as he took his inhaler out, aiming it between his chattering teeth. Wasn’t sure it would do any good, but he took a couple of puffs anyway. As he made his way tentatively from the shed, he saw Frank Hess standing in the kitchen doorway. The man’s eyes were judging him.
‘Where will he have gone?’ Rebus demanded in the same strangulated whisper.
‘Don’t worry about that, John,’ Creasey said. ‘Let’s just focus on you for the moment.’
Rebus grabbed a fistful of Creasey’s jacket lapel. ‘Let’s not,’ he said.
‘Jimmy is a good boy,’ Hess was intoning, more to himself than anyone else. Rebus thought he could see tears in the old man’s eyes. He got Hess’s attention and pointed towards Creasey.
‘More you tell them, the better–for your grandson, I mean. You need to do the right thing now, Frank. Start making up for all your wrongs.’
Hess glowered at him. ‘You and I are no longer young men. Keith was a young man, impatient, full of ideas. He thought he could change things.’ He stabbed a finger towards Rebus. ‘For how long were you a policeman? And did you change the world? Did you change anything?’
‘I’ll tell you one thing I didn’t do–kill a man because I was jealous of what he had. But then you as good as killed a second time, didn’t you–framing Hoffman, seeing him executed? And to stop that coming to light, you sent your grandson to kill yet again. And my guess is you were fine with that.’
‘It was not planned! It was not!’
Rebus turned his head towards Creasey. ‘Get the shed sealed off, dust those notebooks for prints, check if there’s anything useful in the house. Warrant might be a bit easier to arrange now, wouldn’t you say?’
‘I’ll need a statement from you too. And I still think you should go to hospital.’
‘I promise I will–just as soon as you’ve got hold of Jimmy Hess.’
‘Don’t go looking for him, John,’ Creasey called out as Rebus headed on fragile legs towards the close. By way of answer, Rebus gave a little wave of one hand.
42
Interview Room B, Leith police station.
Interview Room A did exist, but it had been out of commission for months due to a leak in the ceiling that would prove costly to fix. Siobhan Clarke had checked that the AV recorder in IRB was working. Graham Sutherland sat next to her. Malcolm Fox had argued that there should be someone present from Gartcosh, to which Sutherland had answered with a one-word question: why?
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 sequen
ce 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
‘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.’
