by Ian Rankin
‘The ghosts didn’t kill him, Mr Rebus,’ McKechnie said, not unkindly.
‘I’m just trying to get a sense of who he was. I really wish I’d taken the chance while he was alive.’
‘We quite understand,’ Taylor said. ‘And we’ll do whatever we can.’
‘I appreciate that,’ Rebus said, getting to his feet.
Samantha was in Carrie’s bedroom, packing a bag. Her eyes were red-rimmed when she looked at him.
‘Your stuff will be dry soon. Where did the clothes come from?’
‘May Collins.’
‘Her husband’s?’
‘Aye.’
‘She kept her dead husband’s clothes?’
‘What are you doing?’
‘Carrie’s going to stay with Jenny.’
‘You’ve told her?’
She puffed out her cheeks and expelled air. ‘Where have you been anyway?’
‘Talking to the local history group.’
She gave him another look. ‘Any particular reason?’
‘He was found at the camp, Sammy.’
‘Please – it’s Samantha.’ She zipped shut the bag, considered for a moment. ‘Toothbrush,’ she said, squeezing past him. He followed her the few steps to the bathroom.
‘Can we talk?’
‘What about?’
‘Keith’s satchel was at the camp. Looks like whatever was in it was taken.’
‘So?’
‘You never mentioned a satchel. Or his laptop – that’s missing, too, unless you know better.’
She froze, eventually turning to face him. ‘Who the fuck am I talking to right now? I really need to know it’s my dad standing there and not just another cop who’s pulled me in for questioning.’
‘Sammy—’
‘Samantha!’ She was choking back tears as she barged past him. By the time he caught up with her, she was circling the kitchen table, looking around her wildly as if trying to locate something irretrievably lost.
‘They all think I had something to do with it,’ she blurted out. ‘Eyes on me as I walk past. Facebook and the rest ready to burn me at the stake. Your lot need fingerprints, a hair sample for DNA; they need a statement, a formal identification. And they’re just getting started.’ The fire inside her began to die back a little. ‘We’d had a row that night. Not much of one in the grand scheme of things, but your pal Creasey won’t see it like that. I’m so tired and I’m at my wits’ end and Keith’s dead and I have to keep Carrie from seeing me falling apart.’ She blinked the world back into some kind of focus. ‘Any words of wisdom, Detective Inspector?’
‘I’m here for you, Samantha.’
‘Same as you ever were, eh? Phone call twice a year if Mum and me were lucky.’ She sucked in some air and gestured towards the washer-dryer. ‘When that’s done, I want you to leave.’
‘Christ’s sake, Samantha … ’
‘I mean it. I can manage. I’m going to have to.’ She wouldn’t meet his eyes. ‘I heard they fixed your car, so there’s really no excuse.’
‘There’s every excuse – you’re the only family I’ve got, you and Carrie. I want to help.’
‘Then answer me this.’ Her eyes were boring into his as she approached, until their faces were inches apart. ‘Am I a suspect?’
‘The police need to be able to rule you out.’
‘And until then I’m ruled in, is that it? By you and them both?’ She shook her head slowly. Her voice when she spoke again had lost all its force. ‘Just go, Dad. Don’t be here when I get back.’ She hoisted the bag over one shoulder, paused at the door to the outside world.
‘A dead man’s clothes,’ she said, more to herself than for his benefit. And then she was gone.
He considered following her, tailing her all the way back into the village. Didn’t Carrie deserve to see him? Couldn’t Samantha be made to see sense? But instead he slumped onto one of the kitchen chairs and waited for the machine to finish its cycle.
Thirty minutes later, he walked into The Glen. The place was busy. Conversation quietened as he entered. One local was being interviewed by a journalist, a phone held up to record whatever story was being told. Rebus marched up to the bar. May Collins’ attention was on the two bags of clothes he was carrying rather than on Rebus himself. Eventually she lifted her eyes to meet his.
‘Don’t suppose this place has rooms?’ he asked.
12
A bar five minutes’ walk from the MIT base at Leith police station had become the team’s haunt of an evening. Graham Sutherland would sense that motivation was flagging or fatigue setting in and would announce that ‘The downing of tools will be replaced by the downing of beverages’. As ever, it was his debit card that paid for the first two rounds – boss’s rules. There was a corner table that seemed always to be available, supplemented by stools dragged from elsewhere in the bar. Sutherland had admitted to Siobhan Clarke that he phoned ahead and requested ‘the usual spot’.
‘Meaning a favour owed,’ Clarke had responded. ‘Careful, Graham, that’s a slippery slope.’
‘It’s not like in Rebus’s day. No trips to the back room for a bung or a bottle of Grouse.’ Not even a discount – Sutherland had checked that wasn’t happening, regardless of whose round it was.
There were six of them around the table this evening. Ronnie Ogilvie’s attention was on a TV quiz show, calling out the answers before any of the contestants. Esson and Leighton were busy on their phones, their drinks almost untouched. Fox was focused on the two bags of ridge-cut crisps that lay splayed on the table, licking his fingers after each mouthful.
‘Cheers,’ Sutherland said, hoisting his half-pint before taking a sip. Clarke had a gin and tonic with an extra bottle of tonic on the side. She thought again of Rebus’s generation, doubted many of them would have worried about being breathalysed. It wasn’t just that these were different times; it was more that Clarke and her colleagues were cut from very different cloth. There was still the occasional big night out, a release of pressure, but mostly they tended to treat the job as just that – a job. Gamble and Yeats had gone home, one to dinner cooked by his partner and the other to a regular five-a-side game. They were damned if police work was going to consume their every waking hour. Clarke looked across the table to Sutherland and wondered if that was why neither of them had managed to commit to the other, fearing their relationship would become swamped by the job and vice versa. A bit of breathing space was necessary.
Which was why she’d convinced herself to go to the author talk with Esson. They’d grab a quick bite somewhere near the venue, then switch off for a couple of hours. Turning her attention to Malcolm Fox as he washed more crisps down with a mouthful of Appletiser, she saw that his mind was elsewhere. He was pretending to be interested in the same quiz show as Ronnie Ogilvie, but only so he wouldn’t have to engage with anyone else. He was deep in thought, working things through, not perturbed exactly but filled with a nervous energy she doubted any of the others could see. He’d said nothing about his visit to Cafferty; had just got to work on his computer, going through the details of Salman bin Mahmoud’s friends and acquaintances, even phoning the Met to give them a further nudge. Walking past and pausing to listen, Sutherland had given him a pat on the shoulder by way of encouragement.
Fox shifted his eyes from the TV only when he realised his scrabbling fingers were failing to find any more crisps. Both packs were bare, save a few powdery crumbs. He saw that Clarke was watching and gave a shrug.
‘So how much was the parking at Quartermile?’ she asked. ‘Is it as dear as people say?’
‘I was in George Square,’ he told her. ‘That’s as much as my wallet will stand.’
‘Remember, all of you,’ Sutherland interrupted, ‘try to keep receipts for any and all legitimate expenses and be sure to put in a claim. We’ve not gone
over budget yet and I doubt we will.’
‘I could always go check out the Middle Eastern side of things if that would help,’ Esson said with a smile, without looking up from her screen.
‘The way Malcolm was pestering our friends in the Met,’ Sutherland replied, ‘I’m half expecting him to request a London trip.’
‘Probably not necessary,’ Fox stated. ‘The deceased spent most of his time down there. If someone from that part of his life had wanted him dead, he wouldn’t have met his end here.’
‘Unless they wanted to throw us off the scent,’ Ogilvie said, turning his attention from the game show’s closing titles.
‘I keep coming back to the locus,’ Fox added. ‘Why that godforsaken spot? Whose choice for a rendezvous – the victim’s or his killer’s?’
‘One thing we’ve learned – it’s been a popular stopping place in the past for drug deals and the dogging community.’
‘The dogging community?’ Esson laughed at Sutherland’s phrase.
‘Circles the victim moved in, I wouldn’t have thought he had need of either. If he wanted drugs, plenty VIP clubs and friends’ drawing rooms. And as for sex … ’
‘Was he sleeping with Issy Meiklejohn, do we think?’ Esson asked her question of the table at large. ‘Only she seems tight with this Italian guy, and as they say in detective training, cherchez la femme.’
Sutherland smiled and held his hands up. ‘This was supposed to be a bit of R&R, in case you’ve forgotten. Somebody change the subject, s’il vous plaît.’
There was silence around the table. They lifted their glasses, toyed with their drinks. Tess Leighton was the first to give a sigh. ‘I’ve got nothing.’
‘Ditto,’ Ogilvie added.
After they’d all stopped grinning, Sutherland suggested another round, but Esson shook her head.
‘Me and Siobhan better get going.’ She reached down to the floor to lift her bag. ‘See you all in the office tomorrow?’
‘I might stay for one more,’ Ogilvie was telling his boss. Fox looked sceptical, and Leighton, while nodding at the offer, had gone back to texting.
Clarke followed Esson out of the bar. It was still light, and would be for a few more hours. They were halfway to the car when her phone pinged. It was a message from Graham Sutherland.
Later tonight?
She hesitated. Decided not to reply straight away. She’d have to think about it.
The talk was being held at the Usher Hall. They’d parked on Grindlay Street and managed a main course at Dine.
‘Who knew?’ Clarke said, watching the crowd of people making their way into the talk.
‘It’s a sell-out,’ Esson informed her, rummaging in her bag for their tickets.
Clarke had another message from Sutherland.
Heading back to Glasgow soon if you don’t need me for anything.
He had a key to her flat, but she knew he would never presume.
If you’re okay on your own, head to mine. Don’t know what time I’ll be back though. She was about to press send when she had a thought. Anyone sticking around the pub? Malcolm gone home?
A moment later, two texts arrived in tandem.
Thanks. I’ll wait up.
He sloped off just after you.
Clarke stared at the screen. She knew exactly where Fox had sloped off to.
‘What’s up?’ Esson asked. Clarke realised she had been studying her.
‘Ach, it’s nothing.’
‘No, it’s definitely something. Somewhere else you need to be?’
‘I can’t seem to switch off.’
‘Don’t think I hadn’t noticed. At dinner it was like talking to a wall.’
Clarke gave a tired smile. ‘I wasn’t that bad, was I?’
Esson made a shooing gesture with one hand. ‘Go. Do what you feel you need to.’
‘You sure? I’ll pay you for the ticket.’
Esson checked the time. ‘Box office will probably take it if I hurry. I think I saw a returns queue.’
‘Thanks, Christine. I really am sorry.’
Esson made the shooing gesture again and headed in the direction of the box office. With a final smile of apology, Clarke turned towards Grindlay Street, then remembered they’d come in Esson’s car. Her own was still in Leith. She looked across Lothian Road to the taxi rank outside the Sheraton. Three cabs waited there. She dodged the traffic and climbed into the back of the one at the head of the queue.
‘Where are we off to tonight?’ the driver enquired.
‘Queen Charlotte Street – the police station.’
‘Turning yourself in, eh? Hard to live with a guilty conscience.’ The driver started the engine and switched on his meter.
‘I don’t know about that,’ Clarke answered, too softly for the man to hear.
‘Evening, Malcolm,’ she said, walking into the MIT office. Fox flinched slightly.
‘Made me jump,’ he said.
Clarke had stopped by his shoulder and was reading the screen of his monitor.
‘Friends and associates,’ he explained.
Clarke nodded. ‘Nothing that couldn’t wait till morning.’ She looked around the empty office.
‘Not much waiting for me at home,’ he explained. ‘Besides, I like having this place to myself.’
‘Means nobody interferes,’ Clarke seemed to agree, easing herself onto a chair so that they were facing one another.
‘You okay?’ he asked. ‘What happened to the talk?’
‘Found I wasn’t in the mood. You had anything to eat?’
‘Shouldn’t have had those crisps.’ He patted his stomach, then watched as Clarke reached over to lift the pad he’d been scribbling on. She flipped its pages.
‘Busy boy,’ she commented. ‘You’re almost a one-man Stewart Scoular fan club.’
‘We saw him with Meiklejohn and Morelli; stands to reason he knew the deceased too. And word on the street is he’s been known to sell a bit of coke to his pals.’
Clarke gave a thin smile. ‘And who is it exactly that you know on the street, Malcolm? Always thought of you as more of a desk jockey. You’re not even Edinburgh these days.’
Fox’s face reddened. ‘Doesn’t mean I don’t have sources, Siobhan. I’m Major Crime – we rely on intel.’
‘Give me a name then.’ But Clarke held up a hand. ‘No, let me guess first. How about Morris Gerald Cafferty? Is there any chance he could have turned snitch for Major Crime and DI Malcolm Fox?’
‘Okay, you’ve had your fun.’ Fox folded his arms. ‘I assume you tailed me earlier?’
‘Did you go to him or did he come to you?’
‘A bit of both.’
‘And he handed you Stewart Scoular, just like that?’
‘More or less.’
Clarke was shaking her head. ‘Things are never that simple where Cafferty’s concerned. What’s going on, Malcolm?’
‘I really can’t tell you, Siobhan – not yet.’
‘Does it have anything to do with that trip you took to Gartcosh?’
‘Just stop.’ He held up a hand, his palm towards her.
‘Does Cafferty know something about Scoular and Salman bin Mahmoud?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘So all he gave you was Scoular and a bit of coke-dealing? How does that tie in to the case we’re supposed to be working?’
A smile began to form on Malcolm Fox’s face. ‘I’m glad you asked me that.’
He signalled to the space next to him, so she sat down facing his computer screen, while he got busy with the mouse and a few keystrokes.
‘Who’d have thought the business pages of newspapers could be so enlightening,’ Fox began. ‘I was about to print out all this stuff, but in the meantime, take a look.’ He dabbed a finger again
st the screen. ‘Scoular’s company is involved in projects worldwide. Some years back, that included expensive apartment blocks in the Middle East. A lesson was learned along the way.’
Clarke watched as more stories appeared, this time to do with schemes in London, Toronto, Vancouver.
‘Not all of these got past the planners, but some did,’ Fox was saying.
‘The lesson being?’
‘People with money want that money to make them more money, but they also want it to be safe, and the Middle East has its risks. Salman’s father acted as a facilitator, not only sinking his own money into some of these projects but also sourcing other investors, investors who oftentimes stayed anonymous, sheltering behind company names, mostly registered offshore.’ Fox turned his head towards Clarke. ‘But with Salman’s father out of the picture … ’
‘You think Salman took over the business? I don’t recall any of our searches flagging his name up.’
‘Agreed, but take a gander at this.’ A few more clicks, another story from the business pages; a single paragraph, easy to overlook. While Clarke read, Fox provided commentary.
‘Scoular’s firm, with an injection of Saudi money, is pitching to build a golf resort up north, on land owned by Lord Strathy.’
‘Lord Strathy being … ?’
Another click, and Lord Strathy’s biography appeared, along with a photo of him in his ermine robes, roseate with privilege.
‘His name’s Ramsay Meiklejohn,’ Fox said. ‘He’s Issy Meiklejohn’s father.’ One further click produced a map of the north of Scotland. ‘The area in blue is everything he owns.’
‘That’s a lot of land.’ Clarke pointed to one coastal dot and then another. ‘Doesn’t quite cover Tongue and Thurso … ’
‘Not too far off either, though. The ancestral home is halfway between the two, just along the road from Dounreay.’
The next photo was of a castle.
‘It’s not actually that old,’ Fox commented. ‘Mid nineteenth century. The style is Scots Baronial revived, hence the Disneyland turrets.’
