by Ian Rankin
‘No, ma’am.’ He noticed that the ACC was staring at him with almost preternatural calmness.
‘Malcolm,’ she drawled, pressing the palms of her hands together, ‘we need, you and I, to talk about Morris Gerald Cafferty … ’
29
The looks on the faces of the team back in Leith ranged from expectant through hopeful to sceptical. Clarke responded with a shrug while Fox announced that the CCTV would be ‘fast-tracked’.
‘So we can expect to hear back in weeks rather than months?’ Ronnie Ogilvie posited.
‘Don’t be so negative, lad,’ George Gamble said, stifling a post-lunch belch. ‘That’s always been my job.’
There were a few tired smiles at this. Clarke had walked between the rows of desks – desks across which (Christine Esson’s aside) paperwork sprawled – and negotiated her way past further heaps of paper on the floor until she reached the Murder Wall. It was dispiriting how little of note had been added to it recently. There seemed to be not quite enough oxygen in the room. They were in danger of beginning the process of going through the motions. The look on Graham Sutherland’s face when he emerged from his lair told her he wasn’t far off telling them to go back to square one and recheck everything they’d already checked.
‘Gartcosh?’ he asked.
‘In train,’ Clarke replied.
‘Modern electric or clapped-out diesel?’
The joke was weak but merited something. She managed a twitch of the mouth. Sutherland stood next to her.
‘A sudden bout of guilty consciences would be nice,’ he stated. ‘The assailant or someone who knows them. Somebody always knows something. In the old days, we’d be on the street hearing the gossip.’
‘We could try offering a reward.’
‘It’s crossed my mind.’
‘Another press conference? Rekindle some media enthusiasm?’
‘They’ve all moved on to the elusive Lord Strathy.’
‘According to one source, he’s hanging out with Lord Lucan in a Monte Carlo casino,’ Tess Leighton piped up from behind her computer.
‘I can check that lead out if you like.’ Christine Esson had her hand raised like a kid in a classroom.
Clarke lowered her voice before asking Sutherland if he was getting any grief from on high.
‘No more than usual,’ he muttered. ‘Though the Saudis have slightly changed their tune. There’s some trade negotiation under way and they’re using our apparent incompetence as leverage. Salman has gone from persona non grata to revered martyr in pretty short order.’
‘Expediency wins the day.’
‘With us as the whipping boy.’ Sutherland stared at the wall. ‘None of which should distract us from the job at hand. You don’t think we maybe missed something early on? Worth another look at the autopsy, the scene-of-crime report—’
‘Why not the forensics too?’ Clarke interrupted. ‘Then we can bring everyone in for interview again and nudge the Met into sifting through their findings for the tenth time.’
‘I’ve reached that point, have I?’ Sutherland asked, looking sheepish.
‘Only slightly earlier than anticipated.’ This time they shared a smile.
‘Guys,’ Christine Esson called out, ‘you’re going to want to take a look at this.’
They started to gather around her desk, Clarke slowed by an incoming text on her phone. It was from Laura Smith.
Turn-up for the books!
‘Well, well,’ George Gamble was saying, breathing heavily after the effort of walking halfway across the room.
‘Looks like Issy Meiklejohn’s doorstep,’ Fox was saying, eyes on the news feed playing on Esson’s monitor. ‘Can you turn the sound up?’
Esson was doing just that as Clarke arrived. Several cameras and microphones were being pointed towards where Issy Meiklejohn stood, her hand gripping her father’s forearm in a show of support and apparent relief.
‘Never knew there’d be such a fuss,’ Ramsay Meiklejohn was saying, his face redder than ever, eyes darting from camera to camera, questioner to questioner.
‘Who instigated this?’ Sutherland was asking. ‘How come we’re last to know?’
‘Shh!’ Christine Esson said. Then, realising what she’d done: ‘With respect, sir.’
‘Just a few days’ much-needed R&R,’ Meiklejohn was explaining. ‘Catching up on sleep; fresh air and exercise.’
‘Somewhere nice, Lord Strathy?’ one reporter yelled from near the back of the scrum.
‘Nowhere that’s getting a free advert,’ Issy Meiklejohn broke in. ‘I’m just glad my father is back in one piece, not that I ever had any concerns. My view is that this whole charade was an attempt by the police to divert attention from their manifest failings in finding the murderer of my friend Salman bin Mahmoud. It’s their inept handling of that case that should be your focus now.’
Her father nodded along, pushing out his bottom lip to underline his wholehearted agreement.
Sutherland was jabbing the screen. It was live video from a local news website. ‘You say you know where this is?’ he asked Fox.
‘Me and Siobhan were there a couple of days back.’
‘Then why in God’s name are you still here? Go fetch!’
‘And if he’s unwilling to play ball?’
‘We’re a murder inquiry and we have questions for him. If he won’t cooperate, place him under arrest.’
Clarke’s eyes were still on the screen, focused on Meiklejohn’s daughter. ‘Might be a two-for-one deal,’ she advised.
‘So be it,’ Sutherland said. ‘Now get moving, the pair of you!’
It was not a long drive from the police station to St Stephen Street, despite the vagaries of roadworks and temporary diversions.
‘Has there ever been a time when Edinburgh hasn’t been a building site?’ Fox said through gritted teeth. They were in his car for a change. Clarke had wound her window down a couple of inches for some fresh air.
‘Are you really not going to tell me what Lyon wanted?’
‘Correct.’
‘But it was to do with Cafferty and the videos?’
‘As the Pet Shop Boys sang, my lips are sealed.’
‘That was Fun Boy Three.’
Fox’s brow furrowed. ‘You sure?’
‘Well, if you’re not going to play nice, maybe I should keep my news to myself.’
‘And what news might that be?’
‘John sent me some pics from a magazine spread at Strathy Castle.’
‘I’ve seen them.’
‘You’ve got some of them on your computer, but not these ones – one of them shows our dear Chief Constable and his wife looking very chummy next to Stewart Scoular.’ She saw him staring at her. ‘Eyes on the road, Malcolm.’
‘When did this happen?’
‘While you were meeting the ACC.’
‘And you kept it to yourself because … ?’
‘I was thinking it through. Want to hear my theory?’
‘Go ahead.’
‘Say the Chief Constable is one of Scoular’s investors … ’
‘I’d think it’s above his pay grade, no?’
‘He could probably manage the odd few thousand – and Scoular would definitely want him on board.’
‘Other investors would certainly be reassured,’ Fox agreed.
‘My guess is, Cafferty found this out.’
‘How?’
‘Probably because Martin Chappell has the sort of name Scoular would want to drop into a lot of his conversations.’ She watched Fox nod slowly. ‘And if we were to find any dirt on Scoular … ’
‘That would hasten Chappell’s retirement, so as to hide any potential embarrassment to Police Scotland.’
‘Putting Jennifer Lyon on the throne.’
>
‘Makes sense,’ Fox said.
‘So now I’ve told you, will you take it to the ACC?’
‘I’ll have to think.’
‘If you do go to see her, I want to be there too.’
‘Duly noted. You didn’t get round to telling Graham?’
‘No, and I think it should stay that way, unless we start to see a connection to the murder.’ Clarke’s phone was buzzing. Not a number she recognised, but she answered anyway.
‘DI Clarke?’ the voice said. ‘This is DS Creasey. I’m a member of the Keith Grant inquiry team.’
‘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.’
‘H
ow 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.’
‘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.
