‘One last thing,’ Fox said, rising from the sofa. ‘Any idea what he was doing out by Seafield?’
‘I did wonder about that.’
‘And?’
‘Only connection I can think of is that we played golf out that way once.’
‘He was a golfer?’
‘Not much of one, no, but Sean Connery is. Sal always wanted to emulate his hero.’
‘Just the two of you, was it?’
‘Gio was there too. Not much better a player, though he definitely dressed the part. You know that scene in the film MASH? The pros from Dover – that’s who they reminded me of.’
‘You probably don’t laugh at them to their face, though?’ Clarke enquired. ‘Not when you need them opening their chequebooks for one of your projects.’
Scoular gave her a scornful look. ‘No chequebooks these days, Inspector. Strictly electronic. And I pride myself on never losing a single cent for any of my investors.’
‘The golf course up north?’ Fox added. ‘The one on land owned by Issy Meiklejohn’s father?’
‘What of it?’
‘With Mr bin Mahmoud dead, won’t funding be rather more problematic? Or had he already decided not to add any more to the pot?’
‘I think I’ve said all I’m going to.’ Scoular walked to the door and held it open. Clarke took her time getting to her feet, her eyes meeting his all the way to the threshold.
‘Thanks again for your time,’ she commented. Then, gesturing towards his bare feet: ‘Watch you don’t get chilblains … ’
‘Interesting, no?’ Fox said once they were back on the pavement.
‘We certainly got him rattled.’
‘You reckon he’s holding back?’
Clarke nodded. ‘Same as you do. Question is: what do we do about it?’
‘There are forensic accountants at Gartcosh. I might offer it to them.’
Clarke was thoughtful for a moment. ‘For someone accused of racism, he has a demonstrably international taste in friends.’
‘As long as they’re rich and not Jewish.’
‘What about the golf course angle? The one near where bin Mahmoud was killed?’
‘You reckon there’s anything there?’
‘I’ve no idea, Malcolm.’ She checked the time on her phone.
‘Walkies for Brillo?’
‘Poor wee sod’s been waiting long enough. You coming along, or do you need to report back to Cafferty?’ She watched him start to scowl. ‘I’m just teasing,’ she said.
‘I don’t think you are,’ he answered, stuffing his hands into his pockets and turning away.
‘You’ve nothing to apologise for,’ Clarke told herself in an undertone. ‘You’re not the one caught between a gangster and Special Branch … ’
Cafferty was at his usual banquette on the mezzanine level at the Jenever Club, nursing his usual lemonade, when Benny called with news.
‘Might have something, boss. Good shout on Moredun. This guy lives just off Moredunvale Road, runs the local gang there. Not unknown to the cops.’
Cafferty took a sip of his drink. ‘A name would be nice, Benjamin.’
‘Cole Burnett.’
‘Like the stuff we used to mine?’
Benny spelled it for him.
‘Never heard of him,’ Cafferty admitted, more to himself than to his employee.
‘Want me to haul him in?’
‘You’ve seen him?’
‘Not yet. Got his address, though.’
‘And what makes you so sure he’s our guy?’
‘He has a taste for nicking phones. A shove and a kick and he’s off.’
‘Who does he sell them to?’ Cafferty listened to the silence as Benny tried to work out how best to tell him he had no idea. ‘Doesn’t matter. But yes, I want him hauled in. Maybe to the club, though let’s wait till it’s shut. Not much noise escapes the cellars – you could have the Hulk wired up to the mains and no one on the street outside would know.’
‘Car battery does the job just as well,’ Benny commented.
‘You’d know more about that than I would,’ Cafferty said, though both of them knew that wasn’t strictly true.
14
It was gone midnight by the time May Collins ushered the final customers out. She had been joined for the evening shift by a barman called Cameron. He was in his twenties and lived in a caravan behind the pub, which he shared with his tattoos and facial piercings.
‘The room you’re in is his by rights,’ Collins had explained to Rebus, ‘but he’d rather be where he is.’
Rebus helped clear the tables of glasses and other detritus, while Collins stacked stools and chairs and Cameron loaded the glasswasher.
‘Leave the floor till morning,’ Collins suggested.
‘Busiest we’ve been in a while.’ Cameron didn’t sound displeased. There had been no hassle, no rowdiness. The pub had become a community hub, inquisitive journalists given short shrift. Two of the journalists had been around the last drinkers to leave – one from Inverness, one from Aberdeen. The one from Inverness had approached Rebus at one point to tell him: ‘Laura Smith says hello and that you should call her back.’ To which Rebus had responded with a few choice words of his own, causing the reporter to retreat, spending the rest of the evening in a huddle with his fellow newshound.
There had been toasts to Keith’s memory and reminiscences from those who’d known him, but behind it all lay the vast whispered question: did they have a murderer in their midst? Rebus had eavesdropped on a few suggestions. It was travellers, strangers, immigrants. Hadn’t there been a murder in Thurso a couple of years back, the culprit never caught? And hadn’t that been caused by a blow to the skull too? Necessary stories, he knew – an attempt to deflect rather than explain the reality of the situation. One wilder theory saw a poltergeist placed squarely in the frame.
‘I’ve seen strange things out that way,’ the proposer had told his rapt audience. ‘Lights, sounds, shadows moving behind the main fence … ’
Catching Rebus’s eye, Collins had shaken her head slowly.
He’d spent the evening nursing a single pint, which, once flat, he’d switched for a whisky, adding plenty of water.
‘Sorry not to be putting more into the coffers,’ he’d apologised, handing a five-pound note across the bar.
‘We’re doing grand without you,’ Collins had replied.
She opened the till now
