‘Scoular is part of a consortium that’s been trying to buy a golf course in Edinburgh. Some of the same people are probably part of the scheme to build a new upmarket resort between Tongue and Naver – on land largely owned by your father.’
‘Owned by the Strathy Estate,’ Meiklejohn corrected her.
‘Which equates to the same thing, more or less. So what we’re wondering is, was your role at the lunch maybe more substantial? Do you speak for your father at such gatherings?’
Meiklejohn took her time placing the wine glass back on the floor. ‘And how exactly,’ she drawled, ‘does any of that get you nearer to identifying Sal’s killer?’
‘We’re just working with the pieces given to us,’ Fox said. ‘Seeing how they might fit into the overall picture.’
‘Are you sure KerPlunk isn’t a better analogy? Because when I look at you, I see two people with nothing but the straws they’re yanking on.’
‘You do want Mr bin Mahmoud’s killer caught, Lady Isabella?’ Clarke butted in.
‘Of course I do.’
‘And you still claim that he had no obvious enemies?’
‘Envious racists apart, no.’
‘No one who owed him money or he owed money to? No commercial disagreements? No spurned friends or lovers?’ She gave a bit of extra weight to the final word.
‘We never fucked, Inspector.’
‘Why not?’
Meiklejohn met Clarke’s stare. ‘I don’t think that’s any of your business.’
‘You and Gio Morelli aren’t an item?’
‘No.’
‘Stewart Scoular?’ This time the question came from Fox.
‘What the hell has my love life got to do with any of this?’
‘Is that a yes?’
‘It’s a big fat fuck you.’
‘How well did your father know the victim? Well enough for Salman to phone him at Strathy Castle?’
‘I wouldn’t know.’
‘Or was it you he was calling?’
‘I spend as little time up there as humanly possible.’
‘But you took Salman there, yes?’
‘For a couple of parties.’
‘Parties your father attended?’
‘I’m not saying they didn’t know one another socially, but my father spends more time in London than he does anywhere north of the border.’
‘And London,’ Fox interrupted, ‘happens to be where Mr bin Mahmoud was studying.’
Meiklejohn gave a slow nod, as if remembering something. ‘My father did arrange for him to visit the House of Lords – Sal loved that. But actually something came up, so Pops couldn’t make it and he had a friend show Sal round instead.’
‘I’m guessing VIP visits to the House of Lords would impress Stewart Scoular’s would-be investors.’
‘I still fail to see what any of this has to do with Sal’s death. Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got a seminar I need to be prepping for.’
‘Tomorrow morning?’ Clarke asked. ‘What time?’
Meiklejohn had to think about it. ‘Eleven.’
‘What’s the topic?’
‘Poetry of the … ’ She looked around the room for help answering.
‘Not a lot of obvious textbooks here,’ Clarke continued. ‘I’m not sure you go to many of your classes. It’s all just a bit of a lark to you – or it was, until things that were more fun came along. Things like Salman and Gio and maybe even Stewart Scoular.’ She turned away from the sofa. ‘We’ll see ourselves out.’
‘Paradise Lost!’ Meiklejohn called to the retreating figures.
‘Is that the one with the snake?’ Fox asked Clarke.
‘And the tree of knowledge.’
‘Could do with one of those,’ he muttered, pulling the door closed after them. He was a few steps down before he realised Clarke was studying the bicycle.
‘Did we check the CCTV for bikes?’ she asked. ‘Near the scene of the crime, I mean? Isn’t there a bike lane right next to the warehouse?’
‘You don’t think … ?’
‘Just being thorough, Malcolm. Which is maybe why we should also put some thought into Lady Issy and Stewart Scoular.’
‘If they’re lovers, you mean?’
‘Present, past or even future.’
‘What’s your best guess?’
‘Jury’s out,’ she said with a shrug. ‘One thing, though – no great show of conspicuous wealth at Lady Issy’s residence.’ She lifted a set of keys from her pocket and gave them a shake. ‘Here’s hoping for better things elsewhere.’
The house on Heriot Row already felt abandoned. Clarke tapped the code into the intruder alarm to reassure it she meant no harm. Fox had found the light switches. The hall was large and had been recently modernised: white marble floor; gold trim wherever possible; statuary, presumably of Middle Eastern provenance. Clarke scooped up some mail. None of it looked interesting, so she added it to the pile on the table by the door.
‘Who else has keys?’ she asked.
‘Deceased’s lawyer,’ Fox stated.
‘None of his friends?’
‘Not that we know of. This floor and the two above belong to the bin Mahmoud family. There’s a garden flat below, owned by a guy who has a software business. He’s been interviewed; says his neighbour was quiet for the most part – a few car doors slamming and engines revving after a party, but that’s about it.’
‘Mr Software never merited an invite?’
‘No. The one substantial chat they seem to have had was when the deceased mooted buying the flat, but the owner wasn’t for selling.’ Fox saw Clarke glance at him. ‘Not exactly grounds for murder.’
‘On the other hand, I’d say Salman was probably unused to people saying no.’
‘We could invite the neighbour in for a chat?’
But Clarke was shaking her head as she pushed open the door to the drawing room.
The word that sprang to mind was ‘opulent’: two huge plush sofas; a large wall-mounted TV with sound system; more statuary and ornaments. A vast antique carpet covered the wooden floor. The bookcases were filled with a range of oversized hardbacks, most of them histories of art and antiquity. One whole shelf, however, had been set aside for books about James Bond and Sean Connery. In front of these sat two framed photos of the actor, taken in his Bond days, both autographed.
Next door was a contemporary kitchen, nothing in its capacious double fridge but vegetarian ready meals and bottles of white wine and champagne. The separate freezer contained only a few trays
