‘And you’re stretching that all the way to Colin Belkin? How do you reckon he got to you?’
‘Remember his friendly cop in Thurso, the one who checked up on Malcolm Fox? You could do worse than ask him.’
‘In my acres of free time, you mean? I’ll be sure to add it to the list. You think this Belkin character’s going to cause you trouble?’
‘I’ve already seen evidence of his temper. Seems to be very protective of his employer.’
‘Don’t do anything rash, John.’
‘Perish the thought, DS Creasey.’
‘And Samantha and Carrie are okay?’
‘I’ll let you get back to your jazz. Speak tomorrow.’
Rebus ended the call and went indoors. May Collins had taken the stool next to his. She was holding a glass with a half-inch of whisky in it. He saw that his own glass had been topped up. Cameron was the other side of the bar, his cider already half finished.
‘I took the liberty,’ Collins said. ‘Though if you don’t want it … ’
‘After you’ve gone to the trouble of pouring it?’ Rebus lifted the whisky to his lips and took a mouthful.
‘Cameron says your car got keyed.’
‘Aye.’
‘Any idea why?’
‘Serves me right for parking in a dodgy part of town.’ He paused. ‘I’m assuming it’s not an everyday occurrence around here?’ He watched her shake her head. ‘Well, anyway … ’ He held up his glass to clink it against hers, then did the same with Cameron.
‘Here’s tae us,’ Cameron said.
‘Wha’s like us?’ Collins added.
‘Might just leave it there,’ Rebus said, unwilling to finish the toast. But the words echoed in his head anyway.
Gey few, and they’re aw deid …
Day Four
23
Clarke and Fox were waiting in the interview room at Leith police station when Giovanni Morelli arrived. He wore the same scarf around his neck, tied in the same style. Dark blazer, pale green chinos with matching V-neck jumper (cashmere most likely), leather slip-on shoes with no socks. A pair of sunglasses had been pushed to the top of his head.
‘Heading to the beach after?’ Fox suggested as Morelli was ushered in. ‘Or is that what you wear to classes?’
‘I was brought up to dress well,’ Morelli commented with a shrug. Clarke gestured for him to take the seat opposite her and Fox. She had a thick dossier in front of her, its manila cover kept closed. She had padded it with blank sheets from the photocopier to make it look more substantial, and had written Morelli’s name on the front in nice big letters. Alongside it sat a selection of photographs of various parties Morelli and the victim had attended. He reached out and turned one of them towards him, the better to study it.
‘He was fun to be around?’ Clarke made show of guessing.
‘Definitely.’ Morelli leaned back in his chair, angling his right leg across his left knee and undoing his blazer’s single shining button.
‘We came to realise,’ Clarke said, ‘that though we know quite a lot about you, we hadn’t actually had a proper chat.’ She patted her hand against the folder.
Morelli looked from one detective to the other. He hadn’t shaved for a few days, but Clarke doubted it was laziness. A five o’clock shadow suited his complexion and jawline and he knew it.
‘Okay,’ he said, drawing the word out.
‘You come from a wealthy background, grew up in Rome, yes?’
‘Correct.’
‘That night in Circus Lane, you told us you’d met Issy and Sal at a mutual friend’s party in St Andrews … ’
‘Not quite – Issy and I were at the party. We met Sal there for the first time.’
‘Meaning you already knew Issy?’
The Italian nodded. ‘We were sixteen, seventeen, still at school. Our families ended up at Klosters at the same time, and we met at a party there.’
‘Klosters the ski resort rather than Cloisters the Tollcross pub?’ Clarke enquired, glancing towards Fox: prejudice vindicated, she was telling him.
‘We discovered we liked similar books, music, films … ’
‘No coincidence then that you both applied to Edinburgh University?’
Another shrug. ‘It has a good reputation. And of course there are no fees.’ He said this with a self-deprecating smile.
‘Because of EU rules,’ Fox agreed. ‘Which are about to end.’
‘Bloody Brexit,’ Morelli commented.
‘Have you noticed any changes during your time in Scotland?’ Fox went on.
‘Changes?’
‘A hardening of attitudes.’
‘Racism, you mean? Not especially – it’s a bigger issue in England, I think.’
‘Yet you were attacked … ’ Clarke watched Morelli give another shrug. ‘So if that wasn’t a race crime, what was it? You’ll appreciate that you’re not dissimilar to Mr bin Mahmoud – to the untrained eye, I mean, on a dark night, an under-lit street … ’
‘With your hood up,’ Fox added.
‘You think they mistook me for Sal?’
‘Only problem with that hypothesis,’ Clarke continued, ‘is that you were treated leniently – much more leniently – by comparison. It could have been by way of a warning, and when Mr bin Mahmoud seemed not to have taken that warning, they upped the stakes.’
Morelli leaned forward a little. ‘But who were these people? What had he done to them?’
‘That’s what we’re attempting to ascertain, Mr Morelli.’
‘He had no enemies.’
‘We keep hearing that. But he was running an unsustainable lifestyle, judging by his bank account. Was he maybe borrowing? Were there drugs issues? We appreciate you were his friend – one of his very closest – and you want to protect his reputation, but if there’s anything that could help us, we need to hear it sooner rather than later.’
Clarke sifted the photographs as she waited. Fox had clasped his hands across his chest, a benign look on his face. Morelli ran a palm along his jaw, as if to aid his thinking.
‘Stewart Scoular,’ he began, his voice tailing off.
‘Yes?’ Clarke prompted.
‘There was a millionaires’ playground in the Highlands, the scheme required investment. Stewart was courting Sal.’ His eyes met Clarke’s. ‘Is that how you say it?’ He waited for her nod before continuing. ‘And of course you are correct, whenever there
