‘That’s not true,’ Fox said defensively.
‘Last film you saw?’ Robbie asked him. ‘Last book you finished?’
‘He’s always like this,’ Fox complained to Clarke. ‘Likes nothing better than trying to wind people up.’
Robbie grinned, eyes still on Clarke. ‘Know why I get away with it?’
‘Because people need to keep on your good side?’
‘And why’s that, do you think?’
‘They’re always after some favour or other.’
‘Always after some favour or other,’ Robbie echoed, shifting his attention to Fox. ‘And it has to be done asap, especially if it’s Major Crime asking – does that pretty much sum it up, Malcolm?’
Fox had reached the head of the queue. Without asking Clarke, he ordered two cappuccinos. ‘Robbie?’ he asked.
‘Same for me.’
Having paid, there was then another long wait while the barista got to work.
‘Worth it, trust me,’ Robbie told Clarke. ‘So you get along to a game now and then?’
‘Not as often as I’d like.’
He handed her a business card. ‘If you fancy a drink before or after the next time our teams meet in battle … ’
‘Siobhan’s partner is a DCI,’ Fox said in warning.
‘Can’t blame a man for trying.’
‘A DCI with scant interest in football,’ Clarke qualified, pocketing the card.
They took their coffees back to the seats, finding a quiet spot.
‘They’re supposed to be breakout areas,’ Fox said, prising the lid from his coffee so it would cool more quickly. ‘Theory is, different disciplines can mingle and share intelligence.’
‘Whereas in reality,’ Robbie said, ‘nobody shares a single bloody thing they don’t need to – scared they’ll end up not getting the credit.’
‘Not strictly accurate,’ Fox muttered into his cup.
‘But you’re absolutely right,’ Clarke told Robbie, ‘in assuming we’re just another in that long line of people who need a favour. Malcolm tells me there’s nobody to match you at Gartcosh when it comes to CCTV.’ She hoped she wasn’t laying it on too thick, but he looked the type who liked having his tummy tickled. ‘Tidying up images, turning blurs into identifiable faces and suchlike.’
Robbie gave a shrug that was mock-modest at best. ‘I like to think I’m pretty good,’ he eventually conceded.
‘Which is why we’ve driven all the way from Edinburgh to see you.’
‘The Saudi student?’ he surmised. Clarke nodded slowly. ‘Had to be, I suppose; pretty quiet in Edinburgh otherwise, no?’
‘Drugs, gangs, muggings – pretty quiet, yes.’
‘You’ve got Malcolm helping now, though. He’ll have those cleared up in no time.’
‘Unless you keep us hanging around all day,’ Fox said.
‘I assume it’s night-time footage? Not brilliant lighting? Maybe glare from headlamps making things more difficult still?’
‘That’s about the size of it,’ Clarke said. She hadn’t taken her eyes off Robbie, hoping her look was endearing rather than desperate.
‘It’s a car near the crime scene,’ Fox added. ‘Driving down a road to start with and then parked – we think it’s the same car.’
‘Picked up on council cameras?’
‘Does that make a difference?’ Clarke asked.
‘Speed cameras are built to read number plates. Council ones are more of a general deterrent.’
‘Not as good, in other words.’
‘If they’ve been driving around the city at night, could be they’ve triggered a speed camera anyway – empty streets, drivers often put the foot down without thinking. Red traffic lights are another possibility – road’s clear so you whizz through and the camera clocks you.’ Robbie looked at both detectives. ‘You’ve not checked, have you?’
‘No,’ Fox conceded.
‘I might as well do that too, then, eh?’ Robbie took a sip from his cup.
‘We’d be hugely grateful,’ Clarke told him.
‘You can pay me back by making sure my team gets maximum points from yours next season.’
‘You drive a hard bargain,’ Clarke said with a smile, holding out her hand to seal the deal.
They had almost reached the ground floor when Fox came to a stop, recognising the figure climbing the stairs towards them. Clarke knew the face too: ACC Jennifer Lyon. She was reading from a sheaf of papers while holding a conversation on her phone, a shoulder bag and briefcase making life no easier for her. But she ended the call when she saw Fox. The phone went into her bag along with the papers.
‘Malcolm,’ she said, managing to turn the single word into both statement and question.
‘Potential progress on the bin Mahmoud case,’ he explained. ‘Just need Robbie not to sit on it too long.’
‘I’ll see to it there’s no slacking,’ Lyon assured him.
‘This is DI Siobhan Clarke. She’s helping me today.’
‘From the look she just gave you, I’d say DI Clarke regards that as somewhat of an understatement.’ There was a thin smile for Clarke but no free hand for any more tactile greeting. Then, to Fox: ‘I need a word with you anyway, Malcolm.’ And to Clarke: ‘In private, DI Clarke. Maybe you could get yourself a coffee or something.’
Clarke watched them climb the remaining stairs, Fox gesturing for her to wait in the atrium. Instead of a coffee, she headed to the loos, seating herself and taking out her phone. Rebus had sent her some magazine photos. She studied them casually, then called him.
‘The Chief Constable,’ she said.
‘I know.’
‘I’d seen some photos from the party, but not that one.’
‘Friends with Stewart Scoular, you think?’
‘It’s the first I’m hearing of it.’
‘It’s the party Keith crashed, making no friends and kicking up a fuss about the community buyout of Camp 1033.’
‘Slow down, this is all new to me.’
‘Keith wanted the Meiklejohns to sell some land to the community so they could turn Camp 1033 into a visitor attraction. He wasn’t getting any joy so gatecrashed that party. Remember the gardener?’
‘Colin Belkin?’
‘I reckon he’d be the one who kicked Keith out. I’ve met Angharad Oates, by the way, out at the compound, where she looks after Jess Hawkins’ young kid. There’s a Kawasaki there that someone might have heard on the road the night Keith was killed.’
‘Lot of threads, John. I’m guessing you’re beginning to see a pattern?’
‘Maybe. Meantime your pals Lady Isabella, bin Mahmoud and Morelli were at the selfsame party.’
‘You
