‘If only I were in a position to ask them that, the ones who’re not murder victims, I mean.’
‘There can’t be a connection … ’
‘Two killings, Siobhan.’
‘Hundreds of miles apart, John.’
‘But can you ask anyway?’
‘I’m a bit busy.’
‘You don’t sound it. In fact, from the echo, I’d guess you’re on the bog.’
‘Must be your phone.’
‘If you say so. But you will talk to Meiklejohn and Morelli?’
‘I’m seeing so much of them, I might suggest a flat-share.’
‘You reckon they’re involved?’
‘We’ve got some CCTV we’re checking.’
‘Robbie Stenhouse is your man for that.’ When she didn’t answer immediately, Rebus spoke again. ‘You’ve already seen him?’
‘How the hell do you know about Robbie Stenhouse?’
‘Guy’s a legend. Did you happen to notice any other faces in those pics I might find interesting?’
‘Not really. You already know Stewart Scoular.’
‘I like how he slithers his way into every other photo. If it’s his consortium behind the golf resort, and the party was a way of buttering up potential investors, he’d be far from happy about Keith shouting the odds. Remember what happened at that Donald Trump place in Aberdeen?’
‘I watched the documentary.’
‘People like Scoular need to feel they’re controlling the story. Keith definitely wasn’t helping with that.’
‘And yet, all the dozens of newspaper profiles and mentions in the business pages, not a single word about Keith and the rest of his group. They hardly had any media presence.’
‘He didn’t pose a danger, is that what you’re saying?’
‘I’m saying he could be safely ignored.’
‘Maybe someone failed to get that message, Siobhan.’ Rebus gave a long and noisy exhalation.
‘Anything else to report?’ she asked. ‘How’s Samantha?’
‘Still not been charged. I think there’s the hint of a thaw between us, too.’
‘That’s good.’
‘You at Gartcosh right now?’
‘Waiting for Malcolm – Jennifer Lyon needed a word with him.’
‘What about?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Is this you stonewalling me?’
‘Only a bit.’
‘How’s that dog of mine doing?’
‘Not getting as much attention as he needs.’
‘A feeling we all know, eh? You any closer to a result?’
‘I’ll have a better idea once Robbie’s worked his magic.’
‘Good luck then – talk to you later.’
Clarke ended the call. She had a text from Graham Sutherland asking how it was going.
Leaving soon, she texted back.
As she exited the toilets, she saw there was still no sign of Fox. No visibly vacant seats either. A passing officer, white shirt and epaulettes, asked her if she needed help.
‘Just waiting,’ she told him with an exasperated smile. Two more minutes and she’d head back to the car; five after that and she’d be off, let Fox find his own way back to Edinburgh. But she knew she wouldn’t do it.
She needed to share the news about the Chief Constable.
Fox had been abandoned by Jennifer Lyon in her office’s anteroom, seated across from her secretary, who was busy at her computer. Finally she opened the door and crooked a finger. By the time he went in and closed the door, she was seated behind her desk.
‘Anything to report?’ she asked briskly.
‘Making progress on the bin Mahmoud inquiry.’
She dismissed this with the briefest of nods. ‘And Mr Scoular?’
Fox considered his response. ‘If there’s dirt – proper dirt, I mean – it’s well hidden. The Fraud Unit have come up empty-handed. I can show Cafferty we’ve done the work – including surveillance – but that’s about all, unless we opt to go nuclear: phone tap, computer intercept … ’
‘Surveillance?’
‘Just me in my free time.’
‘Explains why you look so bleary.’ She paused. ‘But it’s appreciated.’
‘I don’t mind in the least.’
‘And no one on the team has twigged what you’re up to?’
Fox swallowed. ‘Not as far as I’m aware.’
‘Not even DI Clarke?’
‘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
