‘You can’t seriously think one of us … ? We’re almost ready for the grave ourselves!’
‘Maybe there was more than one attacker,’ Rebus commented. He saw she was becoming agitated. ‘Then again, it could all be a con trick – pushing the investigation one way when the truth is hiding down another track entirely.’ He heard a car approaching and turned towards it. ‘Looks like your ride’s here. Handy that Mr Novack’s still up to driving.’
‘Try and stop him,’ Carter said with a faint smile.
The Land Rover came to a stop next to them. Novack gave a wave through the window.
‘The walker goes in the boot,’ Carter told Rebus. He opened the passenger door for her, then stowed the walker while she eased herself into the car. Rebus went to the driver’s-side window.
‘What brings you here?’ Novack asked, winding the window down.
‘Paying my respects.’
Novack’s look suggested that he doubted this. ‘You’ve heard about the revolver?’
‘Wasn’t sure word had got out.’
‘I assure you it has, along with the news that Joe and May are under arrest.’
‘What?’ Helen Carter froze with the seat belt half strapped across her.
‘They’re verifying the gun, that’s all,’ Rebus countered. He went around the car and closed Carter’s door. Novack lowered the passenger-side window.
‘Joe’s gun, though,’ he went on. ‘Used to murder a man.’
Rebus leaned in at the window. ‘Do you see your old friend Joe as a killer, Stefan?’
‘Of course he doesn’t!’ Carter snapped.
‘Maybe his daughter, then, eh?’ Rebus shook his head. ‘Best not let rumours get started. You never know where they’ll stop.’ The window began to rise, Novack’s finger on the switch as he glared at Rebus, while his passenger couldn’t make eye contact at all.
You’re rattled, Rebus thought. You’re both rattled.
Rather than watch the Land Rover roll away, he marched back into the cemetery, stopping once more at Gareth Davies’s resting place.
‘She didn’t bring anything to mark the occasion, did she?’ he asked out loud. No flowers of remembrance, no card or note.
Just Helen Carter herself.
34
Siobhan Clarke’s mobile rang at precisely noon. She didn’t recognise the number.
‘Hello?’ she answered.
‘I’m calling because Issy Meiklejohn more or less demanded it. I have no intention of giving you my name, so please don’t ask.’
The voice was clipped, upper class, English Home Counties.
‘Define “demanded”.’
‘There’s rather a venomous streak to that young woman, wouldn’t you say?’
‘I’ve always found her perfectly charming.’
‘Is that supposed to be funny? Anyway, you know why I’m calling?’
‘You’re Lord Strathy’s alibi, the one I’m supposed to accept on trust – without seeing your face or having a name to put to it. You’ll appreciate that’s not usually how we operate on a murder inquiry. Still, I’m listening.’
As were the others in the MIT office. Clarke ignored them and walked into the hallway, closing the door after her. Fox was in the admin room next door, talking to one of the staff. Clarke descended the stairs until she was beyond his eyeline.
‘He was with me for the best part of five days. I doubt we were out of one another’s sight for more than half an hour in all that time.’
‘This was in London?’
‘Yes.’
Clarke did the calculation. Five days, which finished yesterday morning. Strathy’s little romp had started only a day or so after Keith Grant died and three days after Salman bin Mahmoud’s murder.
‘During your time with him, did you watch the news, read a paper?’
‘Not so you’d notice.’
‘One of Lord Strathy’s business partners had been found murdered. The man was a friend of his daughter’s. He didn’t mention it at any stage?’
‘He did not.’
‘Maybe he excused himself to make or take a phone call?’
‘We promised ourselves – phones off.’
‘Awkward if your husband needed to contact you.’
‘Look, I’ve told you what I can. Ramsay was with me. We were having a good time.’
‘He was relaxed, didn’t seem at all worried?’
‘Same old Ramsay.’
‘The crime I’m investigating took place in Scotland, and our legal system demands corroboration.’
‘Pity we weren’t engaged in a ménage à trois, then, isn’t it?’ There was a throaty chuckle as the line went dead.
Clarke stared at the screen of her phone. ‘Gotcha,’ she said quietly.
Back in MIT, she crossed to Christine Esson’s desk and jotted the telephone number onto a much-doodled pad.
‘Analyst would have a field day with those,’ she said, admiring the swirls, swooshes, lightning bolts and zigzags that kept Esson busy during every phone call she made.
‘What am I doing with this?’ Esson asked, tapping her pen against the line of digits.
‘Finding me a name, address and anything else that can be gleaned. I’d do it myself if I possessed half your skill set.’
‘And that concludes Siobhan’s motivational TED talk. Thank you all for coming … ’
Clarke was smiling as she headed for her own desk. Fox had just taken his seat and was stifling a yawn.
‘Still not sleeping?’ Clarke guessed, noting how bloodshot his eyes were.
‘Sleep’s overrated.’
‘Strathy’s lover just called me. Christine’s going to put a name and face to her.’
‘She used her own phone?’
‘With any luck. What did admin want?’
‘I’m using too much paper.’ She stared at him. ‘Seriously. All the background stuff I’ve been printing out and photocopying.’
‘I thought we had a proper budget – how much stuff have you been churning out?’
‘A fair bit.’
She looked at the piles on his side of the desk. More was stacked on the floor.
‘Two copies of everything,’ he confessed.
‘One for home, one for here?’ Clarke guessed. ‘So you can keep at it even when you’re not in the office?’ But then she made a clucking sound. ‘No, Siobhan, that’s not quite it – it’s so you can pass one set along to either the ACC or Cafferty, and my antennae tell me the latter is the more likely.’
‘Keeping him onside,’ Fox intoned quietly.
‘Just stuff relating to Stewart Scoular, though? Not the bin Mahmoud case per se? Tell me he’s not watching us do our job … ’
‘I’m being careful.’
‘How careful?’
‘As much as I can be.
