‘That’s great news, Malcolm. Means if we ever lift Cafferty for anything, he can brag that he’s got you tucked into his breast pocket like a little silk handkerchief. I thought we’d covered this when we were walking back here from his big shiny gangster car?’ She saw the look Fox was giving her. ‘What is it you’re hiding?’
He started shaking his head.
‘Please tell me you’ve not gone all lone wolf and reckon you can deal with him without anyone’s help?’
Having stopped shaking his head, Fox made a zipping motion with his fingers across his mouth.
‘Can we have a grown-up conversation here?’ Clarke insisted.
‘Not quite yet.’
She was about to remonstrate further, but Christine Esson was approaching.
‘Fast work,’ Clarke commented.
‘This isn’t that,’ Esson said. ‘But it’s kind of interesting nonetheless. Just got a message about the Chinese student who was mugged on Argyle Place. Seems her phone’s been returned to her, along with an apology.’
‘An apology?’
‘In English and Mandarin Chinese, apparently. The student’s friend, the one who helped translate for her, she got in touch just now. Says the Chinese is really ropy, wonders if the apology was fed into some online translation site.’
‘What does it say exactly?’
‘She sent a photo of the note.’ Esson handed her phone over to Clarke. Fox slid his chair closer so he could see it too.
Really sorry for what I did to you. Promise never to do it again. And then presumably the same message in Chinese characters. Written with the same black ballpoint pen and in the same hand by the look of it. The Chinese rendition looked clumsy, mistakes scored out and corrected. The English version was in capitals, and even that looked a bit wonky. Clarke angled the phone’s screen towards Esson.
‘Would you say this person’s hand was shaking?’
‘Parkinson’s?’ Esson suggested.
‘But in the real world?’
‘Written under duress or in an emotional state,’ Fox answered.
Esson took her phone back. ‘Phone and note were in a Tesco bag stuffed through the victim’s letter box.’
‘How did the mugger know where she lives?’
Esson shrugged. ‘I’m guessing maybe her phone? Probably got a tracker or something – maybe a food delivery app. People are increasingly sloppy with their personal information.’
‘A mugger who grew a conscience,’ Clarke pretended to marvel.
‘I assume you don’t think that’s the case here?’
‘I suppose what matters is that we can remove her from the wall. Hugely doubtful she ties to the attacks on Salman and Gio.’
‘Do you want to tell the boss or shall I?’ Esson asked.
‘It’s all yours, Christine. We’ve done sod all to earn the privilege.’
35
Clarke and Fox had just returned from a late lunch – soup and a roll at a café on Constitution Street – and were settling themselves at their shared desk. Clarke could see from the corner of her eye that Christine Esson had news. Sure enough, as soon as they were seated, she was on her feet and striding towards them.
‘Here comes DCI Sutherland’s favourite student,’ Clarke teased.
‘She’s about to become yours too,’ Esson retorted, handing over a sheet of paper. ‘Name’s Violetta Pakenham. Lives in Kensington. Owns a boutique there. Married, two grown kids.’
‘I know that name,’ Fox said, getting to work on his computer. A moment later he had what he was looking for. ‘Probably George Pakenham’s wife. He’s one of Stewart Scoular’s investors.’
‘I can see why Lord Strathy would want the affair kept hush-hush,’ Clarke commented. ‘Piss off Pakenham and you’d mightily piss off Scoular.’
‘And everyone else in the consortium,’ Fox added. ‘These things are built on sand, and that sand is made up of public confidence. To have one of your big names cheating with the wife of another … ’
‘Gives us a bit of leverage, if we want it,’ Esson argued. ‘I mean, if we think there’s anything about the case that Strathy’s been hiding from us … ’
‘He tells or we leak?’ Clarke nodded her understanding and met Fox’s eyes. ‘Do we think he’s hiding anything?’
‘I’m not sure, and I certainly don’t want him sparking out on us again.’ Fox busied himself on his keyboard for a moment, then angled his screen towards Clarke and Esson. The photo he’d found showed a couple at a red-carpet event. The man was in his seventies, the woman much younger.
‘Just the twenty-year age gap,’ Esson commented.
‘What about Issy?’ Fox asked Clarke. ‘She’s the one who put Mrs Pakenham in touch with us. She must know her dad is playing with fire.’
‘Reckon she told any of her mates?’
‘I’d say she’s good at playing things close to her chest.’
‘Or else Scoular would probably already know.’
Fox nodded. ‘As Christine says, this gives us leverage. Fetch Issy in, get her to tell us everything she knows or suspects.’
‘Okay,’ Clarke said after the briefest consideration, ‘let’s do it.’
An hour later, the two uniforms who had been sent to St Stephen Street to collect Lady Isabella Meiklejohn escorted her up the stairs and into the same interview room she’d been made to wait outside while her father was being questioned the previous day. She took her time composing herself, ignoring Clarke and Fox, who sat opposite.
‘Turns out I was wrong to trust you, Detective Inspector Clarke,’ she intoned as she adjusted her jacket. ‘I’d be an idiot not to know why I’m here.’ Finally she looked up, her eyes throwing darts in Clarke’s direction.
‘How is Lord Strathy?’ Fox asked in a voice that was almost genuinely solicitous.
‘He’s no longer in danger. Some lifestyle adjustments have been suggested.’
‘By his doctors or by you?’ Clarke enquired. Meiklejohn gave her another withering look.
‘Should I be calling Patsy and inviting her to join us?’
‘Depends how many other people you want knowing that your dad’s sleeping with the wife of someone he’s doing business with.’
Meiklejohn gave a sour smile. ‘I did warn her to make sure the call couldn’t be traced. Dozy bitch doesn’t even have the sense.’
‘George Pakenham’s had ties to Stewart Scoular’s business for quite some time,’ Fox stated. ‘The two of them
