She did so, realising that she was now patting Brillo rather more briskly than the dog would like.
‘Does the offer of a Hibs–Motherwell match still stand?’ Stenhouse was asking.
‘Half-time pies on me. I’ll check the fixture list once we’ve put this case to bed.’
‘Speaking of which, I might call it a night. It’s a tungsten-silver VW Passat.’ He reeled off the registration number, Clarke jotting it down on the front page of the day’s Evening News.
‘Thanks again, Robbie,’ she said, ending the call. She chewed on the pen, lost in thought for a moment, and then called Malcolm Fox. ‘It’s an airport rental,’ she told him. ‘Robbie’s emailing me the specifics.’
‘Told you he was good.’
‘Good enough to track down my phone number.’ She broke off. ‘He asked you for it, didn’t he?’
‘About an hour after we left Gartcosh. Not that he’d thank me for revealing his secrets.’
‘Not so secret – even long-retired DIs know about him.’ She paused again. ‘You out somewhere?’
‘Just picking up some takeaway,’ Fox said, explaining the background noise Clarke could hear. ‘Does the airport mean it’s someone who’s just arrived in town? Don’t tell me it’s going to be some London connection the Met hasn’t bothered to mention … ’
‘Remember what Issy Meiklejohn told us, though: Stewart Scoular rents cars sometimes.’
‘Added to which, she doesn’t own one, so if she felt the need … ’
‘We’ll know more in the morning. Rendezvous in Leith or meet at Avis?’
‘Avis at nine?’
‘Suits me. So what’s on the menu tonight?’
‘Indian. Probably waiting for me as we speak. Have you told Graham Sutherland yet?’
‘He’s over in Glasgow.’
‘Keep him in the loop or hand him a delicious surprise?’
‘Let’s wait and see what we get from Avis. If it turns out to be a tourist who got lost on their way to their hotel … ’
‘Way to burst a boy’s balloon, Siobhan.’
‘Enjoy your curry.’ Clarke ended the call and tossed the phone into the space left by Brillo, who had vacated the sofa and was watching her reproachfully from the middle of the living room floor.
‘Okay, I’m sorry,’ she apologised. A curry? No, but a single fish wouldn’t go amiss. She rose to her feet, saw Brillo start to wag his tail in expectation.
‘Got it in one,’ she said. ‘A single fish and a battered sausage. Maybe even a jaunt to the airport tomorrow if you’re lucky.’ She stepped into the hallway, Brillo bounding towards the door to the outside world.
‘One thing about an airport rental,’ she told the dog as she grabbed her coat and his lead, ‘no shortage of CCTV out there. Meaning whoever it was, we’ve got them.’
‘Wish I hadn’t mentioned a curry,’ Fox muttered to himself, rubbing his hand across his growling stomach. Hours since he’d eaten. Needed to empty his bladder too, but it was too public on the Cowgate. He had a thing in his glove box, a ‘He-Wee’ he thought it was called. But any of the night-time carousers wandering past could glance down and catch him in the act. So instead he shifted a little in his seat and hoped Scoular wouldn’t be too much longer in the Jenever Club. No sign of Issy or Gio tonight – though they could have arrived before he did.
Fox picked his notebook up from the passenger seat. Scoular had taken a private-hire cab from his home in Stockbridge, not stopping anywhere en route. He had been inside for ninety-five minutes, during which time the street had altered in character. The pedestrians now were younger and noisier. There were music venues nearby, club nights and concerts starting. One stag party had swaggered past, tapping out a tattoo on the roof of Fox’s car and turning to beam smiles at him. Soon after, a hen party had arrived at the Jenever, dressed in pink sashes over matching T-shirts printed with the bride-to-be’s face. Writing on the back of each: Sue’s Booze Crew. The doormen decided they could go in, and were rewarded with a peck on the cheek or a squeeze of the backside. A little later, a couple from the party were back out again to smoke cigarettes and chat to the doormen, who had perked up as a result.
He had the radio on – Jazz FM. Not a brilliant signal, due to the Cowgate being akin to a canyon, a narrow sunken stretch with high buildings either side. Better than nothing, though. And now he had something to think about too: an airport rental. They’d agreed nine in the morning, but Fox reckoned the Avis office would open much earlier. He might get there ahead of time, present Siobhan with a fait accompli. Not that she would thank him for it; quite the opposite. Might do it anyway, though.
The hen party women were back indoors, the night-time chill proving too much for their skimpy outfits. One of the doormen had offered his overcoat, receiving yet another kiss, this time on the lips as far as Fox could tell. When the women had gone, both doormen shuffled their feet in a little dance.
Small comforts, Fox mused. You took them where you could.
And now the doors were opening again, and Stewart Scoular emerged, a woman on his arm. She wore heels and a tight black dress with a cream jacket draped over her shoulders. Fox had expected to recognise her, but it wasn’t Issy Meiklejohn. He thought about trying to get a photo with his phone, but he was too far away and couldn’t risk the flash. Besides, if he needed a name, Cafferty could probably provide it. A taxi was being summoned by one of the doormen, Scoular slipping him a banknote by way of a tip. Fox was reminded of a Glasgow cop he’d known who tipped everyone, from café staff to barkeepers. Always gave to beggars and Big Issue sellers, too.
‘It’s nice to be nice,’ he had
