‘Ten into town,’ Clarke said, ‘and the same back.’
‘Around five from the New Town to the murder scene,’ Fox added, nodding his comprehension. He turned his attention to the clerk. ‘Where is this car right now?’
The clerk tapped away at her keyboard. ‘It’s onsite.’
‘Has anyone else rented it since Mr Morelli?’
She looked past Fox’s shoulder to where the queue was growing and becoming impatient.
‘Don’t worry about them,’ Clarke said. Then, turning towards the queue, ‘A police matter. Thank you for your patience.’
The clerk got busy again on her keyboard. ‘It’s due to be issued to a new customer today.’
‘Not going to happen,’ Clarke said. She fixed Fox with a look. ‘We need Forensics out here.’
‘It’ll have been valeted?’ he checked with the clerk. She nodded her agreement.
‘Blood’s not going to shift for a bit of vacuuming and polishing,’ Clarke told him. She already had her phone in her hand, entering the number she needed. Fox turned back towards the clerk.
‘Keys, please. And a note of whatever bay it’s in.’ He was finding it hard to concentrate and knew it would be the same for Siobhan. There were procedures to be followed, but all he could think about was Giovanni Morelli.
‘Haj?’ Clarke was saying into her phone. ‘I need a crew at the airport. Avis parking lot. Car there may have been used in the bin Mahmoud homicide. DI Fox and me are here already.’ She listened to whatever was being said to her and watched as the clerk handed Fox a slip of paper and a key fob. ‘Yes,’ she assured the scene-of-crime boss, ‘we can secure the immediate area. But be as fast as you can, eh?’
‘We’ll let you get back to work,’ Fox was informing the clerk. ‘But we will need all the documentation you mentioned, so when you’ve got a free second … ’ He saw that Clarke was already making towards the exit, having abandoned her coffee on the counter. He placed his own cup next to hers and started moving.
‘Why?’ she asked, as they crossed the road. They weren’t quite running, but they weren’t quite walking either. Fox had buttoned his jacket in an attempt to stop his tie flapping up around his ears. ‘I don’t get it, Malcolm. I really don’t.’
‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,’ Fox cautioned. ‘This might only prove that he was there that night.’
‘You saw the photos – no sign of a passenger in the Passat. So unless Salman gave his killer a lift to the murder scene in his Aston … ’
‘Could be a third car we’ve just not seen yet.’
‘Or Issy on her bike, eh?’ Clarke shook her head. ‘It fits; it’s just that it doesn’t make sense.’
‘Morelli’s the one we need to be asking.’
She looked at him. ‘Reckon he’s a flight risk? Parents with money and powerful friends … ’
‘Let’s see if the car can offer us some clues.’
They were nearing the Avis lot now. ‘Which bay?’ Clarke asked.
‘Forty-two, like The Hitchhiker’s Guide.’ He saw the look on Clarke’s face. ‘Just attempting a bit of levity.’
They walked the rest of the way in silence. There was a kiosk, and the man stationed there had obviously been alerted by the clerk in the terminal. He led them to bay 42 and left them to it.
‘Tempting to take a look,’ Fox said, holding up the key.
‘Better not,’ Clarke warned him. She was circling the car, pressing her face close to its various windows. It had definitely been through a wash, and the inside looked pristine. When her phone pinged, she checked the screen.
‘Forensics?’ Fox guessed.
‘The DCI,’ she corrected him. ‘Wants to know where we are.’ She made the call, lifting the phone to her ear. Fox was wishing he’d not dumped that coffee. The temperature hadn’t got into double figures yet and there was no shelter to be had. Not that Siobhan Clarke seemed bothered. Her cheeks were suffused with colour, her eyes gleaming. When she met Fox’s gaze, there could be no mistaking her confidence, which, if not misplaced, meant he’d soon be on his way back to his desk at Gartcosh.
He knew he shouldn’t feel entirely sad about that, but he did.
39
Joseph Collins took his time opening the door of his cottage, his walking frame proving an impediment. Rebus greeted him from the path, where he was admiring the garden.
‘Can’t all be your own work?’ he speculated.
‘Mostly May these days. What the hell do you want?’
‘Wondered how you were doing – can’t have been easy yesterday. May’s still not over it. All the rumours, and the eyes on her when her back’s turned.’
Collins squared his shoulders. ‘We’re strong, the both of us.’
Rebus had approached the front step. ‘Can I maybe come in?’
‘Why?’ Collins was peering at him through glasses that needed a polish to clean them of various smears and smudges. Seated in the bar, he had seemed stooped and tremulous, but his eyes were the same ones that had seen warfare and bloodshed. The young Josef Kolln was visible to Rebus, trapped deep within an aged receptacle.
‘Because,’ he intoned, ‘your gun was used to kill an innocent man, meaning it’s time you came clean. For May’s sake as much as yours.’
‘Go to hell.’
‘I was a cop for over thirty years, Mr Collins – I’ve been to hell. What I saw in Camp 1033 wasn’t as bad as some, but it’ll still haunt me. Keith didn’t deserve what happened to him, but he deserves your help.’
‘Your own daughter most likely did it.’ The old man was growing agitated.
‘You really think that?’
‘I don’t know what I think.’
‘I’m more interested in what you know. See, there was a reason that gun was put on display. You were goading someone, letting them know you knew.’
‘Knew what?’
‘The truth about who killed Sergeant Davies. And with Keith digging the whole story up again, no telling what might happen. He believed it
