‘You don’t have to say anything,’ Coleridge reminded her client.
‘Cooperation now could play in your client’s favour. Once we have the blood match, we won’t have much need for his assistance.’
‘No comment,’ Morelli said.
Clarke could sense Sutherland growing uneasy, realising how little they had to play with and wondering why Clarke had been keen to hold the interview. She wished she could reassure him, but couldn’t think how.
‘Can we talk about the knife that’s missing from one of your drawers in the kitchen?’
‘Knives get thrown away all the time,’ Coleridge drawled.
‘No comment,’ Morelli repeated. Sutherland shifted slightly in his seat again. Clarke risked a glance in his direction.
Relax.
‘When the test shows that it’s Salman bin Mahmoud’s blood on your shoes, Mr Morelli, what then? Reckon “no comment” will suffice in a courtroom?’
‘This is outrageous.’ Coleridge tossed down the pen she’d only just picked up and fixed Sutherland with a look. ‘You’ve dragged us in here with no new evidence, just a succession of wild theories and suppositions – is this really the way you run your major cases, DCI Sutherland?’
Sutherland looked like he was struggling to form a suitable answer, while Clarke’s attention had turned to the interview room door, beyond which she could hear raised voices. Eventually Coleridge noticed them too.
‘What the hell’s going on?’ she was asking as the door was yanked open. Issy Meiklejohn appeared, Malcolm Fox behind her, his hand grasping her forearm.
‘What the fuck did you do?’ Meiklejohn screamed at Morelli. ‘You fucking murdering fucking … ’
Morelli was on his feet so fast that his chair tipped over and clattered to the floor. He had his hands raised as if to fend off the apparition before him. Saliva flew from Meiklejohn’s mouth as she yelled, her face puce with rage, both rows of teeth visible.
‘Get her out of here!’ Graham Sutherland was saying to anyone who would listen.
‘How did she get in?’ Coleridge was demanding. ‘The Fiscal needs to be told. This is appalling. Surely any possible prosecution is now—’
‘I did it for you, Issy,’ Morelli blurted out. ‘I did it for you.’
‘You murdered our friend!’
‘He was lying to you to get you into his bed! There was never any money for The Flow!’
‘DCI Sutherland!’ Coleridge howled. ‘I must protest in the strongest terms!’
‘Get her out,’ Sutherland repeated. Fox had his arms around Meiklejohn’s waist now, pulling her backwards as best he could.
‘Bastard,’ Meiklejohn said, all energy spent and replaced by a low, steady sobbing.
‘Issy … ’ Morelli had taken a step towards her.
‘No,’ she said. ‘No.’ She shrugged Fox aside and disappeared from view.
‘DCI Sutherland,’ Coleridge was saying, attempting to regain both her composure and control of the situation. ‘None of this is admissible anywhere – you must see that.’
Fox was making to close the door from outside. He gave Clarke a look and she gave him one back – a look that ended with a wink.
‘If we’re pausing the interview,’ she said to the room at large as Morelli righted his chair and sat down, head in his hands, ‘maybe I should switch off the recording?’
‘Best if we take a break,’ Sutherland agreed.
‘Better still,’ Coleridge said through gritted teeth, ‘if you explain how a member of the public got past the desk downstairs – almost as if they knew where to find us.’
Clarke was affecting a look of complete innocence as she reached towards the machine and pressed the stop button.
‘No, leave it on,’ Morelli said. ‘I want to explain.’
‘That’s very unwise, Gio,’ Coleridge warned him.
‘I want to explain,’ he repeated, with a bit more iron in his voice.
Clarke turned the machine on again.
44
‘He wore motorcycle gloves,’ Rebus said croakily. He was in The Glen, seated at the same corner table where he had first met Jimmy Hess. Creasey sat opposite, next to May Collins. She had made Rebus a drink comprising hot water, whisky, honey and a squeeze of lemon, plus a couple of ibuprofen tablets that he’d struggled to swallow. ‘Hence no prints,’ he continued. ‘Drove the Volvo back here, maybe thinking he’d buy himself some time that way. Walked to the camp to retrieve the bike – no one on the road that late of an evening, meaning no witnesses.’
‘John did tell you it was to do with the camp,’ Collins admonished Creasey. He turned his head to her.
‘Are you sure you didn’t know anything about it? Your dad goading Frank Hess all these years? He didn’t drop a hint of any sort?’
She glared at the detective. ‘Definitely not. All I knew was that there was always a bit of needle between them.’
‘Why did your father never come forward?’
Rebus watched May Collins shrug. ‘I think maybe he liked tormenting Frank, or it could be he just wasn’t overly bothered. He’d been through a war – what was one more innocent life?’
Creasey’s phone vibrated and he checked the screen, his face unreadable.
‘Any sign?’ Rebus wanted to know.
‘He can’t get far.’
Rebus was reminded of the stories about escapes from Camp 1033. The runaways would head into the wilderness but soon give up. He imagined Jimmy Hess running, the laptop under his arm. He would run, then rest, then run again, growing thirsty and hungry and cold. Eventually he would realise the futility of it, but would he be able to find his way back, or would the peatlands all look the same, lacking landmarks of any kind? Of course, he could be sticking to another course, following the coast to east or west. But patrol cars were on the hunt, hiding places in short supply and easily searched.
‘Callum’s farm?’ he suggested.
‘Two officers are there, just in case.’
‘What about Frank?’
‘Under lock and key in Tongue. We’ll transfer him to Inverness later.’
‘He’s your catch – shouldn’t you be there?’
‘Soon as I’m sure
