‘Yes, you’re correct–they said the hood softened the blows.’
Meiklejohn was making show of checking and sending texts on her phone.
‘I think you went to the hospital with Mr Morelli?’ Clarke asked her.
‘We’ve been through this more than once,’ Meiklejohn said. ‘Which means it’s on record, which means you know damned well I did.’
‘You’re just a friend?’
Finally the woman looked up, her eyes meeting Clarke’s.
‘Yes.’
‘And with Mr bin Mahmoud?’
‘Again, yes.’ Her eyes went back to her screen. ‘Look, we all know it’s down to Brexit. Attacks on foreigners have rocketed.’
‘Not too many fans of Brexit in these parts,’ Fox commented.
‘Is that so? My family’s full of them.’
‘They live locally?’
‘London and Sutherland.’ She looked at Morelli. ‘We’re going to be late.’
‘There’s a bar around the corner if you’re desperate,’ Clarke suggested.
‘We’re meeting people in the Cowgate.’
Clarke’s brow furrowed slightly. ‘The Devil’s Dram?’
Meiklejohn shook her head. ‘The Jenever Club.’
‘We won’t keep you too much longer,’ Fox said.
Morelli touched his friend’s arm again. ‘Take a taxi. I’ll follow you.’
Her face twisted. ‘And leave you alone with a couple of cops? No chance.’ Then, to Fox: ‘You seriously think Gio’s tap on the head is linked to someone murdering Salman in cold blood?’
‘What do you think?’
‘I think I hear the faint rustle of straws being clutched at by a police force that couldn’t find its own backside on a dimly lit bidet.’
‘You’d probably have more experience of bidets than we would,’ Clarke commented, her demeanour hardening alongside her tone. Fox motioned to Morelli that he had a further question.
‘The person who attacked you–you got no sense of their height, age, sex?’
Morelli offered a shrug.
‘They didn’t say anything or take anything?’
Another shrug.
‘Ergo a hate crime,’ Meiklejohn interrupted.
‘With race crimes, the attacker most often vents verbally as well as physically,’ Fox countered. ‘They want the victim to know why it’s happening to them.’
Meiklejohn dismissed this with a twitch of one shoulder.
‘How did the three of you meet?’ Clarke asked into the silence.
‘At a party,’ Morelli said.
‘One of Mr bin Mahmoud’s?’
A shake of the head. ‘A mutual friend in St Andrews.’
‘You’re both students here?’ Clarke watched them nod their agreement. ‘English literature?’ Another nod.
‘Whereas Mr bin Mahmoud was attending a business course in London…’
‘But part of our circle nonetheless,’ Meiklejohn said.
‘Sort of like networking?’ Clarke offered.
‘A social network,’ Meiklejohn said, smiling as if pleased with the line.
‘I remember that film,’ Morelli said.
‘Me too.’ Clarke nodded. ‘A bunch of entitled rich kids stabbing each other in the back.’
Morelli frowned. ‘I don’t remember it like that at all…’
Clarke had parked her Vauxhall Astra on St Stephen Street. As they passed the Bailie pub, Fox asked her if she fancied a pit stop.
‘Not here,’ she replied. ‘Besides, I’m on dog-sitting duties, remember? I’ll drop you back at your car.’
‘Did we learn much from the two of them?’
‘What do you think?’
‘I’m asking you.’
‘So I notice.’ She paused as she unlocked the car and got in, doing up her seat belt while Fox did the same. ‘They didn’t seem shocked or grieving or any of that.’
‘Evidence of the stiff upper-class lip?’
‘Or theirs is a world where you know people without ever becoming really close. Salman had money, good looks and pedigree. I’m sure Lady Isabella seems every bit as exotic to the likes of him and Gio as all of them seem to you and me.’
‘It certainly feels like a different world.’ Fox was silent for a moment. ‘Morelli has much the same build as the deceased, similar skin tone…’
‘Bin Mahmoud had a beard, though.’
‘But say someone followed him from the deceased’s. They were behind him and he had his hood up.’
‘A case of mistaken identity?’
‘The lane is a nice quiet spot for an assault.’
Clarke seemed to ponder this as she started the engine and eased the car out of the tight parking spot.
‘I didn’t think you were entirely fair about that film, though,’ Fox added.
‘Me neither,’ Clarke admitted with a smile. ‘But it was all I had to work with at the time.’
‘Well, that and a bidet,’ Fox said, returning the smile.
5
Having collected Brillo and all his paraphernalia, Clarke sat in her tenement flat while the dog explored his new surroundings. He seemed both puzzled and a little bit sad, clearly missing his owner and maybe wondering if this nomad’s existence was to be his life from now on. Having eaten some leftovers from the fridge and half finished a mug of peppermint tea, Clarke put her coat back on and made for the door, Brillo trying to accompany her. Out on the landing, she listened to the barking from within before unlocking the door again.
‘If you insist,’ she said, scooping the dog up into her arms.
Brillo was well behaved in the car, tail wagging, paws pressed to the passenger-side window as he watched the passing parade of shops, bars, restaurants and pedestrians. Clarke’s destination wasn’t far. She left the window down an inch when she climbed out, telling him to ‘Stay, good boy.’ Brillo seemed contented enough with this arrangement.
They were just off the Cowgate, towards its eastern end. Late-night weekends, the street could get messy with drunken fights and related idiocy, but it was neither the weekend nor late. Nevertheless, most venues boasted one or two heavy-set doormen, ready to deter or deal with trouble. Clarke had googled the Jenever Club and had been proved right. Until a few months back it had been a nightspot called the Devil’s Dram. Back then, it had specialised in expensive whiskies and overpriced food, along with nightly DJ sets and dancing. It seemed whisky had given way to gin, without the exterior having been given much of a makeover.
Clarke couldn’t help glancing to her left as she crossed the street, towards where the mortuary sat in faint anonymity. Those who worked there referred to it as the city’s ‘dead centre’, yet around it life continued in its thrumming heat and intensity–at least judging from the blast from the club’s interior as a suited doorman opened the door for her.
