‘Fancy meeting like this.’ She spun towards the beaming face of Malcolm Fox. ‘I was about ready to give up on you.’
Rather than entering, the pair of them stepped to one side. ‘Okay, I’m impressed,’ Clarke said, managing to sound anything but.
‘I think it was when I suggested a drink and you said “not here”. That told me you had somewhere else in mind–and as the Devil’s Dram had already been mentioned…’
‘You’re in danger of getting good at this.’
‘But there’s more, isn’t there?’
Clarke considered for a moment before answering. ‘Meiklejohn wasn’t what you’d call high, but she’d taken something–my guess would be cocaine.’
‘I hadn’t actually noticed that.’ Fox looked annoyed with himself.
‘Maybe I’ve seen more coke-heads than you.’
‘It’s true I’ve led a sheltered life. But putting two and two together, you’re not here to keep an eye on Gio and Issy–who’ve not turned up yet, by the way.’
Clarke stared at him. ‘You’ve been here all this time?’
‘Didn’t have any other plans. I’m right, though, aren’t I? The Dram used to be owned by a certain Morris Gerald Cafferty; no reason to suspect he’s not still in charge just because drinking trends have changed.’
‘And the other thing we know about Cafferty is…?’
‘He probably still controls a good portion of the local trade in illicit substances.’
‘And now you know as much as I do. Odd that they haven’t turned up yet, though–they seemed keen enough earlier.’
‘Almost as if they just wanted rid of us. So what’s the plan, DI Clarke?’
‘A quick drink at the end of a long day,’ Clarke answered with a shrug.
‘Yeah, Cafferty’ll definitely believe that.’ Fox held out a hand. Clarke looked at it. ‘Good working with you again, Siobhan.’
‘Likewise,’ she answered eventually, shaking it. But when Fox loosened his grip, hers intensified. ‘And now that we’re getting chummy, time for you to tell me why Gartcosh are so interested.’
She watched intently as Fox debated with himself. Eventually he nodded and drew her back a few more steps along the pavement.
‘A request from Special Branch in London,’ he explained in an undertone. ‘They’re wondering if there could have been state involvement. The Saudis, I mean. Though it’s not especially their style.’
‘In that he wasn’t chopped up and taken away in a suitcase?’ Clarke released the pressure on his hand. ‘What’s your feeling?’
‘Too early to tell.’
‘Some sort of message to the father?’
Fox just shrugged. ‘You’re all caught up.’
‘Do the rest of the team know?’
‘Special Branch’s feeling is best keep it quiet.’
‘Why?’
‘If I were being generous, I’d say it’s because they want us to have an open mind.’
‘And on those odd days when your mood’s less generous?’
‘They don’t want the Saudis thinking we suspect them. Might jeopardise those precious trade relations.’
‘The fewer people who know, the less chance of a leak.’ Clarke nodded her understanding. ‘No more keeping stuff from me, Malcolm,’ she warned.
‘Can I assume you’ll be telling the DCI?’
‘Any reason I shouldn’t?’
‘Your call, Siobhan.’
‘My call,’ she confirmed, heading for the figures flanking the doorway.
They decided their first task would be to check the toilets, see if anyone was doing a line. The main room was noisy. There was a dance floor, its multicoloured squares illuminated from below. The DJ stood swaying gently behind a couple of laptops while people danced. The place was maybe half full, the evening young, but plenty of sweat and noise was being generated. The bar was doing brisk business with cocktails, the staff putting on a show. There was a balcony reached by a transparent staircase, and a basement that would almost certainly be quieter.
Clarke wasn’t a stranger to the place, though she hadn’t been here since it changed its name. The cheesy occult decor of the Devil’s Dram had been replaced by mock-Victorian–heavy drapes; flickering wall lights mimicking gas lamps; dark wood panelling. She pushed open the door to the ladies’ loo and pretended to be checking her appearance in the long mirror above the row of sinks. Only one cubicle door was closed. When its occupant emerged, she stood next to Clarke while she fixed her hair with one hand, phone glued to the other.
‘Dead in here tonight,’ Clarke offered.
‘I’ve seen it livelier.’
The door to the bar opened and another young woman clattered in on three-inch heels. She gave Clarke a quizzical look, taking in the sensible clothes–and probably their wearer’s age, too. It struck Clarke that yes, she was old enough to be the mother of either of these young women.
‘Gary’s being a right prick,’ the new arrival stated into her phone, eyes on its screen as she headed to a cubicle.
‘Gary?’ Clarke asked the woman next to her, receiving a shrugged reply. A quick tug on the short sparkly dress, another check in the mirror and then she was gone.
The voice behind the cubicle door was echoey, Gary’s shortcomings entailing a lengthy list. Clarke took a final look around for any traces of white powder, then pulled open the door. A large, unsmiling figure stood there. When she looked past him towards the gents’, she saw that Fox, too, had been paired with a new companion.
‘He wants a word,’ she was told.
‘Of course he does,’ she replied. She looked across towards Fox and saw him give a shrug. She nodded and allowed herself to be led past the dance floor, following Fox and his minder up the staircase to where the bulky, shaven-headed form of Morris Gerald Cafferty sat alone at a corner banquette.
‘Thought it was you,’ Cafferty said with a grin, gesturing for them both to sit. There was just enough room, though Clarke was conscious of Fox’s thigh pressing against hers. ‘Fetch you a drink?’
‘We’re fine,’ Fox said.
Another gesture from Cafferty sent the two doormen on their way. He focused on his visitors. ‘You walk into a club but you’re not after a drink. Still on duty, I presume?’
‘You’ve changed the place,’ Clarke said, keeping her tone conversational.
Cafferty waved a hand across the balloon-shaped glass in front
