‘But you do think he was telling you something with that line about politics?’
‘I’m fairly sure.’
‘Though you’re not sure what?’ He watched her shake her head slowly. ‘So where does that leave us?’
‘It leaves us heading home. I just hope no one’s stolen Brillo.’
‘You left him in the car? I’m not sure John would approve.’
‘Then he should get his arse back here, shouldn’t he?’
‘I’m sure he’s working on it.’
Clarke stared at him. ‘Are you?’ she asked.
‘Not really,’ Fox admitted, holding up his hands in defeat.
A waiter had arrived, swapping Cafferty’s empty glass for a full one. It was lemonade, but no one needed to know. Cafferty liked to fool his customers into thinking he was a fan of the product. Back when he’d sold whisky, apple juice had provided a passable imitation. He busied himself on his iPad, running back the CCTV footage and replaying it. He couldn’t be sure Clarke had clocked Scoular, but he reckoned it was a safe bet. If it had just been Fox, that lumbering bear of a guy, things might have been different.
‘Interesting, though,’ he said to himself, zooming in and out of the footage, then checking angles from different cameras. There was the fragrant Lady Isabella and her olive-skinned companion, larger than life and not eight feet from Clarke and Fox. Yet the detectives hadn’t confronted them–meaning Clarke had been lying about wanting to question them. Meaning the visit had been a fishing expedition. Yes, of course. Both of them needing the facilities at the self-same time? They’d been on a hunt for drugs.
Cafferty gave the thinnest of smiles. ‘Should have hung around for that free drink, Shiv.’ He reckoned that in the next few minutes Lady Isabella would be reaching into her clutch for a smallish bag, happy to share its contents with her chums. Scoular would buy another bottle of champagne, so the club was still making some money. They wouldn’t all partake–Scoular liked to keep his nose clean, as it were. But Cafferty had footage aplenty of the others, including the ill-fated Salman bin Mahmoud. Maybe none of it would ever prove useful, but you could never tell, could you? And meantime, he should go and offer his condolences. Hadn’t they just lost their friend, after all, and wasn’t tonight by way of a wake? He might even manage to slip in the question uppermost in his mind: what had the boy prince been doing in such a grim part of town, so far from his Georgian town house and all its trappings? Was there something Cafferty had missed in those hours and hours of video?
Next time he upgraded the system, he’d be sure to add sound to his list of requirements; but meantime, with all the solemnity he could muster, he rose to his feet and scooped up his refilled glass.
Day Two
6
Rebus had awoken on the sofa to find a pair of eyes watching him intently.
‘Where’s my daddy?’ Carrie asked softly.
He sat up and checked his watch. It was just gone seven. His granddaughter was still in her pyjamas.
‘I heard Mummy crying,’ she continued. ‘Did Daddy leave because Mummy was shouting?’
‘Shouting?’
‘They both were. But Daddy was trying not to.’ She pushed her bottom lip out.
Rebus blinked the sleep from his eyes. ‘They were having an argument? The night Daddy left?’
‘Because I told Daddy we’d been to see the chickens.’ She was on the verge of tears.
‘It’s not your fault, Carrie, none of it.’ Rebus paused. Then: ‘Whose chickens?’
‘Jess’s,’ his granddaughter sniffled.
‘You should get dressed,’ Rebus said. ‘I’ll see you at breakfast. Don’t worry about anything, okay?’
Without saying another word, she padded off to her room. Rebus got into his clothes quickly and folded the duvet as best he could, then opened the window to air the room. It had rained in the night but the sky was clearing. He could hear the wind, though. It caught the curtains and shook them. Samantha had poured them both a few whiskies the previous night as they’d sat and talked–safe topics mostly; desperate not to fall out. Now she was tapping at the living room door, fetching him a mug of coffee.
‘Sleep okay?’
‘Like a baby.’
‘You all right with cereal? We’ve not got much else.’
‘Coffee usually does me.’
She nodded, mind elsewhere.
‘No news.’ It was statement rather than question.
She shook her head. ‘I’ll get started on breakfast,’ she said, turning to leave.
‘Something I forgot to ask yesterday, Samantha–the Volvo’s passenger seat was damp.’
‘The window was down.’
‘When you found it?’
She gave another nod. ‘Rain got in.’
‘Any idea why it was down?’
‘I’ll get started on breakfast,’ she repeated.
‘Hang on–there’s something else. The night Keith walked out, you’d had an argument, hadn’t you? About visiting Jess Hawkins?’
Samantha’s face darkened. ‘That little madam.’
‘You can’t go blaming her–she’s already doing enough of that for herself. But you didn’t think to tell Creasey?’
‘So?’
‘So if he goes asking and someone else tells him instead…’
‘It was nothing, Dad, really. Keith wasn’t happy I still visited, but I like the people there. They’re on my wavelength.’
‘More on your wavelength than Keith?’
‘I don’t know… in some ways…’ She stared at her father. ‘Are you going to tell him?’
‘I’d much rather it came from you.’
‘And I’d much rather you kept the hell out of it.’ She left the room, slamming the door after her.
Rebus waited until he could hear the hubbub from the kitchen–mother and daughter discussing some school project–before making for the bathroom and a hot shower. By the time he reached the kitchen, they had almost finished eating. He glanced at the remaining bowl and spoon, conscious that both were placed in front of what would be Keith’s chair. He stayed standing, trying not to get in the way. Samantha was reeling off a checklist as she placed things in the dishwasher.
‘Got it’ or ‘done it’ Carrie would say in reply to each item.
‘Just coat and bag then,’ Samantha eventually said, closing the dishwasher door.
‘Okay if I walk with you?’ Rebus asked. Carrie looked wary at
