‘Whole camp is a crime scene until we know otherwise,’ Rebus said. ‘With you four guarding the perimeter, meaning the fence.’ He nodded towards the tape. ‘I’d say you’re probably a few hundred metres short if that’s all you brought.’
‘Who are you?’ the driver asked again, with a quizzical look on his face.
‘I’m a man who’s dealt with more than a few homicides in his time. If you don’t want a bollocking from the murder team when they get here, you’ll take instructions from me–understood?’
‘You’re not our boss,’ the driver stated, taking a step towards Rebus and sizing him up. ‘Far as I can see, you’re nobody’s boss. So do us all a favour and point us in the direction of the body. Then–and I say this with all due respect–piss off back to wherever you came from.’
Two of his colleagues weren’t going to wait. They had already started climbing over the low gate. Seconds later they were tramping towards the nearest line of buildings. Rebus gave a shrug of resignation and retreated to the Volvo, watching as all four uniforms headed into the camp and out of sight. He knew he was going to stay put; partly because Creasey and his team would be on their way, but mostly to defer playing the role waiting for him back in Naver. He remembered Carrie watching him as he slept on the sofa.
Where’s my daddy?
I heard Mummy crying.
Many more tears, he knew, would be shed before the day was finished.
8
There had been another attack overnight, a Chinese student shoved from behind, then kicked several times as she lay on the pavement. She had been checked at A&E and then released. Tess Leighton and George Gamble had been sent to interview her at her flat.
‘Her English wasn’t exactly fluent,’ Gamble said, his eyes on his notepad. ‘A friend did the translating.’
‘Didn’t help that she was in a state of shock,’ Leighton interrupted, arms folded tightly across her chest. They were in the MIT office, the rest of the team listening intently. DCI Sutherland had checked the crime scene on the wall map, circling it in pencil. Argyle Place in Marchmont.
‘It’s mostly shops at ground level,’ Leighton told him. ‘Pub on the corner. No real witnesses as yet. Another student on their way home heard her groaning. Helped her to her feet. Reckoned she’d tripped and fallen.’
‘Let’s do door-to-door,’ Sutherland said. ‘And check if there’s any CCTV. No description of the assailant?’
‘She had her eyes on her phone, earbuds in and music playing. First she knew about it was when she was sent flying.’
‘Universities and colleges are going to reinforce the safety message,’ Christine Esson added. ‘And the local media websites are leading with it.’
‘Did the assailant take anything?’
‘Just her phone,’ Leighton said. ‘Which makes me think it’s a straightforward mugging. Despite which, the media are already yelling race crime.’
‘Students and rich kids have always been seen as fair game,’ Fox cautioned. ‘No obvious reason to connect it to Salman bin Mahmoud.’
‘Which won’t stop social media doing exactly that,’ Sutherland growled. ‘So give me some good news.’ He looked around the room, his eyes fixing on Clarke and Fox. ‘Siobhan?’
‘We spoke to Isabella Meiklejohn and Giovanni Morelli last night–mostly about the attack on Mr Morelli. They seem to be bearing the loss of their friend pretty well.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Let’s say they weren’t exactly in mourning. Had a night out planned at the Jenever Club. They also didn’t look jittery, but that may be down to breeding. I’d say they’ve led pretty insulated lives.’
‘I think what Siobhan’s saying,’ Fox interjected, ‘is that if they knew why their friend had been targeted, they were pretty good at hiding it, and they seemed relaxed that they’re not about to share his fate.’
‘Nice bit of mansplaining,’ Esson said, pretending to clap.
‘I was just trying to—’
‘Enough.’ Sutherland held up a hand. ‘Last night’s attack will be investigated, but our focus remains the homicide. I still don’t know nearly enough about Mr bin Mahmoud. The Met are being their usual slow selves, and we’re getting precious little joy from either his bank or his phone and internet providers. More effort needed, people.’
‘Can we ask the government to apply some pressure?’ Esson asked.
‘That’s gone a bit quiet,’ Sutherland admitted. ‘If you ask me, the Saudis have shrugged their shoulders. If they wanted a result, they’d be letting ministers and diplomats know, and we’d be getting a regular boot up the arse.’
‘This is because the victim’s family isn’t flavour of the month?’ Clarke asked.
‘So no trade deals are in danger of being compromised, whatever the outcome.’
‘Unless it turns out he was bumped off by Saudi agents,’ Leighton said. When Gamble snorted, she turned towards him. ‘Stranger things have happened, George.’
Fox, trying to avoid Clarke’s eyes, was relieved when his phone began vibrating. He lifted it and studied the screen. Number withheld. He looked to Sutherland for guidance. Sutherland gave a jerk of the head in response. Fox answered the call as he made his exit.
‘DI Fox,’ he said, closing the door after him.
‘Malcolm.’
That steady drawl, slightly nasal. ‘Cafferty,’ he said. ‘How did you get this number?’
‘Good to see you last night. I hope you got what you came for.’
‘We came to see if you were shifting any cocaine.’ Fox listened to the momentary silence and the barked laugh that followed.
‘I wasn’t expecting that.’
‘What?’
‘The unvarnished truth.’
‘What is it you want, Cafferty?’
‘I hear there’s been another mugging. Anything taken?’
‘Victim’s phone–why?’
‘I was going to offer my services. Now that cops like Rebus are history, you lot have lost a valuable resource.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Snitches, grasses, eyes and ears on the street.’
‘Human intelligence is the term these days. You’re offering to put the word out–mind if I ask why?’
‘Call me a concerned citizen. Not going to be in anyone’s interests if people are scared to go out at night.’
‘Night being
