‘Aren’t you on holiday?’ DC Christine Esson asked.
‘That’s why I’m bringing you souvenirs.’ Clarke emptied out the bag of shopping: salted peanuts, crisps, chocolate brownies and bottled water.
‘Better than a postcard,’ DC Ronnie Ogilvie said, just beating Esson in a dash to the treats.
‘Boss gone home?’ Clarke asked.
‘Meeting at the Big House.’ Esson retreated to her desk with her share of the swag. Clarke followed her, peering over her shoulder at the computer screen.
‘Rest of the team?’
‘You’re looking at the late shift.’
‘How’s it shaping up?’
‘You’re on a break,’ Esson reminded her. ‘How’s the move going?’
‘How do you think?’ Clarke had turned towards the wall behind Esson–the Murder Wall. It was covered by a large corkboard covered in blue felt. There were photos of the victim and the locus pinned to it, plus maps, some details of the autopsy, and a staffing rota. Her own name had been crossed out. Typical that she’d arranged to take time off during a really quiet spell, only to have a big case pop up on day one. She’d tried telling the DCI that she could postpone her break, but he’d been adamant: ‘John needs you–he’d never say it, might not even know it, but it’s the truth.’
‘We’re getting a bit of outside pressure,’ Ronnie Ogilvie said through a mouthful of crisps.
‘Because he’s rich?’
‘Rich and connected,’ Esson qualified. ‘His father, Ahmad, is worth squillions but thought to be under house arrest somewhere in Saudi Arabia.’
‘Thought to be?’
‘The Saudis aren’t exactly being forthcoming. We have a human rights charity to thank for the gen.’
Clarke was scanning the information on the wall. Salman bin Mahmoud had been a handsome young man. Age twenty-three. Drove an Aston Martin. Lived in a four-storey Georgian town house on one of Edinburgh’s best New Town streets. Short black hair and a neat beard. Brown eyes. A couple of the photos showed him smiling but not laughing.
‘Not every student gets a DB11 for their birthday,’ Clarke commented.
‘Or lives in a house with five spacious bedrooms.’ Esson was standing next to her. ‘Best thing is, he wasn’t even studying here.’ Clarke raised an eyebrow. ‘Enrolled at a business school in London, where he happens to have a lease on a penthouse apartment in Bayswater.’
‘So where’s the Edinburgh connection?’ Clarke asked.
Esson and Ogilvie shared a look. ‘You tell her,’ Ogilvie said, opening one of the bottles of water.
‘James Bond,’ Esson obliged. ‘He was a nut for James Bond, especially the films, and more specifically the early ones.’
‘Meaning Sean Connery?’
‘Son of Edinburgh,’ Esson said with a nod. ‘Apparently both homes are filled with memorabilia.’
‘Explains the DB11 but doesn’t answer the really big question–what was a rich Saudi student with a James Bond fetish doing in the car park of a carpet warehouse on Seafield Road at eleven o’clock of a summer’s night?’
‘Meeting someone,’ Ogilvie suggested.
‘Someone who stabbed him and left him bleeding to death,’ Esson added.
‘But didn’t rob him or even bother to drive away in his expensive car.’ Clarke folded her arms. ‘Any joy from CCTV?’
‘Plenty sightings of the car. Heriot Row to Seafield Road with no obvious stops.’
‘Salamander Street’s just along the way–used to be popular with sex workers,’ Clarke mused.
‘We’re checking.’
‘Is his mother coming to claim the body?’
‘Embassy seem to be taking care of things–reading between the lines, I’d say they don’t want her travelling.’
Clarke looked at Esson. ‘Oh?’
‘Maybe afraid she wouldn’t go back.’ Esson gave a shrug.
‘What did the father do that put him in the bad books?’
‘Who knows? The family are from the Hejaz region. I’ve done a bit of reading and he’s by no means the only one under house arrest. The usual charge is corruption. Probably just means he’s pissed off a member of the ruler’s family. Some pay a hefty fine and are released, but it’s not happened to Ahmad yet.’
‘It’s always the money, isn’t it?’
‘Not always, but often enough.’
There was a sound behind them of a throat being cleared. When they turned, DCI Graham Sutherland was standing in the doorway, feet apart, hands in the trouser pockets of his charcoal suit.
‘I must be seeing things,’ he said. ‘Because I could have sworn you were only halfway through a week’s much-needed leave.’
‘I come bearing gifts.’ Clarke gestured towards the desk.
‘There’s no place for bribery in Police Scotland, Detective Inspector Clarke. Can I invite you to step into my office for a carpeting?’ He started towards the door at the far end of the room, opening it and gesturing for Clarke to precede him into the cramped, windowless space.
‘Look,’ she began as soon as the door was closed. But Sutherland held up a hand to silence her, seating himself at his desk so that he was facing her.
‘Shocking as this news will be, we’re managing fine without you, Siobhan. I’ve got all the resources I need and a blank cheque should I need more.’
‘The flat move’s almost done, though.’
‘Great news–you can put your feet up for a couple of days.’
‘What if I don’t want to put my feet up?’
Sutherland’s eyes narrowed but he said nothing. Clarke held her hands up in a show of surrender.
‘But be honest with me–how’s it really going?’
‘A clear motive wouldn’t go amiss. And what friends we’ve been able to talk to haven’t exactly been forthcoming.’
‘They’re scared of something?’
Sutherland shrugged and ran a hand down his burgundy tie. He was in his early fifties and not far shy of retirement, but proud that he had kept his figure along with his hair, the latter the subject of unfounded rumours of a weave. ‘We’re getting help from the Met–they’re looking at his London contacts. Seems he wasn’t a great one for going to classes. Nightclubs and racecourses were more his thing.’ He broke off. ‘None of which should be of any interest to you.’ He changed position slightly on his chair. ‘How’s John
doing?’
‘He says he can manage. He’d much rather I was at work, being useful
