‘Who’d have thought the business pages of newspapers could be so enlightening,’ Fox began. ‘I was about to print out all this stuff, but in the meantime, take a look.’ He dabbed a finger against the screen. ‘Scoular’s company is involved in projects worldwide. Some years back, that included expensive apartment blocks in the Middle East. A lesson was learned along the way.’
Clarke watched as more stories appeared, this time to do with schemes in London, Toronto, Vancouver.
‘Not all of these got past the planners, but some did,’ Fox was saying.
‘The lesson being?’
‘People with money want that money to make them more money, but they also want it to be safe, and the Middle East has its risks. Salman’s father acted as a facilitator, not only sinking his own money into some of these projects but also sourcing other investors, investors who oftentimes stayed anonymous, sheltering behind company names, mostly registered offshore.’ Fox turned his head towards Clarke. ‘But with Salman’s father out of the picture…’
‘You think Salman took over the business? I don’t recall any of our searches flagging his name up.’
‘Agreed, but take a gander at this.’ A few more clicks, another story from the business pages; a single paragraph, easy to overlook. While Clarke read, Fox provided commentary.
‘Scoular’s firm, with an injection of Saudi money, is pitching to build a golf resort up north, on land owned by Lord Strathy.’
‘Lord Strathy being…?’
Another click, and Lord Strathy’s biography appeared, along with a photo of him in his ermine robes, roseate with privilege.
‘His name’s Ramsay Meiklejohn,’ Fox said. ‘He’s Issy Meiklejohn’s father.’ One further click produced a map of the north of Scotland. ‘The area in blue is everything he owns.’
‘That’s a lot of land.’ Clarke pointed to one coastal dot and then another. ‘Doesn’t quite cover Tongue and Thurso…’
‘Not too far off either, though. The ancestral home is halfway between the two, just along the road from Dounreay.’
The next photo was of a castle.
‘It’s not actually that old,’ Fox commented. ‘Mid nineteenth century. The style is Scots Baronial revived, hence the Disneyland turrets.’
‘Christ, Malcolm, when you dig, you dig deep.’ Clarke glanced at him. ‘Doesn’t require you to look so smug, though.’
‘But you have to admit, it’s starting to connect: Scoular in bed with Lord Strathy; funding from the Middle East; the victim and Isabella Meiklejohn…’
‘Getting us no closer to why someone might want Salman dead.’
‘Except,’ Fox said, ‘for this…’ A fresh page opened on the screen. ‘The same consortium had wanted to build a spaceport near Tongue. That fell through, partly from local concerns, but mostly because the money didn’t come together. Same problems seem to be besetting the golf resort plan. And it’s not like there haven’t been costs. With Ahmad bin Mahmoud under house arrest, his financial dealings limited, his son would be the one under pressure to cough up. Pressure in all likelihood applied by the likes of Stewart Scoular and Ramsay Meiklejohn.’
‘Any actual evidence of that happening?’
Fox’s face fell slightly. ‘I’ve contacted a couple of business journalists but not heard back yet.’
‘You’ve been talking to the press?’ Clarke was giving him a hard stare.
‘Only by email, carefully worded.’
‘Nevertheless, probably not the wisest move.’ Clarke scratched her forehead.
‘I don’t see anyone else around here pushing the case forward, Siobhan.’
‘You’re doing Cafferty’s bidding, Malcolm. He’s the one who kick-started this. Don’t you think that should give us pause?’
Fox was shaking his head. ‘If you ask me, Cafferty thought all we’d find was maybe Scoular giving or selling the odd bit of white powder to his mates. Probably doesn’t like that because it’s robbing him of prospective customers.’ He gestured towards the screen. ‘This goes way beyond that, and I’m the one who joined the dots. At the very least, it’s worth taking to the boss, no?’
‘Sure. But you sound like you’re thinking beyond “very least”.’ She studied him. ‘A wee chat with Stewart Scoular maybe?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Before taking it upstairs?’
Fox shrugged. ‘No time like the present, that’s what they say.’ He wasn’t quite smirking.
‘You’ve already arranged it?’ Clarke guessed.
He checked his watch. ‘Want to tag along?’
‘Now?’
‘Pretty much.’
‘At his office?’
He shook his head. ‘His home. This being a murder inquiry, I told him time was of the essence.’
‘What else did you say?’
‘That we were interviewing anyone who might have known the deceased, and his name had cropped up.’
‘He admitted knowing Salman?’
Fox was nodding while manoeuvring his arms into his jacket. ‘I might be a desk jockey, Siobhan,’ he said, patting a corner of the table, ‘but sometimes I ride a winner.’
Clarke wasn’t entirely convinced of that, but she followed him out of the office in any case.
What else was she going to do?
13
Stewart Scoular’s home was part of a Georgian terrace overlooking the Water of Leith in Stockbridge. There were two buzzers next to the front door, one marked ‘Office’ and the other left blank. Fox pressed the blank button. A few moments later, a voice crackled through the intercom. ‘In you come then.’
They pushed open the door and entered a cramped vestibule with two doors off, one of which swung open. Scoular wore an open-necked pale pink shirt, the sleeves rolled up. His feet were bare, Clarke noticed. No rings on either of his hands, no wristwatch or other jewellery. His hair was sandy-coloured and recently barbered, his face lightly freckled, teeth gleaming.
‘I see you brought backup,’ he said with a chuckle.
‘This is my colleague DI Clarke,’ Fox stated. ‘We appreciate you seeing us at this time of night.’
Scoular waved the formalities aside and led them into a large drawing room with high ceiling, ornate cornicing and sanded wooden floor.
‘Lovely place,’ Fox said, sounding as if he meant it. The furnishings looked expensive, but the room had an under-used feel to it. Clarke got the notion there would be a version of the man-cave elsewhere, boasting a big TV and all the accoutrements. The drawing room had no shelves and precious few knick-knacks. No books, magazines or family photos.
‘You live
