‘Not every night,’ Scoular said with another chuckle. ‘Can I offer either of you a drink?’
‘That’s kind of you, but no thanks.’ Fox had lowered himself onto the leather sofa. It had chrome fittings that would attract fingerprints, not that Clarke could see any. It was either brand new or its owner employed a meticulous cleaner. ‘We won’t keep you,’ Fox was saying, shifting a little to make room for Clarke. ‘Just a few questions to clarify how well you knew Salman bin Mahmoud.’
Scoular sat down on the sofa’s matching chair and crossed his legs so that his right foot rested on his left knee. Clarke felt he was trying just a bit too hard to appear relaxed and unconcerned. He angled his head upwards as if to aid his thinking.
‘I honestly doubt I’d met him more than ten or twelve times. At parties mostly.’
‘Including ones he hosted?’
‘Once, certainly.’
‘He lived a five- or ten-minute walk from here?’
‘Something like that.’
‘And Giovanni Morelli is even closer?’
‘Five tops. I’d say I know Gio slightly better than I knew Sal.’
‘People called him Sal?’
‘Some of us did.’ Scoular had gripped his exposed toes in one hand and seemed to be massaging them.
‘Hurt your foot?’ Clarke interrupted.
‘No.’ He seemed to realise what he’d been doing. ‘Sorry.’ He placed the foot back on the floor. ‘Touch of cramp earlier, after my run.’
It didn’t surprise Clarke that he ran. Probably had a home gym, too. He was lean and lightly tanned, almost certainly attractive to a certain type of woman. She imagined him pitching one of his projects to a room filled with people who envied his looks and self-confidence. They would see him as a maverick, too, expelled from his political party for being just a bit too edgy.
‘I should have asked,’ he was saying, ‘whether you’re making progress with your investigation.’
‘We’re moving forward,’ Fox assured him–a meaningless phrase, but one Scoular was happy to accept.
‘When I was an MSP, I had a strong interest in crime and justice. Struck me Police Scotland was underfunded and still doing a hell of a job.’
‘We try not to complain,’ Clarke said.
‘Turning back to Mr bin Mahmoud,’ Fox interrupted, ‘you met him socially a few times, but was that the extent of your relationship?’
‘Pretty much.’
‘Ever visit him in London?’
‘No.’
‘But business takes you there?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘Your business being…?’
‘Property developing–commercial mostly. Hotels and the like. Plenty of land in Edinburgh we could be doing more with.’
‘To maximise profit, you mean?’
‘To maximise potential. It’s not always about the money.’
‘Added amenities, quality of life?’
Scoular’s eyes were probing, wondering if Clarke was being sarcastic. ‘Correct,’ he said tonelessly.
‘We’ve established that you knew Mr bin Mahmoud and you know Mr Morelli,’ Fox said, ‘so you probably also know Lady Isabella Meiklejohn?’
‘Yes, I know Issy.’
‘Is there anyone else in Mr bin Mahmoud’s circle we should be talking to?’
Scoular thought for a moment. ‘Issy and Gio are the ones to ask. As I say, I was hardly Sal’s closest confidant…’
‘So in your opinion, who was?’
‘Issy probably.’
‘They were an item?’
‘You’d have to ask her. I never got the impression sex was Sal’s thing.’
‘So what was his “thing”, do you think?’
‘He liked clubbing. He liked wearing good clothes, driving nice cars, travelling…’
‘All paid for by his father?’
‘Unless he was doing bar work on the sly.’
Fox just about managed to return Scoular’s smile. ‘Ever had any dealings with Salman’s father?’
‘None whatsoever.’
‘But you have done business in the Middle East?’
‘Not for some time and never with him.’ Scoular slapped his palms against his thighs as if readying to get to his feet. ‘That’s us pretty much done, don’t you think?’
‘Did Mr bin Mahmoud have any enemies, any sign of trouble in his life?’
‘No.’
‘And the last time you saw him…?’
‘At some club or other, I’d guess.’
‘The Jenever perhaps?’ Scoular stared at Clarke without answering. ‘We were told it’s one of your haunts.’
‘I’d hardly call it that. I might drop by a couple of times a month.’
‘You’ll know of its proprietor, though–man called Cafferty?’
‘Remember me saying I took an interest in crime and justice?’
‘So you do know Cafferty?’
‘Only by reputation.’
‘But despite that reputation, you’re happy to add to his profits?’
Scoular looked from Clarke to Fox and back again. ‘I’m not sure where this is heading.’
It was Fox who answered. ‘We’re just trying to paint as complete a picture as we can of Mr bin Mahmoud, his history, his lifestyle.’
‘He was fun to be around, the classic playboy, I suppose. There might be jealousy of that in some quarters, but to know him was to like him.’ This time Scoular did get to his feet, making show of stretching his calf muscles.
‘One last thing,’ Fox said, rising from the sofa. ‘Any idea what he was doing out by Seafield?’
‘I did wonder about that.’
‘And?’
‘Only connection I can think of is that we played golf out that way once.’
‘He was a golfer?’
‘Not much of one, no, but Sean Connery is. Sal always wanted to emulate his hero.’
‘Just the two of you, was it?’
‘Gio was there too. Not much better a player, though he definitely dressed the part. You know that scene in the film MASH? The pros from Dover–that’s who they reminded me of.’
‘You probably don’t laugh at them to their face, though?’ Clarke enquired. ‘Not when you need them opening their chequebooks for one of your projects.’
Scoular gave her a scornful look. ‘No chequebooks these days, Inspector. Strictly electronic. And I pride myself on never losing a single cent for any of my investors.’
‘The golf course up north?’ Fox added. ‘The one on land owned by Issy Meiklejohn’s father?’
‘What of it?’
‘With Mr bin Mahmoud dead, won’t funding be rather more problematic? Or had he already decided not to add any more to the pot?’
‘I think I’ve said all I’m going to.’ Scoular walked to the door and held it open. Clarke took her time getting to her feet, her eyes meeting his all the way to the threshold.
‘Thanks again for your time,’ she commented. Then, gesturing towards his bare feet: ‘Watch you don’t
