‘You’re no bloody copper, so who the hell are you?’
Rebus was trying to undo his seat belt with one hand while he wrestled Belkin’s vice-like grip with the other. The man was shaking him like a rag doll.
‘You keep your nose out of honest people’s business!’ Belkin barked. ‘Or you get this.’ He brandished a clenched fist an inch from Rebus’s face.
‘Which jail were you in?’ Rebus asked. The man’s eyes widened, his grip faltering slightly. ‘I can smell an ex-con at fifty yards. Does your employer know?’
Belkin drew his fist back as if readying to throw a punch, but then froze at the sound of his wife’s voice. She was standing in the gateway, pleading for him to stop. Belkin brought his face so close to Rebus’s that Rebus could feel his oniony breath.
‘Come bothering us again, you’ll be getting a doing.’ He released his grip on the lapel and reared back, turning and walking in the direction of his waiting wife.
Rebus’s heart was pounding and he felt light-headed. He pressed a hand against the outline of the inhaler in his pocket but didn’t think it would help. Instead he sat for a moment, watching in the rear-view mirror as Belkin closed the gates with an almighty clang, his wife steering him back towards the castle. When they disappeared from view, he pushed down on the accelerator, feeling a slight tremble in the arch of his right foot. The perfect time for the CD to decide he merited John Martyn’s ‘I’d Rather Be the Devil’.
Back on the A836, he checked his phone again and found he had one bar of signal, so he pulled over and called Siobhan Clarke.
‘How’s it going?’ she asked.
‘Lord Strathy’s not been seen by his staff for a while.’
‘Must be in London then.’
‘That’s not the impression I get. I’d say they’ve been trying to rouse him without success.’
‘What do you make of it?’
‘That’s your job rather than mine.’
‘I’ll check with his London office. Maybe ask his daughter, too.’
‘One other thing–the staff mentioned some press interest a couple of years back. Any idea what that’s about?’
‘Hang on.’ He could hear her sifting paperwork, and a muttering from Malcolm Fox as she asked him about it.
‘Strathy’s fourth wife,’ Clarke eventually said. ‘Seems he collects them like hunting trophies. She walked out on him.’
‘Is that all?’
‘Renounced the high life for the pleasures of hippiedom.’
Rebus’s eyes narrowed. ‘Meaning?’
‘According to reports, she joined some New Age cult.’
‘Based between Naver and Tongue, by any chance?’
‘Why ask if you already know?’
‘It was more of an educated guess. Do you have a name for her?’
‘Angharad Oates. Cue tabloid headlines about wild oats being sown.’
‘Can you send me what you’ve got on her?’
‘Or you could google it, same as Malcolm did.’
‘He’s keeping you busy then?’
‘Just a bit.’
‘Funny that, when he’s just been up here asking questions at Strathy Castle…’
‘Keeping your usual low profile?’
‘Just remember who’s doing all your dirty work.’
‘How’s everything else? With Samantha, I mean?’
‘She’s hanging in.’
‘And you?’
‘Do me one last favour, will you? Run a check on a Colin Belkin. He’s the groundsman and general factotum at Strathy Castle.’
‘And?’
‘I’m betting a pound to a penny he’s got previous.’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
16
‘Tell me what you see,’ Malcolm Fox said, turning his head towards Siobhan Clarke. He had driven them to Craigentinny golf course, passing the scene of Salman bin Mahmoud’s murder on the way.
Clarke saw some parked cars, most of them the makes and models preferred by middle-management types–indeed, the sort of car Malcolm Fox himself drove these days. A couple of silver-haired gents were exiting the clubhouse at the end of their morning round, bags of clubs slung heavily over their shoulders.
‘Your future?’ she pretended to guess. Then: ‘Maybe just spit it out, eh?’
‘Watch and learn.’ Fox killed the engine and undid his seat belt before opening the driver’s-side door. Clarke hated him when he was like this. He could never just share a finding or what he thought might be an inspired inkling–there always had to be a song-and-dance. He was walking towards the barrier they’d just driven through. It was a weighted white pole, which could be lowered as necessary. The car park was unmanned, though signs warned of penalties and restrictions. Once Clarke had caught up with him, Fox slapped a hand against the barrier.
‘They close it at night–I called and checked.’
‘Okay,’ Clarke agreed.
‘Closed and locked–you see what that means?’ He waited, but she didn’t respond. ‘Salman bin Mahmoud has been here in daylight, played golf here. The car park is a good place for a meeting, he thinks.’ He made a circle in the air with a finger. ‘No CCTV, no security guard.’
‘He doesn’t know it’s not usable at night?’ Clarke concluded.
‘Thwarted, he drives to the first car park he finds.’
‘The warehouse.’ She was nodding now. ‘All of which assumes the meeting was his idea, yet we’ve found nothing on his phone.’
‘Maybe there’s another phone we don’t know about; or the meeting was planned some other way. Could even have been arranged face to face. All I’m saying is, this gives us the reason he ended up being killed where he did. Added to which, maybe the meeting was to be about the golf course.’
Clarke saw the excited look on Fox’s face.
‘Any time you’re ready,’ she said, folding her arms.
‘I got talking to my business reporter contact. Craigentinny’s a public course, meaning the city owns it, but it’s no secret Edinburgh Council’s strapped for cash and desperate to save and make money. A consortium made an approach.’
‘To buy the golf course?’
‘Apparently not just this
