‘This is connected to Stewart Scoular’s plan for the golf resort up north?’
‘Same names keep popping up.’
‘Including the bin Mahmoud family and Lord Strathy?’
Fox nodded like a bright kid whose teacher had just taken note. Clarke kept her face emotionless as she thought it through.
‘John says Lord Strathy’s done a vanishing act. I tried his London office but they’ve all got degrees in evasion.’
‘His daughter?’
‘Not answering her phone. I left a message.’ Clarke gnawed at her bottom lip. ‘How often did Salman bin Mahmoud play here?’ Fox shrugged. ‘The game with Scoular was how long ago?’
‘You know as much as I do, Siobhan.’
‘We need to talk to Scoular again, don’t we?’ The shrug became a slow nod. ‘And how much of this do you report back to Big Ger Cafferty?’
‘That’s probably best kept between me and him, wouldn’t you say? Last thing I want is for you to be dragged into this.’
‘In case it becomes messy?’
‘I’ve got a certain level of body armour.’
‘Better hope whoever comes for you doesn’t aim for the head then.’ Clarke unfolded her arms and placed her hands on her hips. ‘Okay,’ she said, ‘let’s go and see if we can get under the skin of a certain reptilian property developer…’
He didn’t exactly look pleased to see them.
They had tracked him down to a restaurant just off George Street, where he was hosting a business lunch. He was still chewing as he left his guests and entered the foyer.
‘Just a couple of questions,’ Clarke said, this being as much of an apology as she was willing to offer. ‘You played golf with Salman bin Mahmoud how many times?’
‘Three, I think.’
‘How many of those at Craigentinny?’
‘Just the one.’
‘And this,’ Fox interrupted, stepping closer as a waiter squeezed past, ‘was because of your consortium’s interest in taking Craigentinny into private ownership?’
Scoular swallowed whatever was in his mouth. His eyes moved between the two detectives.
‘What’s this got to do with Salman’s murder?’
‘That’s what we’re attempting to ascertain.’
Before Scoular could add anything, Clarke lofted another question in his direction. ‘How long ago was your final game with the deceased?’
‘Maybe three weeks.’
‘Three weeks before he died?’
‘I’d have to check my diary, but thereabouts.’
‘And this was at Craigentinny?’
‘Yes.’
‘And the pair of you were discussing financing the purchase of the course?’
‘Along the way, yes.’
‘I’m guessing buying it would be a cheaper option than building a new resort from scratch elsewhere?’ Fox enquired.
‘That depends on negotiations.’
‘Always assuming you intended keeping it as a golf course. I’m guessing if the membership sums didn’t add up, you could always apply to rezone it and build a lot of nice executive homes…’
Scoular glared at Fox. ‘Which of my competitors have you been talking to? Not one of them’s to be trusted–and baseless gossip can lead to a libel action, Inspector.’
It was Clarke’s turn to step closer to Scoular as a couple of new diners entered the restaurant. ‘Seen anything of Lord Strathy recently?’ She watched his jaw tighten as he turned his attention towards her.
‘Ramsay?’ he eventually said. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘He’s one of your investors, isn’t he? Maybe I should even say “partner”?’
‘What if he is?’
‘He seems to have gone to ground.’
‘Oh?’
‘You’ve not heard from him?’
Scoular made show of looking at his watch. ‘Was there anything else?’
‘Just for confirmation, Salman bin Mahmoud was what we might call a business associate? He had control of the family money and some of that money was being put towards projects you were in charge of?’
‘I’m a facilitator, that’s all.’
‘Is that a yes?’
‘I’ve told you as much as I can. If you’ve not found me cooperative, it might be time for me to get my lawyers involved. Meantime, maybe you could busy yourselves elsewhere–finding whoever killed Sal would be an excellent start.’
He pushed his way back through the curtain into the dining room. Clarke and Fox had a view of the tables. They all looked full. Having waited a few seconds, Clarke crooked her index finger at Fox and pushed open the curtain. The room was L-shaped, and as they turned the corner, they saw a separate, glassed-in private area. It contained a single oval table around which sat six diners. Scoular was apologising while one waiter topped up glasses and another cleared the empty plates. Four men, all in suits and ties; one woman. Lady Isabella Meiklejohn.
Clarke pushed open the door and walked in, Fox right behind her.
‘This is intolerable,’ Scoular began to object. Clarke ignored him.
‘I left you a message,’ she told Meiklejohn.
‘Did you?’ Meiklejohn wore a crimson jacket over her short black dress. Her lipstick matched the jacket. She smiled what she probably thought would suffice as an apology, her eyes on her glass as she raised it to her mouth.
‘We’ve been trying to reach your father,’ Clarke told her.
‘Whatever for?’
‘Do you know his whereabouts?’
‘I do not; nor do I especially care.’ She smiled for the benefit of the other guests.
‘Get a message to him,’ Clarke commanded. ‘Tell him to call me.’ She watched as Meiklejohn made show of giving a toast with her glass. ‘Better let you get back to the sales pitch then…’ She stared at each of the four men in turn, as if to memorise their faces.
Fox shifted slightly, allowing her to leave the room ahead of him. With a slight bow of the head, he followed her, catching up only when they reached the pavement. Clarke was removing a parking ticket from the windscreen of his car. She handed it to him.
‘Recognise any of them?’ she asked.
‘No.’
‘Maybe we should have brought along your man from the business pages.’
‘Gut feeling, though–bankers, maybe councillors.’
Clarke nodded. ‘And Issy Meiklejohn for window-dressing.’
‘Nothing more?’
Clarke stared at him. ‘What’s your thinking, Malcolm?’
‘She wouldn’t be the first woman in history to mask her intelligence.’
‘You reckon she’s running the family firm?’
‘Not so different from Salman bin Mahmoud’s role–maybe that was the initial connection between them: kids with their eyes on the prize.’
Clarke couldn’t help but agree; not that she was about to give Fox the gold
