‘More than me, in all likelihood,’ he said to himself, his breathing a little laboured as he reached the landing.
Clarke was at their shared desk. Most of the rest of the team had clocked off for the day or were in the process of doing so, but Siobhan Clarke was sticking around. The records from the victim’s mobile phone provider had come through, six months’ worth. They’d already accessed his phone so knew about the more recent calls, and had spoken to everyone he’d been in touch with on the day he died. An upmarket wine and spirits shop in central London featured, as did two private banks (one London, one Edinburgh), a local tailor specialising in tweed and sporting wear, and a Michelin-rated restaurant in Leith. The banks had proved stubbornly resistant to questions about their client’s financial situation. A far-from-complete set of printed statements had been brought from Salman bin Mahmoud’s Edinburgh home, and showed a balance in the low five figures.
‘Not being cheeky,’ Christine Esson had said, ‘but that doesn’t seem much.’
Then again, as Graham Sutherland had pointed out, the super-rich often had other means of salting away and accessing funds. Forensic accountants were busy both at the Met in London and at Gartcosh. It hadn’t been difficult for Fox to add Stewart Scoular’s name to the mix, alongside Isabella Meiklejohn and Giovanni Morelli.
Nor did the deceased own either of his sports cars–both were leased. The home in Edinburgh was owned outright by the family, purchased as a long-term investment most likely, while the London penthouse was a rental costing almost exactly double what Fox earned in a month.
Fox sat alongside Clarke and picked up the two books sitting on the desk. They were hardback thrillers.
‘Present from Christine,’ Clarke explained. ‘One for me, one for John.’
Fox opened one of the books at the title page. ‘Signed and everything,’ he said. ‘Now if only you had some downtime…’
‘What did Cafferty want, by the way?’ Fox stared at her. ‘The office has windows, Malcolm. You get a call, and quarter of an hour later you say you’re heading to the gents.’
‘I’d put my jacket on,’ Fox realised.
‘Which strictly speaking isn’t needed for a call of nature. So I walk over to the window and see a big shiny car and a big shiny heavy.’
‘He was just after an update.’
‘You really can’t be doing this.’ Clarke frowned. ‘Did you ask why he’s so interested in Stewart Scoular?’
‘He’s keeping his cards close to his chest.’
‘He’s not the only one. There’s stuff you’re not telling me, and I can’t honestly say I like it.’
‘I told you about Special Branch,’ Fox said, lowering his voice.
‘That’s not it, though.’ She shook her head. ‘One thing I sense is that you think you have the brass on your side–hence all that guff about having a certain amount of armour.’
‘Leave it, Siobhan.’
‘You know me better than that. What’s Cafferty trading? Something too juicy for your bosses not to let him have his way?’
‘I said leave it.’ Fox’s voice had stiffened. He took a deep breath and exhaled. ‘Isn’t Brillo due an evening walk?’
‘I took him out at lunchtime, remember?’
‘That was six hours ago.’
‘How many walks do you think he needs?’
‘Maybe you should check that with John.’
‘Yeah? And maybe you should check with Special Branch how happy they are about you bringing a known gangster into this inquiry.’
The silence between them lengthened, Fox’s jaw flexing as he clamped his teeth together. ‘Any word from Rebus?’ he eventually asked.
Clarke gave a sigh. ‘We seem to be back to radio silence.’
‘And the elusive Lord Strathy?’
‘Ask as many questions as you like–I’m not forgetting that you’re keeping stuff back from me and it’s going to keep pissing me off until you tell me.’
‘Understood. But to get back to Lord Strathy?’
‘Still nothing. I got the Met to pay a visit to his various London haunts.’
‘They must be loving us down there.’ Fox managed a thin smile.
Clarke lifted one of the sheets of telephone numbers. It was now fully annotated. The original bills had shown only calls and texts sent by the victim, but now they also had calls to his phone.
‘Gio, Issy, Gio, Issy, Gio,’ she reeled off. ‘Almost two dozen chats on his last day alive.’
‘I believe young people prefer it to actually being in the same room as someone.’
‘Then there’s Stewart Scoular, though not with nearly the same frequency.’ Clarke glanced at the writing on her notepad. ‘Eighteen calls in six months–nine from and nine to.’
‘And nothing to indicate that a meeting was being set up at Craigentinny,’ Fox stated, ‘unless it was with Meiklejohn or Morelli.’
Clarke nodded. ‘But we do have these,’ she said, tapping another sheet. ‘A dozen calls to the landline at Strathy Castle. Once a fortnight, pretty much.’
‘No mobile signal up there?’
‘That’s my thinking.’
‘Talking to Issy?’
Clarke offered a shrug. ‘We’ll ask her. Got to be either her on a home visit, or else her father.’ She rubbed her eyes. She and Fox were now the only occupants of the MIT room. Footsteps could be heard descending the staircase as the ancillary staff finished their working day. ‘How’s that search on Issy going, by the way?’
‘The internet is its usual glorious swamp. Wild-child stuff from her early days; PR repair jobs courtesy of a few society glossies. Apparently she spends a large chunk of her life helping charities.’
‘Between university lectures and society balls? When I was at uni, there were some just like her–a whole raft of poshos we only saw once a year in the exam hall.’
‘While you had a bath full of coal for a bed?’
‘School of hard knocks, Malcolm.’
‘I thought your parents were lecturers?’
‘Way to burst my class-conflict bubble.’ Clarke shook herself, trying to clear her head.
‘Call it a day?’ Fox suggested.
‘I will if you will.’
‘Thought I might stick with it a bit longer.’ He tapped the computer screen. ‘Plenty on here about Issy the socialite, but it’s the business brain we’re really interested in.’
‘Meaning talking to your business contacts?’
‘I hope
