‘Doesn’t mean to say they won’t.’
‘I should probably give the ACC a call too, keep her posted.’
‘I’m going to assume she knows about Cafferty.’
‘Assume what you like.’
‘Might be easier if I just took a baton to your head until you fess up.’
‘That wouldn’t be very professional. But let me propose something. I do a bit more work here while you walk Brillo and have a bite to eat…’
‘Yes?’
‘Then we meet up and go see if Lady Isabella Meiklejohn is at home and receiving visitors–after all, we’ve yet to see where she lives.’
‘Other thing is the deceased’s house,’ Clarke added. ‘I know a crew’s been through it, but I wouldn’t mind a nosy.’
‘And there’s a set of keys somewhere around here.’ Fox’s gesture took in the office.
‘Rendezvous at eight?’
Fox did a quick calculation in his head. ‘Eight it is.’
20
Isabella Meiklejohn lived a literal stone’s throw from Gio Morelli, but unlike her friends, she was making do with a second-floor flat on St Stephen Street, almost directly across from the Antiquary pub. Her voice on the intercom had been wary, switching rapidly to irritation when the two detectives identified themselves.
‘Not more bloody questions,’ she complained as she buzzed them in.
The tenement stairwell was on the shabby side. A bicycle was chained to the landing rail next to her door, and Clarke asked if it was hers.
‘Full of surprises, aren’t I?’ she said with a cold smile, ushering them in. The hallway was narrow and cluttered. A mannequin acted as a coat and hat rack, while a stuffed pine marten in a glass case did duty as a table of sorts, its lid covered with unopened mail, keys and headphones. Clarke caught a glance of the galley kitchen–obviously the maid’s day off. Both bedroom doors were closed. The living room was cuboid, with just the one window. An open door gave a view into a box room, which had become a study of sorts–desk, computer, printer. Dance music played through a portable gadget that Meiklejohn silenced with a spoken
command.
There were some books piled by the fireplace, but not huge amounts, and no visible bookcases. Plenty of garish art on the walls, possibly the work of friends or fellow students. Meiklejohn flounced back onto the sofa, legs tucked under her. A glass of red wine sat on the floor, next to a half-empty bottle and a full ashtray. The smell of tobacco lingered.
‘Hard work cycling uphill into town,’ Clarke offered, ‘especially for a smoker.’
‘Nothing wrong with my lungs.’ Meiklejohn glanced down at her chest before giving Fox what she probably thought was a coquettish look.
‘Any word from your father?’
‘No.’
‘And you’re not beginning to worry?’
‘Should I?’
Fox cleared his throat. ‘The calls between you and Mr bin Mahmoud on the day he died: can you remind us what they were about?’
‘Probably the usual–a bit of gossip, maybe plans for the weekend.’
‘Not business, then?’
‘Business?’
‘When we bumped into you at that restaurant earlier, you looked to be dining with some of Stewart Scoular’s investors.’
‘Did I?’
‘That’s what I’m asking.’
Meiklejohn lifted her glass and turned her attention to Clarke. ‘What do you think, Inspector?’
‘At first I thought you were getting a free feed in exchange for flashing your tits at a bunch of men old enough to be your father.’
Meiklejohn hoisted the glass in a toast before drinking. ‘And now?’ she said.
‘Scoular is part of a consortium that’s been trying to buy a golf course in Edinburgh. Some of the same people are probably part of the scheme to build a new upmarket resort between Tongue and Naver–on land largely owned by your father.’
‘Owned by the Strathy Estate,’ Meiklejohn corrected her.
‘Which equates to the same thing, more or less. So what we’re wondering is, was your role at the lunch maybe more substantial? Do you speak for your father at such gatherings?’
Meiklejohn took her time placing the wine glass back on the floor. ‘And how exactly,’ she drawled, ‘does any of that get you nearer to identifying Sal’s killer?’
‘We’re just working with the pieces given to us,’ Fox said. ‘Seeing how they might fit into the overall picture.’
‘Are you sure KerPlunk isn’t a better analogy? Because when I look at you, I see two people with nothing but the straws they’re yanking on.’
‘You do want Mr bin Mahmoud’s killer caught, Lady Isabella?’ Clarke butted in.
‘Of course I do.’
‘And you still claim that he had no obvious enemies?’
‘Envious racists apart, no.’
‘No one who owed him money or he owed money to? No commercial disagreements? No spurned friends or lovers?’ She gave a bit of extra weight to the final word.
‘We never fucked, Inspector.’
‘Why not?’
Meiklejohn met Clarke’s stare. ‘I don’t think that’s any of your business.’
‘You and Gio Morelli aren’t an item?’
‘No.’
‘Stewart Scoular?’ This time the question came from Fox.
‘What the hell has my love life got to do with any of this?’
‘Is that a yes?’
‘It’s a big fat fuck you.’
‘How well did your father know the victim? Well enough for Salman to phone him at Strathy Castle?’
‘I wouldn’t know.’
‘Or was it you he was calling?’
‘I spend as little time up there as humanly possible.’
‘But you took Salman there, yes?’
‘For a couple of parties.’
‘Parties your father attended?’
‘I’m not saying they didn’t know one another socially, but my father spends more time in London than he does anywhere north of the border.’
‘And London,’ Fox interrupted, ‘happens to be where Mr bin Mahmoud was studying.’
Meiklejohn gave a slow nod, as if remembering something. ‘My father did arrange for him to visit the House of Lords–Sal loved that. But actually something came up, so Pops couldn’t make it and he had a friend show Sal round instead.’
‘I’m guessing VIP visits to the House of Lords would impress Stewart Scoular’s would-be investors.’
‘I still fail to see what any of this has to do with Sal’s death. Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got a seminar I need to be prepping for.’
‘Tomorrow morning?’ Clarke asked. ‘What time?’
Meiklejohn had to think about it. ‘Eleven.’
‘What’s the topic?’
‘Poetry of
