‘Okay,’ he said, drawing the word out.
‘You come from a wealthy background, grew up in Rome, yes?’
‘Correct.’
‘That night in Circus Lane, you told us you’d met Issy and Sal at a mutual friend’s party in St Andrews…’
‘Not quite–Issy and I were at the party. We met Sal there for the first time.’
‘Meaning you already knew Issy?’
The Italian nodded. ‘We were sixteen, seventeen, still at school. Our families ended up at Klosters at the same time, and we met at a party there.’
‘Klosters the ski resort rather than Cloisters the Tollcross pub?’ Clarke enquired, glancing towards Fox: prejudice vindicated, she was telling him.
‘We discovered we liked similar books, music, films…’
‘No coincidence then that you both applied to Edinburgh University?’
Another shrug. ‘It has a good reputation. And of course there are no fees.’ He said this with a self-deprecating smile.
‘Because of EU rules,’ Fox agreed. ‘Which are about to end.’
‘Bloody Brexit,’ Morelli commented.
‘Have you noticed any changes during your time in Scotland?’ Fox went on.
‘Changes?’
‘A hardening of attitudes.’
‘Racism, you mean? Not especially–it’s a bigger issue in England, I think.’
‘Yet you were attacked…’ Clarke watched Morelli give another shrug. ‘So if that wasn’t a race crime, what was it? You’ll appreciate that you’re not dissimilar to Mr bin Mahmoud–to the untrained eye, I mean, on a dark night, an under-lit street…’
‘With your hood up,’ Fox added.
‘You think they mistook me for Sal?’
‘Only problem with that hypothesis,’ Clarke continued, ‘is that you were treated leniently–much more leniently–by comparison. It could have been by way of a warning, and when Mr bin Mahmoud seemed not to have taken that warning, they upped the stakes.’
Morelli leaned forward a little. ‘But who were these people? What had he done to them?’
‘That’s what we’re attempting to ascertain, Mr Morelli.’
‘He had no enemies.’
‘We keep hearing that. But he was running an unsustainable lifestyle, judging by his bank account. Was he maybe borrowing? Were there drugs issues? We appreciate you were his friend–one of his very closest–and you want to protect his reputation, but if there’s anything that could help us, we need to hear it sooner rather than later.’
Clarke sifted the photographs as she waited. Fox had clasped his hands across his chest, a benign look on his face. Morelli ran a palm along his jaw, as if to aid his thinking.
‘Stewart Scoular,’ he began, his voice tailing off.
‘Yes?’ Clarke prompted.
‘There was a millionaires’ playground in the Highlands, the scheme required investment. Stewart was courting Sal.’ His eyes met Clarke’s. ‘Is that how you say it?’ He waited for her nod before continuing. ‘And of course you are correct, whenever there was a party, there were stimulants.’
‘Sourced from where?’
‘Stewart again, I think.’
‘Not a man called Cafferty?’
‘The one who owns the Jenever Club? I’ve met him a few times–he’s a gangster, yes?’
‘We would say so.’
‘He liked me to tell him stories of the Mafia, the Camorra, the ’Ndrangheta. My parents live in a nice part of Rome, but they have security–if you have money in Italy, you never feel completely safe.’
‘We’ve looked up your family,’ Fox said. ‘Your father especially. It seems he’s not only a successful businessman but a hard-nosed one too. Didn’t he once sack an entire workforce with no warning? There are even rumours of links to Mafia figures…’
‘In Italy, to be successful is to be hard-nosed. And wherever money is being made, the underworld isn’t far behind. My father treads carefully, I assure you.’
‘Did Cafferty have any dealings with Mr bin Mahmoud?’ Clarke enquired.
Morelli thought for a moment. ‘Not really. We only ever saw him at the club. He might appear out of nowhere, shaking hands, offering complimentary drinks. I don’t think he impressed Stewart.’
‘Explain.’ Clarke rested her forearms on the table.
‘Stewart would be hosting potential investors. He wanted to wow them. A private club will do that, no? But Cafferty always seemed to know when they were on the premises, and he would come asking questions, seeking information–and with no subtlety.’
‘What do you think was going on?’
‘To my mind, Cafferty is just a hoarder–he gathers information and contacts. Much of it may never be of use to him, but he gathers it anyway. Also, I think he liked to get under Stewart’s skin.’
‘So why does Mr Scoular continue to frequent the club?’
Morelli gave a thin smile. ‘Cafferty has a reputation. Some people find that attractive. They want to rub shoulders with dangerous people because it makes them feel a little bit dangerous and powerful, too. Do you understand?’
Both detectives nodded.
‘There is one further possibility to be explored,’ Morelli went on. ‘You say I was the victim of a hate crime, or else I was mistaken for Sal. But I could have been targeted precisely because I was part of his circle–another way of sending a message to him.’
‘But if he had no enemies…’
‘None that he knew of,’ Morelli qualified. ‘None that any of us knew of. And yet he was murdered and I was attacked.’ He offered another shrug.
There was silence in the room for a few seconds until Fox broke it.
‘What will you do after university, Gio?’
‘I may continue my studies.’
‘Here or in Rome?’
‘Who knows?’
‘You’ve been friends with Isabella for some time,’ Clarke said. ‘Have you ever met her father?’
‘Yes.’
‘Here or at Strathy Castle?’
‘Here, London, up north…’
‘Parties?’
‘Of course.’
‘He owns the land this millionaires’ playground of Mr Scoular’s would be built on.’
‘It is a foolish location–too windy, too cold.’ Morelli made show of shivering. ‘The one thing this country does not do well is weather.’
‘Was Salman at these parties?’ Fox enquired.
‘Some.’
‘They were pitches for funding?’
‘In a way, I suppose.’
‘Your family has money–your father is an industrialist…’
‘You’re wondering if I’ve ever been asked to contribute–the answer is yes. But I’ve always declined. I grew up knowing business and commerce and the people involved. None of it appeals to me. Give me books and art–those are what’s important.’
‘Nice to have the choice,’ Clarke commented.
‘I know I am pampered, privileged, a dilettante–I have heard it from my father’s own lips.’ Morelli’s face fell a little at the memory.
Clarke
