‘I should have thought to buy some when I was in Inverness.’
‘So how are you managing?’
‘Pub landlady, I’ve got her late husband’s cast-offs on standby.’
‘A landlady, eh? You’ve landed on your feet.’
‘Maybe and maybe not.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘I’ve got her on my list of suspects.’
‘You’re kidding?’
‘Her and her dad…’
‘Her dad?’
‘He’s in his nineties, so he’s low in the charts.’ Clarke couldn’t help laughing. ‘But he kept an old revolver in the bar and it’s gone walkabout, which maybe puts the barman, Cameron, in the picture. Added to which we have Samantha’s flame from the commune… maybe his partner, Angharad Oates, too–Lord Strathy’s ex, lest we forget–if we’re factoring in her jealousy of Samantha’s fling with Hawkins.’
‘You’re incorrigible.’
‘Is that what I am? How come I feel so tired, then? I could use some of Malcolm’s stamina.’ Clarke didn’t say anything. ‘You’re going to go check, aren’t you, see if he’s still in the office?’
‘Feet up with a good book,’ Clarke corrected him, knowing she was lying. ‘I’ve got the new Karin Slaughter to keep me company.’
‘Not forgetting a faithful pooch.’
‘Kennels, John. I’m not joking.’
‘Try telling him that to his face.’
When Clarke turned from the window, it was as if Brillo had heard every word. His head was cocked, eyes moist.
‘I can hear your resolve crumbling from here,’ Rebus said, ending the call.
‘Thought I’d find you here,’ Clarke said, entering the MIT office.
‘Some of us don’t have Brillo to feed and walk,’ Fox replied.
‘Speaking of which, when did you last eat?’ Clarke reached into the carrier bag she was holding and handed a fish supper to Fox. He began to unwrap it, while she went to the kettle and switched it on.
‘Salt and sauce?’ he asked.
‘Just salt–I wasn’t sure which you were. Got you these, though.’ She dug sachets of ketchup and HP out of her pocket and tossed them towards him.
‘You think of everything,’ Fox said. His desk was strewn with paperwork, so he transported the food to Esson’s obsessively tidy desk and seated himself there. While the kettle got to work, Clarke took a look at his computer.
‘CCTV,’ she commented. Fox nodded, tearing at the fat piece of battered haddock.
‘Christ, this is good,’ he said.
‘Found any interesting bicycles?’
He shook his head. ‘Might be something, though. I’ll tell you after.’
Clarke poured two teas, sniffing the milk before adding a dollop to each stained mug. She carried both to Esson’s desk. Having freed up one hand, she lifted a chip from the pile beneath the fillet.
‘Any news from John?’ Fox asked.
‘He sends his love.’
‘I’ll bet he does. I saw about his daughter on the news–formally questioned but not yet charged. That must be shredding him.’
‘You know John.’
Fox glanced up at her. ‘Was it him who tipped off the reporter about Lord Strathy?’
‘Who else?’
‘Bloody typical.’
Clarke stared down at the carton of food. ‘You’re leaving most of the batter.’
‘The healthy option.’
She picked up a sliver and popped it into her mouth. ‘The lack of footage doesn’t mean Issy and her bike weren’t there. I’m guessing Craigentinny has its share of cycle paths; not much call for CCTV on those.’ Fox was nodding to let her know he’d already considered this. ‘Thing is, though, where’s her motive?’
‘Motive is for later, Siobhan. Right now, an actual suspect would be received with thanks. Want the rest of these chips?’
‘You had enough?’ She watched Fox pat his not-insubstantial stomach. ‘In that case, I’ll eat while you show me what you’ve got.’ She lifted the cardboard carton and followed him to his desk. They sat side by side while Fox scrolled through the CCTV.
‘Thing is,’ he began, ‘previously we’d focused on Seafield Road, and the route Salman took from the New Town. But if his destination was the golf course car park, makes sense to look at the streets in and around Craigentinny too. Sadly, the CCTV coverage there is patchy, but I noticed this car.’ He clicked on a frame, freezing it. Headlights; terraced houses; an unremarkable saloon car; the driver nothing more than a smudged outline. ‘No visible passenger. And travelling towards the golf course from the direction of town.’
‘Okay.’ Clarke knew there was more coming. She finished the final few chips while Fox found the relevant clip.
‘This is Seafield Road again, just before eleven p.m. See that parked car?’ He pressed a fingertip to the screen. The car was shown from behind, rear lights glowing.
‘You’re saying it’s the same one?’
‘Same shape, similar colour.’
‘Where on Seafield Road is this?’
‘About fifty yards from the car park where Salman died, towards the city side. Next footage we have, no car.’
‘Driver stopped to take a call, then headed off again?’ She watched as Fox offered a shrug. ‘It’s not much, Malcolm.’
‘I know that. What I’m wondering is, is it worth asking the tech people to play with it and maybe get us a number plate?’
‘What’s your theory?’
‘There’s a meeting arranged at the golf club, but this driver gets there early and finds the car park locked. Drives out onto Seafield Road and parks. He or she knows an Aston when they see one, so when Salman hoves into view, they signal, maybe with a flash of the headlights. Salman pulls into the nearest secluded spot–which happens to be fifty yards behind the parked car. The other car joins him there.’ He noticed that Clarke was staring at him. ‘What?’
‘That’s properly impressive. You’re wasted at Gartcosh.’
‘We do detective work there too, you know.’
‘But not very much of it.’
‘So I hand this over to tech support in the morning?’
Clarke nodded. ‘Meantime, what make of car do you reckon? Looks pretty generic.’
‘Could be any one of half a dozen,’ Fox agreed. His phone was vibrating. He lifted it from the desk, checking the caller’s name and then answering.
‘Yes?’ was all he said. Then, after listening to whatever the caller was saying: ‘Okay, two minutes.’
‘Cafferty?’ Clarke guessed as the call ended. ‘Downstairs waiting?’
‘I need to do this alone,’ Fox said, putting his jacket on.
‘No you don’t.’
He gave her a look
