‘What can I do for you?’
‘I’ll keep it quick–signal comes and goes on the A9. You’ve heard about Lord Strathy’s reappearance?’
‘Yes.’ Fox gave Clarke an inquisitive look, but she ignored him.
‘I’d like to talk to him before he leaves Edinburgh. Is there any way you could facilitate that?’
‘Way ahead of you, DS Creasey. We have a few questions for him ourselves.’
‘Can you keep him busy until I get there? Might take another couple of hours.’
‘A couple? I’m guessing the speed cameras will be working overtime. Strathy will be at Leith police station for as long as we can hold him. Text me when you arrive and I’ll come meet you.’
‘I’m grateful.’
Clarke had another caller waiting. She hung up on Creasey and tapped the icon.
‘Sounds like you’re driving,’ she heard Rebus say.
‘Malcolm is. On our way to pick up his lordship.’
‘You need to ask him about the party Keith gatecrashed–we have to know what really happened.’
‘DS Creasey is on his way here as we speak. He’ll be the one with the questions.’
‘But you’ll have first dibs.’
‘And all I know about the case is what you’ve told me. Fill me in on Creasey, though.’
‘He’s capable, but not exactly inspiring. There’s a line he’s following that he expects will lead to Samantha.’
‘Not a complete idiot, though?’
‘No.’
‘And willing to drive a hundred and fifty miles to interview a minor player.’
‘Strathy might be a lot more than that, Siobhan. As far as I can tell, he’s trading on his name and the fact that he owns a castle. He’s got land he wants to develop and protest groups standing in his way. He might have seen Keith and Jess Hawkins as movable obstacles. It would be a big win for Strathy if Hawkins were to be connected to Keith’s murder.’
‘Set up to take the fall, you mean?’
‘Bear all this in mind when you’re asking your questions. Just because someone looks like Billy Bunter doesn’t mean they don’t possess low animal cunning.’ Rebus paused. ‘Any further thoughts about the Chief’s involvement?’
‘Party line is, there’s no involvement.’
‘Brushing him under the carpet?’
‘Hang on,’ she said, turning to Fox. ‘Quicker if you turn here.’ He did as he was told, only to notice a bin lorry halfway along the street, blocking the route. With a growl, he hit the brakes and began reversing. ‘I’ll talk to you later, John,’ Clarke said into her phone. ‘Right now I need to apologise for my navigational skills…’
At St Stephen Street, the media were packing up. While Fox found a parking spot, Clarke rang Issy Meiklejohn’s doorbell.
‘What?’ the intercom crackled.
‘Detective Inspector Clarke,’ she announced.
‘That didn’t take long.’
Clarke listened as the buzzer signalled that the door had been unlocked. She climbed to Issy’s landing. The door to the flat was already open. Issy stood there like a sentry.
‘Need a word with him,’ Clarke said.
‘He’s tired.’
‘Nice trick with the doorstep conference, by the way–friendly media, all hand-picked?’ She peered over the taller woman’s shoulder.
‘Come back later,’ Issy Meiklejohn demanded.
Clarke shook her head. ‘My boss wants Lord Strathy at the station. Only way this ends is with your dad accompanying me there. Nice comfortable car outside, no markings, no fuss.’
‘This is preposterous.’
She gave an apologetic shrug. ‘Nevertheless,’ she said, her voice drifting off.
‘Wait here a minute,’ Meiklejohn said after a moment’s thought. She closed the door, leaving Clarke on the landing. Clarke gave the handle a surreptitious turn, but it was locked.
It was more like two minutes before the door opened again. Lord Strathy was dressed in an olive-green tweed suit and open-necked white shirt. He hadn’t shaved, silvery bristles showing on his jowls. He looked bemused and there was a slight whiff of whisky on his breath. His daughter had donned a three-quarter-length crimson coat, covering her black polo neck and tight trousers tucked into knee-high boots. She checked she had her keys and her phone, then ushered her father out and closed the door again. Clarke composed a quick text to Fox.
Here we come.
‘My father’s solicitor wants to know which station she should meet us at,’ Issy Meiklejohn said. ‘Her name’s Patricia Coleridge and she’s very, very good…’
‘I know her,’ Clarke said. She turned her attention to Lord Strathy. ‘Criminal law is her thing; interesting that’s the kind of solicitor you know.’
‘Patsy’s father went to the same school as mine,’ Issy Meiklejohn said. ‘The two families have known one another ever since.’
‘Why doesn’t that surprise me?’ Clarke said in an undertone as they headed down the stairs.
Issy Meiklejohn was left to fume on a chair in the corridor while her father was escorted into Interview Room B at Leith police station. Sutherland had given the nod for Clarke and Fox to ask the questions. He’d already had a word with Patricia Coleridge, assuring her that no charges were being levelled and her client was not being cautioned, adding the caveat that if he failed to cooperate, that situation could rapidly change.
Clarke knew that Coleridge’s mind would be as sharp as her business suit. She had already unzipped her large leather notebook and unscrewed the top from her expensive-looking pen. She had a thin mane of straw-blonde hair, prominent cheekbones and piercing grey eyes. A spectacles case sat untouched next to her. There would be no recording made, everything nicely informal.
Strathy looked around the small enclosed space in apparent befuddlement.
‘You don’t have to answer anything,’ Coleridge advised him as, after a peck on the cheek, he took the seat next to her. ‘A simple “no comment” will suffice.’
Fox had carried in some of the paperwork from the inquiry and was studying the timeline.
‘I doubt I can be of much use,’ Lord Strathy announced, hands held out in front of him, palms upwards.
‘Where have you been the past few days?’ Clarke asked, jumping straight in.
‘No comment.’
‘Around the time you disappeared, there were two murders. One here and one up north. Odd coincidence, you going to ground.’
‘No connection, I assure you.’
‘You knew we’d want to question you–afraid
