‘I could definitely do with a break–my hope was, Lord Strathy might be it…’
Clarke texted Fox to let him know the score while she led Creasey to her Vauxhall Astra. They drove in silence for the first few minutes, Creasey leaning back into the headrest.
‘The A9 hasn’t improved then?’ she commented. ‘Still, must be nice to get away from John for a bit.’
Creasey snorted. ‘He’s a piece of work, as they say.’
‘Not many things I’ve not heard him called. Good detective, though; never gives a case a minute’s rest.’ She paused. ‘You think Samantha did it?’
‘Her or her lover–that would be the standard scenario.’
‘So those are your chief suspects?’
‘Everyone but John Rebus thinks so. He’s got half a dozen conspiracy theories lined up.’ He half turned in his seat so he was facing her. ‘Smoke and mirrors most likely.’
‘And yet here you are, DS Creasey.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘One of John’s theories has brought you all the way to Edinburgh. He thinks you maybe lack imagination–your trip here tells me he’s wrong.’
‘You worked with him for a long time?’
‘Felt like.’
‘He doesn’t seem to be relishing retirement. I know his daughter’s freedom and good name are on the line, so he’s desperate–but I also sense he’s enjoying it, though maybe he wouldn’t see it that way.’
Clarke was reminded of the case files stacked up in Rebus’s new flat. She knew he was planning to break open the unsolveds. Something to keep me warm in my old age…
‘I think he feels he let Samantha down,’ she confided. ‘Not just once, but over and over.’
‘And now’s his chance to atone?’ Creasey chewed on this while staring at the passing parade of shops. ‘I should have asked–how’s your own case looking?’
‘Like you, we could use a break.’
‘They are two distinct cases?’
Clarke nodded. ‘With a few linked players. Your victim wasn’t making himself popular with Lord Strathy; Lord Strathy had business dealings with the bin Mahmoud family; my victim was best friends with Lord Strathy’s daughter. And so far no clear motive in either case.’
‘I told you I’ve got a motive.’
‘Jealousy? A love triangle? I don’t think you believe that.’
‘She’d visited her ex-lover the day her partner was killed. He found out and they argued.’
‘So they leave their daughter alone in the house and drive to the internment camp? Does that make sense to you?’
Instead of answering, Creasey leaned back into the headrest again and closed his eyes.
‘Not too much further,’ Clarke reassured him. Then: ‘We’re finding Lady Isabella a bit interesting. I think she has a head for business, though she hides it well. From what little I’ve seen of her father, he’s far from CEO material.’
‘He’s a figurehead, you mean? His daughter tucked away behind the curtain, pulling the strings?’
‘She’s close to Stewart Scoular–he’s the contractor who seems to sign up the investors.’
‘He’s also been a guest at Strathy Castle.’
Clarke glanced at him. ‘Yes, he has.’
‘I can do a Google photo search as well as the next person,’ Creasey explained.
Clarke’s attention was flitting between the windscreen and a new message on her phone.
‘Want me to read it out to you?’ Creasey asked.
‘Just an MIT colleague, wondering how long I’ll be.’
‘They’re missing you already?’
Clarke shook her head slowly. ‘Just pissed off I’m dodging the flak.’
‘You’re being blamed for Strathy’s collapse?’
‘In my absence, almost certainly.’
‘But you weren’t alone in the room with him?’
‘I was with another DI called Fox.’
‘The one whose identity Rebus stole?’
‘Yes.’
‘So this Fox guy will have your back?’
A wry smile just about broke across Clarke’s face as she signalled to take the exit into the grounds of the Royal Infirmary.
Having been told to wait in the A&E reception, Clarke fetched them a hot chocolate apiece.
‘About as nutritious as the machine gets,’ she apologised.
Creasey took an exploratory sip and winced. ‘Christ, that’s sweet.’
Clarke settled next to him on the row of hard plastic chairs. ‘So how are you finding our capital city so far?’
He managed a weak smile, but didn’t speak. A couple of minutes later, he was on his feet, pacing the waiting area. None of the patients paid him any heed, too busy with their own troubles. He didn’t look sick, which probably made him a concerned friend or relative. Clarke had been to this place many times before, could even put names to some of the green-uniformed paramedics. It wasn’t a particularly busy evening; on the surface, all was calm. But she knew that behind the scenes there could be trolleys filled with people waiting for beds to be freed up elsewhere in the hospital, forgotten about for the moment as some new and greater trauma took precedence. Creasey had his phone out, reading from the screen as he walked to and fro. Eventually he ran out of things to check, seating himself again and picking up the beaker of hot chocolate, studying the skin forming on its surface.
‘You’ll be late home,’ Clarke offered. ‘One thing about this job–it plays havoc with everything else. You live in Inverness?’
‘Culloden.’
‘Married?’
‘Not yet. You?’ He watched her shake her head. ‘My boyfriend says maybe next year.’
‘What does he do?’ Clarke asked.
‘He’s a GP.’
‘Two sets of unsociable hours to juggle.’ She was rewarded with another fleeting smile. ‘I’ve been dating another cop lately; not sure that’s going to work out.’
‘Things mostly do, though, don’t they?’
‘I suppose…’ She broke off as Issy Meiklejohn came striding towards them from the guts of A&E. Clarke and Creasey both got to their feet.
‘I’m Detective Sergeant Creasey,’ Creasey said by way of introduction. But Issy Meiklejohn’s ire was directed at Clarke.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing here?’
‘Not my idea,’ Clarke offered. ‘How is your father?’
‘Undergoing tests as we speak.’
‘I was hoping for a word,’ Creasey stated. At last he had Meiklejohn’s attention.
‘Why?’
‘I’m part of the team investigating the death of Keith Grant.’
‘What on earth has that got to do with my father?’
‘We’re talking to everyone who knew the deceased.’
‘In which case you’re wasting your time.’
‘Mr Grant was keen for your father to sell the land housing Camp 1033.
