‘Once we rule out the ones that don’t have an Avis sticker on the rear windscreen, you mean?’ Clarke pretended to guess. ‘Fewer than you might think.’ She produced more photos. Robbie Stenhouse had certainly earned his half-time pie and Bovril. ‘Same car, 10.30 p.m., driving past Craigentinny golf course–you played there with your friend Salman, didn’t you, Mr Morelli? With Stewart Scoular making up the threesome.’ She gave him an opportunity to answer, an opportunity he declined. ‘We think the car had tried entering the nice secluded car park, but it was locked for the night. So here’s the same car on Seafield Road, 10.50 p.m., parked as if waiting for someone. Not too long after, Salman bin Mahmoud was drawing into the warehouse car park just behind where this car was parked. Soon after that, he was attacked and killed.’
‘Your point being?’ Coleridge asked.
But Clarke’s attention was firmly fixed on Morelli, who was doing his damnedest to avoid meeting her eyes. ‘What did he ever do to you, Mr Morelli? Issy will be devastated when she finds out.’
Morelli uncrossed his legs and angled his head a little. It was enough of a tell to satisfy Clarke at this stage. She got to her feet and walked around the table so she was in his eyeline. He turned his head away from her, and found that he was met by Graham Sutherland’s equally piercing gaze.
‘Car’s being checked for DNA, Mr Morelli,’ Clarke continued. ‘Not yours, but Salman’s. We’re assuming you’ve disposed of the clothes you were wearing, but when you cut someone the way you cut your friend, there tends to—’
‘I’m seeing no evidence here of any malfeasance or even impropriety on my client’s part,’ Coleridge broke in to protest. ‘DCI Sutherland, you must realise that it is not the function of any police investigation to—’
‘Ms Coleridge,’ Sutherland interrupted in turn, ‘what’s required here is a credible explanation from your client as to why he would travel out to Edinburgh airport to rent a car for one day, putting fewer than thirty miles on the clock before returning it. Once he’s done that, perhaps he can further elucidate his reason or reasons for driving through Craigentinny–not exactly turf I’d think he was familiar with–not half an hour before Salman bin Mahmoud arrived there to meet someone. Quite the coincidence, isn’t it? As is the fact that Mr bin Mahmoud’s last telephone conversation that day was with Mr Morelli. They spoke for just under five minutes, between 7.15 and 7.20 p.m. I’d be keen to know what was said, perhaps what arrangements were being made. By failing to explain himself, your client is digging himself a very deep hole. You’d serve his interests best by making him aware of that.’
He leaned back a little to let the room know he’d finished. The silence lingered. Clarke had returned to her chair. Having unscrewed the top from her pen and then screwed it back on again, Coleridge eventually turned towards Morelli. Sensing that something was needed from him, he inhaled at length and noisily before opening his mouth.
‘No comment,’ he said.
Despite his solicitor’s protestations, they were holding onto the Italian for the twenty-four hours allowed in law. He’d been placed in a cell and given weak sugary tea in a thin plastic cup. The Fiscal Depute had convened the team for a meeting, then taken Sutherland aside for a private word.
‘Nothing from the car,’ Tess Leighton said as she ended the call she’d just been on. ‘They’re giving it another go, but I didn’t sense any great confidence.’
Clarke checked the screen of her own phone. She had asked Christine Esson for regular updates from Morelli’s mews house. So far all she’d had was: Nice place! She sent another text by way of a nudge–a single question mark–and walked over to the kettle, where Fox was dunking a herbal tea bag in a mug.
‘Phil’s gone to fetch milk,’ he explained. ‘So meantime…’
‘You’re offering me second use of your peppermint tea bag?’ Clarke shook her head. ‘I was hoping for more from the car.’
‘Me too. But it still leaves Morelli with a lot of explaining to do.’
‘Or else he keeps his trap shut and walks out of here tomorrow.’
‘Nothing from Christine?’
‘Just that he keeps a lovely house.’
‘He’ll have a cleaner–we need to ask them if he bagged any clothes for them to dispose of. Maybe there’s a knife missing from a set in the kitchen…’
Clarke nodded slowly. ‘Christine knows all that, Malcolm.’
‘Must be something we could be doing.’
‘Wee trip to the cells for a spot of waterboarding?’
‘Few slaps would probably do it.’
‘Back in John’s day,’ Clarke agreed. Then: ‘Coleridge wants her client assessed as a suicide risk.’
‘Why?’
‘I assume the hope is that he’ll be given preferential treatment.’
‘I watched the recording.’
‘And?’
‘You were good.’
‘Anything I missed?’
‘When you mentioned Issy…’
‘Ah, you noticed that.’
‘You touched a nerve. Bit more of that wouldn’t have gone amiss.’
Clarke nodded slowly and watched as the Fiscal Depute left Sutherland’s office, heading for the stairs.
‘She doesn’t look overly optimistic,’ Fox commented.
‘They never do, until we’ve got a confession and maybe a dozen eyewitnesses.’
Fox smiled over the rim of his mug. He sipped at the tea and savoured it. ‘Not too bad,’ he said.
‘Phil’s not exactly hurrying with that milk.’ Clarke checked the time on her phone.
‘Ask him and he’ll tell you the first shop he tried had run out. I’d put money on it.’
‘While in fact he’s just been enjoying a saunter?’ Clarke turned as Fox gestured towards the doorway. Phil Yeats was striding into the room. He hoisted a carrier bag as he approached the kettle.
‘Nearest place didn’t have any,’ he explained.
‘You keeping a crystal ball tucked away somewhere?’ Clarke asked Fox, while Yeats frowned,
