‘Get a brew on then!’ George Gamble roared from his desk.
‘No rest, eh?’ Clarke commiserated as Yeats judged whether he’d have to refill the kettle.
‘What did the Fiscal say?’ he asked in return.
‘That you play a crucial role in this hard-working team.’
‘Sod off, Siobhan. Maybe you can run the errands next time.’
‘Just teasing, Phil. Honestly, what would we do without you?’ She paused. ‘Bring mine over to my desk, will you?’
She left the young DC to it, Fox following her back to their shared computer. A ping had alerted her to an incoming message. Once seated, she held the phone up so Fox could see it. A one-word text from Christine Esson.
Bingo!
43
The specks on Giovanni Morelli’s tan leather loafers were minuscule. One of the scene-of-crime team had taken it upon himself to study each and every pair of shoes on the neat racks in Morelli’s wardrobe. Eventually, having noted the flecks under a magnifier, he’d opted for luminol.
‘Positive for blood,’ Esson announced. She had taken up the same position as Sutherland earlier, the DCI himself now part of her audience, arms folded, feet apart. His jaw was rigid, telling Clarke that he was as full of nervous tension as anyone else–he just didn’t want to show it. ‘Shoes have gone to the lab. If it’s the victim’s blood, a match shouldn’t take long.’
‘No bin bags out the back stuffed with stained clothing?’ Tess Leighton asked.
Esson shook her head. ‘We finally traced his cleaner and she’s walking Ronnie through the scene. She’s no memory of having to dispose of anything out of the ordinary. Morelli doesn’t do much cooking, so there’s never a lot in the swing bin. It’s Brabantia, by the way–one of their nice stainless-steel ones. Whole place looks ready to be photographed for a magazine. One thing the cleaner did say is that she thinks a knife might be missing from the kitchen drawer.’
‘Thinks?’
‘She can’t swear to it.’
‘That’s not much use,’ Leighton muttered.
‘Another word with the Fiscal needed,’ Fox nudged Sutherland.
‘I’ll be the judge of that, Malcolm.’
‘Get the bastard up from the cells,’ Gamble growled. ‘Ask him some proper questions.’
‘As opposed to what, George?’ Clarke bristled.
‘He needs intimidating, that’s all I’m saying. Couple of brawny, no-nonsense Scots coppers…’ Gamble was looking at Fox as he spoke.
‘He thinks he’s in Life on Mars,’ Tess Leighton commented with a roll of her eyes.
‘Second interview can wait until we’ve had the lab report,’ Sutherland cautioned.
‘What if that doesn’t happen till after we’ve had to let him walk?’ Gamble argued.
‘He’ll be made to surrender his passport. Don’t fret, George–he’s not getting away.’
‘I’ve known folk hightail it, passport or not, boss.’
‘I think George has a point,’ Clarke said in a level voice. ‘I’m not sure we need the report.’
‘You think he’s suddenly going to get chatty with his expensive solicitor sitting right there beside him telling him “no comment” will suffice?’
‘I actually do.’
‘Something up your sleeve, Siobhan?’
‘Just female intuition maybe.’
Sutherland gave her a look that told her he didn’t totally believe this. But he said okay anyway.
Prior to Giovanni Morelli being brought up from his cell, and while Sutherland was confirming that Patricia Coleridge was on her way, Clarke stepped into the corridor to make a discreet call, after which she descended the station’s ornate staircase, stopping at the front desk.
‘Anyone asks for me,’ she told the officer there, ‘send them straight up. I’ll be in IRB.’
The officer nodded his understanding. As Clarke climbed the stairs again, she saw Fox waiting for her at the top.
‘You’re up to something,’ he commented.
‘I’m really not.’
‘You are, though. I thought we were partners.’
‘The kind who turns up at a car-rental desk half an hour early to steal some glory?’
Fox made a show of wincing. ‘Brillo must be due a walk, surely.’
‘Nice try, Malcolm. Though if you’re offering…’
‘I’m not.’
‘Didn’t think so.’ She leaned in towards him until her lips were only a centimetre from his ear. ‘Watch and learn, Mr Brawn.’
He was attempting a scowl as she headed back into the office.
‘Here we are again,’ Patricia Coleridge announced, with no obvious enthusiasm.
Clarke had once more checked the recording equipment before switching it on. Sutherland was in the same seat as before, opposite the lawyer and her client.
‘The cell is disgusting,’ Morelli was telling Coleridge. ‘The toilet–unbelievable. The sandwich they gave me–inedible!’
‘Just a little longer, Gio,’ Coleridge consoled him. Notebook, iPad and pen laid out, hands pressed together above them as if in prayer, eyes flitting between the two detectives opposite.
‘I assume there’s news of some kind?’ she demanded.
‘A forensic search of Mr Morelli’s home has uncovered a pair of shoes with spots of blood on them,’ Clarke announced. ‘That blood is being analysed as we speak.’
‘So it could well be my client’s?’
‘We both know that’s not the case, though.’ Clarke’s attention was focused on Morelli. ‘You got rid of everything else you’d been wearing, but no way you were going to part with such a lovely pair of shoes. You wore chain-store stuff when renting the car–less conspicuous that way–but for a meeting with Salman… well, he’d be expecting the usual sharply dressed Gio.’
‘You don’t have to say anything,’ Coleridge reminded her client.
‘Cooperation now could play in your client’s favour. Once we have the blood match, we won’t have much need for his assistance.’
‘No comment,’ Morelli said.
Clarke could sense Sutherland growing uneasy, realising how little they had to play with and wondering why Clarke had been keen to hold the interview. She wished she could reassure him, but couldn’t think how.
‘Can we talk about the knife that’s missing from one of your drawers in the kitchen?’
‘Knives get thrown away all the time,’ Coleridge drawled.
‘No comment,’ Morelli repeated. Sutherland shifted slightly in his seat again. Clarke risked a glance in his direction.
Relax.
‘When the test shows that it’s Salman bin Mahmoud’s blood on your shoes, Mr Morelli, what then? Reckon “no comment” will suffice in a courtroom?’
‘This is outrageous.’ Coleridge tossed down the pen she’d only just picked up and
