‘I just did a few of their more upmarket properties,’ Pelham qualified.
‘So you know the Mackenzies?’ Clarke asked, glancing towards where Dickinson and Fox had been standing.
‘My ex and Fraser go back a ways,’ Pelham admitted. ‘We used to wine and dine together, the same parties and charity bashes — you know how it is.’ Clarke nodded so she would keep talking. ‘Beth got me to do a bit of work on her house. That went well, so then she got the idea of adding a bit of value to some of the flats.’
‘Including the one where Francis...’
She gave a vigorous shake of the head. ‘I was busy elsewhere when that came up.’
‘So Francis would have known the Mackenzies too, would he?’ Clarke nudged.
‘To talk to, yes, I suppose so. He wasn’t one for black-tie events, though — or dinner parties, come to that, not unless they involved half a dozen of his pals from Tynecastle. Cheryl often had to come along on her own — on those rare occasions he’d let her out of his sight.’ Pelham stared at the interview room door. ‘What are they doing in there?’
‘I’m sure she’s being looked after,’ Clarke said, gesturing to Hendry that she had to get back to work. Hendry offered a smile of thanks, while Pelham glanced down at the blank screen of her phone, which she was clutching in both hands as if it was a prayer book. ‘We have your other phone, by the way,’ Clarke informed her. ‘We’ll get it back to you soon.’
‘Christ, no thanks.’ Pelham gave a shudder. ‘Everything I need from it I can transfer from the cloud.’
‘I know you said it required facial recognition, but I assume there’s a passcode too?’
‘Cheryl’s birthday.’ Pelham was studying Clarke. ‘Why?’
‘The footage of the home invasion,’ Clarke explained. ‘It’ll have audio, unlike the CCTV.’
‘Fill your boots.’
She gave a little nod of thanks and walked the short distance back to MIT. Looking around the room, she was relieved to find that Tess Leighton and Christine Esson had been assigned IV1.
‘Just the menfolk, eh?’ she said, glancing through the doorway towards where the DCI sat at her desk, busy with a phone call. Jason Ritchie was making tea and waved a mug at her. She rewarded him with a thumbs-up. Colin King was on his phone while at the same time working his computer’s trackpad. George Gamble, meantime, had slouched towards the shared printer and plucked a sheet of paper from it, wafting it in front of him as he began to approach Clarke’s desk.
‘Got a name and address for the phone’s owner,’ he crowed. ‘It’s not a woman, though.’
Clarke registered that he meant the source of the original 999 call. She took the sheet from him.
‘Kenneth Lloyd,’ she recited. ‘Flat on Canongate.’ She looked at Gamble.
‘Probably the top floor,’ he responded, his whole face wrinkling at the thought of the climb.
Malcolm Fox entered the room, looking pleased at having carved out some private time with Dickinson.
‘Bit of proper police work for us,’ Clarke said, handing him the address. Then, to Ritchie, ‘I’ll have that tea when we get back.’
As Clarke switched on the ignition, her phone synced and music blared out of the speakers. She scrabbled to turn it off.
‘What in God’s name was that?’ Fox asked.
‘Manics.’ He looked at her. ‘As in Street Preachers.’ He looked none the wiser and she just shook her head.
They travelled in silence for a few minutes. ‘Put it on again if you like,’ Fox eventually said. Then, ‘I thought you maybe wanted me along so you could give me a grilling.’
‘Why would I want to do that?’
‘Because you reckon I’ve a foot in two camps — Gartcosh and here.’
‘And do you?’
‘The ACC is obviously taking an interest.’
‘And you’re only too happy to help.’
He tried swivelling towards her, not easy in the cramped confines of the car. ‘I think we’re after the same result, Siobhan.’
‘I’m not so sure.’
‘I’d hate you to prove me wrong.’
She took her eyes off the road for a second to meet his stare. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Your little chat with Cafferty. First I’d heard of it was in that interview room.’
‘Sorry for not reporting to you personally, Malcolm. Do you want updates just once a day or on the hour?’
Her tone told him to back off. He twisted in his seat and stared at the passing city. ‘Geoff is a good guy. It was decent of him to brief us.’
‘Under orders from ACC Lyon, I presume?’ She watched Fox consider his response and then offer a brief nod. ‘The stuff about Mackenzie and Pelham was interesting,’ she conceded, watching as Fox reacted to a ping from his phone. He dug it out and studied the screen.
‘Some right-wing news site,’ he explained to her. ‘They’re having a dig at the Courant. “Maybe the heroes are the bad guys”,’ he recited.
‘What does that mean?’
He read on. ‘“Sticking to the letter of the law means criminals go free. What we need right now are more Gene Hunts and less Sam Tylers.”’
‘They mean “fewer”,’ Clarke said, ‘and maybe more subeditors.’
‘I don’t get the reference.’
‘That TV show from a few years back, Life on Mars.’
‘Never watched it.’
‘Cop goes back in time and basically finds himself surrounded by the cast of The Sweeney — I’m assuming you used to watch that?’
‘When I was a kid, sure. Never liked the way they did things.’
‘You were born for Complaints, Malcolm.’
‘Sometimes I think I was. Cops who go off piste are anything but heroes in my book.’
‘Social media says otherwise.’
‘Social media, as you well know, is a complete bear pit.’
‘Is that why you get alerts every time a right-wing news site adds a story?’
‘Know your enemy, Siobhan.’
‘I can’t work you out, Malcolm.’ He looked at her. ‘You come across as a mahoosive prick half the time, but the other half I sometimes find myself agreeing with and even almost liking you.’
‘I wonder which half I need to work on.’ He thought for a moment. ‘The photo sent to Cafferty — what’s that all about?’
‘Beats me.’
‘Where was I when this tip came in?’
‘Swanning around town with the boss.’
‘And Cafferty says it never happened?’
‘Which means it definitely did.’
North Bridge was shut off to traffic heading north — long-standing repairs — but they were heading south. As she made to signal left onto Canongate itself, however, Clarke remembered that more repairs had blocked the road at the St Mary’s Street junction. Cursing, she turned down Blackfriars Street, then left on Cowgate and left again, rejoining Canongate just past the roadworks.
‘Glad you’re driving,’ Fox told her as he busied himself with his phone.
A few hardy tourists were out and about, gift shops reopened and ready to welcome them. The road was surfaced with setts, increasing the noise level in the Astra’s cabin and giving Clarke and Fox an excuse to stop conversing. They were halfway to the Parliament building when Clarke pulled up onto the pavement and stopped the car. She reached under her seat for the sign that told the parking attendants police business was being undertaken.
‘This where he lives?’ Fox queried.
‘Yes.’
‘He works at the Parliament, though.’ He turned his phone towards her, showing the results of his Google search.