‘Tell me he’s not an MSP,’ Clarke muttered.
‘Special adviser,’ Fox elucidated. So they stayed in the car and Clarke phoned the parliament.
‘Mr Lloyd?’ she checked when the call was answered. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Siobhan Clarke. I’d appreciate a few minutes of your time. In person if possible.’ She listened for a moment. ‘We’re not far away, if that helps. Can we meet outside the main entrance? Saves the hassle of security...’
There was a car park alongside the Palace of Holyroodhouse, so they left the Astra there. For a change, no demonstrations were taking place outside the Parliament, and only a few people were around. The security guard at the entrance looked bored, and Clarke didn’t blame him. The young man who appeared through the doors sported a trimmed beard, black-rimmed glasses and a checked shirt. Multiple lanyards swung from his neck, each holding a laminated pass of some kind.
‘Mr Lloyd?’ Clarke held up her warrant card.
‘What’s this about?’
‘Two nights ago, your phone was used to make an emergency call. That phone has since gone missing, is that correct?’
‘Not missing as such, she just didn’t give it back to me.’
‘“She” in this case being the person who actually made the call?’
Lloyd nodded. ‘It’s the murder, isn’t it? You don’t even have to answer, I saw it on the news.’
‘Maybe we can rewind a bit,’ Fox interrupted. ‘Who is this woman?’
‘I didn’t catch her name. I mean, she must have told me, but I’d had a skinful.’
‘So we’re not talking about an acquaintance?’
‘It was a party at a flat on the Shore. In Leith?’
‘We know where the Shore is.’
‘It all got fairly boisterous. Like we’d survived the apocalypse or something. I was dancing with her and then we were drinking in the kitchen and then we were... well...’
‘You didn’t take her back to your place, so I’m assuming you went to hers?’
‘Sort of. I don’t really know.’ He saw that the two detectives were happy to wait in silence for him to clarify. ‘She said she knew a flat we could use and it was walking distance, so off we went.’
‘To Constitution Street?’
Lloyd nodded. ‘When we got there, she unlocked one of those key box things and took the keys out, and that was us inside. I was chatting away — probably too much, knowing me — and then I noticed she wasn’t there any more. She’d disappeared into one of the flats. I started to follow, but she burst out again, grabbed my phone, demanded to know the passcode, and started heading down the stairs like the devil was on her tail.’
‘You didn’t happen to look inside the flat?’ Lloyd shook his head. ‘And just so I’m clear, the flat she came out of wasn’t your intended destination?’
Lloyd blinked a few times as he considered Clarke’s question. ‘I don’t think so. I’m pretty sure we had one more flight to climb.’
‘Okay, so you followed her back out onto the street?’
‘Yes.’
‘And?’
‘And she was still running. Took me a few moments to work out what was happening. The main door had clicked shut, so I couldn’t get back in. And she was disappearing round the corner with my bloody phone.’
‘In your shoes, I’d probably have given chase,’ Fox said. ‘Not least because I’d imagine there might be security implications, with you being an adviser at the Parliament and everything.’
Lloyd looked chastened. ‘Maybe if I hadn’t been so drunk...’ He rallied a little. ‘I reckoned I could talk to the party host, get some contact details for her. But first I had to source a replacement phone, then today I had work...’
‘The one thing you should have done was talk to us,’ Clarke reprimanded him.
‘I didn’t think I had any real information.’
‘Not your decision to make, sir,’ Fox said coldly. ‘You’ve just told us that at some point you realised you’d stumbled on a murder scene.’
They watched Lloyd give a little shiver. ‘We need a description,’ Clarke added.
‘Of my phone?’ Lloyd seemed puzzled.
‘Of the woman you planned to have anonymous sex with,’ Clarke corrected him.
‘Christ, yes, of course.’ He closed his eyes for a moment. ‘Short, slim, dark hair cut in a spiky style. Red leather skirt, black top, black leather jacket, boots.’
‘Age?’
‘Mid twenties, maybe a little older.’
‘Local accent?’
‘Yes. Educated, I’d say.’
‘Anything else?’
He shook his head. Clarke handed him a card. ‘In case she gets in touch,’ she said.
‘How would she do that?’ He saw the look on their faces and made show of slapping his head. ‘She has my phone and passcode,’ he answered, looking like the bright kid in class who’s suddenly been found wanting.
One phone call got Rebus the address he needed. Laura Smith was a reporter who used to be her newspaper’s crime correspondent but now, as she told him, was doing general and local news as well. Cutbacks, she’d explained with a sigh, seeming to perk up when Rebus asked if she could get him a home address for Fraser Mackenzie.
‘Something cooking, John?’
‘If there is, you’ll be the first person invited to the table.’
Her text had arrived ten minutes later. An address in Cramond. Rebus took Brillo with him, in case he needed to pose as a man walking his dog.
Cramond Village boasted a harbour and waterfront walks, but Cramond itself blended in with neighbouring Barnton. The Mackenzies lived on a wide street of large detached Edwardian houses, the very definition of Edinburgh des res. As Rebus approached the address, he caught sight of a small red sports car pulling out of the driveway ahead, two women in the front. He recognised Elizabeth Mackenzie and reckoned the younger passenger must be her daughter. He did a three-point turn and began to follow as they headed for Ferry Road, soon signalling to turn into a car park belonging to a gym and health club. As he stopped kerbside, he saw both women emerge, toting brightly coloured backpacks and rolled-up yoga mats. After a brief exchange the daughter headed inside, her mother lingering in order to spark up a cigarette. Despite the slate-grey sky, she wore large sunglasses and a short jacket that prized fashion over practicality. Leaving Brillo to peer through the window, Rebus got out of the Saab and headed towards her.
‘Mrs Mackenzie?’ he said. ‘My name’s John Rebus.’
‘I know who you are. I saw you at the office that day, asked Fraser about you when he got home.’ She narrowed her eyes behind the billowing smoke.
‘And I know you from when you were going out with Big Ger Cafferty. I was CID back then.’
‘He sometimes mentioned you — never in hugely flattering terms.’
‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’
‘You’re looking for someone, Fraser said.’
‘Jack Oram. One of Cafferty’s associates.’
‘Well after my time.’
‘You know who he is, though?’
‘Tommy’s father. Gaby told me.’
‘Your daughter?’ Rebus gestured towards the gym door.
‘Who’ll be waiting for me in the changing room.’ She studied what remained of her cigarette.
‘She and Tommy are friends, eh?’
‘Not the way you seem to be suggesting.’
‘Must have been weird, taking him on.’
‘Why?’
‘Big Ger having done away with his dad — that’s what a lot of people reckon happened. And QC used to be Big Ger’s business.’ Rebus paused in case she had anything to say, but she was managing to look increasingly bored. ‘Ever see him these days?’