‘So is he losing control?’
‘Maybe.’ Fox paused. ‘I meant to thank you for last night, by the way. My ears won’t forget it in a hurry.’
‘Any time, Disco Stu. We ended up getting to Driscoll, didn’t we?’
‘Hopefully the first of many.’
‘Speaking of which...’ Clarke had noticed Christine Esson passing the doorway. Just behind her came Tommy Oram and Tess Leighton. Esson was back a minute later.
‘Promised him a drink,’ she said, switching the kettle back on. ‘Three sugars — who on earth takes three sugars these days?’
‘Mind if I sit in?’ Clarke asked.
‘You’re the boss. Should I tell Tess to stand down?’
‘If she’s okay with that.’
‘She might not be.’ Esson gave a glance in George Gamble’s direction as he part-stifled a belch. ‘Longer she spends away from her desk, the better she seems to like it.’
‘She can have mine,’ Fox offered. ‘Next bunch of files are waiting on the screen there.’
Clarke took her coffee through with her, Esson carrying one for Tommy Oram. A quiet word with Leighton and she left the room. Oram played with the mug after it was set in front of him, but didn’t seem inclined to drink from it.
‘This is really just us filling in the blanks, Mr Oram,’ Clarke began. ‘Nothing for you to worry about.’ He nodded his understanding. ‘Do people call you Thomas or Tommy?’
‘Tommy.’
‘So, Tommy, how long have you worked for the Mackenzies?’
‘Three years, three and a bit.’
‘You’re a general handyman? Replacing light bulbs, fixing broken locks?’ He nodded again. ‘Making you a bit of a locksmith?’
‘Not really.’
‘The flat where Francis Haggard died, when was the last time you were inside?’
‘Before he moved in. Socket in the kitchen needed replacing, new batteries in the smoke alarms — just a general maintenance check.’
‘So you didn’t know him at all?’
‘No.’
‘And you’d no need for the tenement keys?’
‘No.’
‘There’s a key safe attached to the door jamb, isn’t there? I suppose you know the code.’ Clarke watched him shake his head. ‘Really?’
‘If I need a key, I get it from the office. Needs to be okayed with the Mackenzies or Marion.’
‘Marion being Mr Mackenzie’s assistant?’
‘She works reception.’
‘And I notice you said Mackenzies plural — are you meaning Mrs Mackenzie or your pal Gaby?’
‘Mrs Mackenzie,’ he answered. Then, ‘How do you know about me and Gaby?’
‘We’re detectives, Tommy. It’s our job to know.’ Clarke paused for a beat. ‘Been to any of the other flats in that building recently?’
‘Not since the maintenance check.’
‘And that’s all you do for the Mackenzies? Maintenance, I mean? It’s just that you’re young and you look pretty fit. You’re never asked to collect rent, maybe talk to anyone who’s fallen behind?’
Oram gave a snort. ‘They don’t need me for that. Plenty out there more qualified.’
‘Qualified how?’ Esson asked, sounding genuinely curious.
‘Just people who don’t take any nonsense.’
‘Like nightclub bouncers?’ Clarke guessed.
Oram shrugged. ‘Wasn’t much else for them during lockdown, was there?’
‘That’s a good point,’ Clarke told him. Ever since her breakfast with Rebus, she’d been thinking of the doormen last night and how they’d cosied up to Gaby Mackenzie. ‘Do you see much of Gaby these days?’ she asked, trying to make the question sound casual.
‘Now and again.’
‘Known her a while, though? She got you the job, didn’t she?’
‘It’s what pals do.’
‘Still, her dad must have interviewed you? I mean, it’s a pretty trusted position when you think of it.’
‘We met in his office.’
‘And he’d have known you’re Jack Oram’s son?’
Clarke could sense Christine Esson tensing a little, not knowing what she was on about. Across the table, Tommy Oram hadn’t so much tensed as gone completely rigid. The knuckles around the coffee mug had turned white.
‘Jack Oram who used to be close to Big Ger Cafferty,’ Clarke went on, ‘the man who sold his lettings company to Fraser Mackenzie.’ It was statement rather than question, and intended for Esson as much as Oram.
‘What of it?’
‘I just think it’s—’
‘It’s a coincidence, that’s all,’ Oram snapped. ‘I knew Gaby and Gaby put in a word — she’d no idea who I was related to.’ His eyes went from Clarke to Esson and back again. ‘Coincidence,’ he said, spreading out the syllables.
‘You’ll appreciate that detectives aren’t too fond of those,’ Clarke said, smiling with her mouth but not her eyes.
‘I can’t help that.’
‘There was an accusation against you a while back...’
‘Pack of lies. Your lot cleared me.’
Clarke nodded her apparent agreement. ‘Any idea why Francis Haggard merited one of your premium properties?’
‘I assume he could afford it.’
‘See, that’s the thing. We’ve got hold of his bank debits, and it looks like he was being charged way under the market rate.’
‘You’d have to take that up with Mr Mackenzie.’
‘We intend to. One last thing then, Tommy...’
‘Yes?’
‘Has Gaby ever taken you back to one of the vacant flats? Seems to be a regular thing with her.’
‘I told you, we’re friends — just friends.’
His voice was level enough, but Clarke could tell that behind his eyes he was seething.
‘Ever go to the Elemental Club on Blair Street?’
‘Sometimes, sure.’
‘Is that how the two of you met?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where were you working back then?’
‘Building sites mostly.’
‘And suddenly you’re rubbing shoulders with a wealthy and attractive young woman from the right side of the tracks.’
Oram looked from Clarke to Esson and back again. ‘Is this going anywhere?’
‘It was Gaby who found the body — did you know that? Door was open when she passed it with a guy she’d picked up at a party. Another coincidence, you reckon?’
‘World is full of them,’ Oram said, folding his arms.
Clarke glanced at Esson, who gave a slight twitch of the mouth, indicating she had nothing to add. There was a knock at the door. Malcolm Fox’s head appeared.
‘That’s Driscoll all lawyered up,’ he said. Clarke nodded that she was on her way. She turned back to Oram as the door closed.
‘Know who DI Fox is talking about?’ she asked. ‘Rob Driscoll?’ Oram shook his head. ‘He’s a uniformed officer at Tynecastle police station. Staff there seem to be regulars at Elemental.’
‘Are we done here?’ Oram demanded.
‘I’d like you to stick around for a bit, if you don’t mind. In case we think of anything else...’
Rob Driscoll’s solicitor was a steely-haired woman in late middle age, dressed in an immaculate trouser suit. Her name was Susan Jones, and she favoured an iPad over a pad of paper. The device’s blue protective cover was folded open so that it could sit propped on the table in front of her. She puckered her mouth to let the detectives know she was ready, while her client sat next to her with his hands in his pockets. With Tommy Oram stewing in IV1, they had taken possession of IV2, Fox commenting that more rooms might be needed if they were going to bring in the whole of Tynecastle.