‘There being...?’
‘Corstorphine Road. Like I say, he’d only been in the cab two minutes.’
‘Whereabouts on Corstorphine Road?’ Fox had taken a couple of steps towards the murder wall, where a street plan of the city had been pinned up. He was joined by Esson and Clarke.
‘Just by Howson’s — it’s a wine bar. I was worried he might head in there, but he didn’t. Man was a gent, mind.’
‘How so?’
‘Gave me a nice crisp twenty — joked that he’d printed it himself. Told me to keep the change.’
Siobhan Clarke had her finger pressed to the spot on the map where she reckoned Howson’s was. It was the wine bar where she’d met Gina Hendry before their first visit to see the sisters. Esson had tapped a query into her phone.
‘Nearest chippie is if he doubles back to Glasgow Road.’
‘Supposing that’s what he really had in mind,’ Clarke said quietly.
Fox had ended the call and was taking out his posh pen so he could mark an X next to where she was pointing.
‘Maybe he walked on towards Haymarket,’ he suggested. ‘Plenty places there.’
Clarke, however, was tracing a route with her finger from Howson’s to Stephanie Pelham’s house.
‘Five, maybe ten minutes it would have taken him,’ she said, more to herself than anyone else.
‘We’d know if he’d been back there,’ Esson commented.
‘Maybe there was no fuss this time. Just a man full of alcohol whose wife had promised him they’d talk.’
Esson was shaking her head doubtfully as Clarke retreated to her desk to pick up her ringing phone. It had stopped by the time she reached it. Caller ID: Ronnie Ogilvie. She tried calling him back, but it went straight to messaging, meaning he was probably already talking to someone else.
‘Bugger,’ she said, as DCI Trask emerged from her office to find herself surrounded by her team, each of them wanting to be the first with the news.
28
Rebus signalled off Calder Road and drove into Burnhill. He couldn’t see any bicycle sentinels or doorstep deliveries, just a couple of dog-walkers and half a dozen kids playing football on the adjacent stretch of parkland. Nobody seemed interested in his arrival, which was fine by him. He did a slow circuit of the terraces and the low-rise blocks. A few mums had gathered at the gates to a nursery, their strollers parked, gossip being shared. Most of them were dressed for the weather, one or two still wearing face masks. When one toddler waddled towards the road, a barked instruction turned the child to stone. Rebus, already slowed to a crawl, smiled at the stunned face as he passed.
Reassured that the coast was as clear as it could be, he drove past the top of the lane and studied the lock-ups. Tommy Oram’s was closed tight, but the next one along showed signs of activity.
‘Shite,’ he muttered to himself. He brought the Saab to a stop and got out, walking down the lane with hands in pockets. As he came level with the wide-open doors, he looked in. A car had been jacked up and a man’s feet were protruding from beneath it.
‘Help ye?’ a disembodied voice said.
‘Nice motor,’ Rebus answered. ‘Sierra Cosworth?’
‘You know your stuff.’
‘Used to see a lot of them in the eighties.’
‘Which is where most of them stayed.’ The man rolled himself out but remained prone on the trolley. He wore a blue boiler suit, a spanner in one hand and smudges of grease on his face. ‘Not seen you before.’
‘I’m a mate of Tommy’s.’
‘He was here earlier, probably at work now.’
‘Probably,’ Rebus agreed. ‘Car needs a bit of TLC, eh?’
‘Not much gets past you. Few more hours should do it.’
‘Big job?’
‘She’ll be brand new once I’m done.’ He paused. ‘I might be willing to sell if you’re in the market.’
‘I’ll think about it. Will you be here tonight?’ The man shook his head. ‘Tomorrow daytime?’
‘I’ve got work tomorrow.’
‘I’ll maybe leave you a note then, next time I visit Tommy.’
The man rolled himself back under the Sierra. ‘If I see him, I’ll tell him you were here.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Or I would if I had your name.’
‘It’s Crosbie,’ Rebus obliged. ‘He’ll know who you mean.’
Laura Smith’s presence had been requested at Gayfield Square police station, where DC Ronnie Ogilvie was waiting. He seemed surprised when Siobhan Clarke arrived at the same time.
‘Been trying to reach you,’ she told him.
‘I was going to phone you back.’
Smith looked from one to the other. ‘I asked Siobhan to come with me,’ she explained. Ogilvie nodded his understanding and led them to a meeting room. It boasted a new-looking table and upholstered chairs and was usually used when giving bad news to relatives or laying on a spread for visiting dignitaries. The cream walls were bare apart from a clock that needed a new battery. Ogilvie placed a slim folder on the table and his phone next to it.
‘We’ve been looking at footage from the road cameras,’ he began, ‘concentrating on Bonnington Road, Broughton Street and Inverleith Row. That time of night, as we suspected, it’s mostly taxis and private hires, plus the odd delivery vehicle. But we flagged up a few cars — Volkswagen Golf, Kia, Nissan, Land Rover...’
‘Land Rover?’ Clarke interrupted.
Ogilvie woke up his phone and found the footage, talking while he searched. ‘Drove the length of Broughton Street and then was caught again on North Bridge.’ He turned his phone towards the two women. ‘Have you seen it before, Laura?’ he asked.
‘I’m not much good with cars.’
‘Me neither,’ Clarke added, ‘but that’s a Range Rover rather than a Land Rover.’
Ogilvie studied the photograph. ‘Pity you can’t make out the driver. Number plate’s not exactly clear either.’
‘I might be able to help you there.’ Clarke got busy on her own phone, showing him the photo she’d taken outside the nightclub.
‘What are you, Derren Brown?’
‘Is it the same car?’ Smith asked.
‘Could well be.’ Ogilvie was tapping the number plate into his phone. ‘I’ll get on to DVLA for the owner’s name.’
‘Do you know whose it is?’ Smith was asking Clarke.
‘Not definitively — but it could be the Mackenzies’.’
‘Which Mackenzies?’
‘Landlords to the poor and needy. That photo was taken outside a nightclub on Blair Street where their daughter DJs.’
‘But I’ve never run a story on them.’
‘Fraser Mackenzie and James Pelham are mates, though.’ Clarke was looking at Ogilvie. ‘How long will it take, do you think?’
‘I doubt they’re back to a full office,’ he said. ‘Probably still mostly working from home. I’ll do my best, though. Are you staying at Siobhan’s again tonight, Laura?’
She nodded. ‘I’m making us pasta with pesto and a salad.’ Her eyes fell on Ogilvie. ‘There’s enough for three.’
‘I’ll probably be stuck here for a while,’ he apologised. ‘We might have ID’d one car, but there are others I want to follow up on.’
‘He’s a grafter,’ Smith said to Clarke.
‘Ronnie’s just back from a bit of a break, batteries recharged.’
‘Go anywhere nice?’ Smith asked him.
‘My sofa mostly. Sometimes the kitchen for a cuppa or a lateral flow test.’
‘Ah,’ Laura Smith said.