Clarke had parked her Vauxhall Astra on St Stephen Street. As they passed the Bailie pub, Fox asked her if she fancied a pit stop.
‘Not here,’ she replied. ‘Besides, I’m on dog-sitting duties, remember? I’ll drop you back at your car.’
‘Did we learn much from the two of them?’
‘What do you think?’
‘I’m asking you.’
‘So I notice.’ She paused as she unlocked the car and got in, doing up her seat belt while Fox did the same. ‘They didn’t seem shocked or grieving or any of that.’
‘Evidence of the stiff upper-class lip?’
‘Or theirs is a world where you know people without ever becoming really close. Salman had money, good looks and pedigree. I’m sure Lady Isabella seems every bit as exotic to the likes of him and Gio as all of them seem to you and me.’
‘It certainly feels like a different world.’ Fox was silent for a moment. ‘Morelli has much the same build as the deceased, similar skin tone...’
‘Bin Mahmoud had a beard, though.’
‘But say someone followed him from the deceased’s. They were behind him and he had his hood up.’
‘A case of mistaken identity?’
‘The lane is a nice quiet spot for an assault.’
Clarke seemed to ponder this as she started the engine and eased the car out of the tight parking spot.
‘I didn’t think you were entirely fair about that film, though,’ Fox added.
‘Me neither,’ Clarke admitted with a smile. ‘But it was all I had to work with at the time.’
‘Well, that and a bidet,’ Fox said, returning the smile.
5
Having collected Brillo and all his paraphernalia, Clarke sat in her tenement flat while the dog explored his new surroundings. He seemed both puzzled and a little bit sad, clearly missing his owner and maybe wondering if this nomad’s existence was to be his life from now on. Having eaten some leftovers from the fridge and half finished a mug of peppermint tea, Clarke put her coat back on and made for the door, Brillo trying to accompany her. Out on the landing, she listened to the barking from within before unlocking the door again.
‘If you insist,’ she said, scooping the dog up into her arms.
Brillo was well behaved in the car, tail wagging, paws pressed to the passenger-side window as he watched the passing parade of shops, bars, restaurants and pedestrians. Clarke’s destination wasn’t far. She left the window down an inch when she climbed out, telling him to ‘Stay, good boy.’ Brillo seemed contented enough with this arrangement.
They were just off the Cowgate, towards its eastern end. Late-night weekends, the street could get messy with drunken fights and related idiocy, but it was neither the weekend nor late. Nevertheless, most venues boasted one or two heavy-set doormen, ready to deter or deal with trouble. Clarke had googled the Jenever Club and had been proved right. Until a few months back it had been a nightspot called the Devil’s Dram. Back then, it had specialised in expensive whiskies and overpriced food, along with nightly DJ sets and dancing. It seemed whisky had given way to gin, without the exterior having been given much of a makeover.
Clarke couldn’t help glancing to her left as she crossed the street, towards where the mortuary sat in faint anonymity. Those who worked there referred to it as the city’s ‘dead centre’, yet around it life continued in its thrumming heat and intensity — at least judging from the blast from the club’s interior as a suited doorman opened the door for her. But before she could enter, a hand rested on her shoulder.
‘Fancy meeting like this.’ She spun towards the beaming face of Malcolm Fox. ‘I was about ready to give up on you.’
Rather than entering, the pair of them stepped to one side. ‘Okay, I’m impressed,’ Clarke said, managing to sound anything but.
‘I think it was when I suggested a drink and you said “not here”. That told me you had somewhere else in mind — and as the Devil’s Dram had already been mentioned...’
‘You’re in danger of getting good at this.’
‘But there’s more, isn’t there?’
Clarke considered for a moment before answering. ‘Meiklejohn wasn’t what you’d call high, but she’d taken something — my guess would be cocaine.’
‘I hadn’t actually noticed that.’ Fox looked annoyed with himself.
‘Maybe I’ve seen more coke-heads than you.’
‘It’s true I’ve led a sheltered life. But putting two and two together, you’re not here to keep an eye on Gio and Issy — who’ve not turned up yet, by the way.’
Clarke stared at him. ‘You’ve been here all this time?’
‘Didn’t have any other plans. I’m right, though, aren’t I? The Dram used to be owned by a certain Morris Gerald Cafferty; no reason to suspect he’s not still in charge just because drinking trends have changed.’
‘And the other thing we know about Cafferty is...?’
‘He probably still controls a good portion of the local trade in illicit substances.’
‘And now you know as much as I do. Odd that they haven’t turned up yet, though — they seemed keen enough earlier.’
‘Almost as if they just wanted rid of us. So what’s the plan, DI Clarke?’
‘A quick drink at the end of a long day,’ Clarke answered with a shrug.
‘Yeah, Cafferty’ll definitely believe that.’ Fox held out a hand. Clarke looked at it. ‘Good working with you again, Siobhan.’
‘Likewise,’ she answered eventually, shaking it. But when Fox loosened his grip, hers intensified. ‘And now that we’re getting chummy, time for you to tell me why Gartcosh are so interested.’
She watched intently as Fox debated with himself. Eventually he nodded and drew her back a few more steps along the pavement.
‘A request from Special Branch in London,’ he explained in an undertone. ‘They’re wondering if there could have been state involvement. The Saudis, I mean. Though it’s not especially their style.’
‘In that he wasn’t chopped up and taken away in a suitcase?’ Clarke released the pressure on his hand. ‘What’s your feeling?’
‘Too early to tell.’
‘Some sort of message to the father?’
Fox just shrugged. ‘You’re all caught up.’
‘Do the rest of the team know?’
‘Special Branch’s feeling is best keep it quiet.’
‘Why?’
‘If I were being generous, I’d say it’s because they want us to have an open mind.’
‘And on those odd days when your mood’s less generous?’
‘They don’t want the Saudis thinking we suspect them. Might jeopardise those precious trade relations.’
‘The fewer people who know, the less chance of a leak.’ Clarke nodded her understanding. ‘No more keeping stuff from me, Malcolm,’ she warned.
‘Can I assume you’ll be telling the DCI?’
‘Any reason I shouldn’t?’
‘Your call, Siobhan.’
‘My call,’ she confirmed, heading for the figures flanking the doorway.
They decided their first task would be to check the toilets, see if anyone was doing a line. The main room was noisy. There was a dance floor, its multicoloured squares illuminated from below. The DJ stood swaying gently behind a couple of laptops while people danced. The place was maybe half full, the evening young, but plenty of sweat and noise was being generated. The bar was doing brisk business with cocktails, the staff putting on a show. There was a balcony reached by a transparent staircase, and a basement that would almost certainly be quieter.
Clarke wasn’t a stranger to the place, though she hadn’t been here since it changed its name. The cheesy occult decor of the Devil’s Dram had been replaced by mock-Victorian — heavy drapes; flickering wall lights mimicking gas lamps; dark wood panelling. She pushed open the door to the ladies’ loo and pretended to be checking her appearance in the long mirror above the row of sinks. Only one cubicle door was closed. When its occupant emerged, she stood next to Clarke while she fixed her hair with one hand, phone glued to the other.