‘Dead in here tonight,’ Clarke offered.
‘I’ve seen it livelier.’
The door to the bar opened and another young woman clattered in on three-inch heels. She gave Clarke a quizzical look, taking in the sensible clothes — and probably their wearer’s age, too. It struck Clarke that yes, she was old enough to be the mother of either of these young women.
‘Gary’s being a right prick,’ the new arrival stated into her phone, eyes on its screen as she headed to a cubicle.
‘Gary?’ Clarke asked the woman next to her, receiving a shrugged reply. A quick tug on the short sparkly dress, another check in the mirror and then she was gone.
The voice behind the cubicle door was echoey, Gary’s shortcomings entailing a lengthy list. Clarke took a final look around for any traces of white powder, then pulled open the door. A large, unsmiling figure stood there. When she looked past him towards the gents’, she saw that Fox, too, had been paired with a new companion.
‘He wants a word,’ she was told.
‘Of course he does,’ she replied. She looked across towards Fox and saw him give a shrug. She nodded and allowed herself to be led past the dance floor, following Fox and his minder up the staircase to where the bulky, shaven-headed form of Morris Gerald Cafferty sat alone at a corner banquette.
‘Thought it was you,’ Cafferty said with a grin, gesturing for them both to sit. There was just enough room, though Clarke was conscious of Fox’s thigh pressing against hers. ‘Fetch you a drink?’
‘We’re fine,’ Fox said.
Another gesture from Cafferty sent the two doormen on their way. He focused on his visitors. ‘You walk into a club but you’re not after a drink. Still on duty, I presume?’
‘You’ve changed the place,’ Clarke said, keeping her tone conversational.
Cafferty waved a hand across the balloon-shaped glass in front of him. ‘Gin’s the thing nowadays. Cheap and quick to distil. Add a mixer — and everybody does — and it’s hard not to turn a profit.’
‘Refit probably wasn’t expensive either,’ Clarke commented, enjoying watching Cafferty try his best not to look irritated.
‘You’re working the murder of that Arab student?’ Cafferty posited.
‘Good guess,’ Fox said.
‘Had to be high-profile enough to bring you scurrying from Gartcosh. Still Major Crimes, DI Fox?’ Fox nodded. ‘Probably still a bit of a thorn in DI Clarke’s side that you got the promotion she deserved.’
‘Salman and his friends were regulars here?’ Clarke asked, not about to be deflected.
‘They came a few times,’ Cafferty allowed. ‘I’ve turned the cellars into a VIP area. If I like the look of you, you get a little black card that allows you in.’
‘You didn’t have a falling-out, by any chance?’
‘With the prince?’ Cafferty smiled at the absurdity of Clarke’s question.
‘I don’t think he was a prince,’ Fox commented.
‘He liked it when I called him that, though.’ Cafferty shifted position. ‘I looked his history up online, saw the stuff about his dad. Politics, eh? Root of all evil.’ There was a gleam in his eye as he spoke. Clarke wondered what game he was playing. ‘I hear you’ve turned house mover, DI Clarke. Remember — always bend at the knees. How’s Rebus enjoying his retirement flat?’
‘Do Salman and his entourage ever buy anything from you?’ she enquired.
Cafferty’s eyes widened in mock horror. ‘Is this you accusing me of peddling drugs? Next thing I know, I’m cutting open a young Arab student over a deal gone wrong?’ He made a dismissive noise. ‘I see those CID brains are the usual blunted tools. And speaking of tools, you still keeping your bed warm for your boss, Siobhan? Office romances seldom end well. Just look at Malcolm here and...’ He clicked his fingers, brow furrowed. ‘Her name’s on the tip of my tongue.’
‘We didn’t come here for this,’ Clarke said, sliding out of the banquette. ‘We were told that a couple of the victim’s friends could be found here. Just had some follow-up questions for them. Okay if we check out this so-called VIP area of yours?’
‘Be my guest. In fact, I insist on it. You’ll find the razor blades and the rolled-up fifties on a gold-leaf table next to the bar. Maybe something even more exotic if you guess the secret password...’ Cafferty was chuckling as he watched them leave.
Fox couldn’t help glancing back as they started their descent.
‘He’s getting old,’ he said to Clarke. ‘That sheen on his face doesn’t look exactly healthy.’
‘Or else he’s been sampling the goods.’
‘He wouldn’t, though, would he?’
‘No,’ Clarke admitted.
‘Who do you think’s passing him all the news about us?’
‘Could be anyone. Show me a cop shop that couldn’t double as a colander.’
‘Fair point.’
They had reached the next set of stairs down. It was protected by a better class of doorman, who stood, hands clasped in front of him, next to a black velvet rope. He unhooked it at their approach.
‘Thought we had to show a card,’ Clarke said.
‘Not for officers of the law,’ the man said in a voice like the bottom of a quarry.
Clarke and Fox headed down. The light was different, a little brighter, and the piped music was softer. There was a small bar staffed by a glamorous woman who looked underworked. The tables all around were empty.
‘Not so much as a rolled-up fiver,’ Fox said under his breath.
An arched doorway led down an unreconstructed brick-lined passageway. Clarke picked up the faint smell of damp. She knew that the Old Town boasted dozens of these underground passages and storage cellars. There were intimate spaces off to both sides, and these were where the possessors of the black card had chosen to set up their lairs. Each room was lined with purple crushed velvet. Real candles replaced the electric lighting of the upper floors. Champagne in ice buckets was the tipple of preference. Though the smoking ban seemed to be holding firm, a few people were vaping. Passing one of the rooms, Clarke caught sight of Meiklejohn and Morelli. They had obviously just arrived and were shedding their outerwear while greeting the three drinkers already gathered. Neither of them bothered to look up as Clarke and Fox passed. Clarke signalled to Fox to retrace their steps. Even when they passed the arched doorway for a second time, the group paid them no heed.
Back in the bar area, they stopped for a moment.
‘Know who that was?’ Clarke asked.
‘I’ve not gone senile.’
‘I don’t mean Posh Spice and the Italian Stallion — I mean the guy with the two fashion models.’
‘I didn’t really get a chance to—’
‘His name’s Stewart Scoular. He was an MSP till the SNP kicked him into touch. Some racist comments he posted online. Tiptoed away for a bit and reinvented himself as a property developer.’
‘Okay.’
The hostess was asking them if they wanted something to drink. ‘Compliments of Mr Cafferty,’ she added.
‘Not while we’re on duty,’ Fox said, watching as her fixed smile began to dissolve.
Clarke was already climbing the stairs. Fox followed her out of the Jenever Club and onto the Cowgate.
‘That’s why he had that glint in his eye,’ Clarke was saying.
‘Cafferty?’
She nodded, deep in thought. ‘When he said that thing about politics — he knew damned well we were going to find Stewart Scoular downstairs. It’s like he was setting the coordinates for us on his GPS.’