‘Besides,’ he added, ‘two flights wasn’t fair on Brillo and those poor wee legs of his.’ He looked around for the dog.
‘Garden,’ Clarke explained.
The pair of them headed through the kitchen and out of the door. Brillo was sniffing his way around the lawn, tail wagging.
‘Settled in already,’ Clarke commented.
‘Might not be so easy for his owner.’ Rebus peered up at the tenement windows that surrounded them, then gave a sigh, avoiding eye contact with Clarke. ‘You should go back to work tomorrow. Tell Sutherland you don’t need the full week.’
‘We’ve stuff to unpack.’
‘And you’ve a murder waiting for you. Speaking of which: any news?’
Clarke shook her head. ‘Graham’s got his team assembled; doubtful I’d make much of a difference.’
‘You’d make a difference,’ Rebus countered. ‘I think I’m just about capable of lifting things from boxes and failing to find anywhere to put them.’
They shared a smile, turning as the movers arrived. The men entered the living room and reappeared a few seconds later.
‘Reckon that’s us,’ the older man said from the kitchen doorway. Rebus approached him, digging banknotes from his pocket. Clarke watched as Brillo came trotting up to her, settling on his haunches, eyes expectant.
‘You going to promise me you’ll look after him?’ Clarke asked.
The dog angled its head, as if considering how best to answer.
ii
Siobhan Clarke’s own flat was just off Broughton Street, across the city from Rebus. One storey up in a tenement she’d been considering moving out of for the past several months. DCI Graham Sutherland had gone from being an occasional colleague — albeit several rungs above her — to her lover. Sutherland headed one of the major incident teams. His own home was in Glasgow, and he’d asked her to move in with him.
‘I’ll have to think about it,’ she’d said. She’d visited his place several times, stayed over just the once. Though divorced, signs of his ex-wife lingered, and she doubted he had bothered to buy a new bed.
‘Maybe a flat in the city centre would be more your thing,’ he had suggested, without managing to sound enthusiastic, since when he’d directed her towards a couple of properties he’d found online, his emails headed FYI. One of them she’d actually quite liked. Without saying anything, she’d driven through to Glasgow and parked outside the building, getting out and walking around, getting a feel for the area. It was fine, she told herself. It wouldn’t be bad.
Then she’d driven home.
Rebus had basically dismissed her this evening. She’d suggested takeaway curry from his favourite place, but he had shooed her out.
‘Take a break. Go tell your boyfriend you want back on the team.’
She checked her phone. It was nearly eight o’clock and Sutherland hadn’t replied to either of her texts, so she put her jacket on, grabbed her keys and headed downstairs. It was a short drive to Leith police station — she could almost have walked it. She paused halfway to dive into a shop, emerging again with a carrier bag. Parking by Leith Links, she made for the police station and was buzzed in. She climbed the imposing marble staircase to the upper floor and entered the MIT room. Two familiar faces looked up from their computers.
‘Aren’t you on holiday?’ DC Christine Esson asked.
‘That’s why I’m bringing you souvenirs.’ Clarke emptied out the bag of shopping: salted peanuts, crisps, chocolate brownies and bottled water.
‘Better than a postcard,’ DC Ronnie Ogilvie said, just beating Esson in a dash to the treats.
‘Boss gone home?’ Clarke asked.
‘Meeting at the Big House.’ Esson retreated to her desk with her share of the swag. Clarke followed her, peering over her shoulder at the computer screen.
‘Rest of the team?’
‘You’re looking at the late shift.’
‘How’s it shaping up?’
‘You’re on a break,’ Esson reminded her. ‘How’s the move going?’
‘How do you think?’ Clarke had turned towards the wall behind Esson — the Murder Wall. It was covered by a large corkboard covered in blue felt. There were photos of the victim and the locus pinned to it, plus maps, some details of the autopsy, and a staffing rota. Her own name had been crossed out. Typical that she’d arranged to take time off during a really quiet spell, only to have a big case pop up on day one. She’d tried telling the DCI that she could postpone her break, but he’d been adamant: ‘John needs you — he’d never say it, might not even know it, but it’s the truth.’
‘We’re getting a bit of outside pressure,’ Ronnie Ogilvie said through a mouthful of crisps.
‘Because he’s rich?’
‘Rich and connected,’ Esson qualified. ‘His father, Ahmad, is worth squillions but thought to be under house arrest somewhere in Saudi Arabia.’
‘Thought to be?’
‘The Saudis aren’t exactly being forthcoming. We have a human rights charity to thank for the gen.’
Clarke was scanning the information on the wall. Salman bin Mahmoud had been a handsome young man. Age twenty-three. Drove an Aston Martin. Lived in a four-storey Georgian town house on one of Edinburgh’s best New Town streets. Short black hair and a neat beard. Brown eyes. A couple of the photos showed him smiling but not laughing.
‘Not every student gets a DB11 for their birthday,’ Clarke commented.
‘Or lives in a house with five spacious bedrooms.’ Esson was standing next to her. ‘Best thing is, he wasn’t even studying here.’ Clarke raised an eyebrow. ‘Enrolled at a business school in London, where he happens to have a lease on a penthouse apartment in Bayswater.’
‘So where’s the Edinburgh connection?’ Clarke asked.
Esson and Ogilvie shared a look. ‘You tell her,’ Ogilvie said, opening one of the bottles of water.
‘James Bond,’ Esson obliged. ‘He was a nut for James Bond, especially the films, and more specifically the early ones.’
‘Meaning Sean Connery?’
‘Son of Edinburgh,’ Esson said with a nod. ‘Apparently both homes are filled with memorabilia.’
‘Explains the DB11 but doesn’t answer the really big question — what was a rich Saudi student with a James Bond fetish doing in the car park of a carpet warehouse on Seafield Road at eleven o’clock of a summer’s night?’
‘Meeting someone,’ Ogilvie suggested.
‘Someone who stabbed him and left him bleeding to death,’ Esson added.
‘But didn’t rob him or even bother to drive away in his expensive car.’ Clarke folded her arms. ‘Any joy from CCTV?’
‘Plenty sightings of the car. Heriot Row to Seafield Road with no obvious stops.’
‘Salamander Street’s just along the way — used to be popular with sex workers,’ Clarke mused.
‘We’re checking.’
‘Is his mother coming to claim the body?’
‘Embassy seem to be taking care of things — reading between the lines, I’d say they don’t want her travelling.’
Clarke looked at Esson. ‘Oh?’
‘Maybe afraid she wouldn’t go back.’ Esson gave a shrug.
‘What did the father do that put him in the bad books?’
‘Who knows? The family are from the Hejaz region. I’ve done a bit of reading and he’s by no means the only one under house arrest. The usual charge is corruption. Probably just means he’s pissed off a member of the ruler’s family. Some pay a hefty fine and are released, but it’s not happened to Ahmad yet.’
‘It’s always the money, isn’t it?’
‘Not always, but often enough.’
There was a sound behind them of a throat being cleared. When they turned, DCI Graham Sutherland was standing in the doorway, feet apart, hands in the trouser pockets of his charcoal suit.