‘Ditto,’ Ogilvie added.
After they’d all stopped grinning, Sutherland suggested another round, but Esson shook her head.
‘Me and Siobhan better get going.’ She reached down to the floor to lift her bag. ‘See you all in the office tomorrow?’
‘I might stay for one more,’ Ogilvie was telling his boss. Fox looked sceptical, and Leighton, while nodding at the offer, had gone back to texting.
Clarke followed Esson out of the bar. It was still light, and would be for a few more hours. They were halfway to the car when her phone pinged. It was a message from Graham Sutherland.
Later tonight?
She hesitated. Decided not to reply straight away. She’d have to think about it.
The talk was being held at the Usher Hall. They’d parked on Grindlay Street and managed a main course at Dine.
‘Who knew?’ Clarke said, watching the crowd of people making their way into the talk.
‘It’s a sell-out,’ Esson informed her, rummaging in her bag for their tickets.
Clarke had another message from Sutherland.
Heading back to Glasgow soon if you don’t need me for anything.
He had a key to her flat, but she knew he would never presume.
If you’re okay on your own, head to mine. Don’t know what time I’ll be back though. She was about to press send when she had a thought. Anyone sticking around the pub? Malcolm gone home?
A moment later, two texts arrived in tandem.
Thanks. I’ll wait up.
He sloped off just after you.
Clarke stared at the screen. She knew exactly where Fox had sloped off to.
‘What’s up?’ Esson asked. Clarke realised she had been studying her.
‘Ach, it’s nothing.’
‘No, it’s definitely something. Somewhere else you need to be?’
‘I can’t seem to switch off.’
‘Don’t think I hadn’t noticed. At dinner it was like talking to a wall.’
Clarke gave a tired smile. ‘I wasn’t that bad, was I?’
Esson made a shooing gesture with one hand. ‘Go. Do what you feel you need to.’
‘You sure? I’ll pay you for the ticket.’
Esson checked the time. ‘Box office will probably take it if I hurry. I think I saw a returns queue.’
‘Thanks, Christine. I really am sorry.’
Esson made the shooing gesture again and headed in the direction of the box office. With a final smile of apology, Clarke turned towards Grindlay Street, then remembered they’d come in Esson’s car. Her own was still in Leith. She looked across Lothian Road to the taxi rank outside the Sheraton. Three cabs waited there. She dodged the traffic and climbed into the back of the one at the head of the queue.
‘Where are we off to tonight?’ the driver enquired.
‘Queen Charlotte Street — the police station.’
‘Turning yourself in, eh? Hard to live with a guilty conscience.’ The driver started the engine and switched on his meter.
‘I don’t know about that,’ Clarke answered, too softly for the man to hear.
‘Evening, Malcolm,’ she said, walking into the MIT office. Fox flinched slightly.
‘Made me jump,’ he said.
Clarke had stopped by his shoulder and was reading the screen of his monitor.
‘Friends and associates,’ he explained.
Clarke nodded. ‘Nothing that couldn’t wait till morning.’ She looked around the empty office.
‘Not much waiting for me at home,’ he explained. ‘Besides, I like having this place to myself.’
‘Means nobody interferes,’ Clarke seemed to agree, easing herself onto a chair so that they were facing one another.
‘You okay?’ he asked. ‘What happened to the talk?’
‘Found I wasn’t in the mood. You had anything to eat?’
‘Shouldn’t have had those crisps.’ He patted his stomach, then watched as Clarke reached over to lift the pad he’d been scribbling on. She flipped its pages.
‘Busy boy,’ she commented. ‘You’re almost a one-man Stewart Scoular fan club.’
‘We saw him with Meiklejohn and Morelli; stands to reason he knew the deceased too. And word on the street is he’s been known to sell a bit of coke to his pals.’
Clarke gave a thin smile. ‘And who is it exactly that you know on the street, Malcolm? Always thought of you as more of a desk jockey. You’re not even Edinburgh these days.’
Fox’s face reddened. ‘Doesn’t mean I don’t have sources, Siobhan. I’m Major Crime — we rely on intel.’
‘Give me a name then.’ But Clarke held up a hand. ‘No, let me guess first. How about Morris Gerald Cafferty? Is there any chance he could have turned snitch for Major Crime and DI Malcolm Fox?’
‘Okay, you’ve had your fun.’ Fox folded his arms. ‘I assume you tailed me earlier?’
‘Did you go to him or did he come to you?’
‘A bit of both.’
‘And he handed you Stewart Scoular, just like that?’
‘More or less.’
Clarke was shaking her head. ‘Things are never that simple where Cafferty’s concerned. What’s going on, Malcolm?’
‘I really can’t tell you, Siobhan — not yet.’
‘Does it have anything to do with that trip you took to Gartcosh?’
‘Just stop.’ He held up a hand, his palm towards her.
‘Does Cafferty know something about Scoular and Salman bin Mahmoud?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘So all he gave you was Scoular and a bit of coke-dealing? How does that tie in to the case we’re supposed to be working?’
A smile began to form on Malcolm Fox’s face. ‘I’m glad you asked me that.’
He signalled to the space next to him, so she sat down facing his computer screen, while he got busy with the mouse and a few keystrokes.
‘Who’d have thought the business pages of newspapers could be so enlightening,’ Fox began. ‘I was about to print out all this stuff, but in the meantime, take a look.’ He dabbed a finger against the screen. ‘Scoular’s company is involved in projects worldwide. Some years back, that included expensive apartment blocks in the Middle East. A lesson was learned along the way.’
Clarke watched as more stories appeared, this time to do with schemes in London, Toronto, Vancouver.
‘Not all of these got past the planners, but some did,’ Fox was saying.
‘The lesson being?’
‘People with money want that money to make them more money, but they also want it to be safe, and the Middle East has its risks. Salman’s father acted as a facilitator, not only sinking his own money into some of these projects but also sourcing other investors, investors who oftentimes stayed anonymous, sheltering behind company names, mostly registered offshore.’ Fox turned his head towards Clarke. ‘But with Salman’s father out of the picture...’
‘You think Salman took over the business? I don’t recall any of our searches flagging his name up.’
‘Agreed, but take a gander at this.’ A few more clicks, another story from the business pages; a single paragraph, easy to overlook. While Clarke read, Fox provided commentary.
‘Scoular’s firm, with an injection of Saudi money, is pitching to build a golf resort up north, on land owned by Lord Strathy.’
‘Lord Strathy being...?’
Another click, and Lord Strathy’s biography appeared, along with a photo of him in his ermine robes, roseate with privilege.
‘His name’s Ramsay Meiklejohn,’ Fox said. ‘He’s Issy Meiklejohn’s father.’ One further click produced a map of the north of Scotland. ‘The area in blue is everything he owns.’