‘That’s a lot of land.’ Clarke pointed to one coastal dot and then another. ‘Doesn’t quite cover Tongue and Thurso...’
‘Not too far off either, though. The ancestral home is halfway between the two, just along the road from Dounreay.’
The next photo was of a castle.
‘It’s not actually that old,’ Fox commented. ‘Mid nineteenth century. The style is Scots Baronial revived, hence the Disneyland turrets.’
‘Christ, Malcolm, when you dig, you dig deep.’ Clarke glanced at him. ‘Doesn’t require you to look so smug, though.’
‘But you have to admit, it’s starting to connect: Scoular in bed with Lord Strathy; funding from the Middle East; the victim and Isabella Meiklejohn...’
‘Getting us no closer to why someone might want Salman dead.’
‘Except,’ Fox said, ‘for this...’ A fresh page opened on the screen. ‘The same consortium had wanted to build a spaceport near Tongue. That fell through, partly from local concerns, but mostly because the money didn’t come together. Same problems seem to be besetting the golf resort plan. And it’s not like there haven’t been costs. With Ahmad bin Mahmoud under house arrest, his financial dealings limited, his son would be the one under pressure to cough up. Pressure in all likelihood applied by the likes of Stewart Scoular and Ramsay Meiklejohn.’
‘Any actual evidence of that happening?’
Fox’s face fell slightly. ‘I’ve contacted a couple of business journalists but not heard back yet.’
‘You’ve been talking to the press?’ Clarke was giving him a hard stare.
‘Only by email, carefully worded.’
‘Nevertheless, probably not the wisest move.’ Clarke scratched her forehead.
‘I don’t see anyone else around here pushing the case forward, Siobhan.’
‘You’re doing Cafferty’s bidding, Malcolm. He’s the one who kick-started this. Don’t you think that should give us pause?’
Fox was shaking his head. ‘If you ask me, Cafferty thought all we’d find was maybe Scoular giving or selling the odd bit of white powder to his mates. Probably doesn’t like that because it’s robbing him of prospective customers.’ He gestured towards the screen. ‘This goes way beyond that, and I’m the one who joined the dots. At the very least, it’s worth taking to the boss, no?’
‘Sure. But you sound like you’re thinking beyond “very least”.’ She studied him. ‘A wee chat with Stewart Scoular maybe?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Before taking it upstairs?’
Fox shrugged. ‘No time like the present, that’s what they say.’ He wasn’t quite smirking.
‘You’ve already arranged it?’ Clarke guessed.
He checked his watch. ‘Want to tag along?’
‘Now?’
‘Pretty much.’
‘At his office?’
He shook his head. ‘His home. This being a murder inquiry, I told him time was of the essence.’
‘What else did you say?’
‘That we were interviewing anyone who might have known the deceased, and his name had cropped up.’
‘He admitted knowing Salman?’
Fox was nodding while manoeuvring his arms into his jacket. ‘I might be a desk jockey, Siobhan,’ he said, patting a corner of the table, ‘but sometimes I ride a winner.’
Clarke wasn’t entirely convinced of that, but she followed him out of the office in any case.
What else was she going to do?
13
Stewart Scoular’s home was part of a Georgian terrace overlooking the Water of Leith in Stockbridge. There were two buzzers next to the front door, one marked ‘Office’ and the other left blank. Fox pressed the blank button. A few moments later, a voice crackled through the intercom. ‘In you come then.’
They pushed open the door and entered a cramped vestibule with two doors off, one of which swung open. Scoular wore an open-necked pale pink shirt, the sleeves rolled up. His feet were bare, Clarke noticed. No rings on either of his hands, no wristwatch or other jewellery. His hair was sandy-coloured and recently barbered, his face lightly freckled, teeth gleaming.
‘I see you brought backup,’ he said with a chuckle.
‘This is my colleague DI Clarke,’ Fox stated. ‘We appreciate you seeing us at this time of night.’
Scoular waved the formalities aside and led them into a large drawing room with high ceiling, ornate cornicing and sanded wooden floor.
‘Lovely place,’ Fox said, sounding as if he meant it. The furnishings looked expensive, but the room had an under-used feel to it. Clarke got the notion there would be a version of the man-cave elsewhere, boasting a big TV and all the accoutrements. The drawing room had no shelves and precious few knick-knacks. No books, magazines or family photos.
‘You live here on your own?’ she asked.
‘Not every night,’ Scoular said with another chuckle. ‘Can I offer either of you a drink?’
‘That’s kind of you, but no thanks.’ Fox had lowered himself onto the leather sofa. It had chrome fittings that would attract fingerprints, not that Clarke could see any. It was either brand new or its owner employed a meticulous cleaner. ‘We won’t keep you,’ Fox was saying, shifting a little to make room for Clarke. ‘Just a few questions to clarify how well you knew Salman bin Mahmoud.’
Scoular sat down on the sofa’s matching chair and crossed his legs so that his right foot rested on his left knee. Clarke felt he was trying just a bit too hard to appear relaxed and unconcerned. He angled his head upwards as if to aid his thinking.
‘I honestly doubt I’d met him more than ten or twelve times. At parties mostly.’
‘Including ones he hosted?’
‘Once, certainly.’
‘He lived a five- or ten-minute walk from here?’
‘Something like that.’
‘And Giovanni Morelli is even closer?’
‘Five tops. I’d say I know Gio slightly better than I knew Sal.’
‘People called him Sal?’
‘Some of us did.’ Scoular had gripped his exposed toes in one hand and seemed to be massaging them.
‘Hurt your foot?’ Clarke interrupted.
‘No.’ He seemed to realise what he’d been doing. ‘Sorry.’ He placed the foot back on the floor. ‘Touch of cramp earlier, after my run.’
It didn’t surprise Clarke that he ran. Probably had a home gym, too. He was lean and lightly tanned, almost certainly attractive to a certain type of woman. She imagined him pitching one of his projects to a room filled with people who envied his looks and self-confidence. They would see him as a maverick, too, expelled from his political party for being just a bit too edgy.
‘I should have asked,’ he was saying, ‘whether you’re making progress with your investigation.’
‘We’re moving forward,’ Fox assured him — a meaningless phrase, but one Scoular was happy to accept.
‘When I was an MSP, I had a strong interest in crime and justice. Struck me Police Scotland was underfunded and still doing a hell of a job.’
‘We try not to complain,’ Clarke said.
‘Turning back to Mr bin Mahmoud,’ Fox interrupted, ‘you met him socially a few times, but was that the extent of your relationship?’
‘Pretty much.’
‘Ever visit him in London?’
‘No.’
‘But business takes you there?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘Your business being...?’
‘Property developing — commercial mostly. Hotels and the like. Plenty of land in Edinburgh we could be doing more with.’
‘To maximise profit, you mean?’
‘To maximise potential. It’s not always about the money.’
‘Added amenities, quality of life?’