‘Just for confirmation, Salman bin Mahmoud was what we might call a business associate? He had control of the family money and some of that money was being put towards projects you were in charge of?’
‘I’m a facilitator, that’s all.’
‘Is that a yes?’
‘I’ve told you as much as I can. If you’ve not found me cooperative, it might be time for me to get my lawyers involved. Meantime, maybe you could busy yourselves elsewhere — finding whoever killed Sal would be an excellent start.’
He pushed his way back through the curtain into the dining room. Clarke and Fox had a view of the tables. They all looked full. Having waited a few seconds, Clarke crooked her index finger at Fox and pushed open the curtain. The room was L-shaped, and as they turned the corner, they saw a separate, glassed-in private area. It contained a single oval table around which sat six diners. Scoular was apologising while one waiter topped up glasses and another cleared the empty plates. Four men, all in suits and ties; one woman. Lady Isabella Meiklejohn.
Clarke pushed open the door and walked in, Fox right behind her.
‘This is intolerable,’ Scoular began to object. Clarke ignored him.
‘I left you a message,’ she told Meiklejohn.
‘Did you?’ Meiklejohn wore a crimson jacket over her short black dress. Her lipstick matched the jacket. She smiled what she probably thought would suffice as an apology, her eyes on her glass as she raised it to her mouth.
‘We’ve been trying to reach your father,’ Clarke told her.
‘Whatever for?’
‘Do you know his whereabouts?’
‘I do not; nor do I especially care.’ She smiled for the benefit of the other guests.
‘Get a message to him,’ Clarke commanded. ‘Tell him to call me.’ She watched as Meiklejohn made show of giving a toast with her glass. ‘Better let you get back to the sales pitch then...’ She stared at each of the four men in turn, as if to memorise their faces.
Fox shifted slightly, allowing her to leave the room ahead of him. With a slight bow of the head, he followed her, catching up only when they reached the pavement. Clarke was removing a parking ticket from the windscreen of his car. She handed it to him.
‘Recognise any of them?’ she asked.
‘No.’
‘Maybe we should have brought along your man from the business pages.’
‘Gut feeling, though — bankers, maybe councillors.’
Clarke nodded. ‘And Issy Meiklejohn for window-dressing.’
‘Nothing more?’
Clarke stared at him. ‘What’s your thinking, Malcolm?’
‘She wouldn’t be the first woman in history to mask her intelligence.’
‘You reckon she’s running the family firm?’
‘Not so different from Salman bin Mahmoud’s role — maybe that was the initial connection between them: kids with their eyes on the prize.’
Clarke couldn’t help but agree; not that she was about to give Fox the gold star he seemed to be expecting. She gestured towards the parking ticket he was holding. ‘Make sure you pay that. The fine doubles if you don’t, and I’m not sure your body armour works where Edinburgh’s wardens are concerned.’
17
Camp 1033 was still cordoned off. Rebus pulled in next to a yellow Portakabin that had been placed adjacent to the gate. As he opened the door of his Saab, a gust caught it. He thought the hinges might snap as it blew all the way open. Climbing out, it took him two goes to close it again. The door to the Portakabin was locked, no one answering his knock. The solitary uniform the other side of the cordon gave him an unwelcoming look.
‘The very definition of a short straw,’ Rebus told the man as he approached.
‘Change of shift in the offing. Is there something I can help you with?’
‘I’m related to the deceased. Wondered if DS Creasey is available.’
‘He’s not here.’
‘I got that impression,’ Rebus said, looking around.
‘You the one who found the body?’
‘That’s me,’ Rebus admitted.
‘I was told I might be seeing you. Message is: bugger off and leave us to get on with it. I know you used to be on the force, so you’ll appreciate the sentiment.’
‘You’re only doing your job, son. Fact they’ve stuck you out here tells me all I need to know about the esteem you’re held in by your fellow officers.’ Rebus turned to head back to his Saab. ‘Make sure Creasey knows I need a word.’
‘I’ll be sure to do that, aye.’ The officer cleared his throat and spat on the ground.
Rebus sat in the Saab and considered his next move. His phone pinged, signalling the arrival of a text from May Collins.
4.30 meet here x
Plenty of time before then, so he drove a little further along the road, heading towards Tongue. A hand-made sign on a post caught his eye. It pointed down a rutted track. The only word on the sign was WELCOME.
‘Nice to feel wanted for a change,’ Rebus said to himself, manoeuvring the car along the track. It ran between a series of hillocks, clumps of thistles the predominant vegetation. Eventually he caught sight of what looked like a farm steading. Smoke rose from the chimney of the timber-framed main house. A couple of large barns stood behind it, and there was a smattering of tired-looking caravans. A man, topless, shirt tied around his waist, was splitting logs with an axe. Rebus recognised him as Mick Sanderson and gave a wave.
He parked the Saab next to a familiar-looking Volvo and got out. He saw powder marks on the Volvo’s doors, dashboard and steering wheel. Forensics had been busy — and hadn’t bothered tidying up after themselves. He approached the chopping block, noting a motorbike propped against a nearby tree. A couple of young women were scattering feed to some hungry chickens, while another couple worked on the vegetable beds. Sweat glistened on Sanderson’s torso.
‘Saab’s still working then.’ He nodded towards his handiwork.
‘Running better than ever,’ Rebus said.
‘We both know that’s a lie. If you want to get back to Edinburgh, you’ll let a proper garage give a diagnosis.’
‘I wanted to thank you anyway.’ Rebus held out a hand. Sanderson rested his axe against the woodpile and took it. ‘Also wanted to offer something by way of payment.’
‘No need for that.’
‘If you’re sure?’ Rebus gave a shrug, looking around at the young workers nearby. ‘How many of you are there?’
‘Changes all the time. Some stay a few weeks, others longer.’
Rebus nodded, feigning interest. ‘I notice my daughter’s here. Maybe I’ll just go say hello...’
Sanderson started to say something, but Rebus was already heading for the farmhouse. Before he got there, however, the door was opened by a man in his fifties, face lined, long grey hair pulled back in a ponytail. He wore grubby denims and a blue shirt that had lost almost all its colour.
‘You must be John,’ he said, cracking a smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes. The eyes were blue and piercing, the pupils small. He hadn’t shaved in a couple of days and his wrists were festooned with cotton bracelets of various designs. He leaned with one hand on the door frame, the other on his hip.
‘Come inside,’ he said. ‘I’m Jess.’
Rebus entered a large open-plan space. There was a log-burner in the fireplace, a chaotic kitchen area, futons and oversized beanbags instead of sofas and chairs. Against one wall were piled yoga mats in a range of colours. A woman sat at a table in the kitchen area, filling jars with cooked vegetables. Rebus nodded a greeting, but she ignored him. She was only a few years younger than Jess Hawkins, her face weathered, long straw-coloured hair starting to clump. On the floor next to her sat a contented toddler, chewing a toy of some kind.