He opened the computer lid again, signalling the end of the meeting.
‘You’ve not heard the last of this,’ Jones blustered, getting to his feet.
‘You best hope I fucking well have,’ Cafferty responded with a glare before turning his attention to his screen.
He listened to the footsteps stomping back down the staircase, then slid out from his seat and checked over the balcony. His visitor had gone. Taking out his phone, he made a call.
‘Malcolm?’ he said when it was answered. ‘You still at your desk? Be downstairs in fifteen minutes...’
It was a large black Mercedes, its rear windows heavily tinted. As Fox exited Leith police station, the driver emerged, closing the door after him. Fox crossed the street. The driver wasn’t very tall, but he looked as if he could handle himself, all wired nerves and attitude, wrapped in a leather bomber jacket.
‘Back seat,’ he stated.
Fox got in next to Cafferty. The driver stayed on the pavement, lighting a cigarette and checking his phone.
‘Problem?’ Fox asked, skipping the pleasantries.
‘Just thought you ought to know I’ve had a visit from Casanova.’
‘I assume you mean Dennis Jones?’
‘My thinking is, he sees something’s not right, the way his missus is acting, and she eventually blurts it out.’
‘Telling him everything?’
‘Not quite — but he’s savvy enough to walk it back to me.’
‘And?’
‘And I don’t want that happening again. Only room for three in this relationship, Malcolm — you, me and your boss.’
‘It’s not a relationship.’
‘Can’t disagree with that, insofar as I’ve heard hee-haw from either of you.’
‘Trust me, we’re working on it.’
‘And?’
‘And we’re at the start of the jigsaw. Edges nearly finished but a lot still to fill in.’
‘So show me the outline.’
Fox was shaking his head. ‘Not yet.’
‘Soon then?’
He half turned so he was facing Cafferty. ‘Is this to do with Salman bin Mahmoud? Dirty money mixing with clean? Golf resorts and landed gentry?’
‘Okay, so you’ve been busy,’ Cafferty accepted with a slow nod. ‘But I need those pieces filled in sooner rather than later.’
‘Keeping you company isn’t helping with that.’
‘You going to tell Lyon about her stoked-up husband?’
‘Looks like I might have to.’
‘Guy like that, impetuous and hot-blooded...’
‘What?’
‘He might need keeping an eye on. Who’s to say his straying days are behind him?’ Cafferty’s eyes were on Fox. ‘Got to admit, though, you’re a lot craftier than I gave you credit for.’
‘How’s that then?’
‘Look on his face when I mentioned the footage of him and the coke. He didn’t know I had it, which tells me his missus doesn’t know — and that means you kept that detail to yourself. Didn’t want her knowing more than she needed to, afraid she might take it out on you?’ He wagged a finger. ‘I should have known someone with the name Fox would have a bit of slyness about them. Now bugger off and get busy on Stewart Scoular. Clock’s ticking, Malcolm...’
Fox shoved open the door and got out. The driver was grinding what was left of his cigarette underfoot. He crossed the road and re-entered the station, passing through security and climbing the stairs. There was water damage to the ceiling above him, a pail readied on the top step for the next time it rained. The station had been built early in the nineteenth century as a courthouse, before becoming the home of Leith Council for a time. It was a solid stone edifice, but like many police stations of similar vintage, upkeep was prohibitive. He wondered how many more years it had.
‘More than me, in all likelihood,’ he said to himself, his breathing a little laboured as he reached the landing.
Clarke was at their shared desk. Most of the rest of the team had clocked off for the day or were in the process of doing so, but Siobhan Clarke was sticking around. The records from the victim’s mobile phone provider had come through, six months’ worth. They’d already accessed his phone so knew about the more recent calls, and had spoken to everyone he’d been in touch with on the day he died. An upmarket wine and spirits shop in central London featured, as did two private banks (one London, one Edinburgh), a local tailor specialising in tweed and sporting wear, and a Michelin-rated restaurant in Leith. The banks had proved stubbornly resistant to questions about their client’s financial situation. A far-from-complete set of printed statements had been brought from Salman bin Mahmoud’s Edinburgh home, and showed a balance in the low five figures.
‘Not being cheeky,’ Christine Esson had said, ‘but that doesn’t seem much.’
Then again, as Graham Sutherland had pointed out, the super-rich often had other means of salting away and accessing funds. Forensic accountants were busy both at the Met in London and at Gartcosh. It hadn’t been difficult for Fox to add Stewart Scoular’s name to the mix, alongside Isabella Meiklejohn and Giovanni Morelli.
Nor did the deceased own either of his sports cars — both were leased. The home in Edinburgh was owned outright by the family, purchased as a long-term investment most likely, while the London penthouse was a rental costing almost exactly double what Fox earned in a month.
Fox sat alongside Clarke and picked up the two books sitting on the desk. They were hardback thrillers.
‘Present from Christine,’ Clarke explained. ‘One for me, one for John.’
Fox opened one of the books at the title page. ‘Signed and everything,’ he said. ‘Now if only you had some downtime...’
‘What did Cafferty want, by the way?’ Fox stared at her. ‘The office has windows, Malcolm. You get a call, and quarter of an hour later you say you’re heading to the gents.’
‘I’d put my jacket on,’ Fox realised.
‘Which strictly speaking isn’t needed for a call of nature. So I walk over to the window and see a big shiny car and a big shiny heavy.’
‘He was just after an update.’
‘You really can’t be doing this.’ Clarke frowned. ‘Did you ask why he’s so interested in Stewart Scoular?’
‘He’s keeping his cards close to his chest.’
‘He’s not the only one. There’s stuff you’re not telling me, and I can’t honestly say I like it.’
‘I told you about Special Branch,’ Fox said, lowering his voice.
‘That’s not it, though.’ She shook her head. ‘One thing I sense is that you think you have the brass on your side — hence all that guff about having a certain amount of armour.’
‘Leave it, Siobhan.’
‘You know me better than that. What’s Cafferty trading? Something too juicy for your bosses not to let him have his way?’
‘I said leave it.’ Fox’s voice had stiffened. He took a deep breath and exhaled. ‘Isn’t Brillo due an evening walk?’
‘I took him out at lunchtime, remember?’
‘That was six hours ago.’
‘How many walks do you think he needs?’
‘Maybe you should check that with John.’
‘Yeah? And maybe you should check with Special Branch how happy they are about you bringing a known gangster into this inquiry.’
The silence between them lengthened, Fox’s jaw flexing as he clamped his teeth together. ‘Any word from Rebus?’ he eventually asked.