Clarke gave a sigh. ‘We seem to be back to radio silence.’
‘And the elusive Lord Strathy?’
‘Ask as many questions as you like — I’m not forgetting that you’re keeping stuff back from me and it’s going to keep pissing me off until you tell me.’
‘Understood. But to get back to Lord Strathy?’
‘Still nothing. I got the Met to pay a visit to his various London haunts.’
‘They must be loving us down there.’ Fox managed a thin smile.
Clarke lifted one of the sheets of telephone numbers. It was now fully annotated. The original bills had shown only calls and texts sent by the victim, but now they also had calls to his phone.
‘Gio, Issy, Gio, Issy, Gio,’ she reeled off. ‘Almost two dozen chats on his last day alive.’
‘I believe young people prefer it to actually being in the same room as someone.’
‘Then there’s Stewart Scoular, though not with nearly the same frequency.’ Clarke glanced at the writing on her notepad. ‘Eighteen calls in six months — nine from and nine to.’
‘And nothing to indicate that a meeting was being set up at Craigentinny,’ Fox stated, ‘unless it was with Meiklejohn or Morelli.’
Clarke nodded. ‘But we do have these,’ she said, tapping another sheet. ‘A dozen calls to the landline at Strathy Castle. Once a fortnight, pretty much.’
‘No mobile signal up there?’
‘That’s my thinking.’
‘Talking to Issy?’
Clarke offered a shrug. ‘We’ll ask her. Got to be either her on a home visit, or else her father.’ She rubbed her eyes. She and Fox were now the only occupants of the MIT room. Footsteps could be heard descending the staircase as the ancillary staff finished their working day. ‘How’s that search on Issy going, by the way?’
‘The internet is its usual glorious swamp. Wild-child stuff from her early days; PR repair jobs courtesy of a few society glossies. Apparently she spends a large chunk of her life helping charities.’
‘Between university lectures and society balls? When I was at uni, there were some just like her — a whole raft of poshos we only saw once a year in the exam hall.’
‘While you had a bath full of coal for a bed?’
‘School of hard knocks, Malcolm.’
‘I thought your parents were lecturers?’
‘Way to burst my class-conflict bubble.’ Clarke shook herself, trying to clear her head.
‘Call it a day?’ Fox suggested.
‘I will if you will.’
‘Thought I might stick with it a bit longer.’ He tapped the computer screen. ‘Plenty on here about Issy the socialite, but it’s the business brain we’re really interested in.’
‘Meaning talking to your business contacts?’
‘I hope you’ve noticed that none of them has leaked yet.’
‘Doesn’t mean to say they won’t.’
‘I should probably give the ACC a call too, keep her posted.’
‘I’m going to assume she knows about Cafferty.’
‘Assume what you like.’
‘Might be easier if I just took a baton to your head until you fess up.’
‘That wouldn’t be very professional. But let me propose something. I do a bit more work here while you walk Brillo and have a bite to eat...’
‘Yes?’
‘Then we meet up and go see if Lady Isabella Meiklejohn is at home and receiving visitors — after all, we’ve yet to see where she lives.’
‘Other thing is the deceased’s house,’ Clarke added. ‘I know a crew’s been through it, but I wouldn’t mind a nosy.’
‘And there’s a set of keys somewhere around here.’ Fox’s gesture took in the office.
‘Rendezvous at eight?’
Fox did a quick calculation in his head. ‘Eight it is.’
20
Isabella Meiklejohn lived a literal stone’s throw from Gio Morelli, but unlike her friends, she was making do with a second-floor flat on St Stephen Street, almost directly across from the Antiquary pub. Her voice on the intercom had been wary, switching rapidly to irritation when the two detectives identified themselves.
‘Not more bloody questions,’ she complained as she buzzed them in.
The tenement stairwell was on the shabby side. A bicycle was chained to the landing rail next to her door, and Clarke asked if it was hers.
‘Full of surprises, aren’t I?’ she said with a cold smile, ushering them in. The hallway was narrow and cluttered. A mannequin acted as a coat and hat rack, while a stuffed pine marten in a glass case did duty as a table of sorts, its lid covered with unopened mail, keys and headphones. Clarke caught a glance of the galley kitchen — obviously the maid’s day off. Both bedroom doors were closed. The living room was cuboid, with just the one window. An open door gave a view into a box room, which had become a study of sorts — desk, computer, printer. Dance music played through a portable gadget that Meiklejohn silenced with a spoken command.
There were some books piled by the fireplace, but not huge amounts, and no visible bookcases. Plenty of garish art on the walls, possibly the work of friends or fellow students. Meiklejohn flounced back onto the sofa, legs tucked under her. A glass of red wine sat on the floor, next to a half-empty bottle and a full ashtray. The smell of tobacco lingered.
‘Hard work cycling uphill into town,’ Clarke offered, ‘especially for a smoker.’
‘Nothing wrong with my lungs.’ Meiklejohn glanced down at her chest before giving Fox what she probably thought was a coquettish look.
‘Any word from your father?’
‘No.’
‘And you’re not beginning to worry?’
‘Should I?’
Fox cleared his throat. ‘The calls between you and Mr bin Mahmoud on the day he died: can you remind us what they were about?’
‘Probably the usual — a bit of gossip, maybe plans for the weekend.’
‘Not business, then?’
‘Business?’
‘When we bumped into you at that restaurant earlier, you looked to be dining with some of Stewart Scoular’s investors.’
‘Did I?’
‘That’s what I’m asking.’
Meiklejohn lifted her glass and turned her attention to Clarke. ‘What do you think, Inspector?’
‘At first I thought you were getting a free feed in exchange for flashing your tits at a bunch of men old enough to be your father.’
Meiklejohn hoisted the glass in a toast before drinking. ‘And now?’ she said.
‘Scoular is part of a consortium that’s been trying to buy a golf course in Edinburgh. Some of the same people are probably part of the scheme to build a new upmarket resort between Tongue and Naver — on land largely owned by your father.’
‘Owned by the Strathy Estate,’ Meiklejohn corrected her.
‘Which equates to the same thing, more or less. So what we’re wondering is, was your role at the lunch maybe more substantial? Do you speak for your father at such gatherings?’
Meiklejohn took her time placing the wine glass back on the floor. ‘And how exactly,’ she drawled, ‘does any of that get you nearer to identifying Sal’s killer?’
‘We’re just working with the pieces given to us,’ Fox said. ‘Seeing how they might fit into the overall picture.’
‘Are you sure KerPlunk isn’t a better analogy? Because when I look at you, I see two people with nothing but the straws they’re yanking on.’
‘You do want Mr bin Mahmoud’s killer caught, Lady Isabella?’ Clarke butted in.
‘Of course I do.’
‘And you still claim that he had no obvious enemies?’
‘Envious racists apart, no.’