‘No one who owed him money or he owed money to? No commercial disagreements? No spurned friends or lovers?’ She gave a bit of extra weight to the final word.
‘We never fucked, Inspector.’
‘Why not?’
Meiklejohn met Clarke’s stare. ‘I don’t think that’s any of your business.’
‘You and Gio Morelli aren’t an item?’
‘No.’
‘Stewart Scoular?’ This time the question came from Fox.
‘What the hell has my love life got to do with any of this?’
‘Is that a yes?’
‘It’s a big fat fuck you.’
‘How well did your father know the victim? Well enough for Salman to phone him at Strathy Castle?’
‘I wouldn’t know.’
‘Or was it you he was calling?’
‘I spend as little time up there as humanly possible.’
‘But you took Salman there, yes?’
‘For a couple of parties.’
‘Parties your father attended?’
‘I’m not saying they didn’t know one another socially, but my father spends more time in London than he does anywhere north of the border.’
‘And London,’ Fox interrupted, ‘happens to be where Mr bin Mahmoud was studying.’
Meiklejohn gave a slow nod, as if remembering something. ‘My father did arrange for him to visit the House of Lords — Sal loved that. But actually something came up, so Pops couldn’t make it and he had a friend show Sal round instead.’
‘I’m guessing VIP visits to the House of Lords would impress Stewart Scoular’s would-be investors.’
‘I still fail to see what any of this has to do with Sal’s death. Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got a seminar I need to be prepping for.’
‘Tomorrow morning?’ Clarke asked. ‘What time?’
Meiklejohn had to think about it. ‘Eleven.’
‘What’s the topic?’
‘Poetry of the...’ She looked around the room for help answering.
‘Not a lot of obvious textbooks here,’ Clarke continued. ‘I’m not sure you go to many of your classes. It’s all just a bit of a lark to you — or it was, until things that were more fun came along. Things like Salman and Gio and maybe even Stewart Scoular.’ She turned away from the sofa. ‘We’ll see ourselves out.’
‘Paradise Lost!’ Meiklejohn called to the retreating figures.
‘Is that the one with the snake?’ Fox asked Clarke.
‘And the tree of knowledge.’
‘Could do with one of those,’ he muttered, pulling the door closed after them. He was a few steps down before he realised Clarke was studying the bicycle.
‘Did we check the CCTV for bikes?’ she asked. ‘Near the scene of the crime, I mean? Isn’t there a bike lane right next to the warehouse?’
‘You don’t think...?’
‘Just being thorough, Malcolm. Which is maybe why we should also put some thought into Lady Issy and Stewart Scoular.’
‘If they’re lovers, you mean?’
‘Present, past or even future.’
‘What’s your best guess?’
‘Jury’s out,’ she said with a shrug. ‘One thing, though — no great show of conspicuous wealth at Lady Issy’s residence.’ She lifted a set of keys from her pocket and gave them a shake. ‘Here’s hoping for better things elsewhere.’
The house on Heriot Row already felt abandoned. Clarke tapped the code into the intruder alarm to reassure it she meant no harm. Fox had found the light switches. The hall was large and had been recently modernised: white marble floor; gold trim wherever possible; statuary, presumably of Middle Eastern provenance. Clarke scooped up some mail. None of it looked interesting, so she added it to the pile on the table by the door.
‘Who else has keys?’ she asked.
‘Deceased’s lawyer,’ Fox stated.
‘None of his friends?’
‘Not that we know of. This floor and the two above belong to the bin Mahmoud family. There’s a garden flat below, owned by a guy who has a software business. He’s been interviewed; says his neighbour was quiet for the most part — a few car doors slamming and engines revving after a party, but that’s about it.’
‘Mr Software never merited an invite?’
‘No. The one substantial chat they seem to have had was when the deceased mooted buying the flat, but the owner wasn’t for selling.’ Fox saw Clarke glance at him. ‘Not exactly grounds for murder.’
‘On the other hand, I’d say Salman was probably unused to people saying no.’
‘We could invite the neighbour in for a chat?’
But Clarke was shaking her head as she pushed open the door to the drawing room.
The word that sprang to mind was ‘opulent’: two huge plush sofas; a large wall-mounted TV with sound system; more statuary and ornaments. A vast antique carpet covered the wooden floor. The bookcases were filled with a range of oversized hardbacks, most of them histories of art and antiquity. One whole shelf, however, had been set aside for books about James Bond and Sean Connery. In front of these sat two framed photos of the actor, taken in his Bond days, both autographed.
Next door was a contemporary kitchen, nothing in its capacious double fridge but vegetarian ready meals and bottles of white wine and champagne. The separate freezer contained only a few trays of ice cubes. Fox was checking behind another door off the hall.
‘WC and shower,’ he said.
He followed Clarke up the curving stone staircase. The master bedroom contained a large bed and a wall-length built-in wardrobe with mirrored doors. Salman bin Mahmoud’s various suits, jackets and shirts were neatly arranged, some still in the polythene wrapping from their last dry-clean. Tiered drawers inside the wardrobe held underwear, belts, ties, jewellery.
‘Liked his cufflinks,’ Fox commented.
Condoms and a selection of over-the-counter pills sat in a bedside drawer. There was no reading matter by the bed. Clarke picked up a remote and pressed the power button. From a recessed area at the foot of the bed a flat-screen TV rose into view. When she switched the TV on, it was tuned to an Arabic news channel.
Fox went to check the en suite bathroom. ‘I’m not the expert here,’ he said, ‘but I’m seeing nothing that could be described as ladies’ toiletries.’
‘So one-night stands rather than a regular girlfriend?’ Clarke switched the TV off and returned to the hallway. The next door led to an office. Desk drawers gaped and the computer had been removed by the investigators. The walls were lined with framed posters from Sean Connery’s run as James Bond. There were also dozens of replica Aston Martin DB5s in different sizes.
‘Think I had this one,’ Fox said, lifting the model to inspect it. He pressed a button and the roof sprang up along with the ejector seat, the figure in the seat landing on the floor.
Clarke was studying a map of the Middle East, which sat at eye level when she lowered herself onto the desk chair.
‘Did he think of himself as an exile?’ she wondered aloud. ‘Below the surface trappings, I mean?’
‘You’re asking if he was happy or just putting on a show?’ Fox could only shrug. ‘All the interviews we’ve done, nobody’s said anything.’
‘I’m not sure his circle of friends and hangers-on would be the types to pry.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Were they interested in him or just in what he represented — specifically moneyed exoticism? And meantime he’s worried sick about his family back home?’
Fox was still mulling that over as he followed Clarke to the next room. It was another large sitting room, more comfortable than the formal one downstairs. Sofa and two chairs, home cinema system, the shelves filled with framed photographs. Most were of Salman’s family — not just his mother and father, but what looked like uncles, aunts, cousins. A black-and-white photo, creased and faded, showed his grandparents or maybe even great-grandparents. But there were more recent photos too, dating to his time in the UK. Clarke had seen a few of these already — they were copies of photos printed in society magazines, the ones Fox had stored on his computer. Others showed Salman with friends and admirers at parties, including one in the VIP area of the Jenever Club. Isabella Meiklejohn and Giovanni Morelli featured in most of these. Usually Salman was hugging Isabella, but in one he had wrapped his arms around Gio from behind, both men laughing with their perfect teeth.