‘Malcolm is. On our way to pick up his lordship.’
‘You need to ask him about the party Keith gatecrashed — we have to know what really happened.’
‘DS Creasey is on his way here as we speak. He’ll be the one with the questions.’
‘But you’ll have first dibs.’
‘And all I know about the case is what you’ve told me. Fill me in on Creasey, though.’
‘He’s capable, but not exactly inspiring. There’s a line he’s following that he expects will lead to Samantha.’
‘Not a complete idiot, though?’
‘No.’
‘And willing to drive a hundred and fifty miles to interview a minor player.’
‘Strathy might be a lot more than that, Siobhan. As far as I can tell, he’s trading on his name and the fact that he owns a castle. He’s got land he wants to develop and protest groups standing in his way. He might have seen Keith and Jess Hawkins as movable obstacles. It would be a big win for Strathy if Hawkins were to be connected to Keith’s murder.’
‘Set up to take the fall, you mean?’
‘Bear all this in mind when you’re asking your questions. Just because someone looks like Billy Bunter doesn’t mean they don’t possess low animal cunning.’ Rebus paused. ‘Any further thoughts about the Chief’s involvement?’
‘Party line is, there’s no involvement.’
‘Brushing him under the carpet?’
‘Hang on,’ she said, turning to Fox. ‘Quicker if you turn here.’ He did as he was told, only to notice a bin lorry halfway along the street, blocking the route. With a growl, he hit the brakes and began reversing. ‘I’ll talk to you later, John,’ Clarke said into her phone. ‘Right now I need to apologise for my navigational skills...’
At St Stephen Street, the media were packing up. While Fox found a parking spot, Clarke rang Issy Meiklejohn’s doorbell.
‘What?’ the intercom crackled.
‘Detective Inspector Clarke,’ she announced.
‘That didn’t take long.’
Clarke listened as the buzzer signalled that the door had been unlocked. She climbed to Issy’s landing. The door to the flat was already open. Issy stood there like a sentry.
‘Need a word with him,’ Clarke said.
‘He’s tired.’
‘Nice trick with the doorstep conference, by the way — friendly media, all hand-picked?’ She peered over the taller woman’s shoulder.
‘Come back later,’ Issy Meiklejohn demanded.
Clarke shook her head. ‘My boss wants Lord Strathy at the station. Only way this ends is with your dad accompanying me there. Nice comfortable car outside, no markings, no fuss.’
‘This is preposterous.’
She gave an apologetic shrug. ‘Nevertheless,’ she said, her voice drifting off.
‘Wait here a minute,’ Meiklejohn said after a moment’s thought. She closed the door, leaving Clarke on the landing. Clarke gave the handle a surreptitious turn, but it was locked.
It was more like two minutes before the door opened again. Lord Strathy was dressed in an olive-green tweed suit and open-necked white shirt. He hadn’t shaved, silvery bristles showing on his jowls. He looked bemused and there was a slight whiff of whisky on his breath. His daughter had donned a three-quarter-length crimson coat, covering her black polo neck and tight trousers tucked into knee-high boots. She checked she had her keys and her phone, then ushered her father out and closed the door again. Clarke composed a quick text to Fox.
Here we come.
‘My father’s solicitor wants to know which station she should meet us at,’ Issy Meiklejohn said. ‘Her name’s Patricia Coleridge and she’s very, very good...’
‘I know her,’ Clarke said. She turned her attention to Lord Strathy. ‘Criminal law is her thing; interesting that’s the kind of solicitor you know.’
‘Patsy’s father went to the same school as mine,’ Issy Meiklejohn said. ‘The two families have known one another ever since.’
‘Why doesn’t that surprise me?’ Clarke said in an undertone as they headed down the stairs.
Issy Meiklejohn was left to fume on a chair in the corridor while her father was escorted into Interview Room B at Leith police station. Sutherland had given the nod for Clarke and Fox to ask the questions. He’d already had a word with Patricia Coleridge, assuring her that no charges were being levelled and her client was not being cautioned, adding the caveat that if he failed to cooperate, that situation could rapidly change.
Clarke knew that Coleridge’s mind would be as sharp as her business suit. She had already unzipped her large leather notebook and unscrewed the top from her expensive-looking pen. She had a thin mane of straw-blonde hair, prominent cheekbones and piercing grey eyes. A spectacles case sat untouched next to her. There would be no recording made, everything nicely informal.
Strathy looked around the small enclosed space in apparent befuddlement.
‘You don’t have to answer anything,’ Coleridge advised him as, after a peck on the cheek, he took the seat next to her. ‘A simple “no comment” will suffice.’
Fox had carried in some of the paperwork from the inquiry and was studying the timeline.
‘I doubt I can be of much use,’ Lord Strathy announced, hands held out in front of him, palms upwards.
‘Where have you been the past few days?’ Clarke asked, jumping straight in.
‘No comment.’
‘Around the time you disappeared, there were two murders. One here and one up north. Odd coincidence, you going to ground.’
‘No connection, I assure you.’
‘You knew we’d want to question you — afraid of what you might let slip?’
Coleridge gave a theatrical sigh as she played with her pen. ‘Is crass speculation all you have to offer us, DI Clarke?’
Clarke ignored her, maintaining eye contact with Ramsay Meiklejohn. ‘When was the last time you saw Salman bin Mahmoud?’
He puffed out his cheeks. ‘Weeks ago.’
‘How many?’
‘Four or five maybe.’
‘Here or up north?’
‘In London. A small gathering at his home.’
‘Business or pleasure?’
‘A bit of both, I suppose — no such thing as a free meal these days, eh?’ He turned to smile at his lawyer, who remained solemn-faced.
‘Remember,’ she reminded him, ‘“no comment” will do.’
‘I’ve done nothing wrong, Patsy,’ Meiklejohn told her.
‘Yet you can’t account for your whereabouts these past few days,’ Fox stated.
Meiklejohn turned his attention back to the two detectives. ‘I can account for them perfectly well. I merely choose not to.’
‘But you weren’t in hiding?’
‘No.’
‘And it’s not that you were running scared?’ Clarke added. ‘I don’t mean scared of us questioning you — scared of something or someone else?’
‘Absolutely not.’ But neither detective could miss that he shifted a little in his seat as he spoke.
His lawyer attempted to deflect attention with a query of her own. ‘It might help if we knew precisely why you think Lord Strathy can help you with any of this. Salman bin Mahmoud was a business acquaintance, nothing more.’
‘Business relationships can go sour, though, especially where large sums are concerned. The golf resort near Naver was projected to cost tens of millions, quite a few of those making their way into your pocket, Lord Strathy. Salman bin Mahmoud was one of your investors, yes?’
‘In a very minor way.’
‘He owed you money?’
‘On the contrary — he was preparing to top up his initial investment. His death came as a shock and a blow.’