‘A financial blow, you mean?’ Strathy nodded. ‘What about the buyout of Craigentinny golf course — were you involved in that too?’
‘Not in any monetary sense. Stewart Scoular had mentioned it, of course.’
‘How well do you know Mr Scoular?’
‘We do business occasionally.’
‘But he’s invited to your parties, the ones you host at Strathy Castle?’ Clarke gestured to Fox, who removed the magazine photos from their folder, placing them on the table. A sunny, windy day; smiling faces outside a large white marquee; champagne flutes held aloft.
‘There’s Salman bin Mahmoud,’ Clarke said, pointing. ‘And there’s Stewart Scoular.’
‘And your own Chief Constable,’ Meiklejohn countered. ‘An acquaintance of mine, you know.’
‘Meaning an investor?’
‘Is this going anywhere?’ Coleridge interrupted, checking her slim gold wristwatch.
‘This was the day of the incident, wasn’t it?’ Clarke was asking. ‘A man called Keith Grant came barging in...’
‘Was it the same day?’ Meiklejohn sounded genuinely uncertain.
‘The same Keith Grant who was murdered in one of the huts at Camp 1033, on land you own, just a few days after Salman bin Mahmoud met his end.’
‘All of which I’m sure is very interesting,’ Coleridge broke in again, ‘but I think you’ve had quite enough of my client’s time.’ She closed her notebook with a flourish and began screwing the top back on her pen, having written precisely nothing.
‘Two projects,’ Clarke pressed on. ‘Two men connected to them end up dead, and suddenly you, Lord Strathy, are nowhere to be found.’
‘We’re walking,’ Patricia Coleridge said, nudging her client as she rose to her feet.
‘An officer from Inverness is on his way here with some further questions for Lord Strathy,’ Clarke told her.
‘Unless you’re arresting my client, Inspector, we’re leaving right now.’
‘If you’re scared, we can protect you,’ Fox announced, leaning across the table so he had Meiklejohn’s attention. ‘Is it Stewart Scoular — is that who you’re afraid of?’
‘No comment,’ Meiklejohn stuttered, beginning to pull himself up to standing.
‘Your daughter is in business with you, yes?’ Clarke asked, her tone hardening. ‘Funny she didn’t mention you visiting the victim’s home in London.’
‘No reason she should know.’ Meiklejohn had begun coughing, and as he stood up, he had to steady himself, hands gripping the back of his chair. But when he tried to move, his knees buckled, his face growing more crimson than ever, wincing in pain. Coleridge had pushed open the door.
‘Issy!’ she called. But Issy Meiklejohn was right there, her mouth open in shock as she saw her father. Clarke was already on the phone, summoning a paramedic.
‘There’s a defibrillator in the building,’ Fox was saying.
Lord Strathy was bent forward, hand to his chest, flanked by the two young women.
‘We need an ambulance!’ Issy yelped.
‘I’ll be all right,’ he told her, his free hand patting the back of hers. ‘Just need a bit of air.’
‘You’re going to the hospital,’ she said, her tone firm. Then, to Patricia Coleridge: ‘How could you let them do this, Patsy? How could you?’
The look Coleridge cast towards Clarke and Fox left them in no doubt that she would find a way to deflect the blame onto them if she possibly could.
Graham Sutherland had appeared in the doorway, other officers and support staff vying for a better view of the drama. When he locked eyes with Clarke, she managed nothing more than a lifting of one eyebrow. He’d told her once that he found it charming, though she rather doubted its power over him right this second.
30
When Creasey’s text arrived, she went downstairs to greet him. He had parked somewhere by Leith Links and was walking along Queen Charlotte Street towards her.
‘DI Clarke?’ he guessed, waving a hand.
‘How was the drive?’
‘About what you’d imagine.’ He was making to pass her and enter the police station, but froze when he saw the look on her face. ‘You let him go?’
‘He was rushed to hospital. Chest pains.’
‘Faking it?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Shit.’ He angled his head heavenwards. ‘Did he tell you anything useful?’
‘Not especially.’
‘The interview was taped, though?’
‘Afraid not.’
He lowered his head to gaze at her. ‘Really?’
‘We were trying to keep it casual.’
‘How far is the hospital?’
‘They won’t let you see him.’
‘I need to try.’
‘You don’t want a coffee or anything first?’ Clarke watched as he shook his head. ‘We’ll take my car, then. You could probably do with a break.’
‘I could definitely do with a break — my hope was, Lord Strathy might be it...’
Clarke texted Fox to let him know the score while she led Creasey to her Vauxhall Astra. They drove in silence for the first few minutes, Creasey leaning back into the headrest.
‘The A9 hasn’t improved then?’ she commented. ‘Still, must be nice to get away from John for a bit.’
Creasey snorted. ‘He’s a piece of work, as they say.’
‘Not many things I’ve not heard him called. Good detective, though; never gives a case a minute’s rest.’ She paused. ‘You think Samantha did it?’
‘Her or her lover — that would be the standard scenario.’
‘So those are your chief suspects?’
‘Everyone but John Rebus thinks so. He’s got half a dozen conspiracy theories lined up.’ He half turned in his seat so he was facing her. ‘Smoke and mirrors most likely.’
‘And yet here you are, DS Creasey.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘One of John’s theories has brought you all the way to Edinburgh. He thinks you maybe lack imagination — your trip here tells me he’s wrong.’
‘You worked with him for a long time?’
‘Felt like.’
‘He doesn’t seem to be relishing retirement. I know his daughter’s freedom and good name are on the line, so he’s desperate — but I also sense he’s enjoying it, though maybe he wouldn’t see it that way.’
Clarke was reminded of the case files stacked up in Rebus’s new flat. She knew he was planning to break open the unsolveds. Something to keep me warm in my old age...
‘I think he feels he let Samantha down,’ she confided. ‘Not just once, but over and over.’
‘And now’s his chance to atone?’ Creasey chewed on this while staring at the passing parade of shops. ‘I should have asked — how’s your own case looking?’
‘Like you, we could use a break.’
‘They are two distinct cases?’
Clarke nodded. ‘With a few linked players. Your victim wasn’t making himself popular with Lord Strathy; Lord Strathy had business dealings with the bin Mahmoud family; my victim was best friends with Lord Strathy’s daughter. And so far no clear motive in either case.’
‘I told you I’ve got a motive.’
‘Jealousy? A love triangle? I don’t think you believe that.’
‘She’d visited her ex-lover the day her partner was killed. He found out and they argued.’
‘So they leave their daughter alone in the house and drive to the internment camp? Does that make sense to you?’
Instead of answering, Creasey leaned back into the headrest again and closed his eyes.
‘Not too much further,’ Clarke reassured him. Then: ‘We’re finding Lady Isabella a bit interesting. I think she has a head for business, though she hides it well. From what little I’ve seen of her father, he’s far from CEO material.’