‘He’s a figurehead, you mean? His daughter tucked away behind the curtain, pulling the strings?’
‘She’s close to Stewart Scoular — he’s the contractor who seems to sign up the investors.’
‘He’s also been a guest at Strathy Castle.’
Clarke glanced at him. ‘Yes, he has.’
‘I can do a Google photo search as well as the next person,’ Creasey explained.
Clarke’s attention was flitting between the windscreen and a new message on her phone.
‘Want me to read it out to you?’ Creasey asked.
‘Just an MIT colleague, wondering how long I’ll be.’
‘They’re missing you already?’
Clarke shook her head slowly. ‘Just pissed off I’m dodging the flak.’
‘You’re being blamed for Strathy’s collapse?’
‘In my absence, almost certainly.’
‘But you weren’t alone in the room with him?’
‘I was with another DI called Fox.’
‘The one whose identity Rebus stole?’
‘Yes.’
‘So this Fox guy will have your back?’
A wry smile just about broke across Clarke’s face as she signalled to take the exit into the grounds of the Royal Infirmary.
Having been told to wait in the A&E reception, Clarke fetched them a hot chocolate apiece.
‘About as nutritious as the machine gets,’ she apologised.
Creasey took an exploratory sip and winced. ‘Christ, that’s sweet.’
Clarke settled next to him on the row of hard plastic chairs. ‘So how are you finding our capital city so far?’
He managed a weak smile, but didn’t speak. A couple of minutes later, he was on his feet, pacing the waiting area. None of the patients paid him any heed, too busy with their own troubles. He didn’t look sick, which probably made him a concerned friend or relative. Clarke had been to this place many times before, could even put names to some of the green-uniformed paramedics. It wasn’t a particularly busy evening; on the surface, all was calm. But she knew that behind the scenes there could be trolleys filled with people waiting for beds to be freed up elsewhere in the hospital, forgotten about for the moment as some new and greater trauma took precedence. Creasey had his phone out, reading from the screen as he walked to and fro. Eventually he ran out of things to check, seating himself again and picking up the beaker of hot chocolate, studying the skin forming on its surface.
‘You’ll be late home,’ Clarke offered. ‘One thing about this job — it plays havoc with everything else. You live in Inverness?’
‘Culloden.’
‘Married?’
‘Not yet. You?’ He watched her shake her head. ‘My boyfriend says maybe next year.’
‘What does he do?’ Clarke asked.
‘He’s a GP.’
‘Two sets of unsociable hours to juggle.’ She was rewarded with another fleeting smile. ‘I’ve been dating another cop lately; not sure that’s going to work out.’
‘Things mostly do, though, don’t they?’
‘I suppose...’ She broke off as Issy Meiklejohn came striding towards them from the guts of A&E. Clarke and Creasey both got to their feet.
‘I’m Detective Sergeant Creasey,’ Creasey said by way of introduction. But Issy Meiklejohn’s ire was directed at Clarke.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing here?’
‘Not my idea,’ Clarke offered. ‘How is your father?’
‘Undergoing tests as we speak.’
‘I was hoping for a word,’ Creasey stated. At last he had Meiklejohn’s attention.
‘Why?’
‘I’m part of the team investigating the death of Keith Grant.’
‘What on earth has that got to do with my father?’
‘We’re talking to everyone who knew the deceased.’
‘In which case you’re wasting your time.’
‘Mr Grant was keen for your father to sell the land housing Camp 1033. I believe things became quite heated.’
‘My father made it perfectly clear that there would be no sale. The sum proposed was a pittance in any case. End of story.’
‘All the same...’
Meiklejohn took a step closer, her forehead inches from Creasey’s. ‘End. Of. Story.’ Then, turning towards Clarke, ‘Our solicitor is preparing a complaint with reference to your conduct.’
‘Noted. And I really do hope your father’s okay.’
Meiklejohn’s face softened just a little, the tension leaving her jaw. ‘Thank you. There’s no immediate cause for alarm.’ Her eyes lingered on Clarke for a further moment before she turned and walked away. She’d got as far as the reception desk when she paused, seemingly lost in thought. Then she turned once more and retraced her steps.
‘A word in private, she said to Clarke, ‘if you please.’ She quickly ruled out both the waiting area and the outside world and headed to the women’s toilet instead. Clarke gave Creasey a shrug before following.
Behind the door stood two narrow cubicles and a single hand basin. Meiklejohn seemed satisfied that neither cubicle was being used. She rested her considerable frame against the door, barring entry to anyone else.
‘Can I trust you?’ she demanded.
‘That depends.’
‘Neither of these cases concerns my father. So if I were to reveal something to you, there’d be no need for you to share it with anyone else.’
‘The reason he’s been lying low?’
‘He’s frantic, you know. He feels that any association with a criminal case will not only tarnish his good name, but might also jeopardise his future business dealings. He wasn’t in hiding, not from your enquiries and not from anyone he feared.’
‘I’m listening...’
Meiklejohn looked to the heavens — or at least the stained ceiling — for guidance. ‘This goes no further?’
‘Unless I judge it to be pertinent.’
‘All I want is for you to stop harassing my father.’
‘With respect, I don’t think that’s—’
‘He’s having an affair, all right?’ Meiklejohn blurted out. ‘A woman in London. She’s married. Her husband doesn’t know anything about it. All very clandestine.’
‘Yet he confided in you?’
‘He always has.’ She made it sound like a burden. ‘Anyway, past few days the woman’s husband was overseas. It was their first chance to spend some serious time together, so that’s what they did. Rented apartment, food delivered, drinks cabinet well stocked. It was only towards the end that he bothered checking the news and saw himself featured. Came to me straight away.’
‘Because you’re good at fixing things.’ It was statement rather than question. ‘The woman involved will back this up?’
‘I’m not giving you her name.’ Meiklejohn folded her arms.
‘Tough to let this go without corroboration, Issy.’
‘What if I ask her to contact you? Give me your number.’
Clarke recited it while Meiklejohn tapped it into her phone.
‘I’m trusting you, Inspector. Please don’t let me down.’ She turned to pull open the door.
‘While I’ve got you here...’ Clarke said.
‘Yes?’
‘Keith Grant.’
‘What about him?’
‘The day he gatecrashed your father’s party...’
‘Hugely embarrassing.’
‘It was a pitch to potential investors?’ Meiklejohn nodded. ‘Was that the only time you met him?’
‘I didn’t meet him per se. He just came stomping across the lawn towards us shouting about that bloody camp.’
‘Until ejected by Colin Belkin?’
Meiklejohn peered at her. ‘You’re awfully well informed.’
‘I like to be.’