‘He was with me for the best part of five days. I doubt we were out of one another’s sight for more than half an hour in all that time.’
‘This was in London?’
‘Yes.’
Clarke did the calculation. Five days, which finished yesterday morning. Strathy’s little romp had started only a day or so after Keith Grant died and three days after Salman bin Mahmoud’s murder.
‘During your time with him, did you watch the news, read a paper?’
‘Not so you’d notice.’
‘One of Lord Strathy’s business partners had been found murdered. The man was a friend of his daughter’s. He didn’t mention it at any stage?’
‘He did not.’
‘Maybe he excused himself to make or take a phone call?’
‘We promised ourselves — phones off.’
‘Awkward if your husband needed to contact you.’
‘Look, I’ve told you what I can. Ramsay was with me. We were having a good time.’
‘He was relaxed, didn’t seem at all worried?’
‘Same old Ramsay.’
‘The crime I’m investigating took place in Scotland, and our legal system demands corroboration.’
‘Pity we weren’t engaged in a ménage à trois, then, isn’t it?’ There was a throaty chuckle as the line went dead.
Clarke stared at the screen of her phone. ‘Gotcha,’ she said quietly.
Back in MIT, she crossed to Christine Esson’s desk and jotted the telephone number onto a much-doodled pad.
‘Analyst would have a field day with those,’ she said, admiring the swirls, swooshes, lightning bolts and zigzags that kept Esson busy during every phone call she made.
‘What am I doing with this?’ Esson asked, tapping her pen against the line of digits.
‘Finding me a name, address and anything else that can be gleaned. I’d do it myself if I possessed half your skill set.’
‘And that concludes Siobhan’s motivational TED talk. Thank you all for coming...’
Clarke was smiling as she headed for her own desk. Fox had just taken his seat and was stifling a yawn.
‘Still not sleeping?’ Clarke guessed, noting how bloodshot his eyes were.
‘Sleep’s overrated.’
‘Strathy’s lover just called me. Christine’s going to put a name and face to her.’
‘She used her own phone?’
‘With any luck. What did admin want?’
‘I’m using too much paper.’ She stared at him. ‘Seriously. All the background stuff I’ve been printing out and photocopying.’
‘I thought we had a proper budget — how much stuff have you been churning out?’
‘A fair bit.’
She looked at the piles on his side of the desk. More was stacked on the floor.
‘Two copies of everything,’ he confessed.
‘One for home, one for here?’ Clarke guessed. ‘So you can keep at it even when you’re not in the office?’ But then she made a clucking sound. ‘No, Siobhan, that’s not quite it — it’s so you can pass one set along to either the ACC or Cafferty, and my antennae tell me the latter is the more likely.’
‘Keeping him onside,’ Fox intoned quietly.
‘Just stuff relating to Stewart Scoular, though? Not the bin Mahmoud case per se? Tell me he’s not watching us do our job...’
‘I’m being careful.’
‘How careful?’
‘As much as I can be. There’s obviously a bit of crossover here and there.’
‘That’s great news, Malcolm. Means if we ever lift Cafferty for anything, he can brag that he’s got you tucked into his breast pocket like a little silk handkerchief. I thought we’d covered this when we were walking back here from his big shiny gangster car?’ She saw the look Fox was giving her. ‘What is it you’re hiding?’
He started shaking his head.
‘Please tell me you’ve not gone all lone wolf and reckon you can deal with him without anyone’s help?’
Having stopped shaking his head, Fox made a zipping motion with his fingers across his mouth.
‘Can we have a grown-up conversation here?’ Clarke insisted.
‘Not quite yet.’
She was about to remonstrate further, but Christine Esson was approaching.
‘Fast work,’ Clarke commented.
‘This isn’t that,’ Esson said. ‘But it’s kind of interesting nonetheless. Just got a message about the Chinese student who was mugged on Argyle Place. Seems her phone’s been returned to her, along with an apology.’
‘An apology?’
‘In English and Mandarin Chinese, apparently. The student’s friend, the one who helped translate for her, she got in touch just now. Says the Chinese is really ropy, wonders if the apology was fed into some online translation site.’
‘What does it say exactly?’
‘She sent a photo of the note.’ Esson handed her phone over to Clarke. Fox slid his chair closer so he could see it too.
Really sorry for what I did to you. Promise never to do it again. And then presumably the same message in Chinese characters. Written with the same black ballpoint pen and in the same hand by the look of it. The Chinese rendition looked clumsy, mistakes scored out and corrected. The English version was in capitals, and even that looked a bit wonky. Clarke angled the phone’s screen towards Esson.
‘Would you say this person’s hand was shaking?’
‘Parkinson’s?’ Esson suggested.
‘But in the real world?’
‘Written under duress or in an emotional state,’ Fox answered.
Esson took her phone back. ‘Phone and note were in a Tesco bag stuffed through the victim’s letter box.’
‘How did the mugger know where she lives?’
Esson shrugged. ‘I’m guessing maybe her phone? Probably got a tracker or something — maybe a food delivery app. People are increasingly sloppy with their personal information.’
‘A mugger who grew a conscience,’ Clarke pretended to marvel.
‘I assume you don’t think that’s the case here?’
‘I suppose what matters is that we can remove her from the wall. Hugely doubtful she ties to the attacks on Salman and Gio.’
‘Do you want to tell the boss or shall I?’ Esson asked.
‘It’s all yours, Christine. We’ve done sod all to earn the privilege.’
35
Clarke and Fox had just returned from a late lunch — soup and a roll at a café on Constitution Street — and were settling themselves at their shared desk. Clarke could see from the corner of her eye that Christine Esson had news. Sure enough, as soon as they were seated, she was on her feet and striding towards them.
‘Here comes DCI Sutherland’s favourite student,’ Clarke teased.
‘She’s about to become yours too,’ Esson retorted, handing over a sheet of paper. ‘Name’s Violetta Pakenham. Lives in Kensington. Owns a boutique there. Married, two grown kids.’
‘I know that name,’ Fox said, getting to work on his computer. A moment later he had what he was looking for. ‘Probably George Pakenham’s wife. He’s one of Stewart Scoular’s investors.’
‘I can see why Lord Strathy would want the affair kept hush-hush,’ Clarke commented. ‘Piss off Pakenham and you’d mightily piss off Scoular.’
‘And everyone else in the consortium,’ Fox added. ‘These things are built on sand, and that sand is made up of public confidence. To have one of your big names cheating with the wife of another...’
‘Gives us a bit of leverage, if we want it,’ Esson argued. ‘I mean, if we think there’s anything about the case that Strathy’s been hiding from us...’
‘He tells or we leak?’ Clarke nodded her understanding and met Fox’s eyes. ‘Do we think he’s hiding anything?’