‘He didn’t though,’ Clarke said quietly. Thinking: someone made sure of that...
They took Brillo for a walk across Leith Links. Clarke threw a ball for the dog to retrieve while Fox called Gartcosh to see if Robbie Stenhouse had made any progress. When Clarke turned towards him, Fox shook his head at her. She made a kicking motion with her right foot.
‘Siobhan wants me to remind you,’ Fox said into his phone, ‘about that football match — tickets and drinks on her if we get a quick result.’ He listened for a further few seconds, nodding to himself. ‘I know you will, Robbie. That’s why we all worship you as a deity.’ He ended the call and gave a sniff. ‘To be fair,’ he explained to Clarke, ‘the man is as thorough as he is scrupulous — and there’s no shortage of cameras in Edinburgh for him to check. One small nugget, though...’
Clarke tossed the ball again. ‘Any time you’re ready.’
‘Sticker in the rear window, he thinks it might say Avis.’
‘A rental car?’
‘In which case we’re looking at someone who’s either just visiting or doesn’t have a car of their own.’
‘Or they do, but they don’t want to use it,’ Clarke added. ‘Issy seemed so certain Salman had funds available. Is there something we’re not seeing?’
‘His reputation might be enough to get him a bank loan.’
‘In which case there’d have been documentation in at least one of his houses, no?’
‘Cafferty used to be a loan shark, didn’t he?’
‘Shillings and pennies, Malcolm. I think even Cafferty might baulk at handing over ten million quid.’
‘I know I would, most days.’
Clarke had taken her own phone out and was checking its news feed. There was a short piece about a weapon having been recovered in the Keith Grant murder case, a publican and her father helping police with their enquiries.
‘Hope you know what you’re doing, John,’ she muttered.
‘We could go talk to Avis,’ Fox was suggesting, ‘show them the photos, see if they can ID the car. We’ve got a rough idea when it would have been taken out and returned.’
‘Did Robbie say anything about the number plate?’
‘He thinks he can get most of it into a readable state, probably by tomorrow lunchtime.’
‘Let’s cut him some slack then.’ Clarke scuffed the ball across the grass with her foot, Brillo, tongue lolling, giving chase.
‘Have you thought about bringing Brillo into the office?’ Fox asked. ‘I doubt the team would mind.’
‘Gamble’s got an allergy to dogs apparently.’
‘He’s got an allergy to hard work, too, but you don’t hear us complaining.’
Clarke managed a smile. ‘I keep coming back to the money, Malcolm. If Salman was about to hand it over, The Flow was a huge step closer to becoming a reality. Who gained most from that not happening? Not Issy or her father, not Stewart Scoular.’
‘People up north who didn’t want it,’ Fox answered. ‘Only thing is, none of this would be in the public domain. It’s the reason why commercial espionage has become big business.’
‘Your source told you that, did he?’
‘Want me to see if he knows something we don’t about The Flow? Who the competition might be?’
Clarke gave a slow nod, so Fox got his phone out and made the call. Brillo was seated on his haunches at Clarke’s feet, the ball ready and waiting. But she was busy with her own phone again, rereading the news story about the recovered weapon. There was a photo of Camp 1033 and she clicked on it, enlarging it with her fingers. Keith Grant was described as a campaigner who had been raising funds to buy the camp and bring it into the community as a ‘tourism resource’.
‘Can’t be a connection,’ Clarke muttered to herself, giving the ball another almighty kick.
But stranger things had definitely happened.
36
Rebus had taken a shift behind the bar so Cameron could have a break. Usual handful of regulars, armed with anecdotes about the revolver, May and her father. He had tried putting Cameron’s mind at rest, but the memory of his fingerprints being taken lingered and the young man wasn’t entirely reassured. When a barrel needed changing, Rebus went into the kitchen and saw Cameron pacing the yard outside, puffing on a joint and checking his phone. He left him to it and told the customer he’d have to pick something else.
‘But I always have lager.’
‘They say variety’s the spice of life,’ Rebus coaxed him.
‘Give me a can of lager then,’ the man decided.
‘I knew there was a touch of the rebel in you,’ Rebus said, reaching into the chiller.
Cameron was in the cellar changing the barrel when May Collins arrived back. Eyes followed her all the way from the door to the rear of the bar. She disappeared into the corridor, hanging up her jacket before returning.
‘Christ,’ she said, taking in the looks of her clientele, ‘if this was a Western, the piano player would have stopped.’
This raised a few smiles, after which people went back to their conversations and newspapers.
‘And what the hell is that?’ she asked Rebus, gesturing towards the loudspeaker attached to one corner of the ceiling.
‘Leonard Cohen,’ he answered.
She rolled her eyes before turning to the optics and pouring a whisky. Rebus could sense her staring at the space where the revolver had sat. Eventually she turned again, slopping water into her glass before taking a swallow.
‘It went well then,’ Rebus said.
‘They grilled my dad for over an hour, John. At his age! And then they started on me. How long’s the gun been missing, who do I think could have taken it?’
‘It is the same gun, then?’
‘Our prints — Dad’s and mine — are on it.’ She watched Cameron emerge from the cellar. ‘Yours too. Creasey’s on his way here to have a chat with you.’
‘Joe’s okay, though?’ Rebus asked.
‘He’s shattered. Slept all the way to the house.’
‘You don’t want to stay with him?’
‘He refused the offer.’ Her shoulders slumped a little. ‘How has it been here?’
‘Fairly quiet. I took a trip to the cemetery, bumped into Helen and Stefan.’
‘Any chance we can maybe live in the here and now just for a bit?’
‘You should go rest. Hate to say it, but the bar’s coping without you.’
She shook her head. ‘Don’t want anyone whispering that I’m hiding. Bad enough I seem to be a murder suspect all of a sudden.’
‘I still think Keith lifted the revolver. Killer took it from his satchel.’
‘Might have had the decency to wipe my prints off when they’d finished.’ She flinched. ‘Sorry, that wasn’t exactly tactful.’
‘Take a break, half an hour or an hour.’ Rebus looked to Cameron, who backed him up with a firm nod.
‘Maybe I will then...’ She broke off as the door opened. Two detectives walked in, one of them Creasey, another a younger woman Rebus hadn’t seen before.
‘Need a wee chat,’ Creasey informed Cameron. ‘Somewhere quiet if possible.’
‘Kitchen?’ Cameron suggested, eyes on his employer. She nodded.
‘DC Larkin will take care of you,’ Creasey said. Larkin went behind the bar, following Cameron into the corridor. Creasey’s attention had already turned to Rebus. ‘And I need to borrow this one, too.’
‘Looks like that’s my break over,’ May Collins said. Then, to the bar generally: ‘Everyone happy being served by a murder suspect? It’s either that or time to finish up and vamoose...’
By the time Rebus caught up with Creasey, he was in the front seat of his Mondeo. Rebus climbed into the passenger side and closed the door. ‘I told her she’s not really a suspect,’ he said.