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‘Not so secret — even long-retired DIs know about him.’ She paused again. ‘You out somewhere?’

‘Just picking up some takeaway,’ Fox said, explaining the background noise Clarke could hear. ‘Does the airport mean it’s someone who’s just arrived in town? Don’t tell me it’s going to be some London connection the Met hasn’t bothered to mention...’

‘Remember what Issy Meiklejohn told us, though: Stewart Scoular rents cars sometimes.’

‘Added to which, she doesn’t own one, so if she felt the need...’

‘We’ll know more in the morning. Rendezvous in Leith or meet at Avis?’

‘Avis at nine?’

‘Suits me. So what’s on the menu tonight?’

‘Indian. Probably waiting for me as we speak. Have you told Graham Sutherland yet?’

‘He’s over in Glasgow.’

‘Keep him in the loop or hand him a delicious surprise?’

‘Let’s wait and see what we get from Avis. If it turns out to be a tourist who got lost on their way to their hotel...’

‘Way to burst a boy’s balloon, Siobhan.’

‘Enjoy your curry.’ Clarke ended the call and tossed the phone into the space left by Brillo, who had vacated the sofa and was watching her reproachfully from the middle of the living room floor.

‘Okay, I’m sorry,’ she apologised. A curry? No, but a single fish wouldn’t go amiss. She rose to her feet, saw Brillo start to wag his tail in expectation.

‘Got it in one,’ she said. ‘A single fish and a battered sausage. Maybe even a jaunt to the airport tomorrow if you’re lucky.’ She stepped into the hallway, Brillo bounding towards the door to the outside world.

‘One thing about an airport rental,’ she told the dog as she grabbed her coat and his lead, ‘no shortage of CCTV out there. Meaning whoever it was, we’ve got them.’

‘Wish I hadn’t mentioned a curry,’ Fox muttered to himself, rubbing his hand across his growling stomach. Hours since he’d eaten. Needed to empty his bladder too, but it was too public on the Cowgate. He had a thing in his glove box, a ‘He-Wee’ he thought it was called. But any of the night-time carousers wandering past could glance down and catch him in the act. So instead he shifted a little in his seat and hoped Scoular wouldn’t be too much longer in the Jenever Club. No sign of Issy or Gio tonight — though they could have arrived before he did.

Fox picked his notebook up from the passenger seat. Scoular had taken a private-hire cab from his home in Stockbridge, not stopping anywhere en route. He had been inside for ninety-five minutes, during which time the street had altered in character. The pedestrians now were younger and noisier. There were music venues nearby, club nights and concerts starting. One stag party had swaggered past, tapping out a tattoo on the roof of Fox’s car and turning to beam smiles at him. Soon after, a hen party had arrived at the Jenever, dressed in pink sashes over matching T-shirts printed with the bride-to-be’s face. Writing on the back of each: Sue’s Booze Crew. The doormen decided they could go in, and were rewarded with a peck on the cheek or a squeeze of the backside. A little later, a couple from the party were back out again to smoke cigarettes and chat to the doormen, who had perked up as a result.

He had the radio on — Jazz FM. Not a brilliant signal, due to the Cowgate being akin to a canyon, a narrow sunken stretch with high buildings either side. Better than nothing, though. And now he had something to think about too: an airport rental. They’d agreed nine in the morning, but Fox reckoned the Avis office would open much earlier. He might get there ahead of time, present Siobhan with a fait accompli. Not that she would thank him for it; quite the opposite. Might do it anyway, though.

The hen party women were back indoors, the night-time chill proving too much for their skimpy outfits. One of the doormen had offered his overcoat, receiving yet another kiss, this time on the lips as far as Fox could tell. When the women had gone, both doormen shuffled their feet in a little dance.

Small comforts, Fox mused. You took them where you could.

And now the doors were opening again, and Stewart Scoular emerged, a woman on his arm. She wore heels and a tight black dress with a cream jacket draped over her shoulders. Fox had expected to recognise her, but it wasn’t Issy Meiklejohn. He thought about trying to get a photo with his phone, but he was too far away and couldn’t risk the flash. Besides, if he needed a name, Cafferty could probably provide it. A taxi was being summoned by one of the doormen, Scoular slipping him a banknote by way of a tip. Fox was reminded of a Glasgow cop he’d known who tipped everyone, from café staff to barkeepers. Always gave to beggars and Big Issue sellers, too.

‘It’s nice to be nice,’ he had explained. ‘And now and then, one or two might even reciprocate.’ Meaning a nugget of gossip or inside gen. ‘Just wish I could claim it back,’ he had added with a chuckle.

Fox had only worked alongside him a few months, was having trouble summoning a name. Last time he’d seen him had been the funeral of a fellow officer. There had just been time for a brief handshake and a hello.

He watched now as the back door of the black cab closed, the same doorman doing the honours. A brief wave and the taxi moved off with its cargo. Fox followed, having jotted down the exact time of Scoular’s departure from the Jenever. Result or not, if necessary they could show Cafferty that there had been no lack of effort. Always supposing the ACC’s plan didn’t work out. Never did any harm to have a backup.

He knew within a few minutes that they were headed to Scoular’s home. He remembered the man’s boast at their first meeting, about how he didn’t always live there alone. As far as Fox could see, nothing was happening on the back seat — no faces converging. He followed the cab to Stockbridge, staying well back at the drop-off. As Scoular and the woman went into the house, he started moving again, catching up with the taxi a few hundred metres further on. He flashed his lights until the driver signalled and stopped. Fox pulled up behind him, walked to the driver’s window and showed his warrant card.

‘Thought I had a flat,’ the driver said.

‘Nothing like that. Wanted to ask you about the couple you just dropped off.’

‘What about them?’

‘Any interesting chat?’

‘I wasn’t listening.’ The driver saw from Fox’s look that he wasn’t falling for it. ‘Really didn’t say much of anything,’ he conceded. ‘Busy with their phones. He made one call, overseas I think.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘He asked what time it was there. They were confirming a conference call of some kind, at a time to suit everyone.’ The driver shrugged. ‘That was about it. Can’t say he looked too happy, though.’

‘No?’

‘Seated next to a dolly bird like that, no way I’d be scowling.’

‘Did her name get a mention? Had they just met, do you think?’

‘Not a scooby.’

‘Anything else?’

The man shrugged again. Fox thanked him.

‘Will you put in a word next time I get a ticket?’

Fox managed a thin smile. ‘Drive safely,’ he said, retreating to his car.

Scoular was worried, it seemed, and unable to switch off, even on a date. Overseas: the Far East maybe, or the USA. With bin Mahmoud gone, there was a gaping financial hole that needed to be filled, meaning more hard work for Stewart Scoular. No way was he behind the killing — it was the last thing he’d needed. Didn’t mean there wasn’t a connection, though. Didn’t mean there weren’t secrets he was keeping.

Fox added the details to his little notebook. Time to go home, he reckoned, with a brief pit stop at a curry house.