He had an early start in the morning, after all.
Day Seven
38
As Fox walked towards the Avis desk, he saw a figure he recognised holding something out towards him.
Siobhan Clarke. A cardboard beaker of coffee.
‘Good morning,’ she said.
‘You’re here early,’ Fox replied.
‘You too.’ She made show of checking her watch. ‘Had the feeling you would be.’
Fox looked towards the rental desk. A businessman was being served, his wheelie case parked next to him. ‘Have you...?’
‘That wouldn’t be very comradely, would it? Buying a coffee and waiting — that’s what colleagues do.’
‘All right, you’ve had your fun.’ He took a sip from the cup, then prised off the lid. It was a cappuccino, as far as he could tell. Clarke opened her shoulder bag and lifted out a dozen sheets of paper, held together with a paper clip.
‘This is what Robbie sent me. Close-up of the cleaned-up number plate; DVLA details; a few shots of the car as it travelled through the city that night.’
‘He must really like you,’ Fox commented as he sifted the sheets. The businessman was wheeling his suitcase towards the exit.
‘Shall we?’ Clarke asked, heading to the desk, Fox at her heels.
A supervisor had to be called, the clerk handing the phone to Clarke so she could explain. Then the supervisor spoke to the clerk and the clerk got busy on her keyboard. Fox had asked to speak to someone from the security staff, and a man had arrived, Fox telling him that he needed CCTV from the date the car was rented.
‘Main concourse, Avis desk and parking bays will do for starters.’
‘That’s a big ask.’
‘Big asks are all a murder inquiry ever has. Your cooperation at this time would be appreciated.’
The man puffed out his cheeks but headed off anyway to make a start, taking with him one of Fox’s business cards.
‘System’s a bit slow today,’ the clerk was telling Clarke.
‘That’s fine,’ Clarke responded. Not that it was. She was holding onto her coffee cup like she might at any moment wring the life from it.
‘Sure you should be having caffeine?’ Fox asked.
She stopped drumming the fingers of her free hand against the counter. A couple of customers had arrived and were queuing behind the two detectives.
‘Maybe I could serve them first?’ the clerk requested.
‘They can wait,’ came the terse response from Clarke.
‘Okay, here we go,’ the young woman said half a minute later. A printer whirred somewhere below the counter. She slid from her stool and crouched to retrieve the sheets of paper. ‘The physical paperwork will be in one of the filing cabinets, along with the credit card receipt. But meantime...’ She handed over the printout. Clarke sought the renter’s details. Fox beat her to it, jabbing the name with his finger.
‘Giovanni Morelli,’ he stated, repeating it silently as if trying to make sense of what he was seeing, while Clarke continued to scour the form.
VW Passat with 1,200 miles on the clock, rented the morning Gio’s good friend Salman was murdered, returned first thing the following day, fewer than thirty miles having been added to the car’s total mileage.
‘Ten into town,’ Clarke said, ‘and the same back.’
‘Around five from the New Town to the murder scene,’ Fox added, nodding his comprehension. He turned his attention to the clerk. ‘Where is this car right now?’
The clerk tapped away at her keyboard. ‘It’s onsite.’
‘Has anyone else rented it since Mr Morelli?’
She looked past Fox’s shoulder to where the queue was growing and becoming impatient.
‘Don’t worry about them,’ Clarke said. Then, turning towards the queue, ‘A police matter. Thank you for your patience.’
The clerk got busy again on her keyboard. ‘It’s due to be issued to a new customer today.’
‘Not going to happen,’ Clarke said. She fixed Fox with a look. ‘We need Forensics out here.’
‘It’ll have been valeted?’ he checked with the clerk. She nodded her agreement.
‘Blood’s not going to shift for a bit of vacuuming and polishing,’ Clarke told him. She already had her phone in her hand, entering the number she needed. Fox turned back towards the clerk.
‘Keys, please. And a note of whatever bay it’s in.’ He was finding it hard to concentrate and knew it would be the same for Siobhan. There were procedures to be followed, but all he could think about was Giovanni Morelli.
‘Haj?’ Clarke was saying into her phone. ‘I need a crew at the airport. Avis parking lot. Car there may have been used in the bin Mahmoud homicide. DI Fox and me are here already.’ She listened to whatever was being said to her and watched as the clerk handed Fox a slip of paper and a key fob. ‘Yes,’ she assured the scene-of-crime boss, ‘we can secure the immediate area. But be as fast as you can, eh?’
‘We’ll let you get back to work,’ Fox was informing the clerk. ‘But we will need all the documentation you mentioned, so when you’ve got a free second...’ He saw that Clarke was already making towards the exit, having abandoned her coffee on the counter. He placed his own cup next to hers and started moving.
‘Why?’ she asked, as they crossed the road. They weren’t quite running, but they weren’t quite walking either. Fox had buttoned his jacket in an attempt to stop his tie flapping up around his ears. ‘I don’t get it, Malcolm. I really don’t.’
‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,’ Fox cautioned. ‘This might only prove that he was there that night.’
‘You saw the photos — no sign of a passenger in the Passat. So unless Salman gave his killer a lift to the murder scene in his Aston...’
‘Could be a third car we’ve just not seen yet.’
‘Or Issy on her bike, eh?’ Clarke shook her head. ‘It fits; it’s just that it doesn’t make sense.’
‘Morelli’s the one we need to be asking.’
She looked at him. ‘Reckon he’s a flight risk? Parents with money and powerful friends...’
‘Let’s see if the car can offer us some clues.’
They were nearing the Avis lot now. ‘Which bay?’ Clarke asked.
‘Forty-two, like The Hitchhiker’s Guide.’ He saw the look on Clarke’s face. ‘Just attempting a bit of levity.’
They walked the rest of the way in silence. There was a kiosk, and the man stationed there had obviously been alerted by the clerk in the terminal. He led them to bay 42 and left them to it.
‘Tempting to take a look,’ Fox said, holding up the key.
‘Better not,’ Clarke warned him. She was circling the car, pressing her face close to its various windows. It had definitely been through a wash, and the inside looked pristine. When her phone pinged, she checked the screen.
‘Forensics?’ Fox guessed.
‘The DCI,’ she corrected him. ‘Wants to know where we are.’ She made the call, lifting the phone to her ear. Fox was wishing he’d not dumped that coffee. The temperature hadn’t got into double figures yet and there was no shelter to be had. Not that Siobhan Clarke seemed bothered. Her cheeks were suffused with colour, her eyes gleaming. When she met Fox’s gaze, there could be no mistaking her confidence, which, if not misplaced, meant he’d soon be on his way back to his desk at Gartcosh.
He knew he shouldn’t feel entirely sad about that, but he did.
39
Joseph Collins took his time opening the door of his cottage, his walking frame proving an impediment. Rebus greeted him from the path, where he was admiring the garden.