‘You doubt it’s a coincidence that he’s suddenly not around?’
‘What do you think?’
‘I think a number of Mr Brough’s recent schemes have yielded big losses. A lot of his clients are out of pocket.’
‘And baying for his blood?’
‘I’m not sure about that. But these are people who can’t always go chat to a bank manager about a loan to tide them over. Cash is their currency. They might need a lender who isn’t going to ask too many questions...’
‘Someone like Darryl Christie, you mean?’
She nodded slowly. ‘But let’s not make this about business, Malcolm. I appreciate you taking the trouble to keep me company.’
A slow smile spread across Fox’s face. ‘Oh I think this is all business, Sheila. There was a titbit you wanted to throw me and you’ve just accomplished that.’
‘Am I so transparent? Well, maybe you’re right. But that’s done now, so we really can just have a drink and a chat.’ She nodded towards his glass. ‘Have you never been a drinker?’
‘I was a drinker right up until the day I stopped.’
‘What happened?’
‘You know Jekyll and Hyde? That was me with alcohol.’
Graham tipped her head back, stretching her neck muscles. ‘It just makes me nicely mellow,’ she said. ‘And some days I need that feeling.’ She lifted her glass and clinked it against his. ‘What about this other case you’re working?’
‘Oddly, it’s beginning to connect to yours.’
‘Oh?’
‘The ex-cop who was killed, he ran a review of the Maria Turquand murder.’
‘I don’t think I know her.’
‘She was found dead in her hotel room in 1978.’
‘Here in the city?’
‘Right here.’
‘And they told me Edinburgh was safe for women. So where’s the connection?’
‘Maria’s husband was Sir Magnus Brough’s right-hand man. Fast forward to the present, and grandson Anthony has an office that pretty much looks on to the hotel where Maria was murdered.’
Graham puzzled over this as she sipped her drink.
‘I’m not saying there’s any real connection, of course,’ Fox felt it necessary to qualify. ‘It’s interesting, that’s all. But when Anthony’s parents died, he and his sister were basically raised by Sir Magnus.’
‘There may be something else,’ Graham said quietly, resting her elbows on the table. ‘One of Anthony’s early clients was John Turquand. It was in the papers at the time. Brough used it as a sort of calling card to other would-be investors. Turquand’s long retired, but his was a respected name in financial circles.’ She broke off. ‘We seem to be talking shop again, don’t we?’
‘Well, you did ask.’
‘I suppose I did.’ She glanced at her phone. ‘Just checking the time.’
‘How long before the next train?’
‘Seventeen minutes.’
‘Another white wine, then?’
‘Why not?’
He went to the bar, wondering about Anthony Brough and John Turquand, and about Darryl Christie and Maria Turquand’s murder. Placing the fresh drink in front of Graham, he asked what she thought of Brough’s disappearance.
‘Nobody’s reported him missing,’ she confided. ‘Not much to be done until they do.’
‘Is he married?’
‘Still very much the playboy about town. He could be lying low in a hotel suite anywhere between here and Sydney.’
‘The question is why.’
‘Agreed.’
‘Do you think Darryl Christie would shed any light?’
‘I think he’d deny even knowing Brough’s name.’
‘There’s no record of them working together or meeting up?’
‘It’s all an electronic and paper trail, Malcolm. And you’d have the devil’s job finding Christie’s name anywhere. Companies he’s associated with, yes, but the man himself is bloody elusive.’
‘Is there anything you can pull him in for?’
‘You mean so we can fish without seeming to?’ She considered this. ‘Far as we know, his tax affairs are in order. There was a full audit two years back, and he ended up paying a few hundred quid.’ She shrugged.
‘But if he’s lending money illegally...’
‘It’s not necessarily illegal to lend money. Besides which, we’ve no proof other than hearsay and guesswork. Our best bet is still this physical attack on him. It has to mean something and it must have shaken him up, made him wonder who his friends are and who might have it in for him.’
‘Then you should talk to your boss, demand phone taps and twenty-four/seven surveillance.’
‘The sort of thing that was meat and drink to you when you worked Professional Standards?’
‘Damned right.’
‘I suppose I could ask, though I’m in danger of sounding like a broken record.’ She placed a hand on her stomach to stifle a sudden gurgling. ‘Should have grabbed something to eat,’ she apologised.
‘It’s not too late,’ Fox said. ‘There are places on Cockburn Street.’ He paused. ‘Always supposing there’s a later train you can catch.’
She met his eyes. ‘There’s a later train,’ she said. ‘But on one condition.’
He held up a hand. ‘I’ve got to insist on paying — my town, my rules.’
‘How very gallant of you. But my condition is no shop talk. For real this time.’
‘Pretend we’re normal people, you mean?’
‘Normal people eating a normal dinner on a normal night out.’
‘It’s not going to be easy,’ Fox warned her. ‘But let’s give it a go...’
Day Six
13
The call had come at 6.30 a.m., hauling Siobhan Clarke from her bed. She pulled on some clothes, dragged a wet brush through her hair and headed for her Astra. The patrol car was parked outside Craw Shand’s house, two uniforms waiting for her. It was just starting to get light and the street lamps were still on, bathing both men in a faint orange glow.
‘Round the back,’ one of them said.
She followed them around the side of the house into the handkerchief-sized garden. The door to the kitchen stood open, splinters of wood showing where it had been forced.
‘You’ve been in?’ Clarke asked.
‘Only to ascertain there’s no one home.’
‘Have you called it in as a crime scene?’
‘Can’t really say that it is, unless you know different.’
‘If it’s not a crime scene, what is it?’
‘Maybe he locked himself out,’ the officer said with a shrug.
Clarke stepped inside, keeping her hands in her pockets so there’d be no temptation to touch anything.
‘One thing the CSM hates,’ she advised, ‘is contamination.’ She turned towards the two constables. ‘Stay here while I take a look.’
She hadn’t been in the house before, but it didn’t look as though it had been trashed, and there was still a TV in the living room. Bottles of booze untouched, too. Upstairs: Shand’s bedroom, plus a spare that was being used for storage. No sign of any violence; no ransacking. So what the hell had happened?
She padded back down the stairs to the kitchen.
‘What do you think?’ she was asked.
‘I think a man charged with assault has just gone missing.’
‘Somebody took him?’
‘Or he left before they got here.’
‘Could be they came looking,’ the second officer proposed, ‘but there was no one home. Shand returns later, sees the state of his door, and makes himself scarce.’
‘Possible,’ Clarke said, looking at the dishes piled up in the sink.
‘So is it a crime scene or not?’