“I’m beginning to wonder,” Siobhan admitted.
Back at her desk, Davie Hynds had pulled his chair up alongside and was drumming a pen against his teeth.
“At a loose end?” Siobhan asked.
“I feel like the spare prick at an orgy.” He paused. “Sorry . . . that wasn’t a good way of putting it.”
Siobhan thought for a moment. “Wait here,” she said. She turned back towards Linford’s desk, but another man had entered the room and was shaking Linford’s hand. Linford nodded, as though the two knew each other, but not well. Frowning, Siobhan walked over.
“Hello,” she said. The man had picked up a sheet from Donny Dow’s file and was reading it. “I’m a DS here. Name’s Siobhan Clarke.”
“Francis Gray,” the man said. “Detective inspector.” He shook her hand, almost swamping it in his own. He was tall and broad, with a thick neck and salt-and-pepper hair, cut short.
“You two know one another?” she asked.
“We met once . . . a while back, at Fettes, right?” Gray said.
“Right,” Linford confirmed. “We’ve helped each other out by phone a couple of times.”
“I was just wondering how the inquiry was going,” Gray added.
“It’s fine,” Siobhan said. “You’re part of the Tulliallan crew?”
“For my sins.” Gray put down the sheet of paper, picked up another. “Looks like Derek here may be winding things up for you.”
“Oh, he’s a great windup merchant,” Siobhan said, crossing her arms. Gray laughed, and Linford himself joined in.
“Siobhan’s a bit of a doubting Thomas,” he stated.
Gray’s eyes widened. “Means, motive, opportunity. Looks to me like you’ve got two out of three. Least you can do now is interview the suspect.”
“Thank you, DI Gray, maybe we’ll take your advice.” The words came from behind Gray: Gill Templer had entered the room. Gray dropped the sheet. It wafted back to the desk. “Might I ask what you’re doing here?”
“Nothing, ma’am. Just out for a stroll. We have to take ten minutes every hour to stave off oxygen starvation.”
“I think you’ll find the station has plenty of corridors. There’s even a world outside, if you’d care to explore it. This, on the other hand, is the center of a murder inquiry. Last thing we need are unnecessary interruptions.” She paused. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Absolutely, ma’am.” He glanced from Siobhan to Derek. “My apologies for keeping you from your noble efforts.” And with a wink he was off. Templer watched him leave. Then, saying nothing, but with a twinkle in her eye, she headed back to her own office.
Siobhan felt like cheering. She’d been about to have a go at Gray herself, but doubted she could have scored so palpable a hit. DCS Gill Templer had just risen like a rocket in Siobhan’s estimation.
“She can be a cold bitch, can’t she?” Linford muttered. Siobhan didn’t respond: she wanted a favor from Linford and upsetting him wasn’t going to help.
“Derek,” she said, “since you’re hell for leather on Donny Dow, mind if Hynds takes a look at Marber’s cash flow? I know you’ve covered the ground already, but it’ll give the poor sod something to do.”
She stood there, hands behind her back, hoping she didn’t look and sound too drippy.
Linford gazed in Hynds’s forlorn direction. “Go ahead,” he said, reaching down to pull the relevant folder from the box on the floor beside him.
“Thanks,” Siobhan cooed, skipping back to her desk.
“Here you go,” she said to Hynds, her voice back to normal.
“What’s this?” Hynds asked, staring at the folder but not touching it.
“Marber’s finances. Laura Stafford seemed to think he had some big money coming to him. I want to know the why, when and how much.”
“And his records will tell me?”
Siobhan shook her head. “But his accountant might. The name and phone number are in there.” She tapped the file. “And don’t say I’m not generous.”
“Who was that big bastard you were speaking to?” Hynds nodded in the direction of Linford’s desk.
“Detective Inspector Francis Gray. He’s part of the Tulliallan posse.”
“He’s a big bloke.”
“The bigger they are, the harder they fall, Davie.”
“If that bugger ever looks like falling, here’s hoping we’re not in the vicinity.” He stared at the folder. “Anything else I should be asking the accountant?”
“You could ask him if there’s anything he’s been hiding from us, or his client might have been hiding from him.”
“Rare paintings? Bundles of cash?”
“Those’ll do for a start.” She paused. “Think you can manage this one on your own, Davie?”
Hynds nodded. “No problem, DS Clarke. And what will you be up to while I’m toiling at the workface?”
“I have to go see a friend.” She smiled. “But don’t worry: it’s strictly business.”
Lothian and Borders Police HQ on Fettes Avenue was known to most of the local force as “the Big House.” Either that or “Rear Window,” which didn’t refer to the Hitchcock film but to an embarrassing episode when vital documents had been stolen from the building by someone who’d climbed in through an open window on the ground floor.
Fettes Avenue was a wide thoroughfare which ended at the gates to Fettes College — Tony Blair’s old school. Fettes was where the toffs sent their kids, paying dearly for the privilege. Siobhan had yet to meet any police officers who’d been schooled there, though she knew a few from Edinburgh’s other fee-paying schools. Eric Bain, for example, had spent two years at Stewart’s Melville — years he described simply as “rough.”
“Why rough?” she asked now as they walked down the first-floor corridor.
“I was overweight, wore specs and liked jazz.”
“Enough said.”
Siobhan made to turn into a doorway, but Bain stopped her. She’d just been priding herself on her remembrance of the building’s geography, having served in the Scottish Crime Squad for a time.
“They’ve moved,” Bain told her.
“Since when?”
“Since the SCS became the SDEA.”
He led her two doors farther along and into a large office. “This is what the Drug Enforcement Agency get. Me, I’m in a closet next floor up.”
“So why are we here?”
Bain seated himself behind a desk. Siobhan found a chair and dragged it across.
“Because,” he answered, “for so long as the SDEA need me, I get a window and a view.” He swiveled on his chair, peering out at the scenery. There was a laptop computer on the desk, a pile of paperwork beside it. On the floor were stacked little black and silver boxes — peripherals of some description. Most of them looked homemade, and Siobhan would bet that Bain had constructed them himself, maybe even designed them, too. In a parallel universe somewhere, a billionaire Eric Bain was sitting by the pool of his Californian mansion . . . and the Edinburgh police were struggling with cybercrimes of all descriptions.
“So what can I do for you?” he asked.
“I’m wondering about Cafferty. I need some confirmation that he owns the Sauna Paradiso.”
Bain blinked a couple of times. “Is that it? An e-mail or phone call would have sufficed.” He paused. “Not that I’m not pleased to see you.”
She considered her response. “Linford’s back. Maybe I just wanted an excuse to get away.”
“Linford? Major Peeping Tom himself?” She’d told Bain all about Linford. It had come spilling out almost the first night he’d visited her. She’d told him why she was wary of visitors; why she closed her shutters most evenings . . .
“He’s filling in for Rebus.”
“A tough job for anyone.” He watched her nodding. “So how’s he acting?”
“As slimy as I remember . . . I don’t know, he seems to be trying . . . and then he lets the mask slip.”
“Ugh.”
She shifted in her seat. “Look, I really didn’t come here to talk about Derek Linford.”
“No, but I’m sure it helps.”
She smiled, acknowledging the truth of this. “Cafferty?” she said.