A Song for the Dark Times Page 6

  ‘If you insist,’ she said, scooping the dog up into her arms.

  Brillo was well behaved in the car, tail wagging, paws pressed to the passenger-side window as he watched the passing parade of shops, bars, restaurants and pedestrians. Clarke’s destination wasn’t far. She left the window down an inch when she climbed out, telling him to ‘Stay, good boy.’ Brillo seemed contented enough with this arrangement.

  They were just off the Cowgate, towards its eastern end. Late-night weekends, the street could get messy with drunken fights and related idiocy, but it was neither the weekend nor late. Nevertheless, most venues boasted one or two heavy-set doormen, ready to deter or deal with trouble. Clarke had googled the Jenever Club and had been proved right. Until a few months back it had been a nightspot called the Devil’s Dram. Back then, it had specialised in expensive whiskies and overpriced food, along with nightly DJ sets and dancing. It seemed whisky had given way to gin, without the exterior having been given much of a makeover.

  Clarke couldn’t help glancing to her left as she crossed the street, towards where the mortuary sat in faint anonymity. Those who worked there referred to it as the city’s ‘dead centre’, yet around it life continued in its thrumming heat and intensity–at least judging from the blast from the club’s interior as a suited doorman opened the door for her. But before she could enter, a hand rested on her shoulder.

  ‘Fancy meeting like this.’ She spun towards the beaming face of Malcolm Fox. ‘I was about ready to give up on you.’

  Rather than entering, the pair of them stepped to one side. ‘Okay, I’m impressed,’ Clarke said, managing to sound anything but.

  ‘I think it was when I suggested a drink and you said “not here”. That told me you had somewhere else in mind–and as the Devil’s Dram had already been mentioned…’

  ‘You’re in danger of getting good at this.’

  ‘But there’s more, isn’t there?’

  Clarke considered for a moment before answering. ‘Meiklejohn wasn’t what you’d call high, but she’d taken something–my guess would be cocaine.’

  ‘I hadn’t actually noticed that.’ Fox looked annoyed with himself.

  ‘Maybe I’ve seen more coke-heads than you.’

  ‘It’s true I’ve led a sheltered life. But putting two and two together, you’re not here to keep an eye on Gio and Issy–who’ve not turned up yet, by the way.’

  Clarke stared at him. ‘You’ve been here all this time?’

  ‘Didn’t have any other plans. I’m right, though, aren’t I? The Dram used to be owned by a certain Morris Gerald Cafferty; no reason to suspect he’s not still in charge just because drinking trends have changed.’

  ‘And the other thing we know about Cafferty is…?’

  ‘He probably still controls a good portion of the local trade in illicit substances.’

  ‘And now you know as much as I do. Odd that they haven’t turned up yet, though–they seemed keen enough earlier.’

  ‘Almost as if they just wanted rid of us. So what’s the plan, DI Clarke?’

  ‘A quick drink at the end of a long day,’ Clarke answered with a shrug.

  ‘Yeah, Cafferty’ll definitely believe that.’ Fox held out a hand. Clarke looked at it. ‘Good working with you again, Siobhan.’

  ‘Likewise,’ she answered eventually, shaking it. But when Fox loosened his grip, hers intensified. ‘And now that we’re getting chummy, time for you to tell me why Gartcosh are so interested.’

  She watched intently as Fox debated with himself. Eventually he nodded and drew her back a few more steps along the pavement.

  ‘A request from Special Branch in London,’ he explained in an undertone. ‘They’re wondering if there could have been state involvement. The Saudis, I mean. Though it’s not especially their style.’

  ‘In that he wasn’t chopped up and taken away in a suitcase?’ Clarke released the pressure on his hand. ‘What’s your feeling?’

  ‘Too early to tell.’

  ‘Some sort of message to the father?’

  Fox just shrugged. ‘You’re all caught up.’

  ‘Do the rest of the team know?’

  ‘Special Branch’s feeling is best keep it quiet.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘If I were being generous, I’d say it’s because they want us to have an open mind.’

  ‘And on those odd days when your mood’s less generous?’

  ‘They don’t want the Saudis thinking we suspect them. Might jeopardise those precious trade relations.’

  ‘The fewer people who know, the less chance of a leak.’ Clarke nodded her understanding. ‘No more keeping stuff from me, Malcolm,’ she warned.

  ‘Can I assume you’ll be telling the DCI?’

  ‘Any reason I shouldn’t?’

  ‘Your call, Siobhan.’

  ‘My call,’ she confirmed, heading for the figures flanking the doorway.

  They decided their first task would be to check the toilets, see if anyone was doing a line. The main room was noisy. There was a dance floor, its multicoloured squares illuminated from below. The DJ stood swaying gently behind a couple of laptops while people danced. The place was maybe half full, the evening young, but plenty of sweat and noise was being generated. The bar was doing brisk business with cocktails, the staff putting on a show. There was a balcony reached by a transparent staircase, and a basement that would almost certainly be quieter.

  Clarke wasn’t a stranger to the place, though she hadn’t been here since it changed its name. The cheesy occult decor of the Devil’s Dram had been replaced by mock-Victorian–heavy drapes; flickering wall lights mimicking gas lamps; dark wood panelling. She pushed open the door to the ladies’ loo and pretended to be checking her appearance in the long mirror above the row of sinks. Only one cubicle door was closed. When its occupant emerged, she stood next to Clarke while she fixed her hair with one hand, phone glued to the other.

  ‘Dead in here tonight,’ Clarke offered.

  ‘I’ve seen it livelier.’

  The door to the bar opened and another young woman clattered in on three-inch heels. She gave Clarke a quizzical look, taking in the sensible clothes–and probably their wearer’s age, too. It struck Clarke that yes, she was old enough to be the mother of either of these young women.

  ‘Gary’s being a right prick,’ the new arrival stated into her phone, eyes on its screen as she headed to a cubicle.

  ‘Gary?’ Clarke asked the woman next to her, receiving a shrugged reply. A quick tug on the short sparkly dress, another check in the mirror and then she was gone.

  The voice behind the cubicle door was echoey, Gary’s shortcomings entailing a lengthy list. Clarke took a final look around for any traces of white powder, then pulled open the door. A large, unsmiling figure stood there. When she looked past him towards the gents’, she saw that Fox, too, had been paired with a new companion.

  ‘He wants a word,’ she was told.

  ‘Of course he does,’ she replied. She looked across towards Fox and saw him give a shrug. She nodded and allowed herself to be led past the dance floor, following Fox and his minder up the staircase to where the bulky, shaven-headed form of Morris Gerald Cafferty sat alone at a corner banquette.

  ‘Thought it was you,’ Cafferty said with a grin, gesturing for them both to sit. There was just enough room, though Clarke was conscious of Fox’s thigh pressing against hers. ‘Fetch you a drink?’

  ‘We’re fine,’ Fox said.

  Another gesture from Cafferty sent the two doormen on their way. He focused on his visitors. ‘You walk into a club but you’re not after a drink. Still on duty, I presume?’

  ‘You’ve changed the place,’ Clarke said, keeping her tone conversational.

  Cafferty waved a hand across the balloon-shaped glass in front of him. ‘Gin’s the thing nowadays. Cheap and quick to distil. Add a mixer–and everybody does–and it’s hard not to turn a profit.’

  ‘Refit probably wasn’t expensiv
e either,’ Clarke commented, enjoying watching Cafferty try his best not to look irritated.

  ‘You’re working the murder of that Arab student?’ Cafferty posited.

  ‘Good guess,’ Fox said.

  ‘Had to be high-profile enough to bring you scurrying from Gartcosh. Still Major Crimes, DI Fox?’ Fox nodded. ‘Probably still a bit of a thorn in DI Clarke’s side that you got the promotion she deserved.’

  ‘Salman and his friends were regulars here?’ Clarke asked, not about to be deflected.

  ‘They came a few times,’ Cafferty allowed. ‘I’ve turned the cellars into a VIP area. If I like the look of you, you get a little black card that allows you in.’

  ‘You didn’t have a falling-out, by any chance?’

  ‘With the prince?’ Cafferty smiled at the absurdity of Clarke’s question.

  ‘I don’t think he was a prince,’ Fox commented.

  ‘He liked it when I called him that, though.’ Cafferty shifted position. ‘I looked his history up online, saw the stuff about his dad. Politics, eh? Root of all evil.’ There was a gleam in his eye as he spoke. Clarke wondered what game he was playing. ‘I hear you’ve turned house mover, DI Clarke. Remember–always bend at the knees. How’s Rebus enjoying his retirement flat?’

  ‘Do Salman and his entourage ever buy anything from you?’ she enquired.

  Cafferty’s eyes widened in mock horror. ‘Is this you accusing me of peddling drugs? Next thing I know, I’m cutting open a young Arab student over a deal gone wrong?’ He made a dismissive noise. ‘I see those CID brains are the usual blunted tools. And speaking of tools, you still keeping your bed warm for your boss, Siobhan? Office romances seldom end well. Just look at Malcolm here and…’ He clicked his fingers, brow furrowed. ‘Her name’s on the tip of my tongue.’

  ‘We didn’t come here for this,’ Clarke said, sliding out of the banquette. ‘We were told that a couple of the victim’s friends could be found here. Just had some follow-up questions for them. Okay if we check out this so-called VIP area of yours?’

  ‘Be my guest. In fact, I insist on it. You’ll find the razor blades and the rolled-up fifties on a gold-leaf table next to the bar. Maybe something even more exotic if you guess the secret password…’ Cafferty was chuckling as he watched them leave.

  Fox couldn’t help glancing back as they started their descent.

  ‘He’s getting old,’ he said to Clarke. ‘That sheen on his face doesn’t look exactly healthy.’

  ‘Or else he’s been sampling the goods.’

  ‘He wouldn’t, though, would he?’

  ‘No,’ Clarke admitted.

  ‘Who do you think’s passing him all the news about us?’

  ‘Could be anyone. Show me a cop shop that couldn’t double as a colander.’

  ‘Fair point.’

  They had reached the next set of stairs down. It was protected by a better class of doorman, who stood, hands clasped in front of him, next to a black velvet rope. He unhooked it at their approach.

  ‘Thought we had to show a card,’ Clarke said.

  ‘Not for officers of the law,’ the man said in a voice like the bottom of a quarry.

  Clarke and Fox headed down. The light was different, a little brighter, and the piped music was softer. There was a small bar staffed by a glamorous woman who looked underworked. The tables all around were empty.

  ‘Not so much as a rolled-up fiver,’ Fox said under his breath.

  An arched doorway led down an unreconstructed brick-lined passageway. Clarke picked up the faint smell of damp. She knew that the Old Town boasted dozens of these underground passages and storage cellars. There were intimate spaces off to both sides, and these were where the possessors of the black card had chosen to set up their lairs. Each room was lined with purple crushed velvet. Real candles replaced the electric lighting of the upper floors. Champagne in ice buckets was the tipple of preference. Though the smoking ban seemed to be holding firm, a few people were vaping. Passing one of the rooms, Clarke caught sight of Meiklejohn and Morelli. They had obviously just arrived and were shedding their outerwear while greeting the three drinkers already gathered. Neither of them bothered to look up as Clarke and Fox passed. Clarke signalled to Fox to retrace their steps. Even when they passed the arched doorway for a second time, the group paid them no heed.

  Back in the bar area, they stopped for a moment.

  ‘Know who that was?’ Clarke asked.

  ‘I’ve not gone senile.’

  ‘I don’t mean Posh Spice and the Italian Stallion–I mean the guy with the two fashion models.’

  ‘I didn’t really get a chance to—’

  ‘His name’s Stewart Scoular. He was an MSP till the SNP kicked him into touch. Some racist comments he posted online. Tiptoed away for a bit and reinvented himself as a property developer.’

  ‘Okay.’

  The hostess was asking them if they wanted something to drink. ‘Compliments of Mr Cafferty,’ she added.

  ‘Not while we’re on duty,’ Fox said, watching as her fixed smile began to dissolve.

  Clarke was already climbing the stairs. Fox followed her out of the Jenever Club and onto the Cowgate.

  ‘That’s why he had that glint in his eye,’ Clarke was saying.

  ‘Cafferty?’

  She nodded, deep in thought. ‘When he said that thing about politics–he knew damned well we were going to find Stewart Scoular downstairs. It’s like he was setting the coordinates for us on his GPS.’

  ‘Hence the insistence we go exploring?’

  Clarke nodded again. ‘What are you up to, Cafferty?’ she muttered.

  ‘Not so unusual that a wealthy developer would know the likes of Meiklejohn and Morelli, is it?’

  Clarke considered this. ‘He’s probably fifteen years older than them, but no, I don’t suppose it is.’

  ‘Well then…’ Fox broke off, straightening his shoulders when he saw the look Clarke was giving him. ‘Is this where you tell me your intuition’s sharper than mine? Maybe that’s why you deserved the promotion they handed to me?’

  ‘You know Cafferty–if he can hammer a wedge between us, he will. That’s what that cheap shot was all about.’

  ‘But you do think he was telling you something with that line about politics?’

  ‘I’m fairly sure.’

  ‘Though you’re not sure what?’ He watched her shake her head slowly. ‘So where does that leave us?’

  ‘It leaves us heading home. I just hope no one’s stolen Brillo.’

  ‘You left him in the car? I’m not sure John would approve.’

  ‘Then he should get his arse back here, shouldn’t he?’

  ‘I’m sure he’s working on it.’

  Clarke stared at him. ‘Are you?’ she asked.

  ‘Not really,’ Fox admitted, holding up his hands in defeat.

  A waiter had arrived, swapping Cafferty’s empty glass for a full one. It was lemonade, but no one needed to know. Cafferty liked to fool his customers into thinking he was a fan of the product. Back when he’d sold whisky, apple juice had provided a passable imitation. He busied himself on his iPad, running back the CCTV footage and replaying it. He couldn’t be sure Clarke had clocked Scoular, but he reckoned it was a safe bet. If it had just been Fox, that lumbering bear of a guy, things might have been different.

  ‘Interesting, though,’ he said to himself, zooming in and out of the footage, then checking angles from different cameras. There was the fragrant Lady Isabella and her olive-skinned companion, larger than life and not eight feet from Clarke and Fox. Yet the detectives hadn’t confronted them–meaning Clarke had been lying about wanting to question them. Meaning the visit had been a fishing expedition. Yes, of course. Both of them needing the facilities at the self-same time? They’d been on a hunt for drugs.

  Cafferty gave the thinnest of smiles. ‘Should have hung around for that free drink, Shiv.’ He reckoned that in the next few minutes Lady Isabella would be reaching
into her clutch for a smallish bag, happy to share its contents with her chums. Scoular would buy another bottle of champagne, so the club was still making some money. They wouldn’t all partake–Scoular liked to keep his nose clean, as it were. But Cafferty had footage aplenty of the others, including the ill-fated Salman bin Mahmoud. Maybe none of it would ever prove useful, but you could never tell, could you? And meantime, he should go and offer his condolences. Hadn’t they just lost their friend, after all, and wasn’t tonight by way of a wake? He might even manage to slip in the question uppermost in his mind: what had the boy prince been doing in such a grim part of town, so far from his Georgian town house and all its trappings? Was there something Cafferty had missed in those hours and hours of video?

  Next time he upgraded the system, he’d be sure to add sound to his list of requirements; but meantime, with all the solemnity he could muster, he rose to his feet and scooped up his refilled glass.

  Day Two

  6

  Rebus had awoken on the sofa to find a pair of eyes watching him intently.

  ‘Where’s my daddy?’ Carrie asked softly.

  He sat up and checked his watch. It was just gone seven. His granddaughter was still in her pyjamas.

  ‘I heard Mummy crying,’ she continued. ‘Did Daddy leave because Mummy was shouting?’

  ‘Shouting?’

  ‘They both were. But Daddy was trying not to.’ She pushed her bottom lip out.

  Rebus blinked the sleep from his eyes. ‘They were having an argument? The night Daddy left?’

  ‘Because I told Daddy we’d been to see the chickens.’ She was on the verge of tears.

  ‘It’s not your fault, Carrie, none of it.’ Rebus paused. Then: ‘Whose chickens?’

  ‘Jess’s,’ his granddaughter sniffled.

  ‘You should get dressed,’ Rebus said. ‘I’ll see you at breakfast. Don’t worry about anything, okay?’

  Without saying another word, she padded off to her room. Rebus got into his clothes quickly and folded the duvet as best he could, then opened the window to air the room. It had rained in the night but the sky was clearing. He could hear the wind, though. It caught the curtains and shook them. Samantha had poured them both a few whiskies the previous night as they’d sat and talked–safe topics mostly; desperate not to fall out. Now she was tapping at the living room door, fetching him a mug of coffee.