‘I’m sorry I didn’t...’ She left the apology unfinished.
‘Why keep the call anonymous?’ Clarke asked.
‘Didn’t want it getting back to the ’rents.’
‘Your parents, you mean?’
‘Right.’
‘You didn’t want them knowing you sometimes used their empty flats to entertain friends?’
The young woman shrugged, the gesture made awkward by the large headphones clamped around her neck. ‘I don’t suppose they’d mind, really, except of course that it would indicate their daughter has a fuller sex life than they might wish.’
‘You work for the family firm?’ Fox asked.
‘Not really.’
‘But now and again,’ he went on, ‘you show someone round if nobody else is available?’
‘As a favour, yes. It’s not like I’m on the payroll.’
‘So what do you do at other times?’
‘I’m a DJ.’ If her chair had been of the swivel variety, she would have been rotating from side to side. She seemed to Clarke all barely contained energy and life force. A tattoo crept out from just below one cuff of her jacket. Clarke would take bets it didn’t feel lonely. ‘Ever go clubbing?’ the young woman asked.
‘Believe it or not, I sometimes do,’ Clarke answered. ‘I can’t speak for DI Fox here.’
‘Where do you go?’
‘Cowgate mostly.’
‘Might have danced to one of my sets, then. I call myself Gabz — with a z. DJ Gabz.’
‘I’ll look out for you next time.’
‘I’m doing a set tonight. The Elemental Club on Blair Street.’
Fox cleared his throat, patently feeling sidelined. ‘Did you snatch Kenneth Lloyd’s phone for the same reason you didn’t give your name to the switchboard — to try to remain anonymous, in other words?’
‘Maybe. But actually I just think it was closest.’
‘And you ran off with it because...’
She stared at him. ‘I was freaked out. I’d just seen a dead body.’
‘A body you recognised?’ Fox persisted. She shook her head. ‘You’d not been to the flat before? Maybe shown the victim round?’ Another shake of the head, though she had stopped making eye contact and was busying herself with her jacket zip.
‘You knew the flat belonged to your parents, though?’ Clarke asked quietly, receiving a nod of agreement.
There was a tapping at the door. Clarke rose to answer. The desk officer was there, and he wasn’t alone. Clarke recognised Michael Leckie, Francis Haggard’s lawyer.
‘I believe you have Gabrielle Mackenzie here,’ he said. ‘I’ve been asked to represent her. Can I see her, please?’
‘We’re just gathering information, Mr Leckie.’
‘All the same.’
Their staring contest lasted a few seconds. ‘Be my guest,’ Clarke eventually conceded.
Leckie refused to meet her eyes as he brushed past. The desk officer just shrugged and retreated to the stairs. By the time Clarke went back in, Gaby Mackenzie was on her feet.
‘But how?’ she was yelling. ‘I don’t fucking believe this! How did she know?’ She looked to the two detectives. ‘Did you tell her?’
‘Tell who what?’ Clarke asked.
‘My fucking mother, of course — that’s who sent him here. But since I didn’t tell anyone I was coming...’ She broke off and picked up her phone from the table. ‘Bloody tracker — that’s what it is, isn’t it?’
‘Your parents just think,’ the solicitor said, keeping his voice level, ‘that proper representation might help you avoid falling into any traps.’
‘No traps here, Mr Leckie,’ Clarke said.
‘Unless we’re missing what they might be,’ Fox added. ‘Maybe you’d care to enlighten us?’
‘It’s merely precautionary,’ Leckie said.
‘We’re done anyway,’ Clarke said. ‘Ms Mackenzie was just on her way out. A wasted journey for you, Mr Leckie.’
‘But still probably costly for your clients, eh?’ Fox added. ‘Don’t let him give you a lift home,’ he advised Mackenzie. ‘One of those tourist rickshaws would be cheaper.’
‘What do I do about the phone?’ Mackenzie asked, regaining her composure.
‘Hand it in here when you can,’ Clarke advised. ‘We’ll see it gets back to its owner.’
Mackenzie nodded, looking around to check if she’d forgotten anything.
‘What about prints and DNA?’ Fox was asking Clarke. ‘Even if Gaby doesn’t think she touched anything at the crime scene.’
‘That’s true,’ Clarke said, keeping her focus on the young woman. ‘A hair might have landed on the floor without you knowing, or maybe even a bit of saliva. I dare say you gasped when you saw the body. A quick dab and pluck would help to eliminate you.’
‘Right now?’
She shook her head. ‘We’d send someone to you.’
‘To be discussed,’ the lawyer said, holding up his hand.
‘Best tell Gaby’s parents we’ll need samples from them too, assuming they’ve visited the flat in living memory. That goes for anyone else working at the agency.’
Leckie stared at the table’s surface, listening intently as if memorising her words. ‘Is that us done?’ he enquired after she’d finished.
‘Thanks for coming in, Gaby,’ Clarke said, extending a hand for the young woman to shake. ‘Some Boards of Canada will suit me fine if you ever spot me on the dance floor.’
‘Not easy to dance to,’ Mackenzie said with a flicker of a smile.
‘Trust me, I know...’
Five minutes later, the desk officer was back again.
‘Keeps you fit,’ Clarke commented.
‘He’s wanting to see you downstairs.’
Her first thought was Rebus, but as she entered the reception area, she saw Michael Leckie waiting for her. He gestured towards the outside and she joined him on the pavement.
‘What was that all about?’ she asked.
‘Overly protective parents?’ He hazarded a guess.
‘There were no traps, you know.’
He shrugged his acceptance. Clarke noticed him glance to left and right, as if wary of being seen.
‘What’s up, Michael?’
‘You know I can’t discuss Francis Haggard — client confidentiality and all that. You’re working his murder, yes?’
‘That’s right.’
‘So I suppose he’s not really my client any longer. Thing is, it can’t be official, Siobhan — any conversation you and I might have, I mean.’
‘Understood. We could have a drink, though, couldn’t we? Talk off the record?’
‘We could do that, yes.’
‘Always supposing neither of us had anything else keeping us busy this evening.’
‘It might almost be an accidental meeting.’
‘It might. Somewhere quiet where people keep themselves to themselves. How about the Oxford Bar?’
‘I’ve only ever been there when the Six Nations is on.’
‘Well there’s no rugby tonight, and it’s not long reopened — I reckon we could find a private corner. If not, we’ll head elsewhere. Seven o’clock suit you?’
‘Eight would be better.’
‘I have plans later.’
‘Seven it is, then.’
Clarke turned to head back inside, but paused. ‘Did you put her in a cab?’
The lawyer shook his head. ‘Range Rover sounded its horn and she got in. I could hear her arguing with the driver as it pulled away.’
‘Mother at the wheel?’
‘Father, I think. Big guy, shaved head.’
‘See you at seven, Michael.’
‘I look forward to it, Siobhan.’
The office felt more animated than when she’d left it. Fox was first to give her the news.