‘What about Salman’s lifestyle? I know he liked James Bond, but that’s about it.’
‘The guy seems to have lived like James Bond, too.’ Fox put a series of photographs up on his screen. ‘These are from his social media. Nightclubs and champagne. The Aston he drives in Edinburgh is a new model, but in London he has a classic DB5.’
‘Isn’t drinking frowned on? I assume he’s a practising Muslim...’
‘Different rules seem to apply.’ Clarke watched shot after shot of Salman bin Mahmoud, in immaculate tailoring, embracing a succession of glamorous young women in clubs and at sporting events.
‘You’ll notice he favours a martini,’ Fox commented.
‘What about drugs?’ she asked as another page of photos appeared, courtesy of Fox’s finger on the trackpad.
‘Not as far as we know.’ Fox began to tap at the faces. ‘That one’s the daughter of a Conservative MP. And this one is Scottish gentry — Lady Isabella Meiklejohn. Her dad owns a goodish chunk of the Flow Country.’
‘The what?’
‘Caithness and Sutherland. Peat bog mostly.’
‘They all look like supermodels.’
‘Wonder what attracted them to the exotic playboy millionaire.’
Fox was rewarded with a twitch of the mouth from Clarke that almost constituted a smile.
‘How rich was he?’
‘We don’t really know. His father’s been under house arrest for a while, but there’s obviously still money — only so far you can run a lifestyle like that on credit. We’ve added photos of his Edinburgh abode to the Murder Wall.’ Fox gestured in its general direction. ‘And the Met have sent us some of his London pad — not too shabby in either case.’
‘And he wasn’t known to us before this happened — neighbours complaining of wild parties, speeding tickets on the streets of the New Town?’
‘A fistful of parking fines that went unpaid. He wasn’t keen on walking any distance to his front door, which meant leaving the Aston on the occasional yellow line.’
‘Catnip to the wardens.’
Fox nodded his agreement. He had come to the end of the photographs. Clarke sat back in her chair. It wasn’t exactly built for comfort — she was going to have to bring in a cushion from her living room. ‘So what do you think happened?’
‘It comes down to the locus. Seafield Road that time of night — he was either at the start of a long drive south or else he was meeting someone.’
Clarke nodded her agreement. ‘None of his friends live out that way?’
‘Not that we’ve found.’
‘Maybe he was looking for a hot hatch to race. Not unknown of an Edinburgh night, especially in the suburbs. If I had a car like his, I’d be tempted.’
‘Carjacking gone wrong is certainly something we’re looking at. Aston’s been examined; only its owner’s prints. Plenty fuel and no obvious mechanical issues.’
‘So he didn’t pull off the road for a breakdown.’ Clarke nodded again. ‘Mobile phone records?’
‘Have been requested in full. So far it looks like his last call was to a male friend — actually the same one who was mugged. He says they were just chatting about this and that, plans for the weekend and such.’
‘How long before he was killed?’
‘A couple of hours.’
‘Have you talked to his friend?’
‘Me personally?’ Fox shook his head. ‘I’ve not long arrived.’
Clarke made eye contact and held it. ‘Why did they send you, Malcolm?’
He offered a slow shrug. ‘It qualifies as Major Crimes, Siobhan.’
‘Why, though?’
‘Because certain people insist.’
‘Our political masters, you mean?’
‘There are international ramifications. With us leaving Europe...’
‘We need all the trading friends we can get — including regimes?’ Clarke guessed. ‘But the Saudi rulers don’t exactly see the deceased’s father as a bosom buddy, so why the pressure?’
‘I really can’t say.’
‘Which is a diplomatic way of telling me not to push it?’ Clarke cocked her head. ‘Are we going to hit brick walls along the way, Malcolm? People we won’t be allowed to question, information that’s not going to be forthcoming?’
‘I honestly have no idea.’ Fox lifted the mug to his lips again. ‘But something tells me you’re going to clamber over any walls you find — almost like you learned from—’
Clarke stopped him with a wagged finger. ‘Anything John Rebus taught me is long gone, and so is he.’
She hoped the words sounded more confident than she herself felt.
2
Rebus had forgotten how long the drive took. A distance of around 250 miles and he could swear he’d done it in under four hours in the past. Today, however, it was more than five, with just the one stop to refuel car and driver both, giving the Saab’s bonnet a reassuring pat to let it know he appreciated the effort. The A9 itself hadn’t been too bad considering — some lorries and caravans and a couple of sets of roadworks. The process of dualling was ongoing and would continue to be ongoing long after Rebus had headed to the traffic-free highway in the sky. He hadn’t thought to bring anything. There was just the one CD in the car — a compilation Siobhan had burned for him. She’d written the words ‘Songs for Dark Times’ on the disc in black felt pen. He’d asked her to explain the title.
‘Some to make you think,’ she’d said, ‘some to calm you down or get you dancing.’
‘Dancing?’
‘Okay, nodding your head then.’
It was indeed a mixed bag. One track might be funk that sounded beamed down from the 1970s, the next a piece of Brian Eno minimalism. Leonard Cohen sang about love and loss, and another band about post-Brexit England. Then there was Black Sabbath with ‘Changes’.
‘Nice touch, Siobhan...’
At the petrol station, adding a toothbrush and toothpaste to his purchases, he’d asked the woman at the till if they sold CDs.
‘All Bluetooth these days,’ she’d explained.
‘Hopefully not after brushing,’ Rebus had replied.
The rain had arrived well before Tain, accompanying him to Altnaharra and beyond, thirty-odd miles of single-track road, but mercifully free of other vehicles. His eyes felt gritty and his spine, shoulders and backside ached. When he paused in a passing place to relieve his bladder, he took deep breaths in an effort to appreciate his wilderness surroundings. Steep peaks, glassy lochs, bracken and birdsong. Not that he had taken in much of the scenery, being too preoccupied with thoughts of Samantha. Her mother, Rhona, had died a few years back. There had been a sparsely attended funeral in a commuter town outside London. Samantha had grown up in the flat in Arden Street, eventually moving with her mother to London. Then back to Edinburgh for work, before finally settling in Tongue with Keith. Carrie had arrived thanks to IVF — a final throw of the dice, in Samantha’s words. They’d moved a few further miles east from Tongue to a modern bungalow that kept the heating bills down. Rebus had met Keith only a handful of times, preferring to visit during working hours. Likewise, Keith seldom accompanied Samantha and Carrie on their rare trips to Edinburgh.
Did Rebus even know his surname? Samantha must have told him. In one ear and out the other probably. Seemed to work hard enough though, provided for his family. Last job Rebus knew of was helping decommission the old nuclear power plant at Dounreay. There’d been a leak the previous year and Rebus had phoned to check Keith was all right. Samantha had assured him that all the tests had come back negative.
‘You’ll still need a bedside light then?’ her father had joked.
Dounreay wasn’t exactly next door to Naver. About a forty-five-minute drive each way. He’d once asked Samantha why they didn’t move closer to Keith’s work. The answer was Carrie. She had friends and was in a good school. Put those on the scales and the commute weighed nothing.