Ian Rankin: Even Dogs in the Wild

‘Hopeful, no; curious, yes.’

‘Go on.’ Another slurp of coffee. The few dates they’d gone on — some time back — he had done the same thing, whether the drink was hot, tepid or cold. She’d asked him to stop, but he had seemed incapable, and couldn’t see the problem.

‘First you have to put that mug down until I’ve left the table.’

He tried staring her out, then complied.

‘To begin with,’ Clarke went on, ‘we shied away from Minton’s private life. Break-in gone wrong, we thought. But the note changes that. The deceased did something to annoy someone.’

‘Probably in his professional rather than private life,’ Page cautioned.

‘Which is why you’ve got Esson and Ogilvie digging back through several years’ worth of cases and judgments. Thing is, it would have to have been a really big case, right? For someone to decide that the perceived injustice merited a death threat. And also, wouldn’t it need to be something recent, or else why are they suddenly so riled?’

‘Maybe they just got out of jail.’

‘And again, you’ve got someone checking the files. But we may be looking at this whole thing the wrong way. From what I’ve discovered about Lord Minton, he’s almost too perfect. Everyone’s got secrets.’

‘We’ve examined his house, been through the contents of his personal and work computers. No weird or accusatory emails. His office say they’ve received no letters out of the ordinary. I’ve asked — even if the mail was marked Private or Personal, they were instructed by Lord Minton to open it. No phone calls — we’ve checked his home number and mobile. There’s nothing there , Siobhan.’

‘What are we talking about then? A case of mistaken identity? Note sent to the wrong person, window of the wrong house’s laundry room broken?’ She couldn’t help thinking about the previous night at Cafferty’s. ‘He hung on to the note, James. More than that, he kept it close to him. To my mind, he knew it meant something.’

‘Why didn’t he tell anyone, then?’

‘I don’t know.’ She ran a hand through her hair. ‘Maybe we need to talk to his friends again, starting with the closest.’

‘That would be Kathryn Young, wouldn’t it?’

‘From what I hear.’

Page sat in silence for a moment. ‘I’m still not convinced, Siobhan. The attacker broke in — it’s not as if Minton opened the door to someone he knew.’

‘Front door’s dangerous, though — whole streetful of potential witnesses.’

‘But to clamber over walls, sneak through back gardens…’

‘I doubt we’re looking for someone of the victim’s generation, though you never can tell.’

Page gave a loud sigh. ‘Can I drink my coffee now?’

Clarke smiled, rising from her seat. ‘I’ll see you upstairs,’ she said.

There was a Starbuck’s on Canongate, and Kathryn Young had agreed to meet them there. She had a forty-minute window between meetings at the Scottish Parliament, so she placed her order with Clarke by text. The tables were small and fairly public, but Page had done his best. They were in an alcove near the back of the room, and he reckoned the regular noises of milk being frothed and beans being ground would mask their conversation from the other customers.

Young carried with her a heavy-looking satchel. It made one of Scotland’s most senior lawyers resemble a teacher encumbered by a week’s unmarked homework. She was well-dressed, but the wind howling down towards the Parliament had messed up her shoulder-length brown hair and put a glow in her cheeks.

‘Small latte,’ Clarke said, pushing the mug towards her. Young nodded her thanks and removed her coat and scarf.

‘Any news?’ she said.

‘There’s something we’d like to share with you,’ Page said quietly, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, hands pressed together as if in prayer. ‘We’ve been debating motive.’

‘I thought it was a straightforward housebreaking.’

‘So did we, until we found this.’ He gestured towards Clarke, who handed over a photocopy of the note. Young’s brow furrowed as she read.

‘Someone sent it to Lord Minton,’ Clarke explained, ‘and Lord Minton kept it in his wallet. To my mind, that means he didn’t just dismiss it as some kind of prank. We’re wondering who his enemies might have been.’

‘I’m at a loss.’ Young handed the note back. ‘You’ve not made this public?’

‘We didn’t see how it could help — not just yet,’ Page explained.

‘You knew the man as well as anybody,’ Clarke said, making eye contact and noting that Young’s eyes were the same shade of brown as her hair. ‘So we’re wondering if you can shed any light. Did he ever mention anything about threats, or someone who had a grudge against him, real or perceived?’

The Crown Agent was shaking her head. ‘We weren’t close in that way. I’d known David maybe twelve or thirteen years. But his real friends — the ones he spoke about — they’re mostly dead, I think. Other lawyers, at least one MP, businessmen…’ She was shaking her head again. ‘I’m sorry, but I really can’t think of anyone who’d want to harm him.’

‘Maybe a case he’d prosecuted?’ Clarke persisted.

‘He was always very guarded. I mean, he would talk in general terms, or discuss matters of procedure, diligence, precedence. He had memorised famous trials of the past…’

‘And you hadn’t noticed a change in him recently? More guarded, maybe? On edge?’

Young concentrated on her coffee while she pondered this. ‘No,’ she said eventually. ‘Nothing. Mrs Marischal would know before I did, though — she spent more time sharing a cuppa with him than dusting anything. Or else whoever works in his office these days — have you asked them?’

‘We have, though we might try again.’

‘You can’t be sure the person who sent that note is the same one who broke in,’ Young stated.

‘We’re aware of that.’

‘You should make it public — the note, I mean. Someone out there might recognise the writing.’ She glanced at her watch and took another swig of coffee. ‘I’m afraid I have to get back. I’m sorry I haven’t been much use.’

‘Do you think it’s worth our while talking to anyone at the New Club? He used to go there most days.’

Young shrugged her way back into her coat and picked up her scarf. ‘I’ve honestly no idea.’ She bent at the knees to retrieve her satchel. ‘So much for the paperless office,’ she said with a grim smile, making her way towards the door.

‘That was time well spent,’ Page said to Clarke through gritted teeth.

‘Maybe she’s right about the note, though. It’s all we’ve got; be a shame not to use it.’

‘The press will blow it out of all proportion,’ Page cautioned. ‘We’ll have people scared to leave their houses because there’s a killer out there and anyone could be his next target. Plus the nutters will come out of the woodwork with the usual premonitions and theories.’

‘And our killer, knowing we’re no longer treating it as a break-in gone wrong, has plenty of time to pack his bags and head elsewhere.’ Clarke was nodding her agreement. ‘All of that’s true, James.’

He looked at her. ‘But you still think we should do it?’

‘Do you know what a soft launch is? No press conference. We give it to one outlet, someone who’ll report it without the sensationalism. Social media will spread the story, but it’ll be our version. By the time the other papers get hold of it, the fire will have died back a bit.’

‘I assume you’ve a journalist in mind?’

Clarke nodded and lifted her phone, angling it towards him. ‘Soon as you give the word.’