Ian Rankin: Even Dogs in the Wild

Nothing.

Mrs Marischal had been persuaded to revisit the scene later on today. If anything had been taken, she was their best hope. Meanwhile, the team would have to look busy — it was expected that they would be busy. The current Lord Advocate wanted twice-daily updates, as did the First Minister. There would be media briefings at midday and four, briefings at which DCI James Page had to have something to share.

The problem was: what?

As she left, Clarke told the uniform outside to keep her wits about her.

‘It’s not true that the guilty always come back, but we might get lucky one time…’

On her way to Fettes, she stopped at a shop and bought a couple of newspapers, checking at the counter that they contained decent-sized obituaries of the deceased. She doubted she would learn anything she hadn’t already read on a half-hour trawl of the internet, but they would bulk out the file.

Because Lord Minton was who he was, it had been decided to locate the major incident team at Fettes rather than Gayfield Square. Fettes — aka ‘the Big House’ — had been the headquarters of Lothian and Borders Police right up to April Fools’ Day 2013, when Scotland’s eight police regions vanished to be replaced by a single organisation called Police Scotland. In place of a Chief Constable, Edinburgh now had a chief superintendent called Jack Scoular, who was only a few years older than Clarke. Fettes was Scoular’s domain, a place where admin took precedence and meetings were held. No CID officers were stationed there, but it did boast half a corridor of vacated offices, which James Page had been offered. Two detective constables, Christine Esson and Ronnie Ogilvie, were busy pinning photos and maps to one bare wall.

‘We thought you’d like the desk by the window,’ Esson said. ‘It’s got the view if nothing else.’

Yes, a view of two very different schools: Fettes College and Broughton High. Clarke took it in for all of three seconds before draping her coat over the back of her chair and sitting down. She placed the newspapers on the desk and concentrated on the reporting of Lord Minton’s demise. There was background stuff, and a few photographs dusted off from the archives. Cases he had prosecuted; royal garden parties; his first appearance in ermine.

‘Confirmed bachelor,’ Esson called out as she pushed another drawing pin home.

‘From which we deduce nothing,’ Clarke warned her. ‘And that photo’s squint.’

‘Not if you do this.’ Esson angled her head twenty degrees, then adjusted the photo anyway. It showed the body in situ , crumpled on the carpet as if drunkenly asleep.

‘Where’s the boss?’ Clarke asked.

‘Howden Hall,’ Ogilvie answered.

‘Oh?’ Howden Hall was home to the city’s forensic lab.

‘He said if he wasn’t back in time, the press briefing’s all yours.’

Clarke checked the time: she had another hour. ‘Typically generous of the man,’ she muttered, turning to the first of the obituaries.

She had just finished them, and was offering them to Esson to be added to the wall, when Page arrived. He was with a detective sergeant called Charlie Sykes. Sykes was normally based at Leith CID. He was a year shy of his pension and about the same from a heart attack, the former rather than the latter informing practically every conversation Clarke had ever had with the man.

‘Quick update,’ Page began breathlessly, gathering his squad. ‘House-to-house is continuing and we’ve got a couple of officers checking any CCTV in the vicinity. Someone’s busy on a computer somewhere to see if there are any other cases, within the city and beyond, that match this one. We’ll need to keep interviewing the deceased’s network of friends and acquaintances, and someone is going to have to head to the vaults to look at Lord Minton’s professional life in detail…’

Clarke glanced in Sykes’s direction. Sykes winked back, which meant something had happened at Howden Hall. Of course something had happened at Howden Hall.

‘We also need to put the house and its contents under a microscope,’ Page was continuing. Clarke cleared her throat loudly, bringing him to a stop.

‘Any time you want to share the news, sir,’ she nudged him. ‘Because I’m just about ready to assume you no longer think this was a panicked housebreaker.’

He wagged a finger at her. ‘We can’t afford to rule that possibility out. But on the other hand, we also now have this.’ He took a sheet of paper from the inside pocket of his suit. It was a photocopy of something. Clarke, Esson and Ogilvie converged on him the better to see it.

‘Folded up in the victim’s wallet, tucked behind a credit card. Shame it wasn’t noticed earlier, but all the same…’

The photocopy showed a note written in capital letters on a piece of plain paper measuring about five inches by three.

I’M GOING TO KILL YOU FOR WHAT YOU DID.

There was an audible intake of breath, followed by a few beats of complete silence, broken by a belch from Charlie Sykes.

‘We’re keeping this to ourselves for now,’ Page warned the room. ‘Any journalist gets hold of it, I’ll be sharpening my axe. Is that understood?’

‘Game-changer, though,’ Ronnie Ogilvie offered.

‘Game-changer,’ Page acknowledged with a slow, steady nod.

‘Why Fettes?’ Fox asked that evening as he sat across from Clarke at a restaurant on Broughton Street. ‘No, let me guess — it’s to reflect Minton’s status?’

Clarke chewed and nodded. ‘If you’ve got brass or politicians coming for a look-see, Fettes trumps Gayfield Square. No grubby little neds for the suits to bump into.’

‘And a more congenial setting for press conferences. I watched Page on the news channel. Didn’t manage to spot you, though.’

‘He did okay, I thought.’

‘Except in a case like this, no news isn’t exactly good news. First forty-eight hours being crucial, et cetera.’ Fox lifted his glass of water to his lips. ‘Whoever did it has to be on our books, right? Or is he a first-timer — might explain why he bolloxed it up.’

Clarke nodded slowly, avoiding eye contact and saying nothing. Fox put his glass down.

‘There’s something you’re not telling me, Siobhan.’

‘We’re keeping it under wraps.’

‘Keeping what under wraps?’

‘The thing I’m not telling you.’ Fox waited, his stare fixed on her. Clarke put down her fork and looked to left and right. The restaurant was two thirds empty, no one close enough to overhear. Nevertheless, she lowered her voice and leaned across her plate until only inches separated their faces.

‘There was a note.’

‘Left by the killer?’

‘It was in Lord Minton’s wallet, hidden away. Might have been there for days or weeks.’

‘So you can’t say for sure it was from the attacker?’ Fox mulled this over. ‘All the same…’

Clarke nodded again. ‘If Page ever finds out I told you…’

‘Understood.’ Fox leaned back again and stabbed at a chunk of carrot with his fork. ‘Does complicate things, though.’

‘Tell me about it. Actually, don’t — tell me about your day instead.’

‘Crew from Gartcosh have arrived out of nowhere. Set up shop this afternoon and Doug Maxtone’s incandescent.’

‘Anyone we know?’

‘I’ve not been introduced yet. Boss hasn’t been told why they’re here, though apparently he’s going to be briefed in the morning.’

‘Could it be a terrorist thing?’ Fox shrugged. ‘How big a team?’

‘Six at the last count. They’re installed in the CID suite, meaning we’ve had to relocate to a shoebox along the corridor. How’s your hake?’