‘Christ, John … ’ Clarke gave a loud sigh. By the time Fox reached her, the call had ended.
‘He’s staying put?’ Fox guessed.
‘Car trouble.’
‘Is his daughter okay?’
‘Her other half’s gone AWOL. I think she’s pretty much on her own up there apart from her daughter.’
‘So what do we do with the dog?’
Clarke managed a thin smile, grateful for that ‘we’.
‘I should probably take him home with me.’
‘After we’ve spoken to the deceased’s friend?’
Clarke nodded. ‘I’ll come pick Brillo up after.’ She clapped her hands against her thighs and Brillo bounded up to her. Clarke clipped the lead onto the dog’s collar and all three walked back to Melville Drive, crossing it and heading up Marchmont Road. When they turned into Arden Street, Brillo hesitated at the entrance to the stairwell but seemed resigned to the gate leading to the small garden. Clarke unlocked the door. While she checked the food and water bowls in the kitchen, Fox paced the living room, reaching into a box and pulling out a handful of seven-inch singles.
‘Archaeology, most of these,’ he said when Clarke found him.
‘John says he wants it put on his gravestone: “He listened to the B-sides”.’
Fox smiled and scanned the room. ‘Feels weird – same stuff, different setting. He talked to me about buying a bungalow … ’
‘Like the one you live in?’
‘Said that was the main reason he couldn’t bring himself to do it.’
‘What did he mean by that?’
Fox put the records back in their box. ‘It was just a general dig, I think. You know what he’s like.’ He brushed his hands together as if to rid them of dust. Clarke was checking her phone. ‘Almost time? The dog’ll be okay here on its own?’
‘I said I’ll come back after – unless you’re offering.’
‘I’m not good with animals.’
‘Me neither.’
There was a snorting sound from the doorway. Brillo sat there, head cocked.
‘He knows a liar when he sees one,’ Fox said with a grin. ‘Come on then, let’s go see what a trust fund looks like nowadays.’
Circus Lane was one of the most picturesque and therefore photographed streets in Edinburgh. At one time it would have provided stabling and staff accommodation for grand houses nearby. These days its mews homes were highly sought-after and immaculately maintained, with floral displays gracing some of the frontages. Clarke would once have described the road surface as cobbled, but she knew better now – the stones underfoot were setts, being more brick-like than pebble-shaped.
Giovanni Morelli lived halfway along the street. Clarke and Fox had been expecting to meet him inside, but he was on his doorstep. He wore no jacket, but had tied a fashionable-looking scarf around his neck above a yellow woollen V-neck and white T-shirt.
‘Mr Morelli?’ Clarke felt it necessary to ask. The young man nodded. He was clean-shaven, albeit with a five o’clock shadow, and tanned, with thick dark hair that he ran a hand through before nodding. There was a woman with him, dressed in a short suede jacket, jeans and knee-high boots. She stood several inches taller than the Italian, with broader shoulders. Her hair was thick and straw-blonde, swept back over one ear. As she concentrated on her cigarette, Clarke had a view of varnished nails, expertly manicured.
‘Issy was visiting,’ Morelli explained. ‘I don’t like the smell of smoke, so … ’
‘Thanks for agreeing to see us,’ Fox said, introducing himself and Clarke.
‘So here we are, on the street like a couple of tramps,’ the woman called Issy snapped. ‘Will this take long? We’re heading to a drinks party.’
‘Lady Isabella Meiklejohn?’ Clarke deduced. Meiklejohn seemed only momentarily thrown by the identification. She was in her mid twenties, with flawless skin and pearly teeth.
‘We should start by saying we’re sorry for your loss,’ Fox stated. ‘As you know, it’s our priority to get to the bottom of whatever happened.’
‘By trying to put Giovanni in the frame?’ Meiklejohn muttered, grinding her cigarette stub under her heel.
‘Issy, please,’ Morelli said, placing his fingers lightly on her arm. She wrapped them in her own hand for a moment.
‘One theory,’ Fox went on, ‘is that the two attacks could be linked. Someone with a grudge against Salman and yourself, Mr Morelli.’ He ignored the roll of the eyes from Meiklejohn. ‘The mugging took place here, didn’t it?’
Morelli nodded, pointing to a spot only a few feet away. ‘I was coming home.’
‘Where had you been?’
‘Salman’s.’
‘He lived – what? – five or so minutes’ walk away?’
Morelli nodded again. ‘Midnight or maybe just after. One attacker, I think. From behind. A blow to the head.’ He placed his hand on his crown. ‘I fell over. One more blow, I think.’
‘A fist, or … ?’
‘The hospital thought maybe an object of some kind.’
‘Were you dressed much like tonight?’
‘A jacket. It was later, which means cooler.’
‘A hooded jacket?’
‘Yes, you’re correct – they said the hood softened the blows.’
Meiklejohn was making show of checking and sending texts on her phone.
‘I think you went to the hospital with Mr Morelli?’ Clarke asked her.
‘We’ve been through this more than once,’ Meiklejohn said. ‘Which means it’s on record, which means you know damned well I did.’
‘You’re just a friend?’
Finally the woman looked up, her eyes meeting Clarke’s.
‘Yes.’
‘And with Mr bin Mahmoud?’
‘Again, yes.’ Her eyes went back to her screen. ‘Look, we all know it’s down to Brexit. Attacks on foreigners have rocketed.’
‘Not too many fans of Brexit in these parts,’ Fox commented.
‘Is that so? My family’s full of them.’
‘They live locally?’
‘London and Sutherland.’ She looked at Morelli. ‘We’re going to be late.’
‘There’s a bar around the corner if you’re desperate,’ Clarke suggested.