Saints of the Shadow Bible (Rebus) (15 page)

Once inside the police station, having ignored all the questions yelled in her direction, Clarke showed her ID and was buzzed through a locked door into the body of the building. Every bit of space on the first floor seemed to be in the process of being taken over by the Major Incident Team – desks moved, extra chairs sought, communications established. Clarke squeezed her way through the melee until she reached its still centre and introduced herself to DCI Ralph. He was over six feet tall, his dark hair parted in the centre, and sporting a neatly trimmed beard. He didn’t bother with a handshake or words of welcome, telling her instead that there would be a briefing in ten minutes’ time and she should make herself useful until then.

‘Olivia will show you the ropes,’ he explained, nodding towards a young woman who was carrying a computer printer past him.

‘Olivia Webster,’ the officer said by way of introduction, as Clarke followed her. ‘I’m a DC.’

‘I’m DI Clarke.’

‘Siobhan Clarke – I know who you are.’

‘Have we met before?’

Webster shook her head. She had long brown hair and grey eyes, her skin pale. ‘I’ve just heard you mentioned.’ She placed the printer on one of the desks, next to a monitor. ‘I’ve only been here six weeks – transferred from Dundee.’ She stared at the set-up on the desk.

‘Keyboard?’ Clarke suggested.

Webster smiled. ‘Knew something wasn’t quite right.’ She scanned the room. ‘Must be one around here somewhere . . .’ Then she was off again, leaving Clarke without any sense of what she could or should be doing. She peered from a window until the press pack below noticed her and started waving.

‘Not much room here for media conferences.’ DCI Ralph was standing next to her. ‘We’re using the hotel on the corner instead.’

‘Good thinking.’

He studied her. ‘You were at the scene soon after Mr McCuskey was found.’ Statement rather than question. ‘That’s why I want you focusing on the break-in itself – the nuts and bolts, if you like.’

Clarke nodded her acceptance. ‘There’s already an officer working on the stolen goods – putting word out.’

‘Good.’

‘Maybe we could bring him in?’

‘As part of the team, you mean?’ He wafted a hand in the general direction of the chaos behind him. ‘You think we’re short-staffed?’

‘Just seems rational, since he’s been involved in the preliminary investigation.’

‘This wouldn’t be your old friend, would it? The infamous John Rebus?’

‘John not only has contacts, he was also with me when we attended the scene of a crash not far from the McCuskey home. The young woman pulled from the wreckage happens to be Forbes McCuskey’s girlfriend. We’re not sure she was alone in the car at the time.’

Ralph grew thoughtful. ‘That’s quite the coincidence.’

‘Our thinking exactly. Again, if DS Rebus is brought in, he’s already done a lot of the groundwork . . .’

‘Let me think about it, once I’ve got the pep talk out of the way.’ He glanced at his watch, then concentrated on the movement in the room, seeming pleased with the progress. Olivia Webster had located a grubby-looking keyboard and was plugging it in. Another officer, having wiped clean a large whiteboard, was attaching photos of the crime scene to it. McCuskey had been moved before any pictures could be taken of him, but there was a typed description of how he had been found on the sitting room floor, face down and with his legs at an awkward angle. There was a close-up of the smashed patio door, and another of the ransacked bedroom. Two bedrooms, in fact. Clarke walked over and studied the photograph of what had to be the son’s old room – she hadn’t checked it at the time, and chided herself now. There were band posters on its walls, shelves of novels, a double bed with a bright red duvet. The duvet had been thrown to the floor, some of the books scattered, one poster torn in half. Drawers sat half open. Yet there had been nothing in the room worth taking. Was this evidence of anger? As if Forbes McCuskey were as much of a target as his parents? Clarke thought back to Owen Traynor again. Did they need to bring him in for a more formal chat?

DCI Ralph was clapping his hands, calling out for everyone to stop what they were doing. All eyes turned towards him. Officers filed in from the corridor and the other rooms off. Clarke found herself with her back pressed against the whiteboard, unable to see anything except the very top of Nick Ralph’s head. Around her, phones were pinging and vibrating.

‘Maybe we could have those off,’ Ralph ordered.

She slid her own from her pocket. She had a message from Malcolm Fox, but she could read it later. For now, she powered down the phone and concentrated on the job at hand.

‘Let’s begin,’ Nick Ralph said.

Early evening, Rebus left his tenement flat and headed for a shop on Marchmont Road where he could buy cigarettes and bacon. He was almost at the top of Arden Street when he spotted Forbes McCuskey on the other side of the road. McCuskey had recognised him. He stood there for a moment, then strode towards Rebus.

‘You following me? Stalking me?’

‘Just passing,’ Rebus said, reluctant to let him know they lived on the same street.

‘I could call this harassment.’

‘It’s not. Sorry to hear about your dad, by the way.’

The young man’s anger abated a little, good manners taking over. ‘Thanks,’ he said.

‘We’ll be doing everything we can to find his attacker.’

Forbes McCuskey nodded distractedly. Now that he had confronted the detective, he seemed not to know what to do next.

‘Including interviewing Jessica’s father,’ Rebus continued matter-of-factly.

‘What for?’

‘Because his daughter had just been in a car smash and he wasn’t convinced it was her fault. Because, historically, he has a temper on him.’

‘So he attacks
my
father in revenge?’

‘Only when he fails to find
you
at home.’

McCuskey started to shake his head, but then stopped. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I suppose you have to explore all the avenues . . .’

‘You can be sure we’ll do that.’ Rebus gestured towards McCuskey’s building. ‘I’d have thought your mum might be needing you.’

‘Aunt Dorothy’s with her. I’m just collecting some of my stuff.’

‘Your mum’s okay, being in the house . . . ?’

‘I did suggest a hotel.’

‘Not the Caledonian?’ Rebus cautioned.

McCuskey nodded his understanding. ‘Jessica’s there . . .’

‘Next door to her father. Have you been to see her?’

McCuskey shook his head.

‘She’ll have been in touch, though, having heard . . . ?’

‘I’ve talked to her, yes.’ McCuskey’s eyes locked on Rebus. ‘Were you really just passing?’

‘I live down the road,’ Rebus admitted, seeing no harm in it. ‘On my way to Margiotta’s. I’m at number seventeen, second floor – if you ever want to talk.’

‘Talk? What about?’

‘Maybe why you lied to us.’

‘Did I lie?’

‘You said you couldn’t drive, yet I saw you behind the wheel, with your mum in the passenger seat.’

The young man was shaking his head. ‘I said I
don’t
drive, I never said I couldn’t if I have to.’

‘You were attempting to mislead us, Mr McCuskey. And all it’s done is made me even more curious about the night of the smash.’

‘You can’t still be going on about that?’

‘It’s unfinished business – and with what happened to your dad . . .’ Rebus left the end of the sentence hanging and started on his way. ‘Number seventeen,’ he reminded McCuskey. ‘My name’s on the bell . . .’

Once inside his flat, Forbes McCuskey dug his phone from his pocket and made a call.

‘It’s me,’ he said. Then, in response to a question: ‘Yeah, I’m all right, I suppose. A bit numb, to be honest. But I’ve just been talking to that guy Rebus.’ He listened for a moment, wandering through to the kitchen and opening the fridge, in search of something to drink. ‘Apparently he lives on my street, which is a nuisance, and he’s still harping on about the crash. But here’s the thing – the thinking seems to be that Jess’s father might have been behind the break-in. That could play well for us, take a bit of the heat off.’ He paused again to listen, glugging milk from a carton. ‘No, not
that
heat. Speaking of which, I better try ringing Jess . . .’

He ended the call and went through to his room, falling back on to the bed and staring at the ceiling. There was some dope under the mattress and he would smoke it in a little while. Maybe he’d drink some wine, too, or neat tequila. Anything to stop him thinking about his father and what had happened – what
might
have happened.

‘You dickhead,’ he muttered to himself, covering his eyes with his forearm. ‘What the hell have you gone and done . . . ?’

Slowly, the tears began to come.

‘Can I come up?’

‘Where are you?’ Siobhan Clarke asked.

‘Standing outside.’

She went to the window to take a look. Her flat was on the first floor of a utilitarian block just off Broughton Street. Fox was standing in the middle of the road, his phone pressed to his ear.

‘What’s going on?’ she asked him.

‘I’d rather tell you in person.’

She scanned her living room. It was presentable –
more
than presentable. But still, she didn’t want to share it with Fox. ‘I’ll come down,’ she said into the phone. ‘There’s a bar around the corner we can go to.’

‘I don’t drink,’ Fox reminded her. ‘And this isn’t really a social visit.’

‘Two minutes,’ she said, ending the call and wondering whether to bother making herself presentable.

The bar was called The Basement because it was in a basement, reached by a short flight of stone steps from the pavement. It was gloomy and the furniture looked like props from the
Alien
films. There was a traditional pub almost the same distance away in the other direction, but Clarke had chosen this place because she sensed Fox would be less at ease in it. The drinkers were young, the music as jagged as the seats and tables. Clarke ordered a glass of white wine and Fox a spiced tomato juice.

‘Can’t hear myself think,’ he complained, so Clarke relented and led them back outdoors to the tiny courtyard where smokers could usually be found. There was a bench attached to the wall and a couple of slatted tables, plus a scattering of wicker chairs. They sat opposite one another with their drinks. The night was chill, and Clarke wrapped her coat around her, pleased to see that she was better prepared than Fox, who wore only a thin dark blue suit, shirt and tie.

‘Better?’ she enquired.

‘Quieter, certainly.’ He buttoned his suit jacket as he spoke. ‘I’ll make this brief – it’s about you and David Galvin.’ He watched for her reaction and she couldn’t help but give one, her eyes widening slightly, glass stopping halfway to her mouth.

‘What about him?’

‘He works as a fiscal depute.’

‘I know that.’

‘On the Procurator Fiscal’s staff.’

‘To state the blindingly obvious.’

‘And the two of you are an item?’

‘What the hell has that got to do with you?’

Fox held up a hand to appease her. ‘It shouldn’t have
anything
to do with me – except that Professional Standards has been contacted anonymously, and that communication has been passed along.’

‘Anonymous?’

Fox nodded. ‘But obviously from someone Galvin works beside. Maybe someone with a grudge.’

‘So what does the message say?’

‘It simply informs Professional Standards that the two of you are spending a lot of time together and that you know one another intimately . . .’

Had she been any less furious and irritated, she might have found his language amusing. Instead of which, her face remained stony as she told him to go on.

‘There’s not much more,’ he admitted with a shrug. ‘Messenger says we should maybe look into your relationship, in case there’s any element of impropriety to be found.’

‘Such as me influencing David and vice versa?’

‘I suppose so.’ Fox shifted a little, his drink untouched as yet. ‘Do many people know about you and Mr Galvin?’

‘I’ve not told anyone.’ She gave him a hard stare. ‘It’s not that I think we’ve got anything to hide . . .’

‘Of course.’ Fox paused. ‘And on his part . . . ?’

‘Sounds as if he might have told
one
person at least.’ She lifted her phone. ‘I better talk to him.’ But then she studied the illuminated screen. ‘Soon as I can get a signal.’

‘Maybe leave it till morning,’ Fox advised. ‘Give yourself time to reflect.’

‘Always erring on the side of caution, eh? Never doing anything in the heat of the moment?’

‘Goes with the job,’ he said with a shrug.

After a moment, Clarke put her phone down again and lifted her drink. She took a couple of sips, before asking him how things were going with Rebus.

‘Hard to say.’

‘Because you can’t tell me, or because you don’t know?’

‘More the latter than the former. I’m just not sure where I stand with him. There’s so much happening behind his eyes . . .’

‘I know that feeling.’ Clarke hoisted her glass again. ‘He’s like one of those chess wizards, the ones who play a dozen boards at the same time.’

‘Not a bad analogy,’ Fox agreed with a smile. ‘And if he looks like losing even one of those games . . .’

‘Time to duck before the pieces go flying.’

Now they were both smiling, and the cold didn’t seem as bad as all that.

‘Thanks for letting me know,’ Clarke said into the silence. ‘About the mystery message, I mean. What’s the next step?’

‘It goes to the bottom of a rather crowded in-tray. Might be it never comes up for air. With reorganisation, a lot of paperwork could end up in the vaults.’

‘Is that ethical?’

‘You think a bit of Rebus has rubbed off on me already?’

‘He can have that effect.’ Clarke noticed her glass was empty. ‘Another?’ she asked.

‘I’ve not started this one yet. But look . . . and don’t take this the wrong way or anything . . .’

‘Go on,’ she prompted.

‘I was wondering if you’d eaten – because I haven’t and I’m starving.’

‘Broughton Street’s got everything you need,’ Clarke said. ‘And to tell you the truth, a curry might just hit the spot . . .’