Saints of the Shadow Bible (Rebus) (17 page)

‘Do I need a lawyer?’

‘You’re not under caution, Mr Traynor.’

Ralph and Clarke had brought Owen Traynor to one of the smaller, tidier offices on the first floor of Torphichen Place. Members of the Major Incident Team could be heard behind the closed door, pretending to traverse the corridor but really hoping to overhear some titbit or other.

‘Had to run the bloody gauntlet coming in,’ Traynor complained. He was wearing his suit, but no tie. ‘If this is about Jessica’s crash . . .’

‘In a way it is,’ Nick Ralph interrupted. ‘DI Clarke tells me your daughter is recovering?’

Traynor nodded.

‘But there’s still some confusion over the cause of the crash.’

‘She skidded on a patch of ice or something.’

‘So she
was
driving?’

‘That’s the story.’

‘Interesting choice of words,’ Clarke broke in. ‘Sounds to me like you don’t totally believe her.’

‘Blame your pal Rebus – he’s the one who tried stirring things up, bringing in Forbes McCuskey’s name. Next thing I know, he’s asking if I had anything to do with the break-in at the parents’ place.’

‘And did you?’

Traynor stared hard at Clarke. ‘I
knew
that was what this was about,’ he growled. ‘You’re desperate to put some mug in the frame – any mug!’

‘We’re just interested in the coincidence, Mr Traynor,’ DCI Ralph said, all calmness and reason.

‘As far as I know, the only thing that links the two events is the son, but I don’t see
him
being questioned. Wouldn’t look good in the papers, would it? So now
my
photo’s going to be in them instead!’

‘Just to be clear, then,’ Ralph went on, ignoring the outburst, ‘you’ve never met Patrick and Bethany McCuskey? Never been to their house?’

‘Didn’t even know where it was until I saw it on the news.’

‘And you don’t blame Forbes McCuskey for what happened to Jessica?’ Clarke added.

Traynor stared at her again. ‘Not at all,’ he stated, though she could tell he was lying, his eyes shifting away from her as he spoke.

‘I believe you have friends in the Met?’ Nick Ralph said, leaning back a little in his chair.

‘Amazing who you bump into when you play golf.’ Traynor tugged at one of his shirt cuffs.

‘Yet you’ve been in a bit of trouble in the past.’

‘Says who?’

‘There’s been a certain amount of insolvency.’

‘I’ve always bounced back.’

‘Unlike some of your investors.’

‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

‘Just that you’re a man with a temper.’

‘Doesn’t mean I go around walloping politicians. Besides which, I was in my hotel all morning and plenty of staff can vouch for me.’ Traynor looked from one detective to the other, as if daring them to doubt him. ‘So you’re wasting your time, and – more importantly – mine.’

‘Do you like Forbes McCuskey?’ Clarke asked into the silence.

‘Kid seems all right.’

‘And if it were the case that he caused the crash rather than Jessica, and fled the scene without helping her . . . ?’

‘That’s not what she says happened.’

‘Maybe she’s just scared what you’d do if you discovered the truth.’

Traynor glared at her, then turned his attention to Ralph. ‘We about done here?’

‘Unless there’s anything you want to add.’

‘Nothing,’ Traynor stated.

Olivia Webster was summoned to lead Traynor out. Clarke and Ralph stood together in the corridor, watching him leave.

‘Wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of him,’ Nick Ralph commented. ‘On the other hand, I’ve seen nothing to suggest that breaking into someone’s house is his style.’ He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘Any word on the stolen property?’

‘Not yet.’

An officer had appeared in one of the doorways, waving to catch Ralph’s attention. ‘Call from the First Minister’s office,’ he explained.

‘Wonderful,’ Ralph muttered, stalking down the hall.

Footage from the police station was playing on the TV news channel in Rebus and Fox’s café of choice. They were in the Glasgow suburbs, and thankful for the satnav on Fox’s phone.

‘Never really got to grips with the roads here,’ Fox commented, as his Scotch broth was delivered.

‘Join the club.’ Rebus sat back a little, so that the waiter could place the steak pie in front of him. It came with chips, salad and a roll and butter.

‘Help me out,’ Rebus said to Fox.

‘You’re on your own, pal,’ Fox replied, tucking his napkin into his waistband. Then, after a glance at the wall clock: ‘And you’ve got about twenty minutes before we need to be elsewhere.’ Having said which, he picked up his spoon and got to work.

‘Did you always think you’d end up in the Complaints?’ Rebus asked.

‘Does anybody?’

‘Maybe not, but you seem to be good at it – judging by the number of cops who hate your guts.’

‘Yourself included?’

‘Maybe less so than before.’

Fox added some white pepper to the soup. ‘Somebody’s got to make sure we don’t take liberties – pun intended.’

‘And used many times before, I don’t doubt.’ Rebus removed some gristle from between his teeth. ‘But now that we’re getting to know one another, would that make you feel any worse if you had to bust me?’

Fox glanced up at him. ‘Maybe,’ he conceded.

‘You’d bust me anyway, though?’

‘If I needed to.’

‘Some bloody job that. Say I was trying to get some bawbag to confess, and they
did
end up confessing but I’d had to finesse a procedure or two . . . ?’

Fox smiled. ‘You think that puts you on the side of the angels?’

‘And you don’t?’

‘I’m not some bean-counter, John. Every situation is different, and circumstances are taken into account.’

‘Sounds like bean-counter talk to me.’ But Rebus was smiling too.

Fox checked the clock again.

‘You don’t think Stefan will grant us a few minutes’ leeway?’ Rebus asked.

‘Would you?’

‘Good point,’ Rebus was forced to agree, digging into the steak pie again.

‘Hey, take a look.’ Fox was gesturing towards the TV. Rebus saw the media outside Torphichen police station becoming restive as a man manoeuvred his way past them to get inside. The shot then cut to the same man leaving the building, while the newsreader explained that he was ‘businessman Owen Traynor from southwest London, whose daughter Jessica is the girlfriend of Patrick McCuskey’s son . . .’

‘Good for you, Siobhan,’ Rebus muttered under his breath, before giving up on the pie and starting on the chips instead.

It was a three-storey hotel, all smoked glass and chrome, sited within easy reach of the M8 and M74 – a place where business traffic could stop for meetings or food or a bed for the night. Stefan Gilmour and his partner, the ex-footballer Barney Frewin, had built the place from scratch, and it had only been open three weeks. There were framed photos on a wall in the lobby showing guests at the official opening party, including Frewin and a few of his footballing cronies past and present, plus Gilmour’s girlfriend and some of her showbiz friends.

‘She’s still a beauty,’ Fox was forced to admit. Then, sensing Rebus’s look: ‘Used to see her on TV . . .’

They were about to announce themselves at the reception desk, but Stefan Gilmour himself was walking towards them, calling out a greeting to Rebus. The two men shook hands, and Rebus introduced Fox.

‘Let’s make this quick,’ Gilmour said, sounding impatient. He was in shirtsleeves, no sign of a jacket. He summoned the lift, and once all three were inside, slipped a key card in and out of the slot before pressing the button marked PH.

‘Penthouse,’ he explained. ‘Not booked today, so we might as well.’

The doors slid open, and they were in a private hallway, doors leading off to living room, bathroom and bedroom. Floor-to-ceiling windows gave views towards the centre of Glasgow and the hills beyond. On the other hand, what Rebus mostly saw were motorway lanes and industrial units.

‘Impressive,’ Fox said, as Gilmour settled himself on one of the room’s two sofas, stretching his arms out along the back of it.

‘I just saw Owen Traynor on TV,’ Gilmour said. ‘What’s that all about?’

‘You know him?’ Rebus asked.

‘We were planning a hotel in Croydon – never quite happened, but Traynor was part of the syndicate. Now he pops up in Edinburgh . . .’

‘He’s from Croydon originally,’ Rebus commented.

‘Hence his usefulness, John.’

‘Fascinating as all that may be,’ Fox broke in, ‘it’s not why we’re here.’

‘So why are you?’ Gilmour crossed one leg over the other.

Rebus stayed standing by a window, while Fox took an armchair. ‘It’s to do with Billy Saunders,’ Fox said.

‘I know – it was daft of me to phone him.’ Gilmour held up his hands, arms still stretched.

‘How did you get his number?’ Rebus asked.

‘Guy drives a minicab, John – how hard do you think it was?’

‘I’m guessing maybe money changed hands.’

‘No comment.’

‘Well,’ Fox interrupted, ‘maybe you’d care to “comment” on Mr Saunders’s sudden disappearance?’

Gilmour looked bemused.

‘His car was found abandoned on waste ground,’ Rebus explained. ‘Just when the Solicitor General was readying to question him more thoroughly.’

‘Whoa there.’ Gilmour leaned forward, elbows now resting on knees, hands clasped together. ‘You’re not going to blame
me
for that!’

‘What exactly did you say to him?’ Fox enquired.

‘I just wanted to know . . .’ Gilmour broke off, fixing Fox with a look. ‘I’m not a cop any more, haven’t been for thirty years. Nothing to stop me wanting to ask the man what he was going to say to an investigation.’

‘Asking rather than threatening?’

‘Threats aren’t my style.’ Gilmour leapt to his feet. Pointing at Fox, he aimed his question at Rebus. ‘How can you hang around with this skid mark?’

‘So you asked Billy Saunders what he was going to say?’

Gilmour stood not three feet from Rebus, and eventually nodded by way of answer.

‘And?’ Rebus nudged.

‘And nothing – he didn’t want to talk to me. I doubt our little chat lasted twenty seconds.’ Gilmour paused. ‘I’m willing to bet you’ve applied to see his phone records – they’ll show I’m not lying.’

‘Did you call him back?’ Rebus asked.

‘Tried, but he wouldn’t pick up.’

‘And at no point did you offer an inducement?’ Fox added from his chair.

‘A bribe, you mean?’ Gilmour shook his head. ‘Tell you what I think, though – I think you lot scared him off. Thirty years after the fact and suddenly he’s going to be in the dock again. I’d probably have scarpered too.’

‘Nevertheless, Mr Gilmour,’ Fox commented, ‘it can’t be easy for you. You’ve got all of this now.’ He waved a hand, taking in the room and everything around it. ‘Stuff you did in the past, you think of it as long forgotten.
This
is your life now – unless Billy Saunders stands up in court and tells the world about the person you used to be.’

‘A good cop is who I used to be, the kind that put his neck on the line, the kind that made the public feel that little bit safer in their beds at night.’ Gilmour walked over and planted himself in front of Fox’s chair. ‘Whereas what I hear about you is you could never cut it in CID, near as dammit got down on your knees and
begged
for a Complaints posting.’

Fox got slowly to his feet, blood rising to his cheeks. ‘You know this doesn’t end it? Case can go ahead with or without Billy Saunders. I’m still going to be picking apart your little gang.’

‘He means us, John,’ Gilmour called to Rebus.

‘But you above all,’ Fox felt the need to clarify. ‘Saunders was
your
snitch and I reckon you’re the one who got him off. Whether you had any help is neither here nor there.’

‘Douglas Merchant was a scumbag who got what was coming to him. We should be looking at a commendation rather than a jail sentence.’

‘Keep telling yourself that,’ Fox advised. ‘The more often you and your pal Paterson say it, the less convinced you sound.’

‘Are we about done here? Because I’m hearing nothing that’s going to cause me even a sleepless five minutes. Billy Saunders can tell any story he wants; it’s going to be his word against Summerhall CID. Hearsay’s all you’re ever going to have.’ Gilmour jutted out his chin, almost toe to toe with Fox. Fox was opening his mouth, readying a response, when the lift doors shuddered open.

‘You here yet, Big Boy?’ A woman’s sing-song voice. ‘Reception told me to come up and wait . . .’ She walked into the room and came to a stop, lips opening into an O.

‘Your next appointment?’ Fox pretended to guess, eyes on Gilmour.

‘I think you should leave,’ Gilmour said, his words edged with frost.

The woman was young – mid twenties maybe. Dyed red hair and a short coat below which was a presumably shorter dress. Rebus thought he recognised her from one of the photos in the lobby. She’d had a footballer’s arm draped around her. Perfume was filling the room, replacing the oxygen.

‘We’re going,’ Rebus stated, making his way towards the hall. Gilmour was avoiding eye contact, but that was just fine. Maybe there was some parting shot from Fox, but if so Rebus didn’t hear it. The two men stood together as the lift doors closed and they began their descent. Nothing was said until Rebus paused by the display from the party, checking that he was right about the visitor.

‘Cheating on a woman like that,’ Fox commented, shaking his head as he pressed the tip of a finger to Gilmour’s girlfriend’s face.

Up in the penthouse, there was a call on Gilmour’s phone. He was going to ignore it until he checked the name on the screen.

‘Back in a minute,’ he barked to his visitor, retreating to the bathroom and closing the door. ‘Long time no hear.’

‘Took you long enough to pick up.’

‘I’m rushed off my feet. What can I do for you?’

‘I’m after a favour. Do you still know anyone on the force in Edinburgh?’

‘I might.’

‘Only a friendly face wouldn’t hurt.’

‘What’s this about, Owen?’

‘I want to know what really happened the night Jessica had her smash.’