Saints of the Shadow Bible (Rebus) (21 page)

‘Supposedly. I’m taking co-codamol for the pain. Makes things nicely spacey.’

‘Is that a prescription?’ Rebus enquired. ‘Or are you getting it from your boyfriend?’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘We hear he sells drugs, Jessica,’ Clarke explained.

‘Rubbish!’ Traynor barked. ‘Who told you that?’

‘You’re saying it isn’t true?’

‘Of course it’s not true,’ Alice Bell interrupted. ‘And we’d know, wouldn’t we?’

‘You probably would, yes,’ Clarke agreed. ‘But I can appreciate you might not want to admit it.’

‘It may come as news to you,’ Jessica Traynor said, ‘but Forbes’s father has just died. You’re really going to drag him to a police station and accuse him of dealing drugs? All because somebody spun you a bullshit story?’

Rebus took a step towards the sofa. ‘When you called me last night, Jessica, you were on the verge of telling me something. “They’ll kill me”, you said. Sounds as if there are people out there you’re afraid of, people your father can’t protect you from.’

‘She’s already told you,’ Alice Bell said, rising from the table. ‘She’s taking painkillers. Half the time she doesn’t know what she’s saying.’ She had settled herself on the arm of the sofa, next to Jessica Traynor’s head. Reaching down, she stroked her flatmate’s hair. ‘She shouldn’t even be talking to you now.’

Rebus’s stare was directed at Traynor. ‘Who are they, Jessica?’ he asked. ‘Who is it that’ll punish you if you talk to us? Were they there the night of the crash? Are they after Forbes too?’

‘Time for another of these, I think.’ She produced a bottle of pills which had been tucked beneath her on the sofa. ‘Fetch me some water, will you?’

Alice Bell got up and headed for the kitchen. Once she’d left the room, Rebus approached Traynor, crouching down in front of her, his face inches from hers.

‘We can help, Jessica. Maybe we’re the only ones who can. You just need to trust us.’

The student’s eyes were glassy, but she was listening.

‘Talk to Forbes,’ Rebus went on. ‘Let him know we’re on your side. Then give us a call . . .’

He was getting back to his feet again as Alice Bell returned with a half-filled glass.

‘I think it’s time for you to leave,’ Bell said, determination in her voice. The childproof cap on the pill bottle was defeating her friend, so she took it from her and opened it.

‘You need to go easy on those,’ Clarke advised.

‘Then I won’t.’ Traynor shook three small tablets into the palm of her hand and scooped them into her mouth, taking the glass from Bell and drinking from it. Afterwards, she gave a satisfied sigh and laid her head down on the sofa, closing her eyes.

‘Don’t let her take too many,’ Clarke warned.

‘Time for you to leave,’ Alice Bell repeated, pointing towards the door.

Siobhan Clarke was stretched along her own sofa, a cookery programme on TV and a microwave meal on a tray on her lap, when her mobile rang. It was Laura Smith, wanting an update.

‘The office is closed for the night,’ Clarke told her, stabbing at a forkful of food.

‘I hear the post-mortem result was inconclusive.’

‘Then you know as much as I do.’

‘You can really switch off? At home, I mean?’

‘I’d be a sad case otherwise.’

‘That must be me, then. Working days seem to get longer all the time.’

‘Poor you. Editor running you ragged?’

‘It’s not him; it’s just the job.’

‘Then put the phone down and go for a walk, maybe catch a film . . .’

‘Chance would be a fine thing. Have you done anything with that tip I gave you?’

‘Forbes and his drugs? Everyone seems to be denying it.’

‘There’s a surprise. And the interview with Owen Traynor . . . ?’

‘Was a matter of routine.’

‘I had a chat with the political desk here – you know he’s friends with Stefan Gilmour, don’t you?’

‘Of course,’ Clarke lied, suddenly interested but hoping it didn’t show in her voice. ‘But I’m impressed your political desk knows.’

‘Since he’s prominent in the No camp, the Yes supporters have a little file on Gilmour. Traynor’s name is in there. Some business venture from a few years back.’

‘Not really relevant,’ Clarke said, scribbling a note in the front-page margin of an old
Evening News
.

‘There could still be political capital to be made out of it. With Pat McCuskey gone, the Yes people would love some dirt on his equivalent in the No camp.’

‘I dare say they would.’

There was silence on the line, then a sigh from the journalist. ‘I’m wasting my breath, aren’t I?’

‘It’s yours to waste, Laura.’

‘I gave you Forbes McCuskey – don’t forget that.’

‘I won’t.’ Clarke ended the call and compared the dish on the TV screen with the food on her plate. ‘No contest,’ she said, scooping up another forkful.

Something Professor Cuttle had said –
we were so busy . . . lowlifes dropping dead or succumbing to injuries
– took Rebus to the Summerhall files the following morning. Malcolm Fox had been summoned to a meeting with Elinor Macari elsewhere in the building. It was raining outside, the sky black. Rebus had hung his coat up to dry and slipped his shoes off, balancing them on a radiator. He padded across the office in his damp socks, opening box files and ledgers, seeking out anything from the days and weeks leading up to Douglas Merchant’s murder.

‘Not interrupting, am I?’ Fox said on his return. He was carrying two cardboard beakers of tea. ‘Do you take sugar? I can’t remember.’ He dug some sachets from his jacket pocket.

‘Thanks,’ Rebus said, prising the lid from the proffered beaker. ‘Macari’s coffee machine on the blink?’

‘I just prefer tea.’ Fox took a sip, wincing at the scalding temperature.

‘You left the door open.’

‘Maybe I just forgot to lock it.’

‘Or it could be that you’re starting to trust me?’

Fox blew across the surface of his drink. ‘Here’s the thing, John – you wanted back on the force at any cost. They told you you’d be bumped down the ranks and you said okay. It’s not about status with you; it’s about the job itself. Am I right?’

‘More or less. So you
are
beginning to trust me?’

‘Trust works both ways.’ Fox gestured towards the paperwork in front of Rebus. ‘So tell me what’s keeping you busy.’

‘Working on a timeline,’ Rebus explained, hoping he could keep things nice and vague. ‘What did the Solicitor General want?’

‘Billy Saunders is still missing. His phone hasn’t been used, but two hundred pounds was taken from a cash machine with his card.’

‘When?’

‘Night he disappeared. From a Bank of Scotland in Newington.’

‘So he’s either alive and running, or . . .’

‘Someone took his card and made him hand over the PIN.’

‘Does Macari have a preference?’

Fox’s mouth twitched. ‘She wants Stefan Gilmour formally questioned.’

‘Because he had words with Saunders?’ Rebus watched Fox nod. ‘So do we bring him in?’

‘It’ll just be me, John, plus one of the fiscals. You’re too close to Gilmour.’

‘Thanks for the vote of confidence.’

‘You know I’m right, though.’ He paused, his attention shifting to the box files. ‘Remind me why we need a timeline . . .’

‘I thought you asked for one.’

‘Did I?’ Fox’s brow furrowed.

‘I reckoned maybe you wanted me kept busy,’ Rebus lied blithely.

‘Fine then,’ Fox said eventually. He noticed that Rebus was in socks, and looked towards the radiator. ‘At least brown shoes keep out the water,’ he commented.

Rebus opened another ledger and started reading.

He remembered most of the cases, but not all of them. An arson attack in Craigmillar . . . a series of corner shops held up by a drug addict armed with a syringe . . . several sexual assaults late at night in the Meadows (never officially linked, never solved). An off-duty constable had been attacked by a mob of football fans in a pub on Forrest Road. A tramp had been found dead in Greyfriars Kirkyard, bearing the signs of a beating. Cashpoint muggings, aggressive beggars, a pickpocket gang from Eastern Europe. The cells at Summerhall had been overflowing some nights. Then there was the cannabis haul from a lock-up in Dumbiedykes, and the stolen car that was used to ram-raid an off-licence.

All fun and games.

Rebus’s own name cropped up occasionally, as did his signature – at the bottom of reports he might or might not have typed. Cross-referencing the custody ledger against suspects arrested, he found that the bottom half of a page had been torn out.

‘Just for the record,’ he said, motioning for Fox to take a look, ‘it was like this when I opened it.’

Fox nodded. ‘I noticed that a while back.’

The last entry on the half-page still remaining gave details of a suspect detained a week before Merchant’s murder, while the first entry on the next page was from the same day.

‘Four hours or so missing,’ Fox commented. ‘Late afternoon to mid evening.’

‘What do you think happened?’

‘If the custody sergeant were still around, I’d ask him.’

‘Deceased?’ Rebus guessed.

‘Name of Magnus Henderson.’

‘I remember him,’ Rebus said. ‘Red-faced cheery-looking chap, but when he put someone in a headlock they soon realised he wasn’t Father Christmas.’

‘Retired to the Costa del Sol. Died a couple of years back from a coronary.’ Fox prodded at the ledger with a finger. ‘You think there’s something there that needed to be got rid of?’

‘I’m pretty sure that would have been your first reaction.’

‘You’re right, but unless you or one of the other Saints is about to confess . . .’

Rebus offered a shrug. ‘There are arrest records, other bits of paperwork that might provide an answer.’

‘Or else the custody sergeant just got a name wrong and tore the page out to save embarrassment.’

‘Maybe the prisoner got shirty, made a grab for the book,’ Rebus suggested. ‘I could ask around.’

‘Your old buddies? You really think Stefan Gilmour would own up? Or Eamonn Paterson?’

‘Probably not.’ Rebus’s phone was ringing.

‘Morning, DI Clarke,’ he said, answering. ‘Enjoying the weather?’

‘Have you heard?’ she asked.

Rebus’s jaw tightened. He fixed Fox with a stare. ‘Heard what?’

‘Body fished from the canal this morning. Bank card in his pocket has the name William Saunders.’

‘Billy Saunders is dead?’

Fox took out his own phone and tapped in a number.

‘Looks like,’ Clarke was saying. ‘Body’s not been formally identified yet.’

‘Pulled from the canal?’

‘A quiet stretch near Dumbryden – not far from Wester Hailes police station.’

Fox was giving the news to the Solicitor General. He kept his eyes on Rebus, ready to pass on any wisdom.

‘Near Dumbryden,’ Rebus dutifully repeated.

‘And there’s another thing, John . . .’

‘Did he jump, fall, or was he maybe pushed?’ Rebus interrupted her.

‘That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Word is he’d been shot.’

‘
Shot?
’

‘Shot,’ Fox said into his phone, eyes widening a little further.

‘Shot,’ Siobhan Clarke confirmed.

It had been decided to base the investigation at Wester Hailes. With the Pat McCuskey case in the process of being downgraded, officers were being moved from that team to the new one. By the time Rebus and Fox arrived at the canal, Clarke had been put in charge of the inquiry. DC Olivia Webster was with her, Clarke making the introductions from beneath a large black umbrella. Droplets of rain were dripping into Rebus’s eyes from his hair. Crime-scene tape had been strung across the canal path, onlookers gathering on the opposite bank. There wasn’t much in the vicinity other than an industrial estate and some wasteland. Ducks were sheltering between the thick reeds, heads tucked under their wings.

‘Grim,’ Rebus stated, taking in everything.

The canal was cleaner these days than in times past, but litter still floated on its oily surface, and nearby walls had become a sprawling canvas for the neighbourhood taggers.

‘Any CCTV?’ Fox asked.

‘On the industrial estate,’ Clarke told him. ‘We’ll be taking a look.’

‘What was he doing here?’

‘Your guess is as good as mine.’

‘There can’t be many guns in the city.’

‘One more than we thought,’ Clarke commented.

‘What I mean is, where did it come from? Someone must know.’

She nodded. Miserable-looking uniformed officers were combing the ground in all directions. They wore waterproofs, and Rebus thought he recognised one or two from the perimeter search of Pat McCuskey’s homestead.

‘The diver’s going to have fun,’ he said to Clarke. ‘Hope his shots are up to date.’

‘Not the best turn of phrase, under the circumstances.’

‘You think the gun’s in there?’ Rebus gestured towards the canal.

‘Maybe.’

‘How many bullets?’

‘Just the one. Close range, middle of the chest.’

Rebus examined the path beneath their feet. ‘Bloodstains?’

‘Not found any yet.’

‘So the impact probably propelled him into the water. Any casings?’

‘Christ, John, we’ve only just got started.’ Clarke’s voice was brittle.

‘Room for any more on the team?’ he asked. ‘Malcolm and me know as much about Saunders as anyone . . .’

‘We already have a job,’ Fox reminded him.

‘You don’t think the two just became one?’

‘We’d have to clear it with the Solicitor General.’

‘Don’t bother,’ Clarke broke in. ‘Neither one of you is coming on board.’

‘Dive team’s just arrived,’ a uniform announced from beyond the cordon. Clarke headed off in that direction, Olivia Webster at her heels. Rebus yanked his raincoat over his head, creating a little tent within which he could get a cigarette going.

‘You know why you’re not wanted?’ Fox was asking.

‘I think so,’ Rebus replied. ‘The Summerhall connection.’

Fox nodded slowly. ‘We need to talk to Macari. With Saunders out of the picture, her case is . . .’ He swallowed back the conclusion of the sentence.