Saints of the Shadow Bible (Rebus) (26 page)

‘True enough,’ Rebus agreed. ‘And if Darryl were to find out you were conducting a bit of business without his okay . . .’

Deano stiffened, squaring his shoulders.

‘How much were you selling to McCuskey?’

‘Enough for him to share with friends.’

‘Coke? Ecstasy?’

‘As and when required, plus a bit of blaw.’

‘And where do
you
source the stuff?’

The bouncer shook his head slowly and determinedly. ‘You’ve got what you’re getting.’

‘I’ve hardly started, son.’ Rebus took a moment to gather his thoughts. ‘Forbes was freelance? He wasn’t working for you?’

‘No.’

‘When was the last time you saw him?’

‘A couple of weeks.’

‘Is that normal?’

‘He might have other stuff on his plate right now.’

‘True, but I’m wondering how often he used to come see you. Maybe he’s found another outlet.’

‘You think that’s what he was doing the night of the crash?’

Rebus offered a shrug. A car was slowing as it passed the bar. A cheap model with a modified exhaust. Two young men in front, two in the back. Hip-hop blaring. They saw that Deano had company and seemed to recognise what kind of company it was. With a growl from the engine, the car sped off.

‘I maybe just lost you a sale,’ Rebus apologised.

‘They’ll be back,’ Deano said. ‘Are we done here?’

‘Just one last thing.’ Rebus lit a cigarette, offering one but receiving a shake of the head. ‘Cab driver called Billy Saunders had a pick-up here four nights back. That was the last anyone saw of him until he turned up with a bullet in his chest, floating in the canal.’

‘I heard.’

‘And I’m guessing by now you’ve been interviewed?’ Rebus watched as the bouncer nodded. ‘What did you tell them?’

‘I said I’d no idea who it was got picked up that night – or even if a cab ever arrived.’

‘As I thought,’ Rebus said. ‘But now you’re going to tell
me
the truth. See, Darryl already told me you were on the door that night. And a cab was ordered from here to go to Niddrie – and Niddrie is where the car ended up. So someone from this pub was in the back of that cab and they had to walk right past you when they left.’

‘Maybe I was on my break.’

Rebus squinted through a cloud of cigarette smoke, leaning back a little in a show of disbelief.

‘Lying might be in your job description, Deano, but you’re really bad at it. Care to try again?’

‘What if the cab was for someone I know? Would they be in the frame for the driver’s murder?’

Rebus shook his head. ‘Saunders was a worried man. He abandoned the cab and slept rough for a couple of nights. Nobody thinks it had anything to do with his passenger. We just need to know if he said anything, or seemed edgy, or maybe took a call on his mobile . . .’

‘The answer is no,’ Deano said. The door of the bar burst open and a man and woman stumbled out, arms around one another, giggling like the teenagers they no longer were. Ignoring Rebus and the bouncer, they headed off towards the flats behind the Gimlet, the woman pausing to remove her high heels, hanging on to the man for support as she did so.

‘You were the passenger?’ Rebus asked quietly. Deano eventually nodded.

‘An urgent delivery, maybe?’ Rebus guessed. ‘Or maybe stocks were low and you needed a top-up?’

‘He was supposed to wait. I told him I’d be five minutes, maybe ten. Handed him a twenty as down payment. But when I came out, he was nowhere to be seen.’

‘Did he know what was going on?’

‘No.’

‘You hadn’t used him before?’

‘Not that I know of.’

‘And he seemed fine?’

‘I was texting most of the way.’

‘When you handed him the money and told him to wait . . .’

‘He just nodded.’ Deano paused. ‘Maybe that
was
a bit odd. I mean, he didn’t say anything, like he was distracted. Just stared at the windscreen while I flicked the twenty on to the passenger seat.’ He fixed Rebus with a look. ‘No way I’m telling this to anyone else.’

‘I’ll need to think about that.’

‘I’ll deny everything. It’ll be your word against mine.’

‘I wonder whose story your boss would be likely to believe, Deano. Could be the police will be the least of your troubles.’

Rebus crossed the road and got into his car. Turned the ignition and gave a little wave in the bouncer’s direction before moving off.

Deano watched the car all the way to the T-junction. Even when it was lost to view he kept staring, as if there might be something around the corner that would emerge suddenly, changing his life utterly and for ever. A distant roar told him that the hip-hop car was somewhere in the vicinity. He turned and headed into the Gimlet, knowing that the sanctuary it offered might be fleeting and deceptive.

‘Anyone would think you have no social life,’ Rebus said. He had recognised Clarke’s Astra parked directly outside his tenement. She was getting out of the car now, smiling tiredly.

‘You don’t exactly look as if you’ve been partying,’ she responded.

‘The law never sleeps, Siobhan. But in your case, I might make an exception. Workload getting to you?’

‘I don’t want any foul-ups.’

‘They’re more likely to happen when the boss hasn’t had enough shut-eye.’ Rebus was finding the key for the main door. ‘You coming up?’

‘How strong can you make a cup of tea?’

Rebus tutted. ‘Warm milk for you, young lady. And a lift home after, if you’re too tired to drive . . .’

The flat was chilly, and Rebus turned up the radiators in the living room. He plugged his phone in to charge while he made tea. Clarke wandered into the kitchen and opened the fridge.

‘You hungry?’ he asked.

‘I may have just lost my appetite.’ She closed the door on the dried-up cheese and grey-pallored sausages.

‘We could call for a delivery.’

But she shook her head and watched him remove the tea bags from either mug. Back in the living room, she rested her head against the back of the sofa, eyes closed.

‘Stretch out, if you like,’ Rebus said, settling into his own armchair. ‘Then tell me all your troubles.’

‘Like I’m in therapy, you mean?’ She smiled, eyes still closed. ‘I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.’

‘Do I sound like a man with problems?’

She angled her head and looked at him. ‘You are, though. Let’s start with the gun. You know something about it, scout’s honour or not, so spit it out.’

Rebus stared back at her above the rim of the mug. ‘There
was
a gun like it,’ he admitted. ‘Doesn’t make it the
same
gun, mind.’

‘Taken from an ex-army veteran? And then what? Kept lying around Summerhall for anyone to borrow?’

‘As far as the Saints were concerned, they were repaying a debt. That soldier had served his country, so they decided to keep him out of jail.’

‘It wasn’t their decision to make, John.’

‘I know.’

‘Who did you speak to? Paterson?’ She watched him nod. ‘What did he say?’

‘Gun was kept in his desk drawer. Then one day, just before we all got moved out, it wasn’t there any more.’

‘Only a handful of people had access to it,’ Clarke stated.

‘Can we be sure it was the same gun?’ He saw the look she was giving him. ‘Okay, it’s a good bet, but it’s no more than that.’

‘Whoever shot Saunders, they’ll have gunpowder residue on their skin and clothes.’

‘And if they’re ex-police, they’ll know that and have dealt with it.’ He held up his right hand, waggling his fingers. ‘Want a quick sniff, Inspector?’

‘Don’t be revolting.’ She lifted her mug and drank from it.

‘Look, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I wanted to do a bit of checking first.’

‘So you phoned Paterson and warned him?’

‘I wasn’t warning him . . .’

‘Could be construed as such by someone who doesn’t know you like I do. But I’m running a murder case here, John, and the last thing I need is you placing hurdles in the way.’

‘Understood.’

‘You were in the army, weren’t you? Ever carry a Browning?’

‘Thirteen rounds, and you never knew when one might go off and you’d end up shooting yourself in the thigh or ankle.’

‘How so?’

‘Safety catch was far from foolproof. You never kept a round in the chamber.’

‘Easy to use, though? Could someone who’d never fired a shot in their life find their way around one?’

Rebus nodded, then asked how the questioning of Stefan Gilmour had gone.

‘He brought along a shiny lawyer.’

‘Only to be expected.’

‘Doesn’t make him look any less guilty.’

‘I’m guessing that’s what the media pack are thinking now too.’

Clarke’s phone had sounded, letting her know she had a text. She looked at the screen.

‘Uncanny,’ she commented. ‘That’s one of them now. Laura Smith.’

‘The
Scotsman
’s crime reporter?’

Clarke nodded. ‘She thinks I owe her for the gen on Forbes McCuskey and his dealing.’

‘She’d be happy enough if you told her you’ve connected Summerhall to the murder weapon.’

‘I’m not at that stage just yet.’ She looked at him again. ‘What’s happening about McCuskey?’

‘Father or son?’

‘Both, I suppose.’

Rebus got up and headed over to the bay window, pulling it open and crouching down so he could light a cigarette and blow the smoke outside.

‘I appreciate the thought,’ Clarke said. ‘Now, about the McCuskeys . . .’

‘You probably know as much as I do when it comes to the break-in.’

‘Managed to link it to the son yet?’

‘No . . .’

‘That sounds like you’re getting closer, though.’

‘Just from the way I said “no”?’

She nodded. ‘So here’s where we find out if you think you can trust me.’

‘I trust you.’

‘Then share.’

Rebus held up a finger. ‘You have to go first – how is Fox working out?’

‘He’s okay. A sharp mind, even if his CID skills are a bit rusty.’

‘Do you trust
him
?’

‘I think so, yes.’

‘Even though he could still be playing for Elinor Macari’s team?’

‘I trust him,’ Clarke stated. ‘Now it’s your turn.’

Rebus blew smoke through the gap in the window. ‘Forbes McCuskey isn’t a big player. My guess is he just buys enough to sell on to his immediate circle – probably reckons it makes him look big and important. He gets the stuff from a doorman at the Gimlet.’

‘Darryl Christie’s pub?’

‘The same. Not that Christie knows anything about it.’ Rebus paused. ‘So when you question the doorman – name’s Deano, by the way – keep it low-key. He might be useful to us some day, but not if Christie’s booted him off the park.’

‘And why would I be questioning this Deano character?’

‘Because he was the passenger in Billy Saunders’s minicab. Needed to go to Niddrie for a bit of shopping. Says Saunders didn’t seem particularly antsy. The car was supposed to wait, but it didn’t.’

‘Anything else?’

Rebus shook his head.

‘And you were going to bring this to me first thing in the morning?’

‘Of course.’ He gestured towards her mug. ‘How’s the tea?’

‘I think the milk’s past it.’

‘Past it sometimes still does the job.’ He paused. ‘If you want to leave your car here, I can run you home. Don’t want you nodding off at the wheel.’

She was stifling a yawn, but shaking her head at the same time. ‘You know that your pal Gilmour connects to Owen Traynor?’

‘Yes.’

‘Been keeping that to yourself too?’

‘Obviously not – who told you?’

‘Laura.’

‘Another favour owed.’

‘The shining knight of the Better Together campaign is beginning to look pretty tarnished.’

‘This is why I don’t vote. My ex campaigned for devolution back in ’79. Drove me demented.’

‘But we’ve got the chance for a fresh start,’ Clarke teased him.

‘Thing about fresh starts, though, Siobhan . . .’

‘What?’

‘They usually turn out to be same old in disguise.’

As Malcolm Fox sat by his father’s bedside, he thought of Professor Norman Cuttle. It had been on the tip of his tongue to reveal to Rebus that his own father was in a home not unlike the one in Colinton. Mitch Fox was dozing. Malcolm looked around the room, seeing the few select pieces of furniture from the old house, the ones Mitch had decided to keep. Everything else had either been split between Malcolm and his sister, or else sold. A line of saliva had dried to a salty crust on Mitch’s unshaven chin. The skin looked red and sore. Malcolm would mention it to the staff. They would have an excuse ready – they always did – but he would ask anyway, just so they’d know he was paying attention.

Fox was tired, but he wanted to stay until his father roused himself. That way he could say a proper goodbye. They’d been discussing the latest travails of Hearts FC, along with small talk about the weather and the trams. With a single snore, Mitch Fox blinked back to wakefulness.

‘I nodded off there,’ he confessed.

‘Testament to my conversational skills.’

‘Pass me the glass, will you?’

It wasn’t actually glass, but a toughened translucent plastic which would bounce if dropped. There was an inch of tepid water left in it, and Mitch drained it, shaking his head when his son offered a refill. He lay back against his bunched pillows and studied Malcolm.

‘Is that you finished in the Complaints?’

‘More or less.’

‘And they’ll have you back in CID?’

‘You don’t think I’m up to it?’

‘It’ll be hard going.’

‘I’m armour-plated.’

‘That’s the problem, though – you’re anything but. It’s why Complaints suited you. Paper-pushing rather than blood and guts.’

‘Is it that time again?’

‘What time?’

‘Whenever I visit these days, you always feel the need to stick the knife in.’

‘Do I?’

‘You know you do.’ Fox had risen to his feet so he could pace what floor space there was. He’d had a letter a few weeks back informing him that money could be saved were his father to share with another of the home’s clients. He’d been tempted, not because he couldn’t afford the fees but just to see the look on Mitch’s face – a small, cruel victory of sorts.