Saints of the Shadow Bible (Rebus) (29 page)

‘That bad?’ Rebus asked.

‘Ate too quickly,’ she explained, stifling a burp.

‘So what do you make of Malcolm’s theory?’

She looked at both men, then offered a shrug. ‘A few facts would be nice.’

‘Wouldn’t they, though?’ Rebus agreed.

Clarke’s eyes were on Fox. ‘Because I’m not sure any of this gets us much closer to proving who killed Billy Saunders. On the other hand, maybe that’s not what’s most important to you – maybe Summerhall’s still top of your list.’

‘I don’t really see a distinction, and I’m not sure John does either.’

‘What about Pat McCuskey?’ Rebus asked. ‘Does anyone know if the investigation’s still stalled?’

‘Far as I can tell,’ Clarke answered. ‘And that’s driving Nick Ralph spare.’ She looked at Rebus. ‘You think it connects to that crash, don’t you?’

‘Jessica’s flatmate was sleeping with him,’ Rebus stated.

‘What?’

‘Alice Bell. She had a thing going with Forbes’s dad.’

‘Did Forbes know?’

‘I’m not sure – Alice says not.’

‘And Jessica?’

‘Ditto.’

‘Could that be what happened? They’re out driving and they happen to see the pair of them?’

‘Might make me put pedal to metal,’ Rebus conceded. ‘But Alice is keeping quiet.’

‘Worth nudging her a bit?’

The look on Rebus’s face said no. He turned towards Fox.

‘I suppose you’d go to DCI Ralph with it anyway? That way your arse is covered if it turns out to be important.’

Fox considered for a moment, then nodded. Rebus turned his attention back to Clarke.

‘So maybe that’s what you should do.’

‘Saunders is my priority, John.’ She checked her watch. ‘Which means I need to get back and crack the whip.’

‘Might want to stop off at a pharmacy first,’ Rebus said, indicating her stomach. ‘Dose of liver salts will see you right.’

‘I’ll take that under advisement,’ Siobhan Clarke said.

That evening Rebus drove the full length of Arden Street, seeking a parking space, ending up in Marchmont Crescent. Cursing his luck, he locked the car and crossed Marchmont Road, stopping in at Margiotta’s for provisions before walking home. At the top of Arden Street, he saw a figure slumped in a doorway. Heading towards it, he recognised Forbes McCuskey. The young man was dressed in his funeral suit but was missing his tie. The top three buttons of his shirt were undone, and something had been spilled on the shirt itself. He had lit a cigarette and it was still wedged between two fingers, reduced to the filter and an inch of ash. Rebus nudged McCuskey’s foot with his own.

‘Wakey wakey,’ he said.

The eyes, when they blinked open, were glassy and unfocused.

‘This where you live?’ Rebus asked.

Mustering all his strength, the student turned his head to examine the door behind him.

‘Looks like,’ he slurred.

‘Bit too much wine?’ Rebus guessed. ‘Or have you been sampling the goods?’ He leaned down and started to lift McCuskey to his feet. The student was wiry, almost no meat on him. The jacket of his suit was scuffed, as were his shoes.

‘How did you get here?’ Rebus asked.

‘I didn’t drive,’ McCuskey protested.

‘But you were driving that night, weren’t you?’

‘Had to get away.’

‘Who from?’

But McCuskey was sagging, eyes closing again.

‘Let’s get you inside,’ Rebus said, dipping a hand into various pockets in search of a key.

‘What’s your game?’ Rebus turned his head towards the question. Two men the same age as Forbes McCuskey stood there, carrying grocery bags of their own. ‘You picking Forbes’s pockets?’

‘Is he your flatmate?’ Rebus said. ‘Found him sparked out here. Just getting a key to unlock the door.’

‘He’s been to his father’s funeral,’ one of the flatmates explained. ‘Leave him to us.’

‘You sure?’

McCuskey’s eyes were blinking open again. ‘Policeman,’ he said.

‘You want us to call the police, Forbes?’ the same flatmate asked, wary eyes on Rebus.

‘He’s telling you I
am
the police,’ Rebus explained. The two students had taken hold of their friend. Rebus took a step back. ‘And I’ve a message for him when he comes back down from space. Tell him his dealing days are over – Deano’s not going to be supplying any more.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Of course you don’t. But tell him anyway.’ Rebus peered into one of the flatmates’ shopping bags. ‘Big bag of nachos and a jar of salsa? You might as well get “munchies” tattooed on your foreheads . . .’

He had reached the main door of his own tenement when a car horn sounded behind him. A white Range Rover Evoque had pulled to a stop in the middle of the road, its tinted driver’s-side window sliding down. Rebus saw that Darryl Christie was behind the wheel, staring in his direction.

‘You haven’t moved up the property ladder, then?’ Christie said. ‘How about you?’ Rebus countered. ‘Still living with your mum?’

‘Penthouse the other side of the Meadows,’ Christie corrected him. ‘Got time for a quick word?’

‘Just barely.’

‘Get in, then.’

Rebus walked around to the passenger side and climbed aboard, placing his shopping on the floor by his feet. Christie drove to the bottom of Arden Street and took a right.

‘We headed anywhere in particular?’

‘I just like to keep on the move. That way there’s less chance of anyone listening in.’

‘You’re a bit young to be suffering paranoid delusions.’

‘What about that guy back there – what was he suffering from?’

‘He’d just been to a wake.’

‘I sort of recognised him.’

‘Son of the Justice Minister. So what can I do for you, Darryl?’

‘One of your colleagues pulled my doorman in for questioning.’

‘Yes?’

‘Second time he’s been questioned, so I’m curious.’

‘Nothing to be curious about – you told us yourself that Dean Grant had been on duty that night. We just needed to know if he’d seen who got into the minicab.’

‘And?’

‘Why not ask him yourself?’

‘I have.’

‘What did he say?’

‘He’s paid to deal with trouble, not make it.’

‘Pretty much chimes with the story we got – he didn’t see anything. A bit hard for us to believe, him being on the door and everything, so we had to push that bit further.’ Rebus gauged Christie’s reaction to this. If he accepted it, Dean would stay in a job and might end up convinced he owed Rebus a favour at some point in the future. The Range Rover had reached the traffic lights at Buccleuch Street. Christie signalled right, then right again. They were making a circuit. Once the speed bumps on narrow Melville Terrace had been negotiated, they’d more or less be back where they’d started. Waiting for traffic to clear, Rebus couldn’t help looking towards the site of Summerhall police station. Here he was, thirty years down the line, still sharing oxygen with villains. But Darryl Christie seemed to represent change. He was young and hungry, yes, and venal too, but he was also clever – not just street-smart but calculating and astute. Having no weight of his own to throw around, he had found other avenues to success.

‘The thing is,’ Christie was saying now, ‘CID interest is bad for business, and business being what it is right now . . .’

‘Don’t tell me the downturn’s hurting you?’

‘Economy’s tough for all of us, Mr Rebus. There’s a lot of competition out there, and when markets contract you try to find new ones, even if that means encroaching.’

‘Turf wars? Are you being squeezed?’

‘Maybe not quite yet.’

‘But you can feel it coming?’ Rebus watched as Darryl Christie nodded slowly. ‘There was a car crash just over a week back, out by Kirkliston. Mid evening. We’ve got a few theories.’

‘Yes?’

‘One is boy racers.’

‘And the other?’

‘The driver was doing small-time deals right here in Edinburgh. He had a local supplier, but I’m thinking maybe he got greedy or wanted to move up the food chain.’

‘Was he anywhere near Livingston?’

Rebus stared at the side of Christie’s head. ‘It’s possible.’

‘Only there’s someone out that way . . . Not originally; originally he was Glasgow, but he couldn’t hack it there – if you’ll pardon the expression. He moved out to Ayrshire, Lanarkshire . . .’

‘And now Livingston? Very much
your
neck of the woods, Darryl.’

‘Some people think competition can be healthy.’ Christie was keeping his eyes on the road, when they weren’t checking the rearview mirror. Each turn he made, he signalled first, always stopping at Give Ways. Rebus had thought Fox a cautious driver, but this was something else again.

‘He’s selling drugs?’ he asked.

‘Just starting to, I think. You’d be doing me a favour if you took him out of the game for a while.’ Christie allowed himself a thin smile. ‘Name’s Rory Bell.’

‘I’m a bit busy right now to be doing favours for gangsters.’

‘Then you’re probably not much use to me.’ As Christie signalled to pull to a stop at the foot of Arden Street, he turned his face towards Rebus for the first time. ‘Does DI Clarke think I’ll ever use Dean Grant again? Whether he told you anything or not, he’s off the payroll. Damaged goods, Mr Rebus – no place for them in today’s harsh economic climate, and that’s the truth.’

Rebus pushed open the door and got out, retrieving his carrier bag. As Darryl Christie drove off, he appeared to have forgotten all about his recent passenger, his focus on the road in front of him absolute.

‘Oh well,’ Rebus muttered under his breath. ‘Sorry about that, Deano.’

‘I just wanted to thank you,’ Fox said. He was sitting with Siobhan Clarke at a table in a boisterous Italian restaurant near the top of Leith Walk. It was early evening, but a coach party was taking advantage of the pre-theatre menu before heading to the Playhouse.

‘For what?’ Clarke asked.

‘Putting a word in with Rebus.’

‘Did I do that?’ She furrowed her brow.

‘You told him you thought I was okay.’

‘And for that I deserve to be bought dinner?’

‘You can’t live on cheeseburgers.’

‘Don’t remind me.’ She made show of rubbing her stomach, stopping as the drinks arrived – a large Pinot Grigio for her, tomato juice for Fox. ‘How long have you been dry?’ she asked.

‘Long enough to know it’s the way it has to be. Have you ever tried persuading John to stop?’

‘Once or twice. He seems to cope, though.’

‘I think the term is “functioning alcoholic”.’

‘Whereas you . . . ?’

‘Come with a history of
mal
functioning.’ He paused. ‘Doesn’t mean I envy him the ability to keep drinking. It’s taking more out of him than he gets back, whether he knows it or not.’

‘You’ve talked to him?’

Fox shook his head. ‘What’s the point? But I can see he’s worried. Not about the drink, but about his job. He wonders how long he has left.’

‘And without the job . . .’

Fox shrugged. ‘What else has he got?’

‘How about you, Malcolm – what have you got?’

‘My dad and my sister. Plus my team from the Complaints. We still meet up.’

‘Might be a bit of distance between you and them now you’re CID . . .’

Fox nodded. ‘And I know I have to earn my place. Nobody’s going to trust me at the start. But plenty of others have made the move before me – it
can
be done.’

Clarke nodded her agreement. Their food arrived and they ate in silence for a few moments, while fresh laughter erupted from the table of revellers.

‘Nice to know there’s another world out there,’ Fox commented. ‘Too easy sometimes to let the job smother us.’

‘Though having said that . . .’

Fox looked at her and smiled. ‘You want to talk about the case?’

‘I’m wondering if you think there might be a connection. Dean Grant sells drugs to Forbes McCuskey. He’s also one of the last people to see Billy Saunders alive. Saunders and Forbes’s father both end up dead.’

‘And Summerhall?’

‘Ties to Saunders but not to Pat McCuskey – unless I’m missing something.’

‘Stefan Gilmour,’ Fox stated.

‘You mean because he was on the opposing team in the independence fight?’ Clarke nodded slowly while she chewed. ‘But I don’t sense any animosity between the two men – far from it. People we’ve talked to say they had a lot of respect for one another.’

‘Maybe a facade.’

Now she shook her head. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘You want to amalgamate with DCI Ralph? Turn the two cases into one?’

‘I don’t know. Your money would still be on Summerhall, wouldn’t it?’

‘Yes. But in the meantime, I’d probably want Nick Ralph to know that Forbes McCuskey’s father was sleeping with Forbes’s good friend Alice.’

‘Could the wife have suspected?’

‘She might need to be asked that.’

‘I should phone Nick?’

‘I would.’

‘And if Alice Bell denies it?’

‘Then she denies it.’

‘How did John get her to own up?’ Clarke asked, eyes narrowed in thought.

‘The man
does
have his qualities,’ Fox said, reaching for his tomato juice as the table of theatregoers began singing a chorus from
Oliver!
He saw that Clarke was worried, unable to relax. ‘It’s a big case, Siobhan, but you couldn’t be handling it any better.’

‘Thanks.’

‘I’m not just buttering you up.’

‘I’m sure you’re not.’

One of the women from the very vocal table squeezed by them on her way to the toilets.

‘Love’s young dream,’ she clucked.

‘If only she knew,’ Malcolm Fox commented.

‘John,’ Maggie Blantyre said, eyes widening as she recognised him. He was standing on the doorstep of the bungalow, collar up against a sudden flurry of sleet.

‘Mind if I come in?’ he asked.

It took her a moment to decide. ‘I was just tidying away the dinner things . . .’ She stood back and opened the door a little more. Rebus stepped into the hallway.

‘Do you get any help?’ he asked.

‘Help?’

‘With Dod.’

‘Someone comes in at bedtime, and again first thing in the morning.’

‘And that’s it?’

‘It’s as much as he’ll allow. Here, let me take your coat. Is anything wrong?’