Saints of the Shadow Bible (Rebus) (3 page)

‘Your daughter’s a student?’ he surmised. Traynor nodded. ‘At the University of Edinburgh?’ Another nod.

‘What’s her course?’ Clarke added.

‘Art history.’

‘Which year is she?’

‘Second.’ Traynor seemed to be growing impatient. He was watching his daughter through the glass. Her chest rose and fell almost imperceptibly. ‘I have to go back in . . .’

‘There are a couple of things we need to ask Jessica,’ Clarke told him.

He looked at her. ‘Such as?’

‘Just to make sure we have all the facts.’

‘She’s sleeping.’

‘Maybe you could try waking her up.’

‘She’s sore all over.’

‘What did she tell you about the accident?’

‘She said she was sorry about the Golf.’ Traynor’s attention had shifted to the window again. ‘It was a birthday present. Insurance cost almost as much as the car . . .’

‘Did she say anything about the accident itself, sir?’ Traynor shook his head. ‘I really do need to go back in.’

‘Mind if I ask where you’re from, Mr Traynor?’ The question came from Rebus.

‘Wimbledon.’

‘South-west London?’

‘Yes.’

‘And by the time you heard about Jessica, flights to Scotland would have finished for the day – did you take the train?’

‘I have access to a private plane.’

‘So you’ve been awake all night and half of today? Might be you could use some shut-eye yourself.’

‘I managed an hour or two on the chair.’

‘Even so . . . Your wife wasn’t able to join you?’

‘We’re divorced. She lives in Florida with someone half her age who calls himself a “personal trainer”.’

‘But you’ve told her about Jessica?’ Clarke checked.

‘Not yet.’

‘Don’t you think she should know?’

‘She walked out on us eight years ago – Jessica doesn’t get so much as a phone call at Christmas.’ The words were tinged with bile. Traynor was exhausted, yes, but in no mood to forgive. He turned towards the two detectives. ‘Is this because I called in a favour?’

‘Sir?’ Clarke’s eyes had narrowed at the question.

‘I happen to know a couple of people in the Met – phoned from the plane to make sure everything up here was kosher. Thing is, as you said yourself, it was the kind of accident that could happen to anyone.’ His tone hardened. ‘So I don’t see what’s to be gained from you talking to her.’

‘We didn’t
quite
say it could happen to anyone,’ Rebus broke in. ‘Straight stretch of deserted road – has to be a reason why the car decided not to stick to it. The locals out that way like to do a bit of racing once the sun’s gone down . . .’

‘I’ve already told you, Jessica was the safest driver imaginable.’

‘Then you’ve got to wonder what was causing her to do the speed she was doing. Was it maybe road rage? Was she trying to get away from someone tailgating her? Questions only
she
can answer, Mr Traynor.’ Rebus paused. ‘Questions I’d have thought you’d want to have answered too.’

He waited for this to sink in. Traynor ran his hand through his hair again, then gave a long sigh.

‘Give me your number,’ he conceded. ‘I’ll call you when she’s awake.’

‘We were just going to grab something from the café,’ Rebus told him. ‘So if it’s in the next twenty minutes or so, we’ll still be here.’

‘We can bring you a sandwich, if you like,’ Clarke added, her face softening a little.

Traynor shook his head, but took her card when she offered it.

‘Mobile’s on the back,’ she said. ‘Oh, and one more thing – could we take a look at Jessica’s phone?’

‘What?’

‘I’m assuming it’ll be by her bedside somewhere . . .’

Traynor was starting to look annoyed again, but turned and went into the room, emerging moments later with the device.

‘Thank you, sir,’ Clarke said, taking it from him and turning to lead Rebus back down the corridor.

Rebus headed outside for a cigarette while Clarke bought the drinks. When he returned, he brought a hacking cough with him.

‘Should I see if they’ve a spare bed in the emphysema ward?’ she asked.

‘I wasn’t lonely out there – hard to know if staff outnumbered patients or vice versa.’ He took a sip from the cardboard cup. ‘I’m going to guess tea.’

She nodded, and they drank in silence for a moment. The café opened on to the hospital’s central concourse. There was a shop across the way, people queuing for sweets and crisps. Further along, another concession specialising in health foods was doing no trade at all.

‘What do you make of him?’ Clarke asked.

‘Who? The David Dickinson lookalike?’

Clarke smiled. ‘Bit more George Clooney than that.’

Rebus shrugged. ‘He wears expensive suits and travels by private jet – I want to marry him, naturally.’

‘Join the queue.’ Her smile widened. ‘You have to say, though – he does love his daughter. Probably head of some big corporation, but drops everything to come north.’

Rebus nodded his agreement and managed another mouthful of tea before pushing the cup away.

‘What you said to him about road rage,’ Clarke went on, ‘was that off the top of your head?’

‘Just trying to think of reasons why a careful driver would be putting the foot down.’

‘It’s an idea. Reckon she lives in the city?’

‘Bound to – maybe even in a flat bought by Mr Pinstripe.’

‘So what was she doing out there in the first place? It’s more or less a road to nowhere.’

‘Something else for us to ask her,’ Rebus agreed. ‘What did her phone offer up?’

‘Unanswered calls and texts.’

‘No sign she was using it while driving?’

Clarke shook her head. ‘On the other hand, if her dad is as sharp as he dresses . . .’

‘He might have decided to delete any evidence of her stupidity.’ Rebus nodded slowly.

Clarke’s own phone pinged, alerting her to a message. ‘It’s Page,’ she said, checking the screen. ‘Wants an update.’

‘That won’t take long.’

Another ping.

‘And with perfect timing, Jessica’s awake.’ Clarke started to rise from the table.

‘Taking your tea with you?’ Rebus asked.

‘What do you think?’ came the reply.

The same nurse was just leaving Jessica Traynor’s room as they arrived.

‘Go easy on her,’ she said in an undertone.

‘We’re famous for it,’ Rebus assured her.

The bed was still flat, the patient staring towards the ceiling. She moved her eyes, blinking a few times as she focused on the new arrivals. Her lips were moist, as though she’d just accepted some liquid from the beaker on the nearby tray. Her father was seated again, holding her hand as before.

‘Jessica,’ Clarke began, ‘I’m Detective Inspector Clarke and this is Detective Sergeant Rebus. How are you feeling, or is that a stupid question?’

‘Like I got hit by a car.’

‘I saw the state of your Golf. The airbag probably saved your life. Silly not to have your seat belt fastened.’

Traynor stiffened as he took this in. Jessica’s eyes widened. ‘I always do up my seat belt,’ she protested.

‘The motorist who found you, the one who called for the cavalry, says you weren’t strapped in.’

‘Couldn’t it have come undone on impact?’ Traynor asked.

‘I’ve not heard of that happening,’ Clarke told him. Then, to his daughter: ‘Any idea why one of your boots ended up on the passenger-side floor?’

‘I don’t understand.’ Jessica Traynor’s eyes flitted from one face to another.

‘There you are in the driver’s seat,’ Clarke obliged, ‘but one of your Uggs somehow lands the other side of the central console. Again, it’s something I’ve not come across before.’

Her father leaned in towards her. ‘The officers were asking me earlier if someone was maybe driving too fast behind you, causing you to do what you did.’

‘I don’t know what happened.’ Tears were filling Jessica Traynor’s eyes.

‘Was there some sort of race going on?’ Clarke asked. ‘Maybe you got in the way and they forced you off the road?’

‘No . . .’

Traynor had risen from his chair. His daughter had her eyes screwed shut and he was asking her if she was in pain.

‘I don’t want to think about it,’ she told him. ‘I don’t want to remember any of it. The car went off the road, that’s all.’

With her hand still in his, Traynor turned towards the two detectives. ‘Probably best if you leave now. Give her some time to recover.’ His eyes told them he would brook no argument. But still Clarke lingered. It was Rebus, however, who spoke.

‘We just need Jessica’s address here in Edinburgh.’

‘Why?’ The question came from the bed. Jessica had balled her free hand into a fist. Her eyes were still closed but her face looked pained.

‘We just do,’ Clarke said.

Traynor gestured towards the corridor. ‘Jessica,’ he said, ‘just try and relax. I’m going to show the officers out.’

‘I still don’t understand why they’re here.’

‘They’re leaving right now.’ He gave her wrist a final squeeze, then let it go, extending an arm to indicate to Rebus that he should lead the way.

Once they were out in the corridor and the door was closed, he proffered the address. Clarke tapped it into her phone.

‘Speaking of which . . .’ Traynor held out a hand, palm up. Clarke dug his daughter’s phone from her pocket and handed it over.

‘Does Jessica have flatmates?’ she asked.

‘Another student. Her name’s Alice or Alison – I only met her once.’

‘Does she know about Jessica?’

‘I’m guessing she’d be here if she did.’

Rebus had a question of his own. ‘Is Jessica seeing anyone?’

‘A boyfriend? There was someone called Forbes. She hasn’t mentioned him lately.’

‘Is Forbes a first name or a last?’

‘I’ve really no idea.’ Traynor’s eyes were trained on the window and the bed beyond. ‘I need to get back.’

‘If she confides anything . . .’

He turned to face Rebus, then nodded slowly before re-entering his daughter’s room. They watched him take his seat again.

‘You don’t think she was alone out there,’ Clarke suggested.

‘I don’t even think she was driving,’ Rebus replied.

In his cramped office – previously a storeroom off the main CID suite – Detective Chief Inspector James Page listened to their report. Gayfield Square police station was part of the city’s B Division, but that designation would soon vanish, and Page feared that the station itself would be closed, knocked down and redeveloped. The ‘Square’ outside was an area of grass which didn’t get mowed enough. Traffic rumbled up and down Leith Walk, sometimes causing the windows at the front of the building to vibrate. Not that this affected Page, his office having no windows.

‘So the boot ended up there how?’ he asked. Rebus and Clarke were both standing, since there was no space for any chair other than the one their boss sat on.

‘Whoever was driving fled the scene,’ Rebus explained. ‘That leaves two possibilities. One, she regained consciousness for a bit, realised she was alone, and dragged herself across to the driver’s seat.’

‘Why?’

‘To protect the other person. We would assume she’d been behind the wheel.’

Page considered this. ‘And the second option?’ he asked.

‘Is that the driver either didn’t black out or else came to before her. He or she panicked – for whatever reason – and hoofed it. But not before undoing her seat belt and hauling her across to the driver’s side.’

‘Not bothering to do up her seat belt after,’ Clarke added.

‘And you get all of this from the fact that a brown suede boot was in the wrong footwell?’ Page looked from Clarke to Rebus and back again.

‘Yes,’ she replied.

‘Well, say you’re right – what exactly does it change?’

‘Driver could have been drunk or stoned,’ Rebus offered.

‘Or taking part in an illegal race,’ Clarke said. ‘Or being chased – we really won’t know unless we keep looking. Jessica has a flat in Great King Street, shares with someone called Alice or Alison. There was also mention of a boyfriend.’

Page scratched at his nose while he thought.

‘Don’t want anyone thinking we were sloppy,’ Rebus prompted. ‘One quick visit to the flat should do it.’

‘We’d go this evening,’ Clarke confirmed. ‘This Alice or Alison is a student – might have classes during the day.’

‘All right then.’ Page had made up his mind. ‘But answer me this: why is it that nothing with you two is ever straightforward?’

‘Blame her,’ Rebus said, pointing a finger.

‘Blame him,’ Clarke said, at almost exactly the same time.

Out in the CID suite, they both took a series of deep breaths. It was always so airless in Page’s little cupboard, yet somehow he thrived there, as if discomfort were as vital to his well-being as oxygen. Two detective constables, Christine Esson and Ronnie Ogilvie, were busy with paperwork. Clarke checked her phone for messages while Rebus made himself a coffee.

‘Out of milk,’ Esson warned him.

‘The amount we get through, we should chip in and buy a cow,’ Ogilvie added.

‘It would keep the grass down,’ Rebus agreed, staring down on to Gayfield Square, the windowpane thrumming as a lorry rattled past the end of the road. He offered to boil the kettle for Clarke but she shook her head.

‘Not if we’ve got no milk.’

‘I might have a sachet of powdered stuff in a drawer somewhere,’ Esson offered.

‘Powdered?’ Rebus said. ‘What is this, World War Two? I thought we were at the dawn of a shiny new country?’

‘Only if you can be bothered to vote for it,’ Clarke chided him.

‘I’ll tell you the box I’m ready to mark my cross in – a couple of drinks after Great King Street.’

But Clarke was shaking her head. ‘Dinner plans,’ she explained.

‘I thought it was all over with . . .’ Rebus gestured towards Page’s office.

‘It is.’

Christine Esson decided that Rebus needed enlightening. ‘A single girl doesn’t go hungry for long in this town.’

‘Is that you speaking from experience?’ Ogilvie chipped in.

‘Who is it then?’ Rebus was asking Clarke from above the rim of his mug.

‘Am I not allowed a private life?’

‘Absolutely – just as soon as you convince me his intentions are honourable.’