Saints of the Shadow Bible (Rebus) (35 page)

He was in a white van today, nicely anonymous. A small van, empty apart from a set of overalls, some everyday tools and a litre-sized pot of paint. Reaching his destination, he found a parking space and got out, climbing into the blue workman’s overalls. He saw the name on the intercom, and pressed one of the other buttons. Someone was home, and they buzzed him in; didn’t even ask his business. That was Edinburgh for you: people kept to themselves, no interest in others. Up the stairs, pausing at the top and listening at the letter box. No hint of life within. It had taken a while to track the place down. The Golf had been registered to an address in London, surname Traynor. But then at the funeral the McCuskey son had been pictured with his girlfriend, named in the media as Jessica Traynor. Simple enough after that, and here he was. He looked around. The skylight above him was covered in protective mesh and bird crap. The interior walls were cream-coloured and graffiti-free. And the door was pale green. Pale green was fine. Crouching, he prised the lid from the paint with a screwdriver. The paint was a lighter shade of red than he would have liked – not quite the colour of blood. Taking a step back so as to avoid the splash, he made ready to deliver his message.

The same mortuary attendant told Rebus that once again his timing was off.

‘They were due to start at quarter to five,’ Rebus complained, receiving a shrug in response.

Rather than interrupt proceedings, Rebus took a seat in the viewing area. Glass panels separated him from the action, and there were rows of uncomfortable benches to sit on. He had always meant to ask someone about the benches – it seemed to him that a couple of dozen onlookers could be accommodated, but he’d never seen more than a handful at a time make use of them.

Noticing him, Deborah Quant gave a little wave with one of her instruments. She was dressed in scrubs and a face mask, as was her companion. Rebus guessed the man must be the forensics bod Quant had mentioned. An assistant worked in the background, bagging and labelling. The whole procedure looked painstaking, and was being recorded by a microphone which also transmitted to a speaker in the ceiling above Rebus.

‘We had to start a bit early,’ Quant said for his benefit. ‘Professor Thomas here is a forensic anthropologist. He has to be in Glasgow for a professional dinner.’

Without knowing who the visitor was, Professor Thomas gave Rebus a nod of greeting. He looked young – younger even than Quant. He asked a second assistant to take close-up photographs of one patch of skin. The cadaver lay on its front – Rebus could make out the fair hair on its head, and the folds of skin covering the skeleton.

‘Difficult to tell how far the injuries pre-date death,’ Thomas commented.

‘Professor Thomas,’ Quant explained, again for Rebus’s benefit, ‘has found evidence of bruising. Nothing that would have caused a fatality, unless there were underlying health issues.’ She paused. ‘I missed them first time round.’

‘Easily confused with lividity,’ Thomas reassured her.

‘Death occurred two to three years ago.’ Quant’s eyes were on Rebus. ‘A DNA fingerprint should be straightforward enough, but someone needs to check the missing persons files – for the whole of the UK.’

‘No biggie, then,’ Rebus muttered, knowing she couldn’t hear him. She could see him, though, and smiled, sensing what he was thinking. He tapped a finger against the top of one arm.

‘Distinguishing features?’ she asked her colleague.

‘No tattoos. No scars. No signs he was ever operated on. Dental records might be another route to establishing identity. I’d say the work was basic British NHS. Calluses on hands suggest manual labour of some kind. Or maybe he just enjoyed DIY. Ingrowing toenail on left foot, but hard to say if he’d had it treated or not. Nothing very exciting in the stomach or lungs. He was probably a moderate smoker. Might have killed him eventually.’

Rebus did a mime of a knife slashing a throat.

‘Suspicious death?’ Quant asked.

‘The fact is, he hadn’t been in the water more than a day or two, and died several years before. So whether the death is suspicious or not, there
are
questions that need answering.’

Quant turned her attention to Rebus again. ‘Body was wrapped in something woollen – maybe a tartan travel rug; we have blue and red fibres. It covered the torso and the legs to just above the knees. This would have had to happen soon after death for the skin to adhere to the fibres. Once atrophy sets in, the epidermis is less obliging.’

Rebus nodded slowly, then mimed taking a drink. Quant’s forehead creased.

‘Was he a drinker?’

Her colleague looked up, but Rebus was shaking his head and pointing at her.

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘No, sorry, I’m busy later.’

‘Too busy to attend the Glasgow dinner,’ Professor Thomas added, sounding put out.

Rebus shrugged and mouthed the words ‘Just an idea.’ She nodded and got back to work.

It was dark by the time Siobhan Clarke and Malcolm Fox reached the canal. It had been Fox’s idea – try to work through the sequence of events. So they had parked on the industrial estate and started off from the alley where Billy Saunders had been sleeping.

‘Though we don’t know for sure this is where he was,’ Clarke argued, buttoning her coat against gusts that seemed to have originated in the Arctic.

‘We don’t,’ Fox agreed. ‘But he wanted a meeting nearby, somewhere he felt he knew the terrain. Once he was on the towpath, he would have plenty of notice of anyone coming from either direction.’

‘He didn’t trust the person he was meeting?’

Fox nodded. ‘Maybe reckoned they’d bring back-up.’

‘Stefan Gilmour and the Saints?’

Fox just shrugged. They were clambering up the slope. The canal wasn’t well lit. In fact, the only real illumination came from lamp posts beyond its other bank, behind railings and next to the main road.

‘Someone could have been watching from there,’ Clarke surmised.

‘Watching, yes. But to get to the nearest bridge and then end up here . . . that’s a walk of a good five or six minutes.’

Clarke folded her arms. ‘And Saunders was shot at close range. So whether he trusted his visitor or not, he allowed them to get close.’

‘Close enough to talk.’

‘Talk or listen.’ Clarke thought for a moment. ‘Let me know if any of this leads you to believe we’re not discussing Stefan Gilmour . . .’

‘Well for one thing, Gilmour’s not an easy man to get to. Phone number’s not in the book, unlike George Blantyre and Eamonn Paterson.’

‘You’ve checked?’ She watched as Fox nodded. ‘And Rebus?’

‘Is ex-directory.’

She considered this. ‘It
was
an arranged meeting, right?’

‘Had to be.’

‘And whoever Saunders met wasn’t the one who initiated it?’

‘Hard to do when they’d no idea how to reach him.’

‘Unless the plan to meet pre-dated his little vanishing act.’

‘True,’ Fox allowed. ‘But I don’t think that’s what happened.’

Clarke looked at him. ‘You’ve been giving this some thought?’

‘Trying to think like a detective,’ he answered, with a thin smile.

‘And?’

‘And we have a man who’s terrified of something – so scared he abandons his car in another part of town, far from where he knows he’s going to hole up. Hotels won’t do, and he can’t rely on friends – to be absolutely safe, he needs to sleep rough. Can’t use his bank account or phone – both could be traced, or at the very least would indicate he’s still alive and kicking. For the same reason he can’t contact his wife to let her know he’s safe.’ Fox paused. ‘But there’s
someone
he needs to see. Easiest way to set up a meeting is if he calls them.’

‘Nearest working phone box is almost two miles away.’

‘But there’s the petrol station. From CCTV, we know he bought snacks there.’

‘Except that their public phone has been out of order for almost a fortnight.’

‘Something he might not find out until he tried using it.’

She saw now where Fox was going. ‘Staff knew him. Might have loaned him their phone.’

‘Of course, they’ve been interviewed. But do we know they were asked the right questions, shown a good clear photo of Saunders?’

‘Worth a second go?’

‘I’d say so.’

‘And we’re not just clutching at straws here, Malcolm?’

‘Maybe we are.’

‘Stefan Gilmour
is
capable of it, isn’t he?’ Clarke was gazing at the surface of the canal. It looked dark and oily, and even in daylight would give no hint of what lay beneath.

‘No doubt in my mind,’ Fox answered. ‘Way he’s built his empire, he takes no prisoners.’

‘I remember reading once that the successful tycoon sees the world the same way a psychopath does.’

‘I’m not saying Stefan Gilmour is a psycho.’

‘He’s just a man with goals unachieved and successes to protect.’

‘You think a forensic psychologist might help us nail him?’

Clarke shook her head. ‘Let’s stick to what we know.’

‘Meaning?’

‘We follow leads, Malcolm. Starting with your petrol station . . .’

The only other customers when they got there were two licensed minicabs. The drivers had parked next to the shop and were inside, drinking coffee from a coin-operated machine and exchanging gossip. Fox made straight for them, pulling out his warrant card.

‘Did either of you know Billy Saunders?’ he asked.

‘Knew
of
him,’ one driver said.

‘Worked for the competition,’ his friend added.

‘You always use the same petrol station?’

‘Tend to,’ the first driver conceded.

‘Fill the tank, break the monotony?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Did Saunders use this particular pit stop?’

The second driver shook his head. ‘Petrol station in Powderhall, far as I know.’

‘You never saw him here?’

Fox received a further shake of the head from both men. He thanked them and headed for the counter.

‘Nice thinking, though,’ Clarke told him in an undertone.

‘Saunders drove a minicab, liked the night shift – petrol stations were a second home to him.’ He took out his warrant card again and showed it to the assistant.

‘You’ve been questioned about William Saunders?’ he asked.

The youth behind the counter appeared no older than a school-leaver. His face was peppered with angry-looking acne and his thick black hair looked like it had been styled with a pair of secateurs and a pot of glue. He agreed that he had already spoken with the police.

‘And your colleagues too?’

The youth nodded.

‘All of them?’

‘All except Patrick, I suppose.’

‘Patrick?’

‘He’s on holiday in Ibiza.’

‘Nice for him. When did he leave?’

‘Six days back. Finished his shift at six and was in the air by eight.’

Fox looked at Clarke. Like him, she had done the arithmetic.

‘So he was working here the day William Saunders was killed?’ Fox checked.

‘Suppose,’ the youth agreed, eyes darting between the two detectives, Adam’s apple bobbing. ‘He’s not in any trouble, is he?’

‘The officers you spoke to – they knew this, right?’

‘I think I told them. Somebody would have.’

Fox nodded. But he was thinking: maybe, and maybe not. There was just a hint of dismay on Siobhan Clarke’s face – someone on her team might have screwed up.

‘We need to talk to Patrick,’ Fox was saying. ‘Do you have his number?’

The youth shook his head. The minicab drivers were waving goodbye to him through the window as they returned to their vehicles. ‘You’ll have to ask my boss,’ he told Fox, waving back.

‘We’ll do that, then. Did you ever see Mr Saunders yourself?’

The youth shook his head again.

‘You always work the same shift?’

‘No, but I’ve been on nights for a few weeks.’

‘He never came in during that time?’

‘Don’t remember him.’

Fox nodded slowly. The payphone was on the wall next to the toilet. The sign warning that it was out of order comprised a pink Post-it note – easy to miss until you got close.

‘Anything else?’ the youth asked Clarke.

‘Just this,’ she said, placing a Bounty on the counter.

‘And your boss’s phone number,’ Fox added, as the youth got busy with the scanner. ‘The one kept for emergencies – we need to contact him tonight . . .’

Outside, as she unwrapped the chocolate bar, Clarke told Fox it could probably wait till morning. He nodded his agreement, and drove them back to Wester Hailes so she could pick up her own car. The car park was near empty. The team would have clocked off. Overtime was available, but Clarke was running out of things for them to do outwith normal office hours. She looked tired, while Fox felt energised.

‘See you in the morning,’ he said, as Clarke opened her door and undid her seat belt.

‘That was useful tonight, Malcolm. Thank you.’

‘No problem,’ he assured her with a smile.

He drove fully quarter of a mile in the direction of home before pulling over to the kerb again, taking out his phone and searching his pockets for the scrap of paper the youth at the petrol station had given him.

Forbes and Jessica had been out all day, Jessica managing with the aid of a walking stick. They’d taken taxis, and avoided stairs and steps wherever possible. She’d felt the need for fresh air, for reminders that a city existed beyond the confines of her flat. A café, a restaurant, a park bench and a bar – and now they were back in Great King Street, climbing slowly but purposefully towards the sound of scrubbing and sobs.

It was Alice, on her knees on the landing, a bucket of soapy water by her side. She was using a brush on the door, trying to get the red paint off. Tears had dried on her cheeks. There were splashes of paint on the wall, and it looked as though she had already sluiced the stone floor.

‘What the hell?’ Forbes said.

‘It was like this when I got here,’ Alice explained breathlessly. ‘Your mum and her friends . . . all that online hate . . .’

Jessica was gesturing for Forbes to help Alice get to her feet.

‘You think that’s who did this?’ she asked.