Saints of the Shadow Bible (Rebus) (36 page)

Alice stared at her flatmate. ‘Who else?’

‘We both know.’ Jessica paused. ‘We
all
know. Now let’s get you inside. Forbes will take over cleaning.’

‘I will?’

‘In a bit. First we need to get this straightened out.’

All three headed for the living room, Alice drying her hands on the front of her already ruined T-shirt.

‘You need to phone him,’ Jessica told her.

‘But then he’ll—’

‘Know it was you,’ Jessica interrupted, finishing the sentence with a slow nod. ‘But maybe he’ll back off – right now, it’s just me and Forbes, isn’t it? And you’re the one who can do something about that.’

‘So the paint wasn’t for me?’ Alice asked.

‘Go call him,’ Jessica said.

‘My phone’s in my bedroom . . .’

Alice went to fetch it, but ended up seated on her bed instead, feeling the sweat cooling on her back. How could she talk to him? What would he do once he knew? What would he do to
her
? She felt a shiver run down her, all the way to her toes. Holding the phone to her ear, she found the strength to head back to the living room.

‘Not answering,’ she said as she walked in. Then she saw that Jessica too was making a call. Forbes’s eyes were on Alice. He looked nervous.

‘Who . . . ?’ Alice began to ask, but she broke off. She knew the answer well enough. It was written on Forbes’s face . . .

Next morning, Rebus drove out towards the airport. He had got the addresses of Rory Bell’s multi-storey car parks from Christine Esson. He followed the signs from the A8 Glasgow road and found himself just north of the village of Ratho. When he lowered his window, he caught a whiff of sewage and pig farm. An aircraft was rising into the sky with a thunderous roar, not quarter of a mile away. The car park advertised its special long-term rates and twice-an-hour shuttle service. An automatic barrier rose when Rebus took the proffered ticket from the machine. He drove slowly around the ground floor, unsure what he was looking for. Jessica had crashed her car not too far away. She was friends with the niece of the car park’s owner. The owner was less legit than might have been the case. Add to that the brand-new crowbar . . . and Rebus still wasn’t sure. There was a cabin staffed by a single uniformed flunkey. The ground floor was half full. The cars looked like they belonged to middle management: Beemers, Audis, a couple of Jags and a Merc. He drove up the ramp to the next floor, which was quieter. One Range Rover had a film of dust over its windscreen. Maybe it belonged to someone who was enjoying protracted winter sun elsewhere. Rebus couldn’t blame them. The next floor was empty, as was the unsheltered roof, though it too had been laid out in marked bays. Rebus doubted the place ever got full. On the other hand, it was easy money – one member of staff, few overheads.

He stopped the Saab on the roof and got out for a cigarette. He could see the airport runway, an orange-liveried EasyJet plane coming in to land. Jessica’s car had crashed somewhere to the west. If she’d started her journey at this car park, she and Forbes had been driving
away
from the city. Towards his parents’ place? Possible. If Rebus had possessed more of a head for geography, he might be able to make out the house and grounds. As it was, he saw only a patchwork countryside and snow-capped hills beyond.

‘You okay there?’

The voice was amplified, metallic. Rebus looked around and saw a tall metal pole with a loudspeaker and camera attached to it. He gave it a wave and got back into his car. He was approaching the exit barrier when he saw the attendant emerge from his cabin. The man was at the barrier before him, waiting for a word. Rebus wound his window down again.

‘Everything all right?’ the man asked. He had a pockmarked face and irregular teeth, his eyes milky but wary.

‘Forgot something,’ Rebus explained. ‘Need to go back to the office.’

‘You went all the way to the roof.’

‘Is there a law against it?’

‘Maybe.’ The attendant was examining the scuffed interior of the Saab. Rebus meantime had slotted his ticket into the machine.

‘Must be a mistake,’ he said, staring at the display. ‘Six pounds fifty?’

‘That’s the minimum. Gets you four hours.’

‘I’ve hardly been four minutes.’

‘System’s automated – nothing I can do about it.’ The man wasn’t managing to disguise his pleasure at Rebus’s discomfort.

‘You telling me you can’t go back to that wee booth of yours and swing the barrier open?’

‘Company would haul me over the coals.’

‘Six-fifty, though.’

The man offered a shrug.

‘Rory won’t be happy when I tell him about this.’

‘Rory?’

‘Your boss.’ Rebus looked in vain for a flicker of recognition. ‘He owns this place.’

‘I’m just doing my job.’

‘Okay then, tell me this – these cameras of yours, do they film what they see?’

‘Why are you asking?’ Then it dawned. ‘You the police?’

‘In a manner of speaking. So do they record or don’t they?’

‘The machine wipes itself every forty-eight hours.’

‘And is there always a human being on duty?’

‘Always.’

‘So if I gave you a date and an approximate time . . . ?’

‘For what?’

‘Anything.’

The attendant straightened up and folded his arms. ‘That’s something you’d have to talk to management about.’

‘Meaning Rory Bell?’

‘I told you, I’ve never heard of him.’

‘So who do you deal with?’

‘The office is in Livingston.’

‘There’s a multi-storey there too – you ever do a shift at it?’

‘You need to speak to the management.’

‘Don’t worry, I will. Now are you going to let me out of here?’

‘Soon as you pay what’s due.’ The man turned away and walked back towards his booth. Cursing, Rebus looked for coins in his pocket, then realised the machine only accepted credit cards. So he stuck one in, entered his PIN and pressed the button for a receipt.

Livingston.

Rory Bell’s base.

Plus he had another car park there.

And . . .

The driver who had been first at the scene of Jessica’s crash – wasn’t she on her way home from work in Livingston at the time? So instead of taking the road back into the city, Rebus headed further out in the direction of Newbridge, and from there on to the M8. It didn’t take long to reach Livingston, though once there he was faced with a Mensa-level puzzle constructed almost entirely of roundabouts. Livingston was one of Scotland’s ‘new towns’, designed in the 1960s by planners who liked lots of circles in their diagrams. Second only to this passion seemed to be their crush on the word ‘Almondvale’. It cropped up time and again as Rebus sought his destination: Almondvale Boulevard, Way, Avenue and Drive. Not forgetting Parkway and Crescent – plus the football stadium where the local team played. In the end, Rebus conceded defeat and stopped to ask a pedestrian, who gave him directions to
a
multi-storey, just not the right multi-storey. Rather than take a ticket, Rebus left the Saab outside, found the security cabin and asked for directions. The attendant was able to help, and Rebus thanked him. Ten minutes later, he was driving into a four-storey car park – the top storey being its roof. There was no sign of life in the booth, though lights were on inside. Rebus drove around the ground floor, which was full. Mums with toddlers were loading bags into their vehicles, having returned from the nearby shopping centre. Next storey up there were fewer cars, and fewer again as Rebus climbed. As before, no one at all was using the bays on the roof. Rebus spotted the same set-up of speaker and CCTV camera, and manoeuvred the Saab back down the ramp. He parked on the next level and got out. He was alongside an unwashed Citroën. Across from it sat another car, covered with a dust sheet. The bay next to that was empty, but Rebus noted clumps of dirt, leaves and sweet-wrappers on the floor. If he were a betting man, he would have said a car had been parked there until recently – and it had been sitting in the multi-storey for some time. He took another look at the Citroën. Its tax disc had run out the previous year, and similar detritus had gathered beneath its wheels. When he ran a finger down the paintwork, he left a clean line, and his finger came away blackened. He crossed to the other car and began to lift the dust sheet, catching a glimpse of red bodywork.

‘Hell do you think you’re playing at?’ The man striding up the ramp wore the same uniform as Mr Bad Teeth from the airport multi-storey, but was a different breed altogether – ex-forces, maybe, and still able to take on a route march. Beefy arms, fists clenched, jaw jutting. The hair had been shaved from the skull and one ear had a chunk missing from it.

‘Early for a meeting,’ Rebus lied. ‘Just killing time.’ He made show of checking his watch.

‘Like fuck you are,’ the man spat.

‘Okay then,’ Rebus bristled. ‘You tell me – what
am
I doing?’

‘Whatever it is, you’re not staying.’ The man clamped a hand around Rebus’s forearm.

‘That could be classed as assault, pal.’

‘Oh aye? How about this?’ A fist crunched into Rebus’s stomach, and he felt his knees buckle. The same hand was digging in his coat, then his jacket’s inside pocket, tugging free the warrant card and flapping it open.

‘Detective Sergeant, eh? DS Rebus? Okay, I’ve got your name now,
pal
. And if you report any of this, we’ll be having another wee chat. So think about that.’

As the wallet was pushed back into Rebus’s pocket, he found enough strength to take a swing at his assailant. The man blocked it without too much effort, using his elbow, while his grip on Rebus’s other arm tightened still further. Then he let go and took a step back.

‘Any time you like, Grandad,’ he said.

‘I could have a squad car here in two minutes.’

‘I believe you – but remember what
I
said. Won’t just be out to wind you next time.’

Rebus flashed back to interview rooms down the years, the softening-up of suspects, the ‘accidental’ trips and falls. And now here he was, on the receiving end. He considered his options and found them wanting. Yes, he could call it in, and the scrapper in front of him would be arrested, questioned, cautioned – but to what end? He had learned something, and that was almost worth the short-lived pain and the residual embarrassment. Time was he would have gone blow-for-blow with the man.

Time was.

‘I’ll be back,’ was what he ended up saying.

‘Best bring a Terminator with you,’ his attacker said with a lopsided grin, watching as Rebus trudged back to the Saab. ‘Got your licence plate now too,’ the man added. ‘Means I can have your address any time I like.’

Rebus held one hand to his stomach as he drove, removing it only when he needed to change gear, which was often – all those bloody roundabouts again. He stopped at a fast-food place and got some fizzy orange. His mouth was dry, heart pounding. When his phone rang, he thought about ignoring it, but saw James Page’s name on the screen.

‘I’m on my way,’ Rebus answered.

‘Where from?’

‘Another errand.’

‘For Siobhan Clarke? Maybe I should ask her to confirm that.’

‘Up to you.’ Rebus slurped the ice-cold juice through a straw.

‘I’ve just spoken to Professor Quant about our floater. Bringing in Professor Thomas seems to have been useful. I think we’ve got a suspicious death here, and maybe even a murder.’

‘Murder? Not from what I saw at the second autopsy.’

‘Nevertheless.’

‘Look, I can see what you’re doing – everyone around you seems to be heading a big case, so you want one too. But the Procurator Fiscal’s office will laugh you back to Gayfield Square if you go to them with this. There’s no evidence to back you up.’

‘There are bruises.’

‘I’ve got a few of those myself. Doubt very much I’ll die from them.’

‘Are you all right?’

‘Tickety-boo.’

‘And you’re really on your way here?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘So what do you think we do about the floater?’

‘For starters, maybe stop using that word. Then you set up a trawl of missing persons, going back as many years as necessary. He was white-skinned, fair-haired. We know his height and build. An appeal is a good idea – get his description out there.’

‘Right.’

‘Christine Esson’s the expert – she’ll know where to start.’

‘Thanks, John.’

‘Any time, boss.’

‘How long till you get here? Twenty minutes? Half an hour?’

‘Soon as I can – scout’s honour.’

‘But we both know you were never a scout.’

‘You’ve rumbled me,’ Rebus confessed. Then: ‘Forgive me for saying, but you sound a bit cheerier.’

‘News from on high: no plans to scrap Gayfield Square.’

‘Glad to hear it.’

‘Aye, me too. But doubtless you’ll do
something
to sour my mood before long.’

‘I dare say.’ Rebus ended the call and gave his stomach another rub. He had one slight detour to make before Gayfield Square. And some big questions that needed answering.

Great King Street was lined with cars, except for a stretch of single yellow line at the end. Rebus parked and placed the POLICE sign on the dashboard. He was close by Drummond Place, with its central splodge of green space, protected by high railings and available only to keyholders. He walked back along the street until he was outside the door he wanted, pressing the buzzer for the flat marked TRAYNOR/BELL.

‘Yes?’

The crackly voice belonged to Forbes McCuskey.

‘It’s DS Rebus. I need a word.’

‘There’s nothing for you here.’

‘Let me in or I swear I’ll kick down the door.’

There was silence. Then a buzzing as the door was unlocked. Rebus pushed it open and managed the stairs fine. The blood was rushing in his ears by the time he reached the top, but he hadn’t had to pause for breath. The door was closed, so he thumped on it. His hand came away stained pink. Looking again, he saw that paint had been thrown at the door, then wiped off. Whoever had cleaned it had tried to be thorough, but the stone floor beneath Rebus’s feet was stained too. The door was eventually opened, Forbes McCuskey standing there.