Saints of the Shadow Bible (Rebus) (40 page)

‘Might not need you after all,’ Rebus commented, taking the ramp to the next floor. When they reached the third, he pulled into a bay and started swearing.

‘What is it?’ Fox asked.

‘They’ve moved the cars.’

Fox looked out at the vast, empty concrete space. ‘What cars?’

‘Exactly. When I was here yesterday, there were two cars, dusty and abandoned. There’d been a third, but that was already gone. Jack Redpath’s body was in the boot. They dumped him in the docks and left the car to be towed and scrapped.’

‘Okay.’ Fox was frowning, concentrating hard as he tried to catch up.

‘But there were two other cars still here, one of them under a dust sheet.’ Rebus got out and walked to the empty bays, Fox following suit. ‘See? Yesterday there was a lot of leaves and stour. The cars had been here for months, maybe even years . . . What are you smiling at?’

‘It’s such a great old word, “stour” – my dad uses it.’

‘They’ve swept it all away, every last trace.’

‘That’s thorough.’

‘The cars are used for storing stuff – stuff that needs to be kept away from prying eyes.’

‘And a public car park is the place for that?’

‘On a level no one ever has to use, with CCTV and a guard.’

‘Okay, so you think there are other bodies in these cars?’

‘I’ve no idea.’ Rebus thought for a moment. ‘This has to be Owen Traynor. He meets with Rory Bell, they discuss what happened. Traynor knows we might come looking and persuades Bell the cars need to be moved.’

‘Traynor?’

‘Jessica’s father. He’s got a sharper brain than Bell. Even after Forbes and Jessica saw what was in that boot, it still took Bell a while to decide he needed to ditch car and body both. Traynor comes to town to broker peace and asks Bell if there’s anything else the police might find if they come looking . . .’

‘You came looking yesterday.’

‘And word got back – so the cars had to be got rid of.’

‘Moved where, though?’

‘How should I know? But sweeping up – that’s the sort of detail someone like Traynor would think of.’ Rebus scratched a hand across his head. ‘Maybe in a lock-up somewhere. He wouldn’t take them to the car park at the airport – too obvious.’

‘What makes of car are we talking about?’

‘One was a Citroën; the one under wraps I’m not sure about – red bodywork is all I saw.’

‘You didn’t get the licence plates?’

‘I was interrupted by a punch to the gut.’

‘What?’

‘Different security baboon from today.’

‘That’s why you thought you might need heft?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m almost flattered. Why didn’t you report it?’

‘Some things you keep to yourself.’

‘Like being bested in a fight?’

‘Did I say I was bested? You should see the other guy. Maybe that’s why he’s off work this morning.’

‘I’ll take your word for that.’

As they headed for the exit, Fox asked if it was worth questioning the new guard. Rebus shook his head. As he slotted his credit card into the pay machine, he shared his thinking about the night of the crash.

‘When Jessica and Forbes took a crowbar to that Ford Escort, CCTV was watching. Guard would have come running, but by then they’d seen enough to be freaked out . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘Still, there’s one exit and it only takes cards. Forbes was driving, so he’d be paying, too.’

‘Meaning they’d have his details . . . leading them straight to Patrick McCuskey?’

‘No sign of young Forbes, so they gave his room a going-over to let him know the score.’

‘And the attack on his father?’

Rebus grew thoughtful, then offered a shrug.

They pulled into a service station for petrol. In the shop, Rebus bought a fresh packet of cigarettes, Fox a bottle of water.

‘Biggest rip-off going,’ Rebus counselled as Fox tipped the bottle to his mouth.

‘I was about to say the same.’ Fox gestured towards the twenty Silk Cut.

They were on their way back to the Saab when Fox asked: ‘These cars, would they be daft enough just to dump them like they did with Redpath’s Ford?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘Only, it ended up going for scrap . . .’

Rebus stopped with one hand on the driver’s-side door handle. ‘You think they might have . . . ?’ Rather than finish the question, he got into the car and called the scrapyard in Broxburn. He was expecting to hear Eddie Duke’s voice, but it was Reece Bairstow who answered.

‘It’s DS Rebus,’ Rebus told him. ‘I’m after a favour.’

‘Aren’t you always?’

‘Any time you want to explain that crowbar to my colleagues, Reece . . .’

There was a sigh on the line. ‘So what’s the favour?’

‘Scrapyards within easy distance of Livingston.’

‘Apart from us, you mean?’

‘Yes.’

‘There aren’t any.’

‘None at all?’

‘Only players in town. So can I get back to work now?’

‘Soon as you answer one last question.’

‘Which is?’

Rebus took a deep breath. ‘Two cars, one a Citroën with an expired tax disc, the other a medium-sized saloon with red paintwork . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘You wouldn’t have seen them, by any chance?’

‘They came in last night.’

Rebus blinked a couple of times. ‘Tell me they’ve not made it into the compactor yet.’

‘I was just about to get started. But something tells me you’re not going to want that to happen.’

‘Correct,’ Rebus said. ‘We’ll be there in twenty minutes. Nobody touches them until then – understood?’

‘Getting to be a familiar refrain,’ Bairstow was muttering as Rebus ended the call. He stared at Fox.

‘I owe you a large drink,’ he said.

‘Got one, thanks,’ Fox replied, shaking the bottle of water.

Eddie Duke had taken Boris the guard dog to a vet’s appointment.

‘Nothing trivial, I hope,’ Rebus said.

As Bairstow explained it, the cars had arrived around closing time. One – a red Renault – was cleaner than the other. The drivers of the two vehicles weren’t the ones in charge, however.

‘There was another car – the one they all drove off in afterwards. Guy behind the wheel was the one who did the talking and handed over the cash.’

‘What did he look like?’ Rebus asked.

‘Maybe six feet, well built, short black hair with sort of a widow’s peak.’

Rebus had only seen photos of Rory Bell, but that was just how he would have described him.

‘No name?’ he enquired.

‘Not that I heard.’

‘What was he driving?’

‘New-looking BMW X5. Black bodywork and tinted windows.’

‘You didn’t happen to get the licence number?’

Bairstow shook his head. ‘Wasn’t personalised or anything.’

They were standing in front of the cars. Rebus recognised the Citroën – the line was still there where he had dragged a finger across its bodywork. The dust sheet that had been covering the Renault was visible through its rear window.

‘What about the other drivers?’

Rebus listened to Bairstow’s description. One was almost certainly the guard from the multi-storey, the one who had left Rebus with a bruise the size of a tea plate.

‘They left the keys?’

Bairstow dug in his overalls and held them up.

‘Have you taken a look yet?’

The man shook his head.

‘Sure about that?’

‘Completely.’

‘Then let’s get both boots open and see what we’ve got.’

They unlocked the Citroën first. Rebus could smell some sort of oil. There were strips of cloth inside and he lifted one to his nose.

‘What do you think?’ Fox asked.

‘Been wrapped around something. Maybe guns.’

‘Guns?’ The blood drained from the mechanic’s face.

Rebus lifted the carpeting but found nothing except a spare tyre. Fox meantime had opened one of the rear doors and was feeling around beneath the seats.

‘Got any plastic bags?’ he asked.

‘In the office,’ Bairstow said.

‘Go fetch some.’

When the mechanic had moved off, Fox told Rebus they really needed a forensics team.

‘Agreed. You finding anything?’

‘I’ll show you in a minute.’

Rebus opened the driver’s door and reached across to open the glove box. Nothing inside but a spare set of bulbs. The floor was clean and the door pockets were empty. Bairstow had returned with some small clear bags, the kind bank staff used when counting coins. Fox placed his hand into one of them and used it to pick something up from the floor, folding the bag back over the item, trapping it. Then he held it up for Rebus to examine. An unused shotgun cartridge.

‘Boom,’ Rebus said, patting his colleague on the back. He took the second key from Bairstow and unlocked the Renault. Again, there was nothing obvious in the boot, other than the remains of some fine white powder.

‘Looks like a bag maybe burst,’ Rebus commented.

‘Or someone needed a taste,’ Fox added.

Rebus dabbed at a little and rubbed it against his gum. ‘Bit of a burn,’ he said.

Bairstow’s eyes widened further. ‘I didn’t . . . If I’d known . . . They’ll kill me, won’t they?’ He was beginning to twitch.

‘Your name won’t even feature, Reese – don’t worry.’ Rebus took out his phone. The signal was weak, but he got through to Torphichen and asked to speak to Nick Ralph. ‘And I know you probably hear it all the time, but this really
is
urgent.’

When Ralph was eventually found, Rebus laid everything out for him. ‘Bell is in a black BMW X5 with tinted windows. We need to grab that car. There’s a good chance it’ll have some goodies in the boot. Plus a few baddies in the front.’

Rebus watched Fox roll his eyes at the pun. He mouthed the words
Get used to it
and added a wink. Then, to Ralph: ‘We also need a search warrant for the multi-storey in Livingston. Has to be right away, because there’s some CCTV footage there we can use, if we get it before it self-erases. It’ll probably show the stuff being transferred from the two cars to the BMW.’

‘I’ll see to it, John,’ Ralph said. ‘And a forensic team to the scrapyard, yes?’

‘Absolutely. Checking for prints and trace evidence.’

‘And you’re sure you’ve cleared this with DCI Page?’

‘He agrees with me, sir – it’s all the one case.’

‘Then I’ll get on to it. Thank you, John.’

‘Yes, sir. Oh, by the way – have you pulled the three students in for interview.’

‘They were supposed to be here at nine. Tried their phones and sent an officer to Ms Traynor’s flat – no joy.’

‘Keeping their heads down.’

‘Pretty much as you predicted. Any more tasks for me before I get started with this lot?’

‘No, sir.’ Rebus ended the call and tapped his phone against his chin.

‘Job done?’ Fox asked him.

‘Not quite,’ Rebus decided. ‘But it’s up to you whether you want to see it through. Could get messy.’

‘I can always clean up after,’ Fox told him with a shrug.

‘Getting to like CID, Detective Inspector?’

‘It has its attractions,’ Malcolm Fox conceded.

Every parking space on Great King Street was taken, so Rebus ended up on the single yellow again. He had explained to Fox that they were going to have a word with Owen Traynor. If he wasn’t there, hopefully Jessica or Alice Bell could provide his whereabouts.

‘Alice knew about the body in the boot?’ Fox asked.

Rebus nodded. ‘Her uncle’s way of letting her know he was taking care of her.’

‘Not quite a birthday card with a tenner in it.’

‘Not quite,’ Rebus agreed.

Rebus pressed the bell but there was no answer. He was trying a second time when Fox tugged on his sleeve. ‘Isn’t that . . . ?’

He was pointing along the street, towards a black 4x4. Rebus led the way, walking around the car. Tinted windows. BMW X5. No parking fee had been paid and the wardens had already stuck a ticket on the windscreen.

‘Shall I phone it in?’ Fox asked.

Rebus nodded, then tried the boot, though he knew it would be locked. Pressing his nose to the glass, he couldn’t see anything on the back seat. No boxes or bags.

‘Someone should stand guard till the cavalry gets here,’ he said, once Fox had ended the call.

‘And let you go upstairs on your own?’ Fox was shaking his head. ‘If Rory Bell is in there, his sidekicks might be too. What do you think they’re doing?’

‘Best-case scenario, having a pow-wow with Traynor.’

‘And worst-case?’

‘I don’t really want to think about it.’

‘Nobody’s answering anyway,’ Fox commented.

But as they approached the building, a neighbour emerged, manoeuvring a bicycle ahead of her. Fox sprinted forward, holding the door open. The woman thanked him with a smile as she strapped on her helmet.

‘Thank
you
,’ he replied, ushering Rebus inside.

They climbed the three storeys in silence. When they got to the door of Jessica Traynor’s flat, Fox indicated that it wasn’t quite closed. Rebus pushed it open an inch and listened.

Silence.

Another inch and he had a view of the hallway.

No sign of life.

He let it swing wide and walked in, calling out ‘Hello?’

The varnished wooden floor creaked beneath him as he made his way along it, passing the bicycles belonging to Jessica and Alice. Again, the door to the living room wasn’t quite closed, so he opened it. Owen Traynor was seated in one of the chairs, head leaning back, hands draped over the sides. He was in shirtsleeves and looked pale and almost drugged.

‘Mr Traynor?’ Rebus said, eyes taking in everything around him. No students, no Rory Bell.

‘How did I know I’d be seeing you again?’ Traynor’s mouth seemed parched, his voice brittle.

‘Any bother here?’

Traynor looked at Rebus and shook his head. His eyes were hollow from lack of sleep.

‘Been here all night?’ Rebus asked.

‘Maybe.’

‘Jessica and Alice?’

‘I sent them elsewhere. Forbes too.’

‘So you could talk to Rory Bell in private?’

Traynor’s gaze grew more focused, but he decided not to answer. His fingers were beating out a silent rhythm against the sides of the chair. Rebus turned his head towards Fox and indicated that he should take a look around. Then he moved towards the chair and crouched down in front of it.