by Ian Rankin
‘So he’s kept his mouth shut for thirty years, but he might think it’s time to spill what really happened.’
‘Confess, you mean?’
‘Maybe not to the murder – but the cover-up after.’
‘Balls-up rather than cover-up.’
‘You reckon that’s how he’ll frame it?’
‘I don’t care what he does.’
‘When was the last time you set eyes on him?’
‘Billy Saunders? Twenty, twenty-five years.’
‘Despite living in the same city?’ Fox paused, making show of studying his notes. ‘When DI Gilmour resigned, who took control of Mr Saunders?’
‘You mean, whose snitch was he?’ Paterson looked to Rebus. ‘He didn’t warm to any of us, did he, John?’
‘Not that I remember,’ Rebus felt obliged to answer.
‘And here was I thinking he would have owed you,’ Fox commented. ‘I mean, whatever titbits he’d gifted you down the years, you got him off a murder charge . . .’
‘Not intentionally,’ Paterson corrected him.
‘Even so, he’d been useful to you and suddenly you just let him go?’
‘Almost as if there was more to it than that,’ Rebus interjected.
‘You were there, John,’ Paterson shot back. ‘What do you think?’
‘It was another country.’
‘But that’s where you’re wrong, both of you,’ Fox said, turning from one man to the other. ‘It was the exact same country – you just treated it like you had the run of the place. A lot of bad habits were picked up, and the passing of time doesn’t necessarily wipe the slate clean.’
‘It can play tricks on folk’s memories, though,’ Paterson stressed. ‘Whatever story Saunders decides to tell, no way of knowing it’s the truth.’
‘His short-term memory should be okay, though, eh?’
‘What do you mean?’ Paterson’s eyes had narrowed.
‘The Procurator’s office set up a meeting with him this lunchtime. You sure it’s been quarter of a century since either of you set eyes on him?’ He waited until both Paterson and Rebus had nodded. ‘Well, according to Mr Saunders, another of your number phoned him this very morning.’
It took Rebus a moment to come up with the name. ‘Stefan Gilmour?’
‘The same,’ Fox confirmed.
‘What did he want?’
‘He was wondering which particular beans Mr Saunders might be about to spill.’
‘Stefan spoke to him?’ Paterson sounded disbelieving, but Fox was nodding slowly.
‘Seems some of those bad habits just never go away,’ he commented, flicking through his notes again.
After ten further stilted minutes, the interview concluded. Fox thanked Paterson and told him that Rebus would see him out.
‘I’m sure the two of you will want a quick confab once I’m out of earshot.’
Neither man bothered to deny it. Out on Chambers Street, Paterson pulled out his phone and called Stefan Gilmour’s number.
‘It’s gone to voicemail,’ he muttered after a few seconds. He left a message anyway, telling Gilmour to phone him, adding, ‘You’ll know what it’s about, you daft bastard.’
‘Succinct,’ Rebus said. Paterson stared at the skies above and let out a sound that was on its way to being a growl.
‘What does he think he’s playing at, John?’
‘You tell me.’
‘Does he really want all of us in it up to our necks?’
‘Fox is right, though, isn’t he? There’s more to it than just keeping a good snitch on the street?’
Paterson jabbed a finger into Rebus’s chest. ‘You’re the one who said that, not Fox!’
‘Only because he’d said it to me earlier.’
‘You’re supposed to be on our side, John.’
‘Oh aye? And what about Stefan – how’s he playing for the team when he’s calling Billy Saunders behind our backs?’
‘Christ alone knows,’ Paterson muttered, shoulders slumping.
‘The Shadow Bible was a long time ago, Porkbelly,’ Rebus said quietly. ‘It made sense that we stuck up for one another back then – might not be so true now.’
‘You’re asking me to side with you against Stefan?’ Paterson was shaking his head slowly but determinedly.
‘I’m saying we need to do what’s right.’
‘And tell me, John – was it “right” when you started seeing Dod Blantyre’s wife? Was it “right” that those of us who knew kept shtum?’
‘That’s not what we’re talking about here.’ Blood had risen unbidden to Rebus’s neck and cheeks.
‘It is, though – secrets and lies and all the other crap we’ve dealt out and been dealt. I didn’t see you owning up in there to signing your name to statements that weren’t yours. But we both know it happened. A lot happened back then, and one crack in the dam might be all that’s needed . . .’ Paterson paused, looking Rebus up and down. ‘So make sure you know whose side you’re on, John. And leave Stefan to me – I’ll see to it he doesn’t go near Saunders again.’
Rebus noticed that Paterson’s hand was outstretched. He took it and returned the firm shake, Paterson apparently reluctant to let go.
‘All right then,’ Rebus said, finally extricating himself. He watched Paterson walk away, then returned indoors and headed to the toilets. Examining his face in the soap-spattered mirror, he saw that there was still a faint smudge of lipstick on his right cheek. Cursing, he rubbed it away. Maybe Fox had noticed it and decided not to say anything. But Paterson had certainly spotted it, and had surmised the identity of its bestower – hadn’t she asked him for Rebus’s phone number, after all?
Fox was in the office, tidying up now that the show was over.
‘Much further forward?’ Rebus asked him.
In place of an answer, Fox had a question of his own. ‘Did you reach Stefan Gilmour?’
‘No,’ Rebus admitted. ‘Paterson left a message.’
‘Unbelievably stupid of him to contact Saunders.’
‘I’m not going to disagree,’ Rebus offered, slumping on to a chair.
‘And have you come to any conclusions yourself, Detective Sergeant Rebus?’
‘About what?’
‘You’re either my man or you’re theirs. Up until now, maybe you’ve been thinking you can swap shirts as and when.’
‘Only conclusion I’ve been able to draw so far is that you’re as sleekit as they come.’
‘I might have to pretend you mean that as a compliment.’
‘In some ways, it probably is.’ Rebus managed a tired smile.
‘I’m sorry for threatening to turn you into the tea boy.’
‘You were just letting Paterson know who was boss.’
‘And you too, maybe.’
Rebus nodded. ‘So what now?’
‘Our first interview needs to be sent for transcribing. I’ll leave that to you, if you don’t mind – I’m meeting Elinor Macari at the top of the hour.’
‘To hear what else Billy Saunders has been saying?’
‘That’s right.’
‘So do you want me to lock up?’
Fox studied Rebus, then shook his head.
‘Still don’t trust me?’ Rebus tried to sound hurt.
Fox didn’t answer. He placed a thick file in his briefcase, where it joined his notepad. ‘It’s good you finally got rid of that lipstick,’ he said, closing the clasps.
10
Some of the same faces Clarke had seen outside the McCuskeys’ home were now huddled on the narrow pavement on Torphichen Place. Cars and vans parked illegally were being ticketed by wardens, but without the owners seeming to mind. Those same vehicles had narrowed the road from three lanes to one, and traffic was backed up, giving drivers plenty of time to stare at the media circus.
Once inside the police station, having ignored all the questions yelled in her direction, Clarke showed her ID and was buzzed through a locked door into the bod
y of the building. Every bit of space on the first floor seemed to be in the process of being taken over by the Major Incident Team – desks moved, extra chairs sought, communications established. Clarke squeezed her way through the melee until she reached its still centre and introduced herself to DCI Ralph. He was over six feet tall, his dark hair parted in the centre, and sporting a neatly trimmed beard. He didn’t bother with a handshake or words of welcome, telling her instead that there would be a briefing in ten minutes’ time and she should make herself useful until then.
‘Olivia will show you the ropes,’ he explained, nodding towards a young woman who was carrying a computer printer past him.
‘Olivia Webster,’ the officer said by way of introduction, as Clarke followed her. ‘I’m a DC.’
‘I’m DI Clarke.’
‘Siobhan Clarke – I know who you are.’
‘Have we met before?’
Webster shook her head. She had long brown hair and grey eyes, her skin pale. ‘I’ve just heard you mentioned.’ She placed the printer on one of the desks, next to a monitor. ‘I’ve only been here six weeks – transferred from Dundee.’ She stared at the set-up on the desk.
‘Keyboard?’ Clarke suggested.
Webster smiled. ‘Knew something wasn’t quite right.’ She scanned the room. ‘Must be one around here somewhere . . .’ Then she was off again, leaving Clarke without any sense of what she could or should be doing. She peered from a window until the press pack below noticed her and started waving.
‘Not much room here for media conferences.’ DCI Ralph was standing next to her. ‘We’re using the hotel on the corner instead.’
‘Good thinking.’
He studied her. ‘You were at the scene soon after Mr McCuskey was found.’ Statement rather than question. ‘That’s why I want you focusing on the break-in itself – the nuts and bolts, if you like.’
Clarke nodded her acceptance. ‘There’s already an officer working on the stolen goods – putting word out.’
‘Good.’
‘Maybe we could bring him in?’
‘As part of the team, you mean?’ He wafted a hand in the general direction of the chaos behind him. ‘You think we’re short-staffed?’
‘Just seems rational, since he’s been involved in the preliminary investigation.’
‘This wouldn’t be your old friend, would it? The infamous John Rebus?’
‘John not only has contacts, he was also with me when we attended the scene of a crash not far from the McCuskey home. The young woman pulled from the wreckage happens to be Forbes McCuskey’s girlfriend. We’re not sure she was alone in the car at the time.’
Ralph grew thoughtful. ‘That’s quite the coincidence.’
‘Our thinking exactly. Again, if DS Rebus is brought in, he’s already done a lot of the groundwork . . .’
‘Let me think about it, once I’ve got the pep talk out of the way.’ He glanced at his watch, then concentrated on the movement in the room, seeming pleased with the progress. Olivia Webster had located a grubby-looking keyboard and was plugging it in. Another officer, having wiped clean a large whiteboard, was attaching photos of the crime scene to it. McCuskey had been moved before any pictures could be taken of him, but there was a typed description of how he had been found on the sitting room floor, face down and with his legs at an awkward angle. There was a close-up of the smashed patio door, and another of the ransacked bedroom. Two bedrooms, in fact. Clarke walked over and studied the photograph of what had to be the son’s old room – she hadn’t checked it at the time, and chided herself now. There were band posters on its walls, shelves of novels, a double bed with a bright red duvet. The duvet had been thrown to the floor, some of the books scattered, one poster torn in half. Drawers sat half open. Yet there had been nothing in the room worth taking. Was this evidence of anger? As if Forbes McCuskey were as much of a target as his parents? Clarke thought back to Owen Traynor again. Did they need to bring him in for a more formal chat?
DCI Ralph was clapping his hands, calling out for everyone to stop what they were doing. All eyes turned towards him. Officers filed in from the corridor and the other rooms off. Clarke found herself with her back pressed against the whiteboard, unable to see anything except the very top of Nick Ralph’s head. Around her, phones were pinging and vibrating.
‘Maybe we could have those off,’ Ralph ordered.
She slid her own from her pocket. She had a message from Malcolm Fox, but she could read it later. For now, she powered down the phone and concentrated on the job at hand.
‘Let’s begin,’ Nick Ralph said.
Early evening, Rebus left his tenement flat and headed for a shop on Marchmont Road where he could buy cigarettes and bacon. He was almost at the top of Arden Street when he spotted Forbes McCuskey on the other side of the road. McCuskey had recognised him. He stood there for a moment, then strode towards Rebus.
‘You following me? Stalking me?’
‘Just passing,’ Rebus said, reluctant to let him know they lived on the same street.
‘I could call this harassment.’
‘It’s not. Sorry to hear about your dad, by the way.’
The young man’s anger abated a little, good manners taking over. ‘Thanks,’ he said.
‘We’ll be doing everything we can to find his attacker.’
Forbes McCuskey nodded distractedly. Now that he had confronted the detective, he seemed not to know what to do next.
‘Including interviewing Jessica’s father,’ Rebus continued matter-of-factly.
‘What for?’
‘Because his daughter had just been in a car smash and he wasn’t convinced it was her fault. Because, historically, he has a temper on him.’
‘So he attacks my father in revenge?’
‘Only when he fails to find you at home.’
McCuskey started to shake his head, but then stopped. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I suppose you have to explore all the avenues . . .’
‘You can be sure we’ll do that.’ Rebus gestured towards McCuskey’s building. ‘I’d have thought your mum might be needing you.’
‘Aunt Dorothy’s with her. I’m just collecting some of my stuff.’
‘Your mum’s okay, being in the house . . . ?’
‘I did suggest a hotel.’
‘Not the Caledonian?’ Rebus cautioned.
McCuskey nodded his understanding. ‘Jessica’s there . . .’
‘Next door to her father. Have you been to see her?’
McCuskey shook his head.
‘She’ll have been in touch, though, having heard . . . ?’
‘I’ve talked to her, yes.’ McCuskey’s eyes locked on Rebus. ‘Were you really just passing?’
‘I live down the road,’ Rebus admitted, seeing no harm in it. ‘On my way to Margiotta’s. I’m at number seventeen, second floor – if you ever want to talk.’
‘Talk? What about?’
‘Maybe why you lied to us.’
‘Did I lie?’
‘You said you couldn’t drive, yet I saw you behind the wheel, with your mum in the passenger seat.’
The young man was shaking his head. ‘I said I don’t drive, I never said I couldn’t if I have to.’
‘You were attempting to mislead us, Mr McCuskey. And all it’s done is made me even more curious about the night of the smash.’
‘You can’t still be going on about that?’
‘It’s unfinished business – and with what happened to your dad . . .’ Rebus left the end of the sentence hanging and started on his way. ‘Number seventeen,’ he reminded McCuskey. ‘My name’s on the bell . . .’
Once inside his flat, Forbes McCuskey dug his phone from his pocket and made a call.
‘It’s me,’ he said. Then, in response to a question: ‘Yeah, I’m all right, I suppose. A bit numb, to be honest. But I’ve just been talking to that guy Rebus.’ He listened for a moment, wandering through to the kitchen and opening the fridge, in search of s
omething to drink. ‘Apparently he lives on my street, which is a nuisance, and he’s still harping on about the crash. But here’s the thing – the thinking seems to be that Jess’s father might have been behind the break-in. That could play well for us, take a bit of the heat off.’ He paused again to listen, glugging milk from a carton. ‘No, not that heat. Speaking of which, I better try ringing Jess . . .’
He ended the call and went through to his room, falling back on to the bed and staring at the ceiling. There was some dope under the mattress and he would smoke it in a little while. Maybe he’d drink some wine, too, or neat tequila. Anything to stop him thinking about his father and what had happened – what might have happened.
‘You dickhead,’ he muttered to himself, covering his eyes with his forearm. ‘What the hell have you gone and done . . . ?’
Slowly, the tears began to come.
‘Can I come up?’
‘Where are you?’ Siobhan Clarke asked.
‘Standing outside.’
She went to the window to take a look. Her flat was on the first floor of a utilitarian block just off Broughton Street. Fox was standing in the middle of the road, his phone pressed to his ear.
‘What’s going on?’ she asked him.
‘I’d rather tell you in person.’
She scanned her living room. It was presentable – more than presentable. But still, she didn’t want to share it with Fox. ‘I’ll come down,’ she said into the phone. ‘There’s a bar around the corner we can go to.’
‘I don’t drink,’ Fox reminded her. ‘And this isn’t really a social visit.’
‘Two minutes,’ she said, ending the call and wondering whether to bother making herself presentable.
The bar was called The Basement because it was in a basement, reached by a short flight of stone steps from the pavement. It was gloomy and the furniture looked like props from the Alien films. There was a traditional pub almost the same distance away in the other direction, but Clarke had chosen this place because she sensed Fox would be less at ease in it. The drinkers were young, the music as jagged as the seats and tables. Clarke ordered a glass of white wine and Fox a spiced tomato juice.
‘Can’t hear myself think,’ he complained, so Clarke relented and led them back outdoors to the tiny courtyard where smokers could usually be found. There was a bench attached to the wall and a couple of slatted tables, plus a scattering of wicker chairs. They sat opposite one another with their drinks. The night was chill, and Clarke wrapped her coat around her, pleased to see that she was better prepared than Fox, who wore only a thin dark blue suit, shirt and tie.
