Rebus 19 - Saints of the Shadow Bible

by Ian Rankin

  ‘Better?’ she enquired.

  ‘Quieter, certainly.’ He buttoned his suit jacket as he spoke. ‘I’ll make this brief – it’s about you and David Galvin.’ He watched for her reaction and she couldn’t help but give one, her eyes widening slightly, glass stopping halfway to her mouth.

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘He works as a fiscal depute.’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘On the Procurator Fiscal’s staff.’

  ‘To state the blindingly obvious.’

  ‘And the two of you are an item?’

  ‘What the hell has that got to do with you?’

  Fox held up a hand to appease her. ‘It shouldn’t have anything to do with me – except that Professional Standards has been contacted anonymously, and that communication has been passed along.’

  ‘Anonymous?’

  Fox nodded. ‘But obviously from someone Galvin works beside. Maybe someone with a grudge.’

  ‘So what does the message say?’

  ‘It simply informs Professional Standards that the two of you are spending a lot of time together and that you know one another intimately . . .’

  Had she been any less furious and irritated, she might have found his language amusing. Instead of which, her face remained stony as she told him to go on.

  ‘There’s not much more,’ he admitted with a shrug. ‘Messenger says we should maybe look into your relationship, in case there’s any element of impropriety to be found.’

  ‘Such as me influencing David and vice versa?’

  ‘I suppose so.’ Fox shifted a little, his drink untouched as yet. ‘Do many people know about you and Mr Galvin?’

  ‘I’ve not told anyone.’ She gave him a hard stare. ‘It’s not that I think we’ve got anything to hide . . .’

  ‘Of course.’ Fox paused. ‘And on his part . . . ?’

  ‘Sounds as if he might have told one person at least.’ She lifted her phone. ‘I better talk to him.’ But then she studied the illuminated screen. ‘Soon as I can get a signal.’

  ‘Maybe leave it till morning,’ Fox advised. ‘Give yourself time to reflect.’

  ‘Always erring on the side of caution, eh? Never doing anything in the heat of the moment?’

  ‘Goes with the job,’ he said with a shrug.

  After a moment, Clarke put her phone down again and lifted her drink. She took a couple of sips, before asking him how things were going with Rebus.

  ‘Hard to say.’

  ‘Because you can’t tell me, or because you don’t know?’

  ‘More the latter than the former. I’m just not sure where I stand with him. There’s so much happening behind his eyes . . .’

  ‘I know that feeling.’ Clarke hoisted her glass again. ‘He’s like one of those chess wizards, the ones who play a dozen boards at the same time.’

  ‘Not a bad analogy,’ Fox agreed with a smile. ‘And if he looks like losing even one of those games . . .’

  ‘Time to duck before the pieces go flying.’

  Now they were both smiling, and the cold didn’t seem as bad as all that.

  ‘Thanks for letting me know,’ Clarke said into the silence. ‘About the mystery message, I mean. What’s the next step?’

  ‘It goes to the bottom of a rather crowded in-tray. Might be it never comes up for air. With reorganisation, a lot of paperwork could end up in the vaults.’

  ‘Is that ethical?’

  ‘You think a bit of Rebus has rubbed off on me already?’

  ‘He can have that effect.’ Clarke noticed her glass was empty. ‘Another?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ve not started this one yet. But look . . . and don’t take this the wrong way or anything . . .’

  ‘Go on,’ she prompted.

  ‘I was wondering if you’d eaten – because I haven’t and I’m starving.’

  ‘Broughton Street’s got everything you need,’ Clarke said. ‘And to tell you the truth, a curry might just hit the spot . . .’

  Day Six

  11

  Next morning, Rebus dropped into Gayfield Square. There was no point arriving at the Sheriff Court before Fox and finding a locked door. DCs Esson and Ogilvie had a pot of coffee on the go, and – as a bonus – there was no sign of James Page.

  ‘He’s in the huff,’ Esson explained.

  ‘Because Nick Ralph got given the sweeties?’ Rebus guessed.

  ‘Plus he can’t even take it out on you, since the Solicitor General stole you from us.’

  ‘I almost feel sorry for the man.’ Rebus took a slurp of coffee, then made a face.

  ‘Ronnie bought it,’ Esson explained. Rebus looked to Ronnie Ogilvie.

  ‘I didn’t see “decaf ” on the packet.’

  ‘Or the words “cheap and nasty”,’ Rebus added. ‘That’s some hat-trick, son.’ Rebus’s mobile phone alerted him to a call. He saw Ogilvie and Esson exchange a look.

  ‘That ringtone’s BB King, by the way,’ he informed them. ‘So don’t even start.’ Then, into the phone itself: ‘Good morning, Inspector Fox – what can I do for you?’

  ‘Elinor Macari wants to see us. How soon can you get here?’

  ‘The Sheriff Court? Ten minutes with a headwind. What’s up?’

  ‘You remember that your friend had a word with Billy Saunders?’

  ‘According to Saunders,’ Rebus felt it necessary to qualify. ‘We’ve not heard Stefan Gilmour’s version yet.’

  ‘Well, that’s going to happen sooner rather than later. Billy Saunders has vanished.’

  ‘Vanished?’

  ‘His car was found this morning on a patch of wasteland in Niddrie. Guy who runs the minicab office hadn’t heard from him all through the night shift. Apparently his last job was from a pub called the Gimlet . . .’

  ‘Just off Calder Road?’

  ‘Might have guessed you’d know it.’

  ‘I was in there asking about the stuff taken from the McCuskey house.’

  ‘Well, the destination was Niddrie Marischal Road.’

  ‘Bandit country,’ Rebus commented. ‘Does the passenger have a name?’

  ‘Robinson.’

  ‘Probably fake.’

  Fox had to ask: ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘If he drinks in the Gimlet, chances are he’s dodgy to start with. And people don’t go to Niddrie at night for the Michelin restaurants. So Mr Dodgy was probably about to do something dodgy.’

  ‘And wouldn’t want his name cropping up if we ran a check?’ Rebus could almost hear Fox nodding his acceptance of the argument. ‘Ten minutes, you say?’

  ‘Will there be coffee?’

  ‘If we’re talking the Solicitor General’s inner sanctum, I think there’s one of those Nespresso machines.’

  ‘You silver-tongued bastard. I’m on my way . . .’

  Elinor Macari’s assistant brought the tray through.

  ‘Smells great,’ Rebus said, accepting one of the small white mugs. There were even biscuits, and he selected one from the plate. Macari was seated behind her desk and didn’t want coffee. She drank from a bottle of still water and looked as though she’d spent at least an hour of the morning at some gym or other. Her skin glowed. When the assistant left, she asked Fox for his report.

  ‘DS Rebus should probably do the talking,’ Fox told her, so that was what Rebus did, giving his view of the Gimlet and its clientele. Afterwards, the Solicitor General tossed her empty bottle into a waste basket and pressed her hands together.

  ‘Plan of action?’ Her eyes drilled into Rebus’s.

  ‘He’s not been gone long. Might be he’s got a lumber somewhere or will wander back home after a day or two, having bankrupted himself at a casino or card game.’

  ‘Or he’s been paid to make himself scarce – would we happen to know of anyone with money enough to make that happen?’

  ‘We’ll be talking to Stefan Gilmour,’ Fox interrupted. ‘We’ll also track down Saunders’s last fare, just in case it t
ies in.’

  ‘What else?’ the Solicitor General demanded.

  ‘We can question family and friends, ask his mobile provider for a list of calls made and received . . .’

  She nodded, as if finally just about satisfied.

  ‘Mind if I ask something?’

  ‘What is it, DS Rebus?’

  ‘You interviewed Saunders, didn’t you? Could that have spooked him?’

  ‘It’s possible,’ Macari conceded. ‘A follow-up session was due later today.’

  ‘Might be why he ran, then.’ Rebus paused. ‘Did he give you anything?’

  ‘He was reticent.’

  ‘Were you prepared to offer him a deal?’

  ‘Not immediately. But if you’re concerned, I’m happy to reassure you your own name didn’t come up – that’s the only reason you’re sitting here. Malcolm has explained his thinking to me, and I can see why he might find you useful . . . up to a point.’

  ‘I’m guessing I’ll know when that point is reached?’

  ‘Believe me, you will.’

  ‘Fine then. But meantime, have we earned our coffee and biscuit?’

  For his efforts, Rebus received the sort of look she would have given a busted rowing machine. Fox was rising to his feet, placing his mug back on the tray.

  ‘We’ve taken enough of your time,’ he was saying.

  Rebus followed suit, pausing just long enough to lift a second digestive. Macari said nothing, but kept her eyes on them as they exited the office. Once the door was closed, she reached forward and took the one remaining biscuit, studying it for the best part of thirty seconds before indulging in a large, satisfying bite.

  The Gimlet wouldn’t open for another hour, so they took Rebus’s Saab to Niddrie. The worst of the housing stock had been ripped down and replaced. Gap sites existed, and it was on one of these that the Ford Sierra had been abandoned.

  ‘Key left in the ignition,’ Fox explained as they parked next to the spot. ‘Lucky the local kids didn’t decide to take it for a spin.’

  ‘Why didn’t they?’

  Fox just shrugged. ‘Anyway, the owner of the minicab company sent someone this morning to rescue it.’

  ‘Meaning any evidence will have been contaminated,’ Rebus commented.

  ‘Evidence?’

  ‘It’s the stuff we collect to make a case that can go to trial.’

  Fox glared at him. ‘You think something could have happened to Saunders?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘But there’s a chance?’

  ‘If someone’s going to do a runner, they’d normally head for a train or bus station. Saunders didn’t do that. He left his car in the back of beyond.’

  ‘To throw us off his scent?’

  ‘Or it could be he’s got a pal nearby who could fix him up.’ Rebus narrowed his eyes against the smoke from his cigarette.

  ‘So we talk to family and friends?’

  ‘And his boss – see what else he might know about the booking from the Gimlet.’

  ‘And the Gimlet itself – someone there is bound to know who the pick-up was for.’

  ‘Getting them to tell us might be the problem. It’s not exactly G and Ts and cashmere jumpers in there.’

  ‘But you’re a known face?’

  ‘Doesn’t make me a liked face.’

  ‘Then maybe I should do the talking.’

  ‘That I’d like to see.’

  ‘My pleasure,’ Malcolm Fox said, doing everything but puffing out his chest.

  But first they visited Billy Saunders’s home, an unassuming mid-terrace pebble-dash in Blackhall. Saunders was still married to Bettina, the woman Douglas Merchant had been killed over.

  ‘Best if you don’t introduce me,’ Rebus told Fox.

  ‘In case he’s mentioned you to her?’

  Rebus nodded.

  The woman was at home, but showed no great enthusiasm to see them. They stood in the living room, since every chair was covered in cats or laundry, including some with cats on top. She was sure Billy would turn up. Reckoned he was just sickened with working nights. He’d be sleeping it off somewhere.

  Did he have friends in Niddrie?

  He did not.

  And things were okay at home?

  If they were asking about other women, who would be daft enough?

  She knew that a case against Billy was being prepared? Had he seemed worried about that?

  Wouldn’t they be?

  Any addresses where they might try looking for him? And a copy of his latest mobile bill . . .

  They didn’t ask for much, did they?

  Then Rebus cleared his throat and asked her about Douglas Merchant.

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘Billy’s supposed to have done him in for sleeping with you.’

  Bettina Saunders gave a pig-like snort. ‘That was a lot of pish – some rumour got started and Billy saw red.’

  ‘He did kill Merchant, then?’ Fox interrupted.

  ‘I’m not saying that.’ She glowered at him. ‘Billy might get angry, but he wouldn’t hurt anyone – that’s why the trial collapsed in the first place. Wrong man was in the dock.’

  ‘Yet he admitted his guilt to a cellmate.’

  ‘Men in jail say all sorts, don’t they? You let the story get round that you’ve done someone in, you get less grief from the other cons.’

  ‘You seem to know all about it.’

  ‘Years of my life spent visiting him inside.’

  ‘If and when he gets in touch, you’ll let us know?’

  ‘You’re right at the top of my list.’

  ‘I’m not entirely sure I believe that.’ But Fox thanked her anyway.

  Similar line of questioning at the minicab office. The Ford was parked down the lane, so they were even able to give it the onceover. No signs of damage; nothing to indicate any sort of struggle.

  ‘My way of thinking,’ Saunders’s boss said, folding his bare meaty arms across his chest, ‘is that the punter hasn’t any cash, so takes off. Billy goes after him – and that’s when something happens. Not the fittest of guys, so he could have keeled over somewhere. Alternatively, he ends up being led into an ambush.’ He shrugged his shoulders as if such eventualities were written into the job description.

  Back in the Saab, Fox asked Rebus if it was time for them to try the Gimlet.

  ‘I think you’re ready,’ Rebus said, starting the engine. ‘Place used to be under the ownership of a thug called Frank Hammell. Good spot to visit if you were in the market for a stolen telly or hi-fi.’

  ‘Where’s Hammell these days?’

  ‘Out of the game.’

  ‘You make it sound like a decision taken out of his hands.’

  ‘You might say that . . .’

  When they reached their destination, Fox walked in ahead of Rebus. Rebus placed a hand on his arm.

  ‘Slight change of plan – maybe let me do the talking to start with.’

  He had already been recognised – not by the tattooed barwoman but by the young, well-dressed man seated on a stool, who broke off his conversation with her as Rebus walked in.

  ‘Darryl Christie,’ Rebus said.

  ‘Mr Rebus.’ Christie didn’t budge from the stool. He looked Rebus up and down. ‘Something I can do for you?’

  Rebus ignored the question and turned towards Fox. ‘This young streak of piss is the reason Frank Hammell gave up this place, and plenty of others like it. I know what you’re thinking – he can’t be long out of school – but don’t let that fool you.’

  As if to reinforce the point, Christie rubbed his hand along the acne on his jawline, offering a grin which still seemed to contain some milk teeth. Rebus was searching the room for muscle.

  ‘Not got your boys with you?’ he asked. ‘Unless the old lad in the corner with the tot of rum is a master of disguise.’

  ‘City’s nice and calm, Mr Rebus. And personnel come expensive.’

  ‘Did you happen to be h
ere last night, Mr Christie?’ Fox interrupted. ‘Around eight forty-five one of your clients rang for a cab. We’re trying to trace the driver.’

  ‘Ask Lavinia here,’ Christie advised, indicating the barwoman.

  ‘I’m only on days,’ she corrected him.

  ‘So you are.’ Christie tutted at his mistake. ‘It would have been Colin or Johnny.’

  ‘Plus someone manning the door?’ Rebus asked.

  Christie thought for a moment. ‘That would have been Deano. You’re thinking he would have clocked the cab? What’s the story with the driver anyway?’

  ‘Not your concern, Mr Christie,’ Fox said, sounding apologetic.

  ‘I like you,’ Christie told him. ‘You’ve got the right attitude – probably means you’ve not been chumming Rebus long. And because you’ve made an impression . . .’ Christie took out his phone and made three calls: both barmen, plus the bouncer. He drew a blank.

  ‘Nobody saw anything,’ he announced with a thin smile.

  ‘Now there’s a surprise,’ Rebus muttered.

  ‘Maybe if you felt able to trust me with a bit more information . . .’ Christie was speaking to Fox, and Fox eventually opened his mouth to respond.

  ‘Tell him nothing,’ Rebus snapped. ‘We’ll do this the hard way. It’s not as if he owes me anything . . .’

  ‘Because you put away Kenny Magrath?’ Christie had risen from the bar stool. ‘I’m supposed to thank you for that?’

  But Rebus was already turning away, his hand on Fox’s arm again. ‘Let’s go,’ he said.

  Outside, he got into the car, slamming shut the door and choking the steering wheel with both fists.

  ‘A bit of history?’ Fox surmised.

  ‘His sister was Annette McKie. Kenny Magrath killed her and I put him away.’

  ‘And he doesn’t owe you anything?’

  ‘Because he wanted Magrath dead – probably still does.’

  Fox nodded his understanding. ‘Maybe if I’d gone in there on my own . . .’