Rebus 19 - Saints of the Shadow Bible

by Ian Rankin

  ‘Possibly. Remember the car boot? Closed in the initial photos from the crash scene . . .’

  ‘But wide open by the time we got there. Meaning someone took something?’

  ‘Forbes McCuskey panics and does a runner. But then he has second thoughts, hangs around nearby. Once the ambulance has taken Jessica away and the patrol car has gone . . .’

  ‘He comes back, opens the boot and takes whatever was inside?’ Clarke’s eyes had opened a little wider. ‘And he’s walking distance from his parents’ place, so he takes the drugs there?’

  Rebus nodded. ‘Maybe the original owners wanted them back – if the deal had gone sour.’

  ‘Forbes isn’t there, but they find his father instead?’

  ‘It’s guesswork at best, Siobhan,’ Rebus warned her. He knew this because he had spent half the night piecing it together.

  ‘We really need to talk to Forbes, don’t we?’

  ‘Might be easier starting with his girlfriend. She’s back in her flat as of today, with her dad nowhere in sight.’

  ‘Making her the weaker link?’ Clarke nodded, without looking especially convinced. She saw that there was no longer a queue at the counter. ‘I need another coffee to take with me.’

  ‘You sure about that?’ He nodded towards her knee. ‘I’d say you’re already shakier than a Neil Young tribute band.’

  ‘He’s playing Glasgow, you know – Neil Young, I mean.’

  ‘June the thirteenth,’ Rebus confirmed.

  ‘You’ve got a ticket?’

  He shook his head. ‘They only had standing.’

  ‘And at your age you need a nice comfy seat?’ Clarke was smiling.

  ‘There are just some things I won’t stand for,’ Rebus replied. ‘You should know that by now . . .’

  He walked with her to the hotel, and stood at the back of the room for the first few minutes of DCI Ralph’s presentation. A couple of political hacks seemed to have joined the usual newshounds. Rebus recognised their faces from late-night TV discussions. He had no idea what they sounded like – he always had the sound muted, an album playing in its place. They held phones or iPads rather than actual notebooks, and the look they affected was world-weary. Maybe they yearned for the bright lights of Westminster, Big Ben chiming the hours. Rebus almost felt sorry for them as he exited the hotel and returned to his car. He called Fox to make sure the office wasn’t locked.

  ‘Thought we might make a day of it,’ Fox told him. ‘I’ve fixed those interviews with Albert Stout and Norman Cuttle.’

  ‘Want me to bring anything for them – an ear trumpet or a bag of pan drops?’

  ‘They both sounded spry when I phoned them.’

  ‘So where are you just now?’

  ‘Elinor Macari’s office. She’s been updating me on Billy Saunders.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Craigmillar police station are running the show – without any apparent enthusiasm.’

  ‘Guy’s been missing no time at all,’ Rebus argued.

  ‘Even so, Macari has got one of her fiscals to go gee them up. Poor bugger’s to stick to the investigation like glue.’

  ‘Glue used to be a currency in Craigmillar,’ Rebus commented. ‘So shall I meet you at Macari’s.’

  ‘Why not?’ Malcolm Fox said.

  Why not indeed? Rebus thought to himself, ending the call and turning left at the lights.

  Albert Stout lived on his own in an Edwardian house with uninterrupted views across Muirfield golf course. The place would be worth a few bob, but would also need gutting and updating by any new owners. The central heating radiators were the same age as the building, and emitted as much heat as a Bluebell match. There was a pervasive smell of damp, the window frames were crumbling, and the carpets were mouldering at their edges. There were books and newspapers everywhere, Stout having explained that he was writing his memoirs.

  ‘The industry’s on its last legs, so this is by way of ave atque vale.’

  ‘Do you know Laura Smith?’ Rebus enquired.

  ‘I hear she does a good enough job – under the circumstances.’ Stout shuffled along in carpet slippers, leading them into the lounge. More clutter – unopened mail, boxes of photographs, cups and plates. ‘Someone comes and cleans once a week,’ he apologised.

  ‘Do you have any other help?’ Fox asked.

  ‘Council tried matching me with someone, but I’m too set in my ways. They did install a button I can press if there’s an emergency . . .’ Stout looked around in vain for the device.

  There were grease stains on his cardigan and brown cord trousers. He was jowly, and hadn’t shaved in a couple of days. What hair he had left was silver and unruly, but his eyes were alert. As the three men sat down, he wagged a finger in Rebus’s direction.

  ‘I remember you now,’ he said. ‘Gave me more than a few column inches down the years.’

  ‘I hope that’s not a euphemism,’ Rebus retorted. Then: ‘Do you still smoke a couple of packs a day?’

  Stout made a face. ‘Doctor told me I should call a halt.’

  ‘We want to talk to you about a particular case,’ Fox broke in, perching on the edge of the sofa rather than move the heaps of magazines behind him. ‘Summerhall CID and the death of Douglas Merchant. You wrote about it several times . . .’

  ‘Because it was a scandal – the police back then were like little tyrants.’ He paused and glanced in Rebus’s direction. ‘No offence.’

  ‘None taken,’ Rebus assured him, coldly.

  ‘They faked confessions, framed the innocent, planted evidence – we all knew it went on, but there was nothing we could do about it.’

  ‘The press knew, you mean?’

  ‘Very straightforward procedure – you bought a desk sergeant or someone from the custody suite a drink, and they poured out all the gossip. Almost none of it made the news pages.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Editors would spike it. They’d be on the phone to someone high up at HQ, there’d be a few quiet words, and the piece would fail to appear.’

  ‘Editors in cahoots with the upper echelons?’

  Stout nodded, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his cardigan.

  ‘But the pieces you wrote about the Merchant killing made it into the Scotsman,’ Fox nudged.

  ‘By no means all of them, but some, yes. It was safe by then, you see? A senior officer had already resigned.’

  ‘Stefan Gilmour?’ Fox watched the old man nod.

  ‘Did him no harm in the long run, did it?’ Stout grumbled. ‘On his way to a knighthood, I shouldn’t wonder.’

  ‘The officers at Summerhall contend that it was a simple matter of errors being made.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Stout snapped back at Fox. ‘Billy Saunders had to be protected.’

  ‘Because he was Stefan Gilmour’s snitch? Or do you think there was more to it than that?’

  ‘It did cross my mind. Plenty of men around like Saunders at that time – losing one snitch to jail would hardly have shaken Gilmour’s world.’

  ‘So what do you make of it?’

  ‘Have you tried asking him?’ Stout gestured towards Rebus. ‘I seem to recall you were at Summerhall same time as Gilmour.’

  ‘I’m in the dark as much as anyone,’ Rebus commented. ‘But we’re talking to Eamonn Paterson and George Blantyre.’

  ‘And Gilmour himself, of course,’ Fox added.

  ‘Not Frazer Spence, though,’ Stout said quietly. ‘Poor little bugger. He was one of mine, you know.’

  ‘One of the officers who’d take a drink from you?’ Fox checked.

  Stout was nodding again. ‘Not until a few years after the Merchant case, but yes . . .’ He seemed lost in thought for a moment. ‘Reluctant to talk about Summerhall though. And clammed up completely whenever Merchant was mentioned.’

  ‘He knew something?’

  ‘He was scared, or maybe haunted is a better word – like there was something he’d stuffed into a locker and h
e didn’t ever want it opening.’

  ‘Will Summerhall feature in your memoirs, Mr Stout?’ Rebus asked. Fox looked annoyed at the interruption.

  ‘Maybe as a postscript to be published after my death – that way nobody can sue.’ There was a glint in the old journalist’s eye.

  ‘You worked with Frazer Spence, John,’ Fox was saying. ‘Do you know why he’d feel “haunted”?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘Nobody in that police station was totally clean,’ Stout said sourly, his eyes on Rebus.

  ‘And we know that journalists have always been paragons of virtue,’ Rebus responded.

  ‘One or two of us were scumbags,’ Stout allowed. ‘But with your lot it was institutionalised lying, institutionalised violence and threats.’

  ‘You’re one to talk, you old—’

  ‘DS Rebus,’ Fox broke in, his voice rising. ‘Maybe you need a breath of air.’

  After a staring match of a few seconds, Rebus got to his feet. ‘Maybe I do at that. The atmosphere in here’s getting a bit too fucking pious for me. I’ll leave you and this old hypocrite to it . . .’

  Outside, he paced the short gravel driveway, sucking on a cigarette. It was a good five or six minutes before Fox emerged. Stout hadn’t bothered coming to the door to wave him off.

  ‘You okay?’ Fox asked.

  ‘Sanctimonious prick of a man,’ Rebus began. ‘You can be sure there’ll be no shortage of lies and half-truths in his book. Albert Stout wasn’t above groping a typist or offering someone a deal if they’d rat on their lover.’

  Fox unlocked his Volvo and got in. Rebus wished he’d brought his Saab, but it was parked on Chambers Street. He paused for a few more seconds, draining the life from his cigarette before flicking it towards Stout’s front door. Then he climbed into the passenger seat.

  ‘Got it off your chest?’ Fox said. He didn’t look displeased to see Rebus fired up.

  ‘Let’s just get going, eh?’

  Fox started the car. Rebus had already noticed that the man never quite broke the speed limit. In a 40 zone, he’d keep to 39; in a 30, he’d do 29. The one time Rebus had suggested putting the foot down, Fox had actually eased off the accelerator instead. So he kept quiet as they drove back into the city, headed for Colinton and the home of Professor Norman Cuttle. Fox stuck the Scottish news on, but switched the radio off again almost immediately.

  ‘All you seem to hear about is the referendum,’ he complained. Then: ‘Mr Stout was interesting about that actually – after you left. He’s got a whole chapter in his book about the ’79 vote and the years that followed. SNP were at a low ebb then. Some of them decided to take matters a little further. I had a case a couple of years back . . .’

  ‘A Complaints case?’

  ‘Started off that way. You ever heard of the Dark Harvest Commando? The SNLA? They got hold of weapons, sent firebombs to politicians and Princess Di – even posted anthrax to the government in London.’

  ‘I vaguely remember.’

  ‘Stout covered a few of the trials. He’s an interesting man.’

  ‘He’s an arsehole, and the fact that you can’t tell the difference says a lot about you, if you don’t mind me saying.’

  ‘Do you think it was true, though, what he said about editors spiking stories?’

  ‘Is that going to be your next archaeological dig – brass who were too close to the men who ran the papers?’

  ‘I’d assume they’re all dead by now.’

  ‘I’m not sure that would stop you.’

  ‘This is my last work for Professional Standards.’

  ‘Unless you can persuade the Solicitor General that you need to be kept on in some capacity.’

  ‘That could work for you too, you know.’

  Rebus turned towards Fox. ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Until recently you were working cold cases. If the double jeopardy verdict goes, there’ll be a lot of “archaeological digs” to be organised. Who better than someone with cold-case experience?’

  ‘I prefer my bodies with a bit of warmth in them.’

  Fox gave a shrug. ‘Your funeral,’ he said.

  ‘Meaning what?’

  ‘Meaning you’re back in CID but the clock is against you – two or three more years and you’ll hit the retirement wall again. That wouldn’t matter if you were working for the Solicitor General.’

  ‘I know plenty of ex-cops who work for lawyers – they never seem particularly happy about it.’

  ‘Doing precognitions, you mean? That’s not what this would be like.’

  ‘It would be like death,’ Rebus stated, switching the radio back on.

  ‘Something you should refrain from saying at our next destination,’ Fox advised, as a Waterboys song started playing.

  Professor Norman Cuttle was resident in a care home overlooking the greenery of Colinton Dell. A trolley was serving tea and biscuits in the TV room. Cuttle rose slowly from his chair to greet his two visitors, then suggested they ‘repair’ to the garden, where it would be quieter.

  Quieter and chillier. Not that Rebus was complaining. He’d had to remove both coat and jacket upon entering the care home’s reception area, a member of staff explaining that the heating had to be kept full blast or there were complaints. He remembered the suffocating warmth of Dod Blantyre’s bungalow, and Maggie’s occasional need to escape.

  The same staff member provided a tartan travel rug for Professor Cuttle, wrapping it around his legs and chest. The professor was seated on a new-looking wooden bench. There was a plaque on it, identifying the donor as someone who had lived at the care home.

  And died there, Rebus presumed.

  Cuttle was a bit stiffer than Albert Stout, and required a hearing aid. He was a lot more skeletal, too, his skull all but visible through his paper-thin blue-veined skin. Rebus remembered him as a gentle man who took great care with the cadavers in his possession, respecting them as though family members were gathered at his shoulder. He apologised for not remembering Rebus.

  ‘We didn’t meet often,’ Rebus said. ‘I got to know your successor a bit better.’

  ‘Professor Gates?’

  Rebus nodded and buttoned up his coat. There was a stiff breeze from the north, the cloud thickening. With Fox and Stout taking up the bench, there was nowhere for him to sit, so he was standing to one side, leaving the woodland view unobstructed.

  ‘We’re here about Douglas Merchant,’ Fox nudged.

  ‘Yes, I’ve been thinking about him. It was on the news about Billy Saunders disappearing.’

  ‘You did the post-mortem examination.’

  ‘With Professor Donner – he was the senior pathologist.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you recall the details . . .’ Fox opened the briefcase he’d been holding and slid out a thin brown folder. Inside was the report from the autopsy. Cuttle peered at the sheets, seemingly engrossed.

  ‘These were written by Donner,’ he said. ‘Such tiny handwriting, yet perfectly legible. I’d no idea we kept paperwork for this number of years.’

  ‘We’re lucky it survived,’ Fox said.

  ‘Indeed, yes.’

  ‘You gave evidence at the trial?’

  ‘I did. But then the case fell apart.’

  ‘A question of contamination?’

  Cuttle nodded. ‘The victim’s blood was found on clothing owned by Billy Saunders.’ He paused. ‘Unfortunately, that clothing had apparently been stored in an evidence bag alongside items belonging to the victim.’

  ‘Meaning the blood could have been transferred from one to the other?’

  ‘That was the fear.’

  ‘Pretty basic error.’ Fox watched Cuttle as he sifted through more of the paperwork, including photos of the deceased from both the scene of the attack and the autopsy slab. ‘Merchant was killed in the alleyway behind the pub he’d been drinking in. He’d had an argument an hour or two before with Billy Saunders. Saunders had then left the pub. He was apprehended, dru
nk and blood-spattered, in a street half a mile away. His story was that he’d stumbled over the body, and been so horrified he’d staggered off down the road. He told police he’d no idea the body had belonged to Douglas Merchant.’

  ‘Mmm,’ Cuttle said, managing to inject huge scepticism into the single syllable. ‘The man had grazed knuckles and a burst lip, consistent with a fight. Plus a few nicks that could have been received from an opponent’s blows. DNA collection was not as advanced as it is these days – we never matched skin from under either man’s fingernails . . .’

  ‘But you’re pretty sure Billy Saunders did it?’

  ‘Mmm,’ Cuttle said again.

  ‘And was helped in beating the charge by officers at Summerhall CID?’

  ‘I can’t comment on that.’

  Rebus cleared his throat. ‘When Inspector Fox asked if Saunders had done it, you didn’t sound wholly convinced – or are my ears playing tricks on me?’

  ‘His story had a certain plausibility. People jumped to the obvious conclusion – the two men had been arguing; Merchant had been sleeping with Saunders’s wife . . .’ Cuttle gave a shrug and pulled the rug a little tighter around himself. ‘The iron bar found at the scene provided no usable fingerprints.’

  ‘Story is, someone wiped it,’ Fox interrupted.

  ‘Never proven, though – so much of what we’re talking about here will remain always in the realm of conjecture.’

  ‘If Billy Saunders didn’t do it, who did?’ Fox asked.

  ‘A question for the police, unless of course . . .’

  Fox leaned in towards the old man. ‘Unless the police did it, you mean?’

  ‘It would explain the need to doctor evidence, and maybe feelings of guilt meant no one wanted an innocent man to go to prison for the crime . . .’

  Fox snatched the report from Cuttle’s hands. ‘Why is none of that thinking in here?’

  ‘Because,’ Cuttle replied calmly, ‘I wasn’t the one who wrote it up.’

  ‘But you spoke to Professor Donner? You told him you had reservations?’

  ‘I may have done.’

  ‘And he chose to ignore them?’

  Cuttle offered another shrug. ‘We were so busy during that period: a lot of lowlifes dropping dead or succumbing to injuries; not enough staff to assist in the mortuary – I can’t recall now if industrial action or sickness was to blame. The mortuary had to close soon after, you know? They found asbestos in the walls . . .’ His eyes lost focus for a moment. Then he blinked and looked up at Rebus. ‘Is Professor Gates still alive, do you know?’