Rebus 19 - Saints of the Shadow Bible

by Ian Rankin

  ‘Darryl Christie’s pub?’

  ‘The same. Not that Christie knows anything about it.’ Rebus paused. ‘So when you question the doorman – name’s Deano, by the way – keep it low-key. He might be useful to us some day, but not if Christie’s booted him off the park.’

  ‘And why would I be questioning this Deano character?’

  ‘Because he was the passenger in Billy Saunders’s minicab. Needed to go to Niddrie for a bit of shopping. Says Saunders didn’t seem particularly antsy. The car was supposed to wait, but it didn’t.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  Rebus shook his head.

  ‘And you were going to bring this to me first thing in the morning?’

  ‘Of course.’ He gestured towards her mug. ‘How’s the tea?’

  ‘I think the milk’s past it.’

  ‘Past it sometimes still does the job.’ He paused. ‘If you want to leave your car here, I can run you home. Don’t want you nodding off at the wheel.’

  She was stifling a yawn, but shaking her head at the same time. ‘You know that your pal Gilmour connects to Owen Traynor?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Been keeping that to yourself too?’

  ‘Obviously not – who told you?’

  ‘Laura.’

  ‘Another favour owed.’

  ‘The shining knight of the Better Together campaign is beginning to look pretty tarnished.’

  ‘This is why I don’t vote. My ex campaigned for devolution back in ’79. Drove me demented.’

  ‘But we’ve got the chance for a fresh start,’ Clarke teased him.

  ‘Thing about fresh starts, though, Siobhan . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘They usually turn out to be same old in disguise.’

  As Malcolm Fox sat by his father’s bedside, he thought of Professor Norman Cuttle. It had been on the tip of his tongue to reveal to Rebus that his own father was in a home not unlike the one in Colinton. Mitch Fox was dozing. Malcolm looked around the room, seeing the few select pieces of furniture from the old house, the ones Mitch had decided to keep. Everything else had either been split between Malcolm and his sister, or else sold. A line of saliva had dried to a salty crust on Mitch’s unshaven chin. The skin looked red and sore. Malcolm would mention it to the staff. They would have an excuse ready – they always did – but he would ask anyway, just so they’d know he was paying attention.

  Fox was tired, but he wanted to stay until his father roused himself. That way he could say a proper goodbye. They’d been discussing the latest travails of Hearts FC, along with small talk about the weather and the trams. With a single snore, Mitch Fox blinked back to wakefulness.

  ‘I nodded off there,’ he confessed.

  ‘Testament to my conversational skills.’

  ‘Pass me the glass, will you?’

  It wasn’t actually glass, but a toughened translucent plastic which would bounce if dropped. There was an inch of tepid water left in it, and Mitch drained it, shaking his head when his son offered a refill. He lay back against his bunched pillows and studied Malcolm.

  ‘Is that you finished in the Complaints?’

  ‘More or less.’

  ‘And they’ll have you back in CID?’

  ‘You don’t think I’m up to it?’

  ‘It’ll be hard going.’

  ‘I’m armour-plated.’

  ‘That’s the problem, though – you’re anything but. It’s why Complaints suited you. Paper-pushing rather than blood and guts.’

  ‘Is it that time again?’

  ‘What time?’

  ‘Whenever I visit these days, you always feel the need to stick the knife in.’

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘You know you do.’ Fox had risen to his feet so he could pace what floor space there was. He’d had a letter a few weeks back informing him that money could be saved were his father to share with another of the home’s clients. He’d been tempted, not because he couldn’t afford the fees but just to see the look on Mitch’s face – a small, cruel victory of sorts.

  ‘What are you smiling at?’ his father asked now.

  ‘Nothing wrong with your eyesight.’

  ‘That doesn’t answer my question.’

  ‘I was just wondering whether I’d stop off for a Chinese on the way home.’

  ‘You don’t feed yourself properly.’

  ‘Better than some. Speaking of which, have you seen Jude?’

  ‘Your sister’s another one who’s worried about you.’

  ‘Tell her not to bother.’

  ‘She says you’ve had a falling-out.’

  ‘I handed her fifty quid last week, went round a day later and she’d stocked up on booze and fags rather than food. Not a penny of it left.’

  ‘She needs looking after.’

  ‘Thanks, but I’ll pass.’

  ‘Who else will do it if you don’t?’

  ‘You don’t think I’ve tried?’

  ‘Oh, you’re good at dishing out the money, but sometimes a little more is required.’

  ‘I come see you when I can. Though God knows why, since we always seem to end up like this.’

  ‘It would just give me a bit of solace if I knew the two of you were going to be all right.’

  ‘We’re getting by.’ Fox stretched out his arms and gave a shrug. ‘I wish I could say we’re both on course for our Nobel prizes, but there you are.’

  Mitch Fox smiled sourly. ‘The pair of you were always this way. It drove your mother up the wall.’

  ‘I don’t remember that.’

  ‘No, butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth. You’d carry the shopping, set the table . . . But if you ever did something, you’d be quick to lay the blame on poor Jude, keeping your face straight as you lied through your teeth.’

  ‘Will this character assassination take long?’ Fox made show of checking his watch. ‘Only I’ve an appointment with a carry-out menu . . .’

  ‘You really think you’ll cope when they drop you back into CID?’

  ‘I’m working a murder case right now – nobody’s scrawled any graffiti about me in the toilets.’

  ‘That’s something, I suppose.’ Mitch Fox’s eyelids were drooping again, his mouth hanging open half an inch.

  ‘I better be off, Dad,’ Fox said, returning to the bed and touching the back of his father’s hand. ‘Fancy an ice cream on the seafront this weekend?’

  ‘Will it be bracing?’

  ‘In Portobello? I think I can guarantee that.’

  ‘And is Jude invited?’

  ‘I’ll ask her,’ Fox said, giving the mottled hand a final squeeze, and feeling the pressure returned.

  Day Ten

  18

  Mortonhall Crematorium had seldom been busier. Nobody lined the streets nearby, but journalists and camera crews had parked their cars and vans kerbside and were being corralled behind metal barriers on the other side of the road from the entrance to the crematorium grounds. The car park was full and mourners were awaiting the arrival of the hearse carrying Patrick McCuskey. Rebus doubted a tenth as many would turn out for Billy Saunders’s obsequies. They’d be lucky to fill the front two rows of the small chapel, whereas today, in warming sunshine, the large chapel had been reserved for family and close friends, with everyone else asked to pay their respects outside. A PA system had been erected so that the service could be relayed. Some of the mourners were asking each other if they qualified for a seat indoors. They broke off to watch as a fleet of official cars arrived, bearing senior politicians of all parties, plus police brass and the Lord Provost. A liveried chauffeur opened the back door of one Jaguar and Stefan Gilmour stepped out. He had travelled alone, and Rebus wondered if this was a message from the No campaign. Freshly interviewed as part of a murder inquiry, he might have become damaged goods. Most eyes were on the First Minister and his deputy, but Rebus watched Gilmour. Crisp dark blue suit, white shirt, black tie, sunglasses. Gilmour adjusted his cuffs and buttoned
his jacket. Then he saw Rebus. As the politicians filed into the chapel, he headed in the opposite direction. Rebus was standing on the pavement next to a row of covered benches. He nodded a greeting at his old colleague.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Gilmour asked in an undertone, removing the sunglasses and pocketing them.

  ‘Paying my respects.’

  ‘He was a good man, regardless of politics. Any closer to finding out who killed him?’

  ‘Not as far as I know. Bit of progress on Billy Saunders, though.’

  ‘Oh?’

  Both men were pretending to be interested in the doors to the chapel and the people milling there.

  ‘The gun’s turned up.’

  ‘I heard.’

  ‘Might turn out to be the Browning that Porkbelly kept in his desk drawer.’

  ‘Won’t be easy to prove.’

  ‘Nevertheless, you might find yourself being interviewed again.’

  ‘Just what I need,’ Gilmour muttered.

  ‘Thing is, Stefan, it did disappear around the time you were getting your jotters.’

  ‘I resigned,’ Gilmour said by way of correction. ‘And lost out on a healthy chunk of pension as a result.’

  ‘If you hadn’t, the Complaints would have crawled all over us.’

  ‘And found plenty – don’t forget that, John.’

  ‘How can I?’

  Gilmour turned his head to study Rebus. ‘Please tell me you don’t think one of us killed Saunders?’

  ‘Why not? Back then we were capable of just about anything – might still be true today.’ Rebus held Gilmour’s stare. ‘We were bad cops, Stefan. That’s the truth of it. And out of all of us, I’d say you’ve got most to lose.’

  ‘Maybe so, but I didn’t do it. What if I were to tell you Frazer Spence took that gun home?’

  ‘I’d think you were lying. The one Saint who’s not in the frame for this is Frazer.’

  ‘I doubt Dod Blantyre could have made it to the canal under his own steam.’

  ‘Which leaves me, you and Porkbelly – and I know it wasn’t me.’

  ‘What if it wasn’t any of us? Saunders had served time, knew more than a few nutcases. There could be any number of people out there with a grudge. You’re assuming it’s the same gun, but I’m not hearing any proof.’

  ‘The time you phoned him, did you try a bribe?’

  ‘Didn’t think it would work. I mean, he’d have taken the cash but then come back for more.’

  ‘In other words, you’d never have been free of him?’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘An admission that doesn’t really help your case.’ Rebus paused. ‘What is it he had, Stefan? What could he tell Macari and her team? I’ve been through the custody ledger and there’s half a page missing from the week before Saunders killed Merchant. It got me thinking – could there be something Saunders knew? He comes to you, tells you he’ll do a deal – forget all about it if you get him off next time he’s arrested. You couldn’t know he was going to bludgeon some poor sod to death, so you shook hands on it.’

  ‘The hearse is arriving,’ Gilmour said, nodding in the direction of the gates. A slow-moving procession of vehicles, the engines almost silent. Wreaths shrouding the coffin, allowing only glimpses of gleaming brass handles, varnished pale wood. In the car behind, the Justice Minister’s widow and son. The First Minister and his deputy had re-emerged from the chapel and were flanking the door, hands clasped as if in prayer, heads bowed.

  ‘Nothing to say, Stefan?’ Rebus whispered into his neighbour’s ear. Gilmour’s jaw was jutting as he watched the vehicles pull to a halt. The First Minister offered his condolences to the widow, along with a peck on the cheek. She was dressed in black, and wore sunglasses which obscured half her face.

  ‘Only that you’re making a mistake, John. Sounds very much as if you’ve decided you’re not part of the Saints any more.’

  ‘Let me tell you something, Stefan. I spoke to Porkbelly and he was all for letting Frazer take the rap for that gun, same as you just did. Seems to me you’ll shit on anyone to save your own necks.’

  ‘Maybe you think you’re clean, but you’re not,’ Gilmour retorted. ‘You knew we hung on to that gun – why didn’t you take it to the bosses at the time? Remember Interview Room B, that time I walked in and you had your hands around a suspect’s throat? I forget the name now, but it’ll come back to me if necessary. The drugs we planted on that barman we didn’t like? The prossies we let off after an hour in the holding cell, once they’d slipped us a few quid or a promise? The restaurant tabs that never arrived at the end of a meal? Two hundred cigarettes here, a case of malt there . . . The stories we could tell, eh?’

  Gilmour’s eyes were boring into Rebus’s.

  ‘I took the fall, John,’ he went on. ‘And I did it for all of us. Remember that, when you’ve got the tin-opener poised above the can marked “worms”.’

  He started walking towards the chapel, manoeuvring his way delicately but determinedly through the throng. Finding himself in front of Forbes McCuskey, he shook the young man’s hand and said a few words. McCuskey turned his head and seemed to recognise Rebus. But by then Gilmour was working the crowd, knowing which flesh deserved to be pressed. A pat on the shoulder from the First Minister, even though they were adversaries. A slight bow of the head from the Lord Provost. A warm smile from the outgoing Chief Constable. And then everyone was heading indoors, organ music beginning to emerge from the PA. Rebus backed away towards the memorial garden and lit a cigarette. He spotted a pair of crutches amongst the mourners. Jessica Traynor was making for the chapel, with the help of Alice Bell. Neither of them noticed Rebus, but when they reached Forbes McCuskey, Jessica burst into tears, resting her head on his shoulder. Her boyfriend ran a hand through her hair, and seemed to mouth a few words, words very like ‘Don’t worry.’

  Don’t worry.

  And with his eyes focused not on Jessica Traynor but Alice Bell.

  Rebus arrived at Wester Hailes police station to find that they’d just brought in Deano. He was being taken from reception to the interview room.

  ‘Thanks for nothing,’ he spat, seeing Rebus.

  ‘Just say your piece and don’t worry about anything,’ Rebus advised.

  He showed his ID to the desk and asked for directions to the Major Incident Team.

  ‘Whole station’s the Major Incident Team,’ came the terse reply.

  He poked his head around the doors of a couple of rooms before finding what he was looking for – the Summerhall boxes. They were on a desk in a small office. One of the boxes was open, and Rebus reckoned it was the one he wanted. The custody ledger sat open at the same torn page, other paperwork piled atop it. Rebus closed the door quietly, so he would have some privacy. Then he got to work.

  After only a few minutes the door swung open and Malcolm Fox stood there, transfixed.

  ‘Couldn’t keep away?’ he eventually commented.

  ‘Just something I need to check.’

  ‘Without anyone knowing?’

  Rebus stopped reading and looked up. ‘Siobhan says you might be okay. I’m going to see if she’s right.’

  ‘By taking me into your confidence?’

  ‘Slippery Phil Kennedy,’ Rebus stated.

  Fox’s eyes narrowed. ‘That name’s in the Summerhall records.’

  ‘Vicious wee bugger we never quite managed to put away. Charged and taken to trial, but the jury couldn’t be convinced.’

  ‘Not proven?’ Fox guessed.

  ‘Which pissed some of us off mightily.’

  ‘Stefan Gilmour?’

  Rebus nodded. ‘Week before Douglas Merchant was killed, Kennedy took a tumble down the stairs at home.’

  ‘Natural causes, then?’

  ‘Our old friend Professor Cuttle performed the autopsy.’ Rebus broke off, remembering his conversation. ‘Or rather, he helped out. It was Professor Donner who did the slicing . . .’ He broke off again. Somethin
g Cuttle had said? Or hadn’t said?

  I was on hand for corroboration . . .

  Fumes from his stomach had us reeling . . .

  ‘I went back to see Cuttle,’ Rebus admitted. ‘To ask him about the autopsy. I’m not sure now I got everything out of him that I could have.’

  ‘Want a return bout? With me in the corner?’

  ‘Fixing my cuts?’ Rebus said with a smile, playing along. ‘You sure Siobhan can spare you?’

  ‘She’s busy with Dean Grant.’

  ‘That’s Deano’s real name? I never thought to ask.’

  Fox raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re the one who got him to talk?’

  ‘I have my uses.’

  ‘So it would seem.’

  ‘But for what it’s worth, I don’t think he had anything to do with Billy Saunders’s vanishing act.’

  ‘Which means we’re stuck with the double jeopardy inquiry as the main suspect.’

  ‘And the Summerhall connection,’ Rebus added. ‘That what you’re doing here?’ He patted the paperwork on the desk. ‘Still looking for the elusive golden thread?’

  ‘Cotton would do just as well,’ Fox replied. ‘So do we go talk to Cuttle or what?’

  ‘I suppose we could,’ Rebus said.

  They took Rebus’s Saab. Exiting the high-fenced car park, Rebus warned Fox that the nursing-home staff reckoned the pair of them had nearly given Cuttle pneumonia.

  ‘Was it our idea to talk in the garden?’ Fox asked.

  ‘I think it was his. Can’t say I blame him – cooped up in that place all day and night . . .’

  ‘My father’s in a place not unlike it,’ Fox admitted.

  Rebus glanced towards him. ‘I don’t think I knew that.’

  ‘No reason why you should.’

  ‘Is he still compos mentis?’

  ‘Enough that he can have regular digs at me for wasting my life. Are either of your parents still with us?’

  Rebus shook his head. ‘Long gone,’ he stated. ‘And my brother with them.’

  ‘I’ve got a sister, Jude. We don’t really get on . . .’

  ‘I was like that with my brother. Believe it or not, he was the black sheep of the family – got in a bit of trouble, served some time.’