by Ian Rankin
‘Diagnostics and analytics,’ Esson replied blithely, knowing the effect the words would have.
Sure enough, Page struggled for a moment, then told her to carry on and returned to his room, closing the door after him.
Christine Esson allowed herself a little smile.
Rebus’s lunch comprised a steak bake from Greggs, eaten in the Saab with the engine running so the heater would continue to work. Afterwards he brushed flakes of pastry from his clothes before answering his ringing phone.
‘This is your fault, isn’t it?’ Maggie Blantyre’s voice asked.
‘Usually is,’ he said.
‘They came to question Dod. Right bloody grilling they gave him. Said next time it might have to be at the station. Wouldn’t let me stay in the room. You should see the state of him. Last night you left in such a hurry and Dod wouldn’t say why. But I could tell he was upset. And now this – it’s your doing.’
‘I’m sorry you think that.’
‘Then tell me I’m wrong.’
‘Who was it came? DIs Clarke and Fox?’
‘I think so. Woman seemed to be the boss.’
‘That’s Clarke. She’s running a murder case, Maggie. Gun used may be the same one we kept in a desk at Summerhall – they’ll be questioning everybody about it.’
‘You included?’
‘Me included. And not all of us will merit a home visit.’
There was silence on the line, followed by a sigh of defeat. ‘It just seems so unfair.’
‘Has it really upset him?’
‘He’s up to high doh.’
‘Did he ask you to call me?’
‘No.’
‘What about the others – Porkbelly and Stefan? I’m assuming he couldn’t make a call without your help . . .’
‘Christ, John, is this you fishing for information? I phone you in a state, and you do nothing but act the bloody detective?’ Her voice was rising. ‘Well thanks for nothing – I’m sure Dod will be touched by your complete lack of concern.’
‘Maggie, you know I didn’t mean—’
But there was no one on the other end. His phone’s screen told him the call had ended and wondered if he wanted to reconnect.
‘Chance would be a fine thing,’ he told it, before indicating to the approaching traffic warden that he was about to move off.
There were fewer reporters outside Wester Hailes police station. They were huddled in their cars, cupping hot drinks to their faces. No vans, no TV cameras. When Rebus walked into the building, the first person he saw was Alice Bell. She was seated by the reception desk, looking furious with the world. Recognising him, she leapt to her feet.
‘I know,’ he said, trying for a pacifying gesture with the palms of both hands. ‘And I’m really sorry. But our job is to find out why Pat McCuskey died, and that means piecing together a jigsaw of his personal life. Like it or not, you’re one of the pieces.’
‘She attacked me,’ Bell complained.
‘I know she did – are you all right?’
He could tell that she’d lost a clump of hair from her scalp, and there were grazes and scratches to her face and neck.
‘I’ve been getting dogs’ abuse – your lot want to know if I’ll press charges.’
‘And will you?’
He watched her shake her head. Then he realised something. ‘What are you doing here, though?’
‘Waiting for DCI Ralph. He’s in some meeting or other.’
‘You’ll be all right, Alice. Just tell them the truth – how often you met with McCuskey, that sort of thing. Whether he seemed worried about anything.’
‘Pillow talk, you mean?’
‘Is there anyone I can call? Your mum or dad?’
‘They’re both dead.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. Anyone else who could come sit with you?’
‘Jessica and Forbes are hardly likely to oblige, are they?’ she complained.
Rebus made show of wincing. ‘Have you talked to them?’
She shook her head. ‘What’s to say?’
‘Any family at all I could phone for you?’
‘I’ll be fine.’ She paused, her voice hardening. ‘You’ve already done more than enough damage, don’t you think?’
DCI Nick Ralph appeared through a doorway. He nodded a greeting in Rebus’s direction, then apologised to Alice Bell for the wait, leading her towards a corridor.
‘There’s a way out to the car park,’ he was explaining. ‘Means we don’t end up feeding the jackals.’
‘What’s left of me for them to pick at?’ the young woman asked, giving a final bitter glance over her shoulder towards Rebus.
He watched the pair of them leave, then headed for the Major Incident suite. Fox was behind one of the desks.
‘You just missed your pal,’ he informed Rebus.
‘Not quite – I bumped into her downstairs.’
But Fox was shaking his head. ‘I mean Eamonn Paterson. We’ve just had him in the interview room. He left not twenty minutes ago.’
‘Then I’m thankful for small mercies.’ Rebus slumped on to the spare chair.
‘You saw Alice Bell, then?’
Rebus nodded. ‘She was thrilled I’d grassed her up.’
‘She should have come forward,’ Fox stated. ‘Might have saved all this grief.’
‘What was Ralph playing at, telling the widow?’
Fox offered a shrug. ‘Your chum Paterson wasn’t very helpful, by the way.’
‘And I hear you’ve already been to see Dod Blantyre.’
‘Again, with very little to show for it. But then we expected that – it’s up to Stefan Gilmour now, if you’ve read him right.’
‘What was Ralph doing here, by the way?’
Fox leaned back in his chair. ‘Think about it for a moment.’
‘I’m struggling,’ Rebus said after a pause.
‘He was asking Siobhan about the night Jessica Traynor crashed her car. Close by the McCuskey house. Not long after, the house is attacked and McCuskey is dead. Turns out he was having an affair with Jessica’s flatmate . . . Seems like quite a tight little circle, don’t you think? Especially if you remove Forbes McCuskey from the scenario and replace him with Alice Bell.’
Rebus shook his head. ‘I don’t see that.’
Fox shrugged again. ‘Well, DCI Ralph thought the question worth asking.’
‘And how did Siobhan answer?’
‘I told him I didn’t see it either.’ Clarke was standing in the doorway, arms folded. She looked tired and dispirited. ‘Good of you to drop in, John. Means we can get you out of the way.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Your formal questioning, of course. Otherwise it looks like you’re getting special treatment.’
‘Well we can’t have that,’ Rebus said.
‘Indeed we can’t,’ Clarke agreed.
21
‘Do I need a lawyer here?’ Rebus asked.
The three of them were seated around a table in the interview room. Fox had produced another of his lined notepads – pristine as yet – while Clarke seemed content to stare at Rebus, her arms folded.
‘Think you need one?’ she asked.
‘I’m sure Stefan Gilmour would lend you his,’ Fox added.
‘Just to clarify,’ Clarke asked, ‘could you state your relationship to Philip Kennedy?’
‘The guy looked like a cartoon character, but he was no joke – liked to put the frighteners on little old ladies and steal whatever they had.’
‘That doesn’t quite answer my question.’
‘He was a bad guy and my job was to put him away – that was our relationship.’
‘And as the nickname “Slippery Phil” suggests, you never did put him away.’
‘Not for want of trying.’
‘Frustrating for you,’ Fox added.
‘Very,’ Rebus admitted.
‘Ever think of framing him?’
‘Personally? No.’
‘But other colleagues . . . ?’
‘You’d have to ask them.’
‘They’d have told you, wouldn’t they? You were a “Saint”, after all.’
‘A new recruit.’
‘All the same . . .’ Clarke paused. ‘How about William Saunders and Douglas Merchant – any history with them?’
‘Give me a break, Siobhan.’
‘What makes you think you’ve earned one?’
‘You stole that line from me,’ Rebus said with a tired smile. ‘Maybe I should sue.’
‘Soon as we finish with our questions,’ she retorted. ‘Now, why don’t you tell me what you can about the gun . . .’
After forty minutes, he was free to leave. He went outside and smoked a cigarette. He was in the car park to the side of the building, the fence and locked gate separating him from what remained of the press pack. At one point he noticed Fox watching from one of the upper windows. One sarcastic wave from Rebus later, Fox was gone.
Could the crash really connect to the Justice Minister’s death, and could Alice Bell be the glue? He was debating this when his phone announced an incoming text. It was from Christine Esson, telling him she had news.
‘You’re a naughty man,’ she said when he called her.
‘How so?’
‘Something tells me you already knew there was a connection.’
‘Between Alice Bell and Rory? Actually, I’d no idea.’
‘He’s her uncle. Alice’s mum died six years back – cancer, by the look of it. Then her father was in a car smash.’
‘A car smash?’
‘I know – bit of a coincidence. That was over three years ago, and he died from his injuries.’
‘Where did it happen?’
‘A81, near Port of Menteith.’
‘I’m no further forward.’
‘Sounds like it should be on the coast, but it’s actually west of Stirling, towards Loch Katrine.’
‘Geography your strong point at school?’
‘Ten seconds on Google,’ she corrected him.
‘So it’s right that her family came from Stirling?’
‘Rory was born there. Left school at sixteen and moved west soon after. No actual criminal record, though he’s sailed close to the wind more than once.’
‘Does Alice have money?’
‘Her dad didn’t leave a lot – he worked as a butcher. He was travelling to see one of his suppliers. Van coming the other way tried an overtaking manoeuvre on a bend and went straight into him.’
‘Making Alice an orphan at sixteen. Anything else on Uncle Rory?’
He listened, but she hadn’t found out much more than he’d been told by Laura Smith. He thanked her anyway and ended the call. He was wondering how close Alice was to her uncle. Maybe he slipped her some money now and then to help with her university bills. Could she have been in Jessica’s car the night of the crash? She’d shown no injuries of any kind, no whiplash. Was she the kind who would panic and flee the scene? Again, Rebus doubted it – she would have stayed with her friend, phoned for an ambulance. Unless there was something the authorities couldn’t be allowed to see. He remembered the car boot – closed when the first officer on the scene had taken his photographs, but open the following morning as the car was winched aboard the flatbed truck . . .
Rebus called Esson again and asked her to pull up two numbers: that police officer, plus the scrapyard. The uniform’s name was Bryan Hall, and when Rebus got through to him he was adamant no one had tried opening the Golf’s boot while he’d been present. The owner of the scrapyard was less helpful.
‘Reece knocks off at five on the dot,’ he barked. ‘You want to speak to him, you get here before then.’
His full name was Reece Bairstow, and Rebus stared at it in his notebook after the owner had hung up.
‘Well, why not?’ he said to himself, stubbing out the cigarette and heading towards his car.
The scrapyard was on the outskirts of Broxburn, so he took the road out towards Edinburgh Airport. Listening to the radio, he was informed that the economic crisis was getting no easier and other European countries were approaching ‘basket case’ territory. Cyprus, Portugal . . . no one seemed to know where it would end. He switched to a local station; an angry phone-in was debating how an independent Scotland could remain part of NATO if it ditched the nukes. After a couple of minutes Rebus could feel his blood pressure rising. He reached for a CD and slid it home. Spooky Tooth’s second album.
‘Better,’ he said to himself.
The yard was behind a chain-link fence, some of it hidden behind a further makeshift barrier of corrugated sheeting and all topped by three separate strands of razor wire. Signs warned of CCTV and guard dogs. Sure enough, a German shepherd got to its feet and bared its fangs as Rebus drove through the open gates and into the compound. The dog was tethered by a length of greasy inch-thick rope and a studded leather collar. The office it protected looked to have been constructed from leftovers of timber and beaten metal. The man who emerged knew Rebus for a policeman straight away, just as Rebus could tell the man had served time at some point in the past. The rolled-up sleeves of his shirt displayed arms festooned with faded home-made tattoos, the kind prisoners inflicted on each other for want of any other hobbies. Shaky writing and wonky thistles seemed to predominate.
‘What’s the dog called?’
The owner squinted at Rebus. He was squat, almost hunchbacked, and his bald dome of a head had an oily sheen to it.
‘Boris,’ he eventually answered, at which the dog’s ears pricked up.
‘Reckon that rope’s strong enough?’
‘You better hope so.’ The man allowed himself a gap-toothed grin. ‘You’re the cop who phoned?’
‘DS Rebus. I didn’t catch your name.’
‘Eddie Duke. I told Reece you wanted to talk to him, and guess what? He decided to knock off early.’
‘He’s gone?’
‘That’s right.’
Rebus pretended to look disappointed, then gestured towards a compactor sixty yards away. ‘So that’s his twin, then?’ he asked. ‘See, I’ve met Reece before.’
The owner’s face fell. Then he placed his fingers to his mouth and let out a piercing whistle. Reese Bairstow looked up from his work and saw his boss signalling him over.
‘You’ve been very helpful,’ Rebus told the man. ‘Don’t think I won’t remember that.’
He started walking towards Bairstow, meeting him halfway. Bairstow was tugging at the fingers of his work gloves, pulling his hands free of them. He gave a twitch of the mouth by way of greeting.
‘Remember me?’ Rebus asked.
‘The VW Golf outside Kirkliston? Car’s right here.’ Bairstow nodded in the direction of a metre-high cube of squashed metal. Another vehicle had already been placed atop it.
‘Yard’s been busy,’ Rebus commented.
‘Way I like it.’ Bairstow stood with almost three feet of space between his work boots, shoulders pulled back.
‘You worried, Reece?’ Rebus asked.
‘No.’
‘Your stance says otherwise.’
Bairstow looked down at himself and tried to relax, shuffling his feet and unknotting some of his muscles. ‘What do you want?’ he asked.
‘I want to know what you took from the car.’
The man just stared at him. ‘Nothing,’ he eventually said.
‘Want to try that again?’
‘I’ve told you.’
‘Easy enough to pop the boot open – key was still in the ignition. But when we suddenly turned up you had to look busy, and you forgot to shut it again.’ Rebus paused and took half a step towards the man. ‘It’s not just a case of bad driving any more, Reece – might end up connecting to a murder. Anyone who holds back from us, there’s going to be a price to pay further down the line.’ He turned his head towards the owner’s shack. ‘I’m willing to bet your boss won’t like us coming back here day after da
y to question you. Probably got a few things he wouldn’t want us getting wind of . . .’
Bairstow’s nostrils flared. He was breathing hard, face fixed in a scowl. ‘I’ve told you,’ he repeated.
‘So you have,’ Rebus agreed, nodding slowly. ‘But this won’t be the last time you see me or someone like me – far from it. I suppose I better go tell your boss that.’ He turned and started retracing his steps. He heard footsteps behind him, Bairstow’s voice telling him to hang on a minute. Rebus stopped and waited while the man walked around to face him.
‘How much trouble would someone be in, taking something from a wreck? Nothing much, I mean – something they didn’t think anyone would want?’
Rebus pretended to consider this, then gave a non-committal shrug.
‘Maybe if you were to show me,’ he offered.
Bairstow dragged his fingers through his beard while he debated with himself. ‘All right then,’ he said, adjusting his baseball cap. ‘It’s over here.’
He led Rebus behind the shack towards where several cars were parked. One of these was an olive-green Land Rover, and Bairstow opened the back, reached in and held something out towards Rebus.
‘It’s a crowbar,’ Rebus said. He took it and weighed it in his hand.
‘Nearly new, too,’ Bairstow added. ‘Price sticker’s still on it.’
Rebus studied the sticker. ‘Bought from B and Q.’
‘It’s not exactly industrial quality.’
‘But you thought you’d have it all the same?’
Bairstow lowered his eyes.
‘And this is all you took?’
‘There wasn’t anything else.’
‘Nothing from the car’s actual cabin?’
‘I’ve told you.’
‘And when you brought the VW back here . . . I’m guessing you stripped it down? Any surprises?’
The man shook his head.
‘Just this?’ Rebus said, lifting the crowbar.
‘Just that,’ Reece Bairstow agreed. ‘And if you’re asking me, I’d say it’s only been used once or twice.’
‘Once or twice on what, though?’ Rebus asked, receiving no answer.
Alice Bell pushed home the key and turned it, opening the door to the flat. She listened to the silence before entering. Closing the door after her, she tiptoed along the hall, holding her breath. She had tried to think of somewhere else she could go, but had come up with nothing. This was all she had.
