Rebus 19 - Saints of the Shadow Bible

by Ian Rankin

  Rebus did a mime of a knife slashing a throat.

  ‘Suspicious death?’ Quant asked.

  ‘The fact is, he hadn’t been in the water more than a day or two, and died several years before. So whether the death is suspicious or not, there are questions that need answering.’

  Quant turned her attention to Rebus again. ‘Body was wrapped in something woollen – maybe a tartan travel rug; we have blue and red fibres. It covered the torso and the legs to just above the knees. This would have had to happen soon after death for the skin to adhere to the fibres. Once atrophy sets in, the epidermis is less obliging.’

  Rebus nodded slowly, then mimed taking a drink. Quant’s forehead creased.

  ‘Was he a drinker?’

  Her colleague looked up, but Rebus was shaking his head and pointing at her.

  ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘No, sorry, I’m busy later.’

  ‘Too busy to attend the Glasgow dinner,’ Professor Thomas added, sounding put out.

  Rebus shrugged and mouthed the words ‘Just an idea.’ She nodded and got back to work.

  It was dark by the time Siobhan Clarke and Malcolm Fox reached the canal. It had been Fox’s idea – try to work through the sequence of events. So they had parked on the industrial estate and started off from the alley where Billy Saunders had been sleeping.

  ‘Though we don’t know for sure this is where he was,’ Clarke argued, buttoning her coat against gusts that seemed to have originated in the Arctic.

  ‘We don’t,’ Fox agreed. ‘But he wanted a meeting nearby, somewhere he felt he knew the terrain. Once he was on the towpath, he would have plenty of notice of anyone coming from either direction.’

  ‘He didn’t trust the person he was meeting?’

  Fox nodded. ‘Maybe reckoned they’d bring back-up.’

  ‘Stefan Gilmour and the Saints?’

  Fox just shrugged. They were clambering up the slope. The canal wasn’t well lit. In fact, the only real illumination came from lamp posts beyond its other bank, behind railings and next to the main road.

  ‘Someone could have been watching from there,’ Clarke surmised.

  ‘Watching, yes. But to get to the nearest bridge and then end up here . . . that’s a walk of a good five or six minutes.’

  Clarke folded her arms. ‘And Saunders was shot at close range. So whether he trusted his visitor or not, he allowed them to get close.’

  ‘Close enough to talk.’

  ‘Talk or listen.’ Clarke thought for a moment. ‘Let me know if any of this leads you to believe we’re not discussing Stefan Gilmour . . .’

  ‘Well for one thing, Gilmour’s not an easy man to get to. Phone number’s not in the book, unlike George Blantyre and Eamonn Paterson.’

  ‘You’ve checked?’ She watched as Fox nodded. ‘And Rebus?’

  ‘Is ex-directory.’

  She considered this. ‘It was an arranged meeting, right?’

  ‘Had to be.’

  ‘And whoever Saunders met wasn’t the one who initiated it?’

  ‘Hard to do when they’d no idea how to reach him.’

  ‘Unless the plan to meet pre-dated his little vanishing act.’

  ‘True,’ Fox allowed. ‘But I don’t think that’s what happened.’

  Clarke looked at him. ‘You’ve been giving this some thought?’

  ‘Trying to think like a detective,’ he answered, with a thin smile.

  ‘And?’

  ‘And we have a man who’s terrified of something – so scared he abandons his car in another part of town, far from where he knows he’s going to hole up. Hotels won’t do, and he can’t rely on friends – to be absolutely safe, he needs to sleep rough. Can’t use his bank account or phone – both could be traced, or at the very least would indicate he’s still alive and kicking. For the same reason he can’t contact his wife to let her know he’s safe.’ Fox paused. ‘But there’s someone he needs to see. Easiest way to set up a meeting is if he calls them.’

  ‘Nearest working phone box is almost two miles away.’

  ‘But there’s the petrol station. From CCTV, we know he bought snacks there.’

  ‘Except that their public phone has been out of order for almost a fortnight.’

  ‘Something he might not find out until he tried using it.’

  She saw now where Fox was going. ‘Staff knew him. Might have loaned him their phone.’

  ‘Of course, they’ve been interviewed. But do we know they were asked the right questions, shown a good clear photo of Saunders?’

  ‘Worth a second go?’

  ‘I’d say so.’

  ‘And we’re not just clutching at straws here, Malcolm?’

  ‘Maybe we are.’

  ‘Stefan Gilmour is capable of it, isn’t he?’ Clarke was gazing at the surface of the canal. It looked dark and oily, and even in daylight would give no hint of what lay beneath.

  ‘No doubt in my mind,’ Fox answered. ‘Way he’s built his empire, he takes no prisoners.’

  ‘I remember reading once that the successful tycoon sees the world the same way a psychopath does.’

  ‘I’m not saying Stefan Gilmour is a psycho.’

  ‘He’s just a man with goals unachieved and successes to protect.’

  ‘You think a forensic psychologist might help us nail him?’

  Clarke shook her head. ‘Let’s stick to what we know.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘We follow leads, Malcolm. Starting with your petrol station . . .’

  The only other customers when they got there were two licensed minicabs. The drivers had parked next to the shop and were inside, drinking coffee from a coin-operated machine and exchanging gossip. Fox made straight for them, pulling out his warrant card.

  ‘Did either of you know Billy Saunders?’ he asked.

  ‘Knew of him,’ one driver said.

  ‘Worked for the competition,’ his friend added.

  ‘You always use the same petrol station?’

  ‘Tend to,’ the first driver conceded.

  ‘Fill the tank, break the monotony?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Did Saunders use this particular pit stop?’

  The second driver shook his head. ‘Petrol station in Powderhall, far as I know.’

  ‘You never saw him here?’

  Fox received a further shake of the head from both men. He thanked them and headed for the counter.

  ‘Nice thinking, though,’ Clarke told him in an undertone.

  ‘Saunders drove a minicab, liked the night shift – petrol stations were a second home to him.’ He took out his warrant card again and showed it to the assistant.

  ‘You’ve been questioned about William Saunders?’ he asked.

  The youth behind the counter appeared no older than a school-leaver. His face was peppered with angry-looking acne and his thick black hair looked like it had been styled with a pair of secateurs and a pot of glue. He agreed that he had already spoken with the police.

  ‘And your colleagues too?’

  The youth nodded.

  ‘All of them?’

  ‘All except Patrick, I suppose.’

  ‘Patrick?’

  ‘He’s on holiday in Ibiza.’

  ‘Nice for him. When did he leave?’

  ‘Six days back. Finished his shift at six and was in the air by eight.’

  Fox looked at Clarke. Like him, she had done the arithmetic.

  ‘So he was working here the day William Saunders was killed?’ Fox checked.

  ‘Suppose,’ the youth agreed, eyes darting between the two detectives, Adam’s apple bobbing. ‘He’s not in any trouble, is he?’

  ‘The officers you spoke to – they knew this, right?’

  ‘I think I told them. Somebody would have.’

  Fox nodded. But he was thinking: maybe, and maybe not. There was just a hint of dismay on Siobhan Clarke’s face – someone on her team might have screwed up.

  ‘We n
eed to talk to Patrick,’ Fox was saying. ‘Do you have his number?’

  The youth shook his head. The minicab drivers were waving goodbye to him through the window as they returned to their vehicles. ‘You’ll have to ask my boss,’ he told Fox, waving back.

  ‘We’ll do that, then. Did you ever see Mr Saunders yourself?’

  The youth shook his head again.

  ‘You always work the same shift?’

  ‘No, but I’ve been on nights for a few weeks.’

  ‘He never came in during that time?’

  ‘Don’t remember him.’

  Fox nodded slowly. The payphone was on the wall next to the toilet. The sign warning that it was out of order comprised a pink Post-it note – easy to miss until you got close.

  ‘Anything else?’ the youth asked Clarke.

  ‘Just this,’ she said, placing a Bounty on the counter.

  ‘And your boss’s phone number,’ Fox added, as the youth got busy with the scanner. ‘The one kept for emergencies – we need to contact him tonight . . .’

  Outside, as she unwrapped the chocolate bar, Clarke told Fox it could probably wait till morning. He nodded his agreement, and drove them back to Wester Hailes so she could pick up her own car. The car park was near empty. The team would have clocked off. Overtime was available, but Clarke was running out of things for them to do outwith normal office hours. She looked tired, while Fox felt energised.

  ‘See you in the morning,’ he said, as Clarke opened her door and undid her seat belt.

  ‘That was useful tonight, Malcolm. Thank you.’

  ‘No problem,’ he assured her with a smile.

  He drove fully quarter of a mile in the direction of home before pulling over to the kerb again, taking out his phone and searching his pockets for the scrap of paper the youth at the petrol station had given him.

  Forbes and Jessica had been out all day, Jessica managing with the aid of a walking stick. They’d taken taxis, and avoided stairs and steps wherever possible. She’d felt the need for fresh air, for reminders that a city existed beyond the confines of her flat. A café, a restaurant, a park bench and a bar – and now they were back in Great King Street, climbing slowly but purposefully towards the sound of scrubbing and sobs.

  It was Alice, on her knees on the landing, a bucket of soapy water by her side. She was using a brush on the door, trying to get the red paint off. Tears had dried on her cheeks. There were splashes of paint on the wall, and it looked as though she had already sluiced the stone floor.

  ‘What the hell?’ Forbes said.

  ‘It was like this when I got here,’ Alice explained breathlessly. ‘Your mum and her friends . . . all that online hate . . .’

  Jessica was gesturing for Forbes to help Alice get to her feet.

  ‘You think that’s who did this?’ she asked.

  Alice stared at her flatmate. ‘Who else?’

  ‘We both know.’ Jessica paused. ‘We all know. Now let’s get you inside. Forbes will take over cleaning.’

  ‘I will?’

  ‘In a bit. First we need to get this straightened out.’

  All three headed for the living room, Alice drying her hands on the front of her already ruined T-shirt.

  ‘You need to phone him,’ Jessica told her.

  ‘But then he’ll—’

  ‘Know it was you,’ Jessica interrupted, finishing the sentence with a slow nod. ‘But maybe he’ll back off – right now, it’s just me and Forbes, isn’t it? And you’re the one who can do something about that.’

  ‘So the paint wasn’t for me?’ Alice asked.

  ‘Go call him,’ Jessica said.

  ‘My phone’s in my bedroom . . .’

  Alice went to fetch it, but ended up seated on her bed instead, feeling the sweat cooling on her back. How could she talk to him? What would he do once he knew? What would he do to her? She felt a shiver run down her, all the way to her toes. Holding the phone to her ear, she found the strength to head back to the living room.

  ‘Not answering,’ she said as she walked in. Then she saw that Jessica too was making a call. Forbes’s eyes were on Alice. He looked nervous.

  ‘Who . . . ?’ Alice began to ask, but she broke off. She knew the answer well enough. It was written on Forbes’s face . . .

  Day Thirteen

  24

  Next morning, Rebus drove out towards the airport. He had got the addresses of Rory Bell’s multi-storey car parks from Christine Esson. He followed the signs from the A8 Glasgow road and found himself just north of the village of Ratho. When he lowered his window, he caught a whiff of sewage and pig farm. An aircraft was rising into the sky with a thunderous roar, not quarter of a mile away. The car park advertised its special long-term rates and twice-an-hour shuttle service. An automatic barrier rose when Rebus took the proffered ticket from the machine. He drove slowly around the ground floor, unsure what he was looking for. Jessica had crashed her car not too far away. She was friends with the niece of the car park’s owner. The owner was less legit than might have been the case. Add to that the brand-new crowbar . . . and Rebus still wasn’t sure. There was a cabin staffed by a single uniformed flunkey. The ground floor was half full. The cars looked like they belonged to middle management: Beemers, Audis, a couple of Jags and a Merc. He drove up the ramp to the next floor, which was quieter. One Range Rover had a film of dust over its windscreen. Maybe it belonged to someone who was enjoying protracted winter sun elsewhere. Rebus couldn’t blame them. The next floor was empty, as was the unsheltered roof, though it too had been laid out in marked bays. Rebus doubted the place ever got full. On the other hand, it was easy money – one member of staff, few overheads.

  He stopped the Saab on the roof and got out for a cigarette. He could see the airport runway, an orange-liveried EasyJet plane coming in to land. Jessica’s car had crashed somewhere to the west. If she’d started her journey at this car park, she and Forbes had been driving away from the city. Towards his parents’ place? Possible. If Rebus had possessed more of a head for geography, he might be able to make out the house and grounds. As it was, he saw only a patchwork countryside and snow-capped hills beyond.

  ‘You okay there?’

  The voice was amplified, metallic. Rebus looked around and saw a tall metal pole with a loudspeaker and camera attached to it. He gave it a wave and got back into his car. He was approaching the exit barrier when he saw the attendant emerge from his cabin. The man was at the barrier before him, waiting for a word. Rebus wound his window down again.

  ‘Everything all right?’ the man asked. He had a pockmarked face and irregular teeth, his eyes milky but wary.

  ‘Forgot something,’ Rebus explained. ‘Need to go back to the office.’

  ‘You went all the way to the roof.’

  ‘Is there a law against it?’

  ‘Maybe.’ The attendant was examining the scuffed interior of the Saab. Rebus meantime had slotted his ticket into the machine.

  ‘Must be a mistake,’ he said, staring at the display. ‘Six pounds fifty?’

  ‘That’s the minimum. Gets you four hours.’

  ‘I’ve hardly been four minutes.’

  ‘System’s automated – nothing I can do about it.’ The man wasn’t managing to disguise his pleasure at Rebus’s discomfort.

  ‘You telling me you can’t go back to that wee booth of yours and swing the barrier open?’

  ‘Company would haul me over the coals.’

  ‘Six-fifty, though.’

  The man offered a shrug.

  ‘Rory won’t be happy when I tell him about this.’

  ‘Rory?’

  ‘Your boss.’ Rebus looked in vain for a flicker of recognition. ‘He owns this place.’

  ‘I’m just doing my job.’

  ‘Okay then, tell me this – these cameras of yours, do they film what they see?’

  ‘Why are you asking?’ Then it dawned. ‘You the police?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking. So do
they record or don’t they?’

  ‘The machine wipes itself every forty-eight hours.’

  ‘And is there always a human being on duty?’

  ‘Always.’

  ‘So if I gave you a date and an approximate time . . . ?’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Anything.’

  The attendant straightened up and folded his arms. ‘That’s something you’d have to talk to management about.’

  ‘Meaning Rory Bell?’

  ‘I told you, I’ve never heard of him.’

  ‘So who do you deal with?’

  ‘The office is in Livingston.’

  ‘There’s a multi-storey there too – you ever do a shift at it?’

  ‘You need to speak to the management.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I will. Now are you going to let me out of here?’

  ‘Soon as you pay what’s due.’ The man turned away and walked back towards his booth. Cursing, Rebus looked for coins in his pocket, then realised the machine only accepted credit cards. So he stuck one in, entered his PIN and pressed the button for a receipt.

  Livingston.

  Rory Bell’s base.

  Plus he had another car park there.

  And . . .

  The driver who had been first at the scene of Jessica’s crash – wasn’t she on her way home from work in Livingston at the time? So instead of taking the road back into the city, Rebus headed further out in the direction of Newbridge, and from there on to the M8. It didn’t take long to reach Livingston, though once there he was faced with a Mensa-level puzzle constructed almost entirely of roundabouts. Livingston was one of Scotland’s ‘new towns’, designed in the 1960s by planners who liked lots of circles in their diagrams. Second only to this passion seemed to be their crush on the word ‘Almondvale’. It cropped up time and again as Rebus sought his destination: Almondvale Boulevard, Way, Avenue and Drive. Not forgetting Parkway and Crescent – plus the football stadium where the local team played. In the end, Rebus conceded defeat and stopped to ask a pedestrian, who gave him directions to a multi-storey, just not the right multi-storey. Rather than take a ticket, Rebus left the Saab outside, found the security cabin and asked for directions. The attendant was able to help, and Rebus thanked him. Ten minutes later, he was driving into a four-storey car park – the top storey being its roof. There was no sign of life in the booth, though lights were on inside. Rebus drove around the ground floor, which was full. Mums with toddlers were loading bags into their vehicles, having returned from the nearby shopping centre. Next storey up there were fewer cars, and fewer again as Rebus climbed. As before, no one at all was using the bays on the roof. Rebus spotted the same set-up of speaker and CCTV camera, and manoeuvred the Saab back down the ramp. He parked on the next level and got out. He was alongside an unwashed Citroën. Across from it sat another car, covered with a dust sheet. The bay next to that was empty, but Rebus noted clumps of dirt, leaves and sweet-wrappers on the floor. If he were a betting man, he would have said a car had been parked there until recently – and it had been sitting in the multi-storey for some time. He took another look at the Citroën. Its tax disc had run out the previous year, and similar detritus had gathered beneath its wheels. When he ran a finger down the paintwork, he left a clean line, and his finger came away blackened. He crossed to the other car and began to lift the dust sheet, catching a glimpse of red bodywork.