by Ian Rankin
‘Would you say they’re the same person?’
‘It’s possible.’
‘No more than that?’
She shrugged.
‘I think it’s him. He was stored in a car boot, and then dumped in the docks.’
‘Stored for two years, you mean?’ She watched Rebus nod. ‘So where’s the car?’
‘Right here,’ Rebus said, holding up the sheet of paper. ‘Eight-year-old blue Ford Escort.’ He thought back to the cars in the multi-storey. No, it matched neither of them. It had probably been driven to Leith Docks with its cargo still on board. Then got rid of. Rebus picked up his phone and called the Road Policing Unit.
‘Any abandoned cars in the past couple of days? Tax disc almost certainly a year or more out of date.’ He described Jack Redpath’s Escort and then waited.
‘You think it’s out there collecting parking tickets?’ Esson asked.
‘Best-case scenario.’
‘And worst?’
Rebus just shrugged. He was listening to news that the information could take some time – the city’s traffic wardens would need to be questioned.
‘Soon as you can, eh?’ Rebus gave his details and put the phone down. ‘Now we wait,’ he told Esson.
‘Maybe you do, but I’m heading out to the shop. It’s lunchtime, if you hadn’t noticed – want me to fetch you something?’
‘Maybe a sandwich or a sausage roll.’ He dug into his pocket for change.
‘My treat,’ Esson told him. ‘A sandwich is probably healthier.’
‘Make it the sausage roll, then.’
She rolled her eyes and shrugged her arms into her jacket. Rebus remembered Deborah Quant doing the same, and his own instinct to help. When he’d suggested meeting for a drink sometime, she hadn’t turned him down flat. Then again, he didn’t have a number for her, excepting the one for the mortuary.
He headed out to the car park for a smoke, then remembered the phone upstairs could ring at any moment. So after three or four draws he nipped the end of the cigarette and returned it to the packet. He could hear the phone ringing on his desk from the top of the stairs, but it stopped as he entered the office. Cursing under his breath, he sat down and waited. Esson returned and handed him a paper bag. The lack of grease stains meant she’d ignored his request. The baguette contained ham salad.
‘It’s like being at one of those health spas,’ he muttered. But he demolished it anyway.
When the phone rang again, he snatched at it.
‘Thought you were in a hurry,’ the RPU officer complained.
‘I am.’
‘So why didn’t you answer earlier?’
‘Call of nature. Now what have you got?’ Rebus listened for a moment. ‘Taken away to be scrapped?’ he repeated for Esson’s benefit. ‘Yesterday?’ He reached for his pen again. ‘Do we know which scrapyard?’ He began taking down the details but then broke off. ‘Yes, I know it,’ he said. ‘Thanks.’
He finished the call and made another, but no one was answering. Cursing, he stuffed his phone into his pocket and got up from the desk.
‘What do I tell the boss when he gets back?’ Esson asked.
‘That his sartorial elegance has shamed me into doing a bit of shopping.’
She smiled and gave him a little wave as he made for the door. Then she left her own desk and crossed to Rebus’s, taking her prawn sandwich with her. She studied the photo of Jack Redpath on Rebus’s computer screen.
‘Maybe,’ she said to herself. ‘Just maybe . . .’ She fixed her eyes on the doorway. She hadn’t known John Rebus long, but she knew he was good at this, like a bloodhound given a scent and then left to do what it was best at. Form-filling and protocols and budget meetings were not Rebus’s thing – never had been and never would be. His knowledge of the internet was rudimentary and his people skills were woeful. But she would lie for him to James Page, and take the rap if caught. Because he was a breed of cop that wasn’t supposed to exist any more, a rare and endangered species.
And she would miss his kind when they did – as they would – eventually vanish from the world.
It was the scrapyard Jessica Traynor’s Golf had been taken to. The same German shepherd rose to its feet and bared its fangs as Rebus got out of his car. Eddie Duke emerged from the shack and snapped at it.
‘Boris! Pipe down!’
Then, to Rebus, and indicating the Saab: ‘Just leave it there. We’ve got a bit of a backlog, but we’ll get round to it when we can.’
‘That’s hilarious,’ Rebus said, looking as though he’d never found anything less funny in his life. ‘I’ve been trying to phone you.’
‘I told you, we’re busy.’ He gestured towards the compactor, which was squeezing the life out of its latest victim. Rebus could hear the dying gasps of metal, plastic and glass. Reece Bairstow was working the machinery. Rebus noticed a car number plate resting against the wall next to the guard dog. He walked over and picked it up, ignoring the dog’s growls.
‘This car?’ he asked.
‘Was blocking a street in Granton. Obviously abandoned.’
‘And is now . . . ?’
The man gestured once more towards the compactor. ‘Is there a problem?’ he asked.
Granton: just along the coast from Leith. Rebus dropped the number plate and marched towards the machine, yelling for it to be switched off. Bairstow did as he was told. His boss was a couple of yards behind Rebus, repeating his question. Rebus peered into the compactor. He could smell engine oil. The blue Ford Escort had been reduced to a third of its size, and wouldn’t be carrying passengers again. Rebus looked at the two men.
‘You stripped it?’
Bairstow checked with Duke before answering. ‘Someone had already picked it clean.’
Not that it looked clean – even mangled as it was, Rebus could make out the thick coating of dust.
‘Been stored for a while, would you say?’
Bairstow nodded.
‘Check the boot?’
‘I didn’t take anything.’
‘We removed the tyres and hubs,’ his boss added. ‘Some of the electrics. The engine was pretty well shot . . .’
‘I want it out of there,’ Rebus ordered. ‘A scene-of-crime team will come and examine it.’
‘For what?’
‘Just get a hook or whatever on it and pull it back out. Throw a tarp over it and keep it safe.’
‘There was a bit of a smell, you know,’ Bairstow conceded. ‘Back seat and the boot.’
‘And the boot was easy enough to open?’
‘Lock was bust. Looked like someone had taken a . . .’
‘Yes?’ Rebus fixed his eyes on the man.
‘A crowbar to it.’ Understanding now exactly why Rebus might want the car kept.
Nick Ralph listened to the story with arms folded, lips puckered. He was seated behind his desk at Torphichen.
‘It’s thin, John,’ he said, after about a minute’s thought.
Rebus had walked into the station and straight up to Ralph without any preamble. The first words out of his mouth had been ‘Can I talk to you?’
‘I’ve seen you before,’ Ralph had responded, after which Rebus had introduced himself.
Now the two men were engaged in a staring contest, Ralph rocking slightly in his chair.
‘Very thin,’ he eventually said, breaking the silence.
Rebus just shrugged and waited.
‘You’re saying this man Bell killed Redpath as retribution of sorts?’
‘Yes.’
‘And stored the body for a number of years in a car park? Pat McCuskey’s son finds out, so Bell goes after him?’
‘That’s my thinking.’
‘And you brought it to me rather than DCI Page . . .’
‘He’s not in charge of the McCuskey inquiry, sir. And if I can be frank, without the leads I’ve just given you, you seem to be stalled.’
‘Is that so?’ Ralph’s shoulders stiffened. He
took a deep breath, picked up his phone and ordered a scene-of-crime team to the scrapyard.
‘And the multi-storey?’ Rebus suggested. But Ralph had already put down the phone.
‘One step at a time, John. We need to bring in the students and hear what they have to say.’
‘They won’t have anything to say.’
‘Still has to be done. And after that, we can talk to Rory Bell. If it went down the way you say it did . . . did Pat McCuskey smack his head while trying to get away?’
‘Either that or he was in a fighting mood – they wrestled him to the floor and he connected with the fireplace.’
‘Accidental death, then?’
‘More like culpable homicide. Plus the initial break-in. There’ll be plenty to charge Bell with, don’t you worry.’
‘If we find anything useful in the boot of the Escort.’
Rebus accepted this with a shrug.
‘Well.’ Ralph was rising to his feet, signalling that the meeting was over. He reached out his hand for Rebus to take. ‘We’ll let you know.’
‘Maybe I could oversee the SOCOs.’
But Ralph shook his head. ‘I’m not the kind to forget favours done, John, if that’s what’s worrying you.’
‘It’s not.’
‘Well then, as soon as I have news, I’ll be in touch.’ He made the gesture again with his hand, and this time Rebus shook it.
He heard nothing until half past five.
Every half-hour he’d been taking out his phone, checking it had both charge and signal. When it did eventually ring, he almost dropped it in his haste to answer.
‘Rebus,’ he said.
‘John, it’s Nick Ralph.’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Neither good news nor bad, really. Fibres were found, and the lab will check if they match the ones from the body pulled out of the dock. It’s not always an exact science, though.’
‘Nothing else?’
‘The team did comment on the residual smell – definite whiff of decay, though that’s unlikely to convince a jury.’
‘But it is Jack Redpath’s car.’
‘Yes, it is. And you may well be right that the chap hauled from Leith Docks is Redpath. That’s why I suggested to your boss that one of his relatives is contacted and asked for a DNA sample – wouldn’t be conclusive unless the man boasts an identical twin, but it would let us know we’re on the right path.’
‘You’ve spoken to James Page?’
‘As a courtesy.’ Ralph paused. ‘Which is when I discovered that you hadn’t said anything to him after our meeting. Hope I’ve not dropped you in it.’
‘Not at all.’ Rebus looked around the empty office. Christine Esson had clocked off, and so had practically everyone else in the building. He wondered if Page would be on his way here right now, full of righteous indignation.
Answer: yes.
Because there he stood, filling the doorway, face reddened, eyes furious.
‘Speak of the devil,’ Rebus said into the phone, before pressing the cancel key. Page was advancing on his desk.
‘How dare you!’ he exploded. ‘That floater is my case!’
‘He’s not a “floater” – if I’m right, his name is Jack Redpath and he connects to the McCuskey killing and a lot more besides.’
‘All of which should have been given to me, so that I could decide what to do with it!’
‘Granted,’ Rebus said. ‘But you were a bit busy grooming yourself for the cameras and the brass. That left me here as the senior officer, and I acted like one.’
‘You did this to get at me – no other reason! Clear your desk and get the hell out. Go ask your good friend at Torphichen for a job. Or maybe you know someone at Wester Hailes. You better hope you’re wanted somewhere, because you’re not wanted here!’
‘It’s been a pleasure,’ Rebus said.
‘It really hasn’t. Everyone warned me: Rebus is a loose cannon; he’s off the scale; you can’t trust him; he’s past his sell-by. Everybody told me that, and a lot worse too. Ask yourself this: how many cop shops in this town would have given you the chance? Not a second chance either, but a sixth or seventh or eighth? I did it because at heart I thought you were a good cop – a copper’s cop, the kind from the old days that I used to hear about but hardly ever seemed to meet.’ Page paused. The fire had been damped. If anything, he seemed fatigued and – yes – genuinely disappointed.
‘Sorry I let you down,’ Rebus conceded.
‘It seems to be your speciality.’
‘I can’t disagree – and you did say I’d sour your mood sooner rather than later. For what it’s worth, DCI Ralph knows this is your investigation. He told me as much.’
‘He shouldn’t have had to do that, though, should he?’
‘No, he shouldn’t.’
Page nodded slowly at the admission. Then he turned towards his cupboard of an office, went inside and closed the door. A moment later it opened again. He placed an empty cardboard box on the floor and slid it towards Rebus’s desk.
‘For your stuff,’ he said. ‘I want you gone in ten minutes.’
The door closed once more. Rebus sat there for half a minute or so, then got up and fetched the box. Placed it on his desk, then realised that he didn’t need it. There was almost nothing here that belonged to him. He hadn’t been back in CID long enough to accumulate anything.
‘What the hell have you done, John?’ he muttered to himself. He stared at James Page’s door, willing himself to go knock on it and ask forgiveness and one more chance.
Just one more.
‘No chance . . .’
Forbes McCuskey ended the call.
‘That was the police,’ he said.
He was seated in Jessica’s flat. Alice Bell sat at her desk. Her laptop’s screen saver had been activated. She was halfway through an essay she hadn’t touched in days and had no enthusiasm to finish. Jessica was on the sofa, playing with the last bottle of her prescription pills. Owen Traynor was in the doorway, sleeves rolled up, hands in trouser pockets.
‘Which police?’ he asked.
‘DCI Ralph – he’s in charge of my father’s case.’
‘What does he want?’
‘He says he needs to see us – me, Jess and Alice.’
‘Did he say why?’
‘No.’
‘We’re finished,’ Jessica said, voice trembling.
‘You don’t need to be afraid of the police,’ her father reassured her. ‘They’ve got nothing on you, because you did nothing.’ He looked around the room, making sure he had everyone’s attention. ‘We stick to the plan, and you leave everything to me.’ Then, to Forbes: ‘When does this guy Ralph want to see you?’
‘First thing in the morning at Torphichen police station.’
‘No problem, then. Everything will be sorted long before that.’
Alice Bell realised that he was standing directly in front of her. She looked up towards his face. He was holding out his mobile phone.
‘Punch in Uncle Rory’s number again, will you, sweetheart?’
She did so, and he plucked the phone from her hand, pressing it to his ear, listening first of all to the ringtone, and then to Rory Bell’s questioning voice.
‘It’s me,’ Owen Traynor said. ‘So do yourself a favour this time and listen . . .’
25
‘This was the second place Siobhan said to try.’
Rebus looked up from his table. He was seated in the corner by the window in the back room of the Oxford Bar. There were a couple of smokers outside, visible through the glass, and he’d been readying to join them. But now Malcolm Fox was standing in front of him, hands in pockets, a thin smile on his face.
‘The first being . . . ?’
‘Arden Street.’
‘So you went there?’
Fox shook his head. ‘I disagreed with her analysis.’
‘Am I due a bollocking?’ Rebus asked. ‘Because – trust me – I’m re
ally not in the mood.’
‘How about a drink instead?’ Fox nodded towards Rebus’s near-empty pint. Rebus studied the man, wondering what his angle was. Then he nodded.
‘IPA,’ he said.
Fox retreated to the bar and Rebus stuffed his cigarettes and matches back into his coat. The bar was quiet – midweek, mid evening. There was a folk night planned for later, but Rebus would be making himself scarce before then. His car was outside and he knew a breathalyser would do for him. He rubbed a hand through his hair and exhaled noisily, hunching over the table.
‘Here you go,’ Fox said, placing the fresh drink in front of him. He’d fetched a can of Coke for himself, plus a glass filled with ice. ‘Cheers.’
Rebus watched him fill the tumbler, the ice cubes crackling.
‘Do you go to AA?’ he asked.
‘Not any more.’
‘And you can come into a pub and not feel tempted?’
‘Of course I’m tempted.’ Fox settled himself on a chair. ‘I’m only human – despite what you might think.’ He lifted his drink. ‘You look like you’ve had a day of it.’
‘Did Siobhan send you to play Good Samaritan?’
‘Is one needed?’
‘You’ve really not heard? Page has had enough of me. I took something to the McCuskey inquiry that was rightfully his.’
‘Oh.’
Rebus stared at him. ‘I’d’ve thought Page would have been straight on the blower.’
Fox shook his head again. ‘I don’t think Siobhan knows.’
‘So why are you here?’
‘The Saunders case.’
‘Hauling me in for further questioning?’ Rebus took a mouthful of beer, hanging on to the glass while he stared Fox out.
Fox rested his arms against the edge of the table, leaning in towards Rebus. ‘Saunders set up a meeting with his killer. He wanted to use the phone at a petrol station, but it was out of order. There was a kid behind the till – he’d got to know Saunders’s face from the few times he’d been in buying food. So when Saunders offered him a tenner for the loan of his mobile, the kid agreed. Saunders promised it was a local call and took the phone outside. The call lasted six and a half minutes.’
‘That precise?’
‘I was able to get the records. Took me most of today. Pinpointed the exact time the call was made. Not quite three hours before Saunders was killed.’
