Rebus 19 - Saints of the Shadow Bible
Page 34
‘Remember me?’ he asked.
‘You want to take a shot at me, go ahead.’
‘In front of your solicitor? No, I’ll get my satisfaction watching you in the dock. Only thing that’ll help you is grassing your boss. It’ll feel like a blow to the guts, but you’ll do it anyway, because it’ll bring your sentence down. But all the time you’re inside, the cons will know what you did. They’ll know you blabbed. That feeling in your guts won’t ever go away . . .’ Rebus straightened up, his attention moving to the lawyer.
‘Don’t knock yourself out,’ he said, turning to leave.
That evening, when he returned home, the only parking space on the street was next to a white Range Rover Evoque. As Rebus got out, so did Darryl Christie.
‘I heard about Rory Bell,’ Christie said.
‘He won’t be trying any more land-grabs,’ Rebus acknowledged.
‘I also hear you had something to do with his demise.’ Christie held out a hand. Rebus stared at it until the young man lowered his arm. ‘Whether you like it or not, I owe you a favour. Any time you want to call it in, I’m at the end of the phone.’
‘Right,’ Rebus said, locking his car and heading for his tenement. He paused at the door, key not quite in the lock, and turned his head back towards Christie.
‘Is that a serious offer?’ he called out.
Epilogue
At four the next afternoon, like clockwork, Peter Meikle emerged from the bookmaker’s on Clerk Street with a disappointed look on his face, a look which only intensified when he clocked Rebus.
‘Again?’
‘Again,’ Rebus agreed.
‘What if I say no?’
‘This is the last time, Peter. Just take this ride with me and that’s us.’
‘Promise?’
‘Promise.’
Meikle got into the passenger seat of Rebus’s Saab and fastened his belt. ‘Holyrood Park?’ he guessed.
‘Holyrood Park,’ Rebus confirmed. Then, signalling to move into the stream of traffic: ‘It was a long time ago, wasn’t it? Has there ever been a day it didn’t prey on your mind?’
‘I didn’t kill Dorothy.’
‘Ach, Peter, of course you did. And in the old days, there would have been ways of dealing with that – for the police, I mean. But things have changed.’
‘You still seem to enjoy a bit of intimidation.’
‘Is that what this is?’ Rebus glanced at Meikle. ‘But I’m not smacking your head against a wall, am I? And I’m not framing you – planting evidence, altering paperwork. This is just the two of us, out for a drive, having a little heart-to-heart.’
They were heading towards the Commonwealth Pool. Left at the lights and they would enter Holyrood Park.
‘Some stuff’s happened lately,’ Rebus went on, ‘and it’s got me thinking. The good guys are never all good and the bad ones never all bad.’ He offered a shrug. ‘I know that’s not exactly news. But there’s a place where the two meet, and that’s when it can get interesting. It’s like we’re all standing on the same carpet, without bothering to look down at the pattern.’ He glanced towards his passenger again. ‘Does that make sense?’
‘Maybe to you – but then you’ve been drinking.’
‘Just the one whisky, Peter. Call it Dutch courage.’
Meikle was staring at him. ‘What are you going to do?’
Rebus offered a cold smile. ‘We’re just driving,’ he repeated.
And so they were – snaking around the foot of Salisbury Crags, with the Dumbiedykes estate on their left, then passing Holyrood and taking a right at St Margaret’s Loch, beginning the ascent around Arthur’s Seat. Meikle knew where they would stop – opposite the gateway that led to Willowbrae, just like before. There was another car parked up, and Rebus drew to a halt behind it.
‘We’ve not got long, Peter,’ he said, checking his watch as he turned off the ignition. ‘You carried her body up here, yes? Buried her somewhere in the vicinity.’ He paused. ‘Did you find your phone, by the way?’
‘Took me almost half an hour, scouring those bushes.’
Rebus nodded his satisfaction. ‘You’d had a bit of marital strife. Neighbours knew it, Dorothy’s sister knew it. Dorothy had gone to her saying she was terrified of what you’d do to her if she tried walking out. Maybe she was packing a case when you came home. Maybe you thumped her and she decided enough was enough. Lots of ways it could have played out, Peter. The one way it didn’t play is her jumping on a bus or train and leaving town for pastures new.’
‘You’re barking up the wrong tree.’
‘Am I? All right then, fair enough.’ He tapped his hands against the steering wheel.
‘Eh?’
‘I’ve done what I can.’ Rebus sounded the horn and the doors of the car in front opened. Two men emerged. One was Darryl Christie, the other a huge, shaven-headed creature who had presumably taken over Dean Grant’s role.
‘What’s this?’ Peter Meikle asked, his left hand gripping the Saab’s door handle, as if to stop it being opened from outside.
‘This is where we say goodbye.’
‘That’s Darryl Christie,’ Meikle spluttered.
‘Darryl owes me a favour, Peter, and I’ve decided you’re it. Now out you get.’
‘What?’
‘You’re going with them.’ Rebus nodded towards the Evoque. ‘I’m too old and too tired. All the stuff I used to be able to do to you, they still can. And afterwards, there’ll be a nice quiet spot for your bones.’
‘You can’t do this!’
‘Why not?’
‘You’re the police!’
Rebus leaned towards him, face tightening. ‘I’m from the eighties, Peter – I’m not the newfangled touchy-feely model. Now get out of my fucking car!’
When Meikle, wide-eyed, looked through the passenger window, he saw Christie and the man-monster standing right there. Then his door was being wrenched open, despite his best efforts, and Rebus was helpfully unclipping his seat belt.
‘No!’ he pleaded as he was hauled out of the car. One of his cheap slip-on shoes came off and lay there on the floor. He was dragged to the Evoque and shoved on to its back seat, the bodyguard climbing in next to him. Rebus wound down his window and got a cigarette going. Then he watched as Christie pulled shut the driver’s-side door and the car moved off. As it disappeared around a bend, his phone rang.
‘Hiya, Siobhan,’ he said. ‘We still on for tonight?’
‘Can we not find anywhere more salubrious than the back room of the Ox?’
‘That’s a deal-breaker for me.’
‘Fine, then.’ She sighed. ‘Eight thirty?’
‘I might be first to arrive.’
‘You’re on your way there now?’
‘Not quite. Can Malcolm definitely come?’
‘Says he’s looking forward to it.’
‘The management might feel differently if he sticks to drinking Coke.’
‘I dare say you and me can make up for him.’
‘I dare say.’ Rebus allowed himself a smile, flicking ash from the window.
‘You somewhere with a breeze?’
‘Taking the air.’
‘Next few weeks might be uncomfortable. Lot of questions are going to be asked.’
‘I’ll be ready.’
‘Maybe we can compare notes when we meet?’
‘Are you sure that isn’t against the rules?’
‘I suppose it might be. Lucky we’ve got Malcolm to keep us on the straight and narrow.’
‘Best place to be, Siobhan.’
‘I’ve called Laura Smith and given her a heads-up. Reckoned she just about deserves it.’
‘You never know when you might need a friendly journalist. I’ll see you tonight.’
‘Tapas afterwards at Café Andaluz?’
‘Couple of drinks is all I can manage.’
‘Other plans?’ She paused. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve got a date?’
/> ‘You better not be about to tell me I’m too old.’
‘Who is it?’
‘Am I not allowed a private life?’
‘You know I’m going to keep digging.’
‘I’ll see you tonight.’
‘Best suit, remember. And don’t take her anywhere cheap . . .’
Rebus was smiling as he ended the call.
He kept his eyes on his wing mirror as he finished the cigarette. Then he got out of the Saab, lifting something from the back seat. The wind whipped around him as he started tearing methodically at the loose-leaf pages of the Shadow Bible, gusts scooping them up, sending them flying. He had just finished, nothing left but the leather covers, when the Evoque crawled past, settling in the same spot as before. The three men got out, the man-monster holding Peter Meikle upright while Darryl Christie walked towards Rebus.
‘He’ll show you,’ he said. ‘Right now, if you like.’
Rebus opened the passenger door of the Saab, threw the remains of the Shadow Bible on to the seat and picked up Peter Meikle’s shoe.
Ian Rankin is the internationally bestselling author of the Inspector Rebus and Detective Malcolm Fox novels, as well as a string of standalone thrillers. His books have been translated into thirty-six languages and are bestsellers on several continents. Ian is the recipient of four CWA Dagger Awards and in 2004, won America’s celebrated Edgar Award. He is also the recipient of honorary degrees from the universities of Abertay, St Andrews, Hull and Edinburgh and was awarded the OBE for services to literature, opting to receive the prize in his home city of Edinburgh, where he lives with his partner and two sons.
Also By Ian Rankin
The Inspector Malcolm Fox Series
The Complaints
The Impossible Dead
The Detective Inspector Rebus Series
Knots & Crosses
Hide & Seek
Tooth & Nail
(previously published as Wolfman)
Strip Jack
The Black Book
Mortal Causes
Let it Bleed
Black & Blue
The Hanging Garden
Death is Not the End (a novella)
Dead Souls
Set in Darkness
The Falls
Resurrection Men
A Question of Blood
Fleshmarket Close
The Naming of the Dead
Exit Music
Standing in Another Man’s Grave
Other Novels
The Flood
Watchman
Westwind
Doors Open
Writing as Jack Harvey
Witch Hunt
Bleeding Hearts
Blood Hunt
Short Stories
A Good Hanging and Other Stories
Beggars Banquet
Non-fiction
Rebus’s Scotland
Copyright
AN ORION EBOOK
First published in Great Britain in 2013 by Orion Books.
This ebook first published in 2013 by Orion Books.
Copyright © 2013 John Rebus Ltd.
The right of Ian Rankin to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All characters and events in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
Lyrics from ‘One Man, One Guitar’ by Jackie Leven reproduced with the permission of CV Publishing Limited.
ISBN: 978 1 4091 4476 2
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