Saints of the Shadow Bible ir-19

by Ian Rankin

  ‘We’ll need your notes,’ she said, her eyes on Fox. ‘Everything you’ve got on Saunders.’

  ‘Just as soon as you clear it with the Solicitor General’s office,’ Fox agreed.

  ‘I’ll add it to the list,’ she grumbled.

  ‘Malcolm would be an asset to you, you know,’ Rebus told her. ‘And he just happens to be between jobs. .’

  Clarke studied Rebus, as though seeking the catch or waiting for a punchline. Then she nodded stiffly.

  ‘Fine,’ she said, turning to leave again.

  ‘Don’t say I never give you anything,’ Rebus said to Fox, patting him on the arm.

  At the mortuary, Clarke and Fox changed into protective clothing, but at the door to the autopsy suite Clarke paused, eyes on Fox.

  ‘You sure you’re up to this?’ she asked.

  ‘It’ll be my first in a while.’

  There was a sudden wailing from somewhere in the building.

  ‘The widow,’ Fox surmised.

  Clarke nodded. ‘Change of plan,’ she decided. ‘You’ve met her before — go see if you can get anything out of her.’

  ‘Afraid I’m going to embarrass you in there?’ Fox gestured towards the door.

  ‘I’m sure you’d do fine, Malcolm. It’s a question of what’s most useful.’

  ‘You’re the boss, Siobhan.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Having said which, she pushed open the door and disappeared inside, leaving Fox with a glimpse of steel trolleys and gleaming instruments. Back in the changing room, he dispensed with the protective clothing and headed for the waiting area, where Saunders’s widow Bettina was keening and being comforted by a female friend.

  ‘They won’t even give her his things,’ the friend complained to Fox.

  ‘They’ll be returned as soon as possible,’ Fox said, unsure whether this was true or not. The mortuary was an anonymous slab of a building on Cowgate, and Cowgate itself a narrow, claustrophobic canyon which only came alive at night, thanks to its bars and clubs. Fox hadn’t been inside the mortuary in several years, the remit of the Complaints falling short of unexplained deaths. As a young beat officer he had attended a couple of post-mortem examinations, but with his eyes averted and trying not to inhale the various aromas.

  ‘My name’s Fox, by the way,’ he told the friend.

  ‘I’m Taylor — Taylor Craddock.’

  ‘We’ve met before, Bettina,’ he was saying to the widow. There was an untouched beaker of tea at her feet.

  ‘I remember,’ she said, rubbing at her eyes and sniffing. There were blue smudges on her knuckles, the remnants of ancient tattoos.

  Craddock was explaining that the identification process had been traumatic. ‘Though he did look at peace, Bett, you have to say he didn’t suffer. .’

  More platitudes followed, but Bettina Saunders was hearing none of them. She concentrated, red-eyed and blinking, on the wall across from her. There was nothing on it but a framed colour poster of a heathery landscape, puffy clouds and blue sky above. Fox decided to make Taylor Craddock the focus of his questions.

  ‘Billy didn’t make contact after he disappeared?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘It’s just that we need to try to piece together his movements, maybe find out why he acted the way he did.’

  ‘Can’t this wait?’ Craddock chided him. ‘The woman’s in shock.’

  ‘I appreciate that, but the sooner we can get started, the better.’

  ‘Better for you or better for her?’ Craddock’s hackles were rising. Bettina Saunders placed a hand around her friend’s wrist.

  ‘It’s all right, Taylor. The man’s only trying to help.’ She fixed her eyes on Fox. ‘Billy was worried about going to court. Stands to reason that’s why he ran.’

  ‘But he didn’t exactly run, did he?’ Fox went on quietly. ‘He stayed in the city.’

  ‘Where else could he go? He was Edinburgh born and bred.’

  ‘Did he have friends nearby? Near that stretch of the canal, I mean?’

  She thought for a moment, then shook her head.

  ‘And he never called you? Not even a text so you wouldn’t worry?’

  ‘Nothing.’ She looked down into her lap. ‘But he was up to high doh. Somebody phoned him one morning — that was the start of it.’

  Stefan Gilmour, stood to reason. .

  One of the mortuary attendants was standing in the doorway.

  ‘Inspector Fox?’ he enquired. ‘Got a minute?’

  Fox smiled an apology towards the two women, hoping the relief on his face wasn’t too evident. The attendant led him to a small office, where a clear polythene bag sat on a desk.

  ‘Deceased’s possessions,’ the attendant explained. ‘Need you to sign for them.’

  Fox studied the contents of the bag. There was a sheet of printout next to it, listing the individual items. Fox made sure it tallied.

  ‘Hundred and fifty in cash,’ he commented.

  ‘Despite which, judging by the state of his clothes, he was sleeping rough.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Grubby, you might say.’

  ‘Speaking of which, where are they?’

  ‘Off to Forensics.’ The attendant paused. ‘We didn’t lift any of the money, if that’s what’s on your mind.’

  Fox shook his head. ‘Last cashpoint he visited, he took out two hundred. Didn’t get through much of it, which tallies with sleeping rough.’ He lifted the bag. ‘Did the water bugger the phone?’

  ‘Might be okay when it’s dried out.’

  There wasn’t much else — a handkerchief, chewing gum, house keys, loose change and the Bank of Scotland debit card, plus loyalty cards from Costa Coffee and Tesco.

  ‘No watch?’ Fox queried.

  ‘No watch.’

  He double-checked the list before signing his name to the bottom of the sheet. ‘Autopsy finished yet?’

  ‘Might be another half-hour. They got the bullet though. Wedged between two of the vertebrae. You need to put the date.’

  Fox added the date beneath his signature, which seemed to satisfy the attendant.

  ‘Were you there for the identification?’ he asked.

  The attendant nodded.

  ‘How did the widow seem?’

  ‘She managed.’

  ‘Did she say anything?’

  ‘Nothing out of the ordinary. You think she did it — crime of passion and all that? You should be swabbing her hands for gunpowder. .’

  Fox studied the young man. ‘You watch too many films.’

  The attendant shrugged. ‘Not much excitement around here — though we’ve still got the Justice Minister on the premises. Body’s due to be released to the family today.’

  ‘Counts as a busy week, does it?’

  ‘Place has been in the news and everything. Mind you, still doesn’t make for much of a chat-up line, saying you work here.’

  ‘I imagine not.’

  ‘Unless you’re into Goths, I suppose. .’

  15

  ‘The bullet is undergoing analysis,’ Siobhan Clarke announced to her team. They were gathered around her in an open-plan office on the first floor of Wester Hailes police station. There was a bit less room than any of them would have liked — competition had been fierce for the few comfortable-looking chairs. Hot-desking was necessary and no one had yet found a kettle. There were journalists outside on Dumbryden Drive, but not many. Shootings were rare in Scotland’s capital, but the demise of a minicab driver couldn’t compete with that of a senior politician. Fox didn’t doubt that the foul weather was also a factor. With a new cold front making itself felt, the rain was turning to sleet. And Dumbryden was not exactly salubrious — mesh grilles protected the cop shop’s ground-floor windows — meaning there would be no press conferences in new-build hotels. . not until such hotels were constructed.

  ‘I can’t tell you a lot more than that at present. It’s a nine-millimetre calibre, probably from a handgun. Pathologist comme
nted that it didn’t look shiny new, but I’m not sure what that tells us. Until Ballistics and Forensics get back to us, therefore, I want to concentrate on the victim’s movements from the night he went missing until he ended up in the canal. He must have eaten — most recent intake comprised a cheese and onion sandwich and a packet of ready-salted crisps, plus a bottle of Irn Bru. .’

  ‘Sounds like a meal deal,’ Olivia Webster interrupted. ‘Sort of thing a garage or supermarket would sell.’

  Clarke sought out Fox. ‘Any receipts among his possessions?’

  Fox shook his head. ‘We don’t have his clothes, though — I suppose there could be something in one of the pockets.’

  ‘Can you check that?’ Clarke asked. Then, to the room at large: ‘We need door-to-door, starting at the locus and radiating out. The industrial estate will be part of that. They’re bound to have camera footage, or else night-time security we can talk to. Shops and petrol stations in the vicinity — get photos of Saunders out there.’

  ‘Local media?’ someone else asked.

  Clarke nodded. ‘Newspapers and internet — TV if we can get it. Putting out a plea for anyone to come forward.’

  ‘There might be something on his phone,’ Fox said. ‘Doubtful — we already checked once with his mobile phone provider — but worth taking another look.’

  Clarke nodded her agreement. ‘Inspector Fox here,’ she explained to the room, ‘has been helping the Solicitor General’s office form a case against William Saunders. Thirty years ago, Mr Saunders was charged with the murder of a man called Douglas Merchant. The case fell apart due to police incompetence. .’

  ‘Incompetence or collusion,’ Fox corrected her.

  ‘Anyway,’ Clarke went on, ‘those files will be coming here as soon as I’ve cleared it with Elinor Macari. And as Inspector Fox is the expert, he’ll be the one to answer any questions you might have.’

  ‘A good starting point,’ Fox added, ‘might be the detectives who were responsible for the collapse of the case against Saunders. One of them, Stefan Gilmour, contacted Saunders by phone. We’ve questioned him once, but now that a murder has been committed. .’

  Clarke had been nodding throughout. ‘We’ll bring him in,’ she stated.

  ‘The Stefan Gilmour?’ someone asked.

  ‘The only one I know of,’ Clarke confirmed.

  Fox was impressed.

  Clarke had stamped her authority on the group, giving an immediate sense of order and purpose to the inquiry. There had been room for some levity — just enough so that everyone could relax into their given tasks. Afterwards, she squeezed through the throng towards the desk he was sharing.

  ‘You’ll get me those files from the Solicitor General?’ she prompted.

  ‘I’ve put in a call. Waiting for her to respond.’

  ‘Or we could just go and fetch them. .’

  ‘Best not to get on the wrong side of her — not this early in the game.’

  Clarke seemed to sense the truth of this.

  ‘I’ll track her down,’ Fox said. ‘You think it ties in, don’t you?’

  ‘Rule nothing in and nothing out.’

  ‘I didn’t really glean anything from the widow.’

  ‘I hope you don’t think I was going easy on you?’

  ‘I think we both know you really were.’

  ‘You’d met her before, making you the obvious candidate.’

  Fox nodded and decided to drop the subject. ‘It’s good the bullet was found,’ he said.

  ‘And the casing,’ Olivia Webster interrupted, coming towards them and waving her phone. ‘It was in the water.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Not so far.’

  ‘Evidence suggests he was sleeping rough,’ Fox said. ‘Maybe not too far from where he ended up.’

  ‘The industrial estate?’ Clarke suggested. ‘Maybe we should go take a look — as soon as you’ve tried the Solicitor General’s office again.’

  For want of anything better to do, Rebus returned to Gayfield Square, where DCI James Page had been left with only a skeleton crew. He was seething, prowling a line from his cupboard-sized office across the floor of the CID room and back again.

  ‘It’s not that I don’t think Siobhan’s perfectly capable,’ he commented.

  ‘Agreed,’ Rebus said. ‘Always annoying, though, when the action’s elsewhere.’

  Page glowered at him, trying to work out whether sympathy or mockery was being offered. Rebus’s face gave nothing away.

  ‘I suppose your own little adventure with Malcolm Fox is coming to an abrupt halt?’ Page eventually countered.

  ‘A few ends to trim off first,’ Rebus lied, checking his watch. ‘In fact, I should get over there and give him a hand. .’

  ‘So we can expect you back at your desk here bright and early tomorrow?’

  ‘Of course.’ Rebus gave a little salute before turning to leave.

  Outside, he stood in the car park, smoking a cigarette. There were no messages on his phone, and no point in heading to the office at the Sheriff Court — Fox had locked up on their departure, and Rebus hadn’t bothered asking for the key. Instead, he tapped in Stefan Gilmour’s number. It went to an answering machine, so Rebus hung up. But a moment later a text popped up on his screen. It was from Gilmour — In a meeting. I’ve heard about S. Don’t worry.

  S for Saunders. What was it Rebus wasn’t supposed to worry about? The threat to all the Saints, or just to Gilmour? Was he saying that he didn’t blame Rebus for the increased attention?

  ‘Bloody hell, John,’ Rebus muttered to himself as he crushed the remains of the cigarette underfoot.

  He got into his Saab and drove to Torphichen Place. The media presence had lessened — maybe they’d heard the results of the autopsy. Inside, DCI Ralph nodded a greeting. He seemed flustered, which probably explained why he didn’t question a stranger’s arrival in his midst. There was a heavy, almost drowsy atmosphere in the office. Rebus recognised it from dozens of previous investigations. Adrenalin and process carried you through the initial stages of an inquiry, but if progress stalled, there came a creeping inertia. All the phone calls had been made, all the interviews conducted. You were going over old ground constantly, for want of anything else to do. Or you headed down unpromising paths which led to dead end after dead end. All of it sapping the strength and the spirit. Especially galling when the team had become fragmented — Rebus sensed that the loss of Clarke and the few others she’d taken with her weighed heavily. Many hours of effort had been expended, and by now, answers were expected. Without them, self-worth would deflate, team morale flag.

  One short tour of the main room told Rebus all of this. He headed into a smaller office where a solitary detective constable, jacket over the back of his chair and sleeves rolled up, was working away at a computer. There was a kettle, and Rebus asked if it was all right to make himself a brew.

  ‘Long as you’ve got a pound for the kitty,’ the young man said.

  Rebus nodded, noticing the tin tea caddy with the slot in its top and the word MONEY taped on one side. He switched the kettle on and asked the officer if he wanted anything.

  ‘My shout.’

  ‘Coffee, thanks. One sugar, no milk.’

  Rebus nodded again and got to work. He sifted through some change from his jacket, then, with back turned, lifted the caddy and gave it a shake, so that its contents rattled, before returning the coins to his pocket.

  ‘No milk, one sugar,’ he said, placing the mug on the corner of the desk. Then he asked the young man’s name.

  ‘Alan Drake.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you.’ Rebus stuck out his hand. ‘I’m John Rebus.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Probably been warned off talking to me, eh? Big bad wolf and all that.’

  ‘No, it’s just. . well, everybody knows you.’

  ‘You can ignore most of what you’ve heard.’ Rebus picked up his mug and scooped the tea bag into a bin.
<
br />   ‘You mentored DI Clarke,’ the young man stated.

  ‘No one “mentors” Siobhan — all she ever learned from me was what not to do.’ Rebus had come around to the side of the desk, so he could see what Drake was working on.

  ‘Deceased’s diary,’ the young officer obliged. ‘His office has been helpful. .’

  ‘The Justice Minister was a busy man,’ Rebus commented. ‘What about the night prior to his death? Have we anything on that?’

  ‘A rare evening off,’ Drake conceded. ‘Watched a couple of episodes of a TV show called Spiral. Supper from the freezer and some preparatory work for the next day. Replied to a dozen e-mails — personal as well as business — and made a few calls.’

  ‘I see you’ve got the records.’ Rebus gestured towards the printouts.

  Drake nodded. ‘Landline and mobile. I’ve got names for everyone he spoke to or texted.’

  ‘And they’ve been interviewed?’

  ‘Sometimes just by phone.’

  ‘Including this one?’ Rebus tapped a finger against Alice Bell’s name.

  ‘Shares a flat with the deceased’s son’s girlfriend. She’s studying art history and Mr McCuskey had arranged a tour of the Parliament for her — big collection there, apparently. Have you ever been?’

  Rebus nodded slowly. ‘Years back, not long after it opened. Official business, though, I don’t recall seeing any paintings.’ He paused. ‘Any more calls between the two of them?’

  ‘Three or four over the space of a month.’

  ‘Setting up the Parliament tour?’

  ‘That’s right — have you spotted something I missed?’

  ‘Not at all — seems very thorough,’ Rebus said. ‘And you’ve shown the results to. .?’

  ‘DCI Ralph. It would have been DI Clarke, only she’s not here.’ Drake looked up at Rebus. ‘They’ve put her in charge of a real murder case.’

  ‘You never know, son — this might turn into one again.’ Rebus placed his half-empty mug on the nearest window ledge. ‘You just have to keep panning for gold. .’

  Rebus spent the rest of the late afternoon in the Central Library on George IV Bridge. A librarian showed him how to use the microfilm reader in the Edinburgh Room. He was interested in the local daily and evening papers for the four weeks leading up to Billy Saunders’s attack on Douglas Merchant. Having been through the police logs, he’d found nothing surprising or out of place — excepting that torn page from the custody ledger. As he spooled each day’s news across the large screen in front of him, he tried not to become distracted; difficult when there were so many reports and stories that triggered memories. Margaret Thatcher was planning a June general election, and Jimmy Savile was fronting an advertising campaign for train travel. Alex Ferguson’s Aberdeen beat Real Madrid in extra time to lift the Cup Winners’ Cup. British Leyland was in trouble, as were Timex and Ravenscraig. There were moves to ban smoking from the upper decks of buses, and Annie was showing at the Playhouse — Rebus remembered Rhona and Sammy dragging him along so he could sleep through it. An ad for a Kensitas gift book reminded him that some of Sammy’s Christmas presents would have come from his cigarette coupons. Meantime, the Balmoral Hotel was still the North British and pirate videos were being seized. He thought he could recall a stash of them doing the rounds at Summerhall — Gandhi a popular choice. A business computer cost almost the same as a new car, and Bowie was due to play Murrayfield. Stefan Gilmour had blagged the Saints into the eventual gig, Rebus watching and listening through a haze of alcohol on a wet, grey June evening. .