Saints of the Shadow Bible (Rebus) (14 page)

Rebus had taken the opportunity to get a cigarette lit. Through the window he could see his toastie being delivered. He indicated for it to be left there.

‘How sure can we be that it’s murder?’

‘I agree – he could have fallen, smashed his head. Might have a better idea after the autopsy.’

‘On the other hand, calling it murder might stir things up a bit – put a bit of pressure on whoever did it. Small-timers, maybe not expecting to find anyone home . . .’

‘Have you managed to get the word out around town?’

‘As best I can.’ Rebus paused. ‘Media’s going to be all over this.’

‘Not to mention McCuskey’s colleagues. Speaking of which, his private secretary
did
switch off the TV – you were right about that.’

‘Anything sensitive on the laptop?’

‘It’s password-protected.’

‘Not exactly Fort Knox, then.’

‘Thing is, the Yes campaign isn’t quite the same thing as the current government.’

‘So there could be stuff his office doesn’t know about?’

‘We’re checking.’ Clarke paused. ‘I’m guessing it makes the son untouchable.’

‘Maybe, maybe not. I still think it’s odd this should happen so soon after the crash.’

‘Lifting just enough in the way of valuables to make it look like a robbery?’

‘Something like that.’

‘You think I should take it to DCI Ralph?’

‘Nick Ralph’s in charge at Torphichen?’

‘His is the name I’m hearing.’

‘Good rep. And if he’s asked for you, that consolidates it.’

‘Shucks.’

‘On the other hand, giving me a body-swerve has to count against him.’

Inside the café, Maggie Blantyre seemed to be fretting that his lunch was getting cold. Rebus nodded for her benefit, took a final drag on the cigarette and flicked its remains into the gutter. ‘Got to go,’ he told Clarke.

‘If you
do
hear anything about the stuff that got lifted . . .’

‘I’ll give it to you so you can get your gold star from teacher.’

‘You better had, or it’ll be a Chinese burn next time I see you in the playground.’

Rebus ended the call and went back indoors.

‘Sorry about that,’ he said. But Maggie was on her feet, shrugging her arms back into the sleeves of her coat.

‘I need to be getting back,’ she explained. ‘I’ve left money for my tea.’

Rebus spotted the neat pile of coins next to her saucer.

‘But we’d hardly got talking,’ he complained.

‘Maybe it wasn’t such a great idea.’ She smiled at him and touched his tie with the tips of her fingers. ‘But I’m sure Dod would like to see you, if you ever felt like visiting.’

‘Maggie . . .’

‘Sit down and eat.’ She patted him on the chest and was gone.

Rebus stood there for a moment, wondering whether he was expected to follow, maybe be that bit more demonstrative. But his stomach was growling and he had to be at the Sheriff Court by three. The waitress was asking if everything was all right.

‘Hunky-dory,’ Rebus told her, settling himself back down at the table. There was lipstick on Maggie’s cup, and she had left enough money to pay the bill in full.

‘Terrible news,’ Eamonn Paterson said.

‘Terrible,’ Malcolm Fox agreed.

The three men were in the office at the Sheriff Court. Fox had set up a tape recorder but no video. Rebus noticed that no effort had been made to tidy away all the paperwork – quite the reverse, in fact. Fox had ensured the place looked good and messy, as if industry happened here, as if paperwork had been pored over time and again, evidence amassed. He had his A4 pad out – or maybe it was a different one. Reams of writing within, some sections capitalised or underlined. No doodles, not a thought wasted. Precision and diligence.

All of it to impress a man who knew tricks when he saw them. Paterson had even offered a wink towards Rebus as Fox fiddled with the cassette deck. If games were to be played, Paterson would prove a worthy competitor.

‘Good to see the old technology still in use.’ Paterson gestured towards the tape recorder.

‘Only when it’s fit for purpose.’ Fox looked up. ‘I forgot to ask about tea or coffee – DS Rebus can nip out and get us something . . . ?’

‘I’m fine,’ Paterson said, giving Rebus another surreptitious wink. Fox had been letting them know where they stood. Rebus was the hired help here, Fox the master of the house.

‘Shall we get started, then?’

‘Ready when you are.’ Paterson clasped his hands across his chest, Fox started the machine, and the interview began with a few moments of staring before Fox lobbed his first question.

‘Was the crossbow your idea?’

‘Crossbow?’

‘Didn’t Summerhall have its own crossbow? Used for games of darts until the dartboard shattered?’

Paterson smiled at the memory. ‘I don’t remember whose idea that was.’

‘You confiscated it after an arrest. Instead of forwarding it as evidence, you hung on to it for a while. It was only when it couldn’t be located pre-trial that anyone thought to come asking . . .’

‘Okay, so you’ve done your homework, son – can we skip to the important stuff?’

‘But this
is
the important stuff, Mr Paterson. The lot of you seemed to run CID like it was your own little fiefdom – your rules and nobody else’s. The red light in Interview Room B? If you had anyone gullible enough in there, you’d say it was a lie detector and switch it on. I wonder how many confessions you got that way . . .’

Paterson was still smiling benignly.

‘The row of optics in DI Gilmour’s office, hidden behind a bookcase – you even put the bookcase on castors so you could get at the booze quicker.’

‘You’d have to ask him about that.’

‘But I’m asking
you
.’ Fox glanced down at his notes again. ‘Or let’s try this one – the practice of signing statements rather than writing them? Something you were supposed to have witnessed, but you weren’t there at all. Or if you
were
there, Gilmour would have made sure everyone had the same story to tell – because he’d have written the version himself. All you lot had to do was go along with it.’

Paterson’s gaze shifted to Rebus. ‘John, tell the man . . .’

But Fox slapped his hand against the tabletop. ‘DS Rebus is here as an observer. I’m the one you need to convince.’

‘Convince of what?’ Paterson’s eyes were drilling into Fox’s. ‘Sounds to me like you’ve already made your mind up – typical fucking Complaints. You should be thanking us and giving us medals – we were good at what we did. We got bad men off the streets. End of.’

‘You didn’t get Billy Saunders off the streets. Evidence against him went missing. Statements were riddled with inaccuracies. Witnesses changed their stories after talking to you . . .’

‘We can all agree that mistakes were made – and Stefan Gilmour walked the plank because of them.’

Fox leaned back an inch or two. ‘What do you think Billy Saunders is going to say?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Procurator Fiscal will be talking to him. Might be Saunders will want to cut a deal, looking for leniency.’

‘So what?’

‘So he’s kept his mouth shut for thirty years, but he might think it’s time to spill what really happened.’

‘Confess, you mean?’

‘Maybe not to the murder – but the cover-up after.’

‘Balls-up rather than cover-up.’

‘You reckon that’s how he’ll frame it?’

‘I don’t care what he does.’

‘When was the last time you set eyes on him?’

‘Billy Saunders? Twenty, twenty-five years.’

‘Despite living in the same city?’ Fox paused, making show of studying his notes. ‘When DI Gilmour resigned, who took control of Mr Saunders?’

‘You mean, whose snitch was he?’ Paterson looked to Rebus. ‘He didn’t warm to any of us, did he, John?’

‘Not that I remember,’ Rebus felt obliged to answer.

‘And here was I thinking he would have owed you,’ Fox commented. ‘I mean, whatever titbits he’d gifted you down the years, you got him off a murder charge . . .’

‘Not intentionally,’ Paterson corrected him.

‘Even so, he’d been useful to you and suddenly you just let him go?’

‘Almost as if there was more to it than that,’ Rebus interjected.

‘You were there, John,’ Paterson shot back. ‘What do you think?’

‘It was another country.’

‘But that’s where you’re wrong, both of you,’ Fox said, turning from one man to the other. ‘It was the exact
same
country – you just treated it like you had the run of the place. A lot of bad habits were picked up, and the passing of time doesn’t necessarily wipe the slate clean.’

‘It can play tricks on folk’s memories, though,’ Paterson stressed. ‘Whatever story Saunders decides to tell, no way of knowing it’s the truth.’

‘His short-term memory should be okay, though, eh?’

‘What do you mean?’ Paterson’s eyes had narrowed.

‘The Procurator’s office set up a meeting with him this lunchtime. You sure it’s been quarter of a century since either of you set eyes on him?’ He waited until both Paterson and Rebus had nodded. ‘Well, according to Mr Saunders, another of your number phoned him this very morning.’

It took Rebus a moment to come up with the name. ‘Stefan Gilmour?’

‘The same,’ Fox confirmed.

‘What did he want?’

‘He was wondering which particular beans Mr Saunders might be about to spill.’

‘Stefan
spoke
to him?’ Paterson sounded disbelieving, but Fox was nodding slowly.

‘Seems some of those bad habits just never go away,’ he commented, flicking through his notes again.

After ten further stilted minutes, the interview concluded. Fox thanked Paterson and told him that Rebus would see him out.

‘I’m sure the two of you will want a quick confab once I’m out of earshot.’

Neither man bothered to deny it. Out on Chambers Street, Paterson pulled out his phone and called Stefan Gilmour’s number.

‘It’s gone to voicemail,’ he muttered after a few seconds. He left a message anyway, telling Gilmour to phone him, adding, ‘You’ll know what it’s about, you daft bastard.’

‘Succinct,’ Rebus said. Paterson stared at the skies above and let out a sound that was on its way to being a growl.

‘What does he think he’s playing at, John?’

‘You tell me.’

‘Does he really want all of us in it up to our necks?’

‘Fox is right, though, isn’t he? There’s more to it than just keeping a good snitch on the street?’

Paterson jabbed a finger into Rebus’s chest. ‘
You’re
the one who said that, not Fox!’

‘Only because he’d said it to me earlier.’

‘You’re supposed to be on our side, John.’

‘Oh aye? And what about Stefan – how’s he playing for the team when he’s calling Billy Saunders behind our backs?’

‘Christ alone knows,’ Paterson muttered, shoulders slumping.

‘The Shadow Bible was a long time ago, Porkbelly,’ Rebus said quietly. ‘It made sense that we stuck up for one another back then – might not be so true now.’

‘You’re asking me to side with you against Stefan?’ Paterson was shaking his head slowly but determinedly.

‘I’m saying we need to do what’s right.’

‘And tell me, John – was it “right” when you started seeing Dod Blantyre’s wife? Was it “right” that those of us who knew kept shtum?’

‘That’s not what we’re talking about here.’ Blood had risen unbidden to Rebus’s neck and cheeks.

‘It is, though – secrets and lies and all the other crap we’ve dealt out and been dealt. I didn’t see you owning up in there to signing your name to statements that weren’t yours. But we both know it happened. A
lot
happened back then, and one crack in the dam might be all that’s needed . . .’ Paterson paused, looking Rebus up and down. ‘So make sure you know whose side you’re on, John. And leave Stefan to me – I’ll see to it he doesn’t go near Saunders again.’

Rebus noticed that Paterson’s hand was outstretched. He took it and returned the firm shake, Paterson apparently reluctant to let go.

‘All right then,’ Rebus said, finally extricating himself. He watched Paterson walk away, then returned indoors and headed to the toilets. Examining his face in the soap-spattered mirror, he saw that there was still a faint smudge of lipstick on his right cheek. Cursing, he rubbed it away. Maybe Fox had noticed it and decided not to say anything. But Paterson had certainly spotted it, and had surmised the identity of its bestower – hadn’t she asked him for Rebus’s phone number, after all?

Fox was in the office, tidying up now that the show was over.

‘Much further forward?’ Rebus asked him.

In place of an answer, Fox had a question of his own. ‘Did you reach Stefan Gilmour?’

‘No,’ Rebus admitted. ‘Paterson left a message.’

‘Unbelievably stupid of him to contact Saunders.’

‘I’m not going to disagree,’ Rebus offered, slumping on to a chair.

‘And have you come to any conclusions yourself, Detective Sergeant Rebus?’

‘About what?’

‘You’re either my man or you’re theirs. Up until now, maybe you’ve been thinking you can swap shirts as and when.’

‘Only conclusion I’ve been able to draw so far is that you’re as sleekit as they come.’

‘I might have to pretend you mean that as a compliment.’

‘In some ways, it probably is.’ Rebus managed a tired smile.

‘I’m sorry for threatening to turn you into the tea boy.’

‘You were just letting Paterson know who was boss.’

‘And you too, maybe.’

Rebus nodded. ‘So what now?’

‘Our first interview needs to be sent for transcribing. I’ll leave that to you, if you don’t mind – I’m meeting Elinor Macari at the top of the hour.’

‘To hear what else Billy Saunders has been saying?’

‘That’s right.’

‘So do you want me to lock up?’

Fox studied Rebus, then shook his head.

‘Still don’t trust me?’ Rebus tried to sound hurt.

Fox didn’t answer. He placed a thick file in his briefcase, where it joined his notepad. ‘It’s good you finally got rid of that lipstick,’ he said, closing the clasps.

Some of the same faces Clarke had seen outside the McCuskeys’ home were now huddled on the narrow pavement on Torphichen Place. Cars and vans parked illegally were being ticketed by wardens, but without the owners seeming to mind. Those same vehicles had narrowed the road from three lanes to one, and traffic was backed up, giving drivers plenty of time to stare at the media circus.