Saints of the Shadow Bible (Rebus) (2 page)

‘Bloody hell, I almost didn’t recognise you there,’ Rebus admitted.

Eamonn Paterson patted what was left of his stomach. ‘Diet and exercise,’ he explained.

‘Thank God for that – I thought you were going to tell me you had some sort of wasting disease.’ Rebus turned towards Clarke. ‘Siobhan, this is Eamonn Paterson. He was a DS when I was a DC.’ While the two shook hands, Rebus continued the introduction.

‘Siobhan’s a detective inspector, which has her under the cruel delusion she’s my boss.’

‘Good luck with that,’ Paterson said. ‘When he was wet behind the ears I couldn’t get him to take a telling, no matter how hard I kicked his backside.’

‘Some things never change,’ Clarke conceded.

‘Eamonn here used to go by the name of Porkbelly,’ Rebus said. ‘Came back from a holiday in the States with the story he’d eaten so much of the stuff a restaurant had given him a T-shirt.’

‘I’ve still got it,’ Paterson said, raising his glass in a toast.

‘How long have you been out of the game?’ Clarke asked. Paterson was tall and slim, with a good head of hair; she wouldn’t have said he was a day older than Rebus.

‘Nearly fifteen years. Nice of them still to send me the invites.’ He waved his wine glass in the direction of the party.

‘Maybe you’re the poster boy for retirement.’

‘That could be part of it,’ he agreed with a laugh. ‘So this is the last rites for Lothian and Borders, eh?’

‘As far as anyone knows.’ Rebus turned towards Clarke. ‘What’s the new name again?’

‘There’ll be two divisions – Edinburgh, plus Lothians and Scottish Borders.’

‘Piece of nonsense,’ Paterson muttered. ‘Warrant cards will need changing, and so will the livery on the patrol cars – how the hell’s that supposed to save money?’ Then, to Rebus: ‘You going to manage along to Dod’s?’

Rebus shrugged. ‘How about you?’

‘Could be another case of last rites.’ Paterson turned towards Clarke. ‘We all worked together at Summerhall.’

‘Summerhall?’

‘A cop shop next door to the vet school on Summerhall Place,’ Rebus explained. ‘They knocked it down and replaced it with St Leonard’s.’

‘Before my time,’ she admitted.

‘Practically Stone Age,’ Paterson agreed. ‘Not many of us cavemen left, eh, John?’

‘I’ve learned how to make fire,’ Rebus countered, taking the box of matches from his pocket and shaking it.

‘You’re not still smoking?’

‘Someone has to.’

‘He likes the occasional drink, too,’ Clarke confided.

‘I’m shocked.’ Paterson made show of studying Rebus’s physique.

‘Didn’t realise I was auditioning for Mr Universe.’

‘No,’ Clarke said, ‘but you’ve sucked your stomach in anyway.’

‘Busted,’ Paterson said with another laugh, slapping Rebus’s shoulder. ‘So will you make it to Dod’s or not? Stefan’ll likely be there.’

‘Seems a bit ghoulish,’ Rebus said. He explained to Clarke that Dod Blantyre had suffered a recent stroke.

‘He wants one last gathering of the old guard,’ Paterson added. He wagged a finger in Rebus’s direction. ‘You don’t want to disappoint him – or Maggie . . .’

‘I’ll see how I’m fixed.’

Paterson tried staring Rebus out, then nodded slowly and patted his shoulder again. ‘Fine then,’ he said, moving off to greet another old face.

Five minutes later, as Rebus was readying his excuse that he needed to step out for a cigarette, a fresh group entered the canteen. They looked like lawyers because that was what they were – invitees from the Procurator Fiscal’s office. Well dressed, with shiny, confident faces, and led by the Solicitor General for Scotland, Elinor Macari.

‘Do we need to bow or anything?’ Rebus murmured to Clarke, who was fixing her fringe. Macari was pecking the Chief Constable on both cheeks.

‘Just don’t say something you might regret.’

‘You’re the boss.’

Macari looked as though she’d made several stops on her way to the party: hairdresser, cosmetics counter and boutique. Her large black-framed glasses accentuated the sharpness of her gaze. Having swept the room in an instant, she knew who needed greeting and who could be dismissed. The councillor who headed the policing committee merited the same kiss as the Chief Constable. Other guests nearby had to make do with handshakes or a nod of the head. A glass of white wine had been fetched, but Rebus doubted it was anything other than a prop. He noticed too that his own bottle of lager was empty, though he’d vowed to save his thirst for something more deserving.

‘Got a few words stored up in case she drifts this way?’ he asked Clarke.

‘I’d say we’re well out of her orbit.’

‘Fair point. But now she’s arrived, the presentations can’t be far behind.’ Rebus held up the packet of cigarettes and gestured in the direction of the outside world.

‘Are you coming back?’ She saw his look and gave a twitch of the mouth, acknowledging the stupidity of the question. But as he made to leave the canteen, Macari spotted someone and made a beeline for them, so that Rebus had to swerve past her. She frowned, as if trying to place him, going so far as to glance at his retreating figure. But by then she had reached her prey. Siobhan Clarke watched as the most senior lawyer in Scotland took Malcolm Fox by the arm and led him away from his Professional Standards cohort. Whatever was about to be discussed, a modicum of privacy was required. One of the canteen staff had arrived in the doorway, holding the cake, but a gesture from the Chief Constable told her the ceremony would have to wait until the Solicitor General was ready . . .

A flatbed lorry had arrived, the name of a local scrapyard stencilled on its doors. The previous night, a flimsy cordon had been erected, consisting of three-inch-wide tape with the word POLICE on it. The tape ran from an undamaged tree to a fence post and from there to another tree. The driver of the flatbed had sliced through it and was preparing to winch the crashed VW Golf up the slope towards the waiting ramp.

‘Not a bad afternoon,’ Rebus said, lighting a cigarette and examining his surroundings. A stretch of narrow country road on the outskirts of Kirkliston. Edinburgh Airport wasn’t far away, and the roar of approaching and departing passenger flights punctuated the rural scene. They had come in Clarke’s Vauxhall Astra. It was parked on the opposite verge, flashers blinking in a warning to approaching drivers. Not that there seemed to be any.

‘It’s a straight road,’ Clarke was saying. ‘Surface wasn’t icy or greasy. Must have been going at a fair clip, judging by the damage . . .’

True enough: the front of the Golf had become concertinaed on impact with the venerable oak tree. They made their way past the torn fencing and down the slope. The driver from the flatbed jutted out his chin in greeting but otherwise wasn’t about to ask who they were or why they were there. Clarke carried a folder, which was good enough for him – meant they were official, and therefore probably best avoided.

‘Is he okay?’ Rebus asked.

‘He’s a she,’ Clarke corrected him. ‘Car’s registered to Jessica Traynor. Address in south-west London. She’s in the Infirmary.’

Rebus was walking around the car. It was less than a year old, pearl-coloured. From what he could see of the tyres, there was plenty of tread on them. The windscreen was gone, driver’s-side door and boot gaping, both airbags deployed.

‘And we’re here because . . . ?’

Clarke opened the folder. ‘Mainly because her father seems to have friends. Word came down from on high: make sure we’ve not missed anything.’

‘What’s to miss?’

‘Hopefully nothing. But this area’s notorious for boy racers.’

‘She’s not a boy, though.’

‘She drives the kind of car they like.’

‘I wouldn’t know.’

‘I think the Golf still qualifies as a “hot hatch”.’

Rebus wandered over towards the flatbed. The man from the scrapyard was reeling out a cable with a large hook on the end. Rebus asked him how many Golfs ended up in the compactor.

‘A few,’ he conceded. He sported oily blue overalls under a scuffed leather jacket, and dirt was ingrained on his palms and under his nails. The baseball cap he wore was so grubby the lettering on it was indecipherable, and a thick greying beard covered his chin and throat. Rebus offered him a cigarette, but the man shook his head.

‘Roads around here used as racetracks?’ Rebus continued.

‘Sometimes.’

‘You on a diet or something?’ The man looked at him. ‘Cutting back on your vocabulary,’ Rebus explained.

‘I’m just here to do a job.’

‘But this isn’t the first crash like this you’ve seen?’

‘No.’

‘How regular?’

The man considered this. ‘Every couple of months. Though there was one last week, the other side of Broxburn.’

‘And it’s cars racing each other? Any idea how it gets arranged?’

‘No,’ the man stated.

‘Well, thanks for sharing.’ Rebus walked back towards the Golf. Clarke was peering through the open door, examining the interior. ‘Take a look,’ she said, handing Rebus a photograph. It showed a brown suede boot in what seemed a woman’s size, framed against the floor of the car.

‘I don’t see any pedals.’

‘That’s because it was in the passenger-side footwell.’

‘Okay.’ Rebus handed the photograph back. ‘So you’re saying there was a passenger?’

Clarke shook her head. ‘It’s one of a pair of Ugg boots belonging to Jessica Traynor. The other was on her left foot.’

‘Ugg?’

‘That’s what they’re called.’

‘So it flew off on impact? Or came off when the medics pulled her out?’

‘First patrol car on the scene, the officer took a few shots on his phone – including the boot. Jessica was still in the car at the time. Ambulance arrived a few minutes later.’

Rebus pondered this. ‘Who found her?’

‘A woman on her way home from Livingston. She works shifts at a supermarket there.’ Clarke was studying a typed sheet of paper from the folder. ‘Driver’s-side door was open. Impact could have done that.’

‘Or the driver tried to get out.’

‘Unconscious. Head resting against the airbag. No seat belt.’

Rebus took the photographs from Clarke and studied them while Clarke spoke. ‘The supermarket worker called 999 just after eight in the evening, no light left in the sky. No street lamps either, just the distant glow from Edinburgh itself.’

‘Boot’s closed,’ Rebus said, handing the photos back.

‘Yes, it is,’ Clarke agreed.

‘Not any more, though.’ Rebus walked around to the back of the car. ‘Did you open this?’ he asked the man from the scrapyard, receiving a shake of the head in answer. The boot was empty, except for a rudimentary toolkit.

‘Scavengers, maybe?’ Clarke suggested. ‘Car was here all night.’

‘Why not take the toolkit?’

‘Don’t suppose it’s worth much. Anyone could have opened it, John – ambulance driver, our guy . . .’

‘I suppose so.’ He tried closing the boot. It was undamaged, and stayed locked once shut. The key was in the ignition, and he pressed the button to unlock the boot again. A clunk told him he had been successful.

‘Electrics still seem to work,’ he said.

‘Sign of a well-made car.’ Clarke was sifting through the paperwork. ‘So what do we think?’

‘We think a car was travelling too fast and came off the road. No sign of a prior collision. Was she maybe on her phone at the time? It’s been known to happen.’

‘Worth checking,’ Clarke agreed. ‘And the Ugg?’

‘Sometimes,’ Rebus said, ‘footwear is just footwear.’

Clarke was checking a message on her phone. ‘Seems its owner is back in the land of the living.’

‘Do we want to speak to her?’ Rebus asked.

The look Clarke gave him was all the answer he needed.

Jessica Traynor had a room to herself at the Royal Infirmary. The nurse explained that she had been lucky – a suspected fracture of one ankle, some bruised ribs, and other minor injuries consistent with whiplash.

‘Her head and neck are in a brace.’

‘But she’s able to talk?’ Clarke asked.

‘A little.’

‘Any sign of alcohol or drugs in her bloodstream?’

‘Looks the clean-living type to me. She’s on painkillers now, though, so she’ll be woozy.’ The nurse paused. ‘Do you want to speak to her father first?’

‘He’s here?’

The nurse nodded again. ‘Arrived in the middle of the night. She was still in A and E at the time . . .’ She had stopped by a window. It gave a view into Jessica Traynor’s room. Her father was seated bedside, holding her hand in his and stroking her wrist. Her eyes were closed. The brace seemed to be constructed of thick squares of polystyrene foam, fixed in place with an array of metal clamps. Looking up, her father saw the faces at the window. He checked his daughter was asleep, then placed her hand gently on the bed and rose to his feet.

Exiting the room quietly, he ran his fingers through his mop of silver and black hair. He wore the trousers from a pinstripe suit – the jacket was draped over the back of the chair next to his daughter’s bed. His white shirt was creased, and the cufflinks had been removed so the sleeves could be rolled up. Rebus doubted the expensive-looking watch on his left wrist was a fake. He had taken off his tie at some point, and undone the top two buttons of his shirt, showing tufts of greying chest hair.

‘Mr Traynor,’ Clarke said, ‘we’re police officers. How is Jessica doing?’

His large eyes were dark-ringed from lack of sleep and there was vending-machine coffee on his breath when he exhaled.

‘She’s all right,’ he eventually said. ‘Thank you.’

Rebus wondered if Traynor’s tan had come from a sunbed or a winter holiday. Probably the latter.

‘Are we any clearer on what happened?’ Clarke was being asked.

‘We don’t think another vehicle was involved, if that’s what you mean. Maybe just a case of too much acceleration . . .’

‘Jessica never drives fast. She’s always been super-cautious.’

‘It’s a powerful car, sir,’ Rebus qualified.

But Traynor was shaking his head. ‘She wouldn’t have been speeding, so let’s rule that out right now.’

Rebus glanced down at the man’s shoes. Black brogues. Every inch the successful businessman. The accent was English, but not cut-glass. Rebus remembered Jessica’s age from the notes in Clarke’s folder: twenty-one.