Saints of the Shadow Bible (Rebus) (41 page)

‘It didn’t do any good, you know – moving those cars out of the car park. We got them anyway.’

‘I don’t blame Alice, even though she told me I should – after all, she’s the one who got Jessica and Forbes interested.’

Rebus heard the sound of a vehicle squealing to a stop in the street outside. He straightened up and walked to the window, peering down on to the roofs of two patrol cars, their lights flashing.

‘We had a good long talk, all four of us,’ Traynor was saying, almost for his own benefit rather than Rebus’s. ‘Cleared the air. Alice really liked Forbes, but he belonged to Jessica. That was why she started seeing his father – it was the next closest thing. They’re just kids, yeah? They don’t always know what they’re doing. Forbes said he was sorry for leaving Jessica in the lurch the night of the crash. He was planning to run to his folks’ place and fetch help. There was nobody home, and by the time he got back to the Golf, Jessica was already on her way to A and E . . .’

‘John?’ It was Fox’s voice. He was standing in the doorway. ‘Bathroom,’ he said.

Rebus walked back along the hall until he found it. Rory Bell lay in the empty white porcelain tub. Fully dressed, his neck twisted at an unusual angle, eyes open and glassy. Rebus felt in the man’s pockets and pulled out a set of car keys. One trouser leg had ridden up, showing a pale, hairless calf. He tugged the material back down again, as if to add the smallest touch of dignity to the scene.

A scene that would be photographed, swabbed for prints and gone over by a team of SOCOs. The SOCOs Rebus now needed to call. Heart pounding, he walked slowly towards and into the living room. Owen Traynor hadn’t moved.

‘Nobody scares my daughter like that, Rebus. Not if they want to live.’

‘He didn’t bring anyone with him?’

Traynor shook his head. ‘Had to be the two of us – I was adamant about that.’

‘This was last night? Late last night? And you’ve been sitting here ever since?’

‘What else was I going to do?’

Rebus turned towards Fox. ‘Get a couple of the uniforms from downstairs, will you?’

Fox nodded and turned to leave. Rebus walked over to the window again.

‘He can’t hurt her now,’ Owen Traynor was intoning. ‘I’ve made sure everybody’s safe.’

‘When my colleague comes back,’ Rebus explained quietly, ‘you’ll be cautioned. Do you want to call Jessica first and tell her what’s happening?’

‘It was easy, you know. Almost too easy – there was no strength in the man. And it almost wasn’t me at all; I was watching it happen from somewhere else . . .’

‘You should call your daughter.’

‘I already did – maybe an hour ago. She said she’d come and help me. She said we could hide the body, or get rid of it somehow. But that wouldn’t do any good, would it?’

‘It wouldn’t,’ Rebus said. ‘Not in the long run.’

‘I thought about doing myself in, you know.’

‘Jessica will be happy you changed your mind.’

‘She’s the one thing that stopped me.’ Traynor had joined Rebus at the window. ‘That his car?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’

‘What’s so interesting about it?’

‘We’re hoping to find out. The man you killed was no saint, Mr Traynor.’

‘Can’t say I’ve encountered too many saints in my life.’

‘Me neither,’ Rebus agreed.

Outside, he used Rory Bell’s key to open the boot of the X5.

‘Bloody hell,’ Fox gasped.

A couple of shotguns and their cartridges. A holdall filled with bags of white powder. Thick bundles of what looked like counterfeit cash. Plus a laptop, Rolexes, necklace and brooch – the proceeds from the break-in at the McCuskey house.

‘If I didn’t know better,’ Fox mused, ‘I’d say Owen Traynor just did the world a favour.’

‘Lucky you know better, then,’ Rebus responded, closing the boot and readying to wait for the SOCOs.

‘You two look pretty chirpy,’ Siobhan Clarke said as Fox and Rebus marched into Torphichen police station. She had been waiting for them, so that all three could report to DCI Ralph.

‘How’s Maggie Blantyre?’ Rebus asked.

‘Shell-shocked.’

‘And Dod?’

‘His nephew’s coping. Meantime . . .’ She fixed her eyes on Malcolm Fox. ‘Solicitor General wants a nice long debrief from you – Philip Kennedy, Billy Saunders, Summerhall . . .’

Fox tried not to look in Rebus’s direction. ‘There’s not much actual evidence. A lot’s going to remain circumstantial.’

‘Tell
her
that,’ she said, leading the way to Ralph’s office. He was behind his desk, but got up to shake hands before gesturing for them to sit down.

‘We picked up Rory Bell’s goons,’ he said. ‘They’re in interview rooms one and two. With the charges hanging over them, I reckon at least one will end up telling us the story of the visit to the Justice Minister’s house. Looks like we all got results to be proud of – with the possible exception of DCI Page.’ Ralph was focusing on Rebus. ‘I know you’ve had your share of run-ins with him, but there’ll be a job for you
some
where. Meantime, I hope the three of you have planned a celebration of some kind.’

‘On Police Scotland’s tab?’ Clarke asked.

‘Doubtful – we’re supposed to be
saving
money, remember.’

‘Then it’ll probably be a Greggs pasty and a bottle of pop.’

‘As long as it’s not in office hours.’ Ralph smiled, flicking a hand in the direction of the door to let them know the meeting was over.

Instead of leaving the station straight away, Rebus went in search of the interview room he wanted. He walked in, identifying himself to the officers who were questioning the guard from the Livingston car park. The man was no longer in uniform. He wore a camouflage jacket and matching trousers. His arms were folded and he was scowling. Seated alongside him was a lawyer, a downtrodden-looking individual holding a cheap ballpoint pen over a lined notebook. Rebus asked the detectives if he could have two minutes. They didn’t look happy about it, but he stood his ground and eventually they exited the room. The lawyer stayed, but that was fine with Rebus. He leaned his knuckles against the edge of the table and loomed over the man who had punched him.

‘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.

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.