Saints of the Shadow Bible (Rebus) (25 page)

‘What are you saying?’

‘Fox is all over this, isn’t he? He’s been through every bit of paperwork from Summerhall and memorised the lot. Be careful he doesn’t lead you a dance . . .’

Rebus ended the call and got a cigarette lit, flicking ash from the window. Then he called Eamonn Paterson.

‘It’s John,’ he said. ‘Can you talk?’

‘At a loose end, as per,’ Paterson replied. ‘What’s troubling you?’

‘They took Stefan in for questioning.’

‘About Billy Saunders? Stands to reason.’

‘Thing is, they’ve got the gun.’

‘Yes, I heard on the radio.’

‘What you didn’t hear is that they think it originally belonged to an old soldier called Laurie Martin.’ Rebus listened for a response, but there was silence on the line. ‘Now, Laurie Martin was before my time, but I
do
remember the Browning. It sat in your drawer and after a few drinks it might come out for a bit of a joke. Laurie Martin’s handgun, yes?’

‘The man was a war hero, John. Yomped halfway across those bloody islands and got almost no thanks for it. He told us the stories that night – the custody sergeant came and fetched us so we could listen. Man needed psychiatric help more than anything, and he wasn’t going to get much of that in the clink.’

‘So you spirited away the gun? Shame you forgot to scratch it from the arrest report.’

‘What do you want me to say, John?’

‘I want you to tell me what happened to it.’

‘The gun? I haven’t the faintest notion. When we were leaving Summerhall, it just wasn’t in my drawer any more.’

‘Someone took it?’

‘I don’t know.’ Paterson paused. ‘There’s no way they can tie it to Saunders’s murder, is there?’

‘You tell me. Even if it’s circumstantial, it’s another piece of the jigsaw as far as Fox is concerned. And it’s a murder inquiry now, Eamonn – so don’t think it isn’t serious.’

‘I’m not stupid.’

‘Neither am I. You’d be wise to remember that. Okay, change of subject – fill me in on Slippery Phil Kennedy.’

‘Now there’s a name from the vaults. What’s Kennedy got to do with anything?’

‘You tell me.’

‘There’s nothing to tell – died in his house after a day’s boozing. Sleekit wee shite, too. We should have put him away, but we didn’t. “Not proven” was the verdict, that one time we got him to trial.’

Not proven: the ‘bastard verdict’ available to a Scottish jury when they thought the Crown had not done quite enough to convince of the accused’s guilt. You walked out of court a free man, no official stain on your character. The words stuck in every detective’s craw:
you nearly got me, but not quite
. Rebus had seen absolute villains swaggering from court after a not proven, with a grin and a wink for the law officers who had racked up hundreds of hours building the case – the case that didn’t quite stack up in the jury’s collective mind.

Better luck next time
, those grins and winks said.

‘Were you at the autopsy?’ Rebus asked.

‘No.’

‘How about Gilmour or Blantyre?’

‘It was a long time ago, John.’ Paterson fell silent, as though thinking. ‘I’m fairly sure it was Frazer Spence. Aye, Frazer drew the short straw that day.’

Liar
, thought Rebus.
Why do that?
Professor Cuttle had already supplied the names – Gilmour and Blantyre – names Paterson was choosing to ignore.

‘I still don’t see where Kennedy fits into anything, though,’ Paterson was now saying.

‘I don’t think he does.’
Here, have one of mine – fair exchange is no robbery.

Rebus ended the call and finished his cigarette, flicking it from the car window. He stared up towards the top floor of the building across from him, then got out, marched to its front door, and pressed the bell marked TRAYNOR/BELL.

‘Hello?’

He recognised the voice, and leaned in towards the intercom. ‘It’s Detective Sergeant Rebus,’ he announced.

‘Jessica doesn’t want to see you.’

‘It’s not her I’m here to talk to, Alice – it’s you.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘If Jessica’s up there, probably best if you come down here.’

‘Why? What have I done?’

‘Does she know about you and our dear-departed Justice Minister? Come to that, does Forbes know you were seeing his old man?’

‘You bastard,’ she said. ‘Just go away and leave us alone.’

‘Can’t do that, Alice. Not until I get a few answers.’

‘Just – sod – off!’ A click told him the intercom had died. He stood up straight, waited a few seconds, then retreated to his car, making himself comfortable behind the steering wheel. He was about to occupy himself with a fresh cigarette when Alice Bell yanked open the door to her building, stepped out and looked up and down the street. She was fretting, hands clasped. When she saw the Saab, her eyes narrowed, her lips forming a thin determined line. Rebus gestured for her to come join him, and she did, opening the passenger-side door and getting in, slamming the door closed after her.

‘You’re vile,’ she said.

‘When the investigation team called you, you told them Forbes’s dad was showing you around the Scottish Parliament. As far as I know, they’ve accepted that story.’ He paused. ‘I wasn’t so sure, and you sitting here seals it for me.’ Another pause. ‘So do you want to tell me?’

‘Tell you what?’

Rebus leaned back against the headrest, face half turned towards hers. ‘So far they’ve only been looking at Pat McCuskey’s most recent phone records. I can go back a bit further and work out when it started . . .’

‘Three months,’ she eventually said. ‘Three and a half.’

‘How did the two of you meet?’

‘Forbes took Jessica and me to the house. His parents were there. When I said I was interested in Alison Watt, Pat told me there was a painting by her hanging in the Parliament building.’ It was Alice Bell’s turn to pause. ‘That was the start, I suppose.’

‘Forbes and Jessica . . . ?’

‘Don’t know anything about it.’

‘How often did you meet, you and him?’

‘Eight times.’ She sounded almost proud that she could be so specific.

‘At his house?’

She shook her head. ‘Never there.’

‘Where, then?’

‘He has a friend with a flat on Holyrood Road. The friend is away in London a lot . . .’ She had begun to blush. ‘I know he’s a lot older than me, and . . . and he’s Forbes’s dad and everything, but . . .’

‘You’re not in the confessional, Alice.’

‘You don’t think . . . ?’

‘That his death had anything to do with you?’ Rebus shook his head. ‘Not unless you want to tell me otherwise.’

‘Then I don’t see . . .’

Rebus twisted his body towards her. ‘I need information, Alice. I need to know what happened the night of the crash. My gut tells me Jessica will have confided in you.’

‘She hasn’t.’

‘I think you’re lying.’

‘I’m not!’

‘Well if that’s how we’re playing this, I might have to share your little secret with a few mutual friends – Jessica and Forbes to start with, then the team investigating Mr McCuskey’s demise . . .’

Her eyes had grown fiery. ‘You
are
vile,’ she said, voice trembling with rage.

‘I prefer the phrase “hard but fair”.’

‘What’s fair about
this
?’

‘Look, I’ll make it easy for you. Forbes was the go-to guy for student drugs. My theory is a deal went bad that night and he totalled the car getting away. Then he kept on running, leaving Jessica in the lurch. Now I ask you: is
that
fair, do you think?’

‘I don’t know what to think.’ She blinked a few times, as though having trouble bringing the immediate world into focus. Then she took a deep breath, composing herself. Rebus bided his time, knowing she was about to offer him something.

‘Forbes gets the stuff from a bar.’

‘In the city centre?’

She shook her head. ‘It’s called the Gimlet. I think it’s in Gorgie or nearby.’

‘Nearby,’ Rebus agreed quietly. ‘Who’s his contact? The owner? A man named Darryl Christie?’

She was still shaking her head. ‘One of the doormen. Deano? A name like that.’

‘Deano,’ Rebus agreed.

‘That’s as much as I know.’

‘No whispered conversations between Forbes and Jessica since the crash? No muffled phone calls when she doesn’t know you’re listening?’

‘Nothing,’ Alice Bell said, her eyes drilling into his.

‘Is she upstairs just now?’

Bell nodded. ‘On the phone to her father – talking about tomorrow’s funeral.’

‘What about it?’

‘Her father wanted to put in an appearance. Jessica’s persuading him otherwise. Apparently he called Forbes and accused him of nearly killing Jess. She’s worried he’d make a scene . . .’ Her look hardened. ‘It was
you
who put the idea in his head.’

‘We both know Forbes was driving that car, Alice.’

She had reached for the door handle, pushing it outwards. ‘You’re hacking your way through a lot of innocent lives, you know. And I sense you get a kick out of it, too.’ She was on the pavement now. He watched her cross the street and enter her building. Once she was inside, he noticed she had left the passenger-side door wide open. No way he could reach that far. He would have to get out and walk around to close it. As payback went, it was petty but effective.

Rebus couldn’t help but admire her for it.

‘You Deano?’

‘Who’s asking?’

It was eight p.m. and music was blaring from within the Gimlet. A chalkboard outside announced that it was 80s Night. The bouncer on the door wore a long black woollen coat and a black polo neck. His hands were in his coat pockets and his feet were splayed.

‘Detective Sergeant Rebus,’ Rebus said, flipping open his warrant card. ‘Is your boss indoors?’

‘Not tonight.’

‘Any idea where I can catch him?’

‘No.’

Rebus pretended to be stymied, even going so far as to scratch his head.

‘Looks like you’re out of luck,’ the bouncer stated. ‘Not me, Deano,’ Rebus replied. ‘
You
.’

The man was a couple of inches taller than Rebus and carried a similar amount of heft, the difference being one of muscle tone. One look at Deano’s neck told Rebus he was a gym regular. Nicks to both eyebrows meant he had probably boxed at one time, or still did. The small, wary eyes met Rebus’s.

‘How’s that then?’ he asked.

‘I was going to talk to Darryl in person, but I suppose a phone call will have to do. We go way back, me and your boss. Thought it only fair to warn him . . .’

A couple of regulars were arriving, men only a few years younger than Rebus.

‘All right, Deano?’ one of them said.

Deano nodded, taking a step to the side so they could get past. As the door opened, Rebus caught a blast of Duran Duran. Someone was singing along, though the band wouldn’t have thanked them for it. The door closed again and Deano resumed his staring match with Rebus.

‘Warn him of what?’ he asked.

‘Someone’s using the Gimlet for drug deals. Like I say, I know Darryl and he’s not that stupid. I’m not saying he wouldn’t get involved, but I doubt he’d let it happen anywhere that could connect so sharply to him.’ Rebus paused. ‘See what I’m saying?’

The bouncer was trying not to show it in his face, but he couldn’t help balling his fists and shifting his feet. Little tics that told Rebus the man was unnerved.

‘Darryl’s going to want to know,’ Rebus pressed on. ‘It’s happening right
here
without his say-so. That means you’re not doing your job. In fact, story is, the one doing the dealing might be an employee. Darryl’s going to want to know one of his own is in danger of bringing the Drug Squad down on him. Who knows what they’ll turn up once they start looking?’

‘I haven’t a clue what you’re talking about.’

‘Then there’s no problem.’ Rebus took the liberty of stretching out a hand and patting the bouncer’s shoulder. ‘I’ll just call Darryl and give him the story.’

‘Could be a punter,’ Deano blurted out.

‘What’s that?’

‘Selling the dope – could be one of the punters.’

Rebus shook his head and tried for a soulful look. ‘What I’ve heard is it’s someone closer to home. Someone very like yourself . . .’ He had lifted his phone to his face, making show of scrolling down the names in his contact list. ‘Here we are,’ he said, pressing the phone to his ear.

‘Hang on a minute,’ Deano said.

‘What?’

‘Just put the phone down.’

Rebus did so, and waited while the cogs turned inside the bouncer’s head.

‘If you’re so sure it’s me, why piss around? Why let me know you know?’

‘Because Darryl never needs to find out. You help me, I help you.’

‘I’m nobody’s snitch.’

‘Don’t fret – it’s not your boss’s secrets I’m interested in.’

‘What then?’

‘You sell to a young guy called Forbes McCuskey.’

‘Do I? Who says?’

‘I don’t have time for this, Deano.’ Rebus lifted the phone again. The bouncer gripped him by the wrist.

‘Okay, okay,’ he said, looking up and down the street. ‘I know who Forbes McCuskey is.’

‘Now we’re getting somewhere. You heard about the car crash?’

Deano looked genuinely puzzled. ‘He was in a crash?’

‘His girlfriend was with him at the time. Out Kirkliston way, other side of the airport.’

‘And what does that have to do with me?’

‘You didn’t happen to be in the vicinity?’

Deano shook his head.

‘So how does it work when Forbes buys from you?’

‘He parks across the road there.’ The bouncer nodded towards the spot where Rebus’s Saab sat. ‘Winds the window down. I go over, he tells me what he needs and I give him a price.’

‘Bit of a mark-up, him being a posh student and all?’

‘I play fair.’ The man actually sounded aggrieved by the accusation.

‘You know he’s the Justice Minister’s son?’ Rebus watched Deano nod. ‘Never tempted to use that?’

‘I didn’t find out until his dad died. Saw his photo on the front of the paper.’

‘You sure that was the first of you twigging? Only, a few papers might pay good money for the story.’

‘Hard to give them a story without being put in the frame myself.’