Saints of the Shadow Bible (Rebus) (18 page)

‘Enlighten me.’

‘My daughter, Stefan. Her car went off the road and the cops seem to think her boyfriend was behind the wheel. Next thing, his dad’s attacked in his home and they pull me in.’

‘The dad in question being Pat McCuskey?’

‘I just need someone who can keep me in the picture.’

‘Best guy I can think of is called John Rebus.’

‘Anyone but that bastard!’ Traynor snarled.

‘You’ve met him, then?’

‘Enough to know I want to smack his face. So can you help me out?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘You were a prick back in the day, Stefan, and you’re
still
being a prick.’

‘I suppose I can ask around, maybe pull some strings.’

‘Try not to sound too thrilled about it. And call me when you get news.’

The phone went dead and Gilmour stared at it. ‘Don’t bother thanking me,’ he scolded it. He could hear his visitor putting on some music in the living room. Instead of joining her, he locked the bathroom door and settled himself on the toilet pan, head in hands, wondering what to do about Billy Saunders.

When Rebus’s phone rang that evening, he knew who it would be. He could still feel the steak pie like a solid weight in his stomach, so had decided on a liquid dinner of a couple of bottles of IPA. He was starting the second of them as he answered.

‘I want to apologise,’ Stefan Gilmour said.

‘For what?’

‘It isn’t what you think, John.’

‘Does she qualify as one of those WAGs I read about in the redtops?’

‘She’s got a knack for getting herself on guest lists.’

‘Your secret’s safe with me.’

There was silence on the line.

‘I mean it,’ Rebus said. ‘On the other hand, I can’t vouch for Fox.’

He listened as Gilmour drew in breath through his teeth. ‘I need to know whose side you’re on, John.’

‘Aye, it seems to be a popular question these days.’

‘I can’t believe you’d want a piece of pond life like Fox cutting me off at the knees.’ Statement rather than question.

‘A bit of trust might help,’ Rebus retorted. ‘So how about you telling me what sort of hold Saunders had over you? See, my guess is
that’s
why you were phoning him – maybe to tell him it was no longer relevant, or that
you
had something on
him
.’

‘There was never any “hold”, John.’

‘I think you’re lying.’

‘Then there’s not much more to say.’ Gilmour paused. ‘And probably no point me asking you to intercede with your new friend Fox?’

‘You mean ask him to forget about the WAG?’

‘It would be worth a case or two of malt – you still like a whisky now and then, don’t you?’

‘You can’t buy
every
body, Stefan. And if you considered me a pal, you wouldn’t even feel the need to try . . .’

‘Fair enough.’ Gilmour sounded beaten. ‘I just think it’s crazy to waste time and money on a case that’s going to go nowhere. And even if it
did
go to trial, all it would do is fluff up Elinor Macari’s feathers. Because this is one big ego trip for her – her way of telling the world she was right to bring in the double jeopardy clause. Nothing to do with justice, John – we’re just the same pawns we always were.’

‘You’re not exactly a pawn these days, Stefan.’

‘But she wants to make me one. Know why? Because of the No campaign. She’s an SNP appointment and a lifelong supporter. And suddenly she has the chance to chuck a couple of darts at the No campaign’s public face.’

‘You, in other words?’

‘Of course!’

‘Have you been asked to comment on Pat McCuskey?’

Gilmour seemed disconcerted by the change of tack. ‘Yes,’ he eventually conceded.

‘You must have sparred with him a bit?’

‘All the time. Lovely guy, though. Once we’d finished the public debate, he was always game for a private drink and a bit of a laugh.’

‘Sounds like you knew him pretty well. The family too?’

‘Family were kept out of it.’ Gilmour paused. ‘I
did
meet Bethany a couple of times.’

‘Have you sent your condolences?’

‘Of course. My point is –
that’s
what the police should be focusing resources on, not the likes of Billy Saunders.’

‘Can you think of a reason why anyone would want to attack Pat McCuskey?’ Rebus asked.

‘It was a housebreaking, wasn’t it?’

‘We’re not a hundred per cent sure.’

Gilmour seemed to think for a moment. ‘You don’t seriously believe Owen Traynor might be in the frame for it, though?’

‘We’re ruling nothing out.’

‘Breaking into a man’s house? Smacking him just for being someone’s dad?’

‘Stranger things have happened. So tell me what you know of Pat McCuskey.’

‘Like I say, he was a nice guy.’

‘No skeletons in his closet?’

‘Not that I can think of.’ Gilmour paused. ‘You planning to mark a cross in that independence box, John? If the Yes campaign gets hold of Susanna . . .’

‘Your penthouse guest?’

‘I’ll know it had to come from you or Fox.’

‘How about the receptionist who sent her up without checking? Is he or she still in a job? Because if you’ve fired them, you’ll have to add them to your little list too. That’s how it is, Stefan, when we start lying and cheating and concealing – it creates a lot of work, and nothing but.’

‘No skeletons in
your
cupboard, John?’ Gilmour managed a sour chuckle. ‘You’d need a space the size of IKEA to store them all.’

The line went dead, Gilmour determined to have the last word. Rebus sucked on his beer and went to turn the vinyl over. Rory Gallagher: ‘Sinner Boy’. He toasted the guitarist and slumped back on his chair to do some thinking. Then he picked up his phone and called Clarke.

‘What?’ she snapped.

‘Bad timing?’

‘I’ll call you back in half an hour.’

The phone went dead again. ‘Doing well tonight, John,’ he said to himself, lifting the bottle to his lips.

Clarke waited for David Galvin to come back from the toilet. It was a bar in the New Town – her choice, her patch. They had been polite at first, Galvin seeking to apologise. But then he’d thrown up his hands and asked what he was apologising
for
: ‘It’s not like I’m the one who called the Complaints!’ After which the arguing had commenced – albeit with voices never raised; that wasn’t the done thing in the New Town.

Pushing the table away from him, so that its edge jabbed her in the midriff, Galvin had then had to answer a call of nature. Or, Clarke reckoned, had gone to gather his thoughts in peace. While he was away, she thought back to the meeting she’d recently come from, held at Bute House on Charlotte Square. Just Nick Ralph and her, plus the First Minister and one of his special advisers. The First Minister had wanted updates – even though he seemed to have been briefed on everything the inquiry knew. He’d demanded ‘swift and decisive action’. He’d worn a tie covered in tiny saltire flags and hadn’t offered them anything to drink. Every thirty seconds or so a staffer would knock and enter, handing slips of paper to the First Minister for him to read. Sometimes he’d nod, and other times he would fold the note into his pocket. Couldn’t be easy, running a country while trying to plan for a future more than half its constituents didn’t yet seem to want.

‘Swift and decisive,’ the First Minister had repeated. ‘Let’s show the world what Scottish policing can do now the new model is in effect.’

‘Not quite in effect,’ Ralph had corrected him, receiving a hard stare for his efforts.

Clarke watched now as Galvin emerged, rubbing his hands together as if to reassure the room that he had remembered to wash them. He walked up to the table and just stood there, shaking his head slowly, as though disappointed in her. Then he exited the bar, never looking back.

‘Prick,’ Clarke said under her breath. She took another slug of wine and called Rebus. ‘Sorry about that,’ she said.

‘Anything I need to know about?’

‘Definitely not.’

‘You sound like you’re in a pub.’

‘Sharp as ever.’

‘Alone?’

‘As of thirty seconds ago.’ She sighed and rubbed at her eyebrows. ‘So what can I do for you, John?’

‘I saw Owen Traynor on the telly – nice work, bringing him in.’

‘Just seemed to make him angry.’

‘Angry is good. Angry means unthinking.’

‘Well we didn’t get anything out of him. How about you?’

‘Billy Saunders has gone AWOL.’

‘Interesting.’

‘Fox thinks maybe Stefan Gilmour slipped him a few quid to make himself scarce.’

‘And?’

‘Stefan denies it.’

‘What about you and Malcolm – not come to blows yet?’

‘We seem to be managing.’ Rebus paused. ‘Can I toss another tiny grenade into your foxhole?’

‘If you must.’

‘Stefan Gilmour knew Pat McCuskey – knew him well, I mean.’

‘Stands to reason.’ It was her turn to pause. ‘You’re not suggesting . . . ?’

‘Of course not. Though it did get me thinking. I know we discounted a political angle from the get-go, but on the other hand, politics in Scotland has never been so ugly. Lots of hotheads out there, and most of them nursing some grievance or other. Your boss doesn’t strike me as the type who’d want to disregard a possible motive . . .’

‘I’ll mention it to him.’ She was still rubbing at her eyebrows.

‘Sure you don’t want my company? I can do witty repartee.’

‘I’m fine, John.’

‘Something to do with your lawyer friend?’

‘I said I’m fine.’

‘Well, if you ever need a shoulder to drink on . . .’

She was smiling tiredly as she ended the call. The wine was finished. She’d had just the one glass and didn’t want any more. It was churning sourly inside her. Five or ten minutes’ walk and she’d be back at her flat. She paid the bill and headed outside. The air was crisp, the night sky clear. She remembered Rebus telling her that he used to drive through the city whenever he couldn’t sleep. Not with any great purpose in mind, just enjoying the feel of the journey. She could do that. Or she could veg out on the sofa with whatever was on TV. A book – when had she last picked up a book? But as she turned the corner into her street, a car door opened.

‘Siobhan?’

Clarke flinched, her eyes darting to left and right. You could never be too careful. But she recognised the owner of the voice, and walked towards the sporty Alfa Romeo.

‘What are you doing here?’ she asked.

‘What do you think?’

The smile accompanying the question was warm but professional. Laura Smith – petite, with short brown hair – was the
Scotsman
newspaper’s chief crime reporter, and also, since recent cutbacks, its
only
crime reporter.

‘Hop in,’ Smith said. And before Clarke could demur, the journalist had ducked back into the car and closed the door. Music was playing from the stereo. The engine, however, was turned off and the interior was losing heat.

‘How long have you been here?’ Clarke asked, sliding into the passenger seat.

‘Maybe half an hour.’

‘You could have been waiting half the night.’

‘Comes with the job.’

‘I’d no idea you had my address.’

When Smith raised an eyebrow, Clarke knew she’d said something stupid. Smith worked the crime beat – she was obviously equipped with the resources.

‘You want to ask me about the McCuskey case,’ Clarke guessed.

‘You brought Owen Traynor in.’

‘Can’t fault your powers of observation.’

‘He’s a man with a past.’

‘He is indeed.’ Clarke watched as Smith drummed her fingers against the steering wheel in time to the music. She didn’t recognise the tune, would have classed it as ‘disco’ if such a thing still existed.

‘And he has a daughter called Jessica,’ Smith went on, ‘who wrote off her VW Golf only a few days back. Nice straight stretch of road and somehow she loses control.’

‘Again, you’re scarily well informed.’

‘No need to be sarky.’ Smith switched off the music and twisted her body towards Clarke. ‘Jessica’s boyfriend is Forbes McCuskey, whose father then ends up dead after a break-in at the family home.’ She paused. ‘And you bring in Owen Traynor for questioning. Let me guess what his motive might have been . . .’

‘We were just checking a few details, Laura.’

‘I’m sure you were. How did it go with the First Minister, by the way?’ Pleased with the look of surprise on Clarke’s face, Smith smiled again. ‘I have spies everywhere,’ she explained.

‘He wants us to find whoever did it.’

‘Understandable. Meantime, he has to find a new face to front the Yes campaign without looking callous. Is Rebus keeping his nose clean?’

‘I’m not his mother.’

‘How has he managed to wangle his way into the Saunders inquiry?’

Clarke gave Smith a glower. ‘You’re in danger of coming across as smug, Laura.’

‘Just well informed, as you say,’ Smith corrected her. ‘You know Stefan Gilmour left the force because of Saunders? And now he helms the good ship No . . .’

‘Are you going to print any of this?’

Smith looked thoughtful. ‘A few hard facts wouldn’t go amiss. Way things are, post-Leveson, the lawyers will redact anything that can’t be corroborated.’

‘I’m too close to the inquiry,’ Clarke said, shaking her head. ‘Fingers would point straight at me . . .’

‘You know I can make sure that doesn’t happen – it’s all in the phrasing.’

‘Right now, I’m not sure I know much more than you do,’ Clarke argued.

‘But there’ll come a point when you do. The paper’s constantly updated online – if I’m even ten minutes ahead of the pack, it means I publish first.’

Clarke was shaking her head again. Smith stuck out her bottom lip in a show of mock unhappiness.

‘I’ve not come to the table empty-handed,’ she announced. ‘Might be something or nothing, but as a show of good faith . . .’

‘What?’ Clarke asked.

‘And you won’t just go away and forget about me?’

‘Spit it out.’

Smith paused for a few moments, then took a deep breath. ‘Word is,’ she said, ‘Forbes McCuskey’s the go-to guy if you want a better class of illegal substance. Posh student parties in all those flats bought by mumsy and dadsy.’