Saints of the Shadow Bible (Rebus) (24 page)

‘What is it?’

But Cuttle shook his head. ‘The man had been drinking heavily. Fumes from his stomach had us reeling.’ He broke off again, lost in thought. ‘He’d been a housebreaker, hadn’t he? With violence – “hamesucken”, as the law has it. DI Gilmour was glad to see the back of him . . .’

Rebus’s phone was vibrating. He took it out and checked caller ID: DCI James Page. Doubtless wondering why Rebus had failed to turn up for work. Rebus put the phone away again.

‘That man Fox,’ Cuttle was saying, ‘the one who was with you the other day . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘He’s investigating Summerhall?’

‘He is.’

‘Specifically the death of Douglas Merchant at the hands of William Saunders?’ Cuttle watched Rebus nod. ‘So why
your
interest in Philip Kennedy? You wouldn’t be trying to wrong-foot him?’

‘Not at all.’

‘Because Saunders has turned up dead, hasn’t he? Hard not to see a connection.’

Rebus glared at the old man. ‘Would your report of the Kennedy autopsy be held somewhere?’

‘Professor Donner wrote it up, not me. And to answer your question, it’s very doubtful. Accidental death – not likely to be of interest to posterity.’

‘Then I’m wasting my time, aren’t I?’ Rebus rose to his feet.

‘Glad I could be of help in that, Detective Inspector Rebus.’

‘Detective Sergeant, actually.’

‘Same rank as 1987?’ Cuttle asked with a cold smile. The question sliced into Rebus like a scalpel.

Stefan Gilmour had been brought from Glasgow to Wester Hailes police station in a patrol car. He’d looked furious as he was led into the building, past the stunned journalists and trigger-happy photographers.

‘The Yes campaign will have a field day with this,’ he had complained to anyone who would listen, including, eventually, Siobhan Clarke and Malcolm Fox. All three sat in a makeshift interview room, with recording equipment standing by. They were awaiting the arrival of Gilmour’s expensive lawyer.

‘You’re not being cautioned or anything,’ Clarke had sought to reassure him.

‘Nevertheless,’ Gilmour had replied. He kept casting looks towards Malcolm Fox, as if wondering how much Fox might have told Clarke about the meeting in Glasgow.

The solicitor, when he arrived, introduced himself as Alasdair Traquair and apologised for his ‘tardiness’, before handing an embossed business card to both Clarke and Fox. The cards smelled of sandalwood aftershave.

‘Bit of a circus out there,’ he commented. ‘Not particularly helpful – and such a charming part of town . . .’

Traquair rested a black leatherbound notebook on the table and opened it, unscrewing the top from a fountain pen before checking his watch and marking the time.

‘Let’s make a start, shall we?’ he suggested.

‘Your client,’ Clarke obliged, ‘has already been questioned – in a more informal manner – concerning the disappearance of a former acquaintance called William Saunders. Mr Saunders has since turned up dead, so we thought it would make sense to have an official record of events.’

‘As I understand it, Detective Inspector,’ Traquair drawled, ‘there
are
no events – merely a single, abbreviated phone call from Mr Gilmour to the deceased.’

‘Is that correct, Mr Gilmour?’ Clarke asked. Gilmour glanced towards the solicitor before answering.

‘It is,’ he said.

‘You had William Saunders’s number?’

‘Hard to make the call otherwise.’

‘How did you happen to have it? I was under the impression the two of you had lost touch . . .’

Another glance towards the lawyer, who merely indicated with a twitch of the mouth that Gilmour could answer if he wished.

‘It wasn’t hard,’ Gilmour conceded. ‘There’s a company I use.’ He leaned forward in his seat, as if to take them into his confidence. ‘In business, sometimes it helps to have an edge over whoever you happen to be dealing with.’

‘And this company helps with that?’

Gilmour nodded. ‘They’re private investigators. Give them a name, a car licence plate or a business address and it’s quite gobsmacking what they can dig up.’

‘What did they “dig up” on William Saunders?’

‘All I wanted was a phone number.’

‘Did they know why?’

Gilmour shook his head. ‘Look, it’s all pretty straightforward.’ He rested his elbows on the table, so that the lawyer had to move the notebook a little. ‘I’d heard that the Solicitor General was hoping to reopen an old case, one that involved both Billy Saunders and the CID unit I happened to run at the time. The mishandling of that investigation had led me to resign from the force. Stands to reason the Yes campaign would want to tar me – don’t think they’ve not got people of their own trying to dig up dirt on me.’ Another glance in Fox’s direction, accompanied by the licking of dry lips. ‘We all know the Solicitor General’s leanings, and her camp know they’re way behind in the polls . . .’

‘You’re saying this is all politically motivated?’

‘Why else would it be coming up now?’

‘Because the double jeopardy law has changed.’

‘And you don’t think the timing of
that
is pretty convenient? Macari rushed that legislation through specifically so she could have a go at me – a blind man could see it!’ Gilmour sat back in his chair so violently that it creaked a complaint.

‘Did you bring any of this up with William Saunders?’ Clarke asked.

Gilmour ran a hand through his hair and shook his head. ‘I just asked him what he was going to say to Macari’s inquiry.’

‘And?’

‘And nothing – he ended the call right there.’

‘You didn’t threaten him?’

‘Absolutely not.’

‘Or offer an inducement of any kind?’

‘Don’t answer that,’ the lawyer drawled. Traquair stopped writing and beamed a professional smile across the table. ‘My client has told you the extent of his conversation with William Saunders. He has cooperated fully with you. I don’t see that this dialogue need continue any further.’

‘Did you meet him, Mr Gilmour?’ Clarke was asking.

‘Really, DI Clarke, I must insist . . .’ Traquair had placed a hand on his client’s forearm, as if to warn him against answering.

‘I want the name of that firm of investigators,’ Clarke went on. ‘I want to hear from them that all you got was a phone number.’

‘Any objection?’ Traquair asked Gilmour.

‘No,’ Gilmour said, staring hard at Clarke. Then: ‘Will John Rebus merit the same treatment? Dragged here in a squad car, with the media primed and ready? How about Blantyre and Paterson? Or am I the only one that’ll help you get your face on TV, DI Clarke?’

‘We’ll need contact details for those snoopers,’ Clarke said to the lawyer, as she rose to her feet. ‘And they’ll need to be told they can speak to us – no “client privilege” smokescreen.’

‘Understood,’ Traquair said, closing his notebook and beginning to screw the top back on his fat black pen.

‘This firm of investigators,’ Fox interrupted. ‘Ever used them to dig dirt on the Yes campaign?’

Gilmour just glowered, as did his lawyer.

Before leaving, Gilmour slapped his fist against the interview room door. It was only afterwards that Clarke realised what he’d done. She pointed out the sticker to Fox. BETTER TOGETHER, it read. VOTE NO.

‘The man has a sense of humour,’ Fox said, peeling it off with a fingernail. ‘I wonder how big a bill he’s just run up with that lawyer of his.’

‘Whatever it is, it won’t be funny. And by the way, that parting shot of yours?’

‘Yes?’

‘Worthy of Rebus himself.’

‘Is that a good thing, do you think?’

They returned to the office and watched as a taxi drew up, lawyer and client fighting their way through the melee and the questions before clambering into the back. One particularly stubborn photographer ran down the road after the cab, firing off a few more shots through its rear window.

‘Those private investigators will only give us whatever story Gilmour tells them to,’ Fox cautioned.

Clarke nodded her agreement. ‘Do you think we let him off too lightly?’ she asked.

‘No,’ Fox reassured her. ‘But is he right about the others – will they merit the same attention?’

‘None of them spoke to Billy Saunders,’ Clarke stated.

‘Not on his phone, at any rate,’ Fox added by way of qualification. ‘But whoever met him on the canal path that night, they didn’t just stumble upon him. It was an arrangement.’

‘Arranged how?’

‘I suppose a few of the public phone boxes in the city still work.’

‘Needle-in-a-haystack stuff,’ Clarke said.

‘Needle in a haystack,’ Fox agreed.

An hour later, the team crammed into the office so Clarke could inform them of the initial findings regarding the firearm found in the canal. She was reading from a printed e-mail, sent from the ballistics unit in Glasgow. A rush job had been ordered, so the report was not comprehensive. But it did include the crucial information that the bullet removed from Billy Saunders’s spine had been fired from the gun.

‘The gun itself,’ Clarke intoned, ‘is a Browning L9A1 nine-millimetre pistol, probably dating back to the early 1980s. Standard British Army issue from the 1950s until just recently. Apparently a lot of them went walkies after the Falklands War. The serial number has been filed off, and no usable prints have been found on the grip or barrel. Three bullets remain in the clip and again these seem to date back a few decades. The gun hasn’t been kept in the best condition, and probably hadn’t been used in quite some time. Accurate only at short range.’ Clarke looked up from the sheet and realised Fox had ducked out of the room at some point. The other members of the team were jotting notes to themselves or frowning in a show of concentration.

‘Thoughts, please,’ she said, scanning the faces in front of her.

‘We need to trace the gun back . . .’

‘Someone must know where it came from . . .’

‘Worth contacting army bases in the city . . . ?’

‘Do we know who the underworld would go to if they needed firearms . . . ?’

‘Are we treating the shooting as an assassination? If it was a pro, they could be ex-army themselves . . .’

‘Except a pro wouldn’t just chuck the weapon, would they? They’d break it up, dispose of it in bits and pieces . . .’

‘Could the gun have belonged to the victim . . . ?’

‘Any further tests we could run . . . ?’

After listening, arms folded, for a few minutes, Clarke broke the meeting up, handing out fresh chores to those who needed them. Then she went in search of Fox, and found him in an adjoining room, going through boxes of folders.

‘What’s all this?’ she asked.

‘The Summerhall files,’ he explained. ‘They arrived this morning with the Solicitor General’s blessing.’

‘And?’

‘And this.’ He had found what he was looking for. He placed the relevant documents on the nearest desk. ‘It was when you mentioned the Falklands.’

Clarke peered at the report. It was dated October 1982 and concerned an army veteran who had been making too much noise late at night in his council flat. Neighbours had complained and – not for the first time – police officers had arrived to deal with the disturbance. The officers had found a small amount of cannabis and, lying on the coffee table in full view, a Browning pistol.

Clarke stopped and looked at Fox. Fox nodded and gestured for her to read on. The ex-soldier’s name was Laurie Martin. He was eventually charged with possession of drugs, but let off with a caution and the advice that he should enter a course of counselling.

‘Don’t suppose anyone had heard of post-traumatic stress back then,’ Fox commented.

‘Am I missing something?’ Clarke had turned the sheet over, but it was blank. ‘The gun didn’t make it on to the charge sheet.’

‘No,’ Fox said.

‘How come?’

He offered only a shrug. ‘Coincidence?’ he suggested.

‘You obviously don’t think so. A pistol – same make and probable vintage as the one used to kill Billy Saunders . . .’ She was shaking her head slowly.

‘Should we bring Stefan Gilmour back in?’

‘What’s the point? I don’t see his name here.’ Clarke scanned the report again. ‘This is all there is? No record of the weapon going into an evidence locker? No mention of it in the courtroom?’

‘I could try doing a bit more digging – courts will have their own records . . .’

‘Sounds like another haystack to me.’ She had taken out her phone and was finding a number on it.

‘Let me guess,’ Malcolm Fox said.

Rebus was seated in his car on Great King Street when he got the call.

‘Hiya, Siobhan,’ he said.

‘Where are you?’

‘The car park at Gayfield Square,’ he lied. ‘Trying to work up the energy for an hour or two of DCI Page’s company.’

‘Have you heard we found the weapon?’

‘The one used on Billy Saunders? Yes, congratulations and all that . . .’

‘It’s a Browning pistol, probably brought home from the Falklands War. Ring any bells?’

‘Should it?’

‘Serial number has been removed at some point too, if that helps jog the memory.’

‘I’m not sure I . . .’

‘Laurie Martin, John. Ex-army and failing to fit back into Civvy Street. He was brought to Summerhall by two patrol officers after a disturbance.’

‘Hang on, when was this?’

‘October ’82.’

‘I didn’t start at Summerhall until November.’

‘Laurie Martin’s name means nothing to you?’

‘No.’

‘He was being disruptive, so officers went to his door. He let them in and they found the pistol sitting in his living room.’

‘So?’

‘At some point in the story, the gun stops being a character. Doesn’t even look as though it was marked as evidence.’

‘Bit of a stretch to say the same gun was used on Saunders.’

‘And this is all coming as news to you?’

‘Scout’s honour.’

‘Is it worth me bringing it up with any of the others?’

‘The Saints, you mean?’

‘We had Gilmour in here earlier.’

‘Oh aye?’

‘He’s sticking to his version of events.’

‘That’s his privilege, I suppose.’

‘John . . .’

‘I’m not the enemy here, Siobhan. Whatever happens, bear that in mind.’