by Ian Rankin
‘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 everybody, 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 th
e 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.’
‘The son of the Justice Minister?’
‘Delicious, isn’t it? I heard it from two normally reliable sources. Even set up a bit of a surveillance – had a photographer with me and everything. Never caught him, though.’
‘So we’re talking unsubstantiated rumours?’ Clarke, while sounding sceptical, still had a question. ‘Where’s he getting it?’
Smith offered a shrug. ‘Not sure it originates in Edinburgh – do your lot know of any dealers who could be sending stuff down the chain?’
‘I’ll look into it.’
‘A note of caution – this is a son grieving for his father, remember.’
‘Meaning there’s nothing you can do with it?’
Smith shook her head. ‘Would I be trading it otherwise?’ she asked, with that same sweet, professional smile.
Rebus was asleep in his chair when his phone woke him. He didn’t recognise the number, but answered anyway, massaging his eyes back into focus with his free hand.
‘John Rebus,’ he said.
‘You’ve got to stop hassling my dad!’
‘Jessica?’ Rebus walked over to the record deck and lifted the stylus from the run-out groove. Side two of Beggars Banquet – how had he managed to sleep through so much of that? ‘I didn’t know you had my number.’
‘You gave Forbes your card.’
‘So I did.’
‘Now listen to me – just leave him alone!’
‘Forbes or your dad?’
‘Dad’s not done anything – he doesn’t deserve this . . .’ She seemed to be trying to control a sob.
‘Has he taken it out on you, Jessica?’ Rebus asked.
‘Of course not – but I can see it’s eating him up. They named him on TV, and now people keep phoning him.’
‘You’re still at the hotel?’
‘Checking out tomorrow.’
‘You’ll go back to your flat? What about your father?’
‘He needs to be in London. What he doesn’t need is this hanging over him.’
‘Then tell me what happened,’ Rebus said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘The night of the crash . . .’
There was silence on the line. He thought for a moment she’d hung up. But then came a crackling sound as she exhaled noisily.
‘I can’t,’ she said. ‘They’ll kill me.’
‘Who’ll kill you?’ He gave her time to answer, but none came. ‘You’re Owen Traynor’s daughter – no one’s going to kill you.’
‘I just can’t. Don’t ask me again.’
‘You can expect to see me at your door tomorrow. Does it involve Forbes? Or maybe his father?’
But this time she really had ended the call. Rebus rang back, but her messaging service picked up. He added her number to the contacts list on his phone, then patted the phone against his cheek as he went back over the conversation.
They’ll kill me.
Who the hell were they?
No mention of Forbes McCuskey, just this plural threat. Did Owen Traynor know or suspect? If someone were menacing his daughter, what would he do? Would the red mist descend? Did he have friends he could call on?
Expect to see me at your door . . .
His mind flashed to the doorway of Dod Blantyre’s bungalow, and Maggie standing there, looking radiant. Her words to him at the café: How things might have turned out – if we’d been a little braver. And Stefan Gilmour: No skeletons in your cupboard, John?
&nbs
p; We start lying and cheating and concealing . . .
His brain felt foggy: too many connections, too much loose, frayed wiring.
He made himself a mug of tea, stuck Solid Air on the turntable, and slumped back in his chair, ready for a long night’s thinking.
Day Seven
13
‘This Laura Smith, she wouldn’t be spinning you a line?’ Rebus was seated in a café on Morrison Street, halfway between Torphichen Place and Haymarket railway station. It was an area of town he tried to avoid – the tram works seemed to have shut half the roads. He’d found the last space in an overground car park off the West Approach Road and walked from there to the café.
Mid morning and the place was doling out coffee and buns to visitors fresh off the train. There were no tables as such, just a long shelf by the window and a row of tall narrow stools. Siobhan Clarke was perched on one, while Rebus opted to stand. He had removed the lid from his coffee and was blowing on it while Clarke plucked gobbets of damp pastry from her croissant and popped them into her mouth.
‘Could be,’ she conceded. ‘But why would she bother?’
‘And all she knows is Forbes McCuskey flogs drugs to his fellow students? We don’t know quantities or whether we’re talking weed or heroin?’
Clarke shook her head. ‘I’m wondering what to do with it,’ she said eventually.
‘You mean: is it worth taking to Nick Ralph in its current doodle-like state, or should you try to add a few recognisable features?’
‘Something like that.’ She checked the time on her phone.
‘Press conference?’
She nodded. ‘Hotel along the street in twenty minutes.’
‘Autopsy results?’
‘I don’t think we’re seeing those until later.’ She looked at him. ‘Rough night?’
‘Not particularly.’
‘Get to bed at all?’
‘In time for the dawn chorus.’ He told her about Jessica Traynor’s phone call.
‘A drug deal gone wrong?’ Clarke speculated, seeming to wake up a little. Her drink of choice – a three-shot espresso – was already finished, and one of her knees was bouncing.