by Ian Rankin
‘What?’
‘Different security baboon from today.’
‘That’s why you thought you might need heft?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m almost flattered. Why didn’t you report it?’
‘Some things you keep to yourself.’
‘Like being bested in a fight?’
‘Did I say I was bested? You should see the other guy. Maybe that’s why he’s off work this morning.’
‘I’ll take your word for that.’
As they headed for the exit, Fox asked if it was worth questioning the new guard. Rebus shook his head. As he slotted his credit card into the pay machine, he shared his thinking about the night of the crash.
‘When Jessica and Forbes took a crowbar to that Ford Escort, CCTV was watching. Guard would have come running, but by then they’d seen enough to be freaked out . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘Still, there’s one exit and it only takes cards. Forbes was driving, so he’d be paying, too.’
‘Meaning they’d have his details . . . leading them straight to Patrick McCuskey?’
‘No sign of young Forbes, so they gave his room a going-over to let him know the score.’
‘And the attack on his father?’
Rebus grew thoughtful, then offered a shrug.
They pulled into a service station for petrol. In the shop, Rebus bought a fresh packet of cigarettes, Fox a bottle of water.
‘Biggest rip-off going,’ Rebus counselled as Fox tipped the bottle to his mouth.
‘I was about to say the same.’ Fox gestured towards the twenty Silk Cut.
They were on their way back to the Saab when Fox asked: ‘These cars, would they be daft enough just to dump them like they did with Redpath’s Ford?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Only, it ended up going for scrap . . .’
Rebus stopped with one hand on the driver’s-side door handle. ‘You think they might have . . . ?’ Rather than finish the question, he got into the car and called the scrapyard in Broxburn. He was expecting to hear Eddie Duke’s voice, but it was Reece Bairstow who answered.
‘It’s DS Rebus,’ Rebus told him. ‘I’m after a favour.’
‘Aren’t you always?’
‘Any time you want to explain that crowbar to my colleagues, Reece . . .’
There was a sigh on the line. ‘So what’s the favour?’
‘Scrapyards within easy distance of Livingston.’
‘Apart from us, you mean?’
‘Yes.’
‘There aren’t any.’
‘None at all?’
‘Only players in town. So can I get back to work now?’
‘Soon as you answer one last question.’
‘Which is?’
Rebus took a deep breath. ‘Two cars, one a Citroën with an expired tax disc, the other a medium-sized saloon with red paintwork . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘You wouldn’t have seen them, by any chance?’
‘They came in last night.’
Rebus blinked a couple of times. ‘Tell me they’ve not made it into the compactor yet.’
‘I was just about to get started. But something tells me you’re not going to want that to happen.’
‘Correct,’ Rebus said. ‘We’ll be there in twenty minutes. Nobody touches them until then – understood?’
‘Getting to be a familiar refrain,’ Bairstow was muttering as Rebus ended the call. He stared at Fox.
‘I owe you a large drink,’ he said.
‘Got one, thanks,’ Fox replied, shaking the bottle of water.
Eddie Duke had taken Boris the guard dog to a vet’s appointment.
‘Nothing trivial, I hope,’ Rebus said.
As Bairstow explained it, the cars had arrived around closing time. One – a red Renault – was cleaner than the other. The drivers of the two vehicles weren’t the ones in charge, however.
‘There was another car – the one they all drove off in afterwards. Guy behind the wheel was the one who did the talking and handed over the cash.’
‘What did he look like?’ Rebus asked.
‘Maybe six feet, well built, short black hair with sort of a widow’s peak.’
Rebus had only seen photos of Rory Bell, but that was just how he would have described him.
‘No name?’ he enquired.
‘Not that I heard.’
‘What was he driving?’
‘New-looking BMW X5. Black bodywork and tinted windows.’
‘You didn’t happen to get the licence number?’
Bairstow shook his head. ‘Wasn’t personalised or anything.’
They were standing in front of the cars. Rebus recognised the Citroën – the line was still there where he had dragged a finger across its bodywork. The dust sheet that had been covering the Renault was visible through its rear window.
‘What about the other drivers?’
Rebus listened to Bairstow’s description. One was almost certainly the guard from the multi-storey, the one who had left Rebus with a bruise the size of a tea plate.
‘They left the keys?’
Bairstow dug in his overalls and held them up.
‘Have you taken a look yet?’
The man shook his head.
‘Sure about that?’
‘Completely.’
‘Then let’s get both boots open and see what we’ve got.’
They unlocked the Citroën first. Rebus could smell some sort of oil. There were strips of cloth inside and he lifted one to his nose.
‘What do you think?’ Fox asked.
‘Been wrapped around something. Maybe guns.’
‘Guns?’ The blood drained from the mechanic’s face.
Rebus lifted the carpeting but found nothing except a spare tyre. Fox meantime had opened one of the rear doors and was feeling around beneath the seats.
‘Got any plastic bags?’ he asked.
‘In the office,’ Bairstow said.
‘Go fetch some.’
When the mechanic had moved off, Fox told Rebus they really needed a forensics team.
‘Agreed. You finding anything?’
‘I’ll show you in a minute.’
Rebus opened the driver’s door and reached across to open the glove box. Nothing inside but a spare set of bulbs. The floor was clean and the door pockets were empty. Bairstow had returned with some small clear bags, the kind bank staff used when counting coins. Fox placed his hand into one of them and used it to pick something up from the floor, folding the bag back over the item, trapping it. Then he held it up for Rebus to examine. An unused shotgun cartridge.
‘Boom,’ Rebus said, patting his colleague on the back. He took the second key from Bairstow and unlocked the Renault. Again, there was nothing obvious in the boot, other than the remains of some fine white powder.
‘Looks like a bag maybe burst,’ Rebus commented.
‘Or someone needed a taste,’ Fox added.
Rebus dabbed at a little and rubbed it against his gum. ‘Bit of a burn,’ he said.
Bairstow’s eyes widened further. ‘I didn’t . . . If I’d known . . . They’ll kill me, won’t they?’ He was beginning to twitch.
‘Your name won’t even feature, Reese – don’t worry.’ Rebus took out his phone. The signal was weak, but he got through to Torphichen and asked to speak to Nick Ralph. ‘And I know you probably hear it all the time, but this really is urgent.’
When Ralph was eventually found, Rebus laid everything out for him. ‘Bell is in a black BMW X5 with tinted windows. We need to grab that car. There’s a good chance it’ll have some goodies in the boot. Plus a few baddies in the front.’
Rebus watched Fox roll his eyes at the pun. He mouthed the words Get used to it and added a wink. Then, to Ralph: ‘We also need a search warrant for the multi-storey in Livingston. Has to be right away, because there’s some CCTV footage there we can use, if we get it before it self-erases. It’ll p
robably show the stuff being transferred from the two cars to the BMW.’
‘I’ll see to it, John,’ Ralph said. ‘And a forensic team to the scrapyard, yes?’
‘Absolutely. Checking for prints and trace evidence.’
‘And you’re sure you’ve cleared this with DCI Page?’
‘He agrees with me, sir – it’s all the one case.’
‘Then I’ll get on to it. Thank you, John.’
‘Yes, sir. Oh, by the way – have you pulled the three students in for interview.’
‘They were supposed to be here at nine. Tried their phones and sent an officer to Ms Traynor’s flat – no joy.’
‘Keeping their heads down.’
‘Pretty much as you predicted. Any more tasks for me before I get started with this lot?’
‘No, sir.’ Rebus ended the call and tapped his phone against his chin.
‘Job done?’ Fox asked him.
‘Not quite,’ Rebus decided. ‘But it’s up to you whether you want to see it through. Could get messy.’
‘I can always clean up after,’ Fox told him with a shrug.
‘Getting to like CID, Detective Inspector?’
‘It has its attractions,’ Malcolm Fox conceded.
Every parking space on Great King Street was taken, so Rebus ended up on the single yellow again. He had explained to Fox that they were going to have a word with Owen Traynor. If he wasn’t there, hopefully Jessica or Alice Bell could provide his whereabouts.
‘Alice knew about the body in the boot?’ Fox asked.
Rebus nodded. ‘Her uncle’s way of letting her know he was taking care of her.’
‘Not quite a birthday card with a tenner in it.’
‘Not quite,’ Rebus agreed.
Rebus pressed the bell but there was no answer. He was trying a second time when Fox tugged on his sleeve. ‘Isn’t that . . . ?’
He was pointing along the street, towards a black 4x4. Rebus led the way, walking around the car. Tinted windows. BMW X5. No parking fee had been paid and the wardens had already stuck a ticket on the windscreen.
‘Shall I phone it in?’ Fox asked.
Rebus nodded, then tried the boot, though he knew it would be locked. Pressing his nose to the glass, he couldn’t see anything on the back seat. No boxes or bags.
‘Someone should stand guard till the cavalry gets here,’ he said, once Fox had ended the call.
‘And let you go upstairs on your own?’ Fox was shaking his head. ‘If Rory Bell is in there, his sidekicks might be too. What do you think they’re doing?’
‘Best-case scenario, having a pow-wow with Traynor.’
‘And worst-case?’
‘I don’t really want to think about it.’
‘Nobody’s answering anyway,’ Fox commented.
But as they approached the building, a neighbour emerged, manoeuvring a bicycle ahead of her. Fox sprinted forward, holding the door open. The woman thanked him with a smile as she strapped on her helmet.
‘Thank you,’ he replied, ushering Rebus inside.
They climbed the three storeys in silence. When they got to the door of Jessica Traynor’s flat, Fox indicated that it wasn’t quite closed. Rebus pushed it open an inch and listened.
Silence.
Another inch and he had a view of the hallway.
No sign of life.
He let it swing wide and walked in, calling out ‘Hello?’
The varnished wooden floor creaked beneath him as he made his way along it, passing the bicycles belonging to Jessica and Alice. Again, the door to the living room wasn’t quite closed, so he opened it. Owen Traynor was seated in one of the chairs, head leaning back, hands draped over the sides. He was in shirtsleeves and looked pale and almost drugged.
‘Mr Traynor?’ Rebus said, eyes taking in everything around him. No students, no Rory Bell.
‘How did I know I’d be seeing you again?’ Traynor’s mouth seemed parched, his voice brittle.
‘Any bother here?’
Traynor looked at Rebus and shook his head. His eyes were hollow from lack of sleep.
‘Been here all night?’ Rebus asked.
‘Maybe.’
‘Jessica and Alice?’
‘I sent them elsewhere. Forbes too.’
‘So you could talk to Rory Bell in private?’
Traynor’s gaze grew more focused, but he decided not to answer. His fingers were beating out a silent rhythm against the sides of the chair. Rebus turned his head towards Fox and indicated that he should take a look around. Then he moved towards the chair and crouched down in front of it.
‘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 somewhere. 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.