Saints of the Shadow Bible

by Ian Rankin

  Rebus already had his hands up in a show of surrender. He walked past the nurse and into the corridor.

  Badlands?

  That explains a lot.

  Explained what, though? Something had happened that evening. Rebus made a little mental note to check back—the comms room at Bilston Glen would have records of anything that had been reported. Illegal races? Locals trying to scare the tourists?

  “Something or nothing,” he muttered to himself, exiting the hospital and readying to light a cigarette. A black cab had pulled up. The passenger had left the backseat, preparing to pay the driver at the passenger-side window. Basic error by someone who was used to a different system—in Edinburgh you paid before getting out. Rebus walked over and waited behind Owen Traynor. He seemed to be wearing the same suit but a fresh shirt. The driver passed over some change and a receipt, and Traynor turned away, startled to find Rebus right in front of him.

  “Bloody hell,” he said.

  “Sorry, sir. I was just leaving.”

  “You’ve been to see Jessica?”

  Rebus nodded.

  “And?”

  “And what, Mr. Traynor?”

  “Do you still think that boyfriend of hers was behind the steering wheel?”

  “It’s a scenario.”

  “Well maybe she’ll tell me.”

  Rebus doubted it, but didn’t say as much. “Probably simpler for everyone if we just drop it,” he suggested instead. “Whatever the truth is, Jessica’s standing by Mr. McCuskey.”

  “Yes, but if he did that to her…”

  “Like I say, sir, better to just let it be. We don’t want anyone doing something daft, do we?”

  Traynor stared at him.

  “You see what I’m saying?” Rebus went on.

  “I’m not sure that I do,” Traynor drawled.

  “You have a reputation, Mr. Traynor. And I’m interested how you came by your friends in the Met.”

  “Maybe I’m just a member of the right clubs.” Traynor began edging past Rebus, making for the hospital entrance.

  “My town, my rules,” Rebus called out. But Owen Traynor showed no sign of having heard.

  “Thanks for meeting me,” Malcolm Fox said, rising from the table and extending a hand towards Siobhan Clarke. “What can I get you?”

  “Brian’s already on it.” She nodded towards the counter. The café owner was busy at the espresso machine. The place was only a hundred yards or so down Leith Walk from Gayfield Square, but she didn’t know any other cops who frequented it. Making it a safe rendezvous, more or less.

  Clarke slid onto the banquette opposite Fox. They’d met before, but just barely.

  “I heard you were on your way out of the Complaints,” she said. “That can’t be comfortable.”

  “No,” Fox agreed, rubbing a hand across the tabletop.

  Reorganization again—internal-affairs officers were not exempt. Their Edinburgh office was about to be trimmed. Besides which, Fox had served his allotted time. He was being shipped back to CID, where he would work alongside men and women he’d investigated, in stations he’d investigated, stations where he would be mistrusted if not reviled.

  The café owner brought over Clarke’s cappuccino and asked Fox if he wanted a refill. Fox nodded.

  “Black coffee, no sugar,” he reminded the man.

  “Because you’re already too sweet?” Clarke pretended to guess, eliciting a wry smile. She leaned back a little and turned to watch the pedestrians on the pavement outside. “So why am I fraternizing with the enemy?” she asked.

  “Maybe because you know I’m not the enemy. The Complaints exists so that cops like you—the good cops—can thrive.”

  “I bet you’ve said that before.”

  “Many times.”

  She turned towards him. He still had the same wry smile on his face.

  “You need a favor?” she guessed, receiving a slow nod by way of reply. His coffee arrived and he touched the rim of the saucer with the tips of his fingers.

  “It’s to do with John Rebus,” he stated.

  “Of course it is.”

  “I’ve got to talk to him.”

  “I’m not stopping you.”

  “The thing is, Siobhan, I need him to talk. And if the request comes from me, he’ll doubtless respond with a few choice words.”

  “Request?”

  “Order, then. And it won’t be coming from me, not ultimately…”

  “The Solicitor General?” Clarke suggested. Fox tried not to look too surprised that she knew. “I saw her making a beeline for you at the Chief’s leaving do.”

  “She’s entrusted me with a job.”

  “A Complaints job?”

  “My last,” he said quietly, staring at his saucer.

  “And if you break a sweat, she rewards you how? A big promotion? Something to lift you off the pitch and into the directors’ box?”

  “You’re good at this.” Fox’s admiring tone sounded genuine enough.

  Clarke knew now what David Galvin had been hinting at during dinner at Bia Bistrot. How are things working out with your old sparring partner? Toeing the line? Obeying orders?

  “You really think I’m going to hand you John on a plate?”

  “It’s not Rebus I want—it’s people he knows, or used to know. I’m going back thirty years.”

  “Summerhall?”

  Fox paused and studied her. “He’s talked about it?” She shook her head. “So how do you know?” But he had worked it out within a few seconds. “That leaving do,” he said, almost to himself. “Eamonn Paterson was there. I saw him with Rebus…”

  “Then you know as much about Summerhall as I do. And I’m still no further forward as to why I should help you.”

  “Whatever happens, I’m going to end up asking Rebus some questions. I just think it would smooth things a little if there was a referee of some kind.”

  “A referee?”

  “To ensure fairness—on both sides.”

  She took a sip of coffee, then another. Fox did likewise, almost exactly mirroring her.

  “Is that supposed to be an empathy thing?” she queried.

  “What?”

  “Aping me to make me think I’m the one with the power?”

  He seemed to consider this. “You picking up your cup reminded me mine was there, that’s all. But thanks for the tip—I’ll bear it in mind.”

  She stared at him, trying to gauge the level of game being played.

  “It’s good coffee, by the way,” he added, this time slurping from his cup. Clarke couldn’t help but smile. She went back to watching pedestrians while she considered her options.

  “Thirty years is a long time,” she said eventually.

  “It is.”

  “Something’s supposed to have happened at Summerhall?”

  “Possibly.”

  “And it involved John?”

  “Tangentially—I don’t think he’d been there that long. He was pretty junior…”

  “You know he’s not going to give up any of the men he worked with?”

  “Unless I can persuade him otherwise.”

  “Good luck with that,” Clarke said.

  “My problem, not yours. I’d just like it if you could get him to sit down with me.”

  “So what are we talking about? A few statements altered? Lies told in court? Prisoners tripping and falling on their way to the cells?” She waited for him to answer.

  “A bit more serious than that,” he obliged, placing his cup back on its saucer with the utmost care. “So Rebus has never talked to you about it?”

  “Summerhall, you mean?” She watched him nod. “Never a word.”

  “In which case,” Fox said, lowering his voice despite the fact they were the café’s only customers, “you maybe won’t have heard of the Saints?”

  “Only the band.”

  “This was a band of sorts too, I suppose. Saints of the Shadow Bible, they called themselves.”
<
br />   “Meaning what?”

  “I’m not exactly sure—the files from the Solicitor General’s office don’t seem to be complete.”

  “Sounds vaguely Masonic.”

  “That might not be too wide of the mark.”

  “And officers at Summerhall were members?”

  “They were the only members, Siobhan. If you worked there as a detective at that period, you were a Saint of the Shadow Bible…”

  4

  Rebus sat in his car, staring at the bungalow. Bringing the Saab meant he couldn’t drink, but it would help if he felt the need to get away in a hurry. The sky was clear, the moon visible. Only a degree or so above zero, frost glinting on the surface of the road. Rebus’s hands gripped the steering wheel. He hadn’t seen anyone go in yet. There were lights on in both downstairs windows. Dormers built into the slate-tiled roof above, curtained and dark. Rebus eased his own window down and got a cigarette going. Maybe nobody was going to turn up. Seven, he’d been told, and it was now ten after. What if he went to the door and found it was just going to be him, Dod Blantyre and Maggie? Wouldn’t that be cozy? He sucked on the cigarette, narrowing his eyes as the smoke stung them. Would Dod be bed-bound? Maybe in the living room, with a commode pushed against one wall? Maggie exhausted from coping with him, the life draining from her? Would she ask why Rebus never called round, never sent a Christmas card in exchange for the one she still always dispatched?

  Hope to catch up soon. Love from Dod and Maggie.

  Her husband’s name first, but her handwriting. Did he really want to spend the evening confined with them? Did they have anything to talk about, other than the old days? Would she have made sandwiches or some kind of supper, so that he had to balance plate and fork and glass while he sat or stood?

  “Bloody hell,” he muttered, flicking ash out of the window.

  “That’s littering,” a voice boomed, while a fist smashed down on the Saab’s roof. Rebus nearly dropped his cigarette. Cursing, he stared out at the stooped, grinning figure of Eamonn Paterson.

  “You trying to give me a heart attack?” Rebus pretended to complain.

  “Old copper’s trick—the ability to creep up on a suspect.”

  Rebus wound up the window, yanked the key from the ignition and opened his door.

  “Don’t tell me you walked?” he asked, climbing out.

  “Caught the bus.” Paterson nodded towards the Saab. “Is this you offering to be the designated driver?”

  “Just like in Summerhall days.”

  “It was only once or twice you had to drop us all home.”

  “And clean the sick off the backseat.”

  “Not the same car, though?”

  “Not quite.”

  “I seem to remember your wife complaining the smell wouldn’t shift.”

  “Ended up selling it at a discount,” Rebus said with a nod.

  “The car or the wife?” Paterson gave a wink and patted Rebus’s shoulder. “Feel up to visiting the invalid? Only it looked to me like you were getting cold feet there.”

  “Just worried I was going to be flying solo.”

  “As if the Saints would let that happen.” Another pat of reassurance and Paterson led the way to the bungalow’s front door.

  It was a few moments before Maggie Blantyre answered the ring. Bathed in warmth and welcoming light, she didn’t seem to have aged at all. Ash-blond hair falling to her bared neck, broad-shouldered but with a narrow waist. She wore plenty of expensive-looking jewelry and her makeup was immaculate.

  “Boys,” she said, opening her arms for an embrace from either man. “Come in out of the cold.”

  Paterson received a peck on both cheeks before stepping inside, then it was Rebus’s turn. Her eyes lingered on his afterwards, and she pressed her fingers to his face, rubbing at the lipstick she’d left there.

  “John,” she said. “I was hoping you’d make it.” Then she led him indoors by the arm, closing the door on the outside world.

  “Divest yourselves.” She nodded towards the banister, where a camel-colored woolen coat was already draped, a red scarf trailing from one pocket.

  “Stefan’s here?” Paterson surmised.

  “You’re the detective,” Maggie Blantyre drawled. “You tell me.”

  “I always said camel makes him look like a used-car salesman.” He hung up his padded jacket. Rebus wrestled with his own coat until Maggie helped him. He noticed a stairlift fixed to the wall at the foot of the stairs.

  “I wasn’t sure if we were expected to bring a bottle,” he apologized.

  “Nothing but yourselves,” she assured him, touching his arm again. “Now follow me.”

  They passed a small dining room and entered the lounge. Dod Blantyre was seated in an ordinary-looking armchair, dressed and with a tumbler of orange liquid on an occasional table next to him. Stefan Gilmour had risen from the sofa, swapping his whisky from right hand to left.

  “Hiya, Porkbelly,” he said. The two men shook before Gilmour turned to Rebus. “John—it’s been a while.”

  “Stefan.” Rebus examined his old boss. The man was in his early seventies, but looked at least a decade younger. He wore a black T-shirt under a tailored jacket, with rust-colored cords and brown loafers. What hair he could boast had been engineered to cover as much of his scalp as possible. Piercing blue eyes and a healthy glow to his cheeks.

  “You staying in town?” Paterson asked him. Gilmour shook his head.

  “My driver will take me back.”

  “Driver, eh?” Paterson gestured towards Rebus. “I’ve got one of those tonight too.” Then he headed to Dod Blantyre’s corner of the room, squeezing a shoulder in greeting.

  “You’ll forgive me if I don’t get up.” One whole side of Blantyre’s face hung lower than the other, making his words slightly slurred.

  “You’re fine, Dod,” Paterson told him. Blantyre nodded and turned his attention to Rebus.

  “And here’s the prodigal,” he said. “I reckoned the drink had got you, or you’d moved to Spain.”

  “Just working hard,” Rebus replied with a shrug of apology.

  “Well, you’re here now. Maggie, are we going to let the man die of thirst?”

  There was a drinks cabinet open. Maggie already seemed to know that Paterson would want a Highland Park.

  “Same for you, John?” she asked.

  “I better have one of those.” Rebus nodded towards the glass of orange by Blantyre’s side.

  “With or without the three measures of vodka?”

  “Without.”

  “Dod knows he shouldn’t really be drinking.” She began pouring juice from the liter-sized carton.

  “Doctors try to drain all the fun out of life,” Blantyre complained. Again Rebus had to strain to pick out his old colleague’s words.

  “Sit yourselves down,” Maggie demanded, handing over the glasses. There was just about enough room on the sofa for the three visitors, Maggie settling herself on the spare armchair. “Here’s to us,” she said, toasting the room at large. Then, realizing her error, she got up again and went over to her husband’s side, lifting his tumbler and helping him hold it while he drank through a straw. When a dribble settled on his chin, she brushed it off with the back of one ringed finger.

  “Nice of you all to come,” she said, sitting down again. “Isn’t it, Dod?”

  “Aye,” he acknowledged. “The Saints of the Shadow Bible…”

  “Been a while since I heard those words,” Stefan Gilmour said with a smile.

  “That’s because you move in different circles these days,” Paterson reminded him. “Footballers and film stars…”

  “Not as many as you might think.”

  “Still got that hotel going up in Dubai, though?”

  “Just about weathering the financial sandstorm,” Gilmour conceded. Seated at the other end of the sofa, Rebus couldn’t really see his old boss without leaning forward. Back in Summerhall, Gilmour had been the DI,
with Paterson and Blantyre as DSs and Rebus as a lowly detective constable, alongside a younger DC called Frazer Spence. But Spence had died a decade back in a motorbike smash in Greece. The eventual funeral had been the last time all four remaining members of the Saints had been gathered in the same place.

  “What are you thinking, John?” Maggie Blantyre asked, swirling her glass of white wine.

  “I’m thinking I shouldn’t have brought my car.” He made show of examining his orange juice.

  “Leave it where it is, then—drop by tomorrow and get it.”

  But he shook his head.

  “I hear you’re still working,” Dod Blantyre said.

  “I was retired for a while—did some civvy stuff for the Cold Case Unit.”

  “That the one set up by Gregor Magrath?”

  “It’s been wound up now. I reapplied for CID, and got lucky.”

  “Bit like the old codgers they take on at B and Q,” Paterson joked.

  “John was always a hard worker,” Blantyre said.

  “Did that stroke affect your memory, Dod?” Paterson asked with a snort. “John was about the laziest bugger going.” He turned towards Rebus. “Back me up here, John!”

  “You’re confusing John with poor Frazer,” Gilmour interrupted. “Frazer was the boy who’d always be nipping to the shops.”

  “Is that right?” Paterson was frowning as he tried to remember.

  “Don’t give Porkbelly any more whisky,” Blantyre warned his wife. “He’s got too few synapses left as it is.”

  There was a bit of laughter, after which they concentrated on their drinks. This is okay, Rebus thought to himself. But then he knew these men; the mood could change…

  “Does anyone still have the Shadow Bible?” Gilmour asked into the silence.

  “Don’t know what happened to it,” Blantyre said. “Maggie thinks it might have gone into a skip when we cleared out the garage.”

  “That’s a shame.”

  Blantyre looked at Gilmour. “I’m betting you’re glad you got out when you did—more money than us poor buggers will ever have.”

  “How many hotels have you got now, Stefan?” The question came from Maggie.

  “They’re not exactly mine. I just seem to have landed the job of heading the company.”