by Ian Rankin
“They were fine.”
“And how long was it before you were initiated?”
“You mean into the Saints?” It was Rebus’s turn to smile. “You make it sound like a big deal.”
“You’re saying it wasn’t?”
“It was just a name. Other CID units had their own versions—F Division were the Cowboys, C Division the Marooned.”
“A lot more straightforward than ‘Saints of the Shadow Bible’—you have to admit, it sounds more than a little portentous.” Fox paused. “Or pretentious even.”
“Were you never in a gang at school? Maybe you were shunned, kept on the outside, looking in?”
“I was asking how long you were part of the group before the Saints came up in conversation.”
“Just a week or two.”
“And there was an initiation?”
“What have you heard?”
“Everything from downing six pints to the slaughter of the innocent.”
“Old wives’ tales,” Rebus stated.
“But the Saints did have a rep—not too many wanted to spend a night in the cells or be taken in for questioning.” Fox paused, turning the sheets of his lined pad. “Is it true about Interview Room B?”
“What about it?”
“Brown and red smears on the walls and floor? The smell of stale urine? Words like ‘help’ scratched into the table?”
Rebus couldn’t help but smile at the memory. “The smears were courtesy of the local chip shop—brown sauce and ketchup. We scored those words into the tabletop ourselves.”
“So suspects would have something to read while they waited?”
“Got them twitchy.”
“And the urine?”
“I forget now who was behind that. Made sure IRB was less than welcoming—same went for the chair. Someone sawed half an inch off one leg. No way you could start to relax in it…” Rebus looked at Fox. “Not that I would condone anything like that these days.”
“All the same,” Fox said, scribbling a note to himself, “I can see the attraction.” He paused. “What was the Internal Affairs setup like in those days?”
“The Complaints? Less than rigorous. As long as you got results, blind eyes could be turned. Mind you, we still thought of your lot as scum.”
“I appreciate your candor.”
“My pleasure.” Rebus’s phone was buzzing. He looked at the screen. It was Siobhan Clarke. “Mind if I take this?” he asked Fox. Fox didn’t look happy, but Rebus wasn’t about to wait for his answer anyway.
“What can I do for you?” he asked into the mouthpiece.
“McCuskey’s at death’s door,” Clarke announced.
Rebus narrowed his eyes. “What?”
“Looks like a housebreaking gone badly wrong.”
“Christ.”
“He’s being taken to the Infirmary.”
“There’s an irony.”
“How do you mean?”
“Same place as his girlfriend.”
“I’m not talking about the son—this is the father. Pat McCuskey. As in our beloved Justice Minister.”
“Just a coincidence, then?”
“That’s what I’m wondering. He was attacked at his home sometime this morning.”
“And?”
“The home’s just the other side of the airport from the city.”
“Not far from the scene of the crash?”
“Not far at all,” Clarke conceded.
“Are you on your way there now?” Rebus gestured for the loan of Fox’s pen. As Clarke recited the address, he jotted it onto the side of his cardboard cup. Ending the call, he handed back the pen.
“Justice Minister’s been attacked in his home,” he explained.
“Oh?”
“I have to go.”
Fox stared at him. “Why?”
“A case I’ve been working on with DI Clarke.” Rebus broke off. “This isn’t a ruse or anything—phone her back if you don’t believe me.”
“I’m not sure even you would stoop that low.”
“A vote of confidence if ever I heard one.” Rebus got to his feet and grabbed the cup with the address on.
Outside, he poured the cold tea down the first grating he saw.
The house was an extended two-story Edwardian property at the end of a gravel driveway and with no immediate neighbors. There seemed to be extensive grounds, including a paddock and stables. The road outside, narrow enough to start with, was already lined with vehicles belonging to journalists and the curious. Cameras were being hoisted, scripts checked, feeds established. A uniform stood guard at the wrought-iron gates and scrutinized Rebus’s warrant card before letting him through. A low rumble indicated that a flight was leaving the airport. Rebus watched the passenger jet rise skywards, not half a mile away, then turned his attention back to the house. The gravel extended almost all the way to the front door, meaning approaching vehicles were bound to be heard. Same went for intruders on foot. But then he’d no idea of the layout to the rear—and housebreakers seldom used the front door.
A scene-of-crime van was parked next to four cars. Rebus guessed that the newish Land Rover probably belonged, while the others were just visiting. He ran a finger down the side of Clarke’s Astra as he moved past it to the gaping front door. The wood-paneled hall reminded him of what they’d tried to do at the Sheriff Court, but this was the real thing. The suit of armor at the foot of the winding staircase was probably intended to show that the owner had a sense of humor. A vase had tumbled from its occasional table and now lay shattered on the parquet floor. There were muted voices in the sitting room and Rebus followed them until he was told to stop. A young woman in white overalls handed him a pair of elasticated paper shoes and warned him not to touch anything. Clarke stepped towards him. She was also in overalls and paper shoes, and was looking solemn. Video was being shot, photos snapped, surfaces dusted for prints.
“He was found on the floor in here,” she explained. “His private secretary was worried when he couldn’t be roused this morning. There was an eight-thirty meeting waiting for him. Usual driver had turned up but found the door locked and no sign of life.” She saw his look. “They came in through the back—French doors with one pane punched out. Maybe they thought the house looked empty…”
Rebus scanned the room. Expensive flat-screen TV untouched. Paperwork strewn across the floor. A Persian rug rucked up.
“So what did they take?” he asked.
“Laptop, we think, plus both his mobile phones. Drawers have been opened in the bedroom—could be some jewelry’s missing.”
“The wife?”
“Is on her way back from Glasgow. She stayed there last night so she could take some clients to dinner and then see them again this morning.”
“Clients?”
“She’s a lawyer—American by birth.” Clarke pointed out a framed photo of the couple. It had been knocked flat and now lay on top of the baby grand piano. Wedding day: low-cut off-white dress for her, traditional Highland outfit for her beaming partner.
“Has anyone told the son?”
“Left a message on his phone asking him to call back.”
“He might not, if he thinks it’s about the crash.”
“I stressed that it isn’t.”
Rebus saw another photo—it showed McCuskey’s wife on horseback. She was dressed informally—jeans and a checked shirt, and no headwear of any kind.
“What do the medics say?”
“He was either coshed or hit his head on something when they tried to grab him. Lump like an ostrich egg on the back of his skull and they’re worried about internal bleeding.”
“So there could be some damage?”
Clarke nodded slowly.
“If they came on foot, that would explain why they didn’t take much. On the other hand…”
“We’re hiking distance from civilization.”
“So there might well have been a car waiting.”
�
�I’ve got uniforms scouring the perimeter.”
“How long before you talk to the media?”
“Won’t be me—Page is on his way.”
“Stopping off en route for a haircut and a new suit?” She couldn’t help but smile. “Politicians are going to want a briefing,” Rebus warned her. “This is one of their own, remember.”
“I’ve already had the First Minister’s office on the phone. He wants to visit the hospital, plus they’re sending someone to check we’re being thorough.”
“Is there anything on the laptop the government wouldn’t want getting out?”
“They’re going to come back to me about that.”
“He was the Justice Minister, after all.”
“Plus leader of the Yes campaign.”
“I doubt we can put unionists in the frame, Siobhan.”
“Doesn’t mean political capital can’t be made out of it—same as Page wanted when we found out who Forbes was.”
“I’d say that particular plan has just been put out with the bins. But let’s stay focused on the main event—why do we think this morning rather than last night?”
“Mr. McCuskey spoke to his wife at eleven thirty, by which time he was tucked up in bed. When he was found this morning, he was wearing suit trousers and shirt but no jacket or tie. Pot of coffee in the kitchen and half a banana left on the worktop.”
Rebus nodded his acceptance of this. “So where’s this door they broke?” he asked. Clarke led him out into the hall and turned left. There were two doors, one leading to a modern kitchen, one to a formal dining room with French doors onto a large patio. Broken glass on the carpet, consistent with an attack from the outside.
“If McCuskey heard something,” Rebus said, “wouldn’t he come looking?”
“Maybe.”
“But he was found in the sitting room? Could he have had the TV on? Catching the morning’s headlines. Coffee and a banana, and next thing he knows there’s someone walking in on him.”
“Makes sense.”
“But the TV was off? Who was first on the scene anyway?”
“The private secretary—she has a key.”
“Maybe ask her about the TV.”
Clarke nodded to let him know she was adding this to her list.
“Can’t really know what else has gone AWOL until the wife arrives,” Rebus mused. They locked eyes at the sound of another vehicle crunching its way towards the house. “As good as any guard dog,” Rebus acknowledged.
But when they went to greet the new arrival, it was DCI James Page. “What’s he doing here?” Page asked Clarke, stabbing a finger in Rebus’s direction.
“I was just about to ask the same thing, sir,” Rebus retorted.
“Off with you,” Page ordered. “Nothing for you here.”
“Aye aye, Captain.” Rebus gave a mock salute before offering Clarke a sly wink. Page stomped past him into the house, followed by Clarke. Rebus had to admit, he’d been wrong about the man. No new suit and no haircut.
Just shoes freshly polished and the tang of shaving foam wafting after him.
Left to his own devices, Rebus knew he had two options. One was to head back to Fox’s light grilling, which was why he removed his overshoes, stuffed them into his pocket, and went for a walk around the property instead.
There wasn’t much to see at the rear of the house. Clarke was showing Page the broken pane of glass in the door. Rebus headed across an expanse of lawn towards where a line of venerable-looking trees hid the house from the country road beyond. Past the trees was a low stone wall topped with glossy black railings. Rebus peered through them. If a car had pulled over anywhere, it would have caused a minor obstruction—meaning anyone trying to squeeze past in their own vehicle would remember it. Three uniformed officers were probing the long grass forlornly.
“Anything?” Rebus asked.
“Not so far.”
Rebus continued his tour of the perimeter. The thing was, once you’d scaled the fence and emerged from the tree line, you had to cross about eighty yards of highly visible lawn. Okay, it would have been dark first thing in the morning, but there were security lights at strategic points. Rebus checked and they all seemed to be motion sensitive. So maybe the intruders had come in through the front gate on foot—making almost no noise on the gravel, and hidden from the house by the dense shrubbery either side of the driveway. Still meant a car left somewhere in the vicinity. He headed back around to his starting point and set off down the driveway. There was movement at the gates, the media pack sensing he might have news for them. But he shook his head and pushed his way through. He was looking for a pull-in, a track, somewhere to hide a vehicle. He quickly found a couple of contenders, both now filled by journalists’ cars, the ground churned up. A couple of reporters had followed him, asking questions without getting answers. But now there was a commotion at the gates; Rebus’s disciples rejoined the pack as Page and Clarke came into view. The uniform on guard duty swung the gates open and everyone knew a statement was about to be made.
Before commencing, Page glanced down at his shoes, as if checking that their sheen was intact. As he started to speak, Clarke noticed Rebus and headed in his direction.
“Might keep them pacified for a while,” she said under her breath.
“The wife’s taking her time.”
“Probably at the hospital as we speak.”
“You heading there after?”
She nodded. “And meantime, I’ve sent Ronnie Ogilvie—just in case McCuskey wakes up.”
“Any word on that front?”
She shook her head. “Wonder what room he’s in—be a coincidence if it’s the same one Jessica Traynor just left.”
“Wouldn’t be the end of the coincidences around here, Siobhan.”
She looked at him. “No,” she agreed.
“And yet neither of us has said the name yet…”
“Owen Traynor,” she obliged. “With an investor who got thumped after a falling-out.”
“Ending up in intensive care,” Rebus added.
“Is Traynor still in the city, though?”
“Far as I know, he’s moved Jessica into his hotel.”
“Do we know which one?”
“A maximum of half a dozen phone calls would answer that.”
“Want to make them?”
“Might as well, eh?”
“You’d not rather get back to working on Fox?”
“Working with him,” Rebus corrected her.
“I know what I mean. Is that where you were when I phoned you?”
“Yes.”
Clarke nodded to herself and watched as James Page got into his stride, taking questions, enunciating his answers clearly for the benefit of the microphones while he made sure the cameras caught his best angles.
“You have to admit, he’s a pro,” she commented.
“Pro everything I’m anti,” Rebus retorted, taking out his phone and heading further along the road, seeking a quiet spot from where to make his calls.
8
The Caledonian Hotel wasn’t really called that anymore. It was, according to the signs on either side of its entrance, the Waldorf Astoria, and had recently undergone a major refit. Sited at the west end of Princes Street, it currently looked onto a carnage of tramline construction. Both Shandwick Place and Queensferry Street were closed to traffic so as to allow the works to progress. Pedestrians were sent through the equivalent of laboratory mazes, squeezing down narrow passageways, hemmed in by high mesh fences behind which sat the tramlines themselves. Rebus had left his Saab out front, with the POLICE notice on its dashboard, the doorman warning him that it might not stop him getting a ticket.
“Saw a hearse get one once—and an ambulance.”
“All part of Edinburgh’s rich tapestry,” Rebus had responded, stepping into the hotel foyer. They called up to Owen Traynor’s room from the reception desk. Rebus was told to take the lift to the third floor. Traynor was waiting at h
is open door. He was in his shirtsleeves, the sleeves themselves rolled up, cuff links again dispensed with. No tie. Trousers held up with dark blue braces. Shiny black brogues.
“What is it now?” the man barked.
“Mind if I come in?”
Traynor hesitated, then led Rebus into not a bedroom but a suite, its living area turned into a makeshift office. The laptop computer was new—its box sat under the desk. On the sofa were bags from shops such as Ede & Ravenscroft and Marks & Spencer. From what Rebus could see of the computer screen, Traynor had been perusing spreadsheets.
“How is Jessica?” Rebus asked.
“She’s in her room—physio’s there with her.”
“Could we maybe go talk to her?”
Traynor stared hard at Rebus, then checked his watch. “Five minutes till the session ends. I take it you’ve some news for us?”
Rebus gave a twitch of the mouth.
“You want a drink?” Traynor was gesturing towards the minibar.
“Bit early.”
“Sure about that?”
Rebus looked at him. “You’ve been checking up on me?”
“Internet’s a wonderful thing, Inspector.”
“Detective Sergeant, actually.”
“Why is that? I mean, you used to be an inspector—what did you do to piss them off?”
“I stuck around.”
“Something you seem to be good at, judging by the stories. A lot of results down the years…”
“I didn’t realize the web knew so much about me.”
“Never know what to believe, though—I’m betting you’ve looked me up online. Not all of it is accurate.” There was a hard gleam in Traynor’s eye.
“Just most of it?” Rebus speculated.
“Ah, but which bits…?”
There was a knock at the door. Traynor answered and a young man stood there.
“How’s she doing?” Traynor asked.