by Ian Rankin
“It’s me,” he said. “How are you?”
“I should be asking you that. I’m sorry about your dad. I tried calling earlier…”
“I know, thanks. Wasn’t in a position to answer.”
She listened to him exhale noisily.
“And your mum?” she asked.
“Soldiering on.”
“It was a break-in…?”
“Of course it was.”
“No connection…?”
“Let’s not even get into that, Alice, okay?”
“If you’re sure.”
“Of course I’m not sure! ” He paused, his voice calming. “Look, I need to go. Have you been to see Jess?”
“She was sleeping.”
“You spoke to Owen? You know he blames me? He phoned me to tell me as much.”
“You need to steer clear of him.”
“I plan to. Jess should be home in a day or two, and with any luck he’ll bugger off back south.”
“This all feels like my fault,” Alice said quietly.
“We’re in it together, Alice. United we stand and all that. Talk to you tomorrow, yeah?”
“Okay,” she said, listening as he ended the call. She placed the phone on the surface of the desk and stared at it.
“Divided we fall,” she whispered to herself, closing the lid of her laptop.
Day Five
9
Rebus’s pub crawl started at opening time the next morning—not that he was on anything other than soft drinks. Clarke had sent a list of the stolen items to his phone, plus photographs provided by the McCuskeys’ insurance company: pearl necklace, antique brooch, Rolex watches. The laptop was expensive, but whoever had taken it had left its cable behind. Same went for the missing mobile phones—both chargers still plugged into power points. Pat McCuskey himself had yet to regain consciousness, though the word “coma” was being avoided in the news bulletins. At least one tabloid was stirring up a debate on crime and punishment, and every paper Rebus had seen had run the story on its front page.
The pubs he visited were in unglamorous corners of the city, from Granton to Gorgie and the Inch to Sighthill. Some of the old places had closed. They were either boarded up or had been demolished and replaced by fast-food outlets. Rebus felt like an explorer returning to find that some wilderness had been tamed. Those haunts that did still exist were doing little or no business, the staff complaining about supermarket drink deals and the smoking ban.
“Lot of the old punters would rather stay at home, puffing away in front of the horse racing with a dozen cans of Special Offer…”
And that was another thing: lifestyle choices had hacked away at Rebus’s network of faces. Some had passed away without him knowing; others had grown senile and moved in with family members in distant climes. Hasn’t been in for a while, Rebus would be told. Or: Never see him around these days. In some pubs, the staff had no idea who he was talking about.
“Used to drink in here all the time,” Rebus would persist. “Tall guy, thick mop of silver hair, worked on the buses…” Followed by yet another shake of the head. Even the hardened eleven a.m. regulars would struggle to recall “Big Tony,” “Shug the Spit” and “Ecky Shake.” Rebus would recite the list of stolen property to anyone who’d listen, and leave a card behind the bar with his number on it. He had texted Fox to ask if he was needed before the three p.m. interview with Eamonn Paterson. Fox had replied: You’ve been talking to him then? No other way you’d know.
“Nice work, John,” Rebus had muttered to himself.
He was on his way to the final pub of his dispiriting tour when his phone rang. Not a number he recognized, but he answered anyway.
“Hello, you.”
Maggie Blantyre’s voice, instantly recognizable.
“Hi there, Maggie. Everything all right?”
“Fine. Are you in the car?”
“On my way to Silverknowes.”
“For your sins, eh?”
“Something like that. I didn’t know you had my number.”
“Porkbelly gave it to me.”
“Oh.”
“Don’t sound so worried—I told him you’d left something behind the other night.”
“So how’s Dod doing?”
“Same old.” She paused. “It was fun seeing you at the house.”
“Nice to catch up—just a shame about the circumstances.”
“That man Fox has been on the phone, asking if Dod would be up for answering a few questions. Dod tells me you’ll know about that.”
“Sort of.”
“And if he really doesn’t want to talk…?”
“I suppose his doctor could write him a note.”
“That’s what I thought.” Another pause. “It’s not that he has anything to hide. It’s just that he’s not up to it.”
“Understood.”
“But will Fox see it that way?”
“Doesn’t really matter, does it?”
“Dod doesn’t want to go to his grave with a black mark against his whole career. Surely you can see that?”
“Of course.”
She seemed to relax a little, as though relieved he was now sharing her burden. “Maybe we could meet for a coffee after Silverknowes—it would be lovely to see you.”
“At the house, you mean?”
“There’s a café on Roseburn Terrace. I sometimes take an hour out and sit there. Dod seems to manage without me…”
“Do they do food?” Rebus inquired.
“Just sandwiches and baked potatoes.”
“Then I’ll see you there at half-one.”
“Always supposing you can bear to leave Silverknowes.”
“Always supposing,” Rebus echoed with a smile.
He was five minutes early, but she was already there, seated at a table by the window, the window itself opaque with condensation.
“John,” she said in greeting, rising and pecking him on the cheek. Then the familiar touch of her thumb as she brushed away the lipstick. “I ordered a pot of tea—is that okay?”
“Fine.”
She didn’t want anything to eat, but Rebus ordered a toasted ham sandwich. When he turned from the waitress, Maggie Blantyre was studying him intently.
“Have you left a mark on me?” he asked, rubbing at his left cheek.
“I was just thinking back. You were a lovely lot—a real gang of friends.”
“The job does that to you.”
“And a lot more besides.”
“Despite which, here I am.”
“Here you are,” she said, lifting her teacup. But then her smile faltered. “There are times I wonder…”
“What?”
“How things might have turned out—if we’d been a little braver.”
“You and me, you mean? At the time, I seem to remember we thought we’d taken leave of our senses.”
“But thinking back…”
“The past’s a dangerous place, Maggie.”
“I know it is—look at what this man Fox is trying to do.”
“It’s not Fox, it’s the Solicitor General—she wants to retry Billy Saunders, and for that to happen she needs to know nothing’s going to bite her arse in the courtroom.”
“You paint a lovely picture.”
Rebus’s phone was buzzing. “I need to take this,” he apologized, seeing Clarke’s name on the screen.
“Of course.”
He got to his feet and exited the café. “Siobhan?” he said by way of greeting.
“Pat McCuskey just died,” she said, no emotion in her voice.
“Shite.”
“It’s now a murder inquiry. A team’s being assembled at Torphichen.” Meaning the C Division HQ on Torphichen Place. Made sense: nearest manned station to the crime scene. Come reorganization, there’d be something called the Specialist Crime Division to investigate serious cases, but not yet.
“I can be there in five minutes,” Rebus said.
&nbs
p; “Your name’s not been mentioned, John. I don’t mean to say you won’t be needed in future…”
“But you’re in?”
“At the moment, yes.”
“And Page?”
“No, not Page—and not Esson or Ogilvie either. Seems they only need an extra DI right now.”
Rebus had taken the opportunity to get a cigarette lit. Through the window he could see his toastie being delivered. He indicated for it to be left there.
“How sure can we be that it’s murder?”
“I agree—he could have fallen, smashed his head. Might have a better idea after the autopsy.”
“On the other hand, calling it murder might stir things up a bit—put a bit of pressure on whoever did it. Small-timers, maybe not expecting to find anyone home…”
“Have you managed to get the word out around town?”
“As best I can.” Rebus paused. “Media’s going to be all over this.”
“Not to mention McCuskey’s colleagues. Speaking of which, his private secretary did switch off the TV—you were right about that.”
“Anything sensitive on the laptop?”
“It’s password-protected.”
“Not exactly Fort Knox, then.”
“Thing is, the Yes campaign isn’t quite the same thing as the current government.”
“So there could be stuff his office doesn’t know about?”
“We’re checking.” Clarke paused. “I’m guessing it makes the son untouchable.”
“Maybe, maybe not. I still think it’s odd this should happen so soon after the crash.”
“Lifting just enough in the way of valuables to make it look like a robbery?”
“Something like that.”
“You think I should take it to DCI Ralph?”
“Nick Ralph’s in charge at Torphichen?”
“His is the name I’m hearing.”
“Good rep. And if he’s asked for you, that consolidates it.”
“Shucks.”
“On the other hand, giving me a body-swerve has to count against him.”
Inside the café, Maggie Blantyre seemed to be fretting that his lunch was getting cold. Rebus nodded for her benefit, took a final drag on the cigarette and flicked its remains into the gutter. “Got to go,” he told Clarke.
“If you do hear anything about the stuff that got lifted…”
“I’ll give it to you so you can get your gold star from teacher.”
“You better had, or it’ll be a Chinese burn next time I see you in the playground.”
Rebus ended the call and went back indoors.
“Sorry about that,” he said. But Maggie was on her feet, shrugging her arms back into the sleeves of her coat.
“I need to be getting back,” she explained. “I’ve left money for my tea.”
Rebus spotted the neat pile of coins next to her saucer.
“But we’d hardly got talking,” he complained.
“Maybe it wasn’t such a great idea.” She smiled at him and touched his tie with the tips of her fingers. “But I’m sure Dod would like to see you, if you ever felt like visiting.”
“Maggie…”
“Sit down and eat.” She patted him on the chest and was gone.
Rebus stood there for a moment, wondering whether he was expected to follow, maybe be that bit more demonstrative. But his stomach was growling and he had to be at the Sheriff Court by three. The waitress was asking if everything was all right.
“Hunky-dory,” Rebus told her, settling himself back down at the table. There was lipstick on Maggie’s cup, and she had left enough money to pay the bill in full.
“Terrible news,” Eamonn Paterson said.
“Terrible,” Malcolm Fox agreed.
The three men were in the office at the Sheriff Court. Fox had set up a tape recorder but no video. Rebus noticed that no effort had been made to tidy away all the paperwork—quite the reverse, in fact. Fox had ensured the place looked good and messy, as if industry happened here, as if paperwork had been pored over time and again, evidence amassed. He had his A4 pad out—or maybe it was a different one. Reams of writing within, some sections capitalized or underlined. No doodles, not a thought wasted. Precision and diligence.
All of it to impress a man who knew tricks when he saw them. Paterson had even offered a wink towards Rebus as Fox fiddled with the cassette deck. If games were to be played, Paterson would prove a worthy competitor.
“Good to see the old technology still in use.” Paterson gestured towards the tape recorder.
“Only when it’s fit for purpose.” Fox looked up. “I forgot to ask about tea or coffee—DS Rebus can nip out and get us something…?”
“I’m fine,” Paterson said, giving Rebus another surreptitious wink. Fox had been letting them know where they stood. Rebus was the hired help here, Fox the master of the house.
“Shall we get started, then?”
“Ready when you are.” Paterson clasped his hands across his chest, Fox started the machine, and the interview began with a few moments of staring before Fox lobbed his first question.
“Was the crossbow your idea?”
“Crossbow?”
“Didn’t Summerhall have its own crossbow? Used for games of darts until the dartboard shattered?”
Paterson smiled at the memory. “I don’t remember whose idea that was.”
“You confiscated it after an arrest. Instead of forwarding it as evidence, you hung on to it for a while. It was only when it couldn’t be located pretrial that anyone thought to come asking…”
“Okay, so you’ve done your homework, son—can we skip to the important stuff?”
“But this is the important stuff, Mr. Paterson. The lot of you seemed to run CID like it was your own little fiefdom—your rules and nobody else’s. The red light in Interview Room B? If you had anyone gullible enough in there, you’d say it was a lie detector and switch it on. I wonder how many confessions you got that way…”
Paterson was still smiling benignly.
“The row of optics in DI Gilmour’s office, hidden behind a bookcase—you even put the bookcase on castors so you could get at the booze quicker.”
“You’d have to ask him about that.”
“But I’m asking you.” Fox glanced down at his notes again. “Or let’s try this one—the practice of signing statements rather than writing them? Something you were supposed to have witnessed, but you weren’t there at all. Or if you were there, Gilmour would have made sure everyone had the same story to tell—because he’d have written the version himself. All you lot had to do was go along with it.”
Paterson’s gaze shifted to Rebus. “John, tell the man…”
But Fox slapped his hand against the tabletop. “DS Rebus is here as an observer. I’m the one you need to convince.”
“Convince of what?” Paterson’s eyes were drilling into Fox’s. “Sounds to me like you’ve already made your mind up—typical fucking Complaints. You should be thanking us and giving us medals—we were good at what we did. We got bad men off the streets. End of.”
“You didn’t get Billy Saunders off the streets. Evidence against him went missing. Statements were riddled with inaccuracies. Witnesses changed their stories after talking to you…”
“We can all agree that mistakes were made—and Stefan Gilmour walked the plank because of them.”
Fox leaned back an inch or two. “What do you think Billy Saunders is going to say?”
“How do you mean?”
“Procurator Fiscal will be talking to him. Might be Saunders will want to cut a deal, looking for leniency.”
“So what?”
“So he’s kept his mouth shut for thirty years, but he might think it’s time to spill what really happened.”
“Confess, you mean?”
“Maybe not to the murder—but the cover-up after.”
“Balls-up rather than cover-up.”
“You reckon that’s how he’ll frame it
?”
“I don’t care what he does.”
“When was the last time you set eyes on him?”
“Billy Saunders? Twenty, twenty-five years.”
“Despite living in the same city?” Fox paused, making show of studying his notes. “When DI Gilmour resigned, who took control of Mr. Saunders?”
“You mean, whose snitch was he?” Paterson looked to Rebus. “He didn’t warm to any of us, did he, John?”
“Not that I remember,” Rebus felt obliged to answer.
“And here was I thinking he would have owed you,” Fox commented. “I mean, whatever titbits he’d gifted you down the years, you got him off a murder charge…”
“Not intentionally,” Paterson corrected him.
“Even so, he’d been useful to you and suddenly you just let him go?”
“Almost as if there was more to it than that,” Rebus interjected.
“You were there, John,” Paterson shot back. “What do you think?”
“It was another country.”
“But that’s where you’re wrong, both of you,” Fox said, turning from one man to the other. “It was the exact same country—you just treated it like you had the run of the place. A lot of bad habits were picked up, and the passing of time doesn’t necessarily wipe the slate clean.”
“It can play tricks on folks’ memories, though,” Paterson stressed. “Whatever story Saunders decides to tell, no way of knowing it’s the truth.”
“His short-term memory should be okay, though, eh?”
“What do you mean?” Paterson’s eyes had narrowed.
“The Procurator’s office set up a meeting with him this lunchtime. You sure it’s been quarter of a century since either of you set eyes on him?” He waited until both Paterson and Rebus had nodded. “Well, according to Mr. Saunders, another of your number phoned him this very morning.”