Saints of the Shadow Bible

by Ian Rankin

  “Want me to fetch one?”

  “I still don’t really see why you’re here.”

  But she had relented, ushering Fox inside and closing the door. “Dod’s having a bit of a nap in his chair.”

  “It’s you we need to talk to, Maggie.” Rebus fixed her with a look, and she seemed to sense that he knew. “Maybe if we go into the garden.” Then, to Fox: “Can you go sit with Dod?” He indicated the living room. Fox looked ready to protest, but eventually relented. Rebus led Maggie Blantyre through the pristine kitchen and out onto the patio. He lit a cigarette for himself and offered her one, which she refused.

  “You spoke to Billy Saunders,” he stated. “He called the house. I’m guessing it’s always you that answers. No need to deny it—we have the phone records. He was scared of what Stefan might do to him, wasn’t he? But that wasn’t going to stop him giving evidence against the Saints—anything to save his own skin from another stretch in jail.” Rebus sucked on the cigarette. His hand was trembling and he wasn’t sure why.

  “So I spoke to the man—what of it?”

  “But you did more than that, Maggie.” Rebus let the words lie between them. After a moment, Maggie exploded.

  “You and your bloody Saints! They’re all Dod can ever talk about. He lives more in the past now than ever before—maybe because he’s got no future. And here’s this man ready to tell everyone Dod was a killer, and that he’d covered the whole thing up and got away with it.”

  “It wasn’t Dod who killed Phil Kennedy.”

  “But he was there! And he helped carry the body from the cell and everything.” She stared across the garden and seemed to see something. “Wait here,” she told Rebus. But he followed her to the shed, watched her open its door and start rummaging in the darkness, between and behind paint pots and unused tools.

  “This where you kept the gun?” he asked.

  “Dod thought I’d destroyed it. I told him I had. Same as I was supposed to have thrown this out.” She was handing him something. It was a well-worn copy of Scots Criminal Law, with the distinctive leather cover, faded gold writing and brass screws. Its pages were damp, curled at the corners.

  “The Shadow Bible,” Rebus said, turning it over in his hand and rubbing at the spot where they had all added a gobbet of saliva, cementing their loyalty to the cause.

  “It’s just a bloody book,” Maggie said. “But it was more than that to Dod. You all meant so much to him, and he was going to spend his last days seeing it all torn apart in front of him.”

  “Did you mean to shoot him?” Rebus asked quietly.

  She nodded, tears forming in her eyes. “I did it for all of you—because Dod couldn’t.”

  “You don’t have to tell them that. You can say the gun went off by accident. Maybe your finger slipped, or he tried grabbing it from you…”

  “More lies, eh, John?” She turned her head to look at the house. “What will he do without me?”

  “Is there someone you can call?”

  “Now, you mean?”

  “You’ll have to come with us, Maggie.”

  She thought for a moment. “His nephew’s been very good.”

  “Maybe him, then.”

  She nodded. “My phone’s in the kitchen.”

  “Let’s go in.” He tried placing an arm around her shoulders, but she shrugged it off. Snatching the book from him, she spat on its cover, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand afterwards. Gently Rebus took the book from her and led her indoors.

  While she made the call, he went into the living room. Fox was standing in the middle of the floor. Dod Blantyre was awake, and wanted to know what was going on.

  “Where’s Maggie?” he demanded of Rebus.

  “She’s on the phone. We need to take her to the station.”

  “No.” The man was attempting to rise from his chair, head bobbing, legs twitching.

  “Nothing you can do, Dod. Your nephew’s coming to look after you.”

  But Blantyre had fallen to his knees. With Fox’s help, Rebus got him back into the chair, just as his wife appeared in the doorway, carrying her coat.

  “Oh God,” she said, her hand going to her mouth.

  “Don’t leave me, Maggie,” Blantyre implored. Then, to Rebus: “She didn’t do anything.”

  “We still need to talk to her,” Rebus said gently.

  “You don’t! You don’t!”

  “Give me five minutes with him,” Maggie said, gripping Rebus’s forearm. “Wait in the car and I’ll come out.” Her eyes were pleading. “Just a few minutes.”

  Rebus looked towards Fox and nodded, the two men filing out of the room and making for the door. Outside, as they walked down the path, Fox asked if she’d confessed.

  “Pretty much,” Rebus said. He was carrying the Shadow Bible in one hand. Fox asked if it was what he thought it was. Rebus nodded. Fox unlocked the car and they got in.

  “I’ll text Siobhan,” he said, taking out his phone. Then, after a pause: “This must be hard for you, John. Made me think about what I’d do if a close colleague went too far.”

  “You’d turn them in, wouldn’t you?”

  “Maybe.” Fox concentrated on the text he was composing. “Probably,” he eventually conceded. “But twenty or thirty years ago…” He offered a shrug. “Different game, as all you old people keep saying.”

  “Bloody hell, Malcolm, you’re not exactly a spring chicken.”

  Fox gave a twitch of his mouth and finished the text. “So what about you and Mrs. Blantyre?”

  “What about us?”

  “You needed to talk in private—makes me think there’s history there.”

  “Is that right?”

  “I’m good at reading people, John. I have to be.”

  “Well you’re wrong this time.”

  “Am I?” Fox’s phone let him know his text had received a reply. He looked at the screen. “Siobhan will be waiting for us at Wester Hailes.” He paused. “But she says…”

  “I can’t play any part in the interview?” Rebus guessed.

  “You’re too close to the case, John.”

  Rebus nodded his agreement. He peered in the direction of the bungalow.

  “How long do we wait?” Fox asked.

  What will he do without me?

  Don’t leave me, Maggie…

  “Shit,” Rebus said, pushing open the passenger-side door and breaking into a jog. The bungalow’s front door was closed, held fast by a Yale lock. Rebus banged on it, then realized Fox was standing next to him. He gave the door a kick with his heel, then tried shouldering it.

  “The two of us together,” Fox said.

  Eventually the wood split, the door bursting open. Rebus flew into the living room and saw Maggie looming over her husband, shoving tablets into his mouth and her own. Painkillers of some kind, empty blister packs lying on Dod Blantyre’s lap, tears streaming down both faces. Rebus pulled her away and hooked a finger into her mouth. Without the aid of liquid, the tablets were proving hard to swallow. Fox got busy with Dod, flicking tablets onto the floor.

  “Can’t let you do it,” Rebus told Maggie as she crumpled, wailing. “I’m sorry, but I just can’t.”

  Fox was already on his phone, requesting an ambulance. Rebus was on his knees in front of Maggie, stroking her hair as she wept, her face buried in the carpet. He turned and saw that Dod Blantyre was watching him through his own tears. Fox was asking for the address, so he could give it to the switchboard. Rebus told him, and began to clamber back to his feet.

  Rebus was slumped in the public waiting area of the Royal Infirmary’s Accident and Emergency department. The row of hard plastic seats was fixed to the floor and not intended for long-term comfort. Fox was feeding coins into the drinks machine. Somewhere behind the reception desk, in adjacent curtained cubicles, husband and wife were being examined. As Fox returned with two small plastic cups of coffee, Siobhan Clarke arrived. She sat down next to Rebus.

  “Hell of a
thing,” she said.

  “Isn’t it, though?”

  “Lucky you were there.”

  He fixed her with a look. “If we hadn’t been there, it wouldn’t have happened in the first place.”

  “I know it can’t be easy, John…”

  Fox handed Rebus a coffee and asked Clarke if she wanted one.

  “Maybe a tea,” she said, watching as Fox retreated to the machine, digging into his pocket for more loose change.

  “You sent Malcolm,” Rebus said. “Is that because he needed it or I did? I should probably warn you, I make a poor patient but a worse therapist.”

  “It’s not therapy Malcolm needs. He’d done all the work tracing that number. I thought he deserved to be there at the end.”

  “So it wasn’t just a case of you steering clear?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Maybe you’ve been on hand at too many of my fuck-ups. And here you are outranking me, running your own major incident.” He paused. “Maybe letting me know I’m history…”

  “That wasn’t my thinking.”

  “No?”

  “No,” she stated.

  “I wish I could believe you.” Rebus stopped as Fox returned with her drink. She took it from him with a muttered “Thanks,” then asked if there was any news.

  “Neither one of them’s in any danger,” Fox obliged. “And John’s already heard Mrs. Blantyre admit to shooting Saunders.”

  “Accidentally,” Rebus added. “I told you how it is with Brownings.” His eyes met Clarke’s, willing her to challenge him.

  “She took it with her to the canal, though—and ended up pointing it at her victim.”

  “To scare him off, so the last few months of her husband’s life wouldn’t be spent in an interview room or police custody.”

  “You sound like her lawyer.” Clarke shifted her attention to Fox. “Solicitor General’s going to be happy, wouldn’t you say?”

  Fox just shrugged, and Clarke stared at her drink, her shoulders slumping. “Look at the three of us,” she said. “A result in the bag and feeling no better for it.”

  Fox made to sit down, lifting the big black book which Rebus had left there. He rested it on his knees, and Clarke could just make out the lettering on its cover.

  Scots Criminal Law.

  Day Fourteen

  26

  You okay?” Fox asked.

  “Sure. And thanks for coming.”

  “You really think I’m required?”

  Rebus threw him a glance. “You’ve got heft. That’s what I need.”

  “Not my brains or beauty, then?”

  Rebus concentrated on the road. They were in the Saab, heading for Livingston. “Anything to report?”

  “They were kept in overnight. Neither one of them had managed to ingest many of the tablets. Maggie Blantyre will be interviewed formally this afternoon.”

  “And her husband?”

  “At a date to be decided, once we’ve had a medical report.” Fox looked at Rebus. “For what it’s worth, she’s sticking to her story. Saunders tried taking the gun from her and it went off.”

  “You believe that?”

  “I’m not sure. Do you?”

  “Any evidence to disprove it?”

  Fox studied him. “You know there isn’t. But she’ll still go to prison. Best lawyer in the land couldn’t prevent that.”

  “She’ll have the best, too.”

  “Oh?”

  “I spoke to Stefan Gilmour last night when I got home—he’ll make sure of it.”

  “How much did you know?”

  “I knew Phil Kennedy died in custody and it was covered up.”

  “From what little George Blantyre has been saying, he’s keen to shoulder the blame.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Says he pushed Kennedy off his chair. Thought he was unconscious but then noticed he wasn’t breathing, so he took the body back to Kennedy’s place and made it look like he’d fallen over while drunk.”

  “He acted alone?”

  “That’s his story. The man’s not long for this world, so what has he got to lose?” Fox paused. “Looks like Stefan Gilmour and Eamonn Paterson can breathe easy, even though we know that’s not the way it was.”

  “Will anyone bother charging Dod?”

  “I get the feeling the inquiry will drag its heels, let nature take its course.”

  “What a mess. Have you taken the news to the Solicitor General yet?”

  “I’m trying to decide what to tell her.”

  “That’s easy, isn’t it? You tell her what you know.”

  “Which isn’t half as much as I suspect.”

  “She won’t thank you for anything that can’t be proven.”

  Fox nodded as if in agreement, then studied their surroundings. “Lot of roundabouts. I’m impressed you’re not resorting to satnav.”

  “We’re nearly there.”

  They arrived at the barrier of the multistory. Rebus reached out and plucked the ticket from the machine. Passing the security cabin, he saw that his attacker wasn’t on duty. Another uniform had taken his place—skinnier and older.

  “Might not need you after all,” Rebus commented, taking the ramp to the next floor. When they reached the third, he pulled into a bay and started swearing.

  “What is it?” Fox asked.

  “They’ve moved the cars.”

  Fox looked out at the vast, empty concrete space. “What cars?”

  “Exactly. When I was here yesterday, there were two cars, dusty and abandoned. There’d been a third, but that was already gone. Jack Redpath’s body was in the boot. They dumped him in the docks and left the car to be towed and scrapped.”

  “Okay.” Fox was frowning, concentrating hard as he tried to catch up.

  “But there were two other cars still here, one of them under a dust sheet.” Rebus got out and walked to the empty bays, Fox following suit. “See? Yesterday there was a lot of leaves and stour. The cars had been here for months, maybe even years…What are you smiling at?”

  “It’s such a great old word, ‘stour’—my dad uses it.”

  “They’ve swept it all away, every last trace.”

  “That’s thorough.”

  “The cars are used for storing stuff—stuff that needs to be kept away from prying eyes.”

  “And a public car park is the place for that?”

  “On a level no one ever has to use, with CCTV and a guard.”

  “Okay, so you think there are other bodies in these cars?”

  “I’ve no idea.” Rebus thought for a moment. “This has to be Owen Traynor. He meets with Rory Bell, they discuss what happened. Traynor knows we might come looking and persuades Bell the cars need to be moved.”

  “Traynor?”

  “Jessica’s father. He’s got a sharper brain than Bell. Even after Forbes and Jessica saw what was in that boot, it still took Bell a while to decide he needed to ditch car and body both. Traynor comes to town to broker peace and asks Bell if there’s anything else the police might find if they come looking…”

  “You came looking yesterday.”

  “And word got back—so the cars had to be got rid of.”

  “Moved where, though?”

  “How should I know? But sweeping up—that’s the sort of detail someone like Traynor would think of.” Rebus scratched a hand across his head. “Maybe in a lockup somewhere. He wouldn’t take them to the car park at the airport—too obvious.”

  “What makes of car are we talking about?”

  “One was a Citroën; the one under wraps I’m not sure about—red bodywork is all I saw.”

  “You didn’t get the license plates?”

  “I was interrupted by a punch to the gut.”

  “What?”

  “Different security baboon from today.”

  “That’s why you thought you might need heft?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m almost flattered. Wh
y 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 counseled 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 scrap yard 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 favor.”

  “Aren’t you always?”

  “Anytime you want to explain that crowbar to my colleagues, Reece…”

  There was a sigh on the line. “So what’s the favor?”

  “Scrap yards within easy distance of Livingston.”

  “Apart from us, you mean?”