Saints of the Shadow Bible (Rebus) (8 page)

‘I’m on tenterhooks.’

Paterson looked at him, trying to focus. ‘You’re a cold man, John. You always were. I don’t mean . . .’ He thought for a moment. ‘What do I mean?’

‘Cold as in stand-offish?’ Rebus suggested.

‘Not that, no. It’s more that you never liked to show emotion – afraid you might get the sympathy vote.’

‘And I didn’t want that?’

‘You did not,’ Paterson agreed. ‘We were battlers, the lot of us. That’s who joined the police back then – not college graduates and the like. And if we had half a brain, we maybe made it to CID . . .’ He paused, peering through the windscreen. ‘We’re here.’

‘I know.’

Paterson stared at him. ‘How?’

‘Because we’ve been sat outside your house the past five minutes.’ Rebus held out a hand for Paterson to shake. ‘Good to see you again, Porkbelly.’

‘Are you glad now you went?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘And the thing Dod mentioned – do you think you can . . . ?’

‘Maybe. No promises, though.’

Paterson released Rebus’s hand. ‘Good man,’ he said, as though only now coming to a decision on this. Then he pushed open his door and started to get out.

‘Helps if you unbuckle your seat belt,’ Rebus reminded him. A moment or two later and Paterson was free, weaving down the path towards his front door. A security light came on and he waved without looking back, letting Rebus know he could take it from here. With a tired smile, Rebus put the Saab into first and tried to calculate the simplest route home.

It took him twenty minutes, with a Mick Taylor CD playing on the stereo and traffic lights that seemed to turn green at his every approach. The phone in his pocket buzzed, but he waited until he was parked outside his tenement before taking it out and checking the text. It was from Siobhan Clarke.

Can we speak?

Rebus stayed in the car while he called her. She picked up straight away.

‘What is it?’ he asked.

‘I stopped by your flat a couple of times – wanted to do this face to face.’

‘Do what?’

‘Intercede.’

He wasn’t sure he had heard her right. ‘Intercede?’

‘On Malcolm Fox’s behalf. He’s requesting the pleasure of your company at some point in the next day or so.’

‘And he’s too scared to ask me direct?’

‘Something like that.’

‘And you’re “interceding” because . . . ?’

‘Because sometimes a friendly face helps.’ She paused. ‘But I know you’re going to say no to him anyway.’

‘Am I?’

‘He’s the Complaints, John – you’re hard-wired to spit in his face.’

Hard-wired . . . He remembered Maggie’s words:
there was an electric wire running through you
. . .

‘Some truth in that,’ he said.

‘So what should I tell him? Bearing in mind I’m a fragile flower of a soul.’

‘Your patter’s pish, DI Clarke.’

‘But you’re still going to say no?’

‘I’m going to say tomorrow, the back room of the Ox, twelve noon.’

There was silence on the line.

‘You still there?’ he asked.

‘I’m not sure.’

‘Twelve tomorrow,’ he confirmed.

‘Just like that?’

‘Just like that.’

‘I’m never going to sleep now – not until you tell me why.’ She paused again. ‘It’s almost as if you already knew.’

‘Is it?’

‘Knew he was on his way,’ she went on. ‘But how is that possible? I’m the only one he told . . .’

‘Magicians never reveal their secrets, Siobhan.’

‘You know it’s to do with Summerhall? And the Saints of the Shadow Book?’

‘Shadow Bible,’ Rebus corrected her.

‘But you know?’ she persisted.

‘One thing I don’t know, though . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘At this meeting tomorrow, will you be on my side or his?’

‘What do you think?’

‘Might be wiser not to be there at all.’

‘But then who would stop you lamping him?’

‘I’m not going to lamp him, Shiv – I want to hear what he’s got to say.’

‘It concerns a man called Billy Saunders.’

‘Well of course it does,’ Rebus said, ending the call and exiting the car.

At twelve the next day, Rebus was seated at a corner table with a pint of IPA. The Oxford Bar consisted of two rooms – one containing the bar itself, and the other tables and chairs. The walls of the back room were lined with reclaimed church pews. A coal fire had been lit, and the place smelled of smoke, with undertones of bleach from the morning’s sluicing. A large window gave on to Young Street, but the natural light was only ever fitful. Rebus had taken a couple of sips from his glass. There was no one else in the back room and only Kirsty the barmaid out front, the TV news keeping her company. When the door to the outside world rattled open, Rebus allowed himself a thin smile – of course Malcolm Fox would be punctual. The man himself appeared, spotting Rebus and moving towards the table. He drew out a chair and sat down, not bothering to find out if the offer of a handshake would be rejected. Siobhan Clarke was in the doorway, pointing towards Rebus’s drink. He shook his head and she retreated to the bar, appearing again moments later with two glasses of sparkling water.

‘Thanks for meeting me,’ Malcolm Fox said, fussing with the positioning of his glass on the beer mat. Clarke squeezed into the same pew as Rebus, but equidistant between the two men, saying nothing. ‘Mind if I ask: why here?’

‘There’s an old Edinburgh tradition of transacting business in pubs,’ Rebus explained. ‘Besides which, it shows how keen you are.’

Fox looked at him. ‘Keen how?’

‘You could have made it all official – summoning me to HQ – instead of which, here we are on my turf. Means you’re keen, bordering on desperate.’

Fox decided to let this go. ‘I’m here at the behest of the Solicitor General. She’s looking at reopening some old cases.’

‘Now that the double jeopardy ruling’s been tweaked.’

‘That’s right.’

‘And she’s got Billy Saunders in her sights?’

‘For starters.’

Rebus turned towards Clarke. ‘How much has he told you?’

‘Thirty years back,’ Clarke answered, ‘Saunders was put on trial for beating a man to death. The case collapsed. Later on, he served time for another offence and admitted to a prisoner that he’d done it. Didn’t matter, as he couldn’t be tried a second time.’

‘But now he can,’ Fox added.

‘Then what’s Elinor Macari waiting for?’ Rebus asked.

‘The case against Saunders collapsed because of the actions of Summerhall CID. Evidence was tainted, interviews hadn’t been conducted properly . . .’

‘I seem to remember our DI at the time took the bullet.’

‘Stefan Gilmour, you mean? Eventually he did, yes. But there were some who said that was because he wanted to put a lid on it.’

‘A lid on what?’

‘Billy Saunders had been a Summerhall snitch. You decided he was more use to you out on the street than behind bars. The guy he killed was a scumbag called Douglas Merchant – Merchant had been spending time with Saunders’s partner. As far as Summerhall was concerned, Merchant was good riddance. So you made sure the case against your pal wouldn’t stick.’

‘No one ever proved that.’

‘From what I can gather, no one really tried. Stefan Gilmour handed in his papers, then the station itself was condemned and the bulldozers got to work. No more Summerhall, no more Saints of the Shadow Bible.’

‘What’s so funny?’ Rebus asked, as Fox tried to stifle a smile.

‘You don’t think it’s over the top? Who came up with the name anyway?’

Rebus shrugged. ‘It was around way before I got to Summerhall.’

‘So the seventies, or maybe even the sixties?’

Another shrug. ‘What is it you think you’ll get from any of this – apart from a few of the Solicitor General’s brownie points?’

‘The notes on the case are being dusted off. Such evidence as still exists will be re-examined. Interviews with the main players . . .’

‘That’s not what I asked.’

‘I’ve been given a job and I’m doing it,’ Fox stated.

‘George Blantyre’s had a stroke – good luck getting him to answer your questions. And Frazer Spence died ten years back.’

Fox nodded, letting Rebus know none of this was news. ‘But you’re still here,’ he intoned. ‘As are Stefan Gilmour and Eamonn Paterson. Plus others connected to the case . . .’

‘Billy Saunders?’

‘Drives a private-hire taxi.’ Fox paused. ‘Have you ever happened to bump into him?’

‘Not in quarter of a century.’

‘That sort of thing can be checked,’ Fox cautioned.

‘So go check.’ Rebus rested his elbows on the table and leaned forward. ‘But don’t expect to find much, other than cobwebs and dust.’

‘Can I assume you’ll now pass word along to your ex-colleagues, let them know I’ll be contacting them?’

‘They’ll tell you you’re wasting your time, as well as a good chunk of taxpayers’ money.’

Fox ignored this. ‘I think I have the address for George Blantyre. Stefan Gilmour will be easy to track down – he’s never out of the papers.’ He paused. ‘Does Eamonn Paterson still live on Ferry Road?’

‘As far as I know.’

‘I doubt he’s moved house since last night.’ Fox’s eyes were fixed on Rebus’s. ‘I was reconnoitring,’ he explained. ‘Saw you dropping him off. Good to see you’re still close.’ Fox paused. ‘When the Saunders case flared up, you hadn’t been part of the team at Summerhall very long?’

‘About six months, maybe seven.’

‘Newest disciple to the ranks of the Saints?’

‘Yes.’

‘Makes me think maybe you weren’t involved – Gilmour and the others wouldn’t have known how far they could trust you.’

‘Is that right?’ Rebus leaned back, the pew creaking in complaint.

‘You’re just barely back on the force. Something like this could jeopardise that . . .’

‘What you’re saying is, if I help you, I can be written out of the story?’

‘You know I can’t make those sorts of promises.’ But Fox’s tone of voice hinted otherwise.

‘And all I’d have to do is grass up some of my oldest friends?’

‘I’m not asking for that.’

‘You’re a piece of work, Fox. And let me tell you something I
do
know.’ Rebus was edging out from the pew, getting to his feet. ‘You’re a baw-hair away from having served your time in the Complaints. Means you’ll be back in the fray soon, surrounded by people like me – fun and games ahead, Inspector. I hope you’re not averse to a bit of ruck and maul . . .’

‘Is that a threat?’

Rebus didn’t bother answering. He was sliding his arms into his coat. The pint was where he’d left it, not even half finished.

‘Formal interviews will commence in a day or two,’ Fox stated. ‘And trust me, those will be rigorous
and
recorded.’ He turned to watch as Rebus headed towards the doorway then through it, descending the few steps to the bar, the main door and the world outside.

There was silence at the table for a few moments, then Fox puffed out his cheeks and exhaled.

‘Went well, I thought,’ Siobhan Clarke offered.

‘Insofar as we didn’t end up grappling on the floor, yes, I suppose it did.’

Clarke had risen to her feet. Fox asked if she wanted a lift, but she shook her head. ‘Almost quicker to walk,’ she told him. ‘Plus it’ll help clear all the fumes from my nose.’

‘The fire?’ Fox enquired.

‘The testosterone,’ she corrected him.

‘Thanks for your help, anyway.’

‘I didn’t really do anything.’

‘You got Rebus here.’

‘He actually didn’t need any persuading.’

Fox considered this for a moment. ‘Maybe he was warned by Eamonn Paterson . . .’

Clarke held out her hand and Fox shook it.

‘Good luck,’ she told him.

‘You really mean that?’

‘Up to a point.’

Left alone in the back room of the bar, Fox noticed that his glass wasn’t quite centred on its mat. Slowly and carefully, he began the task of repositioning it.

Rebus had paused long enough at the North Castle Street junction to get a cigarette going and call Eamonn Paterson’s home number.

‘It’s John,’ he said, when Paterson picked up.

‘Last night was good, wasn’t it? Thanks again for the lift.’

‘I’ve just been speaking to Malcolm Fox.’

‘Who’s he?’

‘Works Complaints, which makes him Macari’s attack dog.’

‘That was quick.’

‘He’s got us all in his sights. Reckons we banjaxed the Saunders case to keep a good snitch on the street.’

‘As if we’d do such a thing.’

‘But it wasn’t that, was it?’

‘How do you mean, John?’

‘I mean, there was something else – something that had all of you twitchy. Doors that were pushed shut when I walked past . . . conversations that would stop dead when I stepped into the bar.’

‘You’re imagining things.’

‘Whether I am or not, you’re going to have to deal with Fox – and he might look like the sort of big soft bear you’d win at the fair, but he’s got claws he’s spent his whole life sharpening.’

‘And why would we even have to speak to him?’

‘Because Elinor Macari will have made sure he has all the powers necessary. Right now, he’s requisitioning files and evidence from thirty years back. He’ll be well prepped when he comes calling.’

‘You said it yourself, John – thirty years . . . Maybe none of us can remember that far back.’

‘I doubt that’s going to be much of a defence, Eamonn. Not if there’s anything in those files for him to find.’ Rebus paused. ‘So let me ask you right now:
is
there?’

‘You were there, John. You know how we worked.’

‘I know some of it.’ Rebus watched as Siobhan Clarke emerged from Young Street. She saw him and waved. ‘Any time you want to fill in the blanks for me, I’d gladly listen – might mean I can help.’

‘John . . .’

‘Think it over,’ Rebus snapped, ending the call. Then, to Clarke: ‘Hello, you.’

‘I was going to walk to Gayfield Square. You headed that way?’

‘Why not?’ The two crossed the road, mindful of traffic, and started along Hill Street.

‘So what did you think?’ she asked at last.

‘You know me, Siobhan. I never give much thought to anything.’