Rebus 19 - Saints of the Shadow Bible

  I know about you and Maggie. And it’s going to stop right now. Do we understand one another?

  Rebus nodding mutely. And then the growling voice again.

  One more thing – this is the price you pay for me not thumping you. Whatever happens among the Saints, we never talk, we never grass – okay?

  Another nod. Rebus with his mouth open, but unable to find the words. The glasses of whisky lifted from him – the usual generous measures – and transported to the corner table, where Gilmour, Paterson and Frazer Spence waited with smiles and a sheen of sweat.

  Here’s to us . . .

  One for all . . .

  Come on, Johnny Boy, drink up – what’s the matter with you? You’ve a face like a burst coupon . . .

  ‘I remember,’ Rebus said, in the sitting room of Dod Blantyre’s overheated bungalow, his eyes fixed on a man in constant discomfort, a man with not much longer to live.

  ‘A promise is a promise, John.’ Blantyre noticed Rebus’s eyes flitting towards the door. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘She doesn’t know. This is just you and me here.’

  ‘You’re telling me it’s okay to cover up a murder?’

  ‘Nobody’s mentioned murder – you said so yourself: Kennedy could have taken a tumble. All we need from you is your silence.’

  Rebus got up and placed the mug back on its tray, still half full. Then he turned to face Dod Blantyre. The man was mustering as much of his old grit as he could, hands gripping the sides of his chair, as if he might try to rise from it at any moment.

  ‘I’ll see myself out,’ Rebus said.

  ‘We deserve better from you, John – all of us.’

  But Rebus was shaking his head slowly as he left the room. He had already pulled his coat on when Maggie emerged from the kitchen.

  ‘Cigarette in the back garden?’ she asked.

  ‘I have to go.’

  ‘What’s wrong? What’s he been saying?’

  ‘Nothing, Maggie – I just need to be elsewhere.’

  She reached out to him, but he turned away and opened the front door, glad of the cold air and the squall.

  ‘John?’ she was calling as he headed down the path towards the gate. ‘John?’

  He lifted a hand, waving without looking.

  We never talk, we never grass . . .

  Come on, Johnny Boy . . .

  It’s going to stop right now . . .

  ‘Too true,’ Rebus muttered to himself, unlocking his car and getting in. When his phone buzzed, he knew it would be Maggie. He didn’t take it out of his pocket to check. Just turned the key in the ignition and got going.

  Day Eleven

  20

  ‘If I didn’t know better,’ Malcolm Fox said, ‘I’d think you were relishing the chance to get your hands on the Summerhall files now they’re not under lock and key.’ He was removing his coat and scarf and shaking rainwater from both.

  Rebus was seated at the desk in Wester Hailes police station, the one with the boxes of folders next to it. He’d already been there over an hour and it wasn’t quite half past eight.

  ‘Morning,’ he said, as Fox hung up his things. He’d bought a coffee from a petrol station on his way into work, but the inch or so left of it was stone cold.

  ‘Maybe there’s some other reason why you seem so interested in being here when I’m not?’ Fox went on, rubbing at his hair to dry it.

  ‘You’re keen,’ a fresh voice added. Siobhan Clarke was standing in the doorway, paperwork clutched to her chest.

  ‘Maybe it’s because you’ve won me over,’ Rebus said.

  ‘In what way?’ she asked, stepping into the room.

  Rebus tapped the sheets on the desk in front of him. ‘Say you’re right and Saunders was killed by one of the Saints. From what I’m seeing here, we’re not going to find proof from Summerhall. Any amount of paperwork could have been tampered with or removed. At most we’d find anomalies and things that can be explained away as admin errors.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘And if we go asking Stefan Gilmour to account for his movements on the night Saunders died . . . well, we’re dealing with a pro – you can bet he’ll have set something up that’s as watertight as it can be.’

  ‘Leaving us where exactly?’ Fox asked, resting against a corner of the desk.

  Rebus looked from him to Clarke and back again. ‘It might be that the best way to get to him is to go after the others. It worked before. He fell on his sword precisely so that the Complaints didn’t tear apart the rest of the Saints.’

  ‘We bring in Paterson and Blantyre?’ Clarke guessed.

  ‘You sweat them,’ Rebus agreed. ‘You let Gilmour know you intend to prosecute all three.’ He held up a finger. ‘Blantyre was at the autopsy when it was rigged and he never said anything.’ A second finger. ‘Paterson meantime had the gun in his desk drawer. Gives you the opportunity to say you intend taking them all down.’

  ‘And you really think that’ll be enough to get him to confess?’ Fox asked, sounding sceptical.

  ‘With all he’s got to lose?’ Clarke added.

  ‘You won’t know till you try.’

  Clarke looked at him. ‘And where are you when all this is going on?’

  ‘I know my place, Siobhan – I’ll be nowhere near.’

  ‘And if one of them implicates you . . . ?’

  ‘Up to you to decide if they’re lying.’

  Clarke’s focus had shifted to Fox. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I really doubt it’ll work – but right now I’m not sure what else we’ve got.’

  Clarke nodded slowly, then turned to leave the room.

  ‘I’d say that’s a definite maybe,’ Fox commented to Rebus. ‘But you must know this could end up rebounding on you?’

  ‘I can live with that.’ Rebus leaned back in the chair. ‘How did we get away with it?’ he asked, tapping the tip of one finger against the paperwork again.

  ‘Most of the journalists that mattered could be bought or silenced,’ Fox surmised. ‘No social media for the airing of grievances.’ He offered a shrug. ‘How am I doing?’

  ‘On the nail, I’d say. The more we got away with it, the more we kept doing it . . .’

  ‘Conscience getting to you?’

  ‘Fuck off, Malcolm.’ But there was no venom behind the words.

  ‘You really think you can keep your nose out while we question your pals?’

  ‘I’m busy on the Jessica Traynor crash.’

  ‘Still?’

  ‘New name I need to look at – Rory Bell. Villain who might be a player in West Lothian.’

  ‘Same name as Jessica’s flatmate,’ Fox commented.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Isn’t the flatmate’s name Bell?’

  ‘It’s not that uncommon.’

  ‘You’re probably right,’ Fox said, walking over to the window and sliding his hands into his trouser pockets. ‘Ever since I started hanging out with you, I seem to be seeing conspiracies everywhere – conspiracies, connections and coincidences. Think we’re due a break in this bloody weather any time soon?’

  But Rebus had stopped listening.

  ‘DI Clarke says hello,’ Rebus told Laura Smith.

  ‘She owes me a favour,’ Smith retorted.

  ‘She knows that, which is why these coffees are on her.’

  They were in a spacious modern café near the foot of Holyrood Road, across the street from the offices of the Scotsman. Stripped wood, the day’s newspapers, and workers from the nearby BBC building. The café sold food, but all Smith had wanted was the biggest latte they would give her. Rebus had paid for a croissant to go with his cappuccino. He tore a piece off and dunked it before popping it into his mouth.

  ‘Very French,’ Laura Smith said.

  ‘I’ve never been.’

  ‘Never been to France?’ She sounded disbelieving.

  ‘Or anywhere else, for that matter.’ He chewed and swallowed. ‘Scotland’s always been more than
enough to be getting on with.’

  ‘And we do live in interesting times.’

  ‘Reckon independence will do you out of a job?’

  ‘I doubt we’ll go crime-free overnight.’ She smiled, and stirred her drink.

  ‘Too much to hope for,’ Rebus agreed.

  ‘You said you wanted to pick my brains?’ she nudged eventually.

  Rebus nodded. ‘I’m assuming Albert Stout was before your time?’

  ‘I wasn’t even born when he was in his heyday.’

  ‘Back then, crime reporters drank in the same lunchtime pubs as us. Bought us a dram or two and we’d tell them stories – not necessarily true stories, mind.’

  ‘Now it’s coffee and croissants.’ She looked at him. ‘I’m not sure you think that’s a change for the better . . .’

  Rebus managed a smile. ‘I’m interested in a guy called Rory Bell – do you know him?’

  ‘Heard of him,’ she admitted, eyes narrowing. ‘Is there something in this for me?’

  ‘Might be, in the long run. Depends on what you can tell me.’

  ‘He’s early thirties. Used to be muscle for one of the Glasgow gangs. Branched out, but was soon persuaded he’d live longer if he relocated. Lanarkshire wasn’t quite far enough. Last I heard, he’d set up shop in Livingston.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Security. If businesses turn him down, they might suffer the odd break-in or arson attack.’

  ‘Nice.’

  ‘He also has shares in a haulage company. One of their drivers was done last year for smuggling duty-free ciggies.’

  ‘Told the court he was doing it off his own bat?’

  She nodded and took a sip of coffee, savouring it. ‘A few trailers have gone AWOL from yards, too – rumour that one of Bell’s rigs might have been the culprit. It all adds up.’

  ‘But no prosecutions as yet?’

  She shook her head, studying him above the rim of her oversized cup. ‘I’m not doling all this out for the good of my health.’

  ‘Understood.’ Rebus paused. ‘Any run-ins between Bell and Darryl Christie?’

  ‘They seem to be doing a good job of tiptoeing round one another. Christie’s business is predominantly bars and clubs, and Bell hasn’t gone there yet. Though he did slip up when he tried selling security to one pub in Falkirk . . . Turned out it belonged to Christie, something that only came to light after its windows had been put in.’

  Which explained the grievance felt by Christie – and maybe why he wanted Rebus to have his competitor’s name.

  ‘Suddenly you’ve got a twinkle in your eye,’ Smith noted.

  ‘Might be the onset of cataracts,’ Rebus explained. Then: ‘Bell’s definitely from Glasgow?’

  ‘That’s when he first came on the radar.’

  ‘But he was born there? Grew up there?’

  ‘I’d need to check.’

  ‘Could you do that and get back to me?’ Rebus handed her his business card.

  She held the card between the tips of two fingers. ‘I don’t like that this is one-way traffic.’

  ‘Think of it more as a contraflow – there’ll be a green light on your lane soon enough.’

  The door burst open and a young woman a few years younger than Smith scoured the room before heading for their table, her eyes fixed on the journalist.

  ‘Your phone’s off,’ she said, catching her breath.

  ‘I’m in a meeting.’ Smith gestured across the table towards Rebus.

  ‘You’ll want to see this.’ She was holding an iPad, turning its screen towards Smith. ‘It’s from about an hour ago, but it’s already gone viral.’

  ‘Amusing cats? Infants taking a tumble . . . ?’

  ‘How about a furious widow?’ The young woman tapped the screen and a video began to play. Rebus had got up from the table and come around to see. The footage was shaky, presumably taken with a passer-by’s mobile phone. Looked to Rebus like the university buildings on Buccleuch Place, the uglier edifices of George Square in the background. The clip lasted only fifteen or twenty seconds, but the widow was recognisably Bethany McCuskey. With the sound turned up, her expletives came with a distinct American accent. She was lashing out at a young woman, whose bag of textbooks fell to the ground during the attack.

  ‘Filthy whore! Little goddamned slut!’

  Followed by squeals from the victim as she attempted to defend herself from the blows. Then a glower from McCuskey in the direction of whoever was filming, before she turned and marched towards a small silver sports car.

  The clip ended and Laura Smith looked at Rebus with widening eyes. ‘The Justice Minister’s widow,’ she stated.

  Rebus could only nod.

  ‘But who was she attacking?’ the assistant asked.

  ‘No idea,’ Smith said.

  Rebus cleared his throat. ‘Maybe that red light you were complaining of has just changed,’ he said. ‘She’s Jessica Traynor’s flatmate.’

  ‘Jessica Traynor? You mean Forbes McCuskey’s girlfriend?’ The crime reporter’s eyes widened further. ‘My God, do you think . . . ?’ She had turned towards the screen again. Without looking at Rebus, she asked him if he had a name.

  ‘No name,’ he lied. Rory Bell and Alice Bell within two minutes of each other – Laura Smith would have sniffed something, something Rebus still wasn’t sure was actually there.

  ‘If Pat McCuskey was sleeping with a friend of his son’s,’ the assistant was speculating, ‘could make the story interesting all over again.’

  ‘It could,’ Laura Smith agreed, getting to her feet and readying to leave.

  ‘You won’t forget,’ Rebus told her. ‘Rory Bell’s background?’ He nodded towards the card she was still holding. ‘My e-mail’s on there.’

  She nodded distractedly and thanked him for the coffee.

  ‘It was DI Clarke’s treat,’ Rebus reminded her, but she was already on her way back to the office, acolyte following in her wake. Rebus sat down again and tapped Clarke’s number into his phone.

  ‘I’ve heard,’ she said, picking up. ‘I spoke to Nick Ralph last night and told him about Alice Bell.’

  ‘And he took it straight to the widow?’ Rebus stared at the ceiling and sighed.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking, John – you would have kept it to yourself. But we can’t know what’s pertinent to an inquiry . . .’

  ‘Sometimes we can guess, though. This was Malcolm, wasn’t it? He persuaded you?’

  ‘He didn’t need to – it was the right thing to do. Look, I’ve got to go.’

  She hung up on him and Rebus tossed the phone on to the table. Alice Bell would know – only he had deduced the affair, and he was the only one she’d admitted it to. The chain began with him and ended with the widow’s assault. He would get nothing else from Alice now. On the other hand, if it drove a wedge between her and Forbes – and Jessica – maybe she would open up. Maybe . . .

  But open up to Rebus? The man responsible for all of this? Not a chance in hell.

  ‘Walked into that one, John,’ he said to himself.

  And all because he’d trusted Clarke and Fox, confiding in them. Cursing under his breath, he grabbed his phone and made his exit.

  Rebus found DC Christine Esson behind her desk at Gayfield Square. James Page was in his broom-cupboard office, busy on the telephone. He flicked his free hand towards Rebus in greeting, then busied himself writing something down.

  ‘How are things?’ Rebus asked. Esson looked up from her computer.

  ‘Dead slow,’ she answered. ‘You?’

  ‘The devil seems to find work.’

  ‘Have you seen the video?’

  ‘Of Widow McCuskey?’ Rebus nodded.

  ‘It had seventy-five thousand hits in its first hour.’ She opened YouTube and found the page she needed. ‘Almost double that now, and the comments are pouring in.’ She showed him where on the screen to look, then began scrolling down.

  ‘They’ve got Alice Be
ll’s name,’ Rebus commented.

  ‘And plenty of speculation to go with it. Popular opinion seems to be on the side of the wronged wife.’

  ‘But nobody knows for sure she was wronged.’

  Esson gave him a look. ‘None of that matters online. If they were handing out flaming torches, Alice Bell would be done to a crisp by now. This’ll be the tip of it, too – if she’s on Facebook or Twitter, there’ll be plenty more bile flying her way. I really feel sorry for her. On the other hand . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, doesn’t it flag up to you that Pat McCuskey had secrets? Might re-energise the inquiry. I’m not saying poor Alice had anything to do with it, but a spurned lover maybe . . . ?’

  ‘Spurned? You been at the Barbara Cartlands again? Anyway, I’m glad you’ve got your keyboard warmed up . . .’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I want you to check a name for me – Rory Bell.’

  Esson puckered her lips. ‘Any relation?’

  ‘Probably not. He’s a player in West Lothian. I did have a reporter taking a look, but I might have slid down her list of priorities.’

  Esson had already typed the name into the search box. ‘Date of birth? Anything that would help narrow things down?’

  ‘He’s in his early thirties, spent some time in Glasgow as an enforcer.’

  ‘So he’ll have a police record?’

  ‘Reporter says no prosecutions – worth checking, though.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can find.’

  ‘You’re a star.’

  It was a couple more minutes before Page ended his phone call and emerged from his office. He looked around.

  ‘Where’s John?’ he asked Esson.

  ‘He had to be elsewhere,’ she apologised.

  ‘I was under the impression he’d come out of retirement – wouldn’t know it from his current work rate.’ He paused. ‘What’s keeping you busy today?’