‘A businessman down south. There was a case a while back. It was in the papers.’
‘What happened?’
‘One of his companies crashed and burned. A lot of angry investors.’
‘And?’
‘The loudest and angriest investor got beaten up on his doorstep.’
‘This was where – in London?’ Galvin nodded. ‘So what drew your attention?’
‘It reminded me of a case we studied at university, that’s all.’
Clarke was picturing Jessica’s father. ‘This Traynor has friends high up in the Met.’
‘Might not be him then. Anyway, you were telling me about Forbes McCuskey.’
‘Jessica Traynor was in a car smash. Found in the driver’s seat, but we’re not convinced she was driving at the time.’
‘Is she all right?’
‘She will be.’
Galvin was thoughtful. ‘Forbes did a runner?’
‘We don’t know that – we’ve not spoken to him yet.’
‘Wouldn’t look good for his father.’
‘An embarrassment, certainly.’
‘Not to mention a possible criminal offence.’ Galvin sounded intrigued.
‘We won’t be bringing it to your lot for a while yet,’ Clarke cautioned. ‘Like I say, we’ve no real evidence – plus our boss doesn’t like things messy.’
‘I know – I’ve met him. Is he still fretting about the future of Gayfield Square?’
‘We all are.’
‘You’ll be fine, Siobhan. It’s mostly civilian posts you’ll be losing.’
‘I’ll have to do my own typing? And fingerprinting? Maybe train myself up to carry out autopsies . . . ?’
They broke off as their starters arrived, and ate without saying much more. In the pause before the mains, Clarke took out her phone, thinking she might do a Google search for Owen Traynor, but she was getting no signal.
‘Reception comes and goes,’ Galvin explained. ‘Hard to believe sometimes we’re in the middle of a city.’
‘A capital city at that.’ She closed the phone down again. Their waiter had returned to ask how they were enjoying the wine. ‘It’s fine,’ Clarke told him, though she noticed Galvin hadn’t touched his. Nor had he made much headway with the aperitif.
‘Keeping a clear head for the morning?’ she chided him.
‘Something like that,’ he replied.
Half an hour later, as the plates from their main courses were cleared, they were asked if they wanted to see the dessert list. Clarke looked at her companion and shook her head.
‘Any teas or coffees?’
Clarke and Galvin shared another look. ‘There’s coffee back at mine,’ he offered.
‘And broadband?’ she queried.
‘And broadband,’ he confirmed. Then, after a pause: ‘Is this us continuing the consultation?’
‘It is,’ Clarke said with a widening smile.
Rebus only had the one drink at the Oxford Bar, then took a cab back to the car park at Gayfield Square so he could pick up his Saab. He knew he could always change his mind, but knew too that he probably wouldn’t. The lights were red at South Clerk Street. If he signalled right, he would be heading home. But when the light turned green he went straight ahead, towards Cameron Toll and Old Dalkeith Road. This time of night, the car parks at the Royal Infirmary were half empty, but Rebus pulled up at a double yellow line, sliding out the POLICE OFFICIAL BUSINESS sign from beneath the passenger seat and wedging it between dashboard and windscreen. He popped a stick of peppermint gum into his mouth, locked the car and walked into the hospital.
He was nearing Jessica’s room when the door opened. He recognised Alice Bell. She was with a young man. He had tousled hair and wore faded baggy denims, plus a black V-neck T-shirt. Clean-shaven, with pale green eyes.
‘Bit of a limp you’ve got there,’ Rebus said, indicating Forbes McCuskey’s left leg.
‘Twisted my ankle.’
‘Any whiplash to go with that?’
Bell was squeezing McCuskey’s forearm. ‘This is the policeman,’ she told him.
‘I’d kind of worked that out.’
Rebus slid his hands into his pockets. ‘Any chance we could have a word, Forbes?’
‘What about?’
‘Jessica’s accident.’
‘What do you need to speak to me for?’
‘We usually like to interview witnesses – helps us compile an accurate picture . . .’
‘But I wasn’t there.’
‘And your ankle’s just a coincidence?’
‘Happened a few days back in the stairwell at Great King Street.’
‘That’s true,’ Alice Bell confirmed hurriedly.
Rebus nodded slowly, eyes flitting between the two. ‘Coincidence, then. But we’d still like to get a few details from you.’
‘Tonight?’
‘Tomorrow will do. You could come to Gayfield Square at ten.’
McCuskey thought for a moment. ‘Ten should be okay,’ he decided.
Rebus handed him a card with his number on. ‘In case of complications. And if you need a lift back into town, I’ll be heading that way in five minutes.’
‘We’ve got a taxi coming,’ Bell said.
‘Tomorrow, then.’
‘Tomorrow,’ Forbes McCuskey agreed.
Jessica’s father had appeared in the doorway. ‘Everything okay?’ he asked.
‘Fine, sir,’ Rebus assured him, watching as McCuskey and Bell headed for the exit. Rebus turned towards Traynor. ‘Still managing to stay awake, then?’
‘I’ve found a hotel room in town. They’re sending a car for me in half an hour or so.’
They had made their way into the room. ‘Hello again,’ Rebus said by way of greeting to Jessica Traynor.
‘Hello,’ she answered.
‘Nice of your friends to drop in.’
‘Yes.’
‘Especially when it’s such an effort for Forbes, him having hurt his leg and all.’
She didn’t bother replying.
‘Is there something I should know?’ Traynor asked.
Rebus shrugged. ‘Not really, sir. Just that there’s a train of thought says maybe a careful driver wasn’t behind the wheel.’ He turned towards the patient. She still lay flat on her back, and her hair needed a wash. ‘I’m thinking maybe he wasn’t insured, or he had something in his system. All minor stuff as far as it goes, but fleeing the scene of an accident . . . and tampering with the scene . . .’
‘Placing Jessica in the driver’s seat, you mean?’ The muscles in Traynor’s face had tightened. He went to the side of the bed, looming over his daughter. ‘Is that what happened? Did that little shit leave you there, not even phoning an ambulance?’
But Jessica’s eyes were closing. ‘He wasn’t there,’ she said, her voice just above a whisper. ‘He wasn’t there, he wasn’t there.’
Traynor saw Rebus out, walking with him all the way to the main foyer.
‘We’ll question him in the morning,’ Rebus explained. ‘See if we can move things along.’
‘And if not?’
‘No huge harm done, I wouldn’t have thought. I mean, you can blame him for speeding maybe, but unless one of them tells us the truth . . .’ Rebus paused. ‘You know he’s the son of a prominent politician?’
‘Is he?’
Rebus smiled. ‘You pretended earlier you barely knew his name, but you seem the meticulous type to me – and you obviously dote on your daughter. I’d say you’d have checked up on any boyfriends she happened to mention.’
‘Okay,’ Traynor conceded, ‘maybe I do know who he is. Is this you telling me to let it drop?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Because I know how it can be with the police and politicians . . .’
‘Not around here, sir.’
‘Sure about that?’
Rebus nodded, and Traynor seemed to relax a little, staring past Rebus, eyes losing their focus. Then
he blinked himself back awake, took Rebus’s hand and shook it.
‘Try to get some sleep, sir,’ Rebus advised. ‘And maybe buy Jessica a scooter next time.’
This elicited the thinnest of smiles before Traynor turned and walked back into the hospital building. Rebus’s phone was vibrating: a message from Siobhan. He opened the text.
CHECK OUT OWEN TRAYNOR’S BIO!
Owen Traynor’s bio? Rebus watched as the tall, well-built figure receded, rounding a corner and disappearing from view. He tapped in Clarke’s number but she wasn’t answering, so he wandered outside, spat the chewing gum on to the roadway and lifted a cigarette from its packet.
Day Two
3
Forbes McCuskey was a few minutes early. He carried a Harris Tweed satchel over one shoulder and wore a three-quarter-length military-style coat, powder blue with brass buttons. Rebus led him to an interview room, where Siobhan Clarke was waiting. She had placed her folder – the one from the crash site – on the table in front of her. She gestured for McCuskey to sit down opposite. There was no chair for Rebus, but that was by agreement – he preferred to lean against a wall, always in the eyeline of the person being questioned.
‘I’m Detective Inspector Clarke. You’ve already met Detective Sergeant Rebus.’
‘So you’re his superior?’ McCuskey broke in.
‘I’m the senior officer here, yes.’
McCuskey nodded his understanding. He sat low in the metal chair with his legs splayed, as if he didn’t find it uncomfortable in the least. Clarke had opened the folder. She positioned a photo of the VW Golf in front of the young man.
‘Jessica was incredibly fortunate.’
‘I can see that,’ he said, nodding again.
‘Lucky someone was driving past – they phoned for an ambulance.’
‘Right.’
‘If someone had been with her in the car, they could have called the ambulance sooner. Might have made all the difference.’
‘But she’s going to be okay – she told me.’
‘It’s still going to take her longer to recover,’ Clarke bluffed, giving the news time to sink in. ‘Odd place for her to be. Has she told you what she was doing there?’
‘Said she just felt like a drive.’
‘Her father tells us she’s not the kind to put her foot down . . .’
‘Maybe she hit a patch of oil.’
‘Road looked fine when we checked.’ Clarke made show of searching the folder, pulling out another photo. ‘Then there’s this.’
‘Yes?’ McCuskey’s eyes had narrowed in apparent concentration.
‘It’s one of her boots, found lying in the passenger-side footwell. Any notion how it might have ended up there?’
McCuskey gave a little pout, shaking his head.
‘See, the obvious conclusion – obvious to us, that is – is that Jessica wasn’t alone in the vehicle. She was the passenger. And after the smash, the driver hauled her across so it would look like her fault. Then he scarpered.’
McCuskey’s eyes met Clarke’s. ‘And you think that was me?’
‘Well, was it?’
‘What does Jessica say?’ When this received no answer, McCuskey barked out a short laugh. ‘I went to see her last night. If I’d run off and left her, would she have been so happy to see me? Would there have been tears in her eyes when we kissed?’
‘How did you twist your ankle, Forbes?’ The question had come from Rebus. McCuskey turned his attention towards him.
‘I told you – I just got one of the steps wrong on Jessica’s stairwell.’
‘Seen a doctor about it?’
‘It’ll be fine.’
‘Any other bruises or aches and pains?’
‘I wasn’t in the car with her. I don’t even drive.’
‘You don’t drive?’ Clarke couldn’t help glancing in Rebus’s direction as McCuskey shook his head in confirmation.
‘Do your parents know you’re here?’ Rebus asked into the silence. ‘No.’
‘Haven’t you told them about Jessica?’
‘Not yet.’
‘How about her father – do you get on with him?’
‘Only met him last night.’
‘He has a bit of a rep. You should google him, that’s what I did.’ Rebus had taken a few steps towards the table. ‘Not the sort of character you’d want to cross.’
‘Really?’
‘An investor in one of his companies started bad-mouthing him. Ended up in intensive care. Afterwards, he kept tight-lipped about who’d thumped him. And that’s just one of the stories.’ Rebus paused. ‘Which is why it’s a shame I let slip our little theory – the one about you being responsible.’
‘What?’ For the first time since entering the room, McCuskey looked nervous. Clarke was studying Rebus, trying to work out if he was telling the truth or bluffing. When he looked at her, his face didn’t change. Truth, then.
‘You have to tell him you’re wrong,’ McCuskey was saying. ‘You’ve spoken to Jessica and me – why would we lie?’
‘I don’t know,’ Rebus said. ‘But something like this . . . it starts small but it can snowball, gathering up all kinds of crap as it rolls downhill.’
‘I can’t confess to something I didn’t do.’
‘Quite right,’ Clarke said, gathering together the photographs. ‘So that seems to be that. We just need an address for you, and you can be on your way.’
McCuskey stared at her. ‘And then what?’
Clarke shrugged, closing the folder. ‘If we need to talk again, we’ll let you know.’ She handed him a sheet of paper and a ballpoint pen. ‘Address, please.’ As he wrote, she asked if he was a student. He nodded. ‘Which subject?’
‘Art history.’
‘Same as Jessica and her flatmate.’
‘We’re all in second year.’
‘Is that how you met?’
‘At a party.’ He had finished writing. The details were just about legible.
‘Arden Street?’ she checked.
‘Yes.’
‘That’s in Marchmont, isn’t it?’
McCuskey nodded. Clarke and Rebus shared a look: same street as Rebus’s flat. He glanced at the tenement number: about six doors up from him on the other side of the road.
‘Thanks again for coming in,’ Clarke was saying, rising to her feet. McCuskey shook hands with both detectives and a uniform was summoned to show him out.
‘Well?’ Clarke asked, once he had gone.
‘Girlfriend’s covering for him.’
‘He’s got a point, though – why would she do that?’
‘Could be she’s the forgiving type. He goes to her bedside, whispers a few sweet nothings and flutters those eyelashes – and that’s when they prepare their story.’
Clarke considered this, mouth a thin determined line. ‘And you really told Owen Traynor the whole story? After your little trip to the Ox, a few beers inside you . . . ?’
‘I just dropped in to see how the patient was doing. Coincided with McCuskey and Alice Bell leaving.’
Clarke was shaking her head slowly. ‘This is exactly the kind of thing you shouldn’t be doing . . .’ She broke off as James Page appeared in the doorway.
‘What shouldn’t John be doing?’ he enquired.
‘Putting a bet on Raith Rovers for promotion,’ Rebus answered.
‘I’m inclined to agree.’ Page paused. ‘So where are we with this car crash?’
‘Not much further along,’ Clarke conceded.
‘In which case, probably time to drop it, wouldn’t you say? Nothing for us there, no point wasting effort.’
‘The boyfriend,’ Rebus said, ‘the one we think may have been in the car . . .’
‘What about him?’
‘He’s the son of Pat McCuskey.’
‘Justice Minister?’
‘And poster boy for an independent Scotland.’ Rebus knew his boss’s feelings on the topic – like everyone else in
the office, he’d had his ear bent by Page about the need for Scotland to remain part of the UK. ‘McCuskey heads the Yes campaign.’
Page digested this information. ‘What’s your thinking, John? A wee call to a friendly journalist?’
‘Only if we can find something that will stick. Otherwise it looks too political.’
‘Agreed.’
‘Hang on,’ Clarke said. ‘You’re planning to use the son to get at the father? Hardly seems fair.’
‘We all know how you’ll be voting, Siobhan.’
The blood rose to Clarke’s cheeks. ‘I just don’t think . . .’
But Page had turned his back and was marching away. ‘Another day or two,’ he called out. ‘See what you can find.’
Clarke stared hard at Rebus. He spread his arms in a show of appeasement.
‘It’s not as if we have anything else to do,’ he argued.
‘And that little game you just played . . .’ She stabbed a finger in Page’s direction.
‘I knew damned fine he’d go for it.’
‘He might, but I won’t.’
‘You’re disappointed in me.’ Rebus tried to look contrite. ‘But you have to admit, it’s not your typical set-up – Pat McCuskey and Owen Traynor . . .’
‘I do wonder how a dodgy businessman like Traynor ends up pulling favours with the Met.’
‘Met are still a law to themselves, Siobhan – way we used to be.’
‘A time you clearly yearn for. Meantime, this lets you stir stuff up for the hell of it.’
‘But sometimes that’s how we find gold, too.’
‘And what sort of gold do you expect to find this time?’ She folded her arms in a show of defiance.
‘The stirring’s the fun part,’ Rebus said. ‘You should have learned that by now.’
‘Your dad’s not here?’ Rebus asked.
Jessica Traynor looked better. The device around her head had been replaced by a simple neck brace, and the top of her bed had been raised a little, so that she no longer had to stare at the ceiling.
‘What do you want?’ she asked.
‘Just thought I’d see how you’re doing.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Good to hear.’
‘My father’s at his hotel.’
Rebus noticed the mobile phone in her right hand. ‘Heard from Forbes today?’