‘He’s in conference.’
‘He’s not Alan fucking Sugar,’ Rebus complained.
‘A meeting, then – sorry, I didn’t realise grammar was your strong point.’
‘Vocabulary, you arsehole, not grammar.’
‘Mind and get a refund from that charm school, eh?’
‘Soon as I’ve spoken to your generalissimo. Is this meeting of his with the fragrant Ms Macari, by any chance?’
‘How do you know that?’
‘I’m a detective, son. A proper detective.’
‘You forget I’ve seen your files. Plenty six-letter words, but “proper” got scratched from the dictionary the day you left the academy.’
‘I think I’m a little bit in love with you, Sergeant Kaye. Let me give you my vital statistics.’ He reeled off his mobile number. ‘Tell Fox I think I can help him. Have him call me once Macari unzips his gimp mask.’ He ended the call before Kaye could respond. Staring at the screen of his phone, he broke into a smile. He did like Kaye, didn’t know what the hell the guy was doing in the Complaints. When a text arrived, he peered at it.
Blow me, it said, followed by three kisses. Dispatched, presumably, from Kaye’s own mobile. Rebus added the number to his contacts and paced the space between the rows of cars, finishing his cigarette in peace.
6
It turned out the Solicitor General had given Fox his own little office within the Sheriff Court on Chambers Street, not half a minute’s walk from her own fiefdom.
‘Cosy,’ Rebus said, examining his surroundings. The building was relatively new, but he was struggling to remember what had been there before. He had passed stressed lawyers outside, gabbling into phones, plus, nearby, their devil-may-care clients, sharing cigarettes and war stories and comparing tattoos.
Fox was seated behind a desk that was too big for his immediate needs, in a room that was a riot of wood panelling. He sat with a pen gripped between both hands. To Rebus, it seemed like a pose the man had spent too long preparing. Fox looked stiff and unconvincing, and maybe he sensed this himself – placing the pen on the desk in front of him as Rebus took the seat opposite.
‘So suddenly you can help me?’ he asked. ‘Bit of a Damascene conversion since lunchtime.’
Rebus offered a shrug. ‘You plan to dump on my friends from a great height; least I can do is make sure you’ve not got the squits.’
‘An arresting image.’
‘Are those the files?’ Rebus gestured towards two large cardboard boxes by Fox’s side.
‘Yes. Mid ’83, around the time Saunders killed Merchant.’
‘Allegedly,’ Rebus countered. ‘You’ve already been through them?’ He watched the other man nod. ‘And if my name was in the frame at any point, you wouldn’t want me here?’
Fox nodded again. ‘Of course, until recently you worked for the Cold Case Unit. You could have accessed the files at any time, making sure nothing incriminating was left from your days at Summerhall.’
‘For the sake of argument, let’s say I didn’t do that and I’m clean.’
‘In this particular instance,’ Fox felt it necessary to qualify.
‘In this particular instance,’ Rebus echoed. ‘And here I am, back in CID on sufferance . . .’
‘Something you don’t want to jeopardise.’
‘Which is why I’m offering my services – means I can keep an eye on you.’
‘If you had nothing to do with it, you’ve nothing to fear from me.’
‘Unless you start screwing up and I find myself lumped in with everyone else who ever worked at Summerhall.’
Fox picked up the pen again. It was a cheap yellow ballpoint, but he handled it as if it were Montblanc’s finest.
‘So your idea of helping me is to doubt my abilities from the off?’
‘Saves us the trouble of discussing it later,’ Rebus offered.
‘And meantime I’m supposed to trust you? These are some of the first officers you bonded with, men you’ve known most of your professional life – why would you turn against them?’
‘That’s not why I’m here. I’m just making sure you don’t start a firefight.’
‘Firefights aren’t my style.’
‘That’s good, because the Saints – retired as they might be – aren’t lacking ammo.’
‘You’re not retired, though.’
Rebus nodded. ‘And they’ll see me as part of their armoury.’
‘But you won’t be?’
‘That’s for you to decide – once we start work on those files.’ Rebus gestured towards the boxes. Fox stared at him, then looked at the display on his phone.
‘Only an hour or so left before going home.’
‘Depends what time you knock off,’ Rebus countered.
Another lengthy examination, and then a slow nod of the head.
‘Okay, cowboy,’ Fox said, almost in a drawl. ‘Let’s see what you’ve got.’ They lifted the boxes on to the desk and started to get to work.
Sandy Bell’s wasn’t the closest bar to the Sheriff Court, but it was Rebus’s choice, and as Fox himself conceded: ‘You probably know better than I do.’ There was a small table near the back, so they grabbed it, Rebus fetching a cola for his new-found colleague and an IPA for himself. Fox was rubbing at his eyes and stifling a yawn. He insisted on chinking glasses. Rebus sank an inch of the pint and smacked his lips.
‘You never touch the booze?’ he asked. Fox shook his head. ‘Because you can’t?’
Fox nodded, then looked at him. ‘I can’t and you shouldn’t.’
Rebus toasted the sentiment and took another mouthful.
‘Was it the drinking that made your wife leave you?’ he enquired.
‘I could ask the selfsame question,’ Fox shot back.
‘And I’d have to tell you it was.’ Rebus thought for a moment. ‘Or maybe that was just part of it. Doing what we do . . . I couldn’t let off steam at home – quite the opposite. So it got bottled up. And the only people I could talk to were other cops. That was the start of the distancing . . .’ He exhaled, then shrugged.
‘You could have knocked the booze on the head,’ Fox told him.
‘Like you did, you mean? And that’s why you’re still happily married with a vibrant social life?’
Fox looked as if he might take offence, but then his shoulders loosened. ‘Touché,’ he said.
‘We’ve all got different ways of dealing with the shit we deal with,’ Rebus offered.
‘Which brings us back to the Saints,’ Fox stated. ‘Tight little grouping like that, you start to think your own rules are the only ones that matter.’
‘No argument with that.’
‘And back then, parameters were different, not as strict as they are now?’
‘Leeway,’ Rebus agreed.
‘Especially when you seemed to be getting result after result. The brass weren’t about to start questioning your methods.’
Rebus thought of Peter Meikle, the drive around Arthur’s Seat. He pursed his lips and said nothing. Fox noted this but ploughed on.
‘The whole system’s changed, hasn’t it? Used to be about snitches and contacts. You lost someone like Billy Saunders, suddenly you weren’t closing cases and getting the respect of the Big House. Whatever he’d done, you had to keep him on the street.’
‘You keep saying “you”.’
Fox held up a hand in apology. ‘I mean the Saints in general. But there had to be a hierarchy and I’m guessing that meant Gilmour – he was the DI after all. Was Saunders Gilmour’s man?’
‘You’d need to ask one or the other.’
Fox glared at him. ‘You really don’t know?’
‘Let’s say he was – what of it?’
Fox kept glaring. ‘Is there anything useful you do know?’
‘Plenty.’
‘Such as?’
‘That’s for a later date.’ Rebus picked up his glass again.
‘Suppose I tell you I need to k
now now.’
‘A later date,’ Rebus echoed.
‘Then maybe I should just let you slink back to Gayfield Square.’
‘Maybe you should. But think about this first – you bring in each of the Saints for questioning and I’m seated there beside you. They’re going to wonder if there’s any point lying or twisting the truth.’
‘Unless you’re acting as their spy all along.’
‘That’s certainly a risk,’ Rebus agreed with a shrug. ‘But the job you do, you probably think you’re good at reading people.’ He made eye contact with Fox and held it. ‘So ask yourself if I can be trusted or not.’
‘Let’s see,’ Fox eventually said. ‘Let’s just wait and see.’
‘But we start bringing them in tomorrow, yes?’
‘We only question them when I’m ready,’ Fox qualified.
‘Fair enough,’ Rebus said. Then, gesturing towards his empty glass, ‘Your round, by the way.’
But Fox shook his head. ‘Some of us have got homes,’ he explained. ‘Meet in the Sheriff Court at ten?’
‘You need to clear it with my boss.’
‘James Page?’ Fox checked. ‘I’m fairly sure he can spare you, Detective Sergeant Rebus . . .’
‘How long have you been here?’
‘Not long. I was in the neighbourhood.’ Clarke was standing in the doorway of Rebus’s tenement. ‘Just sending you a text.’ She showed him her phone.
‘Your flat’s miles from here,’ he told her.
‘I was having a drink with someone.’
‘Your lawyer?’
‘In Morningside.’
‘The Canny Man?’
She shook her head. ‘Montpelier’s.’ Rebus made a face: not his kind of place. ‘Where did you disappear to?’ she was asking. ‘Came back from that meeting and Christine said you’d scarpered.’
‘I was in a meeting of my own.’
She thought for a moment. ‘With Fox?’ Rebus nodded. ‘And he doesn’t suspect?’
‘What’s to suspect?’ Rebus had dug out his key and was opening the door. ‘You coming in?’
‘Is that all right?’
‘Long as you’re not after a white wine spritzer . . .’ He led the way up two flights of stairs to the door to his flat. Unlocked it and scooped up the mail before switching on the hallway light. She followed him into the living room. The ashtray next to his armchair needed emptying. A couple of beer bottles sat alongside, plus an empty whisky glass.
‘Cup of tea?’ he asked her.
‘Thanks.’
While he was in the kitchen, she slid some of his LPs back into their sleeves. She was about to pick up the beer bottles when he reappeared.
‘I’ll do that,’ he said.
‘I’ll bring the ashtray.’
She dumped its contents into the bin in the kitchen while he placed the bottles on the work surface next to the sink. He handed her a mug.
‘You got lucky,’ he said. ‘Milk’s only a day past its sell-by.’
‘I’ll settle for that.’
They went back through to the living room. ‘Is this okay for you now?’ he asked. ‘Or does your OCD require any further action?’
She said nothing, settling herself on the sofa and resisting the urge to arrange the newspapers next to her into a neater pile. Rebus was putting an LP on, turning down the volume. Miles Davis, she thought – from the period before he got weird.
Rebus was about to lift a cigarette from its packet, but remembered she didn’t like it.
‘So you’ve got yourself seconded to Fox?’ she asked eventually.
‘In a manner of speaking.’
‘Access to the Saunders file?’ She watched him nod. ‘And other cases relating to Summerhall?’ A shrug this time. ‘Has it occurred to you that Fox could be playing a game of his own?’
‘What sort of game?’
‘Wondering if there’s anything you’ll try to cover up, any reports that could suddenly go AWOL . . .’
‘It’s a possibility.’
‘You’ve really persuaded him you’re on his side?’
‘Not completely – stands to reason he’s got his suspicions.’
She leaned forward on the sofa. ‘And is there anything for him to find? Anything that’s going to end up incriminating you?’
Rebus considered this. ‘If he looks hard enough, there might be a skeleton or two. Thing is, a lot of the supporting cast have left the stage – gone walkies or been fitted for the wooden suit. So while he might find stuff, he’ll have the devil’s own job making it stick.’
Clarke was staring at him. ‘How dirty was Summerhall?’
He studied the surface of his tea. ‘Dirty enough. You ever see that programme Life on Mars? It felt like a documentary . . .’
‘Beating a confession out of someone? Planting evidence? Making sure the bad guys got done for something?’
‘You thinking of writing my biography?’
‘This isn’t a joke, John. Tell me what happened to Billy Saunders.’
Rebus blew on the tea, took a sip, then shrugged. ‘It probably went down the way everyone seems to think.’
‘Botching the case so he’d stay out of jail and useful?’
Rebus nodded.
‘And that’s all going to have to come out in the wash for the Solicitor General to get her second prosecution,’ Clarke stated. ‘Though there is another scenario.’
‘I know,’ Rebus said. ‘Saunders cuts a deal. For a lesser charge, he grasses up Summerhall.’
‘Which would reflect badly on Stefan Gilmour.’
‘It would be like giving a cow a machine gun – bullets could go anywhere.’
‘You might take a ricochet?’
Rebus shrugged again. ‘I wasn’t there but I was sort of there – you see what I’m saying?’
‘You were in the team but not the room?’
Rebus rose slowly to his feet, walked over to the stereo and stared at the record as it revolved, the pick-up arm travelling almost imperceptibly towards the centre of the vinyl. ‘It was thirty years ago, Siobhan. Everything was . . .’ He turned towards her. ‘Is it fair to bring it all up?’
She looked at him. ‘There’s something else, isn’t there? I mean, okay, the guy was a snitch, but he’d just pummelled someone to death. I’m guessing even back then your instinct would have been to wash your hands of him. A lesser crime . . . maybe you’d have asked for leniency . . . but murder?’
He returned to his chair, slumping into it.
‘You know I’m right, don’t you?’ she asked quietly. ‘I think you knew it then too. Saunders had to have something on Stefan Gilmour. When you saw Gilmour the other night, how was he? When Blantyre told him about reopening the case, how did he react?’
‘He was fine; he acted fine.’
‘Maybe acting is one of those things he does well. Have you seen him on TV, campaigning for Scotland to stay in the union?’
‘I doubt that’s an act.’
‘But it’s a role he’s playing.’
‘He resigned over the Saunders case.’
‘I know.’
‘He did the right thing.’
‘Does he still have any contact with Saunders?’
‘Why would he?’
‘If Saunders did have some hold over him . . .’ She let this sink in. ‘And now Saunders knows Elinor Macari’s coming gunning for him . . .’
‘He might want to talk to Stefan.’
‘If nothing else, Gilmour probably knows a few sharp lawyers.’
Rebus nodded slowly.
‘If Saunders does have something on Stefan Gilmour – something big – do you have any inkling what it might be?’
‘No.’
‘And if you dig down deep enough and hit the truth – do you take it to Malcolm Fox, or do you arrange another meeting of the Saints?’
‘I’d have to give it some thought.’
‘And you really think you can do all of this without
Fox catching on?’
‘I don’t really give a damn if he catches on.’
‘No?’
Rebus shook his head. ‘But I know what Miles Davis would say if he did.’
Clarke narrowed her eyes. ‘What would he say?’
‘He’d say: So what.’
Day Four
7
‘We can’t question Saunders,’ Malcolm Fox stated.
He was in the office at the Sheriff Court, removing the lid from the tea Rebus had brought him. Rebus had arrived first, weaving his way through the concourse, past the mix of law officials and their clients – the two groups not easily confused – before finding the door to Fox’s room firmly locked. By the time Fox arrived, Rebus had been out again to a café on George IV Bridge, returning with the gift of tea. He had asked if he could have a key, but Fox had shaken his head and Rebus had decided against pressing the point just yet. He had then thrown Saunders’s name into the mix.
‘Why not?’ he asked now, trying his own tea and finding it wanting.
‘Because the Solicitor General ruled it out from the off. I’m looking at Summerhall and Summerhall only.’
‘But surely Saunders is part of that.’
‘Elinor Macari’s team will be questioning Mr Saunders.’
‘But you must know that’s going to make your job all the harder?’ Rebus persisted.
‘Nevertheless, it’s what the Solicitor General wants.’
‘And you just left it at that?’ Rebus sounded bemused.
‘I’m not like you. Someone in authority tells me to do something, I don’t question it.’ Fox slurped at the tea, savouring it.
‘I still think it would help us ask the right questions of the Saints if we hear Saunders’s side of the story first.’
‘I don’t disagree. And once Saunders has been interviewed by Macari’s team, we’ll take a look at the transcripts.’
‘So we wait for that to happen before we bring them in?’
‘I doubt it would be practical to “bring in” George Blantyre.’
‘So we interview him at home?’
Fox fixed him with a look. ‘You’re sure you can do this?’
Rebus nodded.
‘And of course there’s your own interview to consider.’