Saints of the Shadow Bible

  Cuttle nodded while still scowling. “Is this going to be a regular thing? Visits to the aging and infirm?”

  “Just a couple of points that need clarifying,” Rebus assured him, dragging a vacant chair over and settling himself on its arm. “If you don’t mind casting your mind back to that Phil Kennedy autopsy…”

  “You’re persistent, Detective Sergeant.”

  “Sorry about that, sir.” But Rebus didn’t manage to sound it. “You said that DI Gilmour and DS Blantyre were in the room when the deceased was being examined?”

  “Nothing unusual in that.”

  “Nobody else from CID was there? DS Paterson, DC Spence?”

  The pathologist shook his head. “And no DS Rebus either.”

  “I was still a detective constable back then.”

  “And you’ve soared through the ranks since.”

  Rebus glanced towards Fox and noted that the man was enjoying his discomfort—perhaps understandably.

  “When I asked yesterday, I think you said you weren’t a hundred percent sure about DS Blantyre being present?”

  “Ninety-five percent,” Cuttle stated.

  “But you doubt we’d find any paperwork after all this time?”

  “I suppose Professor Donner’s family might have kept copies of his reports.”

  “You sound skeptical.”

  “Comes with the territory.” Cuttle looked at Fox. “I did say to DS Rebus here, last time he saw fit to disrupt my daily routine, that I wondered if all this might not be a diversion from the Merchant killing.”

  “Don’t think I’ve not harbored the same thoughts, sir,” Fox commented.

  “But to get back to the autopsy itself,” Rebus pressed. “When you told me Professor Donner was in charge that day, you hesitated…”

  “Did I?”

  “As if you’d remembered something.”

  Cuttle looked from one detective to the other. “Professor Donner is not here to defend himself, and I won’t speak ill of the dead.”

  “He made a mistake?”

  Cuttle shook his head slowly and rested his hands across his stomach. “The Y incision had been made, the ribcage prized open. Organs were in the process of being removed and weighed…”

  “Yes?”

  “We were short-staffed. The autopsy had been fast-tracked for some reason, when we could just as easily have left the cadaver in cold storage.”

  “A lack of technicians?”

  The old man nodded. “Meaning I took on the more menial role—fetching and carrying.”

  Rebus felt like reaching across and shaking the pathologist. But he balled his fists instead and waited.

  “I had to leave the room for a moment. Professor Donner had need of a clamp. It was in a room across the hall. While I was out, the postmortem examination continued.”

  “There are supposed to be two pathologists present at all times,” Rebus said. “Scots law requires corroboration.”

  “Does it really? Well, thanks for the lesson.”

  “You knew at the time, and so did Donner.”

  “Nevertheless, he chose not to wait. By the time I returned, the stomach had been cut open. The smell of spirits was overpowering.”

  “To be expected in a man who’d been on a binge,” Fox stated.

  “But his mouth had been examined, no hint of anything on his breath. And the smell was…there had been no reaction with the other chemicals in the stomach.”

  “You’re saying it was too fresh?” Rebus asked.

  “As if it had just been poured from the bottle,” Cuttle replied.

  “Poured from the bottle?” Rebus echoed, eyes on Fox. “Did you mention that at the time?”

  Cuttle shook his head. “I was probably too busy wondering about that clamp.”

  “What about it?”

  “Well, the fact of the matter is, it wasn’t needed at all. It just sat there while the rest of the examination went on. No question about the cause of death—the man had sustained lethal injuries consistent with a fall of some kind. One or two anomalies weren’t going to change that.”

  Rebus thought for a moment. “All the times you worked with Professor Donner…was this the only occasion something like that happened?”

  Cuttle looked down at his hands. “More or less,” he eventually confided.

  “More or less? And the other times were always when Summerhall CID were on hand?”

  Cuttle nodded slowly.

  Fox made show of clearing his throat before asking a question of his own. “Would you say that Professor Donner was on friendly terms with anyone from Summerhall in particular?”

  Cuttle looked up at him. “The man is not here to defend himself.”

  “So you say. But that also gives us a certain freedom to be frank with each other, doesn’t it?”

  Cuttle considered this, then took a deep breath. “There were occasional invitations from DI Gilmour—to dinners, social functions, boxing bouts…”

  “And were you included in these invitations, Professor?”

  “I was, but I seldom said yes to them.”

  “And Professor Donner?”

  “He’d known Stefan Gilmour for longer.”

  “And saw him as a friend, maybe?”

  “Perhaps,” Cuttle conceded.

  “Someone he might do a favor for now and then…?”

  “I won’t speak ill of the dead,” the old man repeated.

  “You knew it happened, though?”

  Cuttle was shaking his head again.

  “Okay,” Fox persisted. “Then let’s say you had your suspicions.”

  “Professor Donner was one of this country’s most distinguished pathologists.”

  “Who just happened to enjoy hanging out with CID of a night.” Fox shifted his attention to Rebus. “Did you know any of this?”

  “No.”

  “Is that the truth?”

  Rebus’s jaw tightened. “Yes,” he said.

  One of the sleepers had awoken. She leaned forward and told Cuttle how lovely it was that he had visitors.

  “They’re just leaving,” the old man said.

  “Your pal Stefan, eh?” Fox said as Rebus drove them back to Wester Hailes. “Splashing the cash, showing Professor Donner a good time…”

  “He was the generous sort,” Rebus intoned. He was remembering back to nights at the pub—Gilmour tipping the bar staff even in the seediest dive. Same went for clubs and restaurants.

  Means they remember me kindly, Gilmour would explain. And that’s good for business…

  “So how do you think it went down?” Fox was asking now. “Hip flask in a back pocket? They get Cuttle out of the room and tip the contents into the open stomach to make it look as though Kennedy had been drinking. Blood tests would have told a different story, but there were no blood tests.”

  “You’re saying it wasn’t an accident?”

  “John.” Fox leaned in towards him. “I think I’m saying it was murder. He was thrown down those stairs, wasn’t he? Because Gilmour was so riled by that not-proven verdict. Needed to make sure it was recorded as accidental death, and luckily he had a friendly pathologist to hand.” He paused. “That sound about right to you?”

  “You know none of it will stand up in court. In fact it wouldn’t even get that far, because the Procurator Fiscal will ask for evidence—not theories or character assassination, but a few cold, hard facts. And I’m not seeing any. On top of which, I’m guessing you think that’s the hold Saunders had over Gilmour—but Saunders didn’t know Phil Kennedy.”

  “Are we sure about that?”

  “You’re the one who’s working the Saunders murder—has Phil Kennedy’s name ever come up?”

  “We’ve been digging for recent friends rather than ghosts. But I think if we give all of this to Siobhan Clarke, she’ll decide the circumstantial evidence goes way beyond theory.”

  “How about character assassination? Stefan Gilmour’s a huge success story. He brings
lawyers and PR people with him. You can bet he’ll twist it round to make it look like a political plot. The Yes campaign have lost their big beast, so the No camp’s equivalent has to be brought down.”

  Fox was silent for a moment. “It’s a good point,” he admitted at last. “But it doesn’t change anything.” He slapped the palm of his hand against the dashboard. “We should have taped our talk with Cuttle.”

  “There were two of us,” Rebus reminded him. “We’ve got corroboration…”

  19

  Siobhan Clarke was starving.

  She’d been to Fettes HQ to give a report to her bosses—the incoming head of Police Scotland was taking an interest. Shootings were not as yet a common occurrence in the country and he didn’t want his tenure of the new setup to coincide with a rise in gun crime.

  She rendezvoused with Rebus and Fox at a burger bar next to the cinema complex in Wester Hailes, where she worked her way through a double cheeseburger and told them about the interview with Dean Grant.

  “I’m with John,” she concluded. “The guy’s a hundred percent dodgy, but there’s nothing he knows that can help us with Saunders.”

  “Meantime, we’ve got news of our own,” Fox informed her. He had decided against any food and was nursing a weak tea, while Rebus demolished a helping of onion rings.

  “I’m listening,” Clarke said.

  Fox laid out for her the conversation with Professor Cuttle and the story of the autopsy. Halfway through, Rebus’s phone alerted him to an incoming call. He checked the screen and maneuvered his way out of the booth.

  “Got to take this,” he said, pressing the phone to his ear and heading for the door.

  “Stefan?” he said. The day had grown overcast, threatening sleet. There were picnic-style tables outside, but no diners. The drive-through window had a queue, and beyond it Rebus could see traffic growing heavier on the commuter route out of town. For some, the working day was over.

  “I hear you’ve pulled in the bouncer from some drug den of a pub,” Gilmour stated.

  “News travels fast,” Rebus said, his thumbnail working a sliver of onion free from his teeth.

  “He’s got to be a better candidate, surely.”

  “We don’t think so.”

  “Bit of effort might make all the difference.”

  “You want me to pin Billy Saunders’s murder on anyone I see fit?”

  “Used to be the way of it, John—get the scumbags off the street by hook or by crook.”

  “Things have changed, Stefan. But since you’re on the line, let me ask you a question.”

  “Make it quick—I’ve a wake to get back to.”

  “What’s this I hear about Slippery Phil Kennedy?”

  “I doubt you’re hearing anything about that turd. He died decades back.”

  “The week before Douglas Merchant, actually.”

  “Is that right?”

  “I seem to remember you rubbing your hands with glee at the time.”

  “No surprises there.”

  “What did come as a surprise was the news that the autopsy may have been got at.”

  “Got at?”

  “You used to carry a hip flask…”

  “Nestling in my pocket right now. What are you saying, John?”

  “I’m saying you went out of your way to make sure Philip Kennedy’s death was attributed to a drunken accident.”

  “That’s quite an accusation. What does Professor Donner say? No, hang on a minute—he’s not with us, is he?”

  “Dod Blantyre is, though—he was there with you when the hip flask came out.”

  “You been on the sauce yourself, John? Next you’ll be telling me about the pink elephants.”

  “That not-proven verdict really got to you, didn’t it? That’s why you went to Kennedy’s house…”

  “Jog on, pal.”

  “Were we ever pals, you and me?”

  “We were more than that—we were Saints of the Shadow Bible.”

  “But the Shadow Bible was the copy of Scots Criminal Law we were given. Big black thing with a leather cover and brass screws. And we all spat on it and rubbed it in till it was dry. I thought it was a kind of oath, but it wasn’t—we were saying the rules could go to hell, because we knew better. We were the ones in the field…”

  “We absolutely were.”

  “And it was a shadow bible because it wasn’t quite the word of God—it was written by committee, meaning we could disregard it.”

  “We got results, if you’d care to remember.”

  “Oh, we got results all right—but at a cost. And it seems to me we’re still paying.”

  “So how come I don’t feel bad about myself?”

  “It’s because as far as you’re concerned, there is no one else, no one that matters. As long as your money is making you more money, the rest of the world can go screw itself.”

  Rebus heard a cold chuckle on the other end of the line. “And yet here I am at an adversary’s funeral.”

  “Odd how many of your adversaries end up dead.”

  The silence lingered, until Gilmour broke it. “I’m going back in now.”

  “Enjoy your freedom, Stefan. There might not be much more of it…”

  Rebus ended the call and headed back to the booth, where Clarke had finished her meal and was holding a hand to her stomach.

  “That bad?” Rebus asked.

  “Ate too quickly,” she explained, stifling a burp.

  “So what do you make of Malcolm’s theory?”

  She looked at both men, then offered a shrug. “A few facts would be nice.”

  “Wouldn’t they, though?” Rebus agreed.

  Clarke’s eyes were on Fox. “Because I’m not sure any of this gets us much closer to proving who killed Billy Saunders. On the other hand, maybe that’s not what’s most important to you—maybe Summerhall’s still top of your list.”

  “I don’t really see a distinction, and I’m not sure John does either.”

  “What about Pat McCuskey?” Rebus asked. “Does anyone know if the investigation’s still stalled?”

  “Far as I can tell,” Clarke answered. “And that’s driving Nick Ralph spare.” She looked at Rebus. “You think it connects to that crash, don’t you?”

  “Jessica’s flatmate was sleeping with him,” Rebus stated.

  “What?”

  “Alice Bell. She had a thing going with Forbes’s dad.”

  “Did Forbes know?”

  “I’m not sure—Alice says not.”

  “And Jessica?”

  “Ditto.”

  “Could that be what happened? They’re out driving and they happen to see the pair of them?”

  “Might make me put pedal to metal,” Rebus conceded. “But Alice is keeping quiet.”

  “Worth nudging her a bit?”

  The look on Rebus’s face said no. He turned towards Fox.

  “I suppose you’d go to DCI Ralph with it anyway? That way your arse is covered if it turns out to be important.”

  Fox considered for a moment, then nodded. Rebus turned his attention back to Clarke.

  “So maybe that’s what you should do.”

  “Saunders is my priority, John.” She checked her watch. “Which means I need to get back and crack the whip.”

  “Might want to stop off at a pharmacy first,” Rebus said, indicating her stomach. “Dose of liver salts will see you right.”

  “I’ll take that under advisement,” Siobhan Clarke said.

  That evening Rebus drove the full length of Arden Street, seeking a parking space, ending up in Marchmont Crescent. Cursing his luck, he locked the car and crossed Marchmont Road, stopping in at Margiotta’s for provisions before walking home. At the top of Arden Street, he saw a figure slumped in a doorway. Heading towards it, he recognized Forbes McCuskey. The young man was dressed in his funeral suit but was missing his tie. The top three buttons of his shirt were undone, and something had been spilled on the shirt itsel
f. He had lit a cigarette and it was still wedged between two fingers, reduced to the filter and an inch of ash. Rebus nudged McCuskey’s foot with his own.

  “Wakey wakey,” he said.

  The eyes, when they blinked open, were glassy and unfocused.

  “This where you live?” Rebus asked.

  Mustering all his strength, the student turned his head to examine the door behind him.

  “Looks like,” he slurred.

  “Bit too much wine?” Rebus guessed. “Or have you been sampling the goods?” He leaned down and started to lift McCuskey to his feet. The student was wiry, almost no meat on him. The jacket of his suit was scuffed, as were his shoes.

  “How did you get here?” Rebus asked.

  “I didn’t drive,” McCuskey protested.

  “But you were driving that night, weren’t you?”

  “Had to get away.”

  “Who from?”

  But McCuskey was sagging, eyes closing again.

  “Let’s get you inside,” Rebus said, dipping a hand into various pockets in search of a key.

  “What’s your game?” Rebus turned his head towards the question. Two men the same age as Forbes McCuskey stood there, carrying grocery bags of their own. “You picking Forbes’s pockets?”

  “Is he your flatmate?” Rebus said. “Found him sparked out here. Just getting a key to unlock the door.”

  “He’s been to his father’s funeral,” one of the flatmates explained. “Leave him to us.”

  “You sure?”

  McCuskey’s eyes were blinking open again. “Policeman,” he said.

  “You want us to call the police, Forbes?” the same flatmate asked, wary eyes on Rebus.

  “He’s telling you I am the police,” Rebus explained. The two students had taken hold of their friend. Rebus took a step back. “And I’ve a message for him when he comes back down from space. Tell him his dealing days are over—Deano’s not going to be supplying anymore.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Of course you don’t. But tell him anyway.” Rebus peered into one of the flatmates’ shopping bags. “Big bag of nachos and a jar of salsa? You might as well get ‘munchies’ tattooed on your foreheads…”

  He had reached the main door of his own tenement when a car horn sounded behind him. A white Range Rover Evoque had pulled to a stop in the middle of the road, its tinted driver’s-side window sliding down. Rebus saw that Darryl Christie was behind the wheel, staring in his direction.