Saints of the Shadow Bible

  “You haven’t moved up the property ladder, then?” Christie said.

  “How about you?” Rebus countered. “Still living with your mum?”

  “Penthouse the other side of the Meadows,” Christie corrected him. “Got time for a quick word?”

  “Just barely.”

  “Get in, then.”

  Rebus walked around to the passenger side and climbed aboard, placing his shopping on the floor by his feet. Christie drove to the bottom of Arden Street and took a right.

  “We headed anywhere in particular?”

  “I just like to keep on the move. That way there’s less chance of anyone listening in.”

  “You’re a bit young to be suffering paranoid delusions.”

  “What about that guy back there—what was he suffering from?”

  “He’d just been to a wake.”

  “I sort of recognized him.”

  “Son of the Justice Minister. So what can I do for you, Darryl?”

  “One of your colleagues pulled my doorman in for questioning.”

  “Yes?”

  “Second time he’s been questioned, so I’m curious.”

  “Nothing to be curious about—you told us yourself that Dean Grant had been on duty that night. We just needed to know if he’d seen who got into the minicab.”

  “And?”

  “Why not ask him yourself?”

  “I have.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He’s paid to deal with trouble, not make it.”

  “Pretty much chimes with the story we got—he didn’t see anything. A bit hard for us to believe, him being on the door and everything, so we had to push that bit further.” Rebus gauged Christie’s reaction to this. If he accepted it, Dean would stay in a job and might end up convinced he owed Rebus a favor at some point in the future. The Range Rover had reached the traffic lights at Buccleuch Street. Christie signaled right, then right again. They were making a circuit. Once the speed bumps on narrow Melville Terrace had been negotiated, they’d more or less be back where they’d started. Waiting for traffic to clear, Rebus couldn’t help looking towards the site of Summerhall police station. Here he was, thirty years down the line, still sharing oxygen with villains. But Darryl Christie seemed to represent change. He was young and hungry, yes, and venal too, but he was also clever—not just street-smart but calculating and astute. Having no weight of his own to throw around, he had found other avenues to success.

  “The thing is,” Christie was saying now, “CID interest is bad for business, and business being what it is right now…”

  “Don’t tell me the downturn’s hurting you?”

  “Economy’s tough for all of us, Mr. Rebus. There’s a lot of competition out there, and when markets contract you try to find new ones, even if that means encroaching.”

  “Turf wars? Are you being squeezed?”

  “Maybe not quite yet.”

  “But you can feel it coming?” Rebus watched as Darryl Christie nodded slowly. “There was a car crash just over a week back, out by Kirkliston. Midevening. We’ve got a few theories.”

  “Yes?”

  “One is boy racers.”

  “And the other?”

  “The driver was doing small-time deals right here in Edinburgh. He had a local supplier, but I’m thinking maybe he got greedy or wanted to move up the food chain.”

  “Was he anywhere near Livingston?”

  Rebus stared at the side of Christie’s head. “It’s possible.”

  “Only there’s someone out that way…Not originally; originally he was Glasgow, but he couldn’t hack it there—if you’ll pardon the expression. He moved out to Ayrshire, Lanarkshire…”

  “And now Livingston? Very much your neck of the woods, Darryl.”

  “Some people think competition can be healthy.” Christie was keeping his eyes on the road, when they weren’t checking the rearview mirror. Each turn he made, he signaled first, always stopping at Give Ways. Rebus had thought Fox a cautious driver, but this was something else again.

  “He’s selling drugs?” he asked.

  “Just starting to, I think. You’d be doing me a favor if you took him out of the game for a while.” Christie allowed himself a thin smile. “Name’s Rory Bell.”

  “I’m a bit busy right now to be doing favors for gangsters.”

  “Then you’re probably not much use to me.” As Christie signaled to pull to a stop at the foot of Arden Street, he turned his face towards Rebus for the first time. “Does DI Clarke think I’ll ever use Dean Grant again? Whether he told you anything or not, he’s off the payroll. Damaged goods, Mr. Rebus—no place for them in today’s harsh economic climate, and that’s the truth.”

  Rebus pushed open the door and got out, retrieving his carrier bag. As Darryl Christie drove off, he appeared to have forgotten all about his recent passenger, his focus on the road in front of him absolute.

  “Oh well,” Rebus muttered under his breath. “Sorry about that, Deano.”

  “I just wanted to thank you,” Fox said. He was sitting with Siobhan Clarke at a table in a boisterous Italian restaurant near the top of Leith Walk. It was early evening, but a coach party was taking advantage of the pretheater menu before heading to the Playhouse.

  “For what?” Clarke asked.

  “Putting a word in with Rebus.”

  “Did I do that?” She furrowed her brow.

  “You told him you thought I was okay.”

  “And for that I deserve to be bought dinner?”

  “You can’t live on cheeseburgers.”

  “Don’t remind me.” She made show of rubbing her stomach, stopping as the drinks arrived—a large Pinot Grigio for her, tomato juice for Fox. “How long have you been dry?” she asked.

  “Long enough to know it’s the way it has to be. Have you ever tried persuading John to stop?”

  “Once or twice. He seems to cope, though.”

  “I think the term is ‘functioning alcoholic.’”

  “Whereas you…?”

  “Come with a history of malfunctioning.” He paused. “Doesn’t mean I envy him the ability to keep drinking. It’s taking more out of him than he gets back, whether he knows it or not.”

  “You’ve talked to him?”

  Fox shook his head. “What’s the point? But I can see he’s worried. Not about the drink, but about his job. He wonders how long he has left.”

  “And without the job…”

  Fox shrugged. “What else has he got?”

  “How about you, Malcolm—what have you got?”

  “My dad and my sister. Plus my team from the Complaints. We still meet up.”

  “Might be a bit of distance between you and them now you’re CID…”

  Fox nodded. “And I know I have to earn my place. Nobody’s going to trust me at the start. But plenty of others have made the move before me—it can be done.”

  Clarke nodded her agreement. Their food arrived and they ate in silence for a few moments, while fresh laughter erupted from the table of revelers.

  “Nice to know there’s another world out there,” Fox commented. “Too easy sometimes to let the job smother us.”

  “Though having said that…”

  Fox looked at her and smiled. “You want to talk about the case?”

  “I’m wondering if you think there might be a connection. Dean Grant sells drugs to Forbes McCuskey. He’s also one of the last people to see Billy Saunders alive. Saunders and Forbes’s father both end up dead.”

  “And Summerhall?”

  “Ties to Saunders but not to Pat McCuskey—unless I’m missing something.”

  “Stefan Gilmour,” Fox stated.

  “You mean because he was on the opposing team in the independence fight?” Clarke nodded slowly while she chewed. “But I don’t sense any animosity between the two men—far from it. People we’ve talked to say they had a lot of respect for one another.”

  “Maybe a facade.”


  Now she shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

  “You want to amalgamate with DCI Ralph? Turn the two cases into one?”

  “I don’t know. Your money would still be on Summerhall, wouldn’t it?”

  “Yes. But in the meantime, I’d probably want Nick Ralph to know that Forbes McCuskey’s father was sleeping with Forbes’s good friend Alice.”

  “Could the wife have suspected?”

  “She might need to be asked that.”

  “I should phone Nick?”

  “I would.”

  “And if Alice Bell denies it?”

  “Then she denies it.”

  “How did John get her to own up?” Clarke asked, eyes narrowed in thought.

  “The man does have his qualities,” Fox said, reaching for his tomato juice as the table of theatergoers began singing a chorus from Oliver! He saw that Clarke was worried, unable to relax. “It’s a big case, Siobhan, but you couldn’t be handling it any better.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I’m not just buttering you up.”

  “I’m sure you’re not.”

  One of the women from the very vocal table squeezed by them on her way to the toilets.

  “Love’s young dream,” she clucked.

  “If only she knew,” Malcolm Fox commented.

  “John,” Maggie Blantyre said, eyes widening as she recognized him. He was standing on the doorstep of the bungalow, collar up against a sudden flurry of sleet.

  “Mind if I come in?” he asked.

  It took her a moment to decide. “I was just tidying away the dinner things…” She stood back and opened the door a little more. Rebus stepped into the hallway.

  “Do you get any help?” he asked.

  “Help?”

  “With Dod.”

  “Someone comes in at bedtime, and again first thing in the morning.”

  “And that’s it?”

  “It’s as much as he’ll allow. Here, let me take your coat. Is anything wrong?”

  “Just thought I’d drop by.”

  “If I’d known you were coming.” She dabbed her fingers to her face.

  “You look fine,” he assured her, while she draped his coat over the banister. “Dod’s not in bed, is he?”

  “In his chair.” She motioned towards the sitting room door. “Watching TV while I wash up. Do you want a cup of tea?”

  “Tea would be great. I’ll just go say hello.”

  She nodded and began backing towards the kitchen as Rebus headed for the sitting room. Dod Blantyre was in his usual chair, and seemed to be wearing the same clothes as on Rebus’s previous visit, but with a stained tea towel draped around his neck.

  “Thought I recognized the voice,” he said.

  “Evening, Dod.”

  “Get this thing off me, will you?” Blantyre gestured with a trembling hand towards the tea towel. The room smelled of stewed beef. Rebus undid the towel and draped it over the arm of Blantyre’s chair. There was a trolley nearby with a beaker of liquid on it.

  “Want a drink?” Rebus asked.

  “Double whisky, if you’re buying.” Blantyre tried twisting his mouth into a smile.

  “Thought it was your round,” Rebus replied, smiling back.

  “What brings you here, John?”

  “Just wondered how you were doing.”

  “I’m doing my best not to die—not just yet. I see Stefan’s been getting a kicking from your lot.”

  Rebus nodded. “Silly of him to phone Saunders in the first place.”

  “Not a crime, though.”

  “Maybe not.”

  “They’ve not talked to me yet, but I know they want to.” Rebus nodded.

  “And you too?”

  “And Porkbelly.”

  “Are you here to make sure we get our stories straight?”

  “I’m here because…”

  Rebus broke off as Maggie nudged open the door, carrying a tray. She’d made a whole pot of tea, and added a plate of chocolate digestives.

  “Milk?” she inquired.

  “And no sugar.” Rebus took the mug from her. It bore the Airfix logo and a painting of a Spitfire. “You used to make models,” he said to Blantyre, suddenly remembering.

  “That’s right.”

  “There were a couple of them on your desk at Summerhall.”

  “He’d spend hours on them,” Maggie Blantyre added. “Tiny pots of paint lying everywhere. Each detail had to be perfect.”

  “Just like police work, eh, John?” Blantyre said.

  “Just like,” Rebus echoed.

  “John and me need a minute to ourselves,” Blantyre informed his wife.

  “To do with that man Saunders?”

  “Less you know, the better.”

  She hesitated. Then she spotted the tea towel and picked it up. “I’ll be in the kitchen,” she snapped, striding from the room. Rebus sipped from his mug and sat on the corner of the sofa nearest to Blantyre’s chair.

  “How much does she know?” he asked.

  Blantyre managed to shake his head. “How much do you know?” he said.

  “Tell me about Philip Kennedy.”

  “Care to give me a clue?”

  “Slippery Phil. We got him as far as court but the verdict was not proven. Next thing, he’s found dead at home with a broken neck.”

  “Yes?”

  “You attended the postmortem examination.”

  “Did I?”

  “According to Professor Norman Cuttle.”

  “Bloody hell—is he still alive?”

  “Good memory on him, too. Remembers you and Stefan being present. Then the senior pathologist—Professor Donner—invents an excuse to get him out of the room. When he returns, Kennedy’s stomach has been opened and Stefan has emptied a hip flask of whisky into it. Why would he do that, Dod? You were there, so I’m assuming you know the answer.”

  “What does Stefan say?”

  “Stefan thinks I should mind my own business—but this is my business.”

  “Kennedy was a scumbag of the first order, John.”

  “I’m not going to argue about that. But Stefan killed him and made it look like an accident. I mean, maybe it was an accident. I’m not saying he meant to push him down those stairs. But it happened, and he was quick to arrange a cover-up. Probably left one or two empty bottles lying around the place, but then realized that the autopsy would show Kennedy hadn’t been drinking. Donner was a mate and open to a bit of bribery. Cuttle wasn’t, and had to be out of the room for it to work.” Rebus paused, and leaned forward. “But you were there, Dod. So you know how it went down.”

  “You’re jumping to conclusions, John.”

  “I hadn’t been a Saint long enough to be let in on it. But somehow Billy Saunders found out, and that meant he could kill Douglas Merchant knowing Stefan and you owed him one huge favor. Thirty years later, he might be on his way to jail again and he doesn’t want that. He’d be happy to trade what he knows. Stefan couldn’t let that happen…”

  Blantyre was trying to shake his head, his shoulders jerking.

  “Remember the gun, Dod?” Rebus asked. “The one taken from Laurie Martin? The Saunders inquiry knows all about it. They think it’s the same one they pulled from the canal, the one used to shoot Billy Saunders. Now isn’t that neat? It disappears from Porkbelly’s drawer and thirty years later turns up again…”

  Blantyre fixed Rebus with a heavy-lidded stare. The silence stretched until he broke it.

  “Remember your promise, John? That night in the pub? The oath you swore?”

  The years melted away. Rebus remembered all right. A bar on Buccleuch Street, just along from Summerhall. The regular haunt of the Saints. Rebus wasn’t sure the owner liked this, but he put up with it. A place filled with billowing smoke and curses, the waft of stale urine every time someone opened the door to the toilets. A Friday evening probably, hence the densely packed bar, Rebus having just got in the drinks. Then Dod Blantyre at his
shoulder, offering to carry a couple of them back to the table. But tightening a hand around Rebus’s forearm first, leaning in so that his lips brushed Rebus’s left ear.

  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.”