“Stefan,” came the reply. “We need to talk.”
“Better come up, then,” Rebus said, pushing the button to unlock the main door. He left the door to his own flat ajar and went back into the living room, wondering what the millionaire would make of it.
Entering, Gilmour surveyed his surroundings. “Thought you might have got round to a fresh coat of paint,” he commented.
“I did that ten years back.”
“Seemed a lot more homely when Rhona was in charge. How is she, by the way?”
“Fine.”
“One daughter, right?”
“Right,” Rebus said. “Do you want a drink?”
“I’m okay, thanks.”
“Take a seat, then.” Rebus settled back into his chair. There was an unfinished cigarette in the ashtray, so he relit it, squinting into the smoke.
“I’m not staying,” Gilmour told him. “Had a couple of meetings and now I’m headed back west.”
“I take it you’ve heard from Porkbelly and Dod?”
Gilmour nodded. His hands were in his coat pockets. He was dressed for business—suit and tie, gloss-black shoes not yet broken in. “Is it supposed to impress me, John, all this hounding of the Saints? You reckon you’re outside the tent now, pissing in?”
“I’m nowhere, Stefan. DI Clarke is the one with the map.”
“From what I hear, you used to own her—what happened?”
“You’ve had your spies check up on me? Better tell them they’re misinformed.”
Gilmour was studying the room again. “I could find you something better than this, you know. A penthouse in the Grange, maybe…”
“If I play along, you mean? Lead Clarke and her team a merry dance?”
“You’re living in the past, John—the fact you’re still in this flat tells me that. But Rhona’s not coming back, is she? Time you started considering your future—what there is of it.”
“Constitution of an ox,” Rebus said.
“Even so, another ten or twenty years and you’ll be history. You need to think what you’ll be leaving behind for your daughter.” “If you’ve come here to bribe me, just mention a sum.”
Gilmour seemed to consider this, then he shook his head. “You can’t be bought, John. But turning me down would give you a rush, so I’m not going to give you the opportunity.” He paused. “But I do have something.”
“Oh aye?”
Gilmour shrugged. “It’s not much. You can take it or leave it.”
“I’m all ears.”
Gilmour removed his hands from his pockets and folded them in front of him. “That old pistol—the one everybody’s so excited about…”
“Yes?”
“Dod was the one who lifted it from Porkbelly’s desk.” Gilmour paused. “Think about that, will you? Because the last time I saw that gun was thirty years ago, and it was tucked into Dod Blantyre’s waistband.”
“You spinning me another line, Stefan?”
Gilmour shrugged again. “I wanted it for myself, and Dod knew that. My last day at Summerhall, I opened the drawer to take it, but Dod laughed and wagged a finger, then patted his jacket, letting me know he’d beaten me to it.”
“He could have put it back after you’d gone.”
“You’d have to ask him. But tell this to your boss—back then I took one for the team because I deserved it. Not this time, though, not this time.”
“But you did throw Slippery Phil Kennedy down the stairs?”
“No stairs, John, and not me.”
“Then tell me what happened. And never mind all the Shadow Bible stuff. Someone killed Billy Saunders and they’re doing bugger all to stop you being put squarely in the frame. If you don’t want that to happen, I need to know.”
Gilmour considered this. Eventually he lowered himself onto the edge of the sofa, leaning forward, elbows on knees. Rebus stubbed out his cigarette and leaned forward too, as if to stress that anything said would be kept in confidence.
“What will you do with it?” Gilmour finally asked.
“I’m not sure,” Rebus admitted.
“I’d never testify in court—or a formal interview, come to that.” Rebus nodded slowly.
“Well then,” Gilmour went on, tapping the tips of his fingers together as he made his decision. “It was Porkbelly. He’d had a skinful and was itching for some action. We’d pulled Kennedy in—found him drinking in a pub near Haymarket. We did it for the hell of it.”
“You were angry about the not-proven verdict?”
“I wanted him out of my city. Best bet was to scare him into leaving. Porkbelly agreed with that. Stuck him in a cell, shouted the odds at him, then left him to stew.”
“His name was in the custody ledger?”
“Had to get rid of that afterwards,” Gilmour said, nodding.
“He died in Summerhall?”
“Porkbelly gave him a bit of a doing. One punch sent Kennedy flying over the back of his chair. Smacked his head and…We thought he was unconscious at first, but you can tell, can’t you?”
“You couldn’t have him being found like that?”
“Bruised and bloody? Stuck in a cell without good reason? No, we had to get him out of there.”
“You took him back to his house and left him at the foot of the stairs,” Rebus stated.
“That’s about the size of it.”
“Then made sure the autopsy report mentioned plenty of alcohol in his system. You and Dod in attendance with Professor Donner.”
“Best to keep Porkbelly out of it. Poor guy was in shock.”
“How come I don’t remember?”
“We didn’t know you well enough to let you in on it.”
“Donner played along, though.”
“Randy old goat—married man, but he did like the occasional call girl.”
“Arranged by you?”
“All part of the service.” Gilmour took a deep breath and rose to his feet.
“Hang on,” Rebus said. “How did Billy Saunders find out?”
“Come on, John—it’s not rocket science.”
Even so, it still took Rebus a minute. “He was in one of the cells?” he eventually offered. “Heard or saw what happened? Another reason that page had to go from the custody ledger…”
Gilmour made show of clapping his hands before sliding them back into the pockets of his coat.
“So who shot Saunders?”
“Not a clue,” Gilmour said. “Kind of depends on whether it really is the same gun, doesn’t it?” He turned to leave.
“You should take this to Clarke,” Rebus advised. “It’s the only way to clear your name.”
“I don’t need to clear my name, John—it’s enough for me that I know I had nothing to do with it. And I’m a Saint, remember—defender of the faith and all that.”
“To the death?”
“Maybe not quite that far.”
“You’ve got plenty of money, Stefan. You could fly off anytime you like.”
“Somewhere with no extradition treaty?” Gilmour gave a thoughtful smile. “Like some old-time crook, always looking over his shoulder? Not my style, John. Besides, I’ve a fight on my hands, if you hadn’t noticed.”
“The No campaign? Is that what your meetings were about?” Gilmour nodded slowly. “I trust we can rely on your vote?” “I wouldn’t rely on anything if I were you, Stefan.”
Gilmour’s gaze hardened. “Pity,” he said, making his way out of the room. Rebus followed him to the front door.
“Any word on the McCuskey case?” Gilmour was asking.
“Stalled.”
“So Owen Traynor’s involvement is at an end?”
“As far as I know.”
“Probably a good thing. I hear his latest venture has gone tits-up, creditors and HMRC on the warpath. The guy’s combustible, John…”
“Tell me, Stefan—you seem to know a few shady business types—ever come across a Rory Bell? He’s west-coast—or he was.”
r />
“Something to do with alarm systems and security guards?” Gilmour paused at the front door. “I know the name. I think a pal mentioned him a while back. In fact I bumped into the pal tonight—John McGlynn. Want me to put the two of you in touch?” Gilmour had lifted his phone from his pocket.
“If it’s not too much trouble,” Rebus said.
“Is this getting a bit awkward, John, you needing a favor from me?” Gilmour smiled. “Reckon it means you’ll owe me further down the line?” Without waiting for an answer, he made the call. “It’s gone to answering,” he informed Rebus. Then, into the mouthpiece: “Hiya, John. Stefan here. You’re probably busy, but an old cop of my acquaintance is after news of Rory Bell. Maybe you could oblige. He’s on…” Gilmour broke off to look at Rebus. Rebus recited his mobile number, while Gilmour repeated it, ending the call.
“John’s Glasgow-based, but you might get lucky—he’s this side of the country for a couple of days.”
“And he’s legit?”
“Solid gold,” Gilmour said. “I don’t exclusively hang around with wrong ’uns. It’s not like I’m a detective or anything.” He opened the door. “That stuff I just told you about Slippery Phil and Porkbelly—you really don’t know what you’re going to do with it?”
“I really don’t.”
“Any chance you’ll let me know when you decide?”
“And afterwards we’ll be square?”
Gilmour gave him a hard look. “Afterwards, I never want to see you again. Let’s make that absolutely clear.” Having said which, he walked through the open door, leaving it ajar. Rebus listened to his footsteps as he made his descent, then closed the door and returned to the living room. He put side two of the Van Morrison album on again and sat down. It played for twenty minutes or so, but he wasn’t really listening.
Day Twelve
22
Rebus drove to work next morning in what his father would have called “a dwam,” unaware of the world around him. As he got out of the Saab, he realized the car park was unfamiliar—or not as familiar as it should have been. A uniformed sergeant was puffing on a pipe in the smoking zone.
“What brings you here?” he asked.
Only then did it dawn: he had driven to St. Leonard’s police station. Hadn’t worked there in a number of years. It was where he’d been introduced to Siobhan Clarke, where they’d forged their working relationship.
“Meeting,” he explained to the uniform, making his way towards the entrance. Didn’t want the man to think he’d grown senile. Indoors, he bided his time, pretending to check his phone for texts. When the coast was clear, he headed to the car park again, got back in the Saab and wondered where to go.
Maybe that was the problem right there—Clarke was in Wester Hailes with the Saunders murder; at Torphichen, Nick Ralph was running the Pat McCuskey inquiry. Leaving Rebus with what? The only thing waiting for him at Gayfield Square was an irritable James Page and a workload of desk-tidying. When his phone rang, he hoped to hell the caller might give him some direction.
It was Christine Esson, and she did. “The boss wants to know where you are—he’s got a job for you.”
“Tell him I’m on my way.”
“But are you?”
“Oh ye of little faith. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“You’ve not seen the snarl-up at the Conan Doyle roundabout—I’ll tell him fifteen to be on the safe side.”
“Twenty quid says ten.”
“Oh aye? Parked outside, are you?”
“I’m at St. Leonard’s.” Rebus repeated the bet.
“Starting now,” Esson said, after a moment’s calculation.
“You’re on.”
Rebus knew better than to head for North Bridge and Leith Street. Instead, he drove through Holyrood Park and out the other side, taking Abbey Hill and Royal Terrace and missing the worst of the congestion. He took the stairs two at a time and was in front of Esson’s desk in eleven and a half minutes.
“A good try,” she conceded.
“Call it a tenner, then.” Rebus held out his hand.
“John!” Page barked. “In here!”
“I’ll be back,” Rebus warned Esson, receiving only a smirk for his efforts.
“What time do you call this?” Page was asking when Rebus entered the room. He was behind his desk, laptop open in front of him.
“Had to drop into St. Leonard’s,” Rebus explained.
“Whatever for?”
“Running an errand for Siobhan. But now that I’m here, how can I help?”
“Another errand, I suppose. You heard they pulled a body out of Leith Docks yesterday afternoon?”
“No.”
“Adult male. Autopsy is in an hour’s time.”
“Suspicious death?”
“That’s what I’m hoping we’ll find out.”
“By ‘we,’ I assume you mean me?”
Page nodded.
“Anything I should know? Got a name for the deceased?”
“Don’t think so.”
“And you picked me over Esson, Ogilvie or any other poor sod because…?”
“Look, it’s simple enough—just go oversee the postmortem exam and then report back. I know it lacks the glamor of a shooting or the death of an MSP, but it’s still part of life’s rich tapestry.” Busying himself at his computer, he flicked the fingers of one hand in Rebus’s direction, indicating that the meeting was over.
Back in the main office, Esson was trying not to look smug.
“You might have bloody warned me,” Rebus complained.
“You’re the one who was in a hurry,” she shot back. “Besides, I hear there’s a new pathologist—might be fun to be had there.”
“Oh, the mortuary’s a nonstop riot,” Rebus drawled. “You better have my winnings ready when I get back…”
“You’re too late,” the attendant said. “We had to bring it forward an hour.”
Rebus had been to the mortuary many times. There was a large storage area at ground level with a concrete floor that was regularly cleaned with a pressure hose. One whole wall comprised metal roller-drawers where the corpses were stored, with a separate smaller room off for worst-case scenarios. Vans could be backed in through a bay door from the car park, keeping the general public unaware of the building’s primary use. Labs and autopsy suite were one floor up, along with staff offices, the viewing room, and a waiting area for next of kin.
“She’s probably phoning in her report as we speak.”
“She?”
“Professor Quant.”
“Any chance of a word with her?”
The attendant nodded towards the flight of stairs. “She’s got to be elsewhere in twenty minutes,” he cautioned.
But Rebus was already on his way.
The door was ajar, but he tapped on it anyway. Quant had already changed out of her scrubs and was ending a call at her desk.
“You’re DS Rebus?” she asked.
“That’s right.”
“I was just telling DCI Page…”
“You had to bring the autopsy forward.”
“I need to be at a lecture.” She glanced at her wristwatch.
“I could give you a lift.”
“Quicker walking—it’s just by the McEwan Hall.”
“I’ll walk with you, then.”
She fixed him with her blue eyes. Mascara coated her eyelashes and thick red hair fell to her shoulders and just beyond. Rebus placed her in her midforties, maybe a touch older. No rings on any of her fingers, but that could have been for professional reasons. The backs of her hands were pink, perhaps from the scrubbing they’d just been given.
“Just so you can update me,” Rebus explained.
“Fine then,” she said, gathering paperwork into a capacious leather bag before lifting her coat from the back of the chair and putting it on, Rebus resisting a sudden urge to help.
“Always supposing the case is worth updating,” he fe
lt it necessary to qualify.
“I’m trying to find time for a second examination later today—if I can locate another pathologist to work with me.”
“Oh?”
She was looking around the cramped space, making sure she hadn’t forgotten anything.
“It’s a strange one,” she said.
“He didn’t drown, then?”
“Dead when he entered the water. The question is: for how long?” She saw the look he was giving her. “I’m thinking months,” she explained. “Possibly even years.”
“Years?”
“Spent seated, judging by the way the bones have fused.”
“Professor, are we talking about a skeleton here?”
“There’s skin, but it has all but mummified. Hard to say much more right now. Body probably wasn’t in the water for more than a couple of days—the dock isn’t exactly tidal, so it almost certainly was disposed of there rather than being washed up from elsewhere.” She grew thoughtful. “That’s about as much as I was able to tell DCI Page. Sure you still want that walk?”
“I’m sure,” Rebus said, holding open the door.
They climbed from the Cowgate to Chambers Street, Rebus working hard to keep up with her.
“So you’re the notorious John Rebus?” she asked.
“You must be thinking of someone else.”
“I don’t think so. You knew Professors Gates and Curt?”
“Worked with them for years.”
“I think it was Professor Curt who mentioned you. He used to teach me, back in the day. You featured in a few of his war stories.” They were passing the museum, and she asked him if he’d been in.
“Not since it reopened,” he admitted.
“You should.”
“Are you sure about this corpse, Professor Quant?”
“My name’s Deborah. And I’ll admit I have more questions than answers right now.”
“Nothing to identify the body?”
“He was naked when they pulled him out of the water. No obvious tattoos or scars. Fair haired, five feet ten. I’d say he weighed around a hundred and seventy pounds at one time—bit of a paunch. Someone from Forensics will be there when we do the next examination. There were fibers stuck to the body. I’m guessing he was wrapped in something.” She stopped walking for a moment. “I did read somewhere about a similar case—husband couldn’t bear to part with his wife, so he left her in the chair where she died, wouldn’t let anyone into the room for the best part of five years.”