“You think that’s what happened here?”
“All I know is there are no immediate signs of violence.”
“Who spotted the body?”
“A jogger. Usual story—mistook it for a bag of rubbish at first.” She had resumed walking, turning left out of Chambers Street and heading down Bristo Place. “We’re almost there,” she said, checking her watch again. “And for once I’m going to start on time.”
“You lecture in the medical faculty?”
She nodded. “Are you going all the way back to the mortuary now to collect your car?”
“Yes,” he admitted, earning a smile. “What time’s the second autopsy?”
“If I can find a willing helper, four forty-five. Will I see you there?”
“Hopefully.”
They were on Teviot Place now, at the entrance to her building. She held out her hand and he shook it. The hand was slender, and he could feel the bones beneath the skin. Then she headed through the archway and was gone.
“Fucking mummies now,” Rebus muttered to himself, readying to retrace his route. His phone rang and he answered it.
“Why is nothing ever simple with you, John?” Page asked.
“I didn’t ask for the assignment.”
“From what Professor Quant tells me, we have a suspicious death at the very least.”
“She told me that too.”
“You saw her, then? I hear she’s a fine-looking specimen.”
“You’re misinformed,” Rebus responded, ending the call and searching his pockets for his cigarettes.
He met Eamonn Paterson at a lunchtime pub on Raeburn Place. Rebus was seated at a corner table when Paterson arrived. Paterson got himself a pint of lager, Rebus shaking away the offer.
“What the hell is that?” the older man asked, nodding towards the bright green drink in front of Rebus.
“Lime juice and soda—Siobhan Clarke swears by it.”
“I’d swear too if you plonked one in front of me.” Paterson picked up the menu and studied it. “You eating?”
“I’m fine,” Rebus said.
“Just want to get down to business, eh?” Paterson put the menu back and took a mouthful of lager.
“The thing is, Porkbelly, I know about Phil Kennedy.”
“Oh aye?”
Rebus nodded slowly, his eyes on his old friend. “You had him on a chair in the cell, giving him a doing. He smacks his head and that’s that. To cover your arse, the body’s taken back to his house and arranged at the foot of the stairs. The relevant bit of the custody ledger is torn out so no one’s any the wiser—except Billy Saunders, who heard everything from the cell next door.”
Paterson stared at the table, as if committing to memory the pattern of its grain. He was holding his glass but not drinking from it. Eventually he sniffed and rubbed at his nose. But still he failed to make eye contact with Rebus, finding the window, the walls and the bar staff more interesting.
“Aye,” he said at last, stretching the single syllable as far as he could. Then he risked meeting Rebus’s gaze. “You found out from Saunders? He wrote it down somewhere?”
“Doesn’t matter how I found out.”
“It can always be denied, you know. There’s no actual proof.”
“You’re right.”
“And it really was an accident, if it was anything.”
“The cover-up was no accident, though. It was planned to almost the last detail.”
“Almost?”
“The custody ledger, and the presence in the vicinity of Billy Saunders. He cuts a deal: you’ll go out of your way to see he gets off next time he’s arrested. He knew precisely what he was going to do—batter Douglas Merchant to death. And if you didn’t help him, he’d tell everyone what he knew. Wouldn’t just be you with your head on the block; it’d be Gilmour and Blantyre too, plus Professor Donner, and I’m guessing Magnus Henderson had to be in on it—hard to tamper with the ledger without the custody sergeant knowing.”
“Magnus Henderson is dead, John. Professor Donner is dead. So is Saunders, and our old friend Dod Blantyre hasn’t much longer to go. Ask yourself what any of this—any of it—is going to achieve.”
“Probably not much,” Rebus conceded. “But a man was shot dead in cold blood in the present day. Are you going to tell me that doesn’t matter?”
“It matters,” Paterson said. “Of course it matters.”
“Do you know what happened to that pistol, Porkbelly?”
Paterson considered how to answer. Another mouthful of lager gave him courage. “I always thought Stefan lifted it. It was never seen again after he left Summerhall for the last time.” He managed the most rueful of smiles. “When he started making a go of his business, I used to wonder if he maybe produced it at meetings to get the signatures on the relevant documents.”
“It’s a thought,” Rebus said.
“You’re not managing to sound convinced. You know, we kept you out of it as a way of protecting you.”
“Protecting me?”
“The less you knew, the better.”
“What about Frazer Spence—was he in on it?”
“You were still the apprentice back then, John—Frazer had served his time.”
“Meaning you didn’t trust me?”
“We didn’t know how you’d react.”
“Thanks very much.” Rebus pushed his garish drink aside. “You say Stefan had the pistol? That must mean you think he shot Billy Saunders?”
“I doubt I’m alone in that.”
“You’re not—doesn’t make it the truth, though.”
“Is it the truth that’s needed here, or just a convincing story? My bet is any one of us would do as far as your friend Fox is concerned.” Paterson paused. “That’s why we should offer him Frazer.”
“The more you and Stefan try to use Frazer, the more I realize how much of a lie the Saints were. And here’s the thing—Frazer used to send titbits Albert Stout’s way, but never once did he give the press anything on you or Stefan or the rest of us. He went to his grave with whatever dirt on you he had, and now you’re offering him up as a sacrifice.”
Paterson seemed to have no answer to this. He lifted his glass again, but put it down without drinking. “We’re old men, John. You think I’d do any of the stuff I did in Summerhall, knowing what I do now? Every night I lie in my bed and think back on the people we were. But you won’t find those versions of us anymore.”
“Except for whoever killed Billy Saunders. And it wasn’t Frazer Spence.”
“Stefan isn’t going to own up to it.”
“The meeting with Saunders had to be arranged—somewhere traces will exist. Maybe on CCTV, maybe on a phone. Siobhan Clarke won’t rest till she’s peered into every last corner.”
“Good luck to her.” Paterson was rising to his feet. “Next time I see you might be Dod’s funeral—you realize that?” He took one last look at the contents of Rebus’s glass. “Soft drinks and playing things by the book. Who’d have thought it?”
Rebus watched as his one-time colleague left the pub. There was a slight limp—maybe his hip was playing up. And a stoop to the spine, too. But at one time Paterson had struck a fearsome figure—using his heft to intimidate suspects, hardening his face to suggest violence was not out of the question. Rebus could well visualize him tipping Phil Kennedy out of his chair. Maybe that was as far as it had gone. Then again, with Kennedy’s head resting against the cold concrete floor, the temptation would have been to haul it up by the hair and thump it down again. Rebus remembered Stefan Gilmour rubbing his hands together as if washing them clean. He had glimpses of entering the CID office and the conversation ending, or changing.
The less you knew, the better…
Still the apprentice…
“Not anymore,” Rebus said to himself, heading to the bar for a whisky.
23
Good of you to meet me,” Rebus said, shaking John McGlynn’s hand. McGlynn was youn
ger than he’d expected and wore a black V-neck T-shirt below the jacket of his tailored suit. They were in the foyer of the Balmoral Hotel on Princes Street.
“I can only offer a few minutes,” McGlynn apologized.
“Probably all I’ll need.”
There were some chairs by the reception desk, so they sat down. McGlynn exuded restless energy, his eyes alive to possibilities. “Stefan said you’re interested in Rory Bell,” he began.
“I don’t know much about him.”
“Am I allowed to ask why he’s on your radar?”
“I’m afraid not.”
McGlynn digested this. “Well I can’t say it surprises me. A few businesses got on the wrong side of him when he tried selling them his services.”
“I’ve heard the rumors. Is that what happened to you?”
McGlynn shook his head. “He came to me looking for a favor, actually. Couple of years back, this was. I own a few car parks in Glasgow, and Bell was interested. No way I wanted him as a partner, though—or anywhere near my firm. But I did seem to whet his appetite. Next thing, he’d got himself a couple of multistories—one by Edinburgh Airport and the other in Livingston.”
“The airport?”
McGlynn nodded. “Your ears seem to have pricked up.”
“Might be something or nothing.” Near the crash scene…Bell’s niece’s pals going off the road…
“Would that be a genuine something or nothing or a policeman’s something or nothing?” McGlynn was smiling.
“Do I need to answer that?”
“Not really.”
“Anything else you can share regarding Rory Bell?”
“He’s left me and mine well alone—I’d hate to think that might change because I’ve talked to you.”
“It won’t.”
“I’m only here because of Stefan.”
Rebus nodded slowly. “You’ve known Stefan a while?”
“A few years.”
“Get on well with him?”
“I’ve no complaints.” McGlynn checked the time.
“He’s had a bit of bad publicity lately—you reckon he’s coping with it?”
“He’s Stefan Gilmour—bullets bounce off him.” McGlynn was rising to his feet, extending a hand for Rebus to shake. “Are you telling me his armor might be weakening?”
“Would that cause something of a feeding frenzy?”
“Business is business, Mr. Rebus. Lot of hungry mouths out there…”
With a farewell nod, McGlynn walked in the direction of the restaurant, a member of staff giving a little bow as they met. Rebus headed out front, where his car was parked. The tram works were just as bad this end of Princes Street. He listened to the gripes of the Balmoral’s liveried doorman as he smoked a cigarette.
“Place deserves better than this,” the doorman told him. “Capital city? Makes what we’re doing to it a capital crime.”
“So tell me who to arrest,” Rebus offered.
“What would be the point? Damage is already done.”
“True enough,” Rebus said, unlocking the Saab and getting in.
He preferred Glasgow to Edinburgh, though he chose to live in neither. Partly it was the people—too many of them, mostly just passing through. Then there was the narrowness of the streets, which felt claustrophobic. The layout made no sense until you drove into the New Town, and even there the roadworks and diversions meant you could not rely on satnav. No matter how much time you’d given yourself, it almost always took longer to get anywhere.
He was in a white van today, nicely anonymous. A small van, empty apart from a set of overalls, some everyday tools and a liter-sized pot of paint. Reaching his destination, he found a parking space and got out, climbing into the blue workman’s overalls. He saw the name on the intercom, and pressed one of the other buttons. Someone was home, and they buzzed him in; didn’t even ask his business. That was Edinburgh for you: people kept to themselves, no interest in others. Up the stairs, pausing at the top and listening at the letter box. No hint of life within. It had taken a while to track the place down. The Golf had been registered to an address in London, surname Traynor. But then at the funeral the McCuskey son had been pictured with his girlfriend, named in the media as Jessica Traynor. Simple enough after that, and here he was. He looked around. The skylight above him was covered in protective mesh and bird crap. The interior walls were cream-colored and graffiti-free. And the door was pale green. Pale green was fine. Crouching, he prized the lid from the paint with a screwdriver. The paint was a lighter shade of red than he would have liked—not quite the color of blood. Taking a step back so as to avoid the splash, he made ready to deliver his message.
The same mortuary attendant told Rebus that once again his timing was off.
“They were due to start at quarter to five,” Rebus complained, receiving a shrug in response.
Rather than interrupt proceedings, Rebus took a seat in the viewing area. Glass panels separated him from the action, and there were rows of uncomfortable benches to sit on. He had always meant to ask someone about the benches—it seemed to him that a couple of dozen onlookers could be accommodated, but he’d never seen more than a handful at a time make use of them.
Noticing him, Deborah Quant gave a little wave with one of her instruments. She was dressed in scrubs and a face mask, as was her companion. Rebus guessed the man must be the forensics bod Quant had mentioned. An assistant worked in the background, bagging and labeling. The whole procedure looked painstaking, and was being recorded by a microphone which also transmitted to a speaker in the ceiling above Rebus.
“We had to start a bit early,” Quant said for his benefit. “Professor Thomas here is a forensic anthropologist. He has to be in Glasgow for a professional dinner.”
Without knowing who the visitor was, Professor Thomas gave Rebus a nod of greeting. He looked young—younger even than Quant. He asked a second assistant to take close-up photographs of one patch of skin. The cadaver lay on its front—Rebus could make out the fair hair on its head, and the folds of skin covering the skeleton.
“Difficult to tell how far the injuries predate death,” Thomas commented.
“Professor Thomas,” Quant explained, again for Rebus’s benefit, “has found evidence of bruising. Nothing that would have caused a fatality, unless there were underlying health issues.” She paused. “I missed them first time round.”
“Easily confused with lividity,” Thomas reassured her.
“Death occurred two to three years ago.” Quant’s eyes were on Rebus. “A DNA fingerprint should be straightforward enough, but someone needs to check the missing persons files—for the whole of the UK.”
“No biggie, then,” Rebus muttered, knowing she couldn’t hear him. She could see him, though, and smiled, sensing what he was thinking. He tapped a finger against the top of one arm.
“Distinguishing features?” she asked her colleague.
“No tattoos. No scars. No signs he was ever operated on. Dental records might be another route to establishing identity. I’d say the work was basic British NHS. Calluses on hands suggest manual labor of some kind. Or maybe he just enjoyed DIY. Ingrowing toenail on left foot, but hard to say if he’d had it treated or not. Nothing very exciting in the stomach or lungs. He was probably a moderate smoker. Might have killed him eventually.”
Rebus did a mime of a knife slashing a throat.
“Suspicious death?” Quant asked.
“The fact is, he hadn’t been in the water more than a day or two, and died several years before. So whether the death is suspicious or not, there are questions that need answering.”
Quant turned her attention to Rebus again. “Body was wrapped in something woolen—maybe a tartan travel rug; we have blue and red fibers. It covered the torso and the legs to just above the knees. This would have had to happen soon after death for the skin to adhere to the fibers. Once atrophy sets in, the epidermis is less obliging.”
Rebus nodded slowly, then
mimed taking a drink. Quant’s forehead creased.
“Was he a drinker?”
Her colleague looked up, but Rebus was shaking his head and pointing at her.
“Oh,” she said. “No, sorry, I’m busy later.”
“Too busy to attend the Glasgow dinner,” Professor Thomas added, sounding put out.
Rebus shrugged and mouthed the words “Just an idea.” She nodded and got back to work.
It was dark by the time Siobhan Clarke and Malcolm Fox reached the canal. It had been Fox’s idea—try to work through the sequence of events. So they had parked on the industrial estate and started off from the alley where Billy Saunders had been sleeping.
“Though we don’t know for sure this is where he was,” Clarke argued, buttoning her coat against gusts that seemed to have originated in the Arctic.
“We don’t,” Fox agreed. “But he wanted a meeting nearby, somewhere he felt he knew the terrain. Once he was on the towpath, he would have plenty of notice of anyone coming from either direction.”
“He didn’t trust the person he was meeting?”
Fox nodded. “Maybe reckoned they’d bring backup.”
“Stefan Gilmour and the Saints?”
Fox just shrugged. They were clambering up the slope. The canal wasn’t well lit. In fact, the only real illumination came from lampposts beyond its other bank, behind railings and next to the main road.
“Someone could have been watching from there,” Clarke surmised.
“Watching, yes. But to get to the nearest bridge and then end up here…that’s a walk of a good five or six minutes.”
Clarke folded her arms. “And Saunders was shot at close range. So whether he trusted his visitor or not, he allowed them to get close.”
“Close enough to talk.”
“Talk or listen.” Clarke thought for a moment. “Let me know if any of this leads you to believe we’re not discussing Stefan Gilmour…”