Ian Rankin - Saints of the Shadow Bible

‘Bloody hell,’ he said.

‘Sorry, sir. I was just leaving.’

‘You’ve been to see Jessica?’

Rebus nodded.

‘And?’

‘And what, Mr Traynor?’

‘Do you still think that boyfriend of hers was behind the steering wheel?’

‘It’s a scenario.’

‘Well maybe she’ll tell me.’

Rebus doubted it, but didn’t say as much. ‘Probably simpler for everyone if we just drop it,’ he suggested instead. ‘Whatever the truth is, Jessica’s standing by Mr McCuskey.’

‘Yes, but if he did that to her. .’

‘Like I say, sir, better to just let it be. We don’t want anyone doing something daft, do we?’

Traynor stared at him.

‘You see what I’m saying?’ Rebus went on.

‘I’m not sure that I do,’ Traynor drawled.

‘You have a reputation, Mr Traynor. And I’m interested how you came by your friends in the Met.’

‘Maybe I’m just a member of the right clubs.’ Traynor began edging past Rebus, making for the hospital entrance.

‘My town, my rules,’ Rebus called out. But Owen Traynor showed no sign of having heard.

‘Thanks for meeting me,’ Malcolm Fox said, rising from the table and extending a hand towards Siobhan Clarke. ‘What can I get you?’

‘Brian’s already on it.’ She nodded towards the counter. The café owner was busy at the espresso machine. The place was only a hundred yards or so down Leith Walk from Gayfield Square, but she didn’t know any other cops who frequented it. Making it a safe rendezvous, more or less.

Clarke slid on to the banquette opposite Fox. They’d met before, but just barely.

‘I heard you were on your way out of the Complaints,’ she said. ‘That can’t be comfortable.’

‘No,’ Fox agreed, rubbing a hand across the tabletop.

Reorganisation again — internal-affairs officers were not exempt. Their Edinburgh office was about to be trimmed. Besides which, Fox had served his allotted time. He was being shipped back to CID, where he would work alongside men and women he’d investigated, in stations he’d investigated, stations where he would be mistrusted if not reviled.

The café owner brought over Clarke’s cappuccino and asked Fox if he wanted a refill. Fox nodded.

‘Black coffee, no sugar,’ he reminded the man.

‘Because you’re already too sweet?’ Clarke pretended to guess, eliciting a wry smile. She leaned back a little and turned to watch the pedestrians on the pavement outside. ‘So why am I fraternising with the enemy?’ she asked.

‘Maybe because you know I’m not the enemy. The Complaints exists so that cops like you — the good cops — can thrive.’

‘I bet you’ve said that before.’

‘Many times.’

She turned towards him. He still had the same wry smile on his face.

‘You need a favour?’ she guessed, receiving a slow nod by way of reply. His coffee arrived and he touched the rim of the saucer with the tips of his fingers.

‘It’s to do with John Rebus,’ he stated.

‘Of course it is.’

‘I’ve got to talk to him.’

‘I’m not stopping you.’

‘The thing is, Siobhan, I need him to talk. And if the request comes from me, he’ll doubtless respond with a few choice words.’

‘Request?’

‘Order, then. And it won’t be coming from me, not ultimately. .’

‘The Solicitor General?’ Clarke suggested. Fox tried not to look too surprised that she knew. ‘I saw her making a beeline for you at the Chief’s leaving do.’

‘She’s entrusted me with a job.’

‘A Complaints job?’

‘My last,’ he said quietly, staring at his saucer.

‘And if you break a sweat, she rewards you how? A big promotion? Something to lift you off the pitch and into the directors’ box?’

‘You’re good at this.’ Fox’s admiring tone sounded genuine enough.

Clarke knew now what David Galvin had been hinting at during dinner at Bia Bistrot. How are things working out with your old sparring partner? Toeing the line? Obeying orders?

‘You really think I’m going to hand you John on a plate?’

‘It’s not Rebus I want — it’s people he knows, or used to know. I’m going back thirty years.’

‘Summerhall?’

Fox paused and studied her. ‘He’s talked about it?’ She shook her head. ‘So how do you know?’ But he had worked it out within a few seconds. ‘That leaving do,’ he said, almost to himself. ‘Eamonn Paterson was there. I saw him with Rebus. .’

‘Then you know as much about Summerhall as I do. And I’m still no further forward as to why I should help you.’

‘Whatever happens, I’m going to end up asking Rebus some questions. I just think it would smooth things a little if there was a referee of some kind.’

‘A referee?’

‘To ensure fairness — on both sides.’

She took a sip of coffee, then another. Fox did likewise, almost exactly mirroring her.

‘Is that supposed to be an empathy thing?’ she queried.

‘What?’

‘Aping me to make me think I’m the one with the power?’

He seemed to consider this. ‘You picking up your cup reminded me mine was there, that’s all. But thanks for the tip — I’ll bear it in mind.’

She stared at him, trying to gauge the level of game being played.

‘It’s good coffee, by the way,’ he added, this time slurping from his cup. Clarke couldn’t help but smile. She went back to watching pedestrians while she considered her options.

‘Thirty years is a long time,’ she said eventually.

‘It is.’

‘Something’s supposed to have happened at Summerhall?’

‘Possibly.’

‘And it involved John?’

‘Tangentially — I don’t think he’d been there that long. He was pretty junior. .’

‘You know he’s not going to give up any of the men he worked with?’

‘Unless I can persuade him otherwise.’

‘Good luck with that,’ Clarke said.

‘My problem, not yours. I’d just like it if you could get him to sit down with me.’

‘So what are we talking about? A few statements altered? Lies told in court? Prisoners tripping and falling on their way to the cells?’ She waited for him to answer.

‘A bit more serious than that,’ he obliged, placing his cup back on its saucer with the utmost care. ‘So Rebus has never talked to you about it?’

‘Summerhall, you mean?’ She watched him nod. ‘Never a word.’

‘In which case,’ Fox said, lowering his voice despite the fact they were the café’s only customers, ‘you maybe won’t have heard of the Saints?’

‘Only the band.’

‘This was a band of sorts too, I suppose. Saints of the Shadow Bible, they called themselves.’

‘Meaning what?’

‘I’m not exactly sure — the files from the Solicitor General’s office don’t seem to be complete.’

‘Sounds vaguely Masonic.’

‘That might not be too wide of the mark.’

‘And officers at Summerhall were members?’

‘They were the only members, Siobhan. If you worked there as a detective at that period, you were a Saint of the Shadow Bible. .’

Rebus sat in his car, staring at the bungalow. Bringing the Saab meant he couldn’t drink, but it would help if he felt the need to get away in a hurry. The sky was clear, the moon visible. Only a degree or so above zero, frost glinting on the surface of the road. Rebus’s hands gripped the steering wheel. He hadn’t seen anyone go in yet. There were lights on in both downstairs windows. Dormers built into the slate-tiled roof above, curtained and dark. Rebus eased his own window down and got a cigarette going. Maybe nobody was going to turn up. Seven, he’d been told, and it was now ten after. What if he went to the door and found it was just going to be him, Dod Blantyre and Maggie? Wouldn’t that be cosy? He sucked on the cigarette, narrowing his eyes as the smoke stung them. Would Dod be bed-bound? Maybe in the living room, with a commode pushed against one wall? Maggie exhausted from coping with him, the life draining from her? Would she ask why Rebus never called round, never sent a Christmas card in exchange for the one she still always dispatched?