Ian Rankin - Saints of the Shadow Bible

‘You best ask him.’

She smiled. ‘I’m asking you, John. I’m asking my old pal.’ And when he didn’t answer she leaned in and kissed him on the lips, kissed him slowly, brushing away the evidence with a finger afterwards. ‘He never did find out,’ she said, her voice just above a whisper. ‘Not unless you told him.’

Rebus shook his head, saying nothing.

‘You were just boys, the lot of you. Boys playing at being cowboys.’ She ran a different finger down his cheek and neck.

‘And what were you, Maggie?’ he asked as she inspected the contours of his face.

‘I was the same as I am now, John. No more, no less. You, on the other hand. .’

‘There’s certainly a bit more of me.’

‘But you seem sadder, too. It makes me wonder why you think you need to keep doing the job you do.’

‘So what was I like back then?’

‘There was an electric wire running through you.’

‘Lucky I got that seen to.’

‘I’m not so sure.’ She took one final draw on her cigarette and flicked it into a nearby pot. ‘Better get back indoors before tongues start wagging. Not that you Saints don’t trust each other. .’

Rebus finished his own cigarette and dropped it next to hers. ‘It was just a name we gave ourselves,’ he explained. ‘It doesn’t mean anything.’

‘Try telling that to Dod.’ She paused at the back door, her hand turning the handle. ‘Far as he’s concerned, you lot came straight from a comic book.’

‘I don’t remember too many superheroes stoking up on pies,’ Rebus argued.

‘You probably don’t wear your underpants outside your trousers either,’ she agreed. ‘Unless there’s something you want to tell me. .’

Paterson’s home was a semi-detached Victorian property on Ferry Road. Most of his neighbours ran bed-and-breakfast operations, meaning gardens turned into rudimentary car parks. Paterson’s frontage, however, was distinguished by mature trees and an established holly hedge. He had been a widower for seven years, but showed no sign of wishing to downsize.

‘Kids are always nagging me,’ he confided to Rebus in the Saab. He had sunk enough whisky to make him sleepy, his sentences drifting off. ‘Less maintenance with a nice modern flat somewhere, but I like it fine where I am.’

‘Same goes for me,’ Rebus said. ‘Couple of spare rooms I’ll never need.’

‘You get to our age, who can be bothered? Look at poor Dod — you never know what’s waiting for you round the next corner. Best just to get on with things and not get too. .’ He couldn’t find the right words, so spun his hands around one another instead.

‘Wrapped up in stuff?’ Rebus suggested.

‘Aye, maybe.’ Paterson exhaled noisily. ‘Stefan’s done well for himself though, eh? Millions in the bank and jetting around the place.’ Rebus nodded his agreement. ‘And Maggie’s still a lovely woman — Dod got lucky there.’

‘That he did.’

‘She’s still bonny and. .’ Paterson broke off, brow furrowing. ‘There’s a poem I’m trying to remember — bonny and something and maybe something else after that.’

‘I’m on tenterhooks.’

Paterson looked at him, trying to focus. ‘You’re a cold man, John. You always were. I don’t mean. .’ He thought for a moment. ‘What do I mean?’

‘Cold as in stand-offish?’ Rebus suggested.

‘Not that, no. It’s more that you never liked to show emotion — afraid you might get the sympathy vote.’

‘And I didn’t want that?’

‘You did not,’ Paterson agreed. ‘We were battlers, the lot of us. That’s who joined the police back then — not college graduates and the like. And if we had half a brain, we maybe made it to CID. .’ He paused, peering through the windscreen. ‘We’re here.’

‘I know.’

Paterson stared at him. ‘How?’

‘Because we’ve been sat outside your house the past five minutes.’ Rebus held out a hand for Paterson to shake. ‘Good to see you again, Porkbelly.’

‘Are you glad now you went?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘And the thing Dod mentioned — do you think you can. .?’

‘Maybe. No promises, though.’

Paterson released Rebus’s hand. ‘Good man,’ he said, as though only now coming to a decision on this. Then he pushed open his door and started to get out.

‘Helps if you unbuckle your seat belt,’ Rebus reminded him. A moment or two later and Paterson was free, weaving down the path towards his front door. A security light came on and he waved without looking back, letting Rebus know he could take it from here. With a tired smile, Rebus put the Saab into first and tried to calculate the simplest route home.

It took him twenty minutes, with a Mick Taylor CD playing on the stereo and traffic lights that seemed to turn green at his every approach. The phone in his pocket buzzed, but he waited until he was parked outside his tenement before taking it out and checking the text. It was from Siobhan Clarke.

Can we speak?

Rebus stayed in the car while he called her. She picked up straight away.

‘What is it?’ he asked.

‘I stopped by your flat a couple of times — wanted to do this face to face.’

‘Do what?’

‘Intercede.’

He wasn’t sure he had heard her right. ‘Intercede?’

‘On Malcolm Fox’s behalf. He’s requesting the pleasure of your company at some point in the next day or so.’

‘And he’s too scared to ask me direct?’

‘Something like that.’

‘And you’re “interceding” because. .?’

‘Because sometimes a friendly face helps.’ She paused. ‘But I know you’re going to say no to him anyway.’

‘Am I?’

‘He’s the Complaints, John — you’re hard-wired to spit in his face.’

Hard-wired. . He remembered Maggie’s words: there was an electric wire running through you . .

‘Some truth in that,’ he said.

‘So what should I tell him? Bearing in mind I’m a fragile flower of a soul.’

‘Your patter’s pish, DI Clarke.’

‘But you’re still going to say no?’

‘I’m going to say tomorrow, the back room of the Ox, twelve noon.’

There was silence on the line.

‘You still there?’ he asked.

‘I’m not sure.’

‘Twelve tomorrow,’ he confirmed.

‘Just like that?’

‘Just like that.’

‘I’m never going to sleep now — not until you tell me why.’ She paused again. ‘It’s almost as if you already knew.’

‘Is it?’

‘Knew he was on his way,’ she went on. ‘But how is that possible? I’m the only one he told. .’

‘Magicians never reveal their secrets, Siobhan.’

‘You know it’s to do with Summerhall? And the Saints of the Shadow Book?’

‘Shadow Bible,’ Rebus corrected her.

‘But you know?’ she persisted.

‘One thing I don’t know, though. .’

‘Yes?’

‘At this meeting tomorrow, will you be on my side or his?’

‘What do you think?’

‘Might be wiser not to be there at all.’

‘But then who would stop you lamping him?’

‘I’m not going to lamp him, Shiv — I want to hear what he’s got to say.’

‘It concerns a man called Billy Saunders.’

‘Well of course it does,’ Rebus said, ending the call and exiting the car.

At twelve the next day, Rebus was seated at a corner table with a pint of IPA. The Oxford Bar consisted of two rooms — one containing the bar itself, and the other tables and chairs. The walls of the back room were lined with reclaimed church pews. A coal fire had been lit, and the place smelled of smoke, with undertones of bleach from the morning’s sluicing. A large window gave on to Young Street, but the natural light was only ever fitful. Rebus had taken a couple of sips from his glass. There was no one else in the back room and only Kirsty the barmaid out front, the TV news keeping her company. When the door to the outside world rattled open, Rebus allowed himself a thin smile — of course Malcolm Fox would be punctual. The man himself appeared, spotting Rebus and moving towards the table. He drew out a chair and sat down, not bothering to find out if the offer of a handshake would be rejected. Siobhan Clarke was in the doorway, pointing towards Rebus’s drink. He shook his head and she retreated to the bar, appearing again moments later with two glasses of sparkling water.