Ian Rankin - Saints of the Shadow Bible

Quite the character, Mr Owen Traynor.

Rebus tapped the number for the Infirmary into his phone and asked how Jessica Traynor was faring.

‘She’s been released,’ he was told.

‘So soon?’

‘There’ll be a series of physio sessions and the like. .’

‘But she can manage stairs?’ Rebus was thinking of the three steep flights to her Great King Street flat.

‘Her father’s booked her into a hotel for a few days.’

In the room next to his, Rebus presumed. He thanked the nurse, ended the call and skimmed through the sheets of notes again. He realised the case was disappearing, as though it had been hoisted on to a trailer and was on its way for scrap. He looked around the office. Page was at some meeting, taking Clarke with him. Ronnie Ogilvie was prepping to give evidence at a trial. Christine Esson was studying statements. Was this what he had craved during his retirement? He had forgotten the lulls, the hours spent on paperwork, the hanging around. He thought of Charlie Watts — hadn’t he said something about life as a Rolling Stone? Fifty years in the band, ten spent drumming and the other forty waiting for something to happen. Segue to Peggy Lee: ‘Is That All There Is?’

‘Bollocks to that,’ Rebus muttered, getting to his feet. Probably just about enough time had passed. He patted his pockets, checking for cigarettes, matches, phone.

‘Leaving so soon?’ Esson teased him.

‘Just for a few minutes.’

‘Acting as boss has taken its toll, eh?’

‘I don’t mind acting,’ Rebus told her, heading for the door. ‘In fact, I’m just heading to another audition. .’

The small car park was a courtyard of sorts, the grey concrete cop shop hemming it in. Rebus was almost always the only smoker to use it. He called Police HQ and asked to be put through to Professional Standards — ‘or whatever they’ve decided to call it this week’. The extension rang half a dozen times before being answered.

‘Sergeant Kaye,’ the voice said by way of identification. Tony Kaye: Rebus had had dealings with him.

‘Is your boyfriend there? Tell him John Rebus wants a word.’

‘He’s in conference.’

‘He’s not Alan fucking Sugar,’ Rebus complained.

‘A meeting, then — sorry, I didn’t realise grammar was your strong point.’

‘Vocabulary, you arsehole, not grammar.’

‘Mind and get a refund from that charm school, eh?’

‘Soon as I’ve spoken to your generalissimo. Is this meeting of his with the fragrant Ms Macari, by any chance?’

‘How do you know that?’

‘I’m a detective, son. A proper detective.’

‘You forget I’ve seen your files. Plenty six-letter words, but “proper” got scratched from the dictionary the day you left the academy.’

‘I think I’m a little bit in love with you, Sergeant Kaye. Let me give you my vital statistics.’ He reeled off his mobile number. ‘Tell Fox I think I can help him. Have him call me once Macari unzips his gimp mask.’ He ended the call before Kaye could respond. Staring at the screen of his phone, he broke into a smile. He did like Kaye, didn’t know what the hell the guy was doing in the Complaints. When a text arrived, he peered at it.

Blow me , it said, followed by three kisses. Dispatched, presumably, from Kaye’s own mobile. Rebus added the number to his contacts and paced the space between the rows of cars, finishing his cigarette in peace.

It turned out the Solicitor General had given Fox his own little office within the Sheriff Court on Chambers Street, not half a minute’s walk from her own fiefdom.

‘Cosy,’ Rebus said, examining his surroundings. The building was relatively new, but he was struggling to remember what had been there before. He had passed stressed lawyers outside, gabbling into phones, plus, nearby, their devil-may-care clients, sharing cigarettes and war stories and comparing tattoos.

Fox was seated behind a desk that was too big for his immediate needs, in a room that was a riot of wood panelling. He sat with a pen gripped between both hands. To Rebus, it seemed like a pose the man had spent too long preparing. Fox looked stiff and unconvincing, and maybe he sensed this himself — placing the pen on the desk in front of him as Rebus took the seat opposite.

‘So suddenly you can help me?’ he asked. ‘Bit of a Damascene conversion since lunchtime.’

Rebus offered a shrug. ‘You plan to dump on my friends from a great height; least I can do is make sure you’ve not got the squits.’

‘An arresting image.’

‘Are those the files?’ Rebus gestured towards two large cardboard boxes by Fox’s side.

‘Yes. Mid ’83, around the time Saunders killed Merchant.’

‘ Allegedly ,’ Rebus countered. ‘You’ve already been through them?’ He watched the other man nod. ‘And if my name was in the frame at any point, you wouldn’t want me here?’

Fox nodded again. ‘Of course, until recently you worked for the Cold Case Unit. You could have accessed the files at any time, making sure nothing incriminating was left from your days at Summerhall.’

‘For the sake of argument, let’s say I didn’t do that and I’m clean.’

‘In this particular instance,’ Fox felt it necessary to qualify.

‘In this particular instance,’ Rebus echoed. ‘And here I am, back in CID on sufferance. .’

‘Something you don’t want to jeopardise.’

‘Which is why I’m offering my services — means I can keep an eye on you.’

‘If you had nothing to do with it, you’ve nothing to fear from me.’

‘Unless you start screwing up and I find myself lumped in with everyone else who ever worked at Summerhall.’

Fox picked up the pen again. It was a cheap yellow ballpoint, but he handled it as if it were Montblanc’s finest.

‘So your idea of helping me is to doubt my abilities from the off?’

‘Saves us the trouble of discussing it later,’ Rebus offered.

‘And meantime I’m supposed to trust you ? These are some of the first officers you bonded with, men you’ve known most of your professional life — why would you turn against them?’

‘That’s not why I’m here. I’m just making sure you don’t start a firefight.’

‘Firefights aren’t my style.’

‘That’s good, because the Saints — retired as they might be — aren’t lacking ammo.’

‘ You’re not retired, though.’

Rebus nodded. ‘And they’ll see me as part of their armoury.’

‘But you won’t be?’

‘That’s for you to decide — once we start work on those files.’ Rebus gestured towards the boxes. Fox stared at him, then looked at the display on his phone.

‘Only an hour or so left before going home.’

‘Depends what time you knock off,’ Rebus countered.

Another lengthy examination, and then a slow nod of the head.

‘Okay, cowboy,’ Fox said, almost in a drawl. ‘Let’s see what you’ve got.’ They lifted the boxes on to the desk and started to get to work.

Sandy Bell’s wasn’t the closest bar to the Sheriff Court, but it was Rebus’s choice, and as Fox himself conceded: ‘You probably know better than I do.’ There was a small table near the back, so they grabbed it, Rebus fetching a cola for his new-found colleague and an IPA for himself. Fox was rubbing at his eyes and stifling a yawn. He insisted on chinking glasses. Rebus sank an inch of the pint and smacked his lips.

‘You never touch the booze?’ he asked. Fox shook his head. ‘Because you can’t?’

Fox nodded, then looked at him. ‘I can’t and you shouldn’t.’

Rebus toasted the sentiment and took another mouthful.