Ian Rankin - Saints of the Shadow Bible

‘Was it the drinking that made your wife leave you?’ he enquired.

‘I could ask the selfsame question,’ Fox shot back.

‘And I’d have to tell you it was.’ Rebus thought for a moment. ‘Or maybe that was just part of it. Doing what we do. . I couldn’t let off steam at home — quite the opposite. So it got bottled up. And the only people I could talk to were other cops. That was the start of the distancing. .’ He exhaled, then shrugged.

‘You could have knocked the booze on the head,’ Fox told him.

‘Like you did, you mean? And that’s why you’re still happily married with a vibrant social life?’

Fox looked as if he might take offence, but then his shoulders loosened. ‘Touché,’ he said.

‘We’ve all got different ways of dealing with the shit we deal with,’ Rebus offered.

‘Which brings us back to the Saints,’ Fox stated. ‘Tight little grouping like that, you start to think your own rules are the only ones that matter.’

‘No argument with that.’

‘And back then, parameters were different, not as strict as they are now?’

‘Leeway,’ Rebus agreed.

‘Especially when you seemed to be getting result after result. The brass weren’t about to start questioning your methods.’

Rebus thought of Peter Meikle, the drive around Arthur’s Seat. He pursed his lips and said nothing. Fox noted this but ploughed on.

‘The whole system’s changed, hasn’t it? Used to be about snitches and contacts. You lost someone like Billy Saunders, suddenly you weren’t closing cases and getting the respect of the Big House. Whatever he’d done, you had to keep him on the street.’

‘You keep saying “you”.’

Fox held up a hand in apology. ‘I mean the Saints in general. But there had to be a hierarchy and I’m guessing that meant Gilmour — he was the DI after all. Was Saunders Gilmour’s man?’

‘You’d need to ask one or the other.’

Fox glared at him. ‘You really don’t know?’

‘Let’s say he was — what of it?’

Fox kept glaring. ‘Is there anything useful you do know?’

‘Plenty.’

‘Such as?’

‘That’s for a later date.’ Rebus picked up his glass again.

‘Suppose I tell you I need to know now.’

‘A later date,’ Rebus echoed.

‘Then maybe I should just let you slink back to Gayfield Square.’

‘Maybe you should. But think about this first — you bring in each of the Saints for questioning and I’m seated there beside you. They’re going to wonder if there’s any point lying or twisting the truth.’

‘Unless you’re acting as their spy all along.’

‘That’s certainly a risk,’ Rebus agreed with a shrug. ‘But the job you do, you probably think you’re good at reading people.’ He made eye contact with Fox and held it. ‘So ask yourself if I can be trusted or not.’

‘Let’s see,’ Fox eventually said. ‘Let’s just wait and see.’

‘But we start bringing them in tomorrow, yes?’

‘We only question them when I’m ready,’ Fox qualified.

‘Fair enough,’ Rebus said. Then, gesturing towards his empty glass, ‘Your round, by the way.’

But Fox shook his head. ‘Some of us have got homes,’ he explained. ‘Meet in the Sheriff Court at ten?’

‘You need to clear it with my boss.’

‘James Page?’ Fox checked. ‘I’m fairly sure he can spare you, Detective Sergeant Rebus. .’

‘How long have you been here?’

‘Not long. I was in the neighbourhood.’ Clarke was standing in the doorway of Rebus’s tenement. ‘Just sending you a text.’ She showed him her phone.

‘Your flat’s miles from here,’ he told her.

‘I was having a drink with someone.’

‘Your lawyer?’

‘In Morningside.’

‘The Canny Man?’

She shook her head. ‘Montpelier’s.’ Rebus made a face: not his kind of place. ‘Where did you disappear to?’ she was asking. ‘Came back from that meeting and Christine said you’d scarpered.’

‘I was in a meeting of my own.’

She thought for a moment. ‘With Fox?’ Rebus nodded. ‘And he doesn’t suspect?’

‘What’s to suspect?’ Rebus had dug out his key and was opening the door. ‘You coming in?’

‘Is that all right?’

‘Long as you’re not after a white wine spritzer. .’ He led the way up two flights of stairs to the door to his flat. Unlocked it and scooped up the mail before switching on the hallway light. She followed him into the living room. The ashtray next to his armchair needed emptying. A couple of beer bottles sat alongside, plus an empty whisky glass.

‘Cup of tea?’ he asked her.

‘Thanks.’

While he was in the kitchen, she slid some of his LPs back into their sleeves. She was about to pick up the beer bottles when he reappeared.

‘I’ll do that,’ he said.

‘I’ll bring the ashtray.’

She dumped its contents into the bin in the kitchen while he placed the bottles on the work surface next to the sink. He handed her a mug.

‘You got lucky,’ he said. ‘Milk’s only a day past its sell-by.’

‘I’ll settle for that.’

They went back through to the living room. ‘Is this okay for you now?’ he asked. ‘Or does your OCD require any further action?’

She said nothing, settling herself on the sofa and resisting the urge to arrange the newspapers next to her into a neater pile. Rebus was putting an LP on, turning down the volume. Miles Davis, she thought — from the period before he got weird.

Rebus was about to lift a cigarette from its packet, but remembered she didn’t like it.

‘So you’ve got yourself seconded to Fox?’ she asked eventually.

‘In a manner of speaking.’

‘Access to the Saunders file?’ She watched him nod. ‘And other cases relating to Summerhall?’ A shrug this time. ‘Has it occurred to you that Fox could be playing a game of his own?’

‘What sort of game?’

‘Wondering if there’s anything you’ll try to cover up, any reports that could suddenly go AWOL. .’

‘It’s a possibility.’

‘You’ve really persuaded him you’re on his side?’

‘Not completely — stands to reason he’s got his suspicions.’

She leaned forward on the sofa. ‘And is there anything for him to find? Anything that’s going to end up incriminating you?’

Rebus considered this. ‘If he looks hard enough, there might be a skeleton or two. Thing is, a lot of the supporting cast have left the stage — gone walkies or been fitted for the wooden suit. So while he might find stuff, he’ll have the devil’s own job making it stick.’

Clarke was staring at him. ‘How dirty was Summerhall?’

He studied the surface of his tea. ‘Dirty enough. You ever see that programme Life on Mars ? It felt like a documentary. .’

‘Beating a confession out of someone? Planting evidence? Making sure the bad guys got done for something ?’

‘You thinking of writing my biography?’

‘This isn’t a joke, John. Tell me what happened to Billy Saunders.’

Rebus blew on the tea, took a sip, then shrugged. ‘It probably went down the way everyone seems to think.’

‘Botching the case so he’d stay out of jail and useful?’

Rebus nodded.

‘And that’s all going to have to come out in the wash for the Solicitor General to get her second prosecution,’ Clarke stated. ‘Though there is another scenario.’

‘I know,’ Rebus said. ‘Saunders cuts a deal. For a lesser charge, he grasses up Summerhall.’

‘Which would reflect badly on Stefan Gilmour.’

‘It would be like giving a cow a machine gun — bullets could go anywhere.’